Page 5 of The Book of Heartbreak

Grief is the beast with the sharpest claws.

It’s sacred. It’s consuming. It’s unstoppable.

You, my rarest reader, must already fathom how it cannot be cast aside or defeated, for this book would not have found you otherwise.

The beast will wound you deeply. There will be times when you are certain it will kill you.

And yet, you will endure. Until the pain you deemed a punishment becomes your reward, guiding you to a realm of peace that will be only yours and yours alone – just as the beast that delivered you there.

Excerpt from The Book of Revenge, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

Death takes mere seconds in the world I left behind, and if there’s an audience to witness my misery, they always assume that I’ve simply fainted. This time, Fiona’s frown greets me as I regain consciousness.

‘I’m okay,’ I reassure her as I lift myself up. Not that she’s particularly concerned. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it. I guess it’s understandable, even for normal people, to faint upon hearing that your mother has died.

‘She was probably driving to see Ferit,’ Fiona says.

All I want is to curl up in bed and sleep.

But I can’t, as two police officers arrive soon after that.

I’ve been given a last chance at life, I tell myself as I perch on the sofa and answer their questions. I tune them out. I tune everything out.

Daphne is dead and I’m alive. But the world doesn’t care who is dead or alive.

It keeps spinning and people carry on with their daily routines while I’m in my little cocoon, like an insect trapped in amber, suspended in time.

It’s a period I can hardly describe. Grief draws a thin line between being awake and asleep.

Munu insists that I erase the word mum from my vocabulary to keep emotions in check. I follow her advice, though it does nothing to dull the grief. Mum or Daphne – her absence still aches the same.

Over the coming days, Daphne’s friends fill the house. I had no idea she knew so many people. There’s a lot of talk and no chance to pause, never mind if I’m ready to face being an orphan. I try to get used to the fact that Daphne will never step into this house again.

‘Poor darling,’ one friend says. I can’t pin a name to the face.

‘Here’s my number in case you need anything,’ says another.

Someone brings me a glass of milk, as if I’m a toddler. I can’t drink it. I cradle the glass in my hand and repeat Munu’s words. Shut yourself away. People can’t be trusted. And just like that, they become shadows, flickering lights and distant sobs.

And at the end of every day, when I’m finally alone in my bed again, I embrace the long, dreamless sleep like it’s death itself.

Later, a social worker arrives. A woman with a soft, round face who seems ready for a cup of tea and retirement.

We take our seats at the kitchen table. It’s only after feeling her scrutinising gaze that I notice I’m still in my pyjamas.

She asks me questions that prompt simple yes or no answers, leaving them teetering on the tip of my tongue.

She offers information about foster care, explaining that I won’t have control over where I live until I’m eighteen and out of the system.

She asks about my father first, then switches to other options.

A grandparent, an uncle or distant cousin – or even a contact number or address that may grant me one.

I excuse myself to make a hot drink, taking time to escape the inquiry and cool down.

Other people’s family trees might stretch like the sprawling branches of ancient oaks, but Daphne and I were mere saplings, lacking even the fundamental roots.

Our history, by Daphne’s account, was short but far from sweet.

My misfortune, it seems, started as soon as I latched onto her uterus.

Daphne hadn’t planned on having a baby. Pregnant at the tender age of twenty-one, alone in the UK without any relatives, she shied away from modern medicine.

She tried old wives’ remedies instead, herbs and anything else she could find, but I proved to be a survivor.

Which is tragicomic, considering how crap I’ve been at staying alive since the day I was born.

Fate must have rolled the dice then because, before Daphne could plot other ways to eradicate me, she lost her father in a car accident. Her mother was already long gone.

Her father’s inheritance gave us a comfortable life, but money doesn’t erase grief. Daphne was young, parentless and about to become a parent herself. And there I was, growing inside her every day, nurtured only by her pain and misery.

When Daphne finally pushed me out, I bestowed her some happiness. She wasn’t on her own any more. She had a reason to keep going. And for a while, she loved me, and things were beautiful and normal.

Normal .

My poor, oblivious mother had no idea of the defects of my heart.

I used to believe my father would make an appearance one day, until I was old enough to realise that he wouldn’t.

