Not My Daughter

‘Yes, one day,’ Matt agreed heavily. ‘But when?’

It was at that moment that an idea slipped into my mind, coiling around my thoughts, like a serpent. What if. Two tempting, treacherous words. What if…?

I didn’t get further than that, not right then. But then, a few days later, I see the same mum at the park again, and we get to chatting. Her name is Rhiannon and we end up having coffee at a nearby café, and she invites me to the mums and babies group again, and this time I say yes. It would be rude not to, and anyway, it isn’t happening until after Christmas, which is ages away. And all the time I am thinking, dreaming, planning. What if.

A little while later, with Matt at work, Jack comes over and as he dances around with Alice in the kitchen, wintry sunlight streaming through the windows, he stops and looks at me.

‘Do you ever stop to think… this could be us?’

My heart turns right over, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. ‘Sometimes.’

‘This is us.’ He holds Alice out like exhibit A before cuddling her close to his chest. He would be a good father. The thought slips through me like quicksilver. ‘Right now, I mean.’ He pauses, one hand resting lightly on top of Alice’s downy head. ‘What if Milly doesn’t get better?’

The words fall into the stillness and stay there. I glance down at the home-made soup I’m stirring, swirls of carrot and coriander. The moment feels suspended, crystalline in its detail – the soup, the sunshine, Jack’s hand resting on Alice’s head. I want it all.

‘Even if she does…’ I say softly. The words are forbidden and thrilling. Even if she does… I glance up at Jack and we stare at each other for a long moment.

‘Anna,’ he finally whispers. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Look at us, Jack. Look at Alice.’ I keep my voice calm and reasonable, even though I am fizzing inside. I wasn’t going to suggest this now, but the moment feels right, even providential. ‘She’s our daughter. In absolutely every way, she’s our daughter.’

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I turn back to the soup, giving him a few moments to absorb what I’m saying.

‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he says at last.

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t it? Alice is ours. You’ve felt it from the beginning, and so have I. And we feel it even more so now, when we’re the ones taking care of her, loving her.’ My voice throbs with intensity. ‘Jack, why shouldn’t we?’

‘Why shouldn’t we what?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Apply for custody.’

‘Apply? We’re not talking about a passport, Anna.’

‘I know that.’ My voice sharpens and I strive to moderate it. ‘Don’t you think I’ve thought this through, Jack? I’ve talked to a lawyer—’

‘What?’ He stares at me in open-mouthed shock, and I quickly backtrack.

‘Only on the phone. Only to see.’ I rang her yesterday, my heart thudding so hard it hurt, my voice a papery whisper as I explained the situation, asked the question. Could I…

Jack puts Alice back in her little bouncy seat, where she coos contentedly. ‘What did they say?’ he asks, and the fact that he wants to know encourages me as the actual phone call did not.

‘She said it would be difficult.’ In fact, the lawyer specialising in fertility issues said it would be incredibly messy and painful for everyone involved. ‘But possible. Potentially.’

‘How? Donors have no parental rights. Matt told me. Reassured me, in case I was worried.’

‘The situation is different, because we’re together, and we’re taking care of Alice as it is.’

‘I’m not taking care of her, Anna. I’m stopping by every couple of days.’

‘Still.’

A moment passes, and then another. Jack stares at me. ‘Anna…’

I’m losing him. I can feel it, even though he hasn’t moved or said anything more, and I can’t stand the thought. ‘Look,’ I cut across him, ‘either Milly is very ill, and she cannot take care of Alice for a long time, or she’s not ill, and she doesn’t care enough about Alice to come home. It doesn’t surprise me, really,’ I add abruptly. ‘Milly was adopted, as you probably know, and her parents are fantastic. They practically subbed in for my parents since I was about twelve. But Milly’s always had this thing, like because she’s adopted, they’re not her real parents or something, even though she never got to know her birth mother.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Just that genetics count. They matter. And Milly knows that most of all.’