Page 75 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter fifty-eight

“C hrissie, kitten. Have you and Mikey fallen out?”

Her dad asked the question without looking up, too busy adjusting the lens on his camera.

On the kitchen counter sat her latest creation: a three-tier cake for a golden wedding anniversary.

The base was Madeira sponge for structure, the middle layer chocolate, and the top carrot cake, all wrapped in fondant icing and adorned with delicate gold leaf and sugar-crafted roses that had taken her hours to make.

Dad bent lower, angling for the perfect shot. From where she stood, his bald patch—once the size of a ten pence piece—was now closer to those commemorative five-pound coins he and Mum had given her and Mikey for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012.

He straightened with a groan, vertebrae cracking in protest, and pressed a hand to his coccyx.

Chrissie scrolled through her phone, checking reactions to her latest Insta post. Dad turned his camera screen towards her.

“What do you think?”

The shots were phenomenal. The kind that made you want to reach out and touch the cake. He’d captured every detail—the precise folds of the sugar roses, the soft shimmer of gold leaf—turning it into something almost luminous.

“Fan-dabby-dozy.” Mum’s favourite phrase.

Dad smiled, fleetingly, before his lips thinned and his pale blue eyes locked onto hers.

“Chrissie, c’mon. What’s going on with you and Mikey?”

Mikey had been staying at Jaden’s for two weeks now, only coming home to grab fresh clothes—or when he knew Chrissie was out. He hadn’t said anything to Dad, but their father wasn’t stupid. The tension when Mikey did appear announced itself like an olden-days town crier.

Negotiating the tricky area of talking about contacting your biological parents with your adoptive parents was never going to be easy.

Dad was far more open to it than Mum had been, but Chrissie still faltered.

She loved Dad more than anyone else on the planet.

The prospect of hurting him chopped up her insides.

“I made a mistake, Daddy,” she admitted, retreating into the language of childhood.

He placed a hand on her forearm, his thumb and forefinger gently squeezing bone. “And I dunno how to fix it.”

“Everything’s fixable, Kitten. ’Cept dying, and we’ve all got to do that sometime.”

“’Cept you won’t be doing that for ages and ages.” She willed him to agree.

He gave that little sniffing smile. “Shall I make us a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it?”

“Okay.”

As she retrieved mugs from the dishwasher, he flicked on the kettle. Mum had always insisted on bone china cups and saucers, but the rest of them preferred something you could wrap your fingers around.

Still, she was everywhere in this kitchen. A few years ago, she’d won a tidy sum in a charity raffle. Most of it had gone to Chrissie and Mikey’s savings, but the rest had transformed this space.

Gleaming floor tiles. Light grey and navy-blue cabinets. The best fridge-freezer, oven and dishwasher money could buy.

A pity she hadn’t got to enjoy it longer.

Dad scooped teabags from the earthenware pot by the kettle, dropping them into the mugs before adding boiling water. Two minutes to stew—everyone but Mum liked their tea strong enough to stand a spoon in—then a big splash of milk for him, a smaller one for her and a drizzle of honey in each.

He pulled out a chair at the oak table and gestured for her to sit.

Chrissie took a breath. Then another.

“Right. So, the thing is… I thought I should find Mikey’s mum for him. Then present her like, ‘Ta-da! Here she is!’ And he’d say, ‘Okay, not what I was expecting, but fine.’ Fait accompli. And I did. Find her. And I told him. And he… wasn’t happy.”

Dad listened, his expression watchful. Then he let out a slow, measured sigh.

“Oh, Chrissie.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I know, Dad. What if Mikey never speaks to me again? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

Dad took a slow sip of his tea. Most people didn’t add honey, but it was a habit from Mum’s side of the family—one of those little things that linger after a person is gone.

A thread, Chrissie had once read. When someone dies, their voice, their face, even their name fades over time, but the habits, the sayings, the foods they loved weave into the lives they leave behind.

“Mikey will speak to you again,” Dad said.

“He’s on back shifts this week, but he told me he’d pop over tomorrow morning.

Why don’t you make his favourite cake, apologise profusely, and—most importantly—promise to do absolutely nothing else?

No more contacting his mother, no more nudging him in that direction. Nothing.”

He let the last word hang between them.

Then, unexpectedly, he added, “Mikey’s mum was very young when she had him.”

It wasn’t news to Chrissie. She’d suspected as much. The photos of Nell Murray didn’t match Mum’s age at all. But his next words tightened something in her chest.

“No mention of the father,” Dad continued, his voice quieter now.

“Mum and I always wondered if… well, if the poor girl had been raped. There are probably very good reasons why she felt unable to raise Mikey, and I don’t think”—his tone sharpened again—“she would welcome any further contact. And imagine how much worse it would be for Mikey if he did reach out, and she didn’t reply. ”

He was right, of course. Chrissie knew it.

And yet, deep in the corners of her mind, doubt wriggled like an uninvited guest. But we can’t know for sure.

She crushed the thought. None of that mattered right now. Mikey’s forgiveness was the only thing that did.

The sudden sound of the front door opening made them both jump.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Mikey’s voice rang out through the house.

Dad winked at her. “Ah. Maybe he said he was coming home today, not tomorrow. My old memory, eh?” He patted her arm. “You know what you need to do, Chrissie.”

She greeted Mikey in the hallway. The homecoming smile dimmed a little.

“Listen, I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry.

I’m the world’s facking worst sister, a complete cowpat and an arthole.

I shouldn’t have looked for your mother, and I sincerely promise never to do so again.

Will a three-layer red velvet cake smothered in cream cheese icing persuade you that I’m not the worst sister in the world? ”

Mikey dropped his bags with a grunt. Overstuffed with clothes, they had the look of someone finally coming home after far too long.

“Who’s doing all the household chores for the next month?” he asked, wrestling out of his black stab-proof vest, the Lincolnshire Police insignia catching the light.

“Uh… me?”

“Yes, you, you, you!”

He slung an arm around her shoulders, squeezing just tight enough to let her know they were okay. “Jaden’s been watching this health vlogger on YouTube and she keeps force-feeding me these disgusting energy bars. Made from, get this—carob powder and pureed dates.” He shuddered. “Worst thing ever.”

Chrissie laughed, the weight on her chest finally easing. “Okay! I also solemnly swear that carob powder and pureed dates will never, ever, ever cross the threshold of this house.”

Dad appeared in the doorway, framed by the warm glow of the kitchen. “Mikey! Come and tell us all about your day and the thousands of ne’er-do-wells who are no longer terrorising Lincolnshire’s innocent populace thanks to you.”

Mikey blew on his fingernails and rubbed them down his chest with exaggerated flair. “The county jails are at full capacity, Pops. At this rate, I’ll be chief constable by Christmas.”

Dad gave a solemn nod and ambled past them. Moments later, the upstairs bathroom door opened and closed.

Mikey turned back to Chrissie, his expression serious again. “Do you still have that woman’s email address? I’ve been thinking a lot, and… I’d like to talk to her.”

Chrissie hesitated, her dad’s warning and her own promise weighing on her. “Are you sure? What if she doesn’t want contact?”

Mikey exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together before giving a small shrug. “I’ll take that risk.” He met her gaze. “Could you help me write to her? You’re much better at that sort of thing than I am.”