Not My Daughter

* * *

The health visitor has clearly been briefed, because she gives me a sympathetic squeeze of my arm as she sits on the sofa with me, Alice asleep in the car seat by our feet. ‘How are you finding things, Milly? Your partner said it was a bit difficult, during these early days?’

I shrug, unable to put it into words. Knowing if I try, I will fall apart. I will shatter.

‘Baby blues are quite normal at this stage,’ she continues. ‘Especially when you’ve had a traumatic delivery as you have. How are you feeling physically?’

‘Okay, I guess.’ My stitches hurt, my breasts ache, but it’s nothing compared to this black hole I feel inside, sucking all my emotions into it.

‘It’s important to take time for yourself,’ the health visitor says, a bit sternly. ‘You need to make sure you’re eating and sleeping properly, although I know that’s hard with a little one.’ Right. As if any of that will help. ‘And don’t be ashamed to ask for help,’ she continues. ‘This is a trying time for anyone. Friends, parents, and also professionals. They’re there for you. If you’re still feeling out of sorts in another week, we can have another chat, think about what to do next.’

‘Next?’ I repeat flatly. What’s the next stage for a mother like me, a mother who’s failed?

‘Perhaps think about getting some professional help,’ the health visitor says. ‘Some treatment.’

I don’t want treatment. I don’t want to be a problem that has to be dealt with, a disappointment to everyone, most of all myself. I want to solve this, the way I solve everything. Of course I don’t say any of that to this woman, whose kindly smile feels like an affront. She pities me. I know she does.

‘Thanks,’ I say, my tone one of finality, my smile not reaching my eyes. ‘That’s good to know.’

* * *

When Anna comes by later, I am resting in bed. I hear her moving downstairs, her delighted coo to Alice. Then I hear Matt’s low voice, the creak of footsteps. When she peeks through my door, I pretend I am sleeping.

Later, I make myself go downstairs and face them all. Anna, Matt. Alice. The scene that greets me as I come into the sitting room is the perfect tableau of happy families, except it’s not my family. Anna and Jack are sitting on the sofa together, Alice lying on her back on Anna’s lap, Anna holding her tiny feet in her hands, as they both coo at her.

They look up as I come into the room, and I swear they both look guilty. For a second I feel dizzy, and I grab onto the door frame.

‘Where’s Matt?’

‘He just went out for some milk.’ Yes, definitely guilty. Anna scoops Alice into her arms, and Jack helps her to stand. ‘Do you want to hold her?’

Do I need her permission? ‘In a minute. I’ll get a coffee first.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Anna says quickly. ‘Here – hold her.’ She thrusts Alice towards me, and I stare at her levelly. What is going on here?

Anna tries to smile, but her lips tremble. Silently I take my daughter, and hold her awkwardly to me. I’m not as adept as Anna, or perhaps even Jack. I turn away from them, pressing Alice against me, and then she starts to cry.

Damn it. I can’t do this. I can never do this. Still, I am determined to try, for my sake, for Alice’s sake, and because Anna and Jack are both watching. I jiggle her, patting her back, whispering soft words. Nothing works. She keeps crying, and before I can keep myself from it, I let out a sob of frustration.

‘Maybe she’s hungry,’ Anna offers. ‘Do you want to give her a bottle?’

I think of my one attempt at feeding my daughter, and shake my head. ‘I think she needs a nappy change. I’ll see to it.’ Still clutching a crying Alice to me, I head upstairs, grateful to be away from an audience.

The nursery is as beautiful as I remember making it, except now it is clearly used. I haven’t been in here since I came home, and now I notice the stack of nappies by the changing table, the hamper of dirty baby gros and sleepsuits, reminders of everything I’ve already missed.

‘Come on then, sweetie.’ My voice sounds manic, a falsetto of fake cheer. I lie Alice down on the changing mat; she is still crying, her face red and furious, her tiny fists clenched. I fumble to unbutton her sleepsuit, my fingers feeling too clumsy for the tiny snaps.

Alice’s cries increase, shriller and shriller, making me feel even clumsier and more anxious.

‘Come on, Alice.’ I can do this. I need to do this.

I take off the nappy, which is completely dry. Anna must have just changed her, and for some reason this infuriates me. I start to put on a fresh nappy, but the tapes snag and then one tears off. With a growl of frustration, I toss it aside and reach for another one. Alice wees all over the changing mat.

In a different life, this would be funny and cute. I know that. I can almost picture it; how I’d laugh and tickle her tummy, how nothing would faze me. But I am not that person. I am not that mother, and right now this feels like the most important thing I need to succeed at, and I am not. I am failing.

With Alice screaming all the while, I manage to take off her wet baby gro and sleepsuit. It takes two more nappies before I manage to put one on correctly without tearing the tapes, and now I have the monumental effort of getting her dressed. Alice has stopped screaming, at least, but she almost seems worse, too traumatised to make a sound, her eyes glassy and blank.

When I fit the baby gro over her head, it snags, and she starts up again. Tears smart my eyes and I know I am too rough as I push her tiny arms through the sleeves of her sleepsuit. I didn’t think it was possible, but her screaming gets louder and even more shrill.