Not My Daughter

‘Not enough cherri

es.’ She rests one hand on her barely-there bump for a second before bending down to give Toby a hug. ‘I saw you on the swing there, big boy.’

‘I did it by myself!’

‘Amazing.’ And it is amazing, because Toby came to us from a background of abuse and neglect, cowering at the smallest thing, unwilling to try anything new or unknown. I gave up the idea of a perfect family, a newborn I could claim as my own, a long time ago. Toby belongs to me as much as Alice. They are my children. There is no but. Looking back at my own childhood, I don’t think there ever was.

‘Matt’s barbecuing sausages,’ I say as I put one hand on Alice’s shoulder, anchoring me to her. She is warm and solid and real. She is here, and we are happy. ‘Shall we go home?’

Anna and Toby both nod, and Alice gives me the kind of grin that reminds me of when she was a baby, when she was new.

Every day is new. Every day is a miracle of grace. Together we turn for home.