I started the list when I was eleven, so my first entries are naive and in the past tense. What I would like to know now is: What made you leave? and Do you ever think of us? But of course, no one can answer those questions but her.
The letterbox rattles, shaking me out of my thoughts. Sophie runs to the front door. The envelopes look huge in her little hands.
‘There are loads more cards for you, Mummy,’ she says.
She hands me the three pastel-coloured envelopes. I examine the handwriting on each one to see if I recognise it. I don’t know why I do it to myself every year. If the writing is unfamiliar, I get butterflies and a feeling of anticipation. What if this is the day she contacts me? What if it is today that I find out that she’s not dead – that she did something so terrible she had to protect us from the truth?
It is wishful thinking. I have made up so many stories in my head over the years. They get more absurd every time: she died the night she disappeared; she’s in prison for drug smuggling; she’s living in a South American village after suffering from amnesia.
I place the birthday cards on the table.
‘Are you not going to open them?’ asks Sophie.
‘We’ll wait till Grandad arrives. He’ll be here in a minute.’
Birthdays make me think of her even more. I often wonder what my mother would look like now if she were alive. I try not to look out for her any more. Not after it got me into so much trouble last time.
A few months ago, I told Sophie she was dead. It was the worst thing I could have said, but I didn’t want her thinking she had a grandmother out there in the world that wasn’t interested in her. I hadn’t meant to say it.
‘When are you going to leave me, Mummy?’ Sophie had said.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘But Granny Debbie left you and Uncle Robert.’
‘Not on purpose.’
‘Did you lose her?’
‘I suppose we did,’ I said, stroking her hair to take the sting out of it.
‘Is she in heaven, then? That’s what my friend Lila said about her nana. She had to go to church and then after the singing and the crying, they went outside and the wooden box she was in went into the ground. At least three metres under the grass, she said. But she wasn’t allowed to watch that bit – it was what her cousin told her. He’s twelve so he saw everything. Is that what happened to Granny?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about your friend Lila.’
Sophie shrugged. ‘She’s okay. She’s on the gold step now. But we all don’t mind. It was her first time. She might be naughty again next week.’
‘Everyone’s naughty sometimes, Sophie. But be kind to her, will you?’
‘Yeah.’
She’s sitting at the kitchen table now, making her own birthday card for me.
Sometimes I worry I might have the same thoughts as Debbie – that I will abandon everyone, leave in the middle of the night without being able to stop myself.
I hear Dad’s car pull up outside.
‘Grandad!’ shouts Sophie, as the car door slams shut.
Just the one door: Monica’s not with him.
They usually do everything together now they’re both retired.
I open the front door, and Sophie squeezes between me and the door frame as we watch Dad walk down the front path. He’s tall, but he always keeps his head down, like he wants to blend in with the background.
He looks up before the step.
‘I didn’t realise there’d be a welcoming committee!’ he says, bowing slightly.
He’s trying to look happy for Sophie and me, but the smile is only present on his lips. It’s a manner so familiar to me that it’s almost normal.
‘Happy Birthday, love,’ he says, before kissing my cheek, and stepping inside.
He ties a silver balloon to the end of the bannister and places a gift bag on the floor.
‘Am I allowed to play with it?’ Sophie says, standing on the bottom stair, and blowing the balloon sideways.
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Dad and Sophie follow me into the kitchen.
‘But it’s your birthday,’ says Dad, ‘and it’s a Saturday. Let’s have a drop of fizz.’
Sophie sits back at the table.
‘Why’s Grandad talking posh?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dad pulls out a bottle of champagne from my gift bag and hands it to me. It’s already chilled. He nudges me aside and reaches into the cupboard for three wine glasses. It’s like he can’t stop moving.
‘You know how I feel about birthdays, Dad. I don’t want a fuss.’
‘Course you do – it’s your thirtieth! We had champagne on your twenty-first, remember? I take it Jack’s at work … on a Saturday? I’ve never known a conveyancing solicitor work a weekend in my entire life.’ Dad glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, your brother should be here any minute.’
I don’t say that Robert probably won’t drink either. Robert would think that ordering a taxi so he can enjoy a few glasses of champagne during the day is one step towards anarchy, lack of self-control, and being on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
He has always been the same. Robert was six when Debbie disappeared. Everyone says it’s harder for him, because he remembers. When I was little, Robert told me that Dad was arrested after we came back to England – that, for a few days, it was like he had lost two parents. He probably doesn’t remember telling me; he’s barely mentioned it since. He hates talking about her now. He couldn’t understand why, until only a few years ago, I had pictures of her everywhere. Most of those photographs are in the loft now.
‘Where’s Monica?’ I say. ‘Is she ill again?’
He fills the glasses halfway, waiting for the bubbles to melt before he tops them up. We’re not usually the champagne kind of family.
‘No – well, not physically – it’s just … we’ve had an email. I can’t tell you what was in it until Robert gets here. He won’t be long.’
‘An email? Why didn’t you just forward it to me, or tell me over the phone? Does Leo know?’
Leo is our stepbrother – Monica’s son – but he lives in America with his father.
‘No, no. We wouldn’t tell him without you two knowing first.’ He paces along the small space between the sink and the kitchen table. ‘I did wonder whether it was the right day to do this, but I couldn’t face you today without telling you.’
‘What does it say?’
He narrows his eyes and purses his lips.
‘Is it about Debbie?’ I say.
He nods slowly.
My legs start to shake. It feels like the blood has