Not My Daughter

‘A player?’

‘Serial dater, then.’

‘I don’t know the ins and outs of my brother’s love life,’ Matt answered, ‘but, like Anna, he can make his own decisions. If they want to see each other, we can’t stop them.’

I fell silent, because something about Matt’s repressive tone made me realise he might be almost as uncomfortable with the idea as I was. And he was right – we couldn’t stop them, not that I would actually try. Would I?

But, in any case, I wasn’t thinking about Anna and Jack the day of my mother’s surgery. All day long I was as tense as a wire, ready to snap. I was feeling crampy too, which made me even more irritable and anxious, and then, in the middle of the afternoon, my father rang my mobile.

Although I knew I wasn’t supposed to, I excused myself from the classroom, impressing upon my twenty-eight children that they needed to finish their number bonds to one hundred sheet without any talking.

‘Dad?’ I whispered, my voice urgent as I stood outside the classroom door, my gaze trained on my Year Ones. ‘Is Mum out of surgery?’

‘Yes.’ He sounded so tired. ‘It went well.’

‘It did?’ The surprise in my voice made me realise I’d been expecting bad news, and it took a moment for the relief to flood in. ‘She’s okay? They were able to remove the tumour?’

‘Yes, they said they think they got it all, although it can be tricky to tell. She’ll need to recover for a few weeks, and then hopefully she can start the chemo.’

‘That’s great news.’ I still sounded stunned. ‘That’s wonderful, Dad.’

‘It is a relief, darling, it really is. But I should go now. She’s going to wake up soon, and I need to be there.’

‘I’ll come as soon as I can, after work.’ I glanced back at my classroom, all of them still working on their sheets, as my dad rung off, and then I felt it – a sudden cramp banding across my belly, followed by a gush of fluid. Shock nearly rooted me to the spot. No…

I hurried into the staff loo, unable to keep from crying out at the sight of the blood staining my underwear and tights. No… no. Not this. Not after everything it took to get to this moment. Not when it finally seemed as if things were going well.

I stood up, my mind dizzy with panic, my whole body shaking. I needed to call my doctor. I needed to call Matt.

Matt didn’t answer when I rang, his phone switching immediately to voicemail, and I remembered he had a staff meeting all afternoon. My stomach cramped again. I looked at my phone and then I called the person I’d always depended on, the person I needed. I called Anna.

‘What’s happened? Where are you?’ Her questions were calm and no-nonsense, and they grounded me.

‘I’m at school. I need to get back to the classroom.’

‘You need to get to A&E, Milly. Tell whoever you need to that you have a medical emergency. I’ll meet you at the Royal Infirmary.’

‘You have work…’

‘It doesn’t matter. I haven’t had my lunch break yet, anyway. Do it, Milly. I’ll be there.’

The next hour was a blur, ringing Alicia, leaving a message for Matt, arranging cover for my class and then driving to A&E, terrified. So terrified.

Anna was waiting for me by the front doors, and she pulled me into a wordless hug as soon as she saw me. The two weeks of silence, the tension over Jack, were completely and thankfully forgotten in that moment. All I knew was I needed my best friend. I will always need her.

Now I am here, waiting to be seen, to have a scan, something to tell the doctors what’s going on, even though I am afraid to know. Anna sits next to me, calm and unflappable, acting as my anchor. She’s the one who asks the receptionist for updates, who brings me a bottle of water and finds the best magazines in the pile for me to read, even though I can’t concentrate enough to read them. I am too fidgety, my knee constantly jiggling, my arms wrapped around myself to keep myself from rocking back and forth.

Then they finally call my name and Anna and I head into the cubicle, where a nurse assesses me; I am barely able to stammer out my story – IVF, the blood, the cramping. Finally we’re called in for a scan, and I stretch out and lift up my top, my heart thudding painfully as I wait for the verdict.

The technician prods my stomach with an electric wand and the images jump and blur on the screen. I hold my breath. Then I see it, a beating heart, and I let out an incredulous laugh of both hope and fear, because that has to be good, right? My baby is still alive. Anna smiles and squeezes my hand.

‘You’ve had a small haemorrhage,’ the technician says. ‘But baby still looks healthy. The consultant will tell you more.’

And so I learn that while the baby is healthy, the bleeding and cramping mean my pregnancy is now higher risk, and I’m advised to be on bed rest for at least a week, with more regular assessments to make sure I am not at risk for preterm labour.

‘But there’s no reason to be worried?’ I press anxiously. ‘My baby is all right?’ I want promises, but of course they can’t give me any.

‘The goal,’ the consultant tells me with a sympathetic smile, ‘is to keep you pregnant for as long as possible.’ Considering I’m not even halfway to term, that is not the most reassuring sentiment. The next five and a half months feel as if they will stretch on forever – or not.