‘How d’ya’all know Sonia, then?’ she said. ‘It’s not . . . I mean . . .’ I stammered, reluctant to tell a stranger my story. But Bettina guessed. ‘You’re never Sonia’s little girl?’ she said. I nodded, my face flushing. Bettina clasped her crooked twig-fingers together in delight. ‘Saints alive! I never thought . . . Well come in, come in.’ She ushered us into her little apartment, chattering like a bird. ‘So where’s your mama? Where’d’y’all get that accent?’ I sat on the edge of a fussily patterned chair. It clashed with the carpet and the curtains. The sort of thing Mum hated. ‘I was adopted when I was three,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I live in Britain. I’m trying to find out about Sonia because, because . . .’ My voice died away. Apart from the sound of a ticking clock the room was silent. Because she knows where I’m from. She knows where I belong. Because I think she stole me from my real family. Bettina stared at me with sad eyes. ‘Adopted?
