Taken: Part 3 of 3

I remember everything about the day it happened. The way the wispy white clouds moved across the sky above the glass roof of our conservatory, the accompanying breeze caressing the dark-green leaves of the apple tree in our garden so that the fruit-laden branches swayed low, kissing the silver-white bark of the trunk. I remember hearing Emily, Jamie and Megan’s voices blending together as they moved around not far from where I sat at the computer desk, the occasional shriek when one of them made Megan laugh.

The date was 29 August 2013 and it was just five days after the letter had arrived from the adoption team confirming that we were to be assessed as adopters.

Afterwards I cursed myself for checking my emails, wishing I had delayed the moment for just a little while longer, savouring the glorious, happy ordinariness of the day. Earlier we had driven across town to visit my brother Chris, stopping off at a farm on the way home to pick some strawberries. Megan had gorged herself as she pottered, basket over her arm, and the sweet smell of the fruit lingered on her skin long after I had washed her hands.

Leaving her to wash the fruit in a bowl on her small table, I had switched the computer on with the intention of printing out some pictures from the CBeebies website for her to colour. As often happens, I got sidetracked, and ended up logging onto my emails instead. Among the adverts and reminders, one of them stood out.

It was from the adoption team.

Dear Rosie

On further examination of Megan’s file, it has come to our attention that her birth mother has had contact in your home, a fact the adoption team has only recently become aware of. Unfortunately, after careful consideration and a full risk assessment, we feel that Megan’s interests would be best served by placing her with an existing adoptive family in a secure location, somewhere she cannot possibly be traced.

I understand this may come as disappointing news to you and your family, but, as I’m sure you will appreciate, Megan’s best interests and personal safety are paramount. We feel you have many attributes that would make you an excellent adoptive parent and welcome the opportunity to assess you on behalf of another child.

Please feel free to contact me if you feel there is anything you would like me to clarify.

Best

Veronica

It was only when I touched my hands to my face that I realised I was crying. At the sound of footsteps, I quickly clicked the mouse to minimise the screen and pushed the keyboard away from me. ‘What’s wrong?’ Emily asked, coming up behind the swivel chair.

‘Nothing,’ I said, with a quick sniff. I couldn’t face telling her right at that moment. I didn’t know how to break it to her, for a start, and part of me wanted to deal with my own feelings before I shared the news with anyone else. There was no way I could put a positive spin on Megan leaving, feeling the way I did.

‘M-u-m,’ Emily said chidingly. ‘I’m not a little girl any more. And I’m not as dumb as you think.’

I gave my eyes a brisk rub. ‘Of course you’re not dumb,’ I said, angling myself away and pretending to tidy up the pens on the desktop while I tried to organise my face into a smile. ‘I know you’re not dumb.’ I took a breath and grabbed the mouse, pulling the email back onto the screen. I turned to look at her. ‘It’s not very good news I’m afraid, sweetheart.’

‘That’s so unfair!’ Emily said feelingly, as she read the message over my shoulder. ‘They can’t do that, can they?’

‘She’s not ours, love,’ I said softly, wheeling the chair back and standing up. I slipped my arm around her midriff. I could feel her trembling with emotion. ‘We let ourselves forget it, but Megan doesn’t belong to us.’

Later that day, as we walked up the path to my mum’s house, the edge of the curtain in her front room fluttered. She was expecting us. ‘Here they come!’ I heard Mum call out from inside, even though she lived alone.

Megan charged ahead. ‘Nanny!’ she cried.

There is something so comforting about my mother’s house. Nothing ever seemed to change, from the clematis climbing up and over her door, to the peppermint smell of home cooking rising to greet us as soon as we walked into the hall. ‘Hello, my little treasure,’ Mum said, swooping Megan into her arms and kissing Emily and Jamie on the top of their heads. ‘Well, would you look at those long faces,’ she said as she ushered us in.

After talking to Emily and breaking the news to Jamie, I had called Mum to tell her about the email, but she was an expert at remaining cheerful, whatever was going on around her. ‘All right, love?’ she threw over her shoulder as she took Megan off into her front room.

