The other photo is of two boys. The older child is definitely Kerry. I can tell by the blond locks and sea-grey eyes, the same as those of the woman in the other photograph. Kerry looks to be about fourteen or fifteen, a few years before I first met him, I guess. The younger boy looks about five. His hair is darker, but he too has the same colour eyes as Kerry and the woman.
‘My younger brother.’ Kerry’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.
‘I didn’t know you had a younger brother,’ I say. ‘I’ve not heard you mention him before.’
‘I don’t get to see him much. He lives with his mum.’
I frown, not understanding where the connection lies. ‘His mum?’
‘My mum,’ said Kerry. ‘She got married again. Ronan is the only good thing to come out of that.’
‘And this is your mum,’ I say, my finger rests on the edge of the family snap. Kerry doesn’t say anything. My voice is soft. ‘That’s you and your parents.’ It’s a statement not a question. ‘You have your mother’s eyes.’
‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’ There’s a chill to his voice.
‘I think your eyes are beautiful,’ I say. I stand up and put my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. ‘Do you think you’ll ever speak to your mum again? It’s a shame if it means you don’t get to see your brother.’
Kerry pulls my arms away from his neck. ‘There’s no going back. Not after what happened. A real mother wouldn’t treat their child the way she treated me.’
‘Which was?’
‘Badly.’ He turns and walks back into the living room.
‘Time heals,’ I say. ‘Things get said in the heat of the moment. At the end of the day, she’s your mother and loves you.’
Kerry spins on his heel and marches over to me. He swallows hard. For a moment I think he’s going to shout at me. I take a step back. He moves around to the side of the bed and, kneeling down, pulls out a shoe box. He upturns it, the lid falls off and the contents scatter across the bed cover. His voice is full of hurt when he speaks. ‘She fucked up and she knows it. That’s why she sends me a letter every year.’ He picks up one of the envelopes. ‘She may well be sorry now, but I don’t want to hear it.’ He tosses the envelope back onto the pile.
I sit down on the bed and sift through the white envelopes. None of them have been opened.
‘Don’t you think she deserves the chance to say sorry? A chance to explain herself?’
‘Jesus, Erin, you’re such a hypocrite. You haven’t exactly got a great relationship with your own dad, have you?’
It’s a cutting remark, despite the truth that laces it. ‘But I do still see him and speak to him,’ I say in my defence.
‘It’s not simply that,’ says Kerry. ‘She’s a mother. Mothers are supposed to love their child, no matter what. Mother’s aren’t supposed to reject their own flesh and blood. A child they’ve carried inside them for nine months and given birth to. Looked after for sixteen years and then when someone else comes along, she washes her hands?’ He shakes his head. ‘She turned her back on me. She can’t just pick up the pieces when it suits her.’
There is real pain in his voice. A deep-rooted pain.
‘That was a long time ago,’ I say.
‘Why are you defending her? What would you know about any of this?’
I jump to my feet. The remark cuts deep. ‘Don’t you dare judge me. You know nothing about me.’
‘Come on, Erin. You don’t get on with your dad that well. So what? It’s no big deal. Your dad hasn’t rejected you. He hasn’t turned his back on you. You weren’t kicked out of home at sixteen.’
There’s so much I could say to that. Kerry doesn’t know the half of what I’ve been through. He has no right to judge me and make assumptions. I need to get away from him before I blurt anything out in temper. I choose to retreat rather than attack.
‘As I said, you know nothing about me.’ I march out of the room. I need to get out of here. I grab my shoes and shove my feet into them, treading the heels down as I do so. Once they’re on, I leave, pausing only in the doorway for a final word. ‘You really need to get over yourself. You think you’re the only one who’s had a tough childhood. Well, I’ve news for you. You need to lose that chip on your shoulder.’
‘And you think you don’t?’ His voice races after me as I slam the door and hurry down the outside staircase.