He was a man who briefly entered Daphne’s life one night and vanished by morning, leaving no name behind.

Eventually, I let go of the idea of him like releasing a balloon into the sky.

Men seem programmed to discard Mum, though a part of me wonders if this one might have returned, had he known of my existence.

I shake my head to dispel the fog in my mind, and finally return to my seat across from the social worker, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

‘Did both of your mother’s parents pass away?’ The woman forces a smile when I pass her a cup of tea.

I nod. There aren’t even any photographs to testify to the existence of my long-gone grandparents.

My father believed in mourning with dignity, in honouring the deceased and ourselves, Daphne would say when I enquired about the absence of family mementos.

When my mother died, Papa removed all her photos, because he couldn’t bear looking at them.

The people we lose should remain in our memories, not in family albums. Certainly not on the walls as decoration.

But now isn’t the time to dwell on Daphne’s principles or the lack of keepsakes.

‘What about a distant relative your mother might have mentioned?’ The woman’s fingers curl around the mug, her signet ring missing a stone. ‘Do any names spring to mind?’

A name . . . I think hard. There’s one. But it doesn’t even have a face attached to it.

I pick up a chocolate digestive, lost in my thoughts, drifting to the name that never truly belonged to anyone.

Two years ago, after Ferit left us for good, Daphne dissolved into herself, as if her tears were laced with poison.

I remember her doe eyes, her laboured breathing and the way she curled up in bed, seeking solace as I tried to offer comfort.

I took care of her – cleaning, feeding and dressing her, ensuring she woke each morning.

That she still lived. There’s a specific kind of terror in going to bed with the uncertainty that your mother might choke on her own vomit during the night.

Perhaps that’s why I didn’t make a big deal of her calling me a name that wasn’t my own.

‘Iris,’ Daphne said in the dim light of our joint heartbreak. ‘Why do you hate me so much? Iris. Why do you still haunt me?’ She would sob, and then plead for forgiveness. Sometimes, she’d lapse into Turkish, the meaning of her words deserting me.

‘Who’s Iris, Mum?’ I asked a few weeks later, but she dismissed me with a wave. This Iris must have been a lost friend, I concluded. After all, everyone eventually abandoned Daphne, unable to tolerate the chaos she served up. I was the only constant. The one she left behind.

‘Well, do you remember anything?’ The social worker takes a sip of tea, sensing hope in my hesitation.

‘No.’ I shake my head. There’s no Iris. There’s no use in remembering. I drop three spoonfuls of sugar into my cup and create a whirlpool. ‘There’s no one,’ I say for what feels like the millionth time.

Finally, the social worker resolves that I can remain at home under the supervision of Fiona, while they figure out the next steps for dealing with a seventeen-year-old who’s suddenly all alone in the world.

Later that evening, in my room, Munu reassures me.

‘This is good,’ she says. ‘Fiona wouldn’t pour a glass of water on you if you caught fire.

She’ll leave you alone. June’s almost over.

School’s finishing for the year, you can take it easy for a couple more weeks.

Then it’ll only be five months till you turn eighteen. ’

Mum’s painting of Istanbul stares back at me from the wall – a tower rising from the sea, encircled by gulls. My favourite. It’s strange that she’s gone yet her brushstrokes remain. I tear my gaze away, forcing myself not to think of her.

Down in the quiet street, the neighbours’ bins stand like guards under the amber lamp-posts, with a bold fox weaving between. I absent-mindedly trace the newest scar on my palm, and wonder if it will ever stop hurting this much.

Soon, Daphne’s existence dwindles into paperwork. Her life fits into a slender folder which I keep near a window in her bedroom. Days blur into each other. I’m trapped in what feels like an endless Sunday afternoon – curled up on the sofa, drowning in grief while Friends plays on repeat.

I keep asking myself why I was dealt so much bad luck. It’s not as if I can walk into a GP’s office and ask why I was born with a curse. I’ve pressed Munu for answers, but, as usual, she doesn’t know anything.

‘Fate is a friend to some and a foe to others,’ she says. ‘We can’t choose how we’re born, so stop worrying about it.’

Perhaps she’s right. Obsessing over it engulfs me in helplessness, amplifying my self-pity and the gnawing uncertainty of the months ahead.