I never spoke those questions into the open air. Not ever to my father… yet they lingered in the back of my brain, just resting there.
As it happened, I did not need to guess for much longer.
On a weekend morning, I was working in my house study, replying to messages and getting ready for advising meetings when I noticed my father’s voice float inside from the front deck.
“Gav,” he shouted, sounding a bit hesitant. “A person is out here… looking for you, my boy.”
I got up carefully. The sound of his voice surprised me slightly. It felt soft… yet very cautious. As if he had already figured out the visitor’s identity.
I walked into the corridor, my chest pounding hard. He stood close to the mesh door, his fingers resting against the wood.
“Miranda,” he stated plainly.
Right then, I laid eyes on her. Miranda. The woman who gave birth to me.
The person I had pictured in my head more often than I could ever tally.
