I nod again.
‘Well you don’t need to be, we’re all very friendly here. We just need your basic contact details, it’s nothing intrusive.’
As I begin writing, I’m tempted to give them my work address as I don’t want anything mailed to the house before I get the chance to tell Mum what I’m doing. And I also want to be sure in my own mind that this is the right thing for me. I spot a compromise and tick the box that says I’d rather be contacted by email than by post.
I’d seen the poster for the open evening pinned to the noticeboards in the library for weeks. Every now and again it caught my eye, and I’d imagine how it might feel to be the parent of the desperate little girl pictured on it. The more I looked at her, the more I thought of Dylan. And the more I realised that just because my faulty body had ruined my chances of becoming a biological mother, it didn’t mean I couldn’t raise someone else’s child. I’ve lost a lot, but not my maternal instinct.
Sometimes my desire to be a mum becomes all-consuming and I crave the need for a child’s love above all else. I want to shape them, guide them into adulthood, help them to not make the same mistakes that I did. Even when they’re grown and have flown the nest, I want to believe they are out there thinking fondly of me and grateful that I chose them. Parents and boyfriends can walk away, but a child stays in your heart forever. Take Dylan. Sheismy heart.
I complete the form as Briony reassures me I’m not alone and that there are plenty of other prospective single parents like me here tonight. She leads me to a drinks station and invites me to help myself as she explains what fostering and adoption entails. My eyes wander to some of the others in the room. All ages and ethnicities are represented here; most are couples but there are a handful of us singletons. I wonder what their circumstances are. Perhaps they have bodies like mine that kill babies.
‘I’ll leave you with this,’ Briony says, and hands me an information pack. ‘It’ll give you an idea of what to expect from the interview process and the stages ahead should you wish to move forward. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’ll pop your name down on the list to have a chat with two of our adopters. Don’t worry, it’s an informal conversation and they’ll answer any of your questions. It’s about a ten-minute wait, is that all right?’
‘Yes, that’s great,’ I say. I pour myself a cup of tea and she leaves me alone to flick through the info. When she eventually returns, she has a young couple in tow. She introduces me to Jayne and Dom and I follow them to a seated area. They adopted twin sisters three years ago, Briony explains, and encourages them to recall their experiences.
‘I’m not going to sugar-coat it and say it’s been easy,’ admits Jayne. ‘When we decided we wanted to give them a home, they were aged four and had a lot of behavioural difficulties.’
‘Like what?’
‘They’d been left to run wild by their biological parents. There was neglect, a lack of rules and boundaries, no schooling, they ate junk food, they didn’t go outside and play and they couldn’t read or write. We’ve spent the last three years helping them to catch up with other kids their age.’
‘And how’s it going?’
‘We are getting there,’ says Dom with pride in his eyes. ‘They’re about a year behind where they should be development-wise, and while it’s been a tough slog, it’s also been incredibly rewarding.’
‘You must need a lot of patience,’ I say, quietly questioning whether I could ever be as good as them.
‘Yes, patience is important, but above all, they needed love,’ Dom continues. ‘That’s all these kids need, to know they are safe and secure with you and that you aren’t going to abandon them.’
I can do that, I think, because I know how it feels. We chat for longer, and then I meet another adoptive couple and finally a social worker. And before I know it, it’s past 10 p.m. and the night is drawing to a close.
‘How are you feeling then?’ asks Briony with a smile as I slip my jacket back on. ‘Have we put you off or are you still interested?’
‘I’m definitely still interested,’ I say, and I mean it. Dylan aside, I don’t think I have ever wanted anything more.
‘Is it just adoption, or would you consider fostering?’
I shake my head. I could never throw all my love at a child only to have it taken away from me a week, a month or even years later. I’ve experienced too much loss to voluntarily offer myself up for more. ‘Adoption appeals to me the most,’ I reply firmly. ‘So what do I need to do now?’
‘Well, I have your contact details, so we’ll email you later this week and we can start the process. There will be more forms to fill in, criminal record checks, references, interviews, psychological evaluations, home visits, courses to attend ... It’s a long journey and there are no guarantees. It can take months to go through all the processes and then it might be years before we match you with a child that is right for you.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I reply. ‘I have all the time in the world.’
As I leave and make my way to the bus stop, I’m buoyed by an enthusiasm I can’t ever remember feeling before. I might just have found my calling. I have a feeling I’m going to be a mother after all.
CHAPTER 35
NINA
TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER
A social worker by the name of Claire Mawdsley sits opposite me in my lounge. A frayed tan-coloured handbag crammed with folders lies by her feet and paperwork is open upon her lap.
At her request, I have already taken her on a tour of the house and garden. When she made a note of the shaky bannister, I felt compelled to point out that I’d booked a handyman to repair it. I haven’t, but I’m going straight on Google to search for one the moment she leaves. She also noted the lack of guard in front of the open fire and the sharp corners of the wooden coffee table. I assured her they will be easy to childproof.
Nothing escaped her trained eye. ‘That’s not poison ivy, is it?’ she asked, pointing to green leaves climbing up the shed at the bottom of the garden.
‘Oh no,’ I say, but in truth, it could be. I’ll dig it out this afternoon, just to be sure. When I noticed her shadow looming over the flower bed, for a moment I wanted to apologise to Dylan and tell her that I wasn’t trying to replace her. But I couldn’t, because that’s exactly what a part of me wants to do.
