Not My Daughter

‘It wasn’t… I mean, he didn’t…’

‘It wasn’t rape, if that’s what you mean,’ I say in a low voice. ‘At least, he wouldn’t have ever thought it was.’

‘Oh, Anna.’ Milly reaches for my hand and squeezes it. ‘I should have known. You should have been able to tell me. I feel as if I wasn’t a good friend to you at all.’

‘You were, Milly.’ Over the years, I’ve tried to cast her as the villain, big bad Milly who took me for granted and used me in the worst way, but it’s never had the ring of authenticity. It certainly doesn’t now, no matter how guilty and appalled Milly feels.

She shakes her head. ‘I should have made you tell me. Instead, I just dragged you along with my plans, without even considering what you might have been through.’

‘If you dragged me along with your plans, it was because I never had any of my own. If you hadn’t found me sofa-surfing with strangers, I don’t know where I would be now.’ I shudder at the prospect. ‘I really don’t.’

‘Still, I should have done more for you.’

‘You did a lot. And even if you’d pressed and pressed, I might not have told you.’

‘I’m sorry for what you went through. I really am.’ She shakes her head and then drains the last of the wine. ‘What a pair we are.’

The words warm me, in their way. We’re a pair again. At least, I hope that’s what she means, and the possibility that it is emboldens me to ask, ‘Milly… do you have any photos… of Alice?’

Milly hesitates, the glass half-raised to her mouth.

‘May I see them?’ I ask, trying not to sound too desperate. Surely she wouldn’t deny me a photo, not after everything we’ve just said and shared?

‘Let me see if I have a decent one,’ she says, and starts scrolling through her phone, the screen angled away so I can’t see it, while I hold my breath. After a few seconds, she shrugs and puts the phone down on the table in front of me. ‘Screw it, you might as well see them all. It’s only the last few months, though.’

Hardly daring to breathe, I start to scroll through the photos: Alice on a beach, grinning with a drippy ice cream cone; the first day of reception in a smart new hunter-green uniform; curled up on the sofa, absorbed in a book. I swipe and swipe again. Alice tucked up in bed with a million teddies. In wellies, splashing in puddles. A perfect childhood encapsulated in these precious seconds. Gazing at her, I’d never know she has a terminal disease. Gazing at her, I can’t help think, she looks just like me. The same hair and eyes, the same dimples. The same lanky build and slightly sticky-out ears.

‘She looks just like you, doesn’t she?’ Milly says with a wry laugh, echoing my thoughts. ‘Perhaps that’s part of the reason I’ve thought of you so often.’

‘Is it hard… having her look like me?’ I ask tentatively. This is strange, new territory, the two us talking about Alice.

‘Sometimes. Sometimes I’ve wondered why I mind so much.’

Reluctantly, I push the phone back to her. I could look at those photos forever, study each one and memorise every detail. ‘Thank you.’ Milly nods, and I make myself ask, because I want to so much, ‘Could I… could I see her sometime? Meet her?’

Milly’s expression freezes and I know that it’s a step too far. Never mind the drinks, the apologies, the heartfelt conversation, the photos, she still doesn’t want me to see her daughter.

‘I’m sorry, Anna. Matt and I talked about this already—’

‘It’s okay,’ I interject. I don’t want to hear her excuses.

‘It’s just, Matt is reluctant. He doesn’t want to complicate things, especially when Alice’s health and treatment, such as it is, has to be paramount.’

Complicate things? What does he think I’m going to do? But, of course, I have to respect their wishes. Perhaps it was selfish for me even to ask. ‘I understand,’ I manage, sounding brittle. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No,’ Milly protests, but she leaves it there.

I wish I hadn’t asked, because now the door has closed forever, and I was the one to have shut it.

Thirty-One

Milly

I’m sorry.

That’s what Mr Williams said when he confirmed that Alice had Batten disease, having given us all the awful details: that she has a variant called CLN5, that a

ffected children begin to exhibit symptoms after the first few years of life. He tells us it’s likely Alice started exhibiting as long as two years ago. Children with CLN5 develop vision and cognitive issues, along with behavioural problems, and they gradually lose the ability to talk or walk. They usually live into their late childhood or teenage years. I can’t imagine a worse prognosis; I’d almost rather Alice was hit by a car than this slow dwindling to death. And all Mr Williams can say is, I’m sorry.