“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist too?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, gripping a slender paintbrush. On the watercolour paper beneath her hand, a hesitant but tender branch of lilac was taking shape—its purple strokes quivering as though afraid to blur.
“I did,” smiled Natalie, stirring a pot by the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided I’d rather be a doctor. To help people.”
“And then you changed your mind?”
Natalie reached for the kettle, avoiding eye contact. She always dreaded these conversations. Too much lay beneath them—old dreams, abandoned hopes, choices she’d made with her head, not her heart.
“Yes. Life took a different turn.”
When Natalie adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d been through enough—a diagnosis of infertility, a divorce that left her hollow, and the endless advice from well-meaning friends: “Accept it,” “try again,” “just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to at first. Not out of selfishness, but fear—would she have enough strength? Enough love? Then, at the children’s home, she saw Emily—a slight girl with plaits, hunched in a corner, sketching flowers with a pencil. When Emily looked up, her eyes held such grown-up sorrow that Natalie felt it like a jab to the chest. A year later, Emily called her Mum.
Now Emily was ten. She attended the local school where Natalie taught English. Colleagues and parents admired Natalie—”the teacher who adopted that girl from care.” But Natalie didn’t want praise. All she wanted was for Emily to have a life where no one ever reminded her of the past.
“Mrs Thompson, if you’d like Emily to attend our school, we’ll need the forms completed. And copies of her documents. Including the birth certificate.” The woman in the reception of the private academy eyed her firmly but not unkindly, her glasses glinting under the light.
“Of course,” Natalie nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared it all in advance. Emily’s new surname—hers—was neatly printed on the papers, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Natalie didn’t want Emily’s past to invite questions or pity. She knew how cruel children could be—how a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple tart. Emily peeled the apples with the precision of an artist, thin coils of skin curling into the bowl. She measured the sugar carefully, as though afraid to disrupt some invisible order.
“Mum, does the new school have an art club?”
“They do. A good one. And drama. And a swimming pool.”
“What if I don’t get in?”
Natalie looked at her. Emily kept her eyes down, fingers hovering above the mixing bowl.
“You will, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The call came on Saturday morning. Natalie stepped into the garden to answer—the flat made every sound too loud. The voice on the other end was a woman’s, quiet, as though speaking through years.
“Is this Natalie? I’m… I’m Emily’s mother.”
The world shrank for a second. Natalie gripped the railing, noticing everything—a speck on her coat, a crack in the pavement, her own breath turning heavy.
“What do you want?”
“I… I’m not asking for anything. Just—just wanted to know how she is. Could I… even just see her?”
“She doesn’t remember you.” Natalie spoke harsher than she felt. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
Back inside, Natalie didn’t notice at first that Emily stood by the stairs. Silent, but her eyes were watchful, like a kitten hearing an unfamiliar sound.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Natalie lied, the words sticking in her throat. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
Days later, Natalie was called to the school. Emily had hit a classmate—completely unlike her. Natalie sat in the staff room opposite the teacher while Emily waited outside.
“She struck a boy,” the teacher adjusted her glasses. “Said he insulted her.”
“How?” Natalie’s grip tightened on her bag.
“Emily can explain. But Mrs Thompson… you know how children repeat things they hear at home.”
Emily sat on a chair in the corridor, staring at the floor. When Natalie approached, she looked up and whispered:
“He said I don’t have a real family. That I’m not ‘his kind.’ And… that you’re not my mum.”
“Who told him that?”
“I don’t know. But he knew.”
That night, Natalie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling for the first time that her lie was like a hairline crack in glass—barely visible, but one strong gust from shattering. She remembered Emily first calling her Mum, teaching her to ride a bike, the nights she’d cried before settling into their home. Natalie had wanted to shield her from pain, but the truth, it seemed, was stronger.
The next day, the woman—Louise—called again. She asked to meet. Natalie hesitated, but something—exhaustion from lying, maybe instinct—made her agree.
“Come. No scenes. And don’t speak to Emily.”
They met in the park, under an old row of lindens. Louise was younger than Natalie expected—early thirties, tired eyes, shoulders slumped. Her fingers kept twisting the edge of her scarf.
“I know I’ve no right… but back then, I was alone. Scared. No one told me there was another way. I spent three years in rehab. I’ve changed. I work, I don’t drink, I’ve got a flat. But… I dream of her. Often. I just thought… maybe once, from a distance…”
“And then what? Say, ‘Hi, I left you, but now I want cuddles’?” The words came out sharper than Natalie meant.
“No. Just to see. That’s all.”
Natalie studied her—not an enemy, just another woman carrying her own past. Then, surprising herself:
“Tomorrow. At four. On the bench near the school. I’ll walk past with her. Don’t approach. Just… look.”
Louise nodded like a chastened child, and Natalie felt an unexpected pang of pity.
On their way home, Emily suddenly stopped.
“Mum… did I have another mum? A real one?”
Natalie froze, then guided her to a bench by the gate.
“Love… I never meant to lie. I just thought you were too young.”
“I’m not angry. But kids say things. I want to know what’s true.”
“Shall I tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
They sat there a long time. Natalie explained—no blame, no drama. She spoke of how Emily came into her life, how her birth mother couldn’t care for her then but might regret it now. Emily twisted the hem of her coat.
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. She’s trying.”
“Can I meet her?”
Natalie squeezed her hand, warm in hers.
“If you want to.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Louise stood by the school like someone waiting for a bus. Emily walked beside Natalie, watching intently, then suddenly let go and approached the bench.
Natalie’s feet rooted to the spot.
Emily looked up at Louise.
“My name’s Emily. I paint lilacs. I like apple tart. And my mum… she’s right there. You can look. But not for long.”
Then she walked back.
Louise sat shaking. Natalie joined her, silent, then said:
“She’s smarter than both of us.”
Louise wiped her eyes.
“Everything for Emily. Only for her.”
And left without looking back.
At home, Emily painted a new lilac, her brushstrokes steadier, the purple smooth.
“Mum… you’re not cross?”
“About what?”
“That I talked to her.”
“No. I’m proud of you.”
Emily nodded, still focused on her painting.
“Can we make tart later?”
Natalie smiled, warmth spreading through her.
“Of course, love. Of course.”
