Not My Daughter

‘Yes, all right,’ I say, offering him a small smile. I am play-acting, but perhaps if I stay in the role, I will start to feel something. The instinct I am missing will finally kick in.

Matt goes to get Alice, and I perch on the edge of the bed, my heart flip-flopping in my chest. I can do this. I need to do this. I want to want to do this, and yet I know I don’t.

A few minutes later, Matt comes in, wheeling that plastic bassinet. ‘Here she is,’ he says, his voice pitched just a bit too jolly.

I try to smile as he lifts Alice out of the bassinet. Alice. I say her name again and again silently, trying to get used to it. We picked it out months ago; we always called her by her name as soon as we knew we were having a girl. Why does the name seem strange now, almost as if I never chose it?

I hold out my arms and Matt places her in them gently, and I hold my breath, waiting again for the rush of maternal love, the feeling that things finally fit. I am so hopeful, so desperate to believe that in this moment it’s going to happen.

But again, nothing does. And when Matt suggests breastfeeding, I steel myself for an attempt, which is awkward and unbearable, and ends up with Alice mewling plaintively and me thrusting her away from me, back at Matt.

‘Take her,’ I say, a desperate plea. Matt scoops her up, already an expert, while I am floundering.

‘Milly, it will get better.’

I nod, because it has to get better. I can’t bear to think about what will happen if it doesn’t.

Eighteen

Anna

‘Oh, Anna.’ Milly’s mother Claire envelops me in a hug, her face crumpled in anxiety. It’s been four days since Milly gave birth, and as far as I know, she’s barely looked at Alice and only held her a few times, all of them difficult. She’s coming home from the hospital today, which is why her parents are here, even though Matt is clearly alarmed by the prospect of having Milly here. He’s due back at work by the end of the week, and Milly doesn’t even want to look at her child.

The midwives and consultants have given him support, at least, mainly in the form of pamphlets on caesarean recovery and maternal bonding, but the words postpartum depression have been murmured. A health visitor is going to stop by tomorrow; an appointment can be booked with the GP to discuss antidepressants, if it comes to that, but I know Matt is hoping it won’t.

‘We’re going to get through this,’ he said last night, his chin tilted at a stubborn angle, reminding me of Milly. I had come to the hospital to see them both, but Milly was sleeping, or perhaps pretending to. I’ve seen her once, and it was awkward and strange, with Milly not quite looking at me. In any case, the real reason I came to the hospital was to see Alice.

I’d held her now, twice, cuddling her close to my body, breathing in her warm, powdery scent, feeling both guilty and defiant for holding her at all. But Milly didn’t want to, and she’s needed cuddles. I’d read online about the importance of skin-to-skin contact during the first few days and weeks of a baby’s life. So I pressed my cheek to hers and imbued her with my touch, my love, because Milly wouldn’t.

Now I step back from Claire, giving her and her husband Simon a sympathetic smile. Matt has told them that Milly is struggling, without going into the painful specifics.

I came to Milly and Matt’s house this morning to do a quick clean; I brought over some banana bread, now warming in the oven, as well as a casserole for dinner tonight. I’ve made up all the beds with fresh sheets, including the Moses basket by Milly’s side of the bed, tucking in the soft, fleece-lined blanket, imagining Alice snuggled there.

I’ve also made up some bottles of formula, at Matt’s request, because although her milk has come in, Milly doesn’t want to try to breastfeed.

It’s so strange to think of her this way, refusing to be the mother she has always dreamed of being. In a million years, I could have never imagined it. I keep waiting for her to snap out of it, for Matt to laugh and shake his head and say, ‘Oh, that? Yeah, that was just a blip. Everything’s fine now.’ But every time I’ve seen him in the last four days, he’s looked haggard and dazed, as if he can’t believe this is happening either.

‘How is she, Anna?’ Claire asks now, grabbing my arm. ‘Is she doing any better?’

‘I haven’t actually seen Milly recently, Claire.’ I give her a grimace of apology. ‘I saw Matt last night, and things seemed to be… the same.’ I feel badly for saying the words. ‘But perhaps things will be different once she’s home, in her own space, away from all the nurses and doctors.’

‘Yes…’ But Claire doesn’t look convinced. ‘Should she see someone? Get some medication? You hear about things like this…’

‘I think Matt wants to wait a few days before they go down that route, see if this clears up on its own.’ I’m no doctor, but if I were Matt, I’d be asking for the meds.

‘Right.’ Claire walks into the sitting room, sinking onto the sofa with a tired sigh. She looks a decade older from the last time I saw her, her skin pale and papery, her hands reminding me of claws. I know from Milly that she’s responding to the chemo, but it’s certainly taken its toll. ‘I wish we could do more,’ she says with an unhappy frown.

Simon, Milly’s father, joins her on the sofa and pats her hand. ‘You can’t push yourself, love, and I’m not sure there’s much we could do, anyway.’

‘But the baby… poor little Alice…’

‘She’s got Matt.’ Simon smiles at me. ‘And Anna.’

I smile back uncertainly. I’m not sure if they know about the egg donation. I have a feeling they don’t, not that I’d ever mention it. The knowledge sits on my chest like a weight, making it hard to say anything.

‘Still.’ Claire sighs, and Simon puts his arm around her.

‘You need to think about yourself right now, Claire.’