Not My Daughter

I hesitate, turning her question over in my mind. ‘I don’t think I’ll change my mind,’ I say at last. ‘It’s getting a bit late, anyway.’

‘Yes, but if things were different, if you had someone in the picture… would you want them, then?’

I frown, wondering what Milly is really trying to say. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I suppose I’ve never felt maternal in the way you have.’

‘It’s just… I wouldn’t want you to feel cheated, somehow.’

‘I wouldn’t feel cheated, Milly. I want to do this.’ I think I know what she’s afraid of, but she doesn’t want to say it out loud. Perhaps she’s afraid it would offend me. ‘Look,’ I say gently, ‘I understand that this would be your baby. It would just have my genes, that’s all, and we both know genetics don’t count for much. Look at my parents. Look at yours.’

‘Right.’ Milly smiles, and I can tell she is relieved by my words. I can’t blame her, not really. No

matter what I’ve just said, I’ve thought about what my child would look like. Wondered whether he or she will have my eyes, my hair, my height, never mind all the other traits – would he or she be quiet like I am? Would they find the same things funny?

But I would never admit those thoughts to Milly, at least not like that. And I know, in my head, and yes, even in my heart, that no matter who provides the DNA, this baby would be Milly’s. Milly’s and Matt’s. But I still wonder.

‘Matt and I feel we need to consider all the emotional ramifications,’ Milly explains, ‘because there would be so many people involved.’

I keep stroking Winnie, from her ears to her tail. ‘You mean me?’

‘Yes, and…’ Milly hesitates. ‘The sperm donor, too, because Matt’s not comfortable using his own. I know that sounds weird,’ she continues in a rush, ‘because we’re talking about test tubes, not anything… well, you know. But he said he would feel strange, knowing it was his baby – genetically, I mean – and not mine. And I agree.’

‘Right.’ I hadn’t thought about it being Matt’s baby. I realise I am relieved that it won’t be an issue, although I’m not sure I should say that, so I remain silent.

Milly leans forward. ‘Anna, if this is too much for you, I really will understand. You made the offer in an emotional moment—’

‘It’s not.’ I speak quietly, firmly. I am sure.

‘It’s just that I don’t want you to feel pressured,’ Milly persists. ‘Because you feel as if, I don’t know, you owe me something.’

I still at that, because do I owe Milly something? Does she feel that I do? When I was at my lowest point, eighteen years old and spiralling downwards, kicked out of my house, jobless, rootless, directionless, she as good as saved me. But that was sixteen years ago, and she did it because she was my best friend. She’s never acted as if there was a debt to be repaid, but now I wonder if she’s felt that. If I do.

‘I’m not doing this because I feel like I owe you something, Milly,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m doing it because you’re my best friend, and I want to help you and see you happy.’

‘Thank you.’ Milly sniffs and smiles. ‘I know you wouldn’t… I didn’t mean…’ She shakes her head, frustrated, tearful.

‘I know you didn’t.’

‘Because I have this vision of what it could be like. What I want it to be like. We know each other, we love each other, and raising kids is hard work. Why shouldn’t we all be involved? And, of course, you will be involved. Honorary auntie, godmother, whatever. I’m going to need you in all of this, Anna, and I’m not just talking about your egg.’ She laughs a little, wiping her eyes, and my throat goes tight.

‘I’ll be there,’ I promise, my voice a bit hoarse. ‘Of course I will. Always.’ I think of the father pushing his golden-haired daughter on the swing, the way her head tilted back with joy, and then I put myself in the picture, pushing the swing, smiling, savouring the moment.

‘Good. Then…’ She hesitates. ‘We can go forward… with this?’

It feels like one of those defining moments, both of us teetering on a precipice, having no idea what yawns below. Then I tell myself not to be melodramatic, that this can be simple. Easy, even. Because this is Milly… and me.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course we can.’

Five

Milly

I don’t remember the first time I was told I was adopted. One of my earliest memories, though, is telling someone else quite matter-of-factly. It came in different versions and guises as I grew up, from I didn’t come out of my mummy’s tummy to my parents chose me to the flatly stated I’m adopted.

My parents were always upfront about the adoption, always made it a talking point of my childhood. The photo album of my life starts on the day they brought me home from the hospital at six months old.

This framing of my identity around my adoption didn’t bother me for a long time. In fact, I wouldn’t say it ever bothered me, because it was simply part of who I was, the history they imbued me with, the story they told, proudly and lovingly.

But in my teen years I became curious, as is apparently natural with adopted children. When I was about thirteen, I wanted to know more about my roots, and that’s where my parents’ friendly, open attitude about it all started to falter. They didn’t mean for it to, and of course it was hard for them – this longed-for daughter they loved questioning everything, sometimes angrily, in my teenaged angst.