by Kate Hewitt
Then, one evening when Milly had been gone for over a week, I came downstairs from settling Alice to sleep, and saw Matt slumped in the sitting room, a nearly empty bottle of beer on the table next to him. I doubted it was his first.
‘Maybe this has all been a mistake.’ He spoke into the stillness, staring into the distance. I hesitated on the bottom step, unsure if he was talking to me.
Over the last week, Matt and I had developed our own separate routines. In the evening, when Alice was settled, he worked or watched telly, and I read or surfed online or slept. We didn’t hang out together too much, by silent agreement. He didn’t even spend that much time with Alice, content to give her a feed and a cuddle in the evening at most. So I stood there, unsure how to respond.
Then he turned to me. ‘Anna? Do you think it was a mistake?’
‘What was a mistake?’ I came into the sitting room and perched on the edge of a chair. Matt took a final slug of his beer.
‘This whole thing. The IVF. The sperm and egg donation. All of it.’
Each sentence echoed hollowly within me. ‘What do you mean, Matt?’
He gazed at me blearily, clearly exhausted by everything, overwhelmed. We hadn’t really talked about Milly; I didn’t know how she was doing, besides the basics – that she had agreed to take antidepressants, that her parents were supporting her. Both good things. ‘What do you mean, Matt?’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Just that… it feels like this is retribution somehow. There we were, playing God, making some kind of designer baby, not caring what the cost was, or who would be involved. Affected.’
I remained silent, trying to piece together his disjointed thoughts. ‘You weren’t making a designer baby,’ I finally said. ‘You just wanted a child.’
‘But don’t you wonder if technology has got the better of us? Who are we, to manipulate life that way? I mean…’ He shook his head. ‘I just wonder, if we hadn’t gone down this route in the first place…’ He paused, the silence heavy. ‘Perhaps Milly wasn’t meant to be a mother.’
The words felt like a slamming door, the sound echoing all around us.
‘Sorry,’ Matt muttered, clearly appalled by what he had just said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know you didn’t. Matt, you’re tired, and this is all so overwhelming. Give yourself a break.’
He covered his face with his hands as he let out a ragged sigh. ‘You have no idea, Anna. I feel so completely spent…’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘But I can’t be. I need to be stronger than this.’ He sounded angry, and I knew it was directed at himself.
‘How is Milly, Matt? Do you… do you think she’ll come home soon?’
‘I hope so. I keep asking her.’
‘And the medication…?’
‘I think it’s helping a bit. She sleeps a lot, and she doesn’t always want to talk. To tell the truth, I can’t imagine her back here yet, taking care of Alice. I don’t think she can imagine it, either.’
‘But one day, certainly…’ My mind was racing, already wondering how much time I had left. I knew, I absolutely knew, I shouldn’t have been thinking that way, but I was.
‘Yes, one day,’ Matt agreed heavily. ‘But when?’
It was at that moment that an idea slipped into my mind, coiling around my thoughts, like a serpent. What if. Two tempting, treacherous words. What if…?
I didn’t get further than that, not right then. But then, a few days later, I see the same mum at the park again, and we get to chatting. Her name is Rhiannon and we end up having coffee at a nearby café, and she invites me to the mums and babies group again, and this time I say yes. It would be rude not to, and anyway, it isn’t happening until after Christmas, which is ages away. And all the time I am thinking, dreaming, planning. What if.
A little while later, with Matt at work, Jack comes over and as he dances around with Alice in the kitchen, wintry sunlight streaming through the windows, he stops and looks at me.
‘Do you ever stop to think… this could be us?’
My heart turns right over, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. ‘Sometimes.’
‘This is us.’ He holds Alice out like exhibit A before cuddling her close to his chest. He would be a good father. The thought slips through me like quicksilver. ‘Right now, I mean.’ He pauses, one hand resting lightly on top of Alice’s downy head. ‘What if Milly doesn’t get better?’
