26
The ON AIR light glowed red.
Line three had a guy from Reservoir claiming he saw Leo outside Crown thirteen years ago. Line six was holding with a woman in Fitzroy whose ex dated someone named Leo who also liked dumplings.
Blake didn’t take the next call. Not yet.
She leaned in towards the mic, her fingers resting on a paper stack in front of her.
Mack glanced up, sensing it. Into the mic he joked, ‘You look like you’re about to cry or confess a felony.’
Blake kept her gaze steady. ‘Worse. I’m about to get sincere.’
Behind the glass, Morgan was sitting at the producer desk. Hood up. Headphones looped around her neck. She caught Blake’s eye for half a second and gave a single, dry nod.
Blake turned back to the desk. The studio’s familiar hum, the air conditioning’s whisper—all of it faded as she spoke.
‘Before we take more calls this morning, I want to say something. Because what’s happening here, it’s bigger than us now.
‘This started with me finally telling a story I’d kept private for thirteen years.
A truth I shared because my daughter had questions I couldn’t answer.
I thought if I threw it out on the radio maybe someone somewhere would know something.
I thought it would be a one-off. Perhaps a lead that I could follow up later.
‘But you didn’t just listen. You took on my story. You called in. You connected dots we hadn’t even seen. To those listening at home, or streaming from goodness knows where, thank you.
‘And now, somehow, this whole city, and honestly, most of the country, is helping me find a man I met nearly thirteen years ago.
‘I had a baby twelve years ago. And started doing this show eleven years ago. So yeah…it’s been a while.’ She exhaled. And then continued.
‘I am…so grateful. Truly. But with that kind of momentum, comes a different kind of noise.’
She lifted a page. Held it lightly.
‘And normally I wouldn’t give this airtime. I wouldn’t let these voices in. But my daughter is in the building. And we don’t give in to bullies. Not the ones at school. Not the ones online. Not the ones who wrap cruelty in concern.’
She read the first message. Calm. Without embellishment.
‘If you actually cared about your kid, you’d have found the father years ago. David, Preston.’
And another: ‘You got pregnant from a week-long fling and now you want sympathy? He probably saw the red flags and ran for it. Chris, Elsternwick.’
And the last: ‘Stop pretending this is about your daughter. You’re not a hero, you’re just loud. You made a mistake. Own it. That little girl doesn’t have a father because of you. And one day, she’ll realise it. Louise, Port Melbourne.’
She set the pages aside. Lined them up neatly.
Blake’s fingers found the envelope beside her.
The one she had dug out of the shoebox last night, edges soft from years of handling.
She’d brought it this morning, knowing she might need it, knowing that the search for Leo was peaking and with added media attention came the added criticism.
She wanted to address it directly but to do that she knew she had to open up completely.
She took a breath and let it out slow. The ON AIR light seemed brighter somehow.
‘I’ve been doing breakfast radio for eleven years. You’ve been with me through all of it.’
She tapped the envelope beside her.
‘There’s one story I’ve never told on air. It’s about the year my little girl was born.’
She looked through the glass. ‘Coming up, I’m going to read a letter I wrote back then. My psychologist made me write it when things were bad. Really bad.
‘My little girl is not so little now and she is here at the radio station today, listening. She needs to hear this from me, not from the trolls.’
Blake sat back in her chair.
Mack, for once, didn’t rush in. He reached for his mic and said, with uncommon gentleness, ‘You know we’re here for you, Blakey.’ Then he added, quieter still, ‘Here’s Sam Smith with “Lose You”. Back in a few.’
The ON AIR light blinked off.
Outside the studio it was eerily calm. Chelsea had closed the phone lines, Britt was typing away, and Morgan sat quietly on her iPad pretending to be absorbed in whatever was on the screen.
‘You ready for this Blakey?’ Mack checked in.
‘You got this,’ Sam reassured her.
The last note of “Lose You” faded into the quiet.
The red ON AIR light blinked on.
Mack leaned in, his voice softer than usual. ‘That was Sam Smith. You’re on breakfast with Mack and Blake at 8.25. And… we’re going to step back for a moment. Blake?’
She didn’t look at him. Her hands were resting on a folded page.
‘This is a letter I wrote eleven years ago,’ she began. Her voice was steady. Not rehearsed. Just certain. ‘The year my daughter was born. My counsellor suggested it. She said I should write to my future self. She said, please don’t forget the year that defined you and nearly broke you.’
Blake unfolded the page.
The mic waited. Melbourne waited.
She read. ‘She turns one soon. Your daughter. Your beautiful, stubborn, furious little girl. She arrived six weeks early. After a pregnancy you only knew about for six weeks, with a man you only knew for six days.’
Blake’s throat tightened on that last line, but she kept going.
‘She was 2.2 kilos at birth. Feeding tubes. A humidicrib. You weren’t allowed to hold her.
And when they finally said you could, she screamed.
Colic, they said. But all you heard was, she doesn’t want you.
