Susannah
As I welcome Dad with a kiss the next morning, I see that he looks nervous. We go into the living room and I don’t even offer him a cup of tea: I need to get straight into it.
‘I’ve written you a letter, Dad, because I want to tell you something but I want to make sure I say it right.’
‘Okay,’ he says. He has moved from looking nervous to alarmed. He gets his glasses out and begins to read.
Dear Dad
I’m writing this, rather than telling you because I am really worried that I will say the wrong thing and hurt you and I would never want to do that. You and Mum have been, are, the most important people in my life and I love you very much. I am so grateful for the love and care and opportunities, the safe and happy life you have provided for me, for all of us.
But something has happened that I have been scared to tell you about because I have worried that telling you will hurt you. Over the last couple of months, however, I have been more scared that this something big in my life has happened and I have not shared it with you – it feels dishonest to keep important things from the most important people in my life.
That thing is that I have made contact with my birth mother and her family.
When he gets to this point. Dad stops and looks up at me.
‘Oh thank goodness, I was so worried that someone was really sick. Oh, Susie, I’m so relieved. But, you know, I did wonder if it might be about this.’ Then he reads on.
Dad, what I really want, need you to understand as you read those words is that there is no confusion that you and Mum are my parents and that I love you as my parents. I am so blessed to be part of our family. I would not wish my life, my family to be other than what it has been, what it is.
You know how you said it was wonderful how Mum seemed to speak to all of us just before she died?
And then he stops again. ‘Yes, we each had our moment, didn’t we? I was so pleased for that.’
To me, one morning when I was sitting with her, she opened her eyes in one of those moments of pointed clarity and asked, ‘Did I do a good job, darling?’ Well, what an easy question to answer. I told her she was incredible and that I loved her and was so grateful for her and she said she loved me. Mum was, quite simply, one of the most important things in my life – as with you, her care, her love, her support even when, most notably in teenage years, reciprocation was rare, has been unwavering. I am blessed to have landed in my family.
But I did come to my family, having been left by another and I think deep, deep down there was a wound. Mum told me once she thought we were a funny pair coming together – she grieving her daughters and me, in a primal, baby, way grieving my birth mother. Yet with her and your incredible awareness and love, we navigated and soothed our wounds.
Again Dad stops. ‘Yes, you were very angry about all this when you were little. We did know how troubled you were. That’s why we sought help for you.’
This is the only time I can remember talking to Dad about any of this. My heart feels less heavy as I realise he does get it. Dad reads on. I can see he is at the bit about Gwinganna and The Journey, about how it seemed to have prompted me to want to write a better letter than the one I wrote in 1989.
I did not want to write to my birth mother as a replacement for Mum, who is irreplaceable. I just wanted to write a letter with more empathy and warmth so that if she hadn’t died my birth mother might feel more at peace, more forgiven.
And so I contacted the government department and, through them, sent a letter to my birth mother. I thought I was finishing things off, closing things but it seems I was actually opening.
She, Robin, replied and we began a tentative exchange of letters through the intermediary of the caseworker.
It became clear to me that I needed to meet her. I realised that I am genetically part of something else too. The unfinished business was also about me and who I am.
And, after a time, we met and, in time I met other members of the family.
At first I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered. I thought I was just writing this letter and that would be that. When it turned out that it was starting something I wanted so much to tell you but I was scared.
I wanted to tell you so you could help me and so I could share it with you, my father, but I was so scared that it would hurt you and you would somehow think this meant I didn’t love you and Mum as much as I do. I was, am, scared you would be hurt, you would be angry, and think that I was dishonouring you and Mum, our family.
But as time has gone on, I am more scared that I dishonour you and our relationship by not telling you. I feel like I’m lying by omission and that is a betrayal and disrespectful to you, to us.
Dad, my birth family does not replace my family. They are an addition to my life not a replacement, not a diminution of the wonderful thing I already have and value above all else.
Dad, I am scared that you will be angry at me, that you will reject me. I am scared that you will think that my desire to understand my genetic roots somehow weakens my bond to you and my family.
It doesn’t but I do need you and your help to integrate my two realities.
I still have the letter you wrote me on my twenty-first birthday. You wrote: ‘If I’d designed a daughter to my personal specifications, I don’t see how she could have turned out better.’ The same goes for you, Dad.
I love you.
Brian
As I read the letter Susie has written for me, I am at first slightly shaken, but only for a moment as relief takes over that it isn’t any of those catastrophes I’d been preparing myself for. She feared I’d be angry but anger plays no part of my response and I am able to reassure her unreservedly. She’s been a wonderful daughter and will, I know, continue so.
Susannah
Dad puts the letter down.
‘So, you’re not cross?’ I ask.
‘No, darling, of course I’m not cross. How could I be cross?’ asks Dad, putting his arms around me. ‘Mum and I have just always been so grateful to have you. All we have ever wanted is for you – all three of you kids – to be happy, and if this makes you happy, more complete, then that’s wonderful.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, wiping my eyes, although thanks seems a far from adequate response.
