The Brit

“Why don’t you take a shower?” Hilary says to Daniel. “Get out of all that muddy soccer uniform. Take your cleats off first.”

“Okay.” His voice, young and sweet, tips my emotions as I hear the clunk of his cleats hitting the floor. The cleats I saw slung over his shoulder in a photograph. Then his thundering footsteps charge up the stairs.

I look down at the wooden table, shakes beginning to set in. I can hear hushed whispers from the hallway, Hilary obviously bringing her husband up to speed. I wait, tense, until he steps into the kitchen. His hair is silver, his glasses old-fashioned. Daniel’s father. He says nothing. Just nods, breathes in, and then backs out of the room again. There were tears in his eyes. He needed visual confirmation of my existence.

Over the next fifteen minutes, question after question rolls around my head. I ponder what I’ll do if Hilary’s husband isn’t as friendly and welcoming of me. I wonder if he’ll send me packing. I wonder when they’ll tell Daniel and how. I wonder how much longer I’ll have to wait to meet him. I’ve heard his voice, and the ache inside has only intensified. I wonder if my son will completely reject me. Or even what I’ll do if he embraces me. I don’t think I really did prepare myself for this. I thought I had. Now I’m here, I’m a nervous wreck. So when I hear a door open, I’m up out of my chair like lightning, a stressed sweat breaking out, my heart going wild, hitting my breastbone hard, over and over again. I expect to see Hilary and her husband. I don’t. “Oh God,” I breathe, trying to force my heart rate steady.

A boy wanders into the kitchen, and my ability to breathe escapes me. I blindly reach for the table to keep myself upright as he regards me with an interest that I’m not sure what to make of. My head is demanding I say something, but yet again I’m mute. Stunned. Overwhelmed. Not just because standing in front of me is my baby—the boy I’ve dreamed of every night for ten years. But because there’s not one person on this planet who could deny that he is mine. I’ve seen pictures, but they’ve always been at a distance. I never got the opportunity to marvel at his looks. Everything about him is me. The dark shade of his hair. The deepness of his eyes. His complexion, his jawline, his nose. Even his lashes are long and girlie. If I didn’t know better, I would question whether there was even another human involved in creating him. And I’m filled with gratitude for that small mercy. He doesn’t look like a monster.

My knees begin to knock together, the moment becoming too much. I lower to the chair I just shot up from, needing something to support my overcome form. “Do you mind if I sit down?” I’ve planned what I would say to him time and again. I’ve dreamed of finding him and taking him in my arms, kissing his head and telling him how much I love him. I’m capable of none of those things, and, actually, now it feels inappropriate. I wonder where his parents are, yet I can’t find the words to ask. I wonder what he’s thinking, yet dare not ask. He’s put on pajamas, red ones emblazoned in Star Wars characters. His hair is wet, his skin so clear. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. “Where are your parents?”

He shrugs, and I look past him, torn. Should I get them? Should I leave? “Who are you?” he asks.

I swallow, my mouth so dry. “Rose. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“You like Star Wars?” I blurt, frantically steering him off course.

His little mouth twists a fraction as he pads forward on bare feet and pulls a chair out. The legs scrape the tile floor loudly, and while I cringe, the sound seems to go over Daniel’s head. “Mom says I’m a Star Wars whizz.”

Mom. It hurts so much hearing him refer to the woman who bought him as Mom. Me. I’m his mom. He should be calling me that. “What else do you like?”

He considers my question as he regards me, closely and carefully. “What do you like?”

His counter question throws me, his little forearms settling on the table as he gets comfortable. “Me?” My mind blanks. What do I like? “The sun on my face,” I tell him, smiling when his little brow furrows.

“Do you like Star Wars?”

Crap. I’ve never seen a Star Wars movie in my life. Silly, but I fear admitting that might destroy our relationship before it’s even started. “I’ve never seen Star Wars.”

His little face is astonished. “Never?”

I shake my head. “You could show me sometime. We could watch them all together.” I see the excitement on his face.