The Daughter's Choice

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘I don’t know,’ was my answer – the honest truth. I was sure I didn’t want to be a mother. But could I actually bring myself to terminate the pregnancy? I kept contemplating whether doing so would make me better or worse than my late mum.

  I’d learned about abortion at school, along with the arguments for and against. I remember standing up in class, when we had a staged debate, arguing the case for a woman’s right to choose. But theory and practice are two very different things. And sitting there in my tiny Manchester flat, me on one side of the bed and him on the other, I felt far from certain about anything.

  If I didn’t want to keep the baby but I also didn’t want to abort it, what other options were available to me? Adoption was the only one that sprang to mind. That didn’t sit too comfortably with me either. The idea of giving away my child reminded me of my mother and how she effectively handed me over to social services. You could argue the move was against her will. But it’s not like she made any great effort – at least not from my perspective – to try to get off the drugs and win me back. I know addiction is an illness and quitting a drug like heroin is far from simple. But try telling that to a young girl who desperately misses her mum.

  ‘I feel really confused,’ I confessed to Max. ‘I don’t know what the best way forward is, but I do know that I don’t want to be a mother. Not now, not ever. I made that decision some time ago. It’s far from a knee-jerk reaction to the test result.’

  ‘I see,’ he replied. Until that day we hadn’t ever discussed our respective preferences about wanting children or not, despite confiding in each other about so much else. We were too new, too young, I suppose, for something so seemingly distant to come up. It hadn’t felt relevant.

  In my experience up until that point, most boys struggled to commit to anything more than a casual, no-strings-attached relationship, never mind having kids. Max was only a couple of years older than me, so I was struggling to comprehend his reaction to the pregnancy.

  ‘I’m guessing having children is something you do want,’ I said.

  He frowned and chewed on his lip before answering. ‘I haven’t given it much thought until today. I suppose I kind of expected it might happen at some point in the future, when I was older and more settled. But it’s happened now … and I don’t hate the idea.’

  He broke off, as though taking time to formulate his thoughts, before continuing: ‘The timing of this ought to feel all wrong, but it doesn’t, not to me, and I think a lot of that comes down to how I feel about you. Even though we haven’t known each other for very long, I’ve never clicked with anyone else in quite the same way. Apart from the obvious attraction, I love being around you. I reckon you really get me and I get you too. To the point where I can comprehend why you feel like you do about being pregnant.

  ‘Please don’t think I’m trying to put pressure on you, one way or another, because I’m not. I wouldn’t, I promise. I’m telling you how I feel, that’s all. If you’re not sure what to do, which is totally understandable, why not weigh up your options for a bit? There’s no need to make a decision immediately.’

  CHAPTER 32

  I did consider the matter for a while. I gave it a great deal of thought and we continued to chew it over between us. It’s not like I had anyone else to talk about it with, other than colleagues who barely knew me. Of my former foster parents, there were one or two who’d have probably been prepared to listen and give me advice, had I contacted them, but I had no interest in doing so. I was desperate to move on with my life, not to look backwards.

  The big problem was that, as much as I knew having the baby wasn’t right for me, I was massively struggling with the idea of having an abortion. I think this was related to me being an orphan. I kept having these awful, haunting nightmares featuring dead or dying babies. Sometimes they’d have my face. On other occasions, they’d have the face of my mother or father. I woke up screaming a couple of times and Max had to calm me down. He’d beg to know what had so upset me, but I could never bring myself to tell him. The thought of those bad dreams still sends shivers down my spine.

  I eventually made the heart-wrenching decision to see the pregnancy through in order to give the baby up for adoption, delaying my travels in the meantime. I’d looked into how adoption worked and, despite my initial misgivings, it sounded like there would be plenty of people – particularly childless couples desperate for a family – queuing up to take a newborn into a loving home. I still wasn’t exactly comfortable with it, but handled correctly, organised well in advance, it felt like the best available course of action.

  Before I decided this, Max had quietly, calmly continued to try to convince me, without being pushy, that keeping the baby and bringing it up together was the best option. He’d even offered to marry me, bless his traditional heart, as if having a child out of wedlock was my big concern.

  He’d caught me by surprise one evening after treating us to a takeaway curry. Having cleared away the plates, he got down on one knee in the bedsit.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot over the last few days,’ he said. ‘And I hope I might have the answer. We’re great together. I’ve never felt like I do for you about anyone else. I think of you constantly when we’re not with each other and I count down the moments until we are. Looking at you makes me smile. When you smile at me, my heart skips a beat. Just being with you, talking to you, holding your hand, fills me with warmth and happiness. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I really believe we could make this work. Marry me. Let me take care of you and the little one. I know it’s not what you planned, but I can offer you both a good life; I promise you won’t regret it.’

