6. Mia
Chapter six
Mia
I can’t sleep. I’ve wasted nearly an hour laying here, staring up at the ceiling. My parents, the money, having a brother, it’s all just too much.
The only thing I’ve decided so far is I want to be careful with this money. I probably won’t tell people about it—ever, most likely—but also, I won’t be doing anything drastic like quitting my job. Other than Will, I can’t bring myself to tell anyone. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want people to see me differently, and how could millions not make people feel differently? Will is the exception, of course. Will is always the exception; the one man who is a constant in my life. What’s the opposite of the one who got away? The one who never got close enough to get away? I kick the blankets off in my frustration.
I know I need to talk to my parents. Mum will be worried that she didn’t hear from me yesterday or today. But how can I? What if they’re upset that my birth parents left me money? What if they’re upset I accepted it? Should I have said no?
There are three messages from Will on my phone lock screen.
Will:
hey just checking in to make sure you’re okay
it’s a lot of news, so if you want to talk, you know where to find me
I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me, Mia. sleep well xx
The last message was received only a few minutes ago. I’m grateful he agreed to come. Not that it was a real question. Will is always there for me when I need him. Joel—my stupid ex Joel—might have come, if I’d begged, but he would have complained bitterly about having to drop his weekend plans, rather than just being there, supporting me like Will is. And I need the support right now. I just need to feel like something in my life is normal right now. I drop my phone on my stomach and sigh, scrubbing my hand across my face.
Maybe I need to bite the bullet and tell my parents. I do the mental time zone calculation. Almost eleven here, so almost ten back home. Late, but not too late to cold call my parents.
“Hi, Mum,” I say as soon as she picks up.
“Hi darling. Dad’s here with me too.” Of course he is. My parents are inseparable. It’s sweet, so long as you don’t compare your own relationship to theirs. I imagine they're sitting at the living room table together, probably doing a jigsaw puzzle or something equally wholesome.
“Hello, Mia. What’s going on?” Dad’s tone is brisk and to the point. My dad, Richard, has always had a sixth sense when it comes to me. Growing up, it was occasionally a blessing, but most often, a curse. It was great those few occasions when I was sitting through dinner with a giant lump in my throat, too nervous to bring something up. Less good when I was trying to hide a secret.
“When you adopted me, what did you know about my birth parents?”
Mum takes in a sharp breath, and I can almost imagine Dad looking over and giving her an encouraging nod. I love that about their relationship. Dad never takes over and speaks for Mum, but he’s always there, walking alongside her if that’s what she needs in the moment. It’s exactly what I want for myself. Someone to keep me grounded in a storm.
“Well, you know that we went through an agency to get you. Oh, Richie, do you remember how grateful we were? We cried and remember we went out to that lovely Italian restaurant to celebrate that night?” I look up at the ceiling, my phone resting on my stomach. I wish I’d spent more time teaching them how to video chat, I would kill to see them right now. Mum sniffs.
“We went to the hospital the day you were born. We walked in, just the two of us, not even knowing if we were going to become parents today, and walked out with you. A baby and all that responsibility.” Mum stops, sniffling. “That’s the thing about adoption they don’t tell you. It feels like it’s too good to be true, and it takes a long time to become real.”
Dad picks up from there. “We met the husband, your birth father. He was very polite, he gave you a kiss and a cuddle, then handed you over to your mother. He wished us luck, and made me promise we would look after you.”
I hear Dad sniff now, and it sets me off. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. I’m not usually a big crier (though I’ve been doing it a lot in the last 24 hours) but there’s something about my dad crying that gets me. I’ve heard this part of the story before, and I know the memories bring back feelings for my parents. Usually, I wouldn’t push it, but today I need to know.
“You didn’t meet my birth mother?”
“No, we chatted on the phone before we finalized everything. And after we brought you home, we talked on the phone a few times in the first few years, but after that, other than yearly photos until you were a teenager, we didn’t have much to do with them.” Mum noisily blows her nose then clears her throat. “I would have loved to, though. To thank them for the gift they gave us.”
“What did you know about them? Did you find out anything? Why they put me up for adoption?” I sit and rummage through my purse for a tissue, then wipe my eyes and nose.
Dad speaks slowly, as if trying to pull the threads of his memory together. “We knew they were an older couple. He was, at least. I think his name was Simon, if memory serves.”
I hear murmurings in the background, and an unexpected wave of homesickness tsunamis through me as I imagine them at the table, TV muted in the background.
“They had an older child, and he was at boarding school. That’s why we assumed they were older before we met Simon, do you remember, Rich?” Mum says. There’s a soft thump on the other end of the line. Someone must have dropped something.
“That’s right, in the first phone call we had with them after we found out from the agency that they had picked us, they told us about him. That’s why they said they chose us, because we were older, so they thought we would be good parents. I remember you crying for hours after that, Lisa, at the idea of sending Mia off to boarding school like they had with their son.” Dad is talking to Mum now, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“It was not hours, I’ll tell you that much,” Mum says, indignant. “I couldn’t imagine having this lovely little baby and sending them off for most of the year.”
“Hardly a baby.” Dad’s scoff is kind. “Wasn’t he sixteen or something?”
