This Child of Mine – Sinead Moriarty

The Bestselling

This Child of Mine

Available now

Sinéad Moriarty’s breathtaking eighth novel, This Child of Mine, is the story of two daughters, two mothers and the extraordinary bond of motherly love. It’s a unique blend of the storytelling genius of Jodi Picoult and the compassion and humour of Marian Keyes, in a complex and deeply involving story that will have readers arguing about the nature of motherhood and the rights and wrongs of the characters’ actions.

Sophie is a happy 18-year-old living in London with Anna, her Irish mother. Anna has devoted her life to Sophie. It may be just the two of them but Anna has more than enough love to give. Sophie has everything she could ever need.

Laura is a not-so-happy artist. She too has a daughter, Mandy. But Laura is haunted by the loss of her first child, Jody. Happy-go-lucky as she is, Mandy lives in Jody’s shadow and wonders why her mother can never let go.

Both mothers carry secrets and cannot forget the day their paths crossed. But a chance discovery is about to bring everything into the open and mothers and daughters, love and lies, past and future, will spectacularly collide.

Sinéad Moriarty’s novels have sold over half a million copies in Ireland and the UK and she is a four times nominee for the popular fiction Irish Book Award. She has won over readers and critics telling stories that are funny, humane, moving and relevant to modern women. This Child of Mine is Sinéad at her very best.

Read an excerpt

Prologue

London, June 2011

Sophie sank back in the couch and put her bare feet up on the coffee-table. It was one of those hot, sticky London summer evenings. Holly came in with two glasses of wine and plonked down beside her. ‘Anything good on?’ she asked, as Sophie channel-surfed.
‘Nothing. Oh, hang on,’ Sophie stopped on BBC1. They were interviewing some artist. The camera was showing an enormous orange canvas.
‘Oh, God, no!’ Holly groaned. ‘Not another artist. You’re obsessed. I know I’m never going to see you next year when you’re at art college. You’ll be too busy with all your arty-farty friends for me.’  Sophie smiled. ‘Holly, you’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember. You’ll never get rid of me. I love coming to your house’
‘I should think so, too.’ Holly grinned, as she sipped her drink.
Sophie turned back to the TV. The artist’s name was Laura something, and she was Irish ‒ Sophie could tell by her accent: she sounded a bit like her mum. The interviewer asked Laura about the orange painting.
Laura explained that she had painted the picture the previous year, on the day of her daughter’s birthday, and that orange was the colour she saw when she felt pain.
Holly stared at Sophie. ‘That’s just like you.’
Sophie sat forward to listen closely.
‘Your synaesthesia has influenced a lot of your painting, hasn’t it?’ the interviewer said. ‘Could you explain how the condition affects your life?’  ‘Having synaesthesia has made me see the world differently from most people. As an artist, it’s a blessing. I don’t see emotions, I see colours. I visualize numbers and letters as colours. Music translates to colour. Everything is illuminated. And the real beauty of it is that everyone with synaesthesia has their own palette of colours. So we all see things in a unique way.’
Sophie was riveted.
‘What colours do you find come up most regularly?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Well, blue is my happy colour, orange is pain and green is fear.’
Holly turned to Sophie. ‘You see? You’re not the only freak in the world.’
The camera panned from the orange canvas to another painting, a purple and green one. The interviewer asked Laura about it ‒ she had just sold it to the rock star Hank Gold for two hundred thousand euros.
‘It’s nice to have finally found a level of success after years of struggling, but money is not what drives me.’
‘What does?’ the interviewer asked.
‘Regret,’ she said softly.
‘Does that have to do with your baby daughter drowning all those years ago?’ he probed.
There was silence. All you could see was the purple and green canvas, and all you could hear was Laura’s laboured breathing.
‘It must have been a terrible time for you,’ the interviewer suggested.  ‘It still is,’ she whispered.
‘And they never found your little girl’s body,’ he noted.
‘No, and I believe she’s still out there.’  ‘Do you?’ He sounded surprised.  ‘Yes.’ Laura’s voice grew stronger. ‘I never believed she drowned. I always hoped I’d find her or that someone would discover her and bring her home to me.’
The camera moved from the painting to Laura’s face.
Holly gasped. ‘Oh, my God!’
Sophie’s glass hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.