Dad then asks some questions about Robin, and some questions about Tim and the rest of the family. I answer but am mindful to not go on and on: if nothing else I have learned that people need time to take things in.
‘What do you need me to do?’ asks Dad.
‘Just know that it’s happening and that that’s okay,’ I say. ‘So I don’t have to split into two.’
‘Of course,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, Sue.’
And of course he will. Because he always has. And it is wonderful. Dad is wonderful and I feel incredibly relieved. But there are two more important people who need to be told too – Sophie and Duncan.
Out in the open
Susannah
I decided to tell Sophie over lunch at Dad’s house. I was nervous and anxious to get it over with so I cut to the chase soon after Sophie arrived. I told her, she listened, she said it was all fine. Yet as we sat down to lunch I looked across at my sister: after a lifetime together I can see when something is not right.
‘All okay, Soph?’
‘I’m not being replaced, am I?’ she says. There is, I feel, a touch of a challenge. Fair enough.
‘No, of course not! No one is!’ I tell her. ‘This is about adding, not taking away. It’s about more love, not less. The heart has infinite capacity, I really believe that.’
And I do. It isn’t just a line to reassure my sister, it’s true. I’m not losing my family and they’re not losing me – I have found more family and my heart has expanded to take them in. And I want Sophie to know that it will be okay. She seems satisfied and so we leave it at that, happily so, and talk about other things, the kids, life. And as I drive home from Dad�
�s house, I realise that that was one of the best conversations I have had with my sister for some time – maybe this reunion is also bringing people together who were already there?
A few days later, I sit down to write my brother Duncan a letter for Dad to take over when he goes to stay with him in Cambridge. An email doesn’t seem to be quite right and I don’t want to call. The letter I write is similar to the one I wrote Dad, but without the fear. The email I find in my inbox one morning makes my heart sing: my brother says he is thrilled for me. I am grateful for his unquestioning support.
And I am thrilled for me. It looks like it’s all going to be okay, I am going to be able to have it all, all the people I love. In my head, I update my dinner-party metaphor. Yes, I have arrived late and have shifted the dynamic of the room. I could get up from the table and leave or I could decide it’s better-late-than-never and enjoy what’s left of the night.
I have never been one to leave a party early and I’m not about to start now. I know what I am going to do – get up from the table, put on ‘Dancing Queen’ and ask if anyone wants my dessert.
So, with Robin’s birthday party approaching, it’s only fitting that I’m the one who brings the cake.
All in together
Robin
I will turn seventy-three in April and I want to have a gathering of family members, old and new. As many as possible, all together. Marian and Felix have offered to host the occasion and my daughters have volunteered to take over its organisation.
Susannah
We need to work out what we will have and who will bring what for Robin’s party. As I seem to be slightly less busy, I email the other girls to outline some thoughts and ask for theirs. Anna emails back saying she thinks I sound very big-sister-like taking charge – and she is thrilled with this. I am chuffed because I have been a little worried that I am, again, overstepping my place. Jobs are allocated and I have, obviously, given my updated dinner-party metaphor, put my hand up to do the cake.
Robin seems pleased: after all the hard work she does for her family, she is enjoying being the one consulted not the coordinator, and I am happy we are doing that for her. She is, however, not very helpful when I ask what kind of cake she would like.
‘Not too much fuss,’ she says.
‘But what kind of cake?’ I ask.
‘Vanilla,’ she replies. ‘But you know, just a packet cake.’
Baking is not a strength of mine. Cooking, yes, perhaps, but baking, no: I seem to fall down in the area of precision, which is, my baking friends tell me, everything when making a cake. I am more of the taste-and-throw school, which means my biscuits tend to bounce off the kitchen bench and my cakes never rise. Even the supposedly risk-free packet cakes, with built-in precision, have been known to come pancake-like out of the oven. So, baking I don’t, but buying I do and I know the perfect place to purchase Robin’s cake: an old-school bakery near home that specialises in sponge cakes. I set off to order it.
‘A vanilla sponge for twenty people, please,’ I say to the bakery lady.
‘Yes, love,’ she replies. ‘Now, let me get my book. Here we go. Now, a vanilla sponge, good, and what colour icing?’ she asks.
I freeze. I don’t know Robin’s favourite colour.
‘Hmm, I don’t know.’
‘What’s the birthday girl’s favourite colour?’ she asks, trying to help.
‘I don’t know,’ I repeat, slightly testily. A hint of imposter syndrome floats through my mind as does a rejigged reprise of the Year 3 moment when my classmate cries, She’s not your real mother! Pull yourself together, Susannah, it’s just a bloody cake.
‘White,’ I say definitely. ‘White with violet flowers and violet writing. “Happy Birthday Robin!” for the message. Please.’
The morning of the party, I feel a little anxious, partly because it will be the first time that Oskar and Emma are meeting everyone all in the one spot and also because that hint of imposter syndrome still hangs in the air. Anna rings and I confess my nerves to her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘You are as much family as everyone else!’
She may not be completely right but I love her for saying it. We arrive just as Anna and her family are getting out of their car. Anna, the ultimate security blanket, gives me a big hug and we all go in together.
