Not My Daughter

I stare at her for a moment, flummoxed. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

‘You’re nearly forty already. Perhaps it’s too late.’

‘You almost sound hopeful.’ I swallow hard. ‘Mum, why…’ I pause to regroup. A feeling of nameless dread is washing over me. ‘I’ve already had a baby,’ I tell her, and I watch as her eyes flare wide and her lips tremble. ‘Five years ago.’

‘You didn’t…’

‘In a roundabout way, admittedly. Do you remember Milly?’

‘Of course I remember Milly.’

‘She was trying for a baby for a long time, and it turned out she couldn’t get pregnant on her own, so I donated my egg. Her daughter, Alice, is five years old now.’ I watch her carefully, my heart starting to thud as her face turns grey.

‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ she demands.

‘It felt private. And I didn’t think you needed to know.’ I press one hand against my thudding heart. ‘Did you?’

My mum doesn’t answer, just shakes her head as she bites her lips. She looks anguished, and I am starting, terribly, to suspect why.

‘She’s started having some symptoms,’ I say as my mother jerks suddenly, her gaze fixed on mine. ‘Random things, some seemingly little, others not so much… but they’re worried about it. They asked me to give a DNA sample, to check for hereditary conditions.’ I watch her, waiting, afraid and yet hopeful that she’ll just shrug dismissively.

Mum lets out a sound that is half-moan, half-sob.

I clench my fists, the dread overwhelming me now. ‘Mum. What is it? What haven’t you said? What do you know?’

She shakes her head and then says in a low, barely audible voice, ‘What kind of symptoms?’

‘I don’t really know.’ I try to remember all the things Milly said. ‘Vision loss… some problem with small motor skills… clumsiness… forgetting things. I think.’ I shake my head helplessly. ‘Mum, whatever it is, tell me, please.’

The silence stretches on for a minute, and then another. Then my mother rises from her chair. She looks even more haggard than usual, her eyes seeming strangely blank. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she half-mumbles and I wait, stroking one of her Jack Russells, fighting a crashing sense of panic.

A few minutes later she returns, carrying a photograph album with a cover of faded white sateen. She sits back heavily in her chair, the album on her knees.

‘What is that?’ I ask after a moment, when she doesn’t open the book or even speak. Another endless pause.

‘It’s a photo album,’ she finally says, tracing the embossed title on the cover with her fingers. ‘With pictures of your brother.’

For a second the words don’t make any sense. They bounce off me, refusing to penetrate. I’m an only child. I used to wish for a sibling, someone to share the misery with, but then later I was glad my parents only inflicted themselves on one child.

‘What are you talking about, Mum?’ My voice sounds strange and tinny. ‘What do you mean, a brother?’

‘He… he died when you were two.’

‘And you never told me?’

Her lips tighten as her gaze flashes downwards. ‘Your father wanted it that way.’

The implication being that she didn’t. But then why hadn’t she ever told me about him, after the divorce? Why keep my sibling a secret? ‘I don’t remember him at all.’ I sift through my earliest memories, trying to slot a brother in, but I can’t. There’s no one there at all.

‘You wouldn’t. We never told you about him, and he was in a care facility by the time you were born.’

I swallow hard. ‘A care facility? Why was he there?’ But, of course, I already know – not the details, but the awful gist, and that is enough to make my stomach churn and my vision go blurry. ‘Why was he there, Mum?’ I ask, louder this time, because her fingers keep tracing the letters on the book – which I can now see reads Baby’s First Album.

‘Because he was dying,’ she whispers. ‘And we couldn’t care for him at home.’

Dying. The word slams into me, leaving me breathless and reeling. I want to put my head between my knees, catch a few steadying breaths, but I’m afraid it might send my mother over the edge. She is staring at the album as if transfixed, tracing those letters over and over. I manage with one deep breath, exhaling slowly, to ask, ‘What did he have?’ My voice is little more than a thread. ‘What was his… condition?’

‘Batten disease.’ I have to strain to hear the words. I’ve never heard of it.