Despite the pain we both went through at the end of our marriage, I can’t help but be proud of her for making such a firm decision. She will no doubt always be asked when she’ll be having kids or why she doesn’t have any. Honestly, the intrusive nature of human beings – in particular with women and their children,or lack thereof – will never cease to amaze me. But I’m so proud of the way she answers these questions.
“My body is my own, and its reproductive function is nobody’s business but mine. When you see a woman in her forties with no children, you can assume one of two things. Either she doesn’t want to, or can’t have children. And neither of those scenarios is open for discussion. Now, let’s move on.”
She’s ruthless about it, and I love her for it. The way it makes people uncomfortable to see their inappropriateness reflected back at them is just the icing on the cake.
When we divorced, it was a difficult decision, but ultimately the right one for both of us. She was able to spread her wings and make a new, exciting life for herself in London. I stayed at home, with my family around me, and began researching solo parenting options. I didn’t fancy making a baby in a test tube, and having worked in paediatric medicine for years, I was fully aware of the number of looked-after children in need of a safe and loving home. So, I decided adoption was the route for me, and today, finally, at age thirty-four, I have been approved after what has felt like an endless eighteen months or so in preparation and assessment.
The last year and a half has been incredibly hard. I didn’t dive straight into the adoption process the minute the ink was dry on the Decree Absolute. Shelley and I had almost two decades of a relationship to unmake to make sure our friendship could stay intact. We managed it, and I’m so glad we took the time to divorce gently. She is, with the exception of my brothers and sister, my best friend. I tell her everything, and because she knows me so well, we can talk about things in a way I can’t with many others.
“Like the fact you’re adopting a kid and haven’t told your brothers?” Shelley is, quite literally, the voice inside my head, and on this topic, outside of it too. She keeps pushing me to tell my brothers about the adoption. My parents and my sister, Wren, know about it, seeing as I had to have my support network assessed and ‘approved’ for want of a better word. My brothers have also all had their criminal records checked, but they think they signed the paperwork because of a new research project I was starting.
Mum, Dad, Wren, and Shelley have been a godsend throughout this process, and they’ve been very understanding about keeping the adoption between just us for now. I know it sounds like I’m a great big liar who lies, but Ijust haven’t wanted to get anyone’s hopes up if it all came to nothing. My brothers, as macho, and gruff, and lads, lads, lads as they have a tendency to be at times, are all as soft as shite. Great big, muscular teddy bears. And, if I’m honest with myself, I’m a little bit nervous about what they’ll say. I’m a single man, adopting alone. What if they don’t think I’m capable?
I know I’m ready. I’m a doctor for fuck’s sake. A paediatrician, no less. But I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge I can be…inflexible…at times. Or, to quote Cole, the younger of my twin brothers, I have a giant stick up my arse. Archer, Cole’s twin and co-conspirator, is a little more generous when he simply calls me a grumpy twat who’s old before his time. Our other brother, Aidan, keeps his own counsel, but I know he thinks I plan and organise my life so rigidly because chaos and mess frustrate me and try my patience.
What if they think I’m not going to manage the chaos and mess of a child? I know they’ll all be there to support me. It’s how we are as a family – exactly the way Bev and Mike Foster raised us – but this child will be my responsibility, not theirs.
Abigail coughs politely, snapping my attention out of my daydreaming and back to her.Her soft smile suggests she knows I just got lost in thought about the magnitude of the next phase of my life, but she’s not offended by my inattention.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” I apologise, gesturing to her cup as I stand. “Another tea?”
“No thanks. I have to get on the road. I have another meeting in an hour in Norwich.” She gathers her bag from the floor, and I lead her to the hallway, taking her coat from the hook and holding it up for her as she reaches me. “Don’t panic. It’ll all be fine. I’ll give you a call when the matching panel has made some headway.”
She pats my arm reassuringly as she leaves, and then I’m left alone with my news. I deflate. There’s nobody here to yell in excitement with me. Nobody to talk me through the inevitable cycle of analytical panic I can feel brewing. A wave of loneliness threatens to bring me to my knees. I haven’t dated since Shelley and I split. I’ve been too focused on the adoption. But in this moment, when I want to shout from the rooftops and celebrate, my self-imposed celibacy feels like a mistake. My subconscious cannot possibly be choosing this moment to tell me I need to find a partner. I have to stay focused on this goal. This major, life-changing, high-stakes, lifelong-dream of a goal.
I can’t let myself get distracted by the minefield that is dating. I’m just looking for an outlet for the ball of excited energy in my stomach at the prospect of a panel of strangers trying to find the child I can be a father to. I’m just a bit sad I don’t have anyone I can share this moment with.
“That’s not true, though, is it, Nash?” Even in my head, Shelley’s words are dripping with an ‘I told you so’ tone.
I have a family.
A very close family, in fact. A family who would be thrilled to celebrate this milestone with me, but my brain is putting a brick wall between me and them on this issue. I reach into the pocket of my neatly pressed black chinos and pull out my phone, opening the group chat with Mum, Dad, and Wren, and let them know the news.
ME: Good news! I’ve been approved for the adoption! The panel meets soon, and they’ll be assessing the best match for me! I can’t wait!
I reread my message and scoff. I don’t think I’ve ever used so many exclamation marks in my life, let alone in one text message. It takes less than a minute for the replies to come in.
MUM: Oh sweetheart, that’s such good news! Congratulations!
DAD: What she said! Well done son!
WREN: Awesome news big brother! Can we tell the reprobates yet?
My stomach tightens, guilt tasting bitter in my mouth. I don’t want to keep secrets from my brothers, but at the same time, I don’t want to tell them until I know for sure I’ve been matched with a child. I couldn’t handle my own pain and disappointment if something happened and it all fell through, let alone carry theirs as well.
Before I can lock my phone screen and put it back in my pocket, the screen lights up with Shelley’s name. Of course it does.
“He—” I don’t even get a greeting out before I’m bombarded with questions in classic Shelley style.
“How’d it go? Did they have a decision? Have they found you a kid yet? What did they say?” When she finally stops long enough for me to get a word in edgeways, I tell her all about my meeting with Abigail.
“So, basically, long story short,” I conclude, “I’ve been approved.” I can’t help theuncharacteristic excitement seeping into my tone, and I have to pull my phone away from my ear at the high-pitched squeal that threatens to pierce my eardrum.
“Ohmigod, Nash, that’s so great. I’m so happy for you.” She can’t get to the end of the sentence without her voice becoming thick with tears. Hearing her emotion, her happiness for me at being one step closer to a dream I’ve held tightly for years, through pain that almost destroyed both of us, I can’t help but get choked up myself. I swallow around a lump in my throat and hold the bridge of my nose in an effort to stem the tears filling my eyes.
I hear a deep voice in the background from Shell’s end of the line. “What? What? What’s happened?” Owen’s voice gets closer, panic evident in his tone, and I chuckle. Shelley’s new partner is in his fifties, a retired Premiership footballer who is absolutely besotted and spoils her rotten. He’s also a really good bloke. He and Shelley have been with me through this whole process since she finally gave me the boot up the arse I needed to get the process started early last year.
“Nash got approved for the adoption,” she says excitedly, her voice a bit muffled as she passes the phone to Owen.
