I’ve time to think it through and inevitably lose my courage or manage to talk myself out of it, I reach into my jeans pocket for my own phone. I quickly punch in the mobile number, carefully including the international code for Turkey as set out in the solicitor’s email, then look expectantly around the room for inspiration about what to write.
“Keep it simple, light. Just tell him you’d like to talk, ask if that’s okay. It’s not going to be a total shock to him, he knows all about you.”
I know Tom’s right, so I jot a short message into the box—
Hello, Bajram. I hope you are well. Could we talk? Sharon (your daughter in England)
I hit send before my courage fails me entirely. Ball in his court now.
And as I look around the room full of smiling faces, I know how happiness feels. What belonging feels like. Whatever my father’s response—and in truth he probably won’t answer at all—it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
My phone pings before I even have time to slide it back into my pocket, indicating the arrival of a text. I freeze, turn the phone over in my palm. The room is hushed suddenly, all waiting to know if it’s from him . And what it says. My heart in my mouth, I focus on the seven tiny words on the screen.
Happy birthday, Sharon. I’ll call you. Bajram.
He’s answered! He wants to talk to me too. My father, my half-sisters. I’d known he was out there somewhere but I never, ever considered that I could contact him, initiate a conversation. And that if I did get in touch with him, that my approach would be welcomed.
I put my phone down on the table, staring at it, wondering how long I’ll have to wait to hear from him again. Texting’s easy, no need to plan and prepare for that. Rosie was right, a text isn’t a big deal. It was easy to do and easy for him to respond to. But a phone call—now that’s heavy. That’s much harder. Much more difficult to control, to manage. Eager now to talk, now that the first move has been made, and reciprocated, I’m just starting to wonder if, perhaps, I could make the first move again, maybe I could phone him, when the ringtone starts. It’s quiet at first but gaining strength and volume as I just continue to stare, transfixed.
Tom grabs the phone and hits “answer” an instant before it goes to voicemail. He hands the phone back to me, winks. He’s seen, as I saw, that the call is international. My gaze fixed on Tom’s, I raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” My tentative greeting is barely audible.
“Good afternoon. Is this Sharon?” The heavily accented, male voice on the other end is strong and steady.
“Yes, yes, I’m Sharon.” I ignore the surprised faces around me. Only Tom, and possibly Nathan, know about my decision to be known as Ashley rather than using my original, ‘real’ name. There would have been no point introducing myself to Bajram as anything other than Sharon.
“Thank you for your text, Sharon.” He pronounced my name with the accent on the last syllable, and I smile, it’s both intimate and remote, as though he knows me, knows of me—which of course he does—but is not accustomed to saying my name. His English is slow but perfect.
Not sure what to say, I just mumble something about being glad he got it, glad he answered.
“Of course I would answer you, my daughter. Particularly on this special day when you are twenty-one. I was just thinking of you, and then you send your message to me. A gift from God.”
Thinking of me? A gift from God? Wow!
With an effort I manage to regain my voice, contribute something to the conversation.
“You knew? You knew it was my birthday today?” Of course he does, he always sends me cards.
“Yes, Sharon, I know when your birthday is. Susan tells me, she keeps in touch always.”
I note he manages to pronounce my mother’s name correctly. He obviously had it drummed into him years ago during their passionate few months together. And I also realize that he has
“Keep it simple, light. Just tell him you’d like to talk, ask if that’s okay. It’s not going to be a total shock to him, he knows all about you.”
I know Tom’s right, so I jot a short message into the box—
Hello, Bajram. I hope you are well. Could we talk? Sharon (your daughter in England)
I hit send before my courage fails me entirely. Ball in his court now.
And as I look around the room full of smiling faces, I know how happiness feels. What belonging feels like. Whatever my father’s response—and in truth he probably won’t answer at all—it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
My phone pings before I even have time to slide it back into my pocket, indicating the arrival of a text. I freeze, turn the phone over in my palm. The room is hushed suddenly, all waiting to know if it’s from him . And what it says. My heart in my mouth, I focus on the seven tiny words on the screen.
Happy birthday, Sharon. I’ll call you. Bajram.
He’s answered! He wants to talk to me too. My father, my half-sisters. I’d known he was out there somewhere but I never, ever considered that I could contact him, initiate a conversation. And that if I did get in touch with him, that my approach would be welcomed.
I put my phone down on the table, staring at it, wondering how long I’ll have to wait to hear from him again. Texting’s easy, no need to plan and prepare for that. Rosie was right, a text isn’t a big deal. It was easy to do and easy for him to respond to. But a phone call—now that’s heavy. That’s much harder. Much more difficult to control, to manage. Eager now to talk, now that the first move has been made, and reciprocated, I’m just starting to wonder if, perhaps, I could make the first move again, maybe I could phone him, when the ringtone starts. It’s quiet at first but gaining strength and volume as I just continue to stare, transfixed.
Tom grabs the phone and hits “answer” an instant before it goes to voicemail. He hands the phone back to me, winks. He’s seen, as I saw, that the call is international. My gaze fixed on Tom’s, I raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” My tentative greeting is barely audible.
“Good afternoon. Is this Sharon?” The heavily accented, male voice on the other end is strong and steady.
“Yes, yes, I’m Sharon.” I ignore the surprised faces around me. Only Tom, and possibly Nathan, know about my decision to be known as Ashley rather than using my original, ‘real’ name. There would have been no point introducing myself to Bajram as anything other than Sharon.
“Thank you for your text, Sharon.” He pronounced my name with the accent on the last syllable, and I smile, it’s both intimate and remote, as though he knows me, knows of me—which of course he does—but is not accustomed to saying my name. His English is slow but perfect.
Not sure what to say, I just mumble something about being glad he got it, glad he answered.
“Of course I would answer you, my daughter. Particularly on this special day when you are twenty-one. I was just thinking of you, and then you send your message to me. A gift from God.”
Thinking of me? A gift from God? Wow!
With an effort I manage to regain my voice, contribute something to the conversation.
“You knew? You knew it was my birthday today?” Of course he does, he always sends me cards.
“Yes, Sharon, I know when your birthday is. Susan tells me, she keeps in touch always.”
I note he manages to pronounce my mother’s name correctly. He obviously had it drummed into him years ago during their passionate few months together. And I also realize that he has
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