Noah's eighth birthday party was at our house. A football cake. Twelve shouting boys. Jo in charge of the games, because she's always better at it than me.

Tom came early to help blow up balloons. He'd started bringing a pump.

Elaine came at three o'clock exactly. She stood at the door with a present held in both hands, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her.

Noah opened the door. He looked up at her.

“Are you my other gran?”

Elaine's eyes filled. “Yes,” she said. “I'm afraid I am. I'm very sorry I'm so late.”

“That's okay,” said Noah. “The cake's not cut yet.”

And he took her hand and pulled her inside.

Later, when the boys had gone home and the house was full of torn wrapping paper, I found the last card of the day at the bottom of the pile.

It was from Tom. On the front was a blue teddy bear, just like the very first card from Frank.

Inside, in Tom's handwriting: Happy birthday, Noah. With love from your Dad.

I thought about that night eight years ago. The rain. The suitcase. The white Mini at the end of the road.

They threw me out with nothing but the truth.

It turned out the truth was enough. It just took its time coming home.