Robin
Marian and Felix’s home is perfect for a party, with space indoors and out. Out the back, there is a generous timber deck from which a wide flight of stairs leads down to the garden. (These are the same stairs I tumbled down in my cane chair some months earlier.) The garden is large and country-like, and I particularly like it because it reminds me of my grandmother’s garden in Western Australia, triggering nostalgic childhood memories. There is the dark green, spongy buffalo-grass lawn (again, typical to WA), long, rectangular vegetable plots burgeoning with autumn abundance, and a mysterious wilderness area down behind the gum trees and fruit trees, inviting exploration. There is also, at the back, an area paved with pink bricks, which has been adorned with coloured lights for my early-evening celebration. To add to the atmosphere, wood is being burned in a shallow rusty fire pit, redolent with the fragrance of eucalypt leaves.
So, already I am delighted by the environment, even before all these people who are dear to me arrive: my daughters and their families; Marian’s sister Naomi and her family; Tim and Charmayne and their family, including Charmayne’s sister and nephew; Susan, Florence (the sleuth) and her husband, Sam. Even a brand new puppy, Ned, acquired by Susan that very day, adds to the joy of the gathering. My vision of everyone being together is taking shape.
There is the usual convivial sharing of food and drink and small talk, and then the element of the Easter hunt is introduced – devised by Marian for the children as it is near enough to the seasonal festival to combine it with my birthday celebration. Marian has composed some extraordinary clues for the hunt, clever yet so cryptic they are unintelligible to the adults, let alone to the junior bounty hunters. To help the puzzled seekers in their quest, Anna decides that they need to be read aloud with accompanying dramatic actions. She nobly undertakes to perform this task and, taking up her position on the elevated deck, which serves as the perfect stage, she proceeds to entertain us with hammed-up and hilarious renditions of the clues. After each of her dramatic interpretations, the hunters dart off randomly to seek their chocolate fortunes, at times shamelessly aided and abetted by their parents, who have a vested interest in their success. Eventually, the hoards of bright and shining eggs are gathered, gloated over and many are immediately consumed. Fuelled by sugar, two of the youngest family members, Theo and Oliver, launch spontaneously into a synchronised vaudeville dance routine, which is most entertaining.
Susannah
It’s time for the cake. Anna and I go inside to light the candles.
‘You carry it out,’ says Anna.
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘You do it.’
‘But you should do it,’ says Anna. ‘You brought it and you’re the oldest.’
Again, I love her for saying it but there is no way I am going to carry that cake out. I feel it would be presumptuous. ‘No, really, Anna,’ I beg. ‘You do it.’
She concedes. We light the candles and head out on to the deck.
Robin
Then, there is more sugar – the birthday cake. Susannah has provided this, careful to discover my preferences and to cater to them meticulously. This attention to what may please others is one of her lovely character traits. Often she will turn up with something I have expressed a liking for in passing – a pot of special jam, elderflower cordial, certain flowers – or a kitchen utensil she has noticed the lack of. My cake is, therefore, of course perfect: vanilla with white vanilla icing, prettily decorated with edible flowers and multicoloured candles of an indeterminate number.
Anna bears the splendid creation out of the house to where I am seated, royally accepting homage. ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung with enthusiastic dis
cordance and I blow out the candles to cheers and applause.
Then of course we must deploy the popper. This is a Chinese invention and one our family has adopted as an essential part of any celebration. You twist the end of a cardboard cylinder and release into the sky a rain of colourful and sparkling pieces of paper – magical! Poppers come in various sizes, but, of course, we always choose the giant size. Today, the honour of creating the magical effect falls to Marian and Emma, and truly the exuberance and joy they bring to this duty is a delight to behold.
Susannah
Prior to popping the popper, Marian gives an impromptu mini speech, in which she extols the wonder of ‘the patchwork quilt’ that is her family. It’s a brilliant metaphor perfectly capturing the many different shades and threads in this family, with half-sisters and half-brothers everywhere. Except – and this is the thing I am learning about my biological tribe – no one ever calls anyone a half-sister or half-brother; in fact, there is nothing half about this family at all. Nothing half-hearted about anyone – every one is full, everything is full-on. Full-hearted.
As indeed, is their competitive spirit. Popper popped, Marian now produces a pink ball, and a game of volleyball of sorts is begun by some of the younger ones. Looking on, Oskar and I worry that our daughter’s competitive spirit may be a bit overbearing. There is no need: it seems Emma too has found her tribe as they all fight each other fiercely for the right to control a small pink bouncy ball.
Panting, Emma takes a break to one side. ‘They’re just like me, Mum, aren’t they?’
I smile. ‘Yep.’
Over the top
Robin
Our family is always, for better or worse, full-on. On my side, it is, maybe, the combination of Irish and Latin blood that is to blame. My dad, who was by no means phlegmatic himself, tried to balance and manage his household of four highly strung females by quite regularly citing the motto ‘Moderation in all things’; but the familial wild horse of extremes was not easily bridled.
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