Not My Daughter

‘The truth is, I don’t feel I’ve been as supportive as I could or should have been,’ she says quietly.

‘Mum, you’ve had your own things to deal with. I know that—’

‘Yes, but it’s not just that. The cancer.’ She falls silent for a moment, and I wait. I’ve never seen my mother look like this, heard her sound like this. She gazes down at our joined hands for a few moments as she collects her thoughts. ‘I know I haven’t spoken very much about when your father and I were trying ourselves, for a baby.’

No, she hasn’t, not ever, except to say ‘it didn’t happen for us’ in a tone that suggested I shouldn’t ask any more questions, and so I didn’t.

‘It was really difficult,’ Mum says quietly. ‘Years of the cycle of hope and disappointment – well, you know how it is.’

‘Yes…’ All too well.

‘And forty years ago, there was no IVF.’ She smiles wryly. ‘It was still all in the pioneering research stage.’

‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

‘And the worst part, well, one of the worst parts, was that there was never any real reason for it. Unexplained infertility, they called it. They kept telling us, as they patted our hands, that there was absolutely no reason why we couldn’t have a healthy pregnancy, a normal baby, and yet it never happened. Anyway.’ She lapses into silence, and I wait, sensing more, but what?

‘Adoption wasn’t my first choice,’ she says finally. ‘Obviously. But I always felt guilty about it, once we decided to go down that route. I never wanted you to feel as if you were second best to a biological child.’

‘I didn’t,’ I say, but inwardly I am thinking about the running theme of my life story: I’m adopted, but… How much of that was in my own head, and how much was in my mother’s?

‘Because you were wanted so, so much, Milly. You really were.’

‘I know.’ She has told me at every opportunity, and yet perhaps that was part of the problem. When someone keeps insisting on something, you start to doubt it.

‘And then when you had trouble trying to conceive yourself…’ Mum continues slowly, ‘it was strange. I was so sad you were experiencing the same heartache I was, of course I was, and yet when you did get pregnant, I felt… envious. A little. Which is ridiculous.’ She bites her lip, looking ashamed.

‘It’s not ridiculous, Mum.’

‘And not just envious,’ she continues with a note of steely determination in her voice that reminds me of me. She is going to say this, no matter what. No matter how much it hurts. ‘I felt… threatened. Because this baby will be closer to you, in a way, than I am. Your own flesh and blood, in a way I can never be, and that’s… that’s hard, for me.’

I still, implications tumbling through me. We still haven’t told my parents about the egg and sperm donation. We keep putting it off, saying there will be time later, if it ever needs to be told. These things are private, after all, even if they’re acknowledged and appreciated.

And yet with my silent betrayal comes my mother’s. What is she saying? That I’m not her flesh and blood? That despite all the assurances that I was special, chosen, wanted, whatever, there was always a distance between us that could never be closed?

‘I know I shouldn’t feel that way,’ she says, resting her hand on mine. ‘I know it doesn’t really matter.’

I stare at her helplessly, at a loss. Now is the time to tell her the truth, surely. To admit that actually, yes, I am just like her, and of course it doesn’t matter. Genetics are nothing but that – mere science, abstract, almost theoretical. Relationships are what matter. I know that, and yet…

If that is true, why do we have to have this conversation at all? Why did I resent the fact of my adoption? Why do I resent Anna’s part in the conception of my daughter? Because I do. No matter how hard I try not to, I know in this moment I do. And so I stay silent. I watch my mother smile sadly, feel her squeeze my hand, and I say absolutely nothing.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mum says, giving a little shake of her head. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this now. I just wanted to be honest. My… diagnosis… it makes me want to make the most of opportunities.’

‘I understand.’ But I still don’t make the most of this one.

‘But most of all,’ Mum continues, ‘I want to tell you how much I love you. How much I’ve always loved you.’

My chest is tight with emotion. ‘I know you do, Mum. And I love you, too.’ I’ve never doubted that, despite all the other things I’ve wondered about. Love might not be easy or simple, but it still is. I’m sure of that. I’ve always been sure of that.

Mum lets go of my hand, letting out a little sigh as she gives a smile. ‘So how’s Anna?’ she asks after a moment. ‘She stopped by a few weeks ago, with some lovely flowers, but I haven’t seen her since then.’

‘I think she’s okay.’ I speak cautiously, because I haven’t seen Anna much lately. We communicate more by text, and even that has become a bit intermittent. Somehow it’s been easier, to have

a little space.

‘She mentioned something about her job?’ Mum’s forehead wrinkles. ‘About taking some time off?’

‘Time off?’ That doesn’t sound like Anna. ‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’ And I wonder why not. Surely if something big had happened, she would have told me? But then I realise that she might not have, and I wouldn’t have asked. More strained silences in our friendship that were never there before.