Rosie Lewis - Taken - Part 3 of 3

After talking to Emily and breaking the news to Jamie, I had called Mum to tell her about the email, but she was an expert at remaining cheerful, whatever was going on around her. ‘All right, love?’ she threw over her shoulder as she took Megan off into her front room.

‘Right, I’ve got jam doughnuts just out of the fryer, or there’s a bit of carrot cake left in the fridge. What do you fancy?’ The sight of her soft, slightly translucent skin was always a comfort, the creases at the corner of her eyes that deepened when she laughed, the slightly reddened dent between her brows where her glasses tended to rub.

‘Cake!’ Megan shouted, lifting her top to reveal her tummy. She patted it with flat hands. ‘Want cake!’

‘Come on then!’ Mum cried, holding out her hand. ‘You’d better come with me into the kitchen. What about the rest of you?’ she called out along the hall.

‘Nothing for me thanks, Nan,’ Emily said quietly.

‘Me neither,’ Jamie murmured. United in their gloom, they flopped down side by side on Mum’s sofa. Emily stared into space. Jamie leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, chin rested in his hands.

My mum shuffled backwards into the room, losing her slippers in the process. ‘Well, how about one of those lollies you like, the ones I get from Sainsbury’s?’

‘Not right now, Nan.’ Jamie answered. Emily shook her head.

‘Sod you then,’ she said, sliding her feet back into her slippers. Jamie grinned. ‘I’ll make up some squash and they can make do with that,’ she added as I followed her along her small hall. Framed photos of family members lined the walls, Megan taking her place among them. In the kitchen, the toddler was standing in front of the cupboards, waiting patiently. ‘Mr Kipling do you, will it?’ Mum asked, bending with a groan and pulling a packet of cakes from the cupboard.

Megan’s face lit up. Remembering to say thank you without a reminder, she grabbed one, and then ran back into the front room. ‘Sit down with it!’ Mum called out over the rattle of crockery. She flicked the switch on the kettle then, standing on tiptoe, pulled two cups and saucers out of her top cupboard, lining them neatly on the worktop. They were from the same tea set she had used for decades, the rosebuds around the outside rim faded to a barely there pink. ‘Right, now, I’ve been looking into it,’ Mum said hurriedly, as soon as we heard voices starting up from the other room. ‘And you’ve got rights.’

I leaned back against her small fridge. ‘I know, Mum, but where am I going to find the money for a solicitor?’

She slid a glass door aside in one of the small cupboards nearby and removed a china teapot. ‘I’ve still got that ISA I’ve been saving for a rainy day.’ Above the hiss of the kettle, her voice caught. ‘And it’s definitely raining now.’ She tutted, shook her head and poured some boiling water into the pot. After swilling it around and emptying the vestiges over the sink, she scooped up some tea leaves and scattered them over the bottom of the pot.

‘Mum, that’s lovely of you.’ I think every member of our family had been offered her ISA at one time or another. I was amazed she still had anything left in it. ‘But I think maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s not fair to keep her.’

‘Balls to being fair,’ Mum snapped. She hardly ever swore, but when she did, it shocked us to the core. ‘Life’s not fair,’ she added, ignoring my dropped jaw. But her mouth had fallen slack and her eyelids drooped. I had told her what Veronica had said about security, and the risks associated with Megan’s birth family knowing her whereabouts. Mum knew, once that idea was put into my mind, that I wouldn’t be able to square my conscience if I continued with my application.

A minute or two later, Mum pressed a cup of steaming tea into my chest, her answer to all the world’s problems. ‘I wish I could do something to help,’ she said with a sigh.

‘Being here helps,’ I said with a wan smile. And it was true. She couldn’t change anything or make it better, but somehow, simply being close to her and knowing she cared, made everything that little bit more bearable.

At the irregular pad of heavy footsteps from the other room, we both turned around. Megan was running down the hall towards us, chocolate crumbs clinging to her chin. I handed my cup to Mum and crouched down on the floor, hands stretched out. Megan ran forwards and planted herself firmly onto my lap, wriggling until her back rested against my chest. ‘No look sad, Mama,’ she said, reaching out and forcing my lips into a smile.

That evening I sat alone in the garden while Emily and Jamie caught up on some back episodes of the TV show Spooks . From my wicker chair I watched as a light wind picked up tiny flakes of blossom and scattered them over the path. They glistened under the light from the moon.

Torn by my love for Megan and a compulsion to do the right thing, my thoughts spiralled and churned, first one way, then the other. I wondered whether to contact the adoption team again and tell them that I would give notice to my landlord and search for a new house immediately, but I knew they were likely to object. Even I could see that it wasn’t fair to expect Megan to wait around for that to happen. Another part of me wondered how it could possibly be fair to wrench her away from all that was familiar: a secure home, her network of little friends and a loving, caring family. It seemed so cruel.

On the other hand, I suddenly thought with a touch of horror, perhaps I was guilty of not separating my own needs from Megan’s. Was it my own feelings I was thinking about, more than hers? There was every chance that she’d be happier with a mother and a father’s love. And anyway, I had finally been given a valid reason why Megan shouldn’t stay with us, one that made sense – her safety was a priority and there was no way around that.

I loved her, but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t grow to love her just as much. Emily and Jamie had always seemed happy living with just one parent, but they saw their dad regularly, and their lives were undoubtedly all the richer for it. If Megan stayed with us, I would be denying her the opportunity to be loved by two parents. Should I fight for the chance to keep her, or let her go? It was a near impossible decision to make.

By the end of the evening, with a heavy heart, I decided that it was my duty to stand aside and give her that chance.

Once I withdrew my application, things began to move very quickly. With Francis and Mirella Howard’s adoption panel date scheduled for mid-September, Hazel had arranged a one-hour contact session for Christina, Megan’s birth mother, at the beginning of the same month – an opportunity for her to say goodbye. Contact sessions usually lasted somewhere between 90 minutes and three hours, but since emotions inevitably ran high for the parting families, social workers aimed to avoid prolonging the agony of the final contact by keeping it brief.

Hazel had also organised a meeting between Megan and her birth father, Greg, which would take place straight afterwards. Greg had flown into the country a couple of days earlier, seizing his one final chance to meet Megan and wish her well. Hazel told me that she intended to supervise his contact so that she could take some photos for Megan’s life-story book.

Prone to over-identifying with other people, I woke that morning with a churning stomach and a lump in my throat. I could hardly imagine how Christina must be feeling. Her life was complicated and her problems had impacted negatively on Megan, but I didn’t think she was a bad person. Whatever the circumstances (with the exception of sexual abusers – I struggled to find a shred of sympathy in my heart for them), the permanent separation of a mother and her child was profoundly sad, and my heart went out to both of them on that day.