Secret Joy

Part 3

Dad's solicitor, Mr Dennis, arrived to discuss Dad's estate six days later. He and Mum sat in the kitchen with the door closed, and, though Emily and I did our best to catch the conversation through the wall, they spoke in such low voices that we couldn't hear what they said.

Mum came up to my room that evening, with a cup of tea and some biscuits on a tray. "There's something we need to talk about," she said quietly, sitting down at the foot of my bed, "Something we should have talked about a long time ago." She passed me the cup of tea and squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry. If I'd had a choice I wouldn't have kept it a secret, but... You must understand: it was a different time... It happened not long after we found out, your Dad and I, that I couldn't have any more children after Emily."

What? They'd had me, hadn't they?

"You must believe me, Laura, I wanted to bring you up so that you'd know, but... your Dad said it was too dangerous... He said you'd be taken away from us if anyone knew..." She sighed, and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "I'm doing this all wrong. Wait... wait here." She left the room, and I heard her going downstairs.

I repeated Mum's words in the faintest whisper. "You'd be taken away from us if anyone knew?" Knew what? Who would take me? Where?

When Mum returned, it was with Dad's will, and a cracked voice. "I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to find out this way." She passed me the will with shaking hands, and pointed to a paragraph I couldn't read. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, "I... I can't bring myself to say it."

I squinted at the paper until the rows of antlike black print turned slowly into letters that read:

In the event of my death before her sixteenth birthday, my daughter, LAURA BUTCHER (b. 2002), is to be returned to the custody of her birth mother, HELGA BUTCHER.

I blinked, and read it again, tracing the letter with my finger as if doing so might make them clearer, or, I prayed, make them say something else. But the words stayed the same, harsh and legal and official and unfeeling: "The custody of her birth mother, HELGA BUTCHER," I read slowly, looking up at Mum. ""Birth mother"? I'm... Am I adopted?"

Mum shook her head, and looked up at the ceiling as if trying to hold the tears out of her eyes. "No," she whispered, her voice gone, "Not... not adopted, not... not officially... I'm... I'm so sorry, Laura, really." She reached for my hand again. "Your Dad said it would be better for you if you never found out. That way you wouldn't have to keep anything secret. You were..." She squeezed her eyes shut, and winced. "You were born to a surrogate mother, sweetheart. In Denmark. That's why we used to live there. Before you were born. We had to... We had to make it look like you were mine." She swallowed hard, and took a shaky breath. "When you were born, it was illegal to use a surrogate to have children. That's why... That's why we had to hide it from you, because, if anyone had found out, outside the family, your Dad and I could have been arrested. And your birth mother, too. And you and Emily, you'd have been taken into care, and maybe even separated. And we'd worked so hard to have you, darling, that to lose you... Laura, it was unthinkable. Unthinkable. We only told Mr Dennis so that he'd be able to help us, be able to tell us what to do to keep your... real parentage a secret."

"This is a joke," I said, clawing frantically at the fading chance to believe myself, "A horrible joke."

Mum shook her head, and her tears spilled over her crumpled face. "No, love... No joke, love..." She let out a loud sob, and then ran her finger over the paragraph in the will. "I raised you. I love you. I'm your Mum. But the law says... The law says I'm not your mother, and that I can't keep custody of you, not with your Dad gone."

"Is... Was Dad my father? Or-"

Mum nodded. "Your Dad is your father, yes, darling. He always will be. But you have to go back to Denmark, to live with Helga. Your mother." She paused. "You... You don't have to keep calling me Mum if you don't want to. I'll understand if-"

"No," I said quickly, "You're my Mum; I don't care what the law says! I'm staying here with you and Emily. I'm fifteen; surely that has to mean something! Can't I choose where I live?"

Again, Mum shook her head, and rubbed her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. You can't. She's- she's coming to the funeral. She'll collect you. And then she'll take you back to Copenhagen, to live with her there."

I couldn't breathe, no matter how hard I swallowed. Helga had said, "Hello, darling," when Emily and I had called her. Had she thought I, her long lost daughter, was trying, at long last, to reach her? What would have happened if we hadn't panicked and hung up? What would she have said?