Not My Daughter: An absolutely heartbreaking page-turner

by Kate Hewitt

  Eighteen

  Anna

  ‘Oh, Anna.’ Milly’s mother Claire envelops me in a hug, her face crumpled in anxiety. It’s been four days since Milly gave birth, and as far as I know, she’s barely looked at Alice and only held her a few times, all of them difficult. She’s coming home from the hospital today, which is why her parents are here, even though Matt is clearly alarmed by the prospect of having Milly here. He’s due back at work by the end of the week, and Milly doesn’t even want to look at her child.

  The midwives and consultants have given him support, at least, mainly in the form of pamphlets on caesarean recovery and maternal bonding, but the words postpartum depression have been murmured. A health visitor is going to stop by tomorrow; an appointment can be booked with the GP to discuss antidepressants, if it comes to that, but I know Matt is hoping it won’t.

  ‘We’re going to get through this,’ he said last night, his chin tilted at a stubborn angle, reminding me of Milly. I had come to the hospital to see them both, but Milly was sleeping, or perhaps pretending to. I’ve seen her once, and it was awkward and strange, with Milly not quite looking at me. In any case, the real reason I came to the hospital was to see Alice.

  I’d held her now, twice, cuddling her close to my body, breathing in her warm, powdery scent, feeling both guilty and defiant for holding her at all. But Milly didn’t want to, and she’s needed cuddles. I’d read online about the importance of skin-to-skin contact during the first few days and weeks of a baby’s life. So I pressed my cheek to hers and imbued her with my touch, my love, because Milly wouldn’t.

  Now I step back from Claire, giving her and her husband Simon a sympathetic smile. Matt has told them that Milly is struggling, without going into the painful specifics.

  I came to Milly and Matt’s house this morning to do a quick clean; I brought over some banana bread, now warming in the oven, as well as a casserole for dinner tonight. I’ve made up all the beds with fresh sheets, including the Moses basket by Milly’s side of the bed, tucking in the soft, fleece-lined blanket, imagining Alice snuggled there.

  I’ve also made up some bottles of formula, at Matt’s request, because although her milk has come in, Milly doesn’t want to try to breastfeed.

  It’s so strange to think of her this way, refusing to be the mother she has always dreamed of being. In a million years, I could have never imagined it. I keep waiting for her to snap out of it, for Matt to laugh and shake his head and say, ‘Oh, that? Yeah, that was just a blip. Everything’s fine now.’ But every time I’ve seen him in the last four days, he’s looked haggard and dazed, as if he can’t believe this is happening either.

  ‘How is she, Anna?’ Claire asks now, grabbing my arm. ‘Is she doing any better?’

  ‘I haven’t actually seen Milly recently, Claire.’ I give her a grimace of apology. ‘I saw Matt last night, and things seemed to be… the same.’ I feel badly for saying the words. ‘But perhaps things will be different once she’s home, in her own space, away from all the nurses and doctors.’

  ‘Yes…’ But Claire doesn’t look convinced. ‘Should she see someone? Get some medication? You hear about things like this…’

  ‘I think Matt wants to wait a few days before they go down that route, see if this clears up on its own.’ I’m no doctor, but if I were Matt, I’d be asking for the meds.

  ‘Right.’ Claire walks into the sitting room, sinking onto the sofa with a tired sigh. She looks a decade older from the last time I saw her, her skin pale and papery, her hands reminding me of claws. I know from Milly that she’s responding to the chemo, but it’s certainly taken its toll. ‘I wish we could do more,’ she says with an unhappy frown.

  Simon, Milly’s father, joins her on the sofa and pats her hand. ‘You can’t push yourself, love, and I’m not sure there’s much we could do, anyway.’

  ‘But the baby… poor little Alice…’

  ‘She’s got Matt.’ Simon smiles at me. ‘And Anna.’

  I smile back uncertainly. I’m not sure if they know about the egg donation. I have a feeling they don’t, not that I’d ever mention it. The knowledge sits on my chest like a weight, making it hard to say anything.

  ‘Still.’ Claire sighs, and Simon puts his arm around her.

  ‘You need to think about yourself right now, Claire.’

