The Baby Laundry For Unmarried Mothers - Plot & Excerpts
I was still in bed. He liked to enjoy a quiet five minutes with his newspaper on weekday mornings, so we’d evolved a routine before going to our respective jobs: he’d bring me up cereal, toast and tea, and one of the newspapers, then return downstairs to eat his own breakfast in the kitchen with the other. He’d just brought mine up when the postman arrived, and reached the hall as the letter slid through the letterbox. He didn’t know why, but as soon as he saw the unfamiliar handwriting he had a powerful sense of what it might be about. He turned around then, and made his way back up the stairs, brought it to me and left the bedroom. Thirty years is a very long time by anyone’s yardstick, so lacking my husband’s impressive intuitive powers, I had no such inkling about what I now held in my hands. Not straight away, anyway. I had never given up hope that Paul might one day try to find me. On his twenty-first birthday I’d even gone back to St Andrew’s church.
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