On a warm and sunny May bank holiday in 2003, I had one of those rare days that truly changes your life forever. I sat in my bathroom, hands shaking as two pink lines emerged on the pregnancy test I was holding.
I was 38, single and broke. This pregnancy was the result of a brief relationship which had only amounted to four dates. Shell-shocked as I was, I laughed out loud in a moment of joy I knew there was no coming back from. Nine months later I gave birth to my son Jim.
My old Nokia still holds the text thread of the three years I was in touch with Jim’s dad. My messages began “I had a great time last night”, and ended “Have you got the results yet?” He had requested a paternity test when Jim was two. A week later we both received the results. The probability that he was Jim’s biological dad was 99.99%. This news prompted a final reply from Jim’s dad: “Yes, I got the results … I’m moving to Spain.”