  ‘I’m a mother,’ she protests. ‘When do I think about myself?’

  The question reverberates through me as I go into the kitchen to put the kettle on for drinks. I’m a mother. Do those instincts always kick in naturally? Did they for Claire, even though she hadn’t given birth? Will they for Milly?

  And what about me?

  I’m a mother. Can I say that now, when I chose to end the life of my own child? When the baby coming home this morning has my genes but nothing else? But I’ve held her. I’ve breathed her in. She has dimples.

  I feel confused and guilty, aching for Milly and what she’s going through, but also aching for myself. This feels far, far more complicated than it was ever supposed to be, than I ever thought it would, even in my darkest and most difficult moments during Milly’s pregnancy. It’s so real now, with a real baby I’ve cuddled and kissed, a baby who looks like me – and my boyfriend.

  I feel like I need some distance from it all, but I know I won’t create it. I will stay as close to Alice as I can, even if it hurts. I feel as if I don’t even have a choice.

  I’ve just brought a tray of teas and coffees into the sitting room when the front door opens and Matt stands there, one arm around Milly, the other holding a car seat.

  ‘Let me help.’ I put the tray down and spring forward, unsure whether I should help Milly or take the car seat. Matt decides for me, by handing me the car seat. I look down at Alice, snuggled in a fleecy pink snowsuit, fast asleep, her golden lashes sweeping her rosy cheeks. She is so tiny, and she is perfect.

  ‘Milly.’ Claire’s voice is full of emotion. They didn’t come to the hospital, because of the risk of infection for Claire, and so this is the first time she has seen her daughter or granddaughter since the birth. ‘I’m so glad to see you, darling.’

  Claire goes to hug her, and Milly returns the embrace, clinging for a moment before she moves away.

  ‘Milly should get into bed,’ Matt says firmly. ‘It’s been very tiring, having all the checks and things this morning, and then leaving the hospital.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ I put the car seat down carefully. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Milly? I can make chai—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice is barely audible.

  Matt throws me an apologetic look before helping Milly up the stairs.

  Claire, Simon, and I all look at each other a bit blankly. What now?

  ‘May I hold her?’ Claire whispers, once Milly has gone upstairs, and I glance at Alice.

  ‘Of course, I’m sure…’ I fumble with the complicated buckle of the car seat, before carefully lifting Alice out. She’s like a mini snowman, bundled in her fleece suit, and fast asleep, so she doesn’t even stir as I hand her to Claire.

  Claire cradles her gently, her face suffused with love. ‘My granddaughter,’ she murmurs, and I am struck by how strange the situation is, on so many levels. Will Claire see the similarities to me? Will she guess? I shake my head a little, as if to clear it. I need to stop thinking like this. It’s not helpful at all, for anyone, and especially not me.

  Matt comes down a short while later, looking exhausted. ‘She’s sleeping,’ he says, and then he takes Alice from Claire and presses a kiss to the top of her head, his eyes closed. My heart aches for him too.

  ‘Matt, how are you managing?’ Claire asks in a whisper. ‘This is all so unexpected…’

  ‘It’s not what we wanted, but we’ll get there.’ He sits down, Alice in his arms. ‘Milly just needs a little time.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it is? Don’t you think she should see a doctor?’

  ‘The health visitor is coming tomorrow. Milly h
as been through a lot. Give her a chance to recover. If it turns out she needs… something more, then we’ll do that. I’m committed to caring for my wife and my daughter.’ His voice sounds steely. ‘Trust me on that.’

  ‘Of course we trust you.’ Claire looks near tears. ‘And what about little Alice? She’s so tiny. Is it safe for her to come home this early?’

  ‘Yes, although we need to put her in sunlight as much as possible, and we’ll need to take her in for light therapy for jaundice a couple of times a week.’ He cradles her closer to his chest. ‘But, considering her weight, she’s doing well. We just need to get the feeding sorted.’

  ‘Will Milly…?’

  ‘She’ll get there.’ His tone has turned repressive, and we all lapse into silence.