The words fall into the stillness and stay there. I glance down at the home-made soup I’m stirring, swirls of carrot and coriander. The moment feels suspended, crystalline in its detail – the soup, the sunshine, Jack’s hand resting on Alice’s head. I want it all.
‘Even if she does…’ I say softly. The words are forbidden and thrilling. Even if she does… I glance up at Jack and we stare at each other for a long moment.
‘Anna,’ he finally whispers. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Look at us, Jack. Look at Alice.’ I keep my voice calm and reasonable, even though I am fizzing inside. I wasn’t going to suggest this now, but the moment feels right, even providential. ‘She’s our daughter. In absolutely every way, she’s our daughter.’
Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I turn back to the soup, giving him a few moments to absorb what I’m saying.
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he says at last.
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t it? Alice is ours. You’ve felt it from the beginning, and so have I. And we feel it even more so now, when we’re the ones taking care of her, loving her.’ My voice throbs with intensity. ‘Jack, why shouldn’t we?’
‘Why shouldn’t we what?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Apply for custody.’
‘Apply? We’re not talking about a passport, Anna.’
‘I know that.’ My voice sharpens and I strive to moderate it. ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought this through, Jack? I’ve talked to a lawyer—’
‘What?’ He stares at me in open-mouthed shock, and I quickly backtrack.
‘Only on the phone. Only to see.’ I rang her yesterday, my heart thudding so hard it hurt, my voice a papery whisper as I explained the situation, asked the question. Could I…
Jack puts Alice back in her little bouncy seat, where she coos contentedly. ‘What did they say?’ he asks, and the fact that he wants to know encourages me as the actual phone call did not.
‘She said it would be difficult.’ In fact, the lawyer specialising in fertility issues said it would be incredibly messy and painful for everyone involved. ‘But possible. Potentially.’
‘How? Donors have no parental rights. Matt told me. Reassured me, in case I was worried.’
‘The situation is different, because we’re together, and we’re taking care of Alice as it is.’
‘I’m not taking care of her, Anna. I’m stopping by every couple of days.’
‘Still.’
A moment passes, and then another. Jack stares at me. ‘Anna…’
I’m losing him. I can feel it, even though he hasn’t moved or said anything more, and I can’t stand the thought. ‘Look,’ I cut across him, ‘either Milly is very ill, and she cannot take care of Alice for a long time, or she’s not ill, and she doesn’t care enough about Alice to come home. It doesn’t surprise me, really,’ I add abruptly. ‘Milly was adopted, as you probably know, and her parents are fantastic. They practically subbed in for my parents since I was about twelve. But Milly’s always had this thing, like because she’s adopted, they’re not her real parents or something, even though she never got to know her birth mother.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that genetics count. They matter. And Milly knows that most of all.’
‘Still,’ Jack says, but it feels as if the fight has gone out of him.
‘We don’t have to do anything right now,’ I reassure him. ‘Think about it for a while.’
Jack leaves a short while la
ter, and I clutch Alice, pacing the house, buzzing with nervous energy. Do I feel guilty for what I suggested? Am I betraying Milly? I think about it, as carefully as I can, and I decide that I am not. This is the best solution; it has to be. And so I tell myself that Jack will come around, the lawyer will come around, maybe Matt and Milly will, as well. It might just be a matter of time, because in my own head, it makes so much sense.
That evening, after I’ve put Alice to bed, I come downstairs, thinking I might talk to Matt, feel him out just a little. Perhaps I’ll ask if I can bring Alice back to my flat for a bit. After all, I should return to my own life, and yet Alice still needs me. It seems like a sensible first step.
But before I can say anything about that, Matt speaks first. ‘Anna, I’ve got some good news. I wanted to make sure it was happening before I said anything, but now it definitely is.’ He smiles at me, his expression weary yet full of joy. ‘Milly’s coming home tomorrow.’
For a few seconds, I can’t make sense of the words. I simply stare, while Matt’s smile fades into a frown.
