Henry pov...
"Your mum?"
"Yes, sir. Can you come in?" She opened the door wider. "The place is quite small, but let me call my mum."
Yes. It was really small. Too many things crammed into too little space. Clothes piled on chairs. Dishes stacked in the sink. The air was stale—thick with the smell of old cooking, of dust, of something sad and forgotten. My throat tightened. I was already choking.
"Ohhhhh, Mum, it smells awful here!" Winnie cried, pinching her nose.
"Shuuuuuu…"
Yes. This was my home.
Did Mrs. Paige adopt a child? I don't know.
I shouldn't have come here.
"Why did you open the d—"
A woman appeared in the doorway.
She was smaller than I remembered. Thinner. Her hair was grey at the temples, her face lined with years I had not been there to see. She was wearing an old cardigan, stained at the sleeve, and her hands were wrapped around a chipped mug.
Paige Holden.
My mother.
I froze.
