Not My Daughter

Matt and I agree not to tell anyone until then – except for Anna and Jack, who were both thrilled – because it would hurt too much to have to explain to everyone if it all goes wrong, which, unfortunately, is still a distinct possibility.

We don’t tell our parents, which isn’t such a big deal for Matt’s, who are in the middle of a four-month cruise, but I know mine will be hurt. My mum has rung after every appointment, asked me about every development. Until the last few months, I’ve always been happy to share my news, but I made the choice not to tell her about the premature menopause diagnosis or the IVF. I knew I couldn’t cope with her anxious interest and constant analysis; it was hard enough as it was. But now it feels as if I’ve been keeping too many secrets, and my pregnancy is one more.

In any case, my parents haven’t been in touch these last few weeks, something I realise in hindsight is unlike them. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t noticed their absence, and it makes me feel guilty as well as concerned.

I leave a message on their answerphone, asking if we can see them on the weekend, and then, on Saturday afternoon, we drive across the Severn Bridge from Bristol to Chepstow, where I grew up. It’s early April, and everything feels fragile and new, from the daffodils waving in the still-chilly breeze to the sunlight making the surface of the Severn shimmer, and the very slight swelling of my stomach.

I am only eight weeks pregnant, just starting to feel sick, the waistband of my clothes the tiniest bit tight. I relish the symptoms, and I’ve shared each one with Anna, because they feel like milestones, triumphs. She has marvelled in them too, reminding me how wonderful it is that we are in this together. I feel like we’re a team, and it feels good. Maybe this pregnancy, this baby, will bring us together closer than ever before.

My parents have set up lunch in the conservatory at the back of the house, overlooking the garden, my father’s pride and joy. It is not quite as well kept as I would have expected at this time of year, when the flower beds have normally been dug out, the raised vegetable beds freshly tilled. It reminds me, with a pang, that they are both getting old; my mother will be seventy-five this year, my father seventy-seven.

‘Milly.’ When my mother hugs me, she feels fragile too. My parents are both tall and blond like Anna, Nordic giants, while I am small and dark and fey. It’s no wonder people have commented on our differing appearances over the years.

‘I

’m sorry I haven’t been in touch recently. Things have been manic.’ As I sit down, I can’t keep my hand from creeping to my belly. Now that I am here, facing both my parents with their benevolent smiles and kind eyes, I feel as if I shouldn’t keep this news from them any longer. I want to share it, but I am also scared, because it is still so early and it could all go wrong. I can only cope with so much disappointment, so much sympathy.

‘That’s all right,’ my mum says quietly. ‘We haven’t been very good at keeping in touch, either, lately.’ My father goes to the kitchen to bring out the lunch, and I have a jarring sense of having missed something important, yet with no idea of what it is.

My father brings in a wooden board laid out with various cheeses and meats, along with a sliced baguette and a salad. Matt chats to them about the latest NHS funding crisis, and I only half-listen as I observe how my parents aren’t quite meeting our eyes, and my mother picks at her food.

At first I wonder if I’ve hurt them, by not being in touch. Perhaps they’ve realised something has been going on, and that I wasn’t sharing it with them. My parents have always wanted to be involved in absolutely every aspect of my life, and occasionally it has felt suffocating – the endless questions, the picking over of details, the over-the-top concern and sympathy.

Not keeping them involved in this, the most intimate part of my life, is a big deal, and I know I should have told them, but I wasn’t ready for my mother’s gushing concern, all the probing questions she would ask that I wouldn’t want to answer.

While Matt and I weren’t planning on telling them about my pregnancy for another four weeks, I’m not sure I can last the meal without admitting the truth. And part of me – a large part – wants them to know, to rejoice and be glad with me.

But, over the course of the meal, it becomes clear that this isn’t about me. The more I sit there, watching my mother toy with her food, the more I realise this is about them. And then, when I’ve cleared away the dishes and my father puts on the kettle, my mother breaks it to us both.

‘Milly,’ she says. ‘Matt.’ She pauses, and I tense. I feel frozen inside, like I can’t move, can barely breathe. ‘We haven’t been in touch these last few weeks because… well, your father and I received some news and we wanted to process it ourselves first.’ She smiles with sorrowful wryness, a smile that tugs at me. It hurts. ‘Anyway, it’s not good news, as I’m sure you can imagine by now.’

Dad comes in with a tray of teas and coffees which he puts on the table before going to stand behind my mum, one hand on her shoulder. She reaches up and clasps his hand with her own. I swallow hard.

‘I have cancer,’ she says, with that same sad smile. ‘Perhaps you knew I was going to say something like this.’

And I did, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. All through lunch, I did. ‘Oh, Mum…’ I can’t get any other words out. I feel guilty for not calling, for being too wrapped up in my own little life.

‘It’s stomach cancer,’ she continues. ‘And I’m in stage three.’

‘What…’ I don’t want to form the words. ‘What does that mean, in terms of treatment and a… a prognosis? Have they said…?’

‘It could be better,’ Mum answers with a small, wobbly laugh. ‘They could have caught it earlier—’

‘But it’s not too late,’ my father interjects, sounding determinedly upbeat. ‘She’s eligible for surgery, and it’s going to be scheduled in the next few weeks, and then a course of chemotherapy afterwards.’

‘That’s good.’ My voice is shaky and Matt reaches for my hand.

‘But I am nearly seventy-five,’ Mum reminds us. ‘I’ve lived a good life—’

‘Oh don’t, Mum.’ The words are out before I can stop them, and a hurt look flashes across her face. ‘Don’t write your epitaph just yet, is all I mean. This is the beginning of treatment, surgery…’

Mum is silent for a moment. ‘I don’t think I like these kinds of beginnings,’ she says at last. ‘And I’m honestly not sure how much of a beginning it is. At my age, Milly, they can’t do the really strong chemotherapy or radiation that they might try on someone younger. I wouldn’t be able to withstand it.’ She speaks gently, but it tips me over the edge anyway. I blink back tears, not wanting to cry, not wanting to make this about me. More than ever, I want to tell them about my pregnancy, about something good that truly is a beginning. But it doesn’t feel right in this moment; this is about their news, not ours.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ I reach over to hug her, and again I feel how fragile she is. Normally so comfortably solid, she is now diminished in my arms. I fight the urge to hold on, to squeeze, as if I can somehow anchor us both to this moment.

Matt and I leave a short while later, and we’re both silent in the car until we cross the bridge. ‘Should we have told them, do you think?’ Matt finally asks.

‘I thought about it, but I didn’t want to take away from what they were telling us.’ I press my hand against my belly. Will this baby ever know my mother? ‘Perhaps we should have. I know my mother especially would want to know…’ What if her time is limited? My father insisted the odds were good, that at her stage of cancer the five-year survival rate was over fifty per cent, but it still feels tenuous and uncertain, and that makes me want her to know even more. To have more time knowing. ‘We’ll tell them the next time we see them,’ I decide.