Not My Daughter

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

‘It does. You could have been involved in her life all along…’ Her face crumples. ‘Oh, Anna…’

And then we are both crying, and we are in each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly, holding each other up. It’s as if the years apart never happened, and yet they are more present now than they have ever been. We have been shaped by their scars, by the silence between us, and by some miracle of grace, we’ve come out stronger, on the other side.

‘Do you know,’ Milly says when we have sniffed and wiped our cheeks and settled on the sofa, ‘I looked up my mother a few years ago? I finally looked at my birth records, after all this time.’

‘And what did you find?’

She sighs and leans her head back against the sofa. ‘She had postpartum depression, the same as I did, only worse. That’s why she gave me up.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘All these years I’ve thought I didn’t want to know her. I didn’t care, because I was so sure she didn’t. I judged her for giving me up at six months.’ She lifts her head to look at me directly. ‘But now I feel differently. About a lot of things. About her… about you… about everything.’

‘Alice is beautiful, Milly. And you’re a wonderful mother.’

‘Thank you.’ Milly nods slowly. ‘She belongs to both of us

.’ I know it is a lot for her to admit. ‘Remember what I told you, way back when? About us all raising her?’

I nod. Of course I remember.

‘I wish that could have happened. I really do, now.’ She smiles uncertainly. ‘But perhaps it still can. It’s not… it’s not too late, is it?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, swallow hard. I’ve let go, and Milly has grabbed on, and somehow all of it feels right, as if we’ve come full circle, and we’ve ended up exactly where we need to be. Even Alice. ‘It’s not too late, Milly. I know it can’t be easy…’

‘It’s not. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I have to keep doing it, day after day, for who knows how long. And it’s only going to get worse. That’s the most frightening bit. Will I be able to cope? How will we manage? How will Alice?’ Her fingers tremble as she lifts her wine glass to her lips.

‘And yet she’s beautiful.’ I smile at the memory of Alice on the swing, stumbling after a butterfly, just being. ‘Inside and out, she’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, she is.’ Milly’s voice wobbles and she sets her jaw. ‘And I’m so thankful for her, in spite of everything, because of everything. Sometimes that doesn’t make sense, but it still is.’ She lets out a shaky laugh. ‘Do I sound crazy?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Wise.’ I pause, and then I ask hesitantly, ‘And Matt…?’

Milly sighs. ‘He was angry for a long time, but something like this… it purifies you. It takes away all the dross of anger, resentment, bitterness, hurt.’

‘If you let it.’

‘Yes, if you let it. And that’s the decision we have to make every day. Every second. To let something good emerge, out of the bad. Out of the unimaginable.’

I reach over to clasp her hand. ‘That’s a brave thing to do.’

‘It’s the only thing. The alternative is to let this destroy me, and I won’t.’ Her eyes gleam and she blinks rapidly. ‘I won’t. None of us will.’

A creak sounds on the stair, and I turn to see Matt looking straight at me. I am still half-expecting him to tell me to leave, even now.

‘Alice wants you to say goodnight,’ he says, and for a moment I can’t speak.

‘Me…?’

‘Yes.’ He manages a stiff nod, a small, tense smile. ‘She asked for you especially.’

And so, I tiptoe upstairs, my heart in my mouth. I find her bedroom, the same one as when she was a baby, but now it’s a little girl’s room instead of a nursery, all pink princesses and rainbow stencils.

Alice is sitting up in bed, her hair in damp ringlets, her cheeks rosy. She looks perfect.

‘I asked Daddy if you could read me a story.’ It takes me a second to understand her, but then I nod, my heart so very full.

‘I’d like that, Alice. I’d like that very much.’

She hands me a book and I settle in next to her, both of us leaning against the pillow, my arm around her shoulders. We read an abridged version of The Velveteen Rabbit, that old, beloved classic of the rabbit who is loved into being real. My throat thickens as I read about his conversation with another well-loved but now-forgotten toy: ‘“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”’ I take a deep breath, willing the tears that threaten to recede.