4. Mia
Chapter four
Mia
I’m in shock, trying to digest what Gerrard has just told me. The words on the papers in front of me swim through the tears welling in my eyes. I don’t even know why I’m so close to tears. I’m not normally a crier. This is just too much to process.
“Let me get this straight. My parents—my birth parents, because I have real parents—put me up for adoption, but left me all this in their wills?” I gesture desperately to the documents setting out the contents of bank accounts and shareholdings stacked in neat piles on the veneered table in front of me.
Gerrard nods patiently. “They left you half of their estate. The rest of their assets went to Craig, your biological brother, and that jet you flew here in is his." He hesitates, as if he knows I need reassurance. "Mia, it’s not all that uncommon for birth parents to leave something for children they placed for adoption, particularly when they have the means your birth parents did.”
I drop my head into my hands, disbelieving. Half their estate. Millions and millions of dollars. And I have no idea what that company is worth. “And Craig is injured?” I pause for a few seconds. “You said this is half of their estate? Are you sure? This is half? ” My voice cracks.
Abigail, who works with Gerrard, places a fresh glass of water on the table, whisking away my half-empty glass. I give her a watery smile.
The amount of money we’re talking about here is insane. Gerrard has given me a pile of paper that has a lot of figures with a whole lot of zeros. I can’t get my head around how much money it is.
“There was a skiing accident a few weeks ago. Craig is seriously injured. He’s in hospital in France.” Gerrard’s forehead creases in worry as he tells me this for the second time.
At my silence, Gerrard continues. “Müller Meyer has been looking for you at Craig’s request, and to fulfill the terms of probate, since your birth father died about five months ago. As I’m sure you can imagine, tracking you down and confirming your identity has been challenging.”
I sip my ice-cold water to buy time to think. Gerrard being a business lawyer and not an estate lawyer still doesn’t make sense. It would make sense for him to be an estate lawyer, dealing with my birth parents' affairs after they died. Him being a business lawyer implies there’s more to this than just the money.
“How can you be sure I’m the Mia you’re looking for? You don’t need a DNA test or something?” I ask, as much for my benefit as Gerrard’s. How can I be sure this isn’t a very elaborate ploy? Will his next question be ‘would you mind transferring just a few thousand dollars to access the rest of your fortune’?
“We can arrange for you to take a DNA test if that would make you more comfortable. But from our perspective at Müller Meyer, it’s not necessary. We have a copy of your ID, the one you showed to Kate on the plane, we have your adoption papers, and have done a thorough background check. Everything lines up, Mia. I’m satisfied that you’re the Mia Davis we’ve been looking for.”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a second. “I’m going to pop to the bathroom,” I say. I need a few minutes to myself, where I don’t have to worry about my face betraying my emotions to these strangers. Not that I even know what my emotions are; my brain is swimming in shock.
“I’ll show you the way.” Abigail gets up gracefully, smoothing her hands down the back of her uncreased skirt in one motion as she stands. She has been sitting next to me throughout our meeting, sliding papers to me and pointing out things as Gerrard referenced them.
I follow Abigail down the hallway, where she gestures toward a door.
“Just through there. Take all the time you need.” Abigail smiles sympathetically. “I know this is a lot of information, so be gentle with yourself.”
I push the door open, breathing deeply to quell my panic. The bathroom, like the rest of the Müller Meyer offices, is beautifully designed. It is timelessly elegant, with modern dark tiles on the floor and backlit, rounded oval mirrors. It’s surreal to be in such a normal place after having my life shaken to the core.
I brace my hands on either side of the sink, staring at my reflection. My glossy, dark auburn hair is now frizzy. I’ve been running my hands through it repeatedly for almost an hour. I note how easy it is to see stress reflected on your face. I look almost haggard.
My critical eye does not see a woman who has become a millionaire in the last hour. It’s unbelievable to think that the parents who adopted me out thirty-two years ago left me this much money. I’m just a girl they didn’t know and hadn’t wanted enough to raise themselves. And this is only half of their fortune, the rest passing along to a brother I didn’t know I had until a few minutes ago.
I reach into my dress pocket and pull out my phone. I stare at Will’s message from earlier, wishing me luck. I don’t know how I would even begin to tell him what I have just learned. I shove my phone back into my pocket without responding, and rub my hand over my face, trying to avoid smudging my carefully applied makeup. It doesn’t look too bad, probably thanks to the touch-up I did on the plane—the private jet. The jet Gerrard told me belongs to my brother, that he uses for work.
I look in the mirror one last time before I leave. I need to do some serious planning to stop my life from slipping out of my control.
The water cascades down my back in the largest hotel bathroom I have ever stayed in. This whole day has been a day of firsts. I don’t know how to begin thinking about something this life changing. My mind is completely blank.
I’m grateful Abigail convinced me to stay for the weekend. I need some space away from my normal life to work through things.
Why would my birth parents have given me up? I have spent my entire life imagining that they adopted me out because they couldn’t afford to keep me, but that obviously isn't the case. No one makes millions of dollars overnight; it is unlikely my parents were broke when I was born. Besides, Gerrard told me most of the fortune was made through a family business, which I’m sure the paperwork Abigail handed to me before I left explains in detail. And if I’m wrong about that, what else am I wrong about? Did they ever try to contact me? Did they regret giving me up? I never think about the fact that before my parents, I belonged to another family. Now, I can’t think about anything else.