  It was so sweet, I started to cry. All those years of feeling alone and worthless, I’d never dreamed someone so wonderful would ever want to be with me, never mind ask me to be his wife. The tears kept coming. Goodness knows what he thought they meant. But eventually, I calmed down and found the words to reply to him.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ I said, trying not to snivel. ‘And I’m incredibly touched that you proposed. Part of me wishes I could say yes, but I can’t. I’m sorry. If I kept this baby, I would regret it. I wish that wasn’t true, but I know it is. There are things I still need to do with my life and, as self-centred as that sounds, I owe it to my miserable younger self – the one who dreamed of visiting far-flung destinations – to see them through. If I did what you ask of me, Max, I’d end up resenting you, our child and myself. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for asking me to be your wife; for being the sweet, kind, patient person you are. But I have to say no. I really am sorry.’

  He took it on the chin, like he hadn’t really expected me to agree. Thank goodness he hadn’t presented me with a ring.

  Anyway, when I later told him I’d made the decision to see the pregnancy through, but I wanted the baby to be adopted, his first response was to smile, nod and let out a gentle sigh of relief.

  True to his word, at no point had he ever put pressure on me not to have an abortion or tried to make me feel guilty about considering it. He was too kind and sensitive for that. He didn’t need to, anyway. I was already haunted by that hurt, vulnerable look I’d seen in his eyes when we’d first discussed the possibility.

  Did that play a role in my decision? It was certainly a factor.

  It was a week or so later that Max came back with another option, which I hadn’t seen coming and threw me all over again. He’d been home for a few days with his family for his father’s birthday. He had invited me, but I’d declined, blaming this on having to work, although in truth I couldn’t face it. I hadn’t yet met any of them, and the idea of doing so all in one go – in unfamiliar territory, while pregnant with Max’s child – was far from appealing.

  I could tell there was something on his mind as soon as he returned. He was restless, but I didn’t ask why. I waited until he was ready. He was staying with me in the bedsit near enough full-time by this point. He’d been sofa surfing with friends befor
e we met, in between staying at his parents’ house in Lancashire, having previously been away at university.

  His family probably didn’t know I existed until he went back for his dad’s birthday. I know he told them about me then, because of what he said on his return, once he finally stopped fidgeting and got to the point.

  ‘I have something I want to talk to you about.’ He took my hand and gently pulled me towards him. ‘I need to say this before I chicken out.’

  ‘That sounds heavy.’

  ‘Yes.’ He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. ‘It’s to do with our baby.’

  I’m not sure I’d ever heard him use the words our baby before. They sounded strange coming from his mouth. Made me feel weird.

  ‘Right,’ I said, gingerly, anxious about what was about to come next. ‘Go on.’

  He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and gave me this ultra-sincere look.

  ‘I wonder if you might consider a slight amendment to the plan, whereby you still see the pregnancy through, but instead of giving up the child to some random family at the end, you, um … let me do it.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not with you,’ I said. ‘You mean you want to choose who adopts the baby? I’m not sure that’s how the process works. I—’

  ‘No, I didn’t word that very well. Sorry. I’m a bit nervous, in case you haven’t noticed. What I’m trying to say is that, rather than someone else adopting our baby … I’d like to raise it. By myself, I mean. You could still go off and do your thing. I wouldn’t expect anything from you, financially or practically. We’d do it officially, ticking all the necessary boxes, so there wouldn’t be any legal confusion or issues down the line. From your perspective, it would be much the same as having the child adopted, only you’d be passing parental responsibility to me – the biological father – rather than strangers.’

  ‘Wow,’ was all I could manage by way of an initial response. I really hadn’t seen that coming.

  He took my silence as an opportunity to make his case. ‘I know this must be a shock,’ he said. ‘Not what you expected to hear. But it’s not a spur of the moment suggestion. It’s a possibility that first occurred to me a while ago, which I’ve been mulling over for some time. I’ve thought about little else for these past few days while I’ve been away. And, I hope you don’t mind, but it’s something I’ve also discussed with my family. I wanted to be sure it was feasible before I suggested it. I realise raising a baby as a single father wouldn’t be easy. My whole life would change. But I want this. I’d get my own place near to my parents; Mum, in particular, would be on hand to help, point me in the right direction and so on, at least to begin with.’

  ‘What about your career?’ This was the first question I asked him, for some reason.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’d put it on hold. I want this more than my career. I’m desperate to be a father to my child. I don’t want someone else bringing them up. I want to do it, more than anything. Please let me prove to you how serious I am. How I’ve properly considered this. I’ll jump through any hoops you need me to. Whatever it takes to get your blessing. We could prepare for it together.’

  ‘Only for me to leave you in the lurch immediately after the birth,’ I said, walking over to the sink to get a much-needed glass of water.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t be leaving me in the lurch. You’d be passing on the baton, as agreed. That’s what we’d both be signing up for. There would be no hard feelings, no judgement, and no further responsibility for you.’

  ‘What if something happened to you?’

  ‘Then there’s my mum and also my sister. But nothing will happen. I’m young and healthy. I’d give our child a good life, I promise. The best. You wouldn’t need to worry about any of that. After the birth, you’d be free to do whatever you wanted. There would be no ill will, honestly.’

