Not My Daughter

‘Of course. Thank you for everything—’

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Fine.’ I smile brightly, too brightly. ‘Sorry about before. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘You don’t need to be sorry, Anna.’

‘It came out of nowhere. Honestly, I’m okay.’ My smile turns fixed and Jack stares at me. His eyes are brown like Matt’s, his hair just a little bit darker. He hasn’t shaved today.

‘Maybe… would you like to get a coffee sometime? Or a drink?’

I stare back, unsure if he’s asking me out on a proper date, or just as some sort of friend. Perhaps not even that, but simply because we have this weird link.

‘Sure,’ I say after a moment, and Jack smiles and nods before leaving, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stroke Winnie as I drink the rest of my tea; my abdomen still aches and even as I feel a strange sort of emptiness inside, a peace settles on me like a violet twilight, soft and dark and comforting.

Seven

Milly

When I was about six, a woman at a party – I can’t remember where or what for – asked me why I didn’t look like my parents. She didn’t phrase it as bluntly as that, of course; she said something about genes and dark hair and changelings, laughing a little, and without a blink or a blush, I informed her that I was adopted.

I remember the look that flashed across her face; in hindsight I realise she must have been horrified by her unwitting faux pas, but at the time all I knew was that the expression on her face wasn’t a good one, and I felt as if I’d done something wrong.

Then the woman back-pedalled quickly, her voice rising loudly as she exclaimed how wonderful it was that I was adopted, and how my mummy and daddy were so lucky, and they must love me very much. But children are smarter than adults ever think; I knew she was overegging the conversational pudding, that her smile was too wide, her voice too cheery. I knew she wasn’t telling the truth.

When I asked my mother about it later, she looked stricken for a second before gathering me into her arms and telling me that it was wonderful, and she and my father were lucky. It was all so perfectly perfect, our very own fairy tale, happy ending guaranteed. And even though her voice brimmed with sincerity, and her smile wasn’t too wide, I had the same impression from her as from that strange woman – she wasn’t quite telling the truth. I never pressed her on it, and I never doubted her love for me, but the impression remained.

I have a lot of memories like that. They aren’t terrible, and I don’t regret anything, but they’re there, like stones in my mental shoe. And, for some reason, I think of that woman as Matt holds my hand and the doctor transfers a precious embryo into my uterus. We decided on only one because of the potential risks involved in carrying multiples, and we figured if it doesn’t happen this time, we’d just try again. But I am hoping – I am praying – it happens.

As I lie still, my feet in stirrups, my eyes on the ceiling, I think of that woman and I promise myself that my child will not have moments like that. She will feel loved, accepted, part of me from the beginning. All the time. Always.

* * *

It’s finished in twenty minutes, and as I stand up, I have the urge to tiptoe, as if this newly planted embryo is in danger of sliding out. When I say as much, the doctor assures me this is a normal feeling, but not one based in reality. He advises me to take the rest of the day off, and keep activity to a minimum for the next two weeks, which begs the question – why? Perhaps it can fall out, after all.

It’s not easy to take a day off work, especially on the heels of a fairly brutal Ofsted inspection. Monkton Primary is a small, cosy village school thirty minutes from Bristol, with only one class per year group, and a very stretched staff. I’ve been working there for twelve years, since I finished uni, and while I’ve been tempted to look for jobs closer to home, it’s hard to leave a place where you’re known.

When the call from Ofsted came just as I was about to leave to pick up Anna, my heart sank right down to my toes. The last time Ofsted had come they’d given us the dreaded ‘Requires Improvement’ rating, so there was no question about staying late and pitching in to make sure it went well.

But Anna… I hated the thought of letting her down at that crucial moment, even though I knew I didn’t have a choice. I texted her and left two voicemails, but I still felt wretchedly guilty for sending Jack in my place. As soon as I got home, I rang her landline, but she didn’t answer, which somehow made me feel worse.

On Saturday I rang again, wondering as the phone rang and rang if I was badgering her. Perhaps she was tired from the procedure and wanted to lay low. Maybe she needed some space. Finally, on Sunday afternoon, she rang me back.

‘Hi, Milly. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier.’ She sounded tired.

‘Anna, I’m so sorry I didn’t pick you up from the clinic. Jack told you about the Ofsted—’

‘Yes. Bad timing.’

‘Yes.’ Things felt stilted in a way I didn’t expect. ‘Can I come by? I’ll bring croissants.’ Almond, Anna’s favourite.

‘Okay,’ she said after a pause. ‘Sure.’

I brought a bag of fresh croissants, and Anna’s favourite chai tea, but when I hugged her hello, something felt just the tiniest bit off. I told myself I was being paranoid, that Anna was just tired. That nothing was wrong, nothing had changed from the way we’d envisioned it all. Anna wasn’t having second thoughts or regrets, she couldn’t be.

‘How was it?’ I asked as Anna sat cross-legged on the sofa and sipped her tea. ‘Did it… did it hurt?’