Not My Daughter

Matt reaches over to hold my hand. ‘I’m sorry, Milly.’

I shake my head, still reeling. I’ve known my parents are getting older; they were forty and forty-two when they adopted me. But they’ve been so hale and hearty, hiking in the Chilterns and spending hours in the garden. Yes, they’ve had creaky knees and the odd senior moment, but this still feels like a shot out of the dark, shocking in its force.

And it makes me realise how much I love my parents. How much I depend on them – and how much I take them for granted. I’ve found my mother’s concern exasperating, even annoying; I’ve rolled my eyes at my father’s jolly bonhomie. Now I feel like such a selfish cow, for having so much while acting as if I don’t have enough. For feeling as if something was missing in my family, when perhaps nothing really was. Do families ever get it right? Do they ever truly work?

Again, I press my hand against my non-existent bump. Our family will be different, I promise myself. We won’t take each other for granted. We won’t get annoyed at the little things. We’ll treasure every moment, mark it as precious, even if it is hard. I know these are promises no one can keep, at least not perfectly, but I mean them all the same. I mean them utterly.

* * *

The next few weeks seem to pass in a haze. My mum gets an appointment for her surgery at the end of June, when I will be fifteen weeks pregnant. I tell Anna about her cancer, and she drives out to Chepstow to visit my parents herself, taking a huge bouquet of flowers and a stack of paperbacks for my mum to read in hospital, things I feel I should have done, brought, but I’ve been so stunned by it all that I didn’t. She also sends me a card and flowers, and I am touched by how thoughtful she is, because I know this news will hit Anna just as hard as it is hitting me.

At twelve weeks, I have my first scan, and it feels miraculous. Matt and I hold hands as we watch the monochrome squiggles and lines morph into a baby with arms and legs, a beating heart. Our baby.

‘Everything looks healthy,’ the technician tells us cheerfully. ‘All good. Shall I print out a photo?’

That evening, I meet Anna for a celebratory drink – sparkling apple juice for me, champagne for her. I feel extravagant, as well as grateful. So, so grateful – my baby is healthy, my mother is scheduled for surgery. Despite the hard things, life is good.

Anna squints comically at the photo of the scan, her face screwed up with concentration. ‘I see it,’ she finally says, her voice ringing with excitement that makes a few heads turn. ‘I actually see it. An actual baby.’

‘Well, that is what it is.’ Anna’s excitement makes me smile; she looks s

o happy, her eyes alight, her mouth curved so I can see her dimples.

‘Yes, but still… how big is it now? The baby?’

‘I don’t actually know.’

‘Let’s check.’ Quickly she swipes and scrolls on her phone. ‘Twelve weeks, right?’

‘Almost thirteen.’

‘Your baby is as big as a lemon,’ she reads off her phone. ‘And weighs almost an ounce. An ounce!’ She looks up, marvelling, making me laugh, before returning to read. ‘Wow, check this out. Your baby is developing reflexes, and if you poke your tummy, he or she will squirm, even if you don’t feel it. Isn’t that amazing?’

‘It really is.’ I picture my lemon-like baby nestled inside me, sucking his thumb, kicking tiny legs.

‘That is so cool. You are actually growing a baby. It’s like… Chia Pet, but so much better.’

‘Chia Pet! You mean those ceramic animals you grow grass on?’ I pretend to shudder. ‘Yes, this is much better.’ We laugh, and I feel a rush of love and gratitude, that I can share this with Anna. That she is so excited for me, that she is happy to walk alongside me in this. ‘What’s going on with you, Anna?’ I ask as I sip my sparkling juice. ‘We can’t just talk about baby stuff all the time.’

‘Well, we could.’ She smiles, and again I think how happy she looks. She’s wearing a top I don’t recognise, in bright pink with a scalloped edge. It looks good on her.

‘Anything new going on?’

Anna purses her lips, considering, and with a flicker of surprise I realise there must be something. It’s unexpected, because Anna’s life is usually so placid, so predictable. Then she laughs and shakes her head. ‘No, not really, unless you count Lara being more offensive than usual.’

‘She’s going to get fired one day. Or sued.’

‘As if.’ She shrugs. ‘She’s protected by the company. I think she always will be.’

‘So nothing else?’ I press lightly, because I still think there is something, and I wonder why she isn’t telling me.

‘Nope.’ Anna smiles and looks away, and I am left feeling as if she has a secret – one she doesn’t want to share.

But I have secrets too, although not from Anna.

* * *

That weekend Matt and I drive to Chepstow to tell my parents about the baby. It isn’t until we’re driving there that we talk about what exactly we’re going to say.