  ‘How can I help, Matt?’ I finally ask. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

  ‘I don’t even know.’ He shrugs, looking defeated for a moment before he rallies again. ‘What you’re doing is amazing, Anna. The meals and the cleaning… everything… but if you could talk to Milly, that would be great. Just normal stuff. I don’t want everything to be about the baby.’

  ‘Okay.’ Of course I’ll do it, but I feel nervous. Milly is like a stranger to me right now.

  Claire and Simon leave a short while after that, because she’s clearly tired, and then Milly wakes up and after Matt checks in on her, he asks me to go up.

  I walk up the stairs, my heart thudding with anxiety. This conversation feels important, and yet I have no idea what to say.

  ‘Hey, Milly.’ I stand in the doorway uncertainly; she is sitting up in bed, looking a little more like herself. Her face is pale, her hair brushed. She doesn’t respond.

  I take a step in and then sit on the edge of the bed, although it feels a bit invasive.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She shrugs, biting her lip. ‘This has got to be hard,’ I venture cautiously. ‘The emergency caesarean, everything so rushed and strange…’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice hitches, and she takes a trembling breath. ‘Anna, I’m scared.’

  ‘Scared? Why?’

  ‘Because everything is different. I’m different.’

  ‘It’s natural to feel that, Milly—’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Not this.’ She shakes her head. ‘I feel like… like a fake.’ She turns her head away, as if she regrets admitting that much.

  ‘But you’re not a fake,’ I remind her, even though, to my own shame, it hurts a little to say that. ‘Alice is your daughter.’ It hurts even more to say that.

  ‘Have you held her?’

  I hesitate. ‘Yes, a few times.’ She doesn’t answer, and I try to offer more reassurance. ‘Why don’t I go fetch her? You could have a little cuddle…’

  ‘No, she’s sleeping, and I’m tired.’ She looks away. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘It will get better, Milly…’

  ‘Yes, I know it will.’ Her voice is little more than a monotone. ‘I’m going to rest now.’ It is clearly a dismissal.

  ‘How can I help? Can I get you a cup of tea, or—’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She sounds scarily polite. After a few uncertain seconds, I leave, feeling as if I’ve failed.

  Downstairs, I reach for Alice, unzipping her snowsuit and wrapping her in a soft blanket, while Matt goes up to Milly. I walk up and down the room with her cradled against me, wondering how serious things are with Milly. Is this normal first-time jitters, or is it something more? And what is my part in it all?

  After a little while, Alice starts to grizzle, so I take one of the bottles out of the fridge and warm it up. I manage to feed her half an ounce, although it takes an age, and then she falls asleep in my arms. I remain completely still, memorising her face, savouring the solid warmth of her in my arms. Then, after another hour or so, Matt finally comes downstairs.

  ‘Thanks, Anna.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘The same, really.’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘I never expected this.’

  ‘No one did.’

  ‘I’m taking the rest of the week off, but then I have to go back to work.’ He frowns. ‘I didn’t schedule my paternity leave for another five weeks.’

  I hesitate, then blurt, ‘I can help.’ Matt’s frown deepens. ‘If Milly needs me. I’m not working at the moment… I’m happy to come round and be a support to her, help with Alice.’ I smile, trying to sound casual but sincere, instead of how I feel, which is desperate. I want this. I want this more than I should.

  ‘That’s really kind of you, Anna…’

  ‘I don’t mind, Matt, if you think Milly needs some support. I really don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ he says, and I wonder what Milly will say – and think. Will she agree? I have no idea, but as I gaze down at Alice’s tiny face, I do know how much I want her to. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything else in my life.

  Nineteen

  Milly

  I tell myself I am going to try. Even if I feel as if I am living underwater, everything muted and distant, the smallest tasks feeling impossible, I can still try. And so, the next morning, I wake up, shower and dress, and go to my daughter.

  She is downstairs with Matt; he has her in the crook of his arm as he gives her a bottle. He was the one who got up with her in the night; I heard her thin cry and the rustle of bedcovers but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The bed felt as if it were made of wet concrete and I was entombed in it; it could have been my own grave.

