Not My Daughter

Except, of course, I can’t. When I try to rise from the bed, I stagger and fall back, letting out a cry as pain rips through me. The door opens, and Matt rushes towards me.

‘Milly, Milly. What are you doing?’

‘Where were you?’ I cry, my voice sounding broken.

Matt blinks, his hand on my arm as he guides me back to a lying position. ‘I was with Alice.’

Alice, Alice. The way he says her name as if he knows her, and I don’t. I don’t know her at all. I jerk away from him, and he blinks.

‘Milly…’

‘I don’t want to lie down. I want to sit up.’

‘Okay, let me help you.’

I don’t want to be helped either, but I need it. I suffer silently as he moves me around, adjusting my limbs as if I am a marionette. He steps back, his forehead crinkled with concern as he looks at me.

‘Milly, I know this is challenging,’ he begins hesitantly. ‘It’s not the way either of us would have wanted things to happen, but we’ve made it through and you’re healthy and so is our daughter.’ I’m not sure where he is going with this, so I just stare at him silently. ‘The nurse said you might find things… difficult… at first, because of the emergency caesarean, not being awake for the delivery, needing to recover, that sort of thing…’

‘So now you’re talking about me?’

‘Not like that,’ Matt protests. ‘Milly, for heaven’s sake…’ He lapses into silence, seeming to realise there is no point in berating me.

‘I know.’ Everything in me crumples. ‘I’m sorry,’ I gasp out. ‘I just feel so…’ I can’t explain how I feel, as if I am suffocating. As if this reality that I longed for is now unbearable, and I don’t even understand why. ‘Matt, will you bring her to me? I want to hold her.’

‘Are you sure?’

His doubt hurts, but I force myself past it. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

He leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with the plastic bassinet on wheels, Alice swaddled inside. Matt lifts her out almost reverently, and I hold out my arms, the effort making them tremble.

‘Here she is.’ Matt places Alice gently in my arms.

She is beautiful, her golden lashes fanning her cheeks, her tiny rosebud mouth puckered, little mittened fists up by her face. She is perfect. And yet I feel as if I could be holding anyone’s baby, even a doll. She doesn’t feel like my daughter. The groundswell of maternal love that I expected in this moment, that I’d been building all along, is entirely absent, and that terrifies me. I don’t want Matt, or anyone else, to know, and yet I’m afraid it must be evident on my face, in the way I hold her, like a bulky parcel.

‘Milly…’

‘She’s lovely.’ The words sound wooden. ‘Lovely.’

‘Do you want to try breastfeeding her?’

The thought of doing that right now nearly makes me flinch. ‘Tomorrow,’ I say, and gesture for him to take her. ‘I’m still so tired.’

‘Okay.’ Matt looks worried and I know I’m not handling this right. The trouble is, the right words, the right feelings, seem utterly foreign and impossible.

I turn on my side, away from him, afraid of what he can see in my face. I have to hide how I feel, how I don’t feel, and I’m not sure I can.

What is wrong with me? Or is nothing wrong with me, and it’s just I’m finally realising what I’ve known all along – that Alice isn’t really my child?

* * *

The next morning, I wake up, half-hoping I’ll feel different, better, but I don’t.

I feel exactly the same, only worse, because I was hoping this dark cloud would have dispersed in the night, and it hasn’t. It’s thick and black and covering every part of me. And I don’t want to admit it to Matt, or to anyone.

At least I am feeling a bit better physically; I manage to shuffle along the corridor like an old woman, my hospital gown flapping around me, Matt holding my elbow.

When I’ve showered and managed to change into my own comfy clothes, Matt asks me, his voice full of hesitation, if I’d like to see Alice again, and perhaps try breastfeeding.