  I worried he was doing this in the hope I’d have a change of heart at the last minute and stay, but he shook his head and smiled when I raised this concern. ‘If that did happen, I’d embrace it, of course. I’d never close the door to that possibility. But equally, I’m not trying to trick you. My suggestion is genuine. Anyway, listen, I’m not looking for an answer right away. Give it some thought, yeah?’

  And I did. A lot.

  The whole situation was bizarre, when you analyse it. There was me, growing bigger by the day, pregnant with his child, the pair of us enjoying each other’s company, happy together. And yet, at the same time, I was counting down the days to being free again, so I could go off travelling, while weighing up this huge decision about our unborn child’s future.

  Before I gave Max an answer, I decided I ought to meet his parents, seeing as they’d potentially be playing a key role in raising my child.

  Neutral ground felt most appropriate, so Max arranged for us to have dinner together in Manchester city centre. It was all a bit strange, especially at the start of the meal, when the conversation was stilted, but things improved as everyone relaxed. All in all, it was pleasant enough, considering.

  The pregnancy was never specifically mentioned; afterwards, Max revealed to me that he’d asked his mum and dad not to do so on this occasion.

  ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ I told him.

  ‘I didn’t want anything to make you feel uncomfortable,’ he said.

  In the circumstances, the fact they’d shown up at all, giving me the time of day, was enough to inform my decision. They clearly doted on Max, who’d turned out just fine in their care, and they would no doubt love their grandchild every bit as much.

  So I eventually concluded that entrusting our child’s upbringing to Max and his family was the right thing to do.

  When the minimum term passed on my bedsit, Max proposed that we move ‘somewhere a little more comfortable’ for the remainder of the pregnancy. He found a two-bedroom apartment nearby, still in Withington, which was nice without being too much. I agreed, on the proviso I still paid my own way. A compromise was reached and so we moved. I kept working until Max convinced me that being on my feet all the time, in bars and so on, wasn’t good for the baby. So I spent my last couple of months taking it easy at the apartment and planning my travels.

  Meanwhile, Max was busy finding a home in Lancashire, close to his parents, where he and the baby could live. We still got along really well together, but somewhere down the line – I couldn’t put my finger on when exactly it happened – we transitioned from lovers to close friends and flatmates. It probably started with me having trouble sleeping at night, thanks to the bump, and him moving into the spare room to give me more space. But the overall shift was a lot more gradual than that. In hindsight, I think it was a natural, subconscious progression to prepare us both for what we knew was coming.

  When the birth finally happened, ten days after the due date, it was an excruciatingly painful experience. Max was at my side the whole time. He stayed calm when I didn’t. He held my hand even as I shouted and screamed blue murder at him. And when I first handed him our newborn child, the love I saw beaming from his eyes was so powerful, I wept.

  Did I have second thoughts when I cast eyes on and held our beautiful baby girl to my bosom for the first time? Of course. I’m only human. Witnessing her entry into the world was a miracle I’ll never forget.

  But you already know that this part of my story ends with me leaving the country alone.

  I stayed nearby for several weeks: long enough to take care of the legal practicalities, granting Max full parental responsibility and so on, while also ensuring everything was okay with the baby health-wise. But I distanced myself from her, letting Max take charge. I was afraid of forming a bond, knowing it would only make leaving more difficult. The two of them moved in with Max’s parents until their own house was ready, while I remained at the apartment, finalising my travel plans.

  It was hard staying away. I was up and down, all over the place emotionally. It was like my mind was fighting a war against my body and my hormones.r />
  I shed a lot of tears, feeling empty and alone, laden with guilt; loathing myself for what I’d done to my own flesh and blood. I missed Max too, having spent so much time with him ahead of the birth. But despite all of this, somehow, I remained convinced that sticking to the plan was the best way forward for everyone concerned. I knew that taking myself entirely out of the picture as soon as possible would make it easier for all of us to adapt to our new lives.

  So, as you know, I began my long-awaited travels in Greece.

  A clean break. That was the deal.

  It sounds so cruel and heartless when I say it now, but it genuinely felt like the right thing to do at the time, to avoid any more confusion or upset.

  When I left the UK all those years ago, with no intention of returning, it was with the assumption I’d never hear from or see Max or my daughter again.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Cassie blinks several times in a bid to refocus, so lost in her memories that she doesn’t immediately register the question.

  ‘Have you ever seen or heard from them again?’ Rose says.

  Cassie meets her intense gaze and finds herself speechless. She studies Rose’s facial expression – trying to gauge her take on things – but it’s no good. She can’t read her, although she assumes Rose hasn’t yet twigged the truth. Otherwise, how could she be so composed?

  Cassie reminds herself that, as far as Rose is concerned, her mother is dead. Why would she link this story to her own, especially when Cassie has been so careful not to mention any specifics that might have let the cat out of the bag ahead of time?

  Still, something is going on. Did Rose sound curt just now, when she repeated her question, or was that in Cassie’s imagination? Perhaps it’s just a general sense of disapproval over what she’s confessed. Giving up a child is the kind of thing people struggle to accept.

  Even more so when they’re personally involved.