As Claire searches for the next form to fill in, I think of the horror stories I’ve read online from some prospective parents whose social workers have judged their houses unfit for a child. Some have been forced to move before being granted permission to adopt. While I don’t plan to live here forever, I hope our home passes, as I can’t afford to go it alone just yet.
I watch quietly as she starts writing, and I place her in her early forties. Deep horizontal lines are etched into her forehead and her hair is wiry and greying, leading me to assume she’s seen a thing or two in her job that’s prematurely aged her.
‘If you continue with this process, there will likely be five visits from us in all,’ she says. ‘The rest of today will be made up of me asking questions about who you are, what your reasons behind wanting to adopt are, your strengths and weaknesses, etcetera.’
We discuss my relationship with my parents and I explain I’ve had no contact with my dad since he left us. She asks me how I feel about it and I tell her that I’m no longer concerned about why he did it or where he went, because he has missed out on more than I have. It’s a lie, of course. Aside from that wilderness year after Dylan’s birth and death, I don’t think a day has passed when I haven’t wondered how different my life might’ve been were he still a part of it. I miss him every bit as much now as I did then.
I really want Claire to like me, but I know that lying about Dad isn’t going to be the only untruth I’ll offer in this process.
‘Can you tell me a little about your past relationships?’ she asks.
‘What would you like to know?’
In truth, there is very little to say. I got pregnant at fourteen by a man I loved who was almost a decade older than me; my botched body killed our baby months later and I never saw her dad again because he went to prison for murder. If I mention any of that, we won’t be able to move in this room for red flags.
‘Have you been in many long-term relationships?’
‘I’ve had three.’
‘How long did they last and why did they end?’
I think on my feet, as I was not expecting to be asked details. ‘My first, Jon, was when I was a teenager and we were together until my early twenties,’ I begin. ‘We met at school, then after we finished our A-levels, we lived together for a while in a flat in town ...’
I find my voice trailing off as I picture a basement flat in a townhouse opposite a large green open space. I see Jon and me inside it, going about our daily lives, me reading a book as music floats through the air when he plucks at his guitar strings. The image feels so authentic that I wonder if it’s actually a long-forgotten memory.It can’t be, I decide, and I return to Claire’s question. I clear my throat. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I have a lot of happy recollections from that time. Anyway, Jon was a musician so he was away from home a lot, and we gradually drifted apart.’
‘And the others?’
Instead of telling the truth, I create imaginary lives for two of my fantasy exes. ‘My second long-term boyfriend was Sam. We met through friends and we were together for a couple of years.’ I try tugging at her heartstrings. ‘He really wanted a family and as I explained earlier, my medical condition means that it’s something I couldn’t give him. So in the end, we split up. And most recently there was Michael. Again, the family situation came between us and taking our relationship any further. It’s hard to find a man who doesn’t want children if he doesn’t already have them from a previous relationship.’
‘This isn’t a nice question to ask,’ Claire continues, ‘but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t bring it up. Is there a part of you that hopes that by having a child, albeit one you’ve adopted, you might be a more attractive prospect to a potential partner? A sort of ready-made family? Or that it’s because you want to do better than your own father and mother did?’
An image of Dad flashes into my mind; it’s the second time I’ve thought about him today. Earlier, while searching for a jumper in the bottom of my wardrobe, I found a padded envelope of old birthday cards that Dad has sent me over the years. Each message is the same: it simply reads ‘love, Dad’. His use of the word ‘love’ and the fact that he never forgot the date meant that no matter how far he has moved on, he still thinks about me. Even if it’s only annually, it’s something. Many times I’ve thought about trying to find him, perhaps hiring a private detective or applying to be on one of those television shows that reunite long-lost relatives. But as the years go on, the more I accept that too much time has passed.
I give thought to Claire’s question before answering. ‘That is absolutely not the case. I want to give a child a home because it’s something that I can do. Even if I had a biological baby, I’d have still gone down this road eventually.’
Claire appears satisfied with my conviction. She asks more questions, but at no point do I mention Dylan as then she’d check the records and no records of her exist. My little girl was never officially registered or named. To all intents and purposes, she was only a part of Mum’s and my world. But only I know how the loss of her shaped the rest of my life.
Mum has no idea about my adoption plans or that a social worker is sitting in her lounge while she is at work. I know I’ll have to tell her soon, but I’ve enjoyed keeping this to myself. Initially me and my son or daughter will live here, but at the earliest opportunity we’ll move out to a place of our own. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living under this roof. A change would do all three of us good.
‘Okay,’ Claire says in a manner that indicates this first assessment has come to an end. She takes a final sip of her tea, which must be cold by now, then picks up her bag with my completed paperwork. Her expression remains friendly, so I think I have passed this stage. I rise to my feet with her. ‘I’ll need you to email the names and addresses of six people, three of whom aren’t family members, who can give a testimony as to why they believe you are a fit person to adopt.’
‘Leave it with me,’ I say. I have prepared for this and have already lined up three people from work who said they’d be happy to assist.
‘We’ll also need to speak to a couple of your ex-partners,’ Claire adds casually.
This is news to me. ‘Why?’ I ask.
‘It’s normal practice.’
‘But I don’t even know where they live now.’
‘It’s okay, you can give me a few more details later and leave it to us to find them.’ She tells me I will hear from her soon. ‘As you and your mum share this house, we will also need to speak to her, of course. But don’t worry,’ she adds, ‘you’re doing great.’
Her reassurance should appease me. However, when I close the door behind her, I do start to worry. I start to worrya lot. The truth behind my relationship with Sam was that I knew he was married when I pursued him. But I’d fallen in love with the images of the three children he plastered over social media more than I did with him. I reasoned that if I could have him, I’d have a ready-made family too. Then when I told his wife about us, she forgave him and he dumped me. And Michael ended it when he caught me following him on a work’s pub crawl. He wasn’t answering his phone or replying to my texts and I assumed the worst: that he was with another woman. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, apparently, and he branded me ‘too possessive’. It was only when he contacted the police a few months later that I stopped turning up at his work and flat unannounced.
So I’m going to have to find a way around Claire’s request. And I also need to think how I am going to get Mum on board. Every parent wants to eventually become a grandparent. And I bet that once I convince her how certain I am that this is what I want to do, she will support me all the way.
CHAPTER 36
