Chapter 1 #2
Callum’s forehead is creased as he watches me. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering if it’s selfish of me to pursue this.
” I run my thumb along the folder’s edge.
“From everything in here, it appears Grant Thompson and his family have a good life. Me making contact with him is basically the equivalent of dropping a grenade into it. Do I have the right to do that?”
Callum and I know the pitfalls of life in the public eye better than anyone. Somehow, now that Grant has a face, a name, and a family, the cost of my curiosity isn’t theoretical anymore. The cost includes a wife called Margaret and three children who never asked for any of this.
“Equally, doesn’t your father have the right to know about you? Surely he and his family can decide for themselves whether the knowledge upends their life or not,” Callum says.
“You’re right.” I rub between my eyebrows.
“And maybe I’m just worrying about protecting them because I actually want to protect myself from potential rejection.
What if he’s horrified by the idea he sired a son without realizing it?
What if he decides his life is fine without me in it?
Even worse, what if he’s a Tory?” I shudder theatrically.
“I think Toby has already written the playbook for how to get along with someone even if you disagree with their politics,” Callum says.
“That’s true.”
In the surprise of my lifetime, my best friend Toby, who’d been a fellow Labour MP, had fallen head over heels for Harry Matheson, the leader of the Conservative Party.
Of course it had taken them being kidnapped by terrorists and stranded together in the Nordic wilderness to see past their differences and fall in love, so I’m not sure if it’s a scenario that would work for everyone.
“What does your gut tell you?” Callum asks.
I consider the question. As prime minister, I learned to trust my instincts in complex situations with no clear right answer. I try to apply that same instinct now.
“My gut is telling me it’s worth the risk,” I say finally.
“I don’t need a father figure because Grandad filled that role more than sufficiently while I was growing up.
But when our child asks about their grandparents, I want to be able to tell them everything.
” I run one hand through my hair. “I mean, the family tree on your father’s side is documented back to the twelfth century. ”
“It might also be nice to find a grandparent. After all, grandparents are in pretty short supply for our child,” Callum says.
He’s right. Both of Callum’s parents have passed away. I’m estranged from my mother and plan to keep her as far away from our child as possible. Based on my past experiences, I doubt my mother would be able to resist selling details about her royal grandchild to the tabloids.
“I don’t want to have expectations he’ll want that role.” I open the file to look at Grant Thompson’s face again. “But he probably deserves to know he’s about to become a grandfather, right?”
“I think he does,” Callum says. “And I think any man would be lucky to discover that you’re his biological son.”
I huff a short laugh. “Though it’s a bit more difficult than your average meet-your-long-lost-son case, isn’t it? I can’t exactly walk up to his front door and announce, ‘Hello, I’m your long-lost son, the former prime minister who’s now married to the future King of the United Kingdom. Surprise!’”
Callum grins. “Why not? I basically did that with the entire country. ‘Hello, I’m your new American heir, who you probably didn’t know existed. I don’t drink tea, and I fall over a lot. Also, I make elevator jokes.’ The whole thing worked out pretty well for me.”
I laugh as I reach my arm out to pull him closer to me.
“That’s because you’re basically a golden retriever in human form. People can’t help but love you. I’m more of a… What’s an appropriately cranky British animal? A badger?”
“I prefer to think of you as a very sophisticated fox,” Callum says. “Sharp, clever, and slightly terrifying when cornered.”
“Foxes go through people’s bins and scream at three in the morning. Although I suppose that’s not entirely inaccurate given a politician’s behavior during election season.”
Callum laughs before his expression turns more serious.
“Why not reach out to him first and feel things out before telling him who you are?”
“That’s a good idea. If he’s not interested in connecting with a long-lost child, then that gives me an answer before I completely put myself out there.”
“And if he is interested, you can try to work out what kind of person he is before deciding what to share with him.”
I lean my head against Callum’s shoulder. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise,” Callum says. “You were just too distracted by my good looks to notice.”
I laugh, but my mind is already composing the message I might send to this stranger who shares my DNA.
“Did you know that in ancient Rome, fathers had absolute legal power over their children for their entire lives?” Callum asks. “The concept was called ‘patria potestas,’ and it meant a father could technically sell his children into slavery if he wanted to.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
I usually love the way my husband’s mind works and the random facts he shares with me, but I’m not sure if the negative side of paternal relationships is what I need to focus on now.
“I’m just providing historical context,” Callum says. “Our modern conception of fatherhood is relatively new. For most of human history, fathers were primarily disciplinarians and providers rather than emotional support systems.”
“Well, having missed out on being disciplined or provided for by Grant Thompson, we’re going to have to skip straight to whatever we might build now,” I say. “That is, if he’s even interested in getting to know me.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Callum says.
That evening, after consultation with Callum and two members of the Palace comms team, along with several drafts, I compose a message to send to Grant Thompson through social media from a newly established account:
Dear Mr. Thompson,
My name is Ollie. I recently had my DNA tested.
Based on the match percentage with members of your family on the YourDNA website and my mother’s recollections, I believe you may be my biological father.
My mother’s account of my conception involves an encounter in the vicinity of the Rose & Shamrock pub in Brentwood in June 1985.
I understand this message may come as a surprise. I’m not seeking anything from you other than perhaps a chance to meet and connect. I’m happily married and about to become a father myself, which has prompted my interest in understanding more about my biological origins.
If you’re open to communication, I would welcome the opportunity to speak further.
Regards,
Ollie
I hover over the send button for several moments, doubt creeping in.
What if he doesn’t want to know me? Even worse, what if he meets me and decides to sell his story to the tabloids?
After all, he’d probably be able to buy a holiday home in Majorca with the money they’d offer him, and he doesn’t owe me any loyalty.
Callum is sitting next to me.
He takes one look at my face, then moves his hand over mine so I press the send button.
The message flies into the digital ether.
“Sometimes you just have to leap,” he says softly.
As I stare at the Message Sent confirmation, a strange mixture of terror and hope rises inside me. For better or worse, I’ve opened a door that has been closed my entire life.
Now I can only wait to see what walks through from the other side.