Not My Daughter

He stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to burrow into my brain. I stare back, knowing my hope and urgency are reflected in my face, and hoping that Matt sees that. That it means something to him, how much I want this.

‘All right,’ he says at last, and he reaches for his laptop on the coffee table. I sit next to him and he puts his arm around my shoulders as he types in the search engine is egg donation right for you?

We click on the first link, a fertility website blog that details

one woman’s process as a donor. Silently we read about the hormones she takes, the side effects, the aspiration of eggs under sedation, and the fact that ten of her eggs were fertilised and the embryos frozen for later use. Ten little babies-in-waiting, which makes me realise if we go down this route, we could have more than one child, so precious and alone, like I was. We could have three, the family I always wanted, big but not too big, lots of faces around the table, jostling for space.

Matt frowns and then clicks on another page, and then another, both of us gaining information about donors and the intended parents, the process, the cost, the legal ramifications. We are mapping this strange new territory, page by page.

Matt doesn’t say anything; he just reads with the same quiet intensity with which he does everything. But I am becoming excited, like a balloon of hope is filling up inside of me. I know better than to say anything now, but I file away every fact like a promise: the 50–70 per cent success rate of egg donation and insemination; the case studies of open relationships with donors that read like one happy family after another; and, best of all, a study that shows a pregnant mother’s DNA affects the baby she is carrying, even when genetically it is not her own. This will be my child.

Finally, gently, Matt shuts the laptop. We sit on the sofa, silent, expectant. I tell myself I am not going to say anything. I am not…

‘This could work,’ I venture cautiously, after a few endless minutes. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ Matt sounds as guarded as ever, and I wonder which part of what we read gave him pause. ‘It’s a lot to think about.’

‘Yes, of course it is. But it’s… possible, isn’t it?’

Matt turns to me with a tired smile. ‘I know you, Milly. I tell you it’s possible and tomorrow you’ll have booked Anna into the clinic.’

‘Not tomorrow,’ I object, trying to smile, make light of it, even though everything in me is tense and ready. ‘Maybe next week,’ I joke, although I’m not actually joking.

Matt manages a small smile, but he still looks worried. He doesn’t want a baby the way I do, with the same desperate, frightened urgency. Yes, he’s wanted kids, but he’s not panicked about it. He hasn’t dreamed about finally – finally – holding a baby in his arms and thinking I know you. I’ve always known you.

‘There’s no harm in thinking about this for a little while, is there?’ he asks. ‘Taking a few weeks at least…?’

‘Of course not,’ I say, even though I am disappointed. ‘I know it feels like I’m rushing into this, Matt. I am rushing into it.’ I blow out a breath. ‘But it feels right to me. I want to be pregnant, with a lovely big bump. I want to hold my squalling newborn in my arms. I crave that physical connection – I can’t explain it any better than that.’ I feel a lump forming in my throat and I will myself not to break down yet again. ‘It’s important to me. Very important.’

Matt’s face softens as he pulls me close. ‘I know that,’ he says, and he kisses the top of my head. ‘I know that, Milly.’

But I wonder if he really does. I wonder if he understands at all how much I long for this, how having my own child will anchor me to this world in a way nothing else does.

At least that’s what I thought then, but I had no idea how I would really feel when it came to pass, or how devastating it would turn out to be. And if I had known, would I have done things differently? Would I have walked away, told Anna, no, it’s not for us?

I still can’t answer that question. The truth is, I don’t want to.

Four

Anna

The weekend after my drink with Milly, I lie in bed and let the wintry sunshine from the window stream over me, as I daydream about what my baby will look like.

Of course, I know it won’t be my baby, that’s not how it works at all, but ever since I put the idea to Milly, I’ve been… curious. Wistful. Considering the lack of romantic relationships in my life, I doubt I’ll ever have children of my own, so perhaps this could be the next best thing? I’ll get to see what a child of mine would look like. I might even watch him or her grow up, be a godmother, or an honorary auntie.

The thought makes me smile, but it also brings its own, peculiar pain, because it hurts to remember. But I’m not going to think about that today.

It’s Saturday, which are very quiet days for me. I don’t have a lot of friends besides Milly, just some casual acquaintances from work, along with a woman I met at a spin class with whom I occasionally get together for a coffee, and another old friend from my evening business course I took years ago.

As for boyfriends, there haven’t really been any, which is actually fine. Over the years, I had a couple of dating situations that never went anywhere much, and more recently I haven’t bothered with it at all. I’m happy alone. I’ve learned to be.

But today as I potter about my one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a Victorian terrace, I let my thoughts drift. I let myself dream, in a hazy and pleasant sort of way, about this nebulous future where Milly and Matt have my child, and I’m involved in his or her life.

I feel hesitant about thinking this way, because I know he or she wouldn’t be my child in any real way. I’m giving an egg, not a baby. But still… would she have my hair? My eyes? The scaly patches of eczema on my elbows? I can’t help but wonder.

I’ve never been particularly maternal, mostly because I haven’t let myself. After the turbulence of my parents’ marriage, as well as my own teenaged years, I’ve avoided serious relationships. Milly is the only one who has breached the defences I’ve put up out of instinct, and then only because she was so determined to.

So, with these vague images of a rosy-cheeked baby, a tow-headed toddler drifting through my mind, I settle myself on my overstuffed sofa, with my cat Winnie purring contentedly next to me and a large cup of coffee on the table by my elbow, and open my laptop.