awkwardness. I tried to find the words to put together an intelligent question, then failed, and my bewilderment and hurt came out as a hopeless sigh.
‘Mum, what the hell?’
She nursed her tea and stared at me.
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘How about at the beginning? There is so much I don’t understand. Can you just tell me the whole story? Tell me more about the problems you had having kids of your own?’
‘You are my own,’ Mum said, and her gaze flashed with a fierceness that startled me a little. I cleared my throat impatiently.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I didn’t give birth to you. But I was there for you from then on, from the beginning right up until now. And you are my daughter.’
‘Okay. I get it.’ I sat the tea down on a coaster on the rattan coffee table and rubbed my forehead, then offered her a helpless shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t even know what words to use here.’
‘Dad and I tried for years to have a baby. We just couldn’t. When we were first married I seemed to fall pregnant easily enough, but the pregnancies never lasted.’ Mum nursed her tea in both hands, up close to her face as if she needed the warmth. ‘After a while, we stopped falling pregnant at all, but there was nothing available to us like IVF, not back then . . . it was still years away. We saw a bunch of different doctors and they tried a lot of different things but . . .’ she sighed and shook her head. ‘It just never happened for us.’
I heard the front door open and close, and Dad called out,
‘Sabina?’
He would have seen my hatch in the drive, and I could hear urgency and desperation in the way he called my name.
‘In the sitting room, Dad,’ I called back, and I listened to his heavy footsteps as he rushed through the house towards us. I rose and reached onto my tippy-toes to brush a kiss onto his cheek.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said, then surprised me by adding a slightly-too-tight bear hug to our usual polite kiss.
‘You too, Dad.’
‘You’re having a chat, then?’ He released me, and I saw the warning in his gaze as he looked to Mum. She shook her head, just a little, and I frowned.
‘I came to chat to you guys about . . .’ There was another strange pause while I figured out if saying the word adoption was going to be like dropping an awkward-bomb into the conversation, ‘. . . things.’ I said eventually. ‘Can you sit and talk with us, Dad?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and he sat right beside me and leant back, as if he was open to my questioning. ‘What can we tell you? Where were you up to?’
‘Mum was just explaining to me about the issues you had with pregnancies. So, I take it you decided to adopt?’ This question was almost rhetorical, but neither one of my parents seemed to know how to answer it. The pause stretched until it was uncomfortable and I prompted, ‘Mum? Dad? Obviously you decided to adopt?’
‘Yes,’ Dad said suddenly. ‘We tried for a long time, then decided to adopt.’
‘And this maternity home? How did you end up there, Mum?’
‘We wanted a change. I think you’d call it a tree change these days; we just packed up and we moved to Orange for a fresh start. But the job at the maternity home just wasn’t what we’d thought it would be, and . . . well, I hadn’t dealt with our own fertility issues properly, so it was a very bad situation for me to be in. I didn’t last long there.’
I pictured the building I’d seen online, and now when I formed the mental image, the scared young woman who looked like me, was also somehow half my Mum too.
‘So, what was it like?’
‘It was the worst experience of my life,’ Mum whispered, then cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and proud. ‘Sabina, I really don’t like talking about that time. I was only there for a few months. Even now I don’t really like to revisit the memories.’
‘Okay,’ I said. That seemed reasonable. And
‘Mum, what the hell?’
She nursed her tea and stared at me.
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘How about at the beginning? There is so much I don’t understand. Can you just tell me the whole story? Tell me more about the problems you had having kids of your own?’
‘You are my own,’ Mum said, and her gaze flashed with a fierceness that startled me a little. I cleared my throat impatiently.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I didn’t give birth to you. But I was there for you from then on, from the beginning right up until now. And you are my daughter.’
‘Okay. I get it.’ I sat the tea down on a coaster on the rattan coffee table and rubbed my forehead, then offered her a helpless shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t even know what words to use here.’
‘Dad and I tried for years to have a baby. We just couldn’t. When we were first married I seemed to fall pregnant easily enough, but the pregnancies never lasted.’ Mum nursed her tea in both hands, up close to her face as if she needed the warmth. ‘After a while, we stopped falling pregnant at all, but there was nothing available to us like IVF, not back then . . . it was still years away. We saw a bunch of different doctors and they tried a lot of different things but . . .’ she sighed and shook her head. ‘It just never happened for us.’
I heard the front door open and close, and Dad called out,
‘Sabina?’
He would have seen my hatch in the drive, and I could hear urgency and desperation in the way he called my name.
‘In the sitting room, Dad,’ I called back, and I listened to his heavy footsteps as he rushed through the house towards us. I rose and reached onto my tippy-toes to brush a kiss onto his cheek.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said, then surprised me by adding a slightly-too-tight bear hug to our usual polite kiss.
‘You too, Dad.’
‘You’re having a chat, then?’ He released me, and I saw the warning in his gaze as he looked to Mum. She shook her head, just a little, and I frowned.
‘I came to chat to you guys about . . .’ There was another strange pause while I figured out if saying the word adoption was going to be like dropping an awkward-bomb into the conversation, ‘. . . things.’ I said eventually. ‘Can you sit and talk with us, Dad?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and he sat right beside me and leant back, as if he was open to my questioning. ‘What can we tell you? Where were you up to?’
‘Mum was just explaining to me about the issues you had with pregnancies. So, I take it you decided to adopt?’ This question was almost rhetorical, but neither one of my parents seemed to know how to answer it. The pause stretched until it was uncomfortable and I prompted, ‘Mum? Dad? Obviously you decided to adopt?’
‘Yes,’ Dad said suddenly. ‘We tried for a long time, then decided to adopt.’
‘And this maternity home? How did you end up there, Mum?’
‘We wanted a change. I think you’d call it a tree change these days; we just packed up and we moved to Orange for a fresh start. But the job at the maternity home just wasn’t what we’d thought it would be, and . . . well, I hadn’t dealt with our own fertility issues properly, so it was a very bad situation for me to be in. I didn’t last long there.’
I pictured the building I’d seen online, and now when I formed the mental image, the scared young woman who looked like me, was also somehow half my Mum too.
‘So, what was it like?’
‘It was the worst experience of my life,’ Mum whispered, then cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and proud. ‘Sabina, I really don’t like talking about that time. I was only there for a few months. Even now I don’t really like to revisit the memories.’
‘Okay,’ I said. That seemed reasonable. And
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