Reunited

Goodbye Baby

(Anna's POV)

I've been asked the same thing in nearly all my interviews. "How do you feel about having kids?" or "have you ever thought about raising a family of your own?" and my answer's always been a plain and simple "no."

Well I was lying. I have thought about having kids before. One time.

The worst year of my life was my senior year when I was sixteen. I was feeling pretty crappy as my so-called 'acting career' everyone was going on about did not turn out as well as I hoped. When I was nominated for that Tony award a few years earlier, I was the talk of the school. I was congratulated by everyone I passed in the hallways and classrooms and they all said they couldn't wait to see me on the silver screen. I accepted then that that probably would never happen but four years later, the disappointment really got to me. I missed the attention I had and everybody knowing my name.

It got to a point where it was so bad that I would do anything to get that attention back. And who always gets their names on magazines and newspapers? Teen moms. Especially teen moms with at least a tiny bit of fame. So, in one high school party, just a few weeks before graduation, I took some guy into a room and – well – I'm not going to go into much detail about it but sure enough, I took a test a few weeks later and it was positive.

The day after that night, when I was in my right mind, I realised what I had done and prayed so hard that it wouldn't work and when I finally took the test and it showed positive, I absolutely freaked out. I bought, like, ten more just to make sure but they all said the same thing. Luckily, I graduated before I started showing so nobody apart from my family would find out. I didn't even tell the father. He was just some stupid horny jock named Tommy Hale who only cared about sex with no interest whatsoever in raising a family.

After graduation, I spent eight months hiding away in my basement, hiding away from the shame. I told everyone that it was an accident and that I got super drunk, but the truth is that I was sober when I did it. Tom wasn't but I was, and it was the most selfish thing that I've ever done in my life. Who uses some guy to get pregnant just so they could get noticed again?

Anyway, the baby came along and – oh god childbirth is the worst, I'm never doing that again – it was a little girl who I named Alexa Hale after her father.

A couple years after I had Alexa, my career started to bloom and I was suddenly so busy with different movies that I nearly forgot all about her. Nearly. As I grew older, I began thinking more and more about her. What does she look like? Does she take after me or Tom? What does she think of me?

It was then that I came to the conclusion that my young, party days were over and it's time for me to be a mother. If she wants me of course because I totally understand if she wants nothing to do with me. If I were her, I probably wouldn't even want to look at me. But still, it's worth a shot.

I've spent the last week tracking her down and finally, after what seemed like forever, I found her. She was just moved to an orphanage in Lewiston last week after she ran away from her one in Birdgeton.

So, now, here I am in a car heading across the state to Lewiston to meet my daughter who I haven't seen in fourteen years. That's not nerve-wracking at all.

Finally, a luminous red building came into sight and I pulled into the driveway. A broken sign swung slightly in the wind and as I passed it, a shiver shot up my spine. This was definitely not a very welcoming place.

An old lady looked up from her desk when I entered.

"Hi," I said, moving closer, "I'm Anna . . . we – er – spoke the other day?" the woman didn't show any recognition that she knew what I was talking about, so I tried again. "I um wanted to see my daughter, Alexa, if that's OK." I handed her Alexa's birth certificate.

Finally she smiled, "Ah, of course. Wait here please." She rose and disappeared down a hallway. I sat down on a rather uncomfortable armchair as I anxiously awaited her return.