Foster placements, children’s homes, back to being fostered again—I moved every eighteen months or so, I guess.
I got a place at university—I was seventeen—and the council housed me in a flat. The flat I still live in.”
He looked so sad that it was making me sad too. “Raymond,” I said, “it’s really not that unusual a story.
Plenty of people grow up in far, far more challenging circumstances; it’s simply a fact of life.”
“Doesn’t make it right, though,” he said. “I always had a bed to sleep in, food to eat, clothes and shoes to wear.
I was always supervised by an adult. There are millions of children in the world who can’t say the same, unfortunately.
I’m a very lucky person, when you think about it.He looked like he was going to cry—it must be all the wine.
It does make people overly emotional, so they say. I could feel the unasked question hovering between us like a ghost.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, I thought, wishing as hard as I could, crossing my fingers under the blanket.
What about your mum, Eleanor? What happened to her?I gulped the rest of my wine down as fast as I could.
I’d prefer not to discuss Mummy, if that’s all right, Raymond.
He looked surprised, and—a familiar response, this—slightly disappointed. To his credit, he didn’t pursue the topic.
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