“All the same to me, love. We had been so desperate trying for you, then it took years trying to adopt before you came along, Mia. I just couldn’t imagine it.”
We fall into silence.
“Mum, remember how I told you I was meeting with the lawyer? The one I told you I was nervous about?” I ask.
“Yes, love,” she says, shushing Dad who is asking ‘what lawyer?’ in the background.
“It wasn’t work-related. Last night I came to Bern. It turns out my birth parents died quite recently. My birth mother about two years ago, and Simon, my birth father, about six months ago. And they left me something in their wills. A lot of money.”
I hadn’t noticed until now that I was wrapping my finger around the cord of the hood on my sweatshirt until my fingertip turned purple. Now it’s starting to ache. I release it, waiting for a response.
Mum sniffs at the other end of the line. “Sorry, Mia, I’m just so sad that you won’t have the opportunity to meet them. If that’s what you wanted.”
I hear footsteps, then a rasp of a tissue pulled from a box. Would I have wanted to meet them? I’m not so sure. I’ve never thought about it before. Not properly. But now they’re gone. And I will never have that opportunity.
“Thank you,” Mum says to Dad, then loudly blows her nose.
“Leaving you money wasn’t necessary, was it?” Dad says. Ever practical, is Dad. “They had already adopted you out. You’re our responsibility now. I suppose you’re an adult now, so you’re somewhat of your own responsibility, too,” he amends. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that he still considers me his until he said it.
Mum slurps her tea in the background. “It’s nice that they thought of you, though, isn’t it? Do you think they regretted the adoption? I’d feel so awful if they did.” Mum’s voice is shaky.
“No, love,” Dad says, his voice strong, reassuring. “I’m sure they did the best they could. They knew we would take good care of Mia.” He says it with such conviction, there’s no option but to believe him.
I nod, even though they can’t see me. “You have. The very best. The money they left. It’s a lot of money,” I tell them what Gerrard had told me.
Dad clears his throat, and says carefully, “Mia, love, have you considered this could be a scam? I’ve seen it on the ‘net. It’s fake money in your account, and the bank takes it back, but you’ve sent the money somewhere. Please tell me you haven’t sent that crook any money, love.” Dad is cross, as if seconds away from phoning my bank himself to report a scam.
“It’s real, Dad. It’s a real law firm, and before I do anything, I’ll be going to a real accountant back in London. But I’ve seen the paperwork myself.” It's true that I don’t understand all the paperwork yet, but there’s a lot of it. And from the parts I do understand, it looks very legit. It would be an incredible amount of paperwork to forge if it was in fact a scam.
My gut is telling me it’s real.
Dad is quiet.
Telling my parents has lifted a huge weight off my chest. Maybe it will be realistic to keep this from other people, but I was never going to be able to keep it from my family. I don’t know why I entertained the idea even for a second.
After a few moments, Mum blows her nose again, and I know she will have just tucked the used tissue into her sleeve like she always does.
She says quietly to Dad, “If they had money, why go through with the adoption?” I can’t make out Dad’s murmuring in the background. That is the exact question I have been asking myself.
Dad turns his attention back to me. “Well, love, that’s a lot of money, isn’t it? Are you planning to buy yourself something nice? A yacht?”
I laugh, and explain that’s precisely what Google tells someone not to do when they come into money.
“I’ve already booked an appointment with a financial advisor next week. And I promise, I won’t spend anything until I’ve thought about it and have a good investment plan.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Mia, you’re not alone in Bern, are you?” Mum seems almost panicked as she asks. “Dad and I can hop on a plane in the morning and come out there. This must be quite a shock.”
“No, Mum, no need. I asked Will to come out. He flew out this morning.” One of the good things about my parents living just out of London, and me still being such good friends with university buddies, is that they know my friends.
“What a good boy. I’m very glad he’s there with you, Mia,” Mum says. She likes Will, a lot. At least once every couple of months she reminds me how good looking he is—as if I need a reminder when I see him almost every day—and asks why we aren’t in a relationship. “You shouldn’t be alone right now, so I’m very pleased he’s keeping you company. He’s so good for you.” I roll my eyes, sitting up. She has been convinced there’s something more between us for years, that we are the perfect match, and she refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer.
When we hang up ten minutes later, I’m full of gratitude. My parents’ reaction was everything I needed, even if there is a nagging bit of worry in the back of my mind that they didn’t want to talk about it.
It’s also nice to have learned more about my birth parents. Unlike many other adopted kids, I’ve never been particularly curious about my adoption story. Maybe a little, about my birth family, but not about the process of the adoption. Perhaps because I’ve always known I was adopted, it hasn’t felt like there was much to wonder about. I’d always had the impression that if I ever asked, my parents would be open and tell me anything I wanted to know, like they did tonight. And in the back of my mind, I’d always been a little bit worried that if I wondered too much about my birth family, my parents would know, and be sad about it. But knowing now that my birth parents were older, and not struggling like I had imagined, paints quite a different picture to the one I had in my head growing up. I had always imagined that people who adopt out their babies are struggling young couples, who desperately wanted to keep baby-me, but couldn’t give me the life they wanted me to have. Now I have to face the fact that my reality is very different to that rosy picture I had painted for myself. My birth parents could have chosen to keep me. And instead, they chose to separate me from my brother.