by Terry Tyler
Two evenings a week I attended my course, and on the other nights I curled up in my room and watched Leah on the NPU site, via the link Jennifer sent me. I had an interface chat with Kayla, her primary carer; she seemed like a darling, but I felt an irrational resentment towards her, because she would experience all those precious moments with my daughter that should be mine.
I watched the site obsessively. Every moment I could, even though the pain of not being able to touch her, talk to her, was physical, in my stomach, in my chest. But she looked happy. She was growing, developing, and I could only see it happening on a screen. Every night, I watched with tears streaming down my face.
Every night I watched my little girl thriving without me.
"I'm so sorry, Aileen. It does go down like this, sometimes."
That longed-for day in May had arrived at last, and I'd just watched my beautiful daughter being taken out of the room, crying her eyes out.
When Kayla first brought her in, I couldn't contain myself. My face dissolved; I took her, holding her to me so tightly, telling her how much I loved and missed her, because all I knew was that my daughter was back in my arms, I could smell her gorgeous soft skin, feel her little warm body close to mine―and this, apparently, was exactly the wrong thing to do.
I'd read this on the site, all about how I should hold back at first, because she might be wary of me, but I was beyond anything but pure emotion. I held her so close to me and I wept.
By the time I managed to control myself, Leah was crying, too. I felt like slicing my head off for being so selfish.
"Try putting her down," said Kayla gently, and I did, noticing how much more steady on her feet she was than two months before. Already I'd missed so much. That desperate feeling swept over me the moment she was out of my arms, but what really crucified me was that she reached for Kayla, not me.
"It's okay, sweetheart, everything's alright, I'm here," Kayla whispered to her, stroking her head. I slumped onto the sofa, devastated.
Kayla knew what to do. I didn't. She sat down next to me with Leah on her lap, calming her down, making her smile, until she judged that the time was right to try again.
"Look who's come to see you, baby girl," she said. "Look, it's Mummy."
I didn't want Kayla to call her baby girl. No particular reason, I just thought it was nauseating. Should I say something? Would such a protest make me look like a difficult mother?
Leah reached out and touched my face, and I said, "You remember me, don't you? Leah, darling, Mummy's come to see you." And my heart was torn in two again, because she used to echo 'Mumma' whenever she heard me say the word. Now, she just looked bewildered.
I mentioned this to Kayla, trying so hard not to sound needy, critical or neurotic, and she said, "It's not a word she hears here, obviously, but we do encourage the children to learn our names." To demonstrate this, she put her head down to my daughter, and said, "Leah, what's my name?"
And Leah smiled her beautiful, perfect smile, and said 'Kayla' in that loving, sweet way she used to say 'Mumma'.
This is temporary, I kept telling myself. It's just temporary.
I brought out the pale grey toy rabbit with big floppy ears that I'd bought for her, and she smiled and touched it, patting it, but she didn't take it. Kayla tried her hardest, making the rabbit dance on Leah's lap, and she liked that, it made her chuckle, but when I had a go she only smiled at me tentatively.
I said, "He's a rabbit, darling. What shall we call him?"
No response.
Kayla said, "He's a lovely bunny, isn't he? Can you say bunny?"
I hadn't planned to teach her words like 'bunny' and 'moo-cow'.
She said something that sounded like 'sunny', and Kayla and I laughed, which made Leah laugh, too.
"That's a good name, darling. Sunny the rabbit." I made him kiss her cheek and she liked that, too, so I tried again. "Leah, you do remember me, don't you? I'm your mummy."
She didn't look at me, but she nodded her head. I reached out, putting my finger into her soft little hand, like I did when she was a tiny baby, and she held it; I waited for the gooey smile, but it never came.
She became more relaxed with me as the afternoon progressed, once Kayla got out some toys, and she played with the rabbit and gave me a brick, saying it was a 'pesent', but it was not the reunion I'd been fantasising about for the past two months. When my time was up, she let me cuddle her but I got it all wrong again, I held her too close. I kissed her too much; I held her head to my cheek, just like I always had done, but now she began to struggle, pushing my face away. She'd grown stronger, in this short time we'd been apart.
I released my hold on her, and handed her back to Kayla.
"Hush, now," she said. "It's Mummy, she only wanted to show you how much she loves you."
Leah's wails calmed down into snuffles, Kayla put her down and I sat on the floor next to her. "Can I have a cuddle before I go? I promise I won't hold you too tightly."
Kayla said, "You can give Mummy a cuddle, can't you, baby girl?"
Leah gave a little nod, unsmiling. I put my arms around her, and she started yelling again.
"I think we'd better call it a day for now," Kayla whispered to me, and picked my daughter up, kissing her forehead. "Do you want to say bye-bye to Mummy, Leah?"
But she didn't. She clung to Kayla as if she was saving her from the big bad wolf.
They left, I cried my eyes out, and Jennifer came in to tell me this was all perfectly normal.
That evening I logged on to the NPU site to see how Leah had dealt with the traumatic experience of being visited by her mother, and read that she'd been 'distressed' for a little while afterwards, though she loved Sunny the rabbit, and took him to bed with her.