  But that was in the exhausted blur of a troubled night, and now it is morning, the day bright and wintry. I am determined things are going to be different. I’m going to be. Alice is six days old and I am going to start being the mother I want and need to be, the mother I intended to be all along.

  ‘Why don’t I give her the bottle?’ I suggest. Matt hasn’t brought up breastfeeding again, and I don’t suggest it now even though my milk has come in and my breasts are heavy and aching.

  ‘Sure.’ He pats the seat next to him on the sofa, and I sit down. Gently, he hands Alice to me, and I gaze down at her, willing myself to feel that warm rush of love. And for a second I do – a faint flicker at least, like the ghost of an emotion. It is gone before I can catch hold of it.

  Matt hands me the bottle, and I fit it to Alice’s tiny mouth, her little lips pursing around it expectantly. It should be easy, but it’s not.

  ‘Careful,’ he says, as the milk comes out too quickly and Alice starts to sputter and choke. ‘She can only manage a little at a time. If you hold the bottle at less of an angle…’

  I adjust the bottle, but after only a few seconds she turns her face away, screwing up her features, before letting out a bleating cry of protest. I can’t even do this.

  ‘Try again, Mills,’ Matt urges, and I take a deep breath. I’m not going to give up right away. I’m not.

  ‘Come on, Alice,’ I say, and although I meant to sound encouraging, I hear an edge to my voice. I try to fit the bottle into her mouth, but she’s having none of it now. Her fists flail and her face turns red as her cries become rattling screams that make my whole body tense. I thrust her at Matt. ‘You do it.’

  ‘If you just try, Milly—’

  ‘She’s upset. It’s not going to work.’ I get up from the sofa, not looking at him or Alice. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’

  When I look back, Matt has Alice cradled in his arms, and he is giving the bottle to her easily. My eyes sting and smart and I focus on the kettle, the canister of coffee. This, at least, is something I know how to do.

  ‘The health visitor is coming by later today,’ Matt says when I am sitting at the table, my mug cradled between my hands. He has finished feeding Alice and she is settled in her car seat, drowsy and content, a milk bubble frothing at her lips.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I was wondering… maybe you should talk to her. About… about this.’

  I turn slowly to look at him. ‘This?’

  ‘Just that it’s hard, Milly, harder than e
ither of us expected it to be—’

  ‘It’s not hard for you.’ My voice is equal parts anger and self-pity.

  ‘All I’m saying, there’s no shame in admitting you’re having a rough time. Maybe even getting something for it.’

  ‘You mean pills? You think I need to be medicated?’ Now I feel insulted, although I’m not sure why. Something is wrong with me, clearly. Even I can admit that.

  ‘No shame,’ Matt repeats feebly.

  I make a sound of disgust – but it’s aimed at myself. Yes, there is most certainly shame. What sort of mother can’t feed her own child? What sort of mother doesn’t even want to?

  ‘Anna said she could come over as well, if you like,’ he continues after a moment. ‘Help out a bit.’

  ‘Oh, did she?’ I hear the acid in my voice and I wonder at it. I need Anna now, because I know I can’t take care of Alice on my own, and clearly Matt knows it as well. He’s going back to work in a few days. ‘That’s nice of her.’

  ‘She just wants to help. Whatever you need…’

  But I don’t know what I need. I feel as if I could claw at my own skin, scream inside my head, but nothing helps. Anna certainly won’t. And yet I say what I know I need to, because I don’t really have any choice. ‘That’s great. It will be good to see her.’ I know Matt doesn’t believe me; he just pretends to. We’re both becoming experts at this masquerade.

  * * *

  The health visitor has clearly been briefed, because she gives me a sympathetic squeeze of my arm as she sits on the sofa with me, Alice asleep in the car seat by our feet. ‘How are you finding things, Milly? Your partner said it was a bit difficult, during these early days?’

  I shrug, unable to put it into words. Knowing if I try, I will fall apart. I will shatter.

  ‘Baby blues are quite normal at this stage,’ she continues. ‘Especially when you’ve had a traumatic delivery as you have. How are you feeling physically?’

  ‘Okay, I guess.’ My stitches hurt, my breasts ache, but it’s nothing compared to this black hole I feel inside, sucking all my emotions into it.