Gemma watched her sisters’ laughing faces illuminated by the fizzing sparklers, and remembered how excited their placid Nana Leonard used to become on their birthday.

“Make a wish, girls!” she’d say, fervently clasping her hands, as the three of them stood in a jostling row to blow out the candles on their shared cake. “Make a special wish!” It was as if she truly believed their birthday wishes could and would come true and as a result Gemma would construct elaborate wishes with multiple clauses: like school being canceled forever and living in a chocolate house and becoming a ballerina and Daddy finally coming back home.

The lights came back on and they blinked at one another. Olivia took their cakes away for cutting, promising to take some home for herself.

“Time to hear from our fourteen-year-old selves,” ordered Cat. Her eyes were glassy. “Hand ’em over.”

“We’ll each read out our own letters.” Lyn’s words were blurring around the edges.

So that’s what they did.

Cat went first.

Dear ME,

This is a letter from you in your past. You probably don’t even remember it but once you had to do these STUPID, SHITTY things called religion lessons with this IDIOT teacher who PISSES ME RIGHT OFF. Glad you’re finally FREE, I bet! I bet you’re just laughing your head off remembering how boring school was and how you felt like you were in PRISON. (By the way, Gemma is sitting in front of me sucking up to the teacher like you would not believe. Meanwhile Lyn has got her arm wrapped around her page as if I’ll try and steal her future for God’s sake.)

So—I’ve got to tell you what I hope you’ve achieved.

Here it is:

You should drive a red MX5.

You should have traveled EVERYWHERE.

You should have a LOT of money.

You should have a tattoo.

You should have your own really cool apartment.

You should go to any concert that you want. GO RIGHT NOW IF YOU WANT! COS YOU CAN, RIGHT? So just go!

You should be very SUCCESSFUL—I’m not sure in what. You are probably a famous war correspondent. (I hope they haven’t got world peace yet. There are still wars, right?)

That’s about it. I don’t think you should be married yet. Wait till you’re 35. You don’t want to ruin your whole life like Mum did.

From, CATRIONA KETTLE, AGED 14.

Then Lyn:

Dear Me in Twenty Years’ Time,

GOALS YOU SHOULD HAVE ACHIEVED BY NOW ARE:

Enough marks to do Hotel Management at uni.

Travel to exciting places.

Your own successful catering business.

A husband with a voice like Mr. Gordon’s. (Husband should adore you and love you and be romantic and give you flowers.)

A big, beautiful house with views of Sydney Harbour.

Lots of beautiful clothes in a walk-in wardrobe.

One daughter named Madeline, one son named Harrison (after Harrison Ford. Mmmm, mmmm!).

Good luck and good-bye,

LYNETTE KETTLE.

And finally Gemma:

Ahoy there, Gemma!

It’s me, Gemma!

I’m fourteen.

You’re thirty-four!

Wow!

Anyway, here’s what you should have achieved by now:

A degree in something or other.

A career in something or other.

A HUNKY, SPUNKY husband whose name begins with either M, S, G, C, X, or P!

Four children. Two girls and two boys. Order should be Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl (but I can be flexible).

So—have you done it?? I hope so! If not, why not?

Lots of love from Gemma.

P.S. Hey! You’ve had sex. What was it like???!!! AAAGGGGH!

P.P.S. Who did it first? You, Cat, or Lyn??? AAAAGGGGH!

P.P.S. Give that hunky, spunky husband a big kiss and tell him it’s from your fourteen-year-old self!

“Wow,” said Lyn. “We were so, so…”

“Exactly the same,” said Cat.

“Different,” said Gemma.

It wasn’t so much the things that her fourteen-year-old self wanted. It was the fact that she so blissfully, so completely, believed she had a right to want anything.

Ahoy there, Gemma! I’m sorry, but I seem to have stuffed things up. I forgot. I’m not sure what I forgot. But I forgot it.

She thought of her mother, the day of Cat’s court case, watching Cat and Lyn obviously locked in some sort of vicious argument. “Those two need to let go!” she’d said. “What about me, Mum?” Gemma had asked frivolously. “What do I need to do?” “You’re the opposite. You need to hold on, of course. Hold on to something. Hold on to anything!”

“So, Lyn, all you need is that little boy called Harrison and you’ve achieved everything you ever dreamed,” said Cat.

“Yes, I know. I’m so boring.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Oh, stop it! The two of you. Just stop it.” Gemma could feel something indefinable inflating within her.

Cat and Lyn ignored her. They both took drowning gulps from their glasses.

“I note that your letter didn’t even mention children,” Lyn said to Cat.

“It wasn’t a contract.”

“It’s just interesting.”

“You know, Lyn, not everything is your business.”

“It is my business! Gemma’s baby is my niece or nephew. And I think children should be with their parents. That’s why—”

She stopped, took a breath and brushed at some crumbs on the tablecloth with the back of her hand.

“That’s why what?” asked Gemma.

“That’s why I called Charlie to tell him you’re pregnant.”

Gemma nearly knocked over her glass. “What did he say?”

“He wasn’t there,” admitted Lyn. “I didn’t leave a message. But I’m calling him again. I feel really strongly about this.”

Gemma watched as Cat began to tremble.

“You bitch. You absolute bitch.”

“Cat. It’s not about you.”

“It is about me. This is my baby!”

But it’s not, thought Gemma, with surprise. It’s my baby.

“Do you know how a lightbulb works?” she asked Cat.

“Oh, shut up, Gemma! This is serious!”

Charlie would know.

It seemed like the purest, most absolute truth of her entire life.

That Charlie would know how a lightbulb worked. And he’d pull a funny face. And he’d explain it so well that electricity would seem like something magical. And Gemma didn’t want to miss it. She wanted to be there, loving them both in the bright, white light of Woolworth’s.