I can’t face going back to London tomorrow and pretending life is normal. Not right now. I need time to let this sink in, to make a plan, to figure out who I even am in light of this news.
I head toward the lift in the empty corridor, impressed with the decoration. The wide hallways have regularly placed side tables, topped with vases of flowers. The subtle aroma of white lilies—my favorite—wafts toward me.
The reception is tastefully decorated, with aubergine carpeting, eggshell walls and beige furnishing, and pops of terracotta as decorative accents. I take the receptionist’s helpful directions and her offer to call a taxi to the nearest mall, which is open late. I’ll at least need a change of clothes and some toiletries if I’m going to stay in Bern.
While I shop, I remind myself of the truths in my life. My parents—my adoptive parents, that is—love me. I just hope they won’t be upset that my birth parents have left me something. My stomach is in knots about the idea of telling them. What if they regret adopting me, knowing my birth parents could have afforded me all this time?
As I flip through the racks, I make a plan. First thing Monday, I will make an appointment with one of the financial advisors Gerrard recommended. I’m determined not to be one of those people I see in magazines, or like Steph tells me about, who immediately blows through all their money and, because of lifestyle creep, ends up in a worse position than they were before. I will be sensible with this money. It might not have been me who earned it, but someone worked hard for it, and I won’t waste it.
I will also book an appointment with my psychologist. I’d seen one off and on growing up. My parents—my mum mostly; comes with the territory, I suppose—had insisted on it when I was younger so they could rest easy knowing they would not end up with a traumatized daughter with no outlet to talk about it. I’ve always thought it had been a waste of time, personally. I had never been even the slightest bit curious about my birth family. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Sometimes when I was a kid, if I thought about my birth family, I would wonder whether my adoptive parents knew I was thinking about them, and regretted adopting me. Over the years, I’ve just trained myself to never think about them, at all.
I went back to the psychologist a few times after Joel and I broke up. I needed someone other than my friends to lean on. With such a major life change, I figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check on my mental health again.
The next thing on my list is less definitive. I need to figure out what to tell people, or even whether to tell people. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to my parents. Deep down, I know they’ll understand, but I’ll never get rid of that little niggling feeling that they’ll be disappointed in me when I tell them. Becoming independently wealthy overnight is strange. Complaining about how you are possibly going to cope to the hard-working couple who raised you your entire life somehow feels ungrateful. They spent a lot of time and money adopting me. If they knew about the money my birth parents had, would they have chosen differently? Would they have wanted me at all?
I’ve heard stories about people who told their friends of their newfound fortunes and been begged and borrowed out of huge amounts of money. While I know my friends won’t do that, I feel far less certain about the acquaintances less close to me. I don’t know how to avoid that situation; perhaps something the financial advisor can help with? Maybe the psychologist?
I sigh, tucking a dress under my arm. The only thing I want today is Will. He was the first person I thought about when I got the news. Hell, he’s the first person I think of in almost any situation. He always knows what to say, and if he was here, there would be no way I’d be seconds away from a panic attack in the clothing section of a department store. He’d find a way to distract me, when I need distractions, or to make me laugh, or let me be serious when that’s what I need. Somehow, he always seems to read what I need before I know it myself. Maybe I should ask whether I can get him out here.
I wake the next morning, stiff, my book laying propped open on the bed beside me. I pat around the bed for my phone, eventually finding it under the pillow.
I have four texts from Will.
Will
hope everything’s okay - let me know when you’re home?
can’t wait to find out what it’s about
I’ve realized you probably don’t have service there, but please message when you get home
Mia? no rush, please let me know you’re okay. I’m starting to get a bit worried.
Oh damn. I completely forgot to message him last night.
Mia
Sorry, I ended up staying in Switzerland and fell asleep.
It’s a bit much to explain by text, but I’m okay. I think I’m gonna stay the rest of the weekend?
I roll out of bed, instinctively pulling the covers up behind me. I head to the window, and realize I’m just high enough to peek over the buildings below and see the far side of the riverbank. In the distance, small lifestyle blocks and paddocks are visible. Even further away are snow-peaked mountains.
As I suspected, I woke up feeling more confident in my plan to stay the weekend, and to invite Will.
When my phone vibrates again at eight forty-five, I assume it’s Abigail confirming she can arrange for Will to fly in, but instead, it’s Will.
Will
glad you’re okay, I was considering going to your place last night to see if you were okay!
Mia
Do you want to come? I’d love to see you.
I’m not sure how I will tell him everything, but extending the invitation makes me feel more like myself than I have in the last twelve hours.
Will
Sure. I’ve got so many air-miles
Mia
Actually…how do you feel about a private jet? ; )
Will
you’re fucking joking?
they’ll let me use it?
no fucking way. YES
Mia
Abigail is going to call you with the details. Can you come today? Or are you working?
Will
I’ve never got dressed so fast in my fucking life, M.
get me on that PRIVATE JET!