I had finally decided to bite the bullet and tell my mother about the baby. I really needed to tell work soon, and as soon as I did, she would find out anyway. As bad as our relationship was, I didn’t want her to find out second-hand. Maybe she would take the news well. I doubted it, but I could try to stay hopeful. I had also decided to ask her outright about my father; sick of the dead ends, and I needed information if I was ever going to find him.
I busied myself tidying around my bedroom, making the bed and sorting the washing out.
Twenty minutes later, I was still cleaning but had moved on to organise my wardrobe. A job I rarely chose to do; I knew I was procrastinating. Trying to find anything that needed doing rather than going to face my mother. She might not have been the best,
