My Darling Girl. A Story
Mary found out shed grown up in a foster family.
She still struggled to accept it. There was nobody left to talk it over with either; her foster parents had departed this world almost hand in hand. First her dad became frail, took to his bed, and never stood again. And soon after, her mum followed.
Mary had sat by her mums bed, holding her limp, papery hand. Mum looked terribly unwell. Suddenly, Mary noticed Mum’s eyes fluttering open just a little:
Mary, love, we never had the courage to tell you. Our tongues were tied but we found you. Yes, love, we found you, in the woods, crying and lost. We waited for someone to come looking for you even went to the police. But nobody did. Heaven knows what happened. They let us adopt you in the end.
In the bureau at home, where I keep my documents, there are some papers letters. Have a look, if you want. Please forgive us, darling. Mums eyes closed again. She seemed completely spent.
Oh Mum, dont, was all Mary could manage, her voice cracking as she pressed her mothers hand to her cheek. Mum, I love you. I just want you to get better.
But the miracle didnt come. Mum quietly slipped away a few days later.
Mary rather wished shed never told her.
She didnt tell her husband or children about those final words. She almost forgot them herself, burying her mothers confession somewhere deep in her mind.
The children had adored their granny and grandad, and Mary saw no reason to trouble them all with this inconvenient truth.
But one day, on a whim she couldnt quite name, she opened the folder her mother had mentioned.
Cuttings, letters, official replies. Mary started reading and, not unlike a good cup of tea, she couldnt stop halfway. Dear, beloved parents! Theyd found her, Mary, just eighteen months old, in the woods. They themselves were already well into their forties. Childless. Then, suddenly a wailing tot reaching up to them with chubby hands.
The local bobby shrugged nobody had reported a missing girl.
Theyd adopted her. But Mum had kept up the search for her real family.
It seemed to Mary that Mum wasnt really hoping to find anyone anymore. More that she wanted to be certain no one would pop up out of the blue, laying claim to their cherished daughter.
Mary snapped the folder shut and shoved it deep onto the shelf. Who needed this awkward truth?
A week later, Mary was called to the HR office.
Ah, Mary Parsons, someone from your old job wants a word.
There, with the HR lady, sat a woman about Marys age.
Hello, Im Hope. I really need to talk to you, she said, giving the HR lady a sidelong glance. Its about the letters from Mrs. Parsons your Mum, yes?
I was told this was work-related, huffed the HR lady. Sort your personal stuff on your own time!
Hope, shall we step outside? Mary suggested tactfully, and they left under the HR ladys disapproving stare.
Im sorry, this is all a bit odd but I promised, Hope began, wringing her hands nervously.
About three years ago I bumped into my old primary school teacher, Mrs. Vera Watson, over in Ashgrove. Id been in her class as a child, before she moved away. She was so lonely old and frail. She invited me round for tea, then asked me for a favour. Said her daughter vanished years ago, just a little girl, and shed been in correspondence with your mum.
Look, Im sorry, Hope. Mum passed away and I dont deal with this sort of thing, Mary replied curtly, looking away.
I understand, Mary, I do. But the thing is, Mrs. Watson is terribly ill. Cancer, they say. Might not have long left. All she wants is to finally find her daughter, after a lifetime of searching. Shes even given me a lock of her hair for a DNA test. Can you imagine?
Mary was about to end the conversation, but something stopped her.
You said shes seriously ill?
Hope nodded.
Mary accepted the little packet of hair, agreeing to keep in touch.
A week later, they travelled together to the hospital to see Mrs. Watson.
Vera Watson squinted from her bed as they entered, bleary-eyed from illness and age.
Oh, Hope, youve come! Thank you, my dear, she murmured, smiling shyly, her gaze sliding to Mary.
Mrs. Watson, I found her, Hope said gently. This is Mary. She wanted to come herself. She handed Vera the envelope.
Whats this? I can barely read, even with my glasses, Vera whispered, her eyes searching their faces.
Its the test results, Hope explained, unfolding the letter. It says youre mother and daughter. Mary is your girl.
Veras whole face transformed, lightening with uncontained joy. Tears ran down her cheeks.
My darlings, thank you, thank you! Oh, my sweetest girl. Look at you! Alive, beautiful, just like I was when I was young. My darling girl, I always woke at night for years, certain I could hear you crying out for me.
I can never be forgiven.
Alive youre alive! Now I can be at peace.
Afterwards, Hope and Mary stepped out of the ward. Vera had slipped into a doze, utterly drained.
Thank you, Mary. You can see shes awfully poorly. Youve made her so happy, Hope said softly.
A few days later, Mrs. Watson passed away.
Mary tore up all the papers in her mothers folder. No one needed to know the awkward truth.
And really, what truth is there to know? For Mary, there was never any other mum.
And Mrs. Watson? That was simply a blessed untruth. Was it right, what she did? Mary firmly believed it was.
Anyway, in the end, each of us answers to God in our own way.
