And just like that, crisis averted. A decision that had felt so monumental a moment ago suddenly seems achievable.
“Thank you, Mrs. Duffy, I really appreciate it,” I mumble in response. God, I have no idea how I’m going to get through this day.
The ceremony goes by without a hitch, not that I take much of it in or even seem to be aware of what is going on around me. I’ve been sitting in a daze the whole time. None of this feels real. It’s like I’m in some alternate universe, or playing a part on a TV show. I can see it all happening in front of me, time is moving forward, but I feel so removed from it.
Before I know it, I’m standing under someone’s umbrella - I don’t even know whose or how I ended up standing beside them - with the rain pouring down as I watch the coffin lower into the wet, muddy ground. I should probably be feeling something, anything, as my mother is buried but all I feel is numb. What is going to happen now? How am I meant to just pick up the pieces and move on with my life?
◆◆◆
I decide to go back to school a few days later, just to have a routine, something to keep my mind busy. Sitting in a bedroom that isn’t mine, with nothing to do and feeling numb and broken, isn’t doing me any good, and having no idea where I’m going to be permanently placed isn’t helping things. I just feel anxious and fidgety all the time. I need the distraction of school, even if I don’t really take in what I’m being taught.
I’ve never had any friends at school, not ever having the time to put into creating friendships or socialising, so there isn’t anyone to give me their condolences or ask me how I’m doing, and that works just fine for me.
School quickly becomes the one place I can forget about my problems. Somewhere I can just focus on the task immediately in front of me and pretend everything outside the building doesn’t exist. It turns into a haven of sorts, albeit a lonely one, but a haven nonetheless.
On Thursday, a week after the funeral, I’m sitting in maths class, completely zoning out - who needs to know trigonometry anyway - when the classroom door opens and in walks one of the secretaries from the school office. She casts her gaze around the room until she finds me, “The headmistress would like to see Sophie,” she informs the teacher, who nods at me to gather my stuff and follow the secretary.
Assuming a decision has been made about where I’m going to be permanently placed until I turn eighteen, I quickly pack up my stuff and follow the secretary to the headmistress's office.
The school office, like the rest of the school, is run down and in desperate need of modernising. The walls are covered in ageing wallpaper that I’m pretty sure is from the eighties, with its horrible green and yellow floral patterns, making it look like the design is moving in front of you like an optical illusion. I swear it makes me queasy when I look at it for too long.
The secretary directs me towards the headmistress’s office and tells me to go on in. As I approach the door I can hear voices coming from inside the office, but they stop as I turn the door handle and step into the room.
The headmistress’s office is small, with filing cabinets and bookcases, overflowing with books, taking up a lot of the wall space. In the middle of the room is a large desk with a computer on it and pages stacked in organised looking piles.
When I walk in, the headmistress, Mrs. Fulton, is sitting behind her desk. She is an older lady, probably in her sixties. I haven’t had much interaction with her over the years but she has always come across as strict but kind. I get the impression she genuinely cares about the kids that she looks after.
Today, her grey hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she is wearing a long skirt and top which you could only ever picture as suiting a grandmother type figure - not that I would know what grandmothers are supposed to wear since my grandparents on my mother’s side died when my mother was just a child.
Sitting in one of the seats opposite Mrs. Fulton’s desk is Nicole, confirming my suspicion of what this meeting is about.
“Ah Sophie, please come in,” Mrs. Fulton says, giving me a friendly smile and waving me further into the room as I close the door behind myself. “Some new information has come to light regarding your situation, which Nicole here wants to discuss with you.” She explains, smiling at me reassuringly and gesturing for me to sit in the spare seat beside Nicole.
"I’ll give you both some privacy. If you need me or want to talk about anything Sophie, my door is always open.” Getting up she vacates her office, leaving me alone with Nicole.
There is an awkward silence where I stare absently around the room, looking anywhere but at Nicole. I can feel my heart pounding as my knee bounces up and down in nervousness.
“How have you been doing Sophie?” Nicole asks me softly, drawing my attention to her as I give a small shrug in response.
“As good as can be expected, I guess. School is a decent distraction.”
“Good good, I’m glad you are coping ok, I’m sure it can’t be easy. I can’t even begin to imagine what you have been going through these last couple of weeks.” Genuine empathy laces her voice, her words unable to ease the ache in my chest or sense of loss I feel, but they are appreciated nonetheless.
Nicole doesn’t pry and ask me many questions or tell me what I should be doing or how I should be feeling, she just lets me deal with everything in my own way at my own time which is exactly what I need right now.
“So,” she begins, her voice taking on an ominous and serious tone as she gets down to the reason for why she’s here. “I have received some new information, and a plan has been implemented for where you are to live permanently,” she starts, pausing briefly to give me a moment to take in what she is saying, and allowing me time to prepare myself for whatever life-altering bomb she is about to drop.
“Now, what I have to say will come as a shock to you, and I know it might not be what you want, but I promise you it has all been decided with your best interests at heart.”
Damn I have a bad feeling about this. I hate when people make decisions without me. I knew I wouldn’t have much say over the situation, but knowing that all of this has been discussed and decided upon without my input is seriously irritating.
“Alright Nicole, just rip off the band-aid, tell me what’s going on,” I urge, the words coming out more sharply than I intended, but who can blame me, I’m on edge and my nerves are frayed.
Ignoring my tone, she gives me an understanding smile. “It's not bad news; actually, it could be great news, depending on how you choose to look at it,” she assures me. “Just promise me you will keep an open mind and hear me out,” she insists, waiting for me to nod in affirmation before continuing.
“I know you told me that you’ve never met your father, or even know who he is.”
Her words confuse me. What could he have to do with anything? I don’t know anything about my father, not his name or where he lives, or even if he knows I exist.
When I was a kid there were several times when I asked my mum who he was. What kid isn’t curious about who their parents are, especially when one of them is absent. All mum would ever tell me was that he wasn’t worth knowing or spending my time thinking about.
After hearing the same response time and again and seeing the pained look on mum’s face while I watched as she slowly withdrew into herself afterward, I stopped asking and, as I grew older, I stopped caring who he was. There were more important issues to deal with, and someone who didn’t want to know about me wasn't worth my time wondering about them.