Not My Daughter

‘Milly…’ I have to ask. I need to know. ‘What made you change your mind? You and Matt?’

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ she says simply.

I feel as if I am floating through a dream as I get through the next two days. I keep expecting Milly to text me, to call it off. Has Matt agreed to this? Why has she changed her mind? But I tell myself those questions aren’t important. Only Alice is.

I tell Will about the visit too, half-expecting him to be reluctant, or at least concerned, warning me about how I’m setting myself up to be too involved, to get hurt, but he isn’t and he doesn’t. Instead he hugs me and tells me he is happy for me, and echoes Milly’s sentiment, that it’s the right thing to do. That I need to see Alice, and maybe, just maybe, Alice needs to see me.

It is a gorgeous, sun-soaked day in early June when I head over to Milly and Matt’s for four o’clock. It’s the kind of day that encapsulates everything wonderful about a British summer, when the world is tinted with gold and filled with birdsong and butterflies, every moment like something caught on camera, a snapshot of happiness.

I’ve baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies and made a salad for the barbecue, and I heft both as I walk up the path to their house, feeling more nervous than I think I ever have in my life. I have no idea what to expect, how I’ll feel, what I should do or say. And what about Milly and Matt? What are they expecting from this visit? What do they want from me?

I ring the doorbell, balancing dishes, trying not to look terrified.

Milly opens the door and smiles when she sees me. ‘Anna,’ she says, and for a second I think she might actually hug me, but then she just reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry it’s been so long. Come through.’

I follow her through the house, glancing around at the changes that have taken place since I was last here – the hand railings in the bathroom and by the kitchen, the walker stood by the door.

We step through the French windows to their strip of back garden, the grass, a verdant, Technicolor green, tumbling down to an old horse chestnut tree with a swing hanging from it, the kind with a deep bucket seat and buckles. Matt is standing by the barbecue on the terrace, and Alice – for this little girl before me is of course Alice – sits on a blanket, watching a butterfly float through the air.

It’s such a perfect, pastoral scene that I wish I could take a photograph, but I know it wouldn’t do it justice. I stand framed in the French windows for a moment, breathing it all in, emblazoning it on my mind, and then Alice turns and looks at me.

The first thing that blazes through my mind is that I know her. I’ve always known her. She looks just like her photos, like me, but the sense of knowing is deeper than that, soul-deep. Then she smiles at me.

‘Hello,’ she says shyly, and my heart is so full I feel as if it could explode right out of my chest.

‘Hello, Alice.’

I walk towards her slowly, mindless of Milly, of Matt. I drop to my knees on the blanket by her and just drink her in. She watches me frankly, studying me the way I am studying her.

‘Do I know you?’ The words are a bit slurred, but I still understand them. Of course I do.

Before I can answer, Milly does. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You do, although you may not remember. But you’ve always known Anna, right from the beginning.’

And I think it is the kindest thing she could have said. I glance at Matt, wondering how he is taking all this, but when I meet his gaze he just gives a little nod and looks away, not hostile as he once was, but something more accepting, perhaps a little bit resigned. This is still hard.

I sit down next to her. ‘What have you been doing today, Alice?’

‘Watching butterflies. I want to catch one, but Mummy says they’re too fr… frag…’ she stumbles on the word, and I fill in for her.

‘Fragile?’ I fill in, and Alice nods.

‘Perhaps Anna could push you on the swing,’ Milly suggests. ‘While I get the food ready.’ She glances at me, and I read everything in her gaze – the worry about Alice’s mobility, whether I can keep her safe. But she trusts me. In this small, crucial thing, Milly trusts me.

‘I’d love to,’ I say, and I hold out my hand. She takes it, and as her little fingers fold around mine, my heart feels as if it is exploding in my chest, with both joy and sorrow.

We walk slowly towards the swing, hand in hand, Alice’s gait stiff and ungainly; she drags one foot behind her a little, and I go slowly, one step at a time, to match her uneven stride, aching inside for all she’s lost, and yet so thankful that she’s here. That we’re here together.

I help her onto the swing, and when she’s settled and safely buckled in, I gently push.

The breeze whispers by us and the sun shines down. Alice lets out a giggle as she swings higher.

‘Look at me, Mummy!’ she calls, and while part of me can’t help but think that she could be calling to me, another part knows that she isn’t, and that’s okay. That’s right.

I think of that father I saw long ago, pushing his daughter, the way she tilted her head back with joy, and I smile. Alice smiles back at me.

Later, after hours that I will commit to my memory forever, Milly pours us both wine while Matt gives Alice a bath upstairs.

‘I should have called you sooner,’ she says. ‘A lot sooner.’ She pauses. ‘Years sooner.’