Next morning I called the centre to speak to Jennifer, who was not available, and continued to not be available for three days. When I finally managed to get hold of her, she said she thought it might be better if I didn't visit for another two months.
"To give her more time to settle," she said.
"Two months? But she won't know me at all by then—surely I should visit more often, not less!" The blood pounded around my head; the realisation that I had no control over the situation made me dizzy with panic. "This isn't right—the agreement says 'visits on a regular basis'—I've got it here, on my com."
"Yes, but Kayla feels that your visit set Leah back; we saw significantly less verbal mode communication for a couple of days afterwards."
"You mean she wasn't talking much."
"Exactly, yes. We allow more frequent visits for older children, but with a child of Leah's age, this can cause disorientation. Now that she's living at NPU—"
"She's not living at NPU, she's staying with you until I can get back on my feet."
"As both I and Portia French have discussed with you at some length, Aileen, NPU is not day care." Her voice was so smooth, sickly sweet and caring that challenging her made me feel almost rude. "She's developed a close attachment to Kayla, and she responds well to her secondary carers, Alfie and Maisie; she's doing well."
"I want to see her. Today."
"I'm so sorry, Aileen, but that won't be possible."
Tears streamed down my face. "I don't want this. I've changed my mind, I'll take the Hope Village option. This isn't right. I'll pick her up tonight, and you can send us straight to Hope, I'll give up my job―"
"I'll make Portia French aware of your feelings, but I don't believe that option is open to you now, Aileen."
What? "What on earth do you mean? This is my life, mine and my daughter's; it's not up to you!"
"I'm afraid it is; you chose to place her with us, thus giving us the legal right to act in what we consider to be Leah's best interests."
The legal right. This bombshell was delivered to me in the same soft, sympathetic voice.
"You did know what you were signing, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course I did, but Portia French gave me the impression that y
our decisions would be made with the two of us in mind, at all times―that I would still have input―"
"And you will have, but―look, I'll be blunt, Aileen. Kayla felt you were inappropriately emotional during the session, and such displays can upset a child of Leah's age, especially when she has already faced such challenges in her young life. I've watched the footage of your visit, and I'm afraid to say that I formed the same impression. Don't forget, a child of under two years old does not form memories in the way an older child will; she'll have recalled you as familiar, but―"
I gripped my com; my face was soaking wet. "Kayla has become her mother figure."
"We don't promote such roles at NPU, but she is the person Leah relies on and trusts, on a day-to-day level. Of course you have that blood bond with her, and that will never be broken."
When we finished the call, she agreed that she would set another visit for two months. I lay face down on the floor and howled, tearing at the carpet, demented with pain.
I tried not to live my life for that date in July when I would see her again, but I did. I went to my job, I attended my course, I achieved a pass level to show that I was as technologically on the ball as any kid fresh out of college, but I did all this like a robot; all I thought about was the day I would get my daughter back.
I wonder if the worst times in your life blur in your memory so that you're not constantly reliving the anguish, the memory acting as a buffer, so you can move on.
Academically, I know what I went through for those years; I can tell people that I felt like I'd had my arms cut off, that it was like mourning a person who'd left you, that I blamed myself for getting us into this situation and felt so low and lonely some days that I could hardly get out of bed, because I know that was how it was, but I can't actually feel it. Thank goodness.
The July visit was wonderful and so, so painful. This time, I held back, and the three of us played together, but she copied Kayla, not me. She knew more words; I pointed to pictures of animals on my tablet and she named them. That was heart-breaking; I should have been the one teaching her those words. I'd brought one of those bubble blower things that I'd loved when I was little, and I showed her how to blow through the plastic stick. I played that with her while Kayla went to the loo, and she liked it, chortling and asking to do it again, but when Kayla came back she said it would have to be approved by Health and Safety before Leah could play with it.
I muttered, "Oh, for goodness sake," but I didn't want to spend our precious afternoon causing difficulty, so I let it go. I didn't want to spend our precious time with Kayla, either, but the rules said I had to.
Leah waved me goodbye when she was told to, but didn't seem sad to see me go. During the next three visits I felt as though she saw me as nothing more than a vaguely familiar, kind stranger who brought her toys and cuddled her a bit too tightly.
As I waited in the day room for my sixth visit, Jennifer came in and explained that Leah was going through a difficult phase, had thrown a tantrum when told she had to stop playing trains with her friend so she could see me, and they thought it best if we wait another three months.
"Of course, it won't be long until she's three," she said, as if I needed to be told, "and this is the prime age for this sort of behaviour. Let's allow her to get over this difficult phase, shall we? Give her time to settle down."
Worst of all, I knew that if I became agitated or demanding, I would be physically removed and even less likely to be granted a visit. I made enquiries to find out my legal position, and it turned out I didn't have one. I said I'd been misled, but was told that unless I had proof of this, I was on a hiding to nothing. I had no money for a good lawyer; that consultation alone cost me half a week's pay.
My next visit was cancelled because I had a cold; I turned up, they took one look at me and told me to leave. The one after was cancelled, too; NPU was in quarantine due to a gastric virus, I was told.
