What Lies Between Us(43)

‘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.

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.’