The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Abigail Mann
Book online «The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) đ». Author Abigail Mann
Snooper frequently gets sent PR products to review, so when Duncan handed out genealogy kits in the conference room for this weekâs âHot in Techâ feature, I didnât think much of it. That was until we each unboxed a plastic vial with instructions to fill it with saliva. The meeting was undignified, to say the least; lots of hacking, spitting, and wiping of chins. Like always, everyone in editorial had to pitch for features linked to the product, and like always, I expected my idea to turn up on someone elseâs desk. When I let slip that I didnât know who my father was, Duncan sat back and rubbed his jowls, a sign that he was listening.
The notion that Iâve been given this chance purely because thereâs ambiguity over my parentage has crossed my mind, but Iâm not going to jeopardise it by asking any questions. Opportunities like this are rare; like getting through a day without seeing a single Kardashian in your Twitter feed. Mum still takes pictures on a disposable camera, so thereâs no chance sheâll watch the live stream, but the idea that Iâm going behind her back to find answers to questions she never wanted to answer makes me a feel a bit ⊠squirmy.
Mum plugs in a hot glue gun and taps the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. Sheâs always liked the idea of me being a journalist, but new media is a step down from the kind of writing she thought Iâd be doing. This is largely due to her fervent mistrust of the internet. Basically, if itâs not in print, she doesnât think it legitimately counts; although the same logic doesnât apply to Henry, our elderly neighbour, who writes, prints, and delivers the community paper on his electric scooter.
My stomach squirms like Iâve swallowed a sandwich bag full of baby eels. For the umpteenth time, Iâm within armâs reach of asking about my dad. Mumâs in a good mood, so the risk factor is fairly low. Then again, I donât know why it would play out differently today. Itâs like the very first time I noticed that we werenât like the families around us, the ones with 2.5 kids and a car big enough to fit camping gear in.
I was six years old in the bakery section of Sainsburyâs, which would soon become synonymous with traumatic moments Iâd rather forget about. Seeing as Iâd just been given the part of narrator in the school play, I wanted to show off, and picked up the nearest greeting card to do so. The words confused me, so I patted Mumâs leg.
âDoes âfatherâ mean the same as âdadâ?â
âYes,â she replied, looking elsewhere.
âWhy do fathers need a day?â
âThey donât,â she replied. âPut it down.â
âWe could send it. To my dad.â
âWe canât. You should only send cards to people you love.â
âWhy donât you send it then? Mums and dads love each other.â
She squatted down, kissed my head, and gently peeled my fingers off the cellophane wrapper. âSome do, but lots of mums and dads donât, and thatâs OK too. Because Iâm both, arenât I?â
This was wildly confusing to me, but I didnât say so.
âSo, he doesnât have a house?â
âNo, sweet pea. Heâs in the same place Grandma and Granddad are. Shed his mortal coil, so to speak.â
âWhat does that mean?â
Mum pulled me to one side, away from the wheels of someone elseâs trolley. âHeâs dead, my love.â
âWhy?â
âJesus Christ, Ava. Sorry. Can we not talk about this now? I only came in for milk.â
I thought I was in trouble, so did what most six-year-olds would and started to cry.
âShit.â She hauled me into her arms and walked us round to the bakery, where rows of birthday cakes sat covered in thick factory icing. âPick one.â Thus distracted, I forgot about the conversation and we went home with a ten-person sponge covered in candy bracelets and gummy sweets.
This routine persists; I bring him up, Mum snipes at me, drags me along for the food shop, and we come back with a disproportionately large celebration cake.
I think about it now and feel a bit sick. Weâve not done the bakery run for a few years.
Mum pours hot water into our mugs and picks up a glue gun, wielding it with the dexterity of a cowboy in a shootout. âHow are you feeling about it, then? Being on camera.â
âAbsolutely horrible, to be honest. And excited, in a way. It feels like a really long time coming. Iâll finally be delivering the content I write, yâknow? Itâs just the thought of everyone watching my face.â
âYou can hardly wear a paper bag.â
I snort and a smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, despite the headache sitting heavy on my brow. Mum runs a hand through her hair, glittery dandruff falling on the table. âI think weâve rehomed half of south Londonâs woodlice by bringing all this lot inside, donât you?â
âPickles is too lazy to chase them out, so theyâre essentially lodgers at this point.â
Mum snorts and squints at the calendar tacked by the door. âYou still all right to take photographs tomorrow? For the Harvest Festival? If youâve got something on, I can find someone else.â
âNah, itâs all right, Iâll be there. Did Ginger say if Rory was going?â
âI donât think she is, no. Apparently sheâs busy doing a âWagamamaâs crawlâ, whatever that is.â
âReally? I thought that was just a distraction technique after she broke up with Myles,â I say, sliding a silicon mat under the glue gun before a globule of molten plastic lands on the table. âI didnât think sheâd still be going after â what has been
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