Dear mum,

If you've found this... Well, I don't know what to say.

I guess this is the part where I tell you what I really think of you.

But first I want to ask, what do you see, when you see yourself?

No, not through your eyes. Through mine.

Not through your eyes that look with cunning, but through mine, that look with hope, with love. Mine, that are so ordinary. What appears?

Do you see a hero? A woman swathed in light and generosity?

Now you'd tell me off, for being disrespectful. Impertinent. Rude.

So I never told you, you see.

I never told you what I see.

I get it, you were pregnant with me, you suckled me, looked after me. Blah blah.

But I don't remember any of that. I only remember the you I see now.

You are cold. Colder than the continent. Colder than the ice in my icepack when I have another one of my fevers. Shehzad looks after me when I do. (How is he your son again?)

Your cold doesn't soothe. It bites.

There's another thing you are, as well.

You are frightening.

I remember my first slap. From you of course. I remember my last one. But that one wasn't physical. It came from your words, but it hurt worse. It bled worse.

I asked if I could help Shehzad on the project. I barely remember what it was about now.

You said no. I wouldn't be any use, I had no subject knowledge of these things.

But the whole time, your eyes were here, there, everywhere.

But you didn't look at me. Not once.

That was the slap.

You usually look at least once, for a fleeting second. Meeting my eyes. You always look.

But this time you didn't.

I feel myself sink lower and lower.

I was drunk yesterday. Yeah, I keep a few bottles around for the occasion. Surprised, aren't you? You always thought I was so controlled. I thought it might help me, you see.

It does.

But the next morning it doesn't.

I've taken substances. Weed, crack, lean, LSD, I've done them.

Covertly, of course. Just a few times. I wasn't too hot about them, if I'm honest. Don't worry, no one knows. Not even Shehzad.

But you know now. Only you.

Sometimes, I really despise you. Actually, most of the time. When I think of you.

I think of you a lot.

But I didn't write to tell you I hate you.

I'm writing to say, I've found him.

Dad.

I'm going to meet him tomorrow. I know for sure it's him, we've already done a DNA test. He'll be waiting for me, in Leicester Square.

Apparently, he hasn't been allowed to contact us. Wonder why.

He has this whole life, you know. Apparently he wasn't so well to do. He's made a good life for himself now. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?

Took him a while to trust people, after I was born, he said. But eventually he did. He's married now; her name's Selena. No kids; Selena's a fair bit older.

I'm sure I'll meet her soon. Jacob and Selena. What weird names. Sounds like that old show, Richard and Judy.

Nothing like Jacob and Aleena.

Well, I'm going to see him. Please don't try to change my mind. Thought you should know.

I know you have this whole 'he's bad and evil' backstory. But he seems normal to me.

And even if he is what you say, so what? Does that remove my right to know him? He's better than what I have, anyway.

And I'm his child. However he is, I'll stick by him. Father and son, we are one and the same.

While I'm in a hopeful mood, I'll try to forgive you.

I can't think of anything else to say to you. In all honesty, I thought this note would be one line long. I'll leave it in your desk now. My flight's tonight.

I'll call you to let you know how the meeting with dad went. Pick up, please.

Adam Wentworth