“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist too?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, clutching a thin paintbrush. On the watercolour sheet beneath her hand, a hesitant but tender sprig of lavender took shape—pale purple strokes trembling as if afraid to smudge.
“I did,” smiled Natalie, standing by the stove. “But I was nine, and I decided becoming a doctor would be better. To save people.”
“And then you changed your mind?”
Natalie reached for the kettle, avoiding her daughter’s gaze. These conversations always unsettled her. Too much lay hidden beneath them—old dreams, abandoned hopes, choices made not with the heart but with reason.
“Yes. Life took a different turn.”
When Natalie adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d endured so much—the infertility diagnosis, the divorce that left her hollow, and the endless advice from well-meaning friends: “Accept it,” “Try again,” “Just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to. Not out of selfishness, but fear—would she have enough strength? Enough love? Then, one day at the children’s home, she saw Emily—a slight girl with braids, crouched in a corner sketching daisies with a stubby pencil. Emily had looked up with eyes full of an ache far older than her years, and Natalie felt something shatter inside her. A year later, Emily called her “Mum.”
Now Emily was ten. She attended the same state school where Natalie taught literature. Colleagues and parents respected Natalie—”that teacher who adopted the girl from care”—but praise wasn’t what she sought. All she wanted was to give Emily a life untouched by the past.
“Mrs. Whitmore, if you want Emily enrolled in our academy, you’ll need to complete these forms. And provide copies of her birth certificate.” The woman in the admissions office adjusted her glasses, her tone firm but not unkind. The overhead lights glinted off the frames.
“Of course,” Natalie nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared it all in advance. Emily’s new surname—her surname—was neatly printed on the documents, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Natalie refused to let Emily’s past become fodder for whispers or pity. She knew how cruel children could be. How a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple pie. Emily peeled the apples with an artist’s precision, thin coils of skin coiling into the bowl, sugar sprinkled carefully as if afraid to disrupt some unseen order.
“Mum, does the new school have art classes?”
“Yes. A brilliant programme. And drama. Even a swimming pool.”
“What if they don’t take me?”
Natalie looked at her. Emily kept her eyes down, but her fingers froze above the mixing bowl.
“They will, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The call came on Saturday morning. Natalie stepped into the garden to answer—inside, the walls seemed to press in on the sound. The voice on the line was a woman’s, strained, as if speaking through years of regret.
“Is this Natalie? I’m… I’m Emily’s birth mother.”
The world narrowed to a single breath. Natalie gripped the porch railing. She noticed everything—a speck of dust on her coat, a crack in the paving, her own heartbeat loud in her ears.
“What do you want?”
“I’m not asking for anything. I just… needed to know how she is. Could I—just see her? Even from a distance?”
“She doesn’t remember you,” Natalie said, harsher than she meant to. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
The line went dead.
When Natalie stepped back inside, Emily was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Silent, but her eyes were sharp, like a kitten sensing danger.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Natalie lied, the words like gravel in her throat. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
Days later, the school summoned her. Emily had hit a classmate—utterly unlike her. Natalie sat in the staff room opposite the teacher while Emily waited outside.
“She struck a boy,” the teacher said, adjusting her glasses. “Claims he insulted her.”
“How?” Natalie’s grip tightened on her bag.
“Emily will tell you. But Mrs. Whitmore… children often repeat things they hear at home.”
Emily sat on the hallway bench, staring at the floor. When Natalie approached, the girl lifted her head and whispered:
“He said I don’t have a real family. That I’m not ‘his sort.’ 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. For the first time, her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—invisible until pressure made it splinter. She remembered Emily’s first “Mum,” their wobbly bicycle lessons, the nights Emily had cried until she learned this was home. Natalie had wanted to shield her. But the truth had claws.
The next day, the woman called again. Her name was Claire. She begged to meet. Natalie hesitated, then—whether from exhaustion or instinct—agreed.
“Fine. But no scenes. And Emily doesn’t know.”
They met in the park, under the old lime trees. Claire was younger than Natalie expected—early thirties, shoulders slumped, fingers fretting at her scarf.
“I know I’ve no right… Back then, I was alone. Terrified. No one told me there were other choices. I spent three years in rehab. I’ve changed. I work now. I’m clean. But… I dream of her. And I thought, maybe just once—from far away—I could see her.”
“And then what? Say ‘hello, I abandoned you, but now I’d like a hug’?” The bitterness surprised Natalie.
“No. Just… see her. That’s all.”
Natalie studied her. Not an enemy—just another woman carrying the weight of the past. Without quite knowing why, she said:
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. On the bench near the school. I’ll walk past with her. Don’t approach. Don’t speak. Just… look.”
Claire nodded, childlike in her gratitude, and Natalie felt pity twist inside her.
On the way home, Emily stopped dead.
“Mum… did I have another mum? A real one?”
Natalie’s pulse spiked, but she forced herself to sit on the garden wall.
“Love… I didn’t want to lie. I thought you were too young to understand.”
“I’m not angry. But I need to know. Because kids say things, and I don’t know if they’re true.”
“Shall I tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
They sat there a long time. Natalie spoke plainly—no blame, no dramatics. She explained how Emily came to her, how her birth mother couldn’t care for her but might regret it now. Emily listened, fiddling with her coat zip. Finally, she asked:
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. But I think she’s trying.”
“Can I see her?”
Natalie squeezed her daughter’s hand, warm against her own.
“If that’s what you want.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Claire stood by the school gates like any waiting parent. Emily, holding Natalie’s hand, studied her quietly—then suddenly let go and walked over.
Natalie’s breath caught. She wanted to shout, to stop her, but her legs wouldn’t move.
Emily faced Claire and said:
“I’m Emily. I paint lavender. I like apple pie. And my mum’s right there. You can look. But not for long.”
Then she turned and walked back.
Claire remained on the bench, shoulders shaking. Natalie sat beside her, silent. Then:
“She’s wiser than both of us.”
Claire nodded through tears.
“Everything for Emily. Only for her.”
Then she left without looking back.
At home, Emily painted a new lavender sprig, her strokes surer now, the purple steady.
“Mum… you’re not upset about today?”
“Why would I be?”
“That I talked to her.”
“No. I’m proud of you.”
Emily nodded, then—without glancing up—asked:
“Can we bake a pie?”
Natalie smiled, warmth flooding her chest.
“Absolutely, love. Absolutely.”