When I was finally allowed to see her again, a month before her third birthday, she scarcely knew me any more.
At one point she looked at Kayla and said, "Is that lady my bird mum?" I didn't understand what she was trying to say until Kayla answered that yes, I was her birth mum, but Leah just made a little 'oh' noise, and carried on playing with the mother and baby giraffes I'd bought her.
I said, "Birth mum? I'm her mother, full stop."
And Kayla just smiled at me, and nodded, like she didn't want to get into it. I noticed that she now referred to me as 'Aileen', not 'Mummy', so something must have stuck in Leah's head, at least.
I insisted on seeing Jennifer before I left, to say that I wanted Leah to know that I was her mother, not her 'birth mum', and was told that a new ruling had been made across all NPU centres: all natural parents would now be referred to as 'birth parents'.
I was also ticked off for telling her the giraffes were mother and baby, as this went against NPU's policy of non-parental roles. I'd noticed that Kayla referred to them as 'big' and 'little'.
I'd had enough of this rubbish.
I rang Portia French.
"I don't care what I have to do, where I have to go, where I work or how it happens, but I want Leah back. She's my daughter, not Kayla's or Jennifer's, she needs to be living with me—and I am extremely unhappy about being referred to as her 'birth mum'."
Nothing I said made any difference. I asked for the name of her superior, and contacted her, pleading my case rationally and articulately but I got the same stock replies I'd received from Portia and Jennifer.
Three months later I was blessed with a tiny ray of sunshine: after requesting an interview with the warden of Barrington House, during which I suggested that I was capable of more than stripping beds and filling the dishwasher, he told me that the receptionist would be leaving at the end of the month, and he was happy to give me a trial.
I was over the moon; finally, I had that D Grade job that meant I could―just―afford a flat. Still not enough to pay for child care, but before long Leah would be at school, so I would only need a minder for two or three hours a day.
Portia French said they had to be sure I was completely financially independent—which meant I must be able to afford a deposit for a flat, moving costs, plus everything Leah would need within our home, and proof that I could pay all utility bills and medical insurance without having to cut back elsewhere.
Over the course of a year I managed to save up enough for a deposit and a month in advance on a flat, with a good chunk in the bank to pay for bills and all other expenses for at least three months. I continued to be allowed two monthly visits, but Leah related to me only as Aileen, the nice lady who brought her new toys. I was no longer allowed to tell her I was her mummy, but I refused to describe myself as her 'birth mum'. I knew that, in NPU, birth parents were considered as necessary as yesterday's coffee grounds.
During one of these visits I talked to her about all the plans I had for her room when she came to live with me, but apparently she was upset after I'd gone because she didn't want to leave Kayla and her bedroom that she shared with two other little girls.
Hard. So, so hard.
I spent much of my free time on Heart2Heart, where the other parents assured me that yes, I had a long road ahead, but I was moving in the right direction.
I allowed their words to make me feel optimistic. I didn't understand what I was up against, even then.
I applied for and was given a flat in Stack 231, but it was around this time that I noticed there were fewer updates about Leah on the site. Jennifer was elusive; I'd get the computer-generated version, who was 'here to answer all my questions'.
A request to visit was turned down; they said Leah was going through an introverted phase and not responding well to others. They did not want to force her into a visit she didn't want. The next was cancelled at short notice because she was unwell.
My daughter was ill, and they wouldn't let me see her.
It was an awful, awful time.
I made m
y official application to regain full custody, was told there would be a period of assessment for both of us, and like a good, obedient 'birth mum', I sat back and waited. That period in my life consisted of endless calls and emails, as I contacted anyone and everyone who might be able to give me a good reference, including Portia French who eventually blocked me. I'd taken an evening job―three nights a week as a cleaner―to show that I was doing all I could. I allowed NPU permission to see my financial details; every penny was put away to save for Leah's future.
I waited, and waited, and waited.
Shortly after Leah's fifth birthday, I received this from the Head Administrator at NPU National HQ:
'Your birth daughter, Leah Phillips, has undergone our standard assessment for children reaching five years of age, and you will be pleased to hear that her educational level is way above the national average, and she is, generally, a happy, sociable, and emotionally balanced child. For the most part, she has adapted positively to the non-parental upbringing lifestyle. The opinion of Doctor Martin Rand, our in-house child psychology consultant, is that her removal to one-on-one living with a birth parent who is largely unfamiliar would cause her extreme emotional distress, and setbacks in her social and educational development from which she may never fully recover. He also feels that your continued visits unsettle and confuse her; he recommends that they should cease until Leah is old enough to understand your circumstances.
She'd written a whole lot more, but it amounted to the same thing.
For three and a half years I'd done everything right, but it had all been for nothing.
I poured out my pain to my faceless friends on Heart2Heart.
Doesn't surprise me said @Sunshine25. I'm so sorry.
Yeah it's rough said @MumNotMum. I can give you names to talk to about it, cuz there are some people who genuinely want to help, but you need to be prepared for the worst. From what I've discovered since it happened to me, once you put your kid in NPU, they're gone.
