Not My Daughter

‘Why would I?’

‘Because you know I saw her. Because she was your friend as well as mine, once upon a time.’

He shrugs. ‘That was then.’

‘Why are you so hard about this, Matt?’ When we talk about Anna, which is very rarely, he reminds me of his rather distant parents. My warm, easy-going husband suddenly turns into a cold stranger. It’s disconcerting, even though the coldness isn’t directed at me.

‘I’m not hard, Milly.’ He pauses, his gaze on the road, his fingers flexing on the wheel. ‘But surely we have enough to be getting on with, without throwing Anna into the equation? She’s out of our lives. End of story.’

But she wasn’t out of our lives, not exactly, not at all. Not while her blood ran through Alice’s veins, her imprint on every single one of our daughter’s cells. Not when we still didn’t know what was wrong, and whatever it was might be because of Anna. How could she possibly be out of our lives?

The next week, while Alice is at school, I drive out to Chepstow to see my parents. I’d told them a bit about Alice’s health concerns, but not the full, terrifying picture. I hadn’t wanted to burden either of them with the worry when we still didn’t know what, if anything, was wrong.

Just this morning, as I sliced bananas to sprinkle on top of Alice’s Weetabix, Matt said in a low voice, ‘You know it might not be this big thing. You hear stories of people with a load of mysterious symptoms, thinking they’re on death’s door, and then it just turns out to be some strange virus that goes away by itself.’ He took a sip of coffee, looking at me seriously, as if expecting me to agree and offer statistics.

And, of course, I would have loved to. Please, let this just be a virus. But in my heart, in my leaden gut, I knew it wasn’t. How could it be? Alice’s symptoms were becoming severe; we’d already talked to Miss Hamilton about having a teaching assistant help Alice with changing for PE and managing her lunch tray. We’d adjusted to this new reality in such small increments that, somehow, we managed to forget how big it was, how overwhelming. Maybe it was the only way we could cope, but right then her condition felt like a shadow looming over me, a stone weighing me down. This could be something big. This could be life-changing. Already, it was.

‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ I told him and then turned to Alice with a smile, sprinkling the bananas over her cereal. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’

Thankfully, Alice didn’t seem too concerned about what was happening to her. She was frustrated by her clumsiness sometimes, but she couldn’t remember the seizures she’d had and she liked her glasses. When she forgot words, we filled them in for her, and she went on happily. I wanted her to stay in childish, innocent ignorance for as long as she could. I wanted to hide our fear from her, until there was a certain diagnosis, until we knew what we were dealing with. And maybe I wouldn’t even tell her then.

Now, as I head across the Severn Bridge, the wintry sun sparkling on the river, I think about how I am going to tell my parents. They will be devastated to know that something might be wrong, and as anxious as I am, waiting for answers. My mother is so frail, I hate the thought of worrying her about anything, and yet I’ve had enough secrets from my parents; I don’t want there to be any more.

‘Milly.’ My mother smiles but does not rise from her chair as my father hugs me. They are sitting in the lounge, the gas fire turned on high, the doors closed, and it is stifling. Even so, my mother has a blanket over her knees, and I notice how scrawny she has become, even more than the last time I saw her, her wrists poking out from the cuffs of her jumper like twigs.

‘How are you feeling today, Mum?’ I ask as I bend to kiss her cheek. Her skin is papery and dry.

She smiles and pats my hand. ‘Tired, as I often am. But peaceful.’

Peaceful? I pause at her choice of words, and my father smiles sadly.

‘We had a scan last week. The tumour’s growing again, and he thinks this time the chemo will be too hard on your mother.’

I sink into a chair, shocked and yet not surprised at all. I’ve been waiting for this news for years. The fact that it’s taken so long is the surprising thing, not that it’s finally happened.

‘I’m sorry,’ I finally say, looking at my mum. She smiles at me, her eyes bright. ‘What… what does this mean, exactly?’

She shrugs. ‘Who can say? No one thought I’d live this long, not by a long shot.’ She sighs. ‘But when pushed, the consultant said a few months, if that.’

I nod, winded, knowing this time is different. This time it’s for real. Of course, I’ve been subconsciously grieving my mother for years, because that’s what a bad cancer diagnosis does to you. It prepares you for the end, at least as much as anything can. Still, I can’t believe it’s actually here – the endgame, the winding down. No matter how expected it is, it still feels like a shock. And how can I tell them about Alice? Yet how can I not?

‘How’s our beautiful granddaughter?’ Dad asks brightly. ‘Cheerful as ever?’

‘She is the sweetest little girl,’ my mother murmurs with a smile. ‘And I am not biased.’

I look at them both, my heart so heavy it feels like a burden I can’t carry anymore. Telling them that Alice might be ill, that she might have some disorder or condition, will break their hearts. But they deserve to know. I know they would want to, and yet I don’t want to hurt them.

‘Actually, I have some news to share as well,’ I say, clearing my throat. My mother looks at me expectantly, and my father frowns. ‘It’s about Alice. It might be nothing, or something small, but it might also be something… more serious.’ I hesitate, and my mum puts a hand to her throat.

‘About Alice? What is it, Milly?’

And so I explain about the symptoms, the consultants, the tests. ‘Six months feels like a long time to wait,’ I finish. ‘But we might find out sooner. I just want to know what it is, really, so we can start making a plan.’ My hands are knotted in my lap, my whole body tense. Since we first started noticing the symptoms, my stomach has been clenched with anxiety, my body maintaining a constant level of tension that exhausts me – and it’s only become greater the more we find out, the more we have to wait, the more we don’t know.

‘Oh dear heaven,’ my mother whispers. ‘Alice…’

‘But it might be nothing,’ my dad insists. ‘Like Matt said. A strange virus…’ I’d thrown that suggestion out there like a lifeline, and as tempting as it is to grab onto it, I know we shouldn’t. It will just make the truth harder to bear, when it comes.

‘But it might not, Dad. We just have to wait and see.’