The boy next door roars with laughter as I stand with my mouth hanging open. I’m too shocked to move. I stare at the closed door: at the patches of bare wood visible beneath the red chipped paint; at the rusted number thirty that isn’t hanging quite straight. There’s a smell of blocked drains making my stomach roll, and I snap my teeth together biting my tongue. My mouth floods with blood and humiliation. I have spent weeks imagining this day. Our first meeting. The picture in my mind never included a small boy hopping from foot to foot, his hand forming an ‘L’ shape which he holds against his forehead as he chants, ‘Loser, Loser.’ I have never felt so small or insignificant before.

Feeling my cheeks burn red I fish around in my pocket and pull out a crumpled-up scrap of paper with the address. This is definitely the right house. What should I do? The door creaks open again. This time a man with dark brown hair and ruddy cheeks steps forward.

‘Jenna.’ He offers me his hand to shake. It’s damp and warm. ‘I am sorry about Amanda. I thought getting her to answer the door might help her feel in control. She’s been so nervous about meeting you, but it was a shock; it’s the hair, you know?’

My hand flutters to the back of my neck. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I am about to ask but he speaks again.

‘I’m Tom, anyway. But you already know that. Come in. Please.’

My heart hammers against my ribs as though it recognises Tom’s voice, and I step inside. Hot tears inexplicably prick the back of my eyes and I swallow them down.

‘Come through.’

There’s a strip in the centre of the carpet that is flat and crusty and darker than the rest. The pile trampled with years of traffic. And as I walk down the hallway it occurs to me that I am following the footsteps of my donor. Placing my feet where she has placed hers, and I am overcome with the enormity of it all.

The lounge is stifling. Sun streams through the window and a smell of cooking lingers. Amanda is swamped by the huge floral armchair she sits in.

‘I’m sorry, Jenna. About before,’ she says, but she can’t seem to look at me. Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t stop staring.

‘Tea? I can make a pot?’ Tom asks.

‘Please.’ The room is so stuffy I’d prefer a glass of water but I am conscious that, for Tom, the ritual of boiling the kettle, steeping the tea, might bring a sense of normality to this situation. He heads towards a doorway at the back of the lounge. I grasp my cotton scarf and tug it away from my throat so I can breathe a little easier, but I don’t remove it, as if the layers that cover my scar can hide the reason why I’m here. Stupid really. It’s not as if they’ll ever forget.

I wish I’d brought a gift; flowers, chocolates, anything to break the ice. I’d thought about it, of course. But I didn’t want to appear insensitive. Nothing could compare to the gift they have given me; but now, being here empty-handed feels rude. I clear my throat, and Amanda jumps at the sound, as if she’d forgotten I was there.

‘Tom won’t be long. Make yourself comfortable, Jenna,’ she says and her voice is so soft I daren’t move while she’s speaking in case I don’t hear her.

‘Thanks.’ I put my bag on the floor and gaze around the room. Magnolia has been painted on woodchip wallpaper and is grubby with age. A flat-screen TV stands in the corner, coated by a thick layer of dust. Underneath the window sits a large Chinese vase. A smeared glass coffee table rests its gilded legs on a faded jade and gold patterned rug. The furniture seems solid. Expensive. Not what I’d have expected from the outside of the house. There are several small oil paintings dotted around the walls.

‘These are gorgeous.’ I cross to one and lean forward to get a closer look. Two girls are holding hands as they stand on the ocean’s edge kicking at waves that shimmer under a butter yellow sun. Droplets of water spray into their laughing faces to remain suspended there for ever.

‘They are very good. Are they all by the same artist?’ I study the next one. A seagull is mid-flight and beneath him a small girl is crouching on the sand, covering her chips with her chubby hands as she stares at the bird.

‘I painted them,’ Amanda says.

‘You’re very talented. I’ve always wanted to paint but I’ve never really had the space in my flat for an easel. I sketch though.’ I want to ask whether her daughter painted too but I don’t know how to broach the subject without distressing her even more than she already is. ‘I’m not this good though.’ My voice, louder than I’d intended, seems to bounce around the room and sounds as unnatural as I feel.

On the shelf above the gas fire is a silver trophy surrounded by photos. My stomach lurches as I draw closer to the sea of faces staring back at me. Is one of them her? My donor?

My eyes are drawn to a Victorian frame next to a photo of Tom holding a fish aloft in the air, fishing rod propped next to him, and I pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected, and it takes two hands to hold it steady. Two girls beam into the camera, arms looped around each other’s necks. The girl to the left has a pixie cut, her hair dyed crimson. My hand flutters to my hair. No wonder Amanda got such a shock when she opened the door and saw me.

‘Is this your daughter?’ I ask although I already know the answer.

‘Yes. That’s Callie,’ Amanda says.

‘Callie.’ I taste the word on my tongue. How did you die? The room is hot and stuffy but the hairs on my arms prick up and I can’t stop myself shivering.