Not My Daughter

It doesn’t take long to be sucked into the vortex of internet surfing, as I click from link to link, following a rabbit trail of research that tells me in detail all the things Milly mentioned so briefly, and more.

I learn that I’ll have to take a rigorous cycle of hormones, as well as undergo at least one session of psychological counselling to make sure I’m okay with the whole process. I’ll have to be under general anaesthetic to have the eggs ‘aspirated’; I picture a Hoover. I’ll have no parental rights.

I end up closing my laptop, deciding I need to clear my head. Running always does that for me, and so I change into my gym clothes and pull on my trainers. It’s a cold, bright day, the air crisp and clear as I head down my road to Victoria Park.

My heart thuds in time with the pounding of my feet as I pick up my speed once in the park, the trees stark and leafless, the sky a bright, hard blue above. I’m not going to think about eggs or embryos or babies, about how Milly will get to be a mother while I chose not to be. I’m not going to wonder what if, what if, what if, because I can’t. I’ve learned to live with the choices I’ve made. I don’t question them, not anymore, and this is about Milly, not me. I can’t let it be about me.

On the south end of the park, I finally come to a stop, my lungs burning, my hands on my knees. I straighten as my heart rate slows and I see that I am near the play area by St Luke’s Road. It’s not very busy on this cold February day, but a girl with golden plaits, six years old or so, is squealing with delight as her father pushes her on the swing. Without thinking about what I’m doing, I walk towards the play area, resting one hand on the fence as I watch the girl soar, the father pushing her higher and higher. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed and her mouth wide open with joy. The father is laughing too, just from looking at her. It’s such a joyful moment, and I stand there transfixed by it, enjoying it simply by association, but also aching in a way I can’t articulate.

Then the dad catches sight of me and his expression morphs into a guarded frown.

‘I’m sorry, may I help you?’ he asks, pitching his voice pleasant but firm. I realise how

creepy I must seem, standing there staring at the pair of them.

‘No, no, I’m just… just resting,’ I stammer, and then I turn away and start running back towards home, faster than before.

* * *

On Monday, all baby-related thoughts are driven from my mind when a young intern from the IT department pokes her head through my door.

‘Anna?’

I don’t remember her name, although I probably should. Qi Tech has a hundred and fifty employees, and I’ve been working here for fourteen years, since I was twenty, on an apprenticeship in HR.

‘Yes? Can I help?’

‘Could I talk to you for a second?’

I glance at my computer and then the clock. I have a meeting in twenty minutes with my boss Lara, the head of HR, to discuss the latest round of performance reports. I’ve barely looked at them yet, but something about this young woman’s stance – her hunched shoulders, pink dip-dyed hair sliding in front of her face – makes me pause.

‘Okay, sure.’

She comes into my small office and I rise to close the door behind her. Something tells me this is going to be personal.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I sit behind my desk again. ‘I can’t remember your name.’

She blinks uncertainly at me. ‘Sasha.’

‘Right. Sasha.’ I commit it to memory as I fold my hands on my desk. ‘What can I do for you, Sasha?’

‘I’m not sure how to say this…’

‘Honest and upfront is always my policy.’ I smile even as my mind is racing, wondering what’s troubling her. ‘It seems as if something is wrong…?’

‘Yes, well.’ She sighs, sitting down, her fingers knotted in her lap. ‘I don’t want to cause a big problem.’ She chews her lip as she glances at me from under her fringe. ‘Or get fired. I mean, you hear things…’

‘There’s no reason at all to think you’re going to be fired, Sasha.’ But what has happened? And who is involved? As the assistant director of Human Resources, my job ranges from recruiting, to resolving disputes, to the more unpleasant damage control. Some days I do nothing more interesting than file pay stubs. On other days, I try to keep something from blowing up big time online, because that’s the world we live in. A single tweet can spell disaster. Right now, I’m sensing today is going to be one of those other days, and I start to feel worried. Lara is not going to like this. ‘What’s happened, Sasha?’ I ask gently.

She chews her lip, looking miserable. ‘I think this was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.’

‘But you’re here now.’

‘Maybe it’s not a big deal.’ She shifts in her seat, as if to leave. ‘I think I may have overreacted.’

‘Perhaps, but perhaps not. I won’t be able to assess the situation unless you tell me.’ I try for a smile, even though I’m starting to feel nervous. If this is a case of sexual harassment, which I am sensing it might be, then it needs to be handled very carefully, especially as Lara is offensively scornful of the whole #MeToo movement.

Sasha continues to chew her lip, looking undecided, while I wait with a patient, encouraging smile on my face. Then Lara opens the door to my office, which is also the reception area for the HR department. Topping six feet in black stilettos, dressed in a fitted black power suit with a silk blouse in deep purple – she has the same blouse in a dozen different vivid shades – she is intimidating on the best of days, and downright scary on others. Her piercing, narrowed gaze focuses on Sasha before she turns to me, ruthlessly threaded eyebrows raised.