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let’s tell him now.”
    When Mum appeared, she looked almost meek. I couldn’t make any sense out of it. They sat side by side on the couch, and BM took Mum’s hand. It was an odd moment for this, but I took a good look at her for the first time in quite a while. She had more grey than I remembered, shot through her wavy auburn hair. It was pulled back rather severely at the moment, but at more relaxed times it flowed about her shoulders. As it was now, it exposed and perhaps even exaggerated small wrinkles I hadn’t noticed. I’ve always known she was older than my dad, but only by four years. She’s forty-six now, and my guess is that BM is about the same age.
    I watched, and waited, whilst they settled. He looked at her, like it was her job to tell me the “whole story,” but she kept her eyes on their clasped hands. So he turned to me.
    â€œYou know that I’m divorced.” I nodded. “What you don’t know is why. It has to do with my daughter. Persie has Asperger syndrome, which is a form of autism. I encourage you to look it up so you can understand more about it.”
    He stopped, no doubt to see if I had any questions. What was going through my mind was that this explained the way Persie looked in the photo I had seen.
    â€œMy ex-wife had a very hard time dealing with it. A very hard time. She decided to leave me, and Persie, two years ago. Persie . . . well, she needs a lot of care. She is not what they call high-functioning, although a lot of people with AS manage to deal well with the rest of society. I can afford to provide her with the care she needs, but moving her anywhere would probably send her into a catatonic state. People with AS and related issues usually don’t handle change well. So that explains why she and I can’t move to London.”
    This was definitely news to me. But Mum must have known. I risked a glance at her, but she was still staring down at her hands, and what I could see of her face told me that something about what BM had said was upsetting for her, which puzzled me. I mean, sure, it’s a sad thing to have your child be like that (whatever “that” means; I will look this thing up), but it’s not her child.
    I looked at BM, since he was the one with all the answers. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about this?”
    BM glanced towards Mum. “Em, I think you should explain about Clive.”
    I couldn’t help asking. “Who’s Clive?”
    It was obvious, even to me, that it took a huge effort, but Mum sat up straight. She looked at me and said, “My younger brother. You never knew him. You never knew of him, even. I wasn’t planning to have any children, because I was afraid of having a child like him. A child with autism. It’s more common in boys, and when I found out you were a boy, I was terrified. I didn’t want you to be like him.”
    She took another half-minute or so to collect herself, and I used the time to try and wrap my mind around what she was telling me. She’d said he was her brother. “What happened to him?”
    Her answer was more of a story, and she ploughed forwards with it as though a pause would make it impossible for her to continue.
    â€œHe was three years younger than I was. Because of his autism, he was a burden to my parents and an embarrassment to me. I didn’t want to have friends over, and I loathed being seen in public with him. I never understood how to act around him, and it seemed like every day I’d do or say something to set him off. One day when I was thirteen, our parents went out together for maybe half an hour, leaving him in my care. Something upset him, as usual. He locked himself in his room, and I just left him in there, relieved not to have to deal with him. When my parents came home, my father had to break down the locked door. Clive was facedown on his bed, nose buried in his pillow. He’d