Page 2 of Never Tear Us Apart
This is where I should check my mirror again, but I don’t remember that until I see the speeding truck closing in on us – and by then it’s too late.
Chapter Two
One Week Earlier
Wednesday 11thJune 2025, 11 a.m.
Kathryn Borg and my father haven’t seen each other for more than thirty years, and I’ve never met her before. Nonetheless, I spot her easily as she walks purposefully towards us through the crowd waiting to catch the ferry to Gozo: a neat, petite woman with an air of authority. She’s a professor of archaeology and an expert in Malta’s ancient temples and artefacts, and she has promised us a guided tour of all the ancient sites.
My first reaction is a rush of shyness, followed by relief. At least there will be someone else to break up the awful, stilted conversation between me and Dad, in which we circle around the black hole of our relationship, desperate not pass the event horizon and find ourselves with no way back.
My father seems untroubled by the decades of silence that have passed since he last saw Kathryn. He has never been concerned by the constant round of niceties many families consider essential: Christmas and birthday cards, round robins and postcards sayingwish you were here. He told me once that he finds the very idea of such things a terrible burden, and for once, I have to agree with him.
But it seems like Kathryn is not the sort of woman to hold a grudge.
‘You’ve got so old,’ Kathryn greets him warmly, her eyes merry, as she takes his hand in both of hers. ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead!’
Dad laughs. ‘Well, you look exactly the same. Do you have a secret way of cheating time?’
‘Ah, you’d be surprised at the mysterious powers of the temples.’ Kathryn looks at me then, hanging back, and swoops me into a tight hug. Returning her hug feels surprisingly natural, like I’ve somehow always known her.
‘Maia.’ Once she releases me, she steps back to scan my face, giving me further opportunity to study hers. Though we are first cousins, Kathryn is almost twice my age. Bright brown eyes, full of life. A heart-shaped face and soft lines that show a woman who knows how to laugh and how to hold her ground.
‘You look like your mother,’ she tells me, touching her palm to my cheek. ‘I was so sorry to hear of her passing. It was so fast. And you were barely an adult, nineteen? It must have been hard for you.’
‘It was.’ I nod. ‘The tumour hid itself very well in her brain for a long time. By the time they found it, it was too late.’
‘My dear girl.’ Kathryn squeezes my hand. ‘You have her fair skin and smile. And you look a good deal like my mother, too, and our grandmother. Yes, there is a lot of the island in you, which is good. Malta will love you like one of her own.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘I’ve always wanted to be adopted.’
Kathryn smiles as she leads me onto the top deck of the ferry, where the cold, stiff breeze fights the strong, warm sunshine and wins. Dad pauses for a second before following.
And that’s why we will never come to a place of peace in our lives: we just can’t resist the urge to hurt each other.
* * *
The walk from the museum to the ruins ofGgantija is garlanded with grassy meadows full of wildflowers that seem to thrive even under the intense heat. My father and Kathryn walk ahead. I hang back a little, taking everything in. I’ve never really cared for history, always preferring to find meaning in the present, but this time, it’s different. This time, I am learning the history of me – or of half of me, at least. The half I have never known.
‘Ggantija comprises our oldest temples,’ Kathryn explains when we stop to take in the huge structure. It stands proud against the golden plains that stretch far beyond, punctuated by domed hilltop churches dominating worshipful towns. ‘They were made in the Neolithic period, so around five and a half thousand years ago. Older than the pyramids in Egypt and the second oldest man-made temples in the world, after Göbekli Tepe in Turkey.’ She surveys the structure with pride, as if she built it herself.
‘It’s remarkable,’ I say, taking in the enormous curving wall that bends gently away from us. Massive stones of all shapes and sizes are slotted together in perfect unity. ‘It seems like it should have been impossible to build this back then!’
‘Ah, well, legend has it that it was built by giants.’ Kathryn grins. ‘A Giantess, to be precise. A woman of enormous strength and height who could pick the stones up in one hand, while carrying their babies in the other, all while chewing on some broad beans.’
‘Perhaps we are descended from a superwomen,’ I say, smiling at Kathryn.
‘We may no longer be giants in stature,’ she replies, ‘but we Maltese women are mighty still – in our hearts and minds. And, giantesses or no, you certainly are descended from impressive women,’ she adds. ‘Our grandmother is still a local legend to this day.’
‘Really?’ I glance back at my father, who has folded his clip-on sunglasses down over his specs. He has always behaved as if he came into the world fully formed, untethered by family or ancestry. We haven’t spent a lot of time together, but when we have, he has never talked about his family or the country of his birth.
‘Naturally,’ Kathryn says, glancing at Dad. ‘Don’t you know anything about her?’
‘Only that she died young,’ I say. ‘Mum told me that.’
Kathryn shakes her head, bemused. ‘How can one know who one is without knowing where one came from?’ She gives my father a pointed look. He ignores her. ‘I’ll tell you all about her before you go home, I promise. Giantesses don’t seem so implausible when you consider that the wheel had yet to be invented when this was built. But we have found a number of large, perfectly spherical stones that we think might have been used like ball bearings, to help moves the stones.’
‘And all for God or goddesses or whatever,’ I say. ‘It always amazes me, the stories that people are willing to live and die for.’
