Not My Daughter

‘But it won’t be my baby.’ I wasn’t able to take in all the details that Meghan outlined, but I understood at least that much.

Matt rests his hand on my knee, warm and solid. ‘It would be,’ he says gently. ‘You of all people should know that.’

Yes, I should, because I’m adopted myself. I don’t know who my birth parents are. I chose not to find out. And my adoptive parents, my real parents, are wonderful. They always have been, strong and supportive and loving. So, yes, I of all people should not have a problem with the idea of adoption.

Except I do.

But I don’t expect Matt to understand that, and I’m not sure I could articulate it even to myself. Not now. Not yet.

‘We don’t have to rush into anything,’ Matt says, and somehow that hurts too. We don’t have to rush, because it’s already too late for me.

I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. I feel exhausted, my body aching, my eyes gritty.

‘Do you want me to call the school?’ Matt asks. I only took the morning off for the appointment; I’m due back after lunch to take my Year One class, a prospect that now fills me with dread. I’m not ready to face twenty-eight five- and six-year-olds with their constant chatter and piping questions, but I can’t afford to take off the whole day. And while curling up under my duvet is very tempting, I know it would just make me marinate in self-pity. I don’t need that.

‘No, it’s okay. I’ll go in.’

‘What about Anna?’

‘I’ll ring her soon.’ She knew about the appointment today, of course; my phone has already pinged with a text from her asking how it went. Over the last year and a half, I’ve kept her informed of every torturous step on this journey, all the hope, all the disappointment, and she’s cheered and sympathised in turns. I know she will be there for me now, but her unwavering sympathy might send me over the edge, into the abyss of grief I sense is waiting for me.

I finish my tea and make to get up; Matt holds out his hand. As I take it, I realise with a painful jolt that this affects him too. He won’t be able to have a child, his wife’s child. Infertility isn’t just my problem, even if it’s my fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and he looks at me in surprise, his hand still holding mine.

‘For what?’

‘For not… for not being able to…’ I can’t finish the words; suddenly I’m crying, all sobs and snot, my shoulders shaking as Matt pulls me towards him and I collapse into him gratefully. I wasn’t able to keep it together for that long, after all, and I need this hug, his arms around me, holding me together.

‘This isn’t your problem, Milly. It’s ours. We’re in this together. And we’ll find a way through, whatever happens, togeth

er. It’s all going to be okay, I promise.’

I press my face against his shoulder, willing myself to stop crying, determined to take comfort from his words. Because I believe him. Stupid me, I believe every word he says.

Two

Anna

When Milly finally sends me a text, hours after her appointment, I know it must be bad news. I can tell, just by the three bleak words, with no added detail: Meet up later?

Of course, I type. What time?

Five? comes the quick reply. I usually finish work later, but I can leave a bit early.

Sure, I text. Do you want to talk about it now?

Several minutes pass before Milly replies. No. Later.

It must be really bad, then. Oh, Milly. All she’s ever wanted is a baby, a family. She talked about it even when were in year seven – how she wanted three children, because two didn’t seem like quite enough. Because she’s never had siblings. Because she’s wanted to see what someone related to her looks like. Would they have her wild hair, her slightly crooked front tooth? Every time she talked about it, her eyes would light up and her expression would turn wistful. I can’t wait.

What if it can’t happen now? What will she do? I’ve had a front row seat to Milly and Matt’s fertility issues over the last two years; I’ve known how anxious she’s been, and how hard she’s been trying to relax. I’ve even known when she’s ovulating.

Most of all I know how much Milly has wanted a baby, what a great mum she would be, and if this news is really bad, I know how devastated she will feel.

I also know how much I will need to be there for her, as I always have been, as I always will be, because Milly is my best friend and she’s been there for me time and time again, starting when I showed up to the first day of secondary school looking as overwhelmed and lost as I felt, and Milly marched right up to me and declared that we were going to be friends. I stared into her small, determined face, and felt a wave of relief break over me. It was going to be okay now, I thought. Finally something in my life was going to be okay. And it was.

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