Dad’s the DJ on the Breakfast Show. Every morning, he plays songs for me and Mum and says ‘life is grand’ with a voice that smiles. I float cornflake boats around a lake of milk while he tells me what the traffic’s like on the M25. And Mum sips tea in her curlers. When Love on the Rocks comes on, she closes her eyes, sets her mug down and her bottom lip quivers. I haven’t told Mum I know who Dad is yet. I guessed it when I saw him on the front of the Radio Times. His eyebrows were the giveaway. The same odd, hairy slugs as mine, bushy at the beginning and balding at the end. Mum says they were only kids when they met. That his words charmed the clothes right off her. That he left for London before she could tell him about me. Says I’m her walnut and she’s my shell. Says you can’t miss what you’ve never had. But that’s not true. You’d miss an arm if you were born without it, wouldn’t you? Before I go to sleep at night, I imagine what it’ll be like when he comes home. How I’ll have a cool bento box for my sandwiches instead of tin foil, how Debbie Stark won’t be able to catch me anymore because I’ll be wearing those trainers with air bubbles in the heels, how I’ll pluck up the courage to tell her ‘illegitimate’ is with two ‘Ls’ because I’m ace at spelling, how Mum won’t get sciatica from cleaning, how Dad will tell Mum she’s beautiful in that smiley voice of his. If he just knew about me, he’d be here tomorrow. And life would be even grander.
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