Free The Day We Met by Rowan Coleman Page A

horizon, and even if they rarely saw them, they knew of their existence. They knew, at least approximately, where they were in the world. There was a vague connection to them, a tenuous sense of identity. Caitlin, though, had none of that, which is perhaps the reason that, one day, on our usual walk home from school, as she plucked the tulips and the daffodils that strayed between garden fences so she could make me a stolen bouquet, she asked me if she was a test-tube baby. The question, the phrase, so awkward and unnatural, so obviously implanted in her mouth by another, shocked me. I told her that she wasn’t a test-tube baby, and that she’d been made in the same way most other babies were. Hurrying on before she could ask me exactly how that was, I told her that the moment I’d known about her, I’d wanted her, and I’d known that together we could be a brilliant little family and as happy as could be, which we were. I hoped that would be enough, and that she’d run ahead like she usually did, and hop and jump in an effort to pull sprigs of blossom off the cherry trees that lined the road. But instead she remained thoughtful and quiet. And soI told her that if she wanted me to, I’d tell her all about the man who’d helped make her, and help her to meet him. She thought about it for a long time.
    “But why don’t I know him already?” she asked, her hand slipping into mine, leaving a trail of fallen petals behind. “John Watson, he knows his dad, even though he lives on an oil rig and he only sees him twice a year. He always brings him loads and loads of presents.” Her tone was wistful, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the visits or the presents.
    “Well…” No words came. I was ill-prepared for this moment, although I should have seen it coming; I should have practiced and rehearsed and been ready. And so I told the truth that somehow became a lie. “When I found out that you were in my tummy, I was very young. And so was your father. He just wasn’t ready to be a dad.”
    “But you were ready to be my mummy?” Caitlin had looked puzzled. “It’s not very hard, is it?”
    “No,” I said, squeezing her warm sticky fingers gently. “No, being your mummy is the easiest thing in the world.”
    “I don’t want to know about him, then,” Caitlin had said, quite determinedly. “I’m going to tell everyone at school that I
am
a test-tube baby.”
    Then, with an unexpected bound, she did run ahead, leaping up at a low-hanging branch laden with blossoms, creating a fall of pink confetti all around us as I walked under the tree. We laughed, tipping our faces up as the petals floated down, all thoughts of dads forgotten. I had thought that the time would come again when she’d want to talk more, and next time she’d be older and I’d be better prepared, but it never did.
    That was the only conversation in which he was ever mentioned to her, and it was all she ever asked. And yet I had theuneasy feeling that Mum had always been right about this, and that the quietness, the uncertainty in Caitlin, the shyness she hides so well behind the black eyeliner and hair, and the always-black clothes that she wears like a shield…it might all have come from that one ill-thought-out conversation. It might all be my fault. And that idea, the thought that the one thing I always thought I could be proud of—being her mother—might be untrue, fills me with horror. I’m going soon; I’m going and I need to make things right.
    So this afternoon I pulled out a dust-filmed shoebox and found this letter, which I pasted into the book. It was folded around a photo of him holding my hand. Taken on a sunny day, we were both laughing, sitting on swings in the park, our fingers outstretched to claim the other’s, leaning toward each other in a concerted effort to remain connected, no matter how gravity and kinetic energy might try to pull us apart. I must have been just pregnant with Caitlin by then, not that