I sat across from Samantha, acutely aware of the din in the restaurant around us: the scraping of cutlery against ceramics; the clinking of glasses; the sound of laughter and the chatter of conversation. All amplified in my head like a symphony of chaos.
I reached for my medicine bottle, which I now carried in my pocket and shook out two tablets of aspirin, dry-swallowed them and threw back a glass of wine.
My head was throbbing, my hands constantly shaking, and not for the first time I wondered again if it was the right thing I was about to do: blowing the lid off the gauntlet of lies that was our history, and putting my child smack at the centre of the merciless wave.
My paternal instincts said not to tell her, but a voice in my head kept reminding me I couldn’t let history repeat itself. I couldn’t…
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