Sitting on a bright red bicycle.
Behind me stood a dark-haired boy.
He had one hand on the handlebars and the other resting near the back of the seat.
Even at seven, his eyes were unmistakable.
One light.
One dark.
Julian.
I sat there staring at him.
The man who had vanished when I told him I was pregnant had once been the little boy who taught me to ride a bicycle.
Under the photograph lay a bundle of letters tied with faded string.
The first was written in a child’s uneven handwriting.
Dear Rachel,
Where did Claire go?
Did she take the red bike?
