Chapter 2 - The Photographs Miriam Kept

The first photograph showed Miriam holding a newborn Grace.

Not like an aunt.

Like a woman who had just given birth and was too tired to hide it.

Miriam’s hair was damp.

Her face looked swollen.

Grace stared at the hospital bracelet around her wrist.

“Birth mother,” she whispered.

Miriam sat beside her.

“Yes.”

Grace picked up the next photograph.

Her mother—the mother who raised her—stood beside the hospital bed.

Twenty-seven years old.

Smiling.

One hand on Miriam’s shoulder.

The other touching the baby blanket.

They looked like sisters.

Because they were.

Not rivals.

Not yet.

“What was her name before I called her Mum?”

Miriam looked surprised.

“Eleanor.”

Grace frowned.

“I know her name.”

“I know.”

“I mean what did you call her then?”

“Ellie.”

Grace stared at the photograph.

No one called her mother Ellie.

Not in Grace’s memory.

She had always been Eleanor to everyone except Grace’s father, who called her El.

“Did she want me?”

“Yes.”

“From the beginning?”

Miriam hesitated.

“Not exactly.”

Grace looked up.

“Tell me.”

Miriam folded her hands.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I was nineteen. Your biological father had already disappeared.”

“Who was he?”

“His name was Peter Lawson.”

Grace froze.

She had always been told her biological father was unknown.

“You knew his name.”

“Yes.”

“Did he know about me?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He said he wasn’t ready. He left town before you were born.”

“Did he ever come back?”

Miriam looked down.

“Once.”

Grace’s heartbeat changed.

“When?”

“When you were six.”

“What did he want?”

“To meet you.”

Grace stared.

“And?”

“Your mother refused.”

“My mother.”

“Yes.”

“Did you agree?”

Miriam swallowed.

“At the time, yes.”

Grace laughed bitterly.

“Of course.”

“He had been absent six years.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know he came.”

“You’re right.”

“Did Dad know?”

“Your adoptive father?”

Grace winced at the phrase.

Miriam saw.

“Sorry.”

“No. I need to get used to the words.”

Miriam continued.

“Thomas knew.”

Grace closed her eyes.

Her father.

Thomas.

The man who taught her to ride a bike.

The man who died believing, apparently, that Grace would never know.

“Did he agree Peter should stay away?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He thought Peter would confuse you.”

“Everyone loved that word.”

Miriam looked ashamed.

“Yes.”

Grace returned to the box.

The next photograph showed Miriam standing outside a small flat with a baby carrier.

“Where is this?”

“My first flat.”

“You had me there?”

“For six weeks.”

Grace stared.

“I lived with you.”

“Yes.”

No one had told her that.

Miriam pointed.

“That blanket was yours. You screamed every evening from six until nine.”

“I had colic?”

“Yes.”

“My mother said I was the easiest baby.”

Miriam smiled sadly.

“You became easier.”

Grace looked at her.

“Did she know I screamed with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she change the story?”

“I don’t know.”

Grace did not like the answer.

“Guess.”

Miriam sighed.

“Maybe because she wanted your beginning with her to feel natural.”

Grace looked at the photograph again.

“How did I end up living with her?”

Miriam explained.

Their parents’ house was unstable.

Grace’s grandfather drank.

He was never violent toward the baby, but he shouted.

Grace’s grandmother was exhausted.

Miriam had left school.

No savings.

No childcare.

Eleanor and Thomas had been married three years and unable to conceive.

They offered help.

At first weekends.

Then weekdays.

Then one month.

Social services became involved after a neighbor reported shouting at the grandparents’ house.

The practical solution became emotional fact.

“They had money,” Grace said.

“Yes.”

“They had a house.”

“Yes.”

“They were married.”

“Yes.”

“And you were nineteen.”

“Yes.”

“So everyone looked at you and thought temporary.”

Miriam’s face tightened.

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ask what you wanted?”

“At first.”

“And?”

“I said I wanted help, not adoption.”

Grace stared.

“What?”

Miriam’s eyes filled.

“The first time adoption came up, I said no.”

“Then how?”

“Months.”

“Months of what?”

“Pressure. Advice. Fear.”

Miriam looked at the photographs.

“People kept saying love meant doing what was best for you.”

“And best meant not me.”

“It meant stability.”

“Same thing.”

Miriam winced.

Grace put down the photo.

“Did you sign willingly?”

Miriam thought before answering.

“Yes.”

Grace looked shocked.

Miriam continued.

“I need to be honest. I was not dragged into an office. I signed.”

“Why?”

“Because by then you had been living with Ellie and Thomas most of the year. You cried when I took you overnight. You settled when she held you. I was working two jobs. My flat was damp. I believed everyone who said changing your home again would be selfish.”

Grace’s anger softened one degree.

Not enough to forgive.

Enough to understand.

“Did you think you’d still be my mother somehow?”

Miriam laughed bitterly.

“Yes.”

