The Offering by Angela Hunt Page B

that’s where the gift originated.”
    â€œProbably.” I tilted my head and added, “To be honest, I’m not sure where my daughter’s talent comes from, but her teachers at the Takahashi school say it’s extraordinary. The money from this program—if I’m accepted—will help us pay for her tuition in the years ahead.”
    Natasha flipped another page. “You passed your initial medical screening with flying colors, and I really enjoyed our home visit. Your daughter is lovely and your husband is quite charming.” She folded her hands on the desk and smiled. “As long as thepsychologist didn’t spot any problems in the screening interview, you should be on your way.”
    I pressed my damp palms together, hoping Natasha wouldn’t notice my trembling fingers. I’d never been more thrilled, but what if the shrink found faults that wouldn’t be acceptable in a gestational carrier? Maybe Natasha would learn that I consistently run late for appointments. Or that I have a tendency to wallow in guilt when I make a mistake. Or that my husband spoils me far more than he should.
    Maybe the psychologist had added up all my shortcomings and declared that I wasn’t suited for motherhood of any kind, even the traditional variety.
    Natasha arranged her papers in a neat pile, closed the folder, and looked over at me. “Did you bring the marriage satisfaction questionnaire? And the personality tests?”
    â€œI have them in my purse.” I pulled an oversized envelope from my bag and handed it across the desk. “Was there anything else? I’ve been so scatterbrained lately and with all the Christmas parties—”
    â€œI have nothing else.” Natasha put the envelope in the folder, then pushed the folder aside and picked up her pen, her eyes glinting. “I’ll look those pages over later, but now I want to know what you will enjoy most about being a gestational carrier.”
    I crossed and uncrossed my legs as I searched for an honest but commendable answer. “What will I enjoy? Helping someone. I really mean that. At college I majored in psychology because I’ve wanted to be a social worker ever since middle school.”
    Natasha clicked her pen. “Not the typical choice for a middle school girl. Did something specific lead you to social work?”
    â€œI saw a movie— Radio Flyer, I think it was called—about a boy who’d been abused by his stepfather. I wanted to help that kid in the movie so much I found myself wishing I could jump through the screen. Maybe that’s crazy, but that’s when I learned that social workers help kids like that boy. People have always been important to me.”
    â€œDid you identify with the child in the movie?”
    Recognizing the motive behind the question, I shook my head. “I wasn’t ever abused. My dad died when I was six, so after that it was just me and Mom. We didn’t always get along—in fact, we’re not close even now—but I can’t say I was ever abused. I was probably a little spoiled because my daddy would have given me the moon if I’d asked for it. I loved him more than anything, and when I lost him . . . well, it wasn’t easy.”
    â€œIf spoiling a child results in the kind of altruism you’re displaying, maybe the world needs to rethink its child-rearing philosophies.” Natasha smiled and wrote something on her notepad. “What do you remember most about your dad?”
    â€œMost? I have so many memories, it’s hard to pick just one. He sold insurance and worked out of an office in the house, so he was always around when I was little—in fact, I think he changed more of my diapers than Mom did, because she worked at a pet shop in town. He taught me how to count, he read me stories, he would sing silly songs to make me laugh—” I sighed as a flood of nostalgia swept over