‘Anna…?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, although I can barely think straight enough to say anything sensible. ‘Sorry…’ I sink into a chair, my mind spinning. Beneath the dazed shock, I realise I am angry. ‘It would have been nice to have some warning, Matt…’
Matt’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. ‘Warning…?’
Staring at him, I realise how clueless he is. He doesn’t get it at all. He probably thinks this is a relief for me, because now I can finally go back to my flat, my life. He has no inkling about what I’ve been feeling, thinking. Planning.
‘I mean, it would have been nice to know, so I could change the sheets, tidy up…’
‘Don’t worry about that, Anna. You’ve done so much already. I can manage.’
‘Yes, but… can Milly cope? I mean, is she ready to…?’ I’m not sure how to phrase what I’m trying to say sensitively, when what I really want to do is scream, how could you do this to me? How could you just expect me to hand over my baby?
‘I’m taking the next week off, to help ease us back into the routine. And her mother is going to come by every afternoon for a couple of hours, so I think it will be all right.’
His dismissal feels worse than a slap. I’m not needed anymore; I’m not wanted. He’s not even thinking about me, about how I might feel. He never has… just like Milly.
I nod slowly, trying not to show my hurt, as determination crystallises inside of me. I don’t care what Matt said. There’s no way I’m walking away from this – from Alice – without a fight.
Twenty-One
Milly
For the first few days after I arrive at my parents’ house, they don’t ask me any questions. They let me sleep, or simply sit and stare. They tiptoe around me as if I’m a ticking time bomb, when in fact I feel as if the pin has already been pulled out of the grenade. I’ve already exploded. I’ve left my child.
As the days pass, the fleeting feeling that I was doing the right thing trickles away and in its place I feel a deep and abiding guilt. How could I have left her? How could I have not?
When I told Matt that I was going to my parents’ for a while, he looked shocked but also the tiniest bit relieved, which confirmed to me that I was doing the right thing. No one wanted to be around me, least of all my own child. If she even was my own child. More and more I wondered – and doubted.
Sitting in my parents’ house, with basically nothing to do, I had plenty of time to think, and none of it was good. I questioned everything – whether I should have ever agreed to Anna donating, whether I deserved to be a mother. Whether there was still hope for me – and Alice.
When Matt came to visit after a few days, he brought pictures of Alice and looked at me with puppy’s eyes, begging me to see a doctor.
‘You could at least try some medication. Just try, Milly, for Alice’s sake as well as yours. If you react badly to it, or you don’t like it, or whatever, you can stop.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. It felt selfish, not to try antidepressants when they might have been the magic fix, but the truth was, I was scared. What if they didn’t work? What then?
And meanwhile Alice was doing fine without me; I could see it from the photos. Already, in just a week, she looked bigger, chubbier. She wasn’t missing me; she didn’t feel my absence the way I felt hers, like a gaping hole in the middle of my chest, but one I didn’t know how to deal with.
After a week at home, my mother finally broaches the subject. I am lying in my old child’s bed, feeling as if there is a heavy weight pressing down on my chest when she comes to stand in the doorway. She is on a break from the chemo, and although she still looks wan and frail, there is a bit more energy to her step.
‘Milly.’ Her voice is gentle as she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Darling, we want to help you. What can we do to help you get back home and be the mother I know you want to be to your darling Alice?’
I feel too weary even to form the words. ‘There’s nothing, Mum.’
Mum is silent for a few moments, while I simply lie there. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever told you,’ she finally says, ‘how difficult it was, when we first brought you home.’ I move my head a bit to look at her; her lips are pursed, her gaze distant. ‘You cried non-stop for days. You’d been with a very kind foster mother for the last two months, and I think you missed her.’
‘I never knew that.’ The details of my adoption were simply relegated to before and after. Sad and then happy.
‘Yes, well.’ My mum tries to smile. ‘I think I wanted to put a positive spin on everything, because I didn’t regret it for a second. You were so wanted, Milly, just as Alice is wanted. But it was hard for a while. It was bloody hard.’