‘Right, I’ve got jam doughnuts just out of the fryer, or there’s a bit of carrot cake left in the fridge. What do you fancy?’ The sight of her soft, slightly translucent skin was always a comfort, the creases at the corner of her eyes that deepened when she laughed, the slightly reddened dent between her brows where her glasses tended to rub.

‘Cake!’ Megan shouted, lifting her top to reveal her tummy. She patted it with flat hands. ‘Want cake!’

‘Come on then!’ Mum cried, holding out her hand. ‘You’d better come with me into the kitchen. What about the rest of you?’ she called out along the hall.

‘Nothing for me thanks, Nan,’ Emily said quietly.

‘Me neither,’ Jamie murmured. United in their gloom, they flopped down side by side on Mum’s sofa. Emily stared into space. Jamie leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, chin rested in his hands.

My mum shuffled backwards into the room, losing her slippers in the process. ‘Well, how about one of those lollies you like, the ones I get from Sainsbury’s?’

‘Not right now, Nan.’ Jamie answered. Emily shook her head.

‘Sod you then,’ she said, sliding her feet back into her slippers. Jamie grinned. ‘I’ll make up some squash and they can make do with that,’ she added as I followed her along her small hall. Framed photos of family members lined the walls, Megan taking her place among them. In the kitchen, the toddler was standing in front of the cupboards, waiting patiently. ‘Mr Kipling do you, will it?’ Mum asked, bending with a groan and pulling a packet of cakes from the cupboard.

Megan’s face lit up. Remembering to say thank you without a reminder, she grabbed one, and then ran back into the front room. ‘Sit down with it!’ Mum called out over the rattle of crockery. She flicked the switch on the kettle then, standing on tiptoe, pulled two cups and saucers out of her top cupboard, lining them neatly on the worktop. They were from the same tea set she had used for decades, the rosebuds around the outside rim faded to a barely there pink. ‘Right, now, I’ve been looking into it,’ Mum said hurriedly, as soon as we heard voices starting up from the other room. ‘And you’ve got rights.’

I leaned back against her small fridge. ‘I know, Mum, but where am I going to find the money for a solicitor?’

She slid a glass door aside in one of the small cupboards nearby and removed a china teapot. ‘I’ve still got that ISA I’ve been saving for a rainy day.’ Above the hiss of the kettle, her voice caught. ‘And it’s definitely raining now.’ She tutted, shook her head and poured some boiling water into the pot. After swilling it around and emptying the vestiges over the sink, she scooped up some tea leaves and scattered them over the bottom of the pot.

‘Mum, that’s lovely of you.’ I think every member of our family had been offered her ISA at one time or another. I was amazed she still had anything left in it. ‘But I think maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s not fair to keep her.’

‘Balls to being fair,’ Mum snapped. She hardly ever swore, but when she did, it shocked us to the core. ‘Life’s not fair,’ she added, ignoring my dropped jaw. But her mouth had fallen slack and her eyelids drooped. I had told her what Veronica had said about security, and the risks associated with Megan’s birth family knowing her whereabouts. Mum knew, once that idea was put into my mind, that I wouldn’t be able to square my conscience if I continued with my application.

A minute or two later, Mum pressed a cup of steaming tea into my chest, her answer to all the world’s problems. ‘I wish I could do something to help,’ she said with a sigh.

‘Being here helps,’ I said with a wan smile. And it was true. She couldn’t change anything or make it better, but somehow, simply being close to her and knowing she cared, made everything that little bit more bearable.

At the irregular pad of heavy footsteps from the other room, we both turned around. Megan was running down the hall towards us, chocolate crumbs clinging to her chin. I handed my cup to Mum and crouched down on the floor, hands stretched out. Megan ran forwards and planted herself firmly onto my lap, wriggling until her back rested against my chest. ‘No look sad, Mama,’ she said, reaching out and forcing my lips into a smile.

That evening I sat alone in the garden while Emily and Jamie caught up on some back episodes of the TV show Spooks. From my wicker chair I watched as a light wind picked up tiny flakes of blossom and scattered them over the path. They glistened under the light from the moon.