“Did they promise?”

“At first.”

“What changed?”

“The adoption order.”

Grace waited.

“Your mother became afraid that if you understood I was your birth mother, you would see her as less real.”

Grace felt grief rise.

“She was real.”

“I know.”

“She didn’t need to erase you.”

“I know.”

The next photographs showed birthdays.

Grace at one.

Miriam in the background.

Grace at two.

Miriam holding the cake.

Grace at three.

Miriam kneeling beside her with a toy train.

In every picture, Eleanor was closer.

Miriam stood at the edge.

Not excluded.

Contained.

Grace touched one image.

“You’re looking at me.”

Miriam smiled faintly.

“I usually was.”

“You look sad.”

“I was happy.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

Miriam looked down.

“I was both.”

Grace kept going.

School uniform.

Dance recital.

Hospital after a broken wrist.

Christmas.

A photograph of Grace asleep on Miriam’s lap at age nine.

Grace stared.

“I remember this.”

“You had flu.”

“Mum was away.”

“At a conference.”

“You stayed three nights.”

“Yes.”

Grace looked at her.

“Did you pretend to be my mother when she was gone?”

Miriam’s eyes widened.

“No.”

Grace heard the panic.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Miriam breathed.

“I was very careful.”

That phrase hurt more than it should have.

Very careful.

Grace remembered Miriam asking permission before every hug at public events.

She had assumed that was personality.

Now it looked like conditioning.

The last photographs in the box were not printed.

They were Polaroids.

Five of them.

Miriam handed them over reluctantly.

“These are from your first six weeks.”

Grace saw herself asleep against Miriam’s chest.

Miriam kissing her forehead.

A tiny hand wrapped around Miriam’s finger.

Then one photograph stopped her.

Eleanor sat beside Miriam on a sofa.

Grace lay between them.

Both women were laughing.

“Who took this?”

“Thomas.”

Grace stared.

“Were you close?”

“Very.”

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Miriam’s face changed.

“You happened.”

Grace flinched.

Miriam immediately shook her head.

“No. That sounded terrible.”

“It did.”

“I mean the decisions around you happened.”

Grace looked at her.

“Did she resent you?”

“Eventually.”

“For being my mother.”

“For being able to claim something she couldn’t.”

Grace’s chest tightened.

“She couldn’t have children.”

“No.”

Grace knew that part.

Eleanor’s infertility had been spoken about openly.

The adoption had been framed as a miracle.

Grace had grown up believing her birth mother was an unnamed young woman who wanted her to have a better life.

A beautiful story.

Only now did she understand the unnamed woman had been sitting at every Christmas dinner.

“Did you resent her?”

“Yes.”

Grace appreciated the answer.

“For what?”

“For getting everything I wanted.”

“She raised me.”

“I know.”

“Wasn’t that work?”

“Yes.”

“Then not everything was easy.”

“No.”

Grace looked at her.

Miriam’s face softened.

“I resented her and loved her. I was grateful and furious. I thought she was a wonderful mother and hated that she got to be one to you.”

Grace looked down.

“That makes sense.”

Miriam blinked.

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

The simple answer made her cry.

Grace watched.

Then asked, “What about my father?”

“Peter?”

“Yes.”

Miriam stiffened.

“He is alive.”

Grace went still.

“You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“Two years ago.”

Grace stared.

“Two years?”

“He emailed.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked about you.”

“And you answered?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were well.”

“You had contact with him about me.”

“Very little.”

“That’s not the point.”

Miriam nodded.

“You’re right.”

“Did Mum know?”

“No.”

Grace stood.

“Another secret.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“Because after she refused contact when you were six, I thought she would refuse again.”

“So you made a decision for me.”

Miriam closed her eyes.

“Yes.”

Grace paced.

The pattern was everywhere.

Adults deciding in the name of protection.

Miriam, who had been controlled for decades, had learned the same method.

“Do you have the email?”

“Yes.”

“I want it.”

Miriam looked at her.

“Today?”

Grace laughed sharply.

“Why does everyone keep deciding how fast I can handle my own life?”

Miriam looked stricken.

“You’re right.”

Grace stared.

Then sighed.

“I don’t know if I want to contact him.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“But I want the option.”

“Yes.”

Grace sat again.

She gathered the photographs into two piles.

“What are you doing?”

“Making copies.”

Miriam looked surprised.

“You want them?”

“Yes.”

Grace touched the Polaroid of the two sisters laughing with baby Grace between them.

“I want proof the story was once different.”

Miriam swallowed.

Grace continued.

“And I want one more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t call her my mother when you mean Eleanor.”

Miriam went still.

Grace breathed.

“I have two mothers now. I don’t know what that means yet.”

Miriam’s eyes filled.

“Okay.”

“But don’t get excited.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“A little.”

Grace almost smiled.

Then stopped herself.

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Not because smiling would forgive too much.

Because she was learning that smiling did not have to mean forgiveness at all.