I appreciate my mum’s empathy, but this isn’t bloody hard. It’s impossible. I can’t explain to her how powerless I feel, as if I’m sinking into quicksand and no one even notices. They just want me to put my chin up and soldier on, and I can’t. I can’t.
‘Depression is quite normal at a time like this,’ my mother continues. ‘And these days there’s no shame in it.’
‘It’s not just that I’m depressed,’ I say quietly, although I’m not sure what it is. Maybe antidepressants would be the magic fix I need, who knows? I’m still afraid to take that risk.
‘What is it then, Milly?’ Mum sounds so loving, so concerned. She wants to know.
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s me, Mum, and Alice. She’s… she’s not mine.’ Saying it feels terrible but also freeing. She’s not mine.
‘Milly, I know it feels strange right now—’
‘No, I mean it. She’s not my biological child. I was diagnosed with premature menopause almost a year ago, and was told I would never be able to have my own baby. Alice came from donated egg and sperm – Anna’s and Matt’s brother, Jack’s.’ This is another relief, to admit the truth. To lay down the burden I’ve been carrying for so long, without realising that’s what it was.
Mum looks stunned, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide. ‘Anna?’ she finally says faintly.
‘Yes. Anna.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’
I sigh heavily. ‘Because I didn’t want you knowing. I didn’t want it to become this thing.’
‘A thing?’ Mum still looks dazed as she shakes her head slowly, not understanding.
And so I say it. I say what I’ve never let myself say before. ‘Yes, a thing. A thing you always have to mention, always have to make as the addendum to your story. Like my adoption.’
My mum doesn’t move, but it feels as if she’s staggered. Slowly, she presses one hand to her cheek. ‘Is that how you’ve felt about being adopted?’
‘Yes.’ I hate hurting her, but I know this needs to be said. ‘I don’t mean it as a criticism or insult, honestly I don’t, but it was always mentioned. Always trotted out. “This is our daughter, Milly. She’s adopted.” Why couldn’t I just be your daughter
, full stop?’ As I say the words my voice breaks and the tears come. They slip down my cheeks silently as my mother stares at me in horror.
‘Oh, Milly. Milly.’ She is crying too, the tears falling freely. ‘I never knew you felt this way. I never thought for a moment…’ She dashes the tears from her cheeks. ‘As a parent, you try so hard to do right by your child, no matter what it takes, but sometimes it feels impossible to know what the right thing is.’ She draws a ragged breath. ‘If we mentioned your adoption so much, it was because we thought it would help you remember how precious you were to us. How loved. We never meant it to accomplish the opposite.’
‘I know,’ I say, but I wonder if I did, really. Is this the root of my insecurity both then and now? Because I wasn’t related by blood, I felt somehow less – first as a child and now as a mother.
‘We’d read stories,’ Mum continues, ‘about children who found out they were adopted when they were older, and how it sent them off the rails. We didn’t want that for you. We wanted to be open, but perhaps, in our fear, we were too open.’ She leans forward to clasp my hands. ‘Darling, darling Milly, you have always felt like you were mine. I’m so, so sorry if you felt that you weren’t, even for a second. So very sorry.’ Tears leak out of my eyes and I find I can’t speak. ‘And Alice is yours, as well,’ she continues, squeezing my hands. ‘Even if you doubt it. Even if right now you feel like the worst, most incompetent mother in the world.’ She tries to smile through her tears. ‘That’s how I felt, at first. But you’re not, Milly. You’re Alice’s mummy, and she needs you. She needs you to get better, whatever it takes. She needs you with her, loving her.’
With my hands held tightly by my mother’s, I nod slowly. I start to accept, just barely, that maybe what she says is true.
The next day I make an appointment with my GP, and after describing my symptoms in all their honest, awful detail, I am both offered counselling and prescribed antidepressants. I am warned that it can be several weeks before they have any effect, and that feels endless.