Torn by my love for Megan and a compulsion to do the right thing, my thoughts spiralled and churned, first one way, then the other. I wondered whether to contact the adoption team again and tell them that I would give notice to my landlord and search for a new house immediately, but I knew they were likely to object. Even I could see that it wasn’t fair to expect Megan to wait around for that to happen. Another part of me wondered how it could possibly be fair to wrench her away from all that was familiar: a secure home, her network of little friends and a loving, caring family. It seemed so cruel.

On the other hand, I suddenly thought with a touch of horror, perhaps I was guilty of not separating my own needs from Megan’s. Was it my own feelings I was thinking about, more than hers? There was every chance that she’d be happier with a mother and a father’s love. And anyway, I had finally been given a valid reason why Megan shouldn’t stay with us, one that made sense – her safety was a priority and there was no way around that.

I loved her, but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t grow to love her just as much. Emily and Jamie had always seemed happy living with just one parent, but they saw their dad regularly, and their lives were undoubtedly all the richer for it. If Megan stayed with us, I would be denying her the opportunity to be loved by two parents. Should I fight for the chance to keep her, or let her go? It was a near impossible decision to make.

By the end of the evening, with a heavy heart, I decided that it was my duty to stand aside and give her that chance.

Chapter Thirty-One (#u11f8b12b-74e9-58b6-b43d-46c5dd7d6d68)

Once I withdrew my application, things began to move very quickly. With Francis and Mirella Howard’s adoption panel date scheduled for mid-September, Hazel had arranged a one-hour contact session for Christina, Megan’s birth mother, at the beginning of the same month – an opportunity for her to say goodbye. Contact sessions usually lasted somewhere between 90 minutes and three hours, but since emotions inevitably ran high for the parting families, social workers aimed to avoid prolonging the agony of the final contact by keeping it brief.

Hazel had also organised a meeting between Megan and her birth father, Greg, which would take place straight afterwards. Greg had flown into the country a couple of days earlier, seizing his one final chance to meet Megan and wish her well. Hazel told me that she intended to supervise his contact so that she could take some photos for Megan’s life-story book.

Prone to over-identifying with other people, I woke that morning with a churning stomach and a lump in my throat. I could hardly imagine how Christina must be feeling. Her life was complicated and her problems had impacted negatively on Megan, but I didn’t think she was a bad person. Whatever the circumstances (with the exception of sexual abusers – I struggled to find a shred of sympathy in my heart for them), the permanent separation of a mother and her child was profoundly sad, and my heart went out to both of them on that day.

Not that Megan was aware of what was about to happen, or at least, so it seemed. Whenever I got her ready for a session with Christina I told her she was going for contact, and for the last few months she had begun to refer to their time together as ‘hay house’, in honour of the little playhouse she loved in the family centre garden. At just over two years old, her understanding was limited and I was never sure whether she had any idea of who Christina actually was. During the sessions she referred to her mother as ‘lady’, though I had been told by the contact supervisors that Christina sternly corrected her, saying repeatedly, ‘I’m your mummy, not Rosie. OK, yeah?’ I could understand her frustration at being sidelined, but once Megan’s adoption became inevitable, it seemed futile, unfair even, to press the point.

On the day of contact Megan woke soon after 7 a.m., belting out the theme tune of Balamory. When I went to her bedroom she greeted me with her usual beaming smile, holding her arms out over the bar of her cot. My mind fast-forwarded to the moment of our own parting as she sat on my lap with her morning milk, but I wasn’t going to allow my thoughts there, not before I had to. I held her extra close, pushing everything else firmly aside.

She was excited to wear the new dress I’d bought for the occasion – parents usually liked to take keepsake photos during the session, and I wanted Megan to look nice for her mum. After she was dressed she sat beside me on the sofa and I showed her the photograph album I had filled last night as a keepsake for Christina. Starting with pictures I had taken of her as a newborn baby in the special care baby unit and then continuing on through all her milestones; her first Christmas was included, our trips to the seaside, her birthday parties.

Megan’s short fingers scrabbled with the pages, her breath ragged with intrigue. She loved seeing photos of herself, particularly those from when she was tiny. ‘Baby Meggie,’ she said, touching the pages, and then, patting her own chest: ‘Big girl Megan.’ I laughed, squeezing her into a hug.