And when your milk never came in, they handed you a bottle and said, “Just try this instead”.
It felt like your body had already failed her. ’
Blake’s fingers pressed against the paper. The studio’s red ON AIR light glowed steady, reminding her that Melbourne was listening.
‘You went home alone every night. To a one-bedroom flat you hadn’t unpacked.
The cot was wedged between your bed and the wall.
There was no nursery. You had no idea what you were doing.
You cried in the shower. You cried over supermarket chicken.
You cried soft enough that the neighbour wouldn’t knock.
And when you finally brought her home, she screamed until she was hoarse.
You walked her up and down the hallway night after night.
Some nights, you wondered if she could feel it, that deep down, you were still trying to fall in love with her. ’
Blake paused, just for a breath. Behind the glass, Morgan hadn’t moved.
‘And all of it, every sleepless night, every screaming hour, you did it alone. Wishing you could tell him. Wishing he knew she existed. Wishing you weren’t carrying all of this by yourself.
You used the last of your savings on a PI to find Leo.
If you can’t find him, you will have to call your mum and tell her you’re moving back.
That you’ve failed to make it on your own.
You’ve been picking up fill-in shifts on the radio.
You’re tired. You’re so tired. But you’re still here. And so is she.’
Blake’s voice caught, just barely.
‘She’s just started to walk. And last week she said mum. Not a babble. Not a sound. A word. For you. So, Future Me, I know your heart is filled with love, because I see glimpses of it in her and in you.’
Blake folded the paper again, pressing the crease. The studio felt small, intimate. She leaned into the mic. ‘That’s what it was. That’s what I’ve never said. Until now.’
Then she turned and caught Mack wiping the back of his hand across his cheek.
She leaned into the mic. ‘Are you crying, Mack?’
He scoffed. ‘No. I’m…Shut up.’
Blake cracked half a smile. ‘You big softy. Honestly, I thought you’d make it through that whole thing without feeling a single thing except mild hunger.’
He sniffed once, flipped her off.
She leaned back towards the mic. ‘Melbourne, thank you for letting me share that with you. Now dry your eyes, Mack. Sam, do your thing.’
Sam hit the button and the ads came crashing in.
Volume up. Reality back.
Blake exhaled. Her shoulders dropped. The weight of the letter, the shame, the hiding, it was all out there now, and, weirdly, it felt good.
She looked up, ready to meet Morgan’s eyes behind the glass.
Only she wasn’t there.
Blake didn’t panic.
Big emotions weren’t really Morgan’s thing. She probably checked out halfway through and was now making herself a decaf in the kitchen, reorganising the tea shelf in alphabetical order.
Still, Blake paused for a beat longer than necessary.
The news sting rolled in at 8.30, filling the studio with that familiar fast-talking blur of weather updates, traffic alerts and sport. Sam leaned back in his chair, headphones askew, typing something into the call log.
Blake slipped off her own headphones, and rotated her neck until it cracked. She felt…emptied. But in a good way.
She pushed open the airlock door and stepped into the producer bay.
Morgan’s iPad was on the desk. Her headphones, coiled neat. No sign of her. No sign of Chelsea either.
Blake frowned, scanning the corridor beyond the glass. Nothing. No footsteps. No clatter of coffee mugs. Just the distant hum of the vending machine down the hall.
She went into the corridor, then turned left towards the kitchen.
And stopped.
Just inside the doorway, barely visible from the hall, stood Chelsea, arms wrapped tight around Morgan.
Morgan stood still and rigid, her face pressed into Chelsea’s shoulder. Not crying. Not fighting. Just letting it happen.
Blake blinked.
Morgan didn’t do hugs.
But she was letting herself be held. Not leaning in. Just… not pulling away.
Until she did.
Morgan stepped back, easing out of the hug, with one step back. Her fingers found her thigh, three taps against her skirt. Pause. Three taps. Then she looked up at Blake.
‘You didn’t love me.’
Blake’s throat caught. ‘Morgan, what?’
‘You said I didn’t want to be held. That I screamed. That I didn’t love you. But what you meant was that you didn’t love me. Maybe Lucy was right.’
Morgan didn’t wait for a reply. She walked past Blake without looking up, her arms crossed tight, and kept walking.
Gone.
Blake turned to Chelsea, reeling. ‘What the hell was that?’
Chelsea’s voice was calm. Steady. ‘I think she just needs some space.’
Blake’s voice sharpened. ‘Don’t tell me what my daughter needs.’
Chelsea didn’t rise to it. ‘Blake, you have half an hour of show left. Morgan wants space. Give her that. We can reset after nine.’ She softened, stepping closer. ‘You know I love you. And I am here. But you have a job to do. And Morgan said she wants to think. Give her that.’
Blake stood there unable to speak. Morgan’s words kept looping: You didn’t love me. The guilt sat heavy in her chest, mixing with fear, with doubt that she should have read the letter at all.
The final line of the news bulletin drifted down the corridor.
She turned and walked back into the studio.