The Letter

The letterbox clicked sharply as the letter slowly slid through and fell limply onto the mat, which weakly announced ‘WELCOME’ in ragged black writing. It lay there, glaringly white, formally rectangular. It was addressed to Ms Amber. - me. I turned away, trying to ignore it as the retreating footsteps faded, leaving me alone with my coffee and my conscience. I sat there for what seemed like hours, staring blindly over the rim of my mug, until the coffee inside was cold and greasy. The letter was still there in my mind, growing larger and larger as my thoughts skirted tentatively around it. Did I really want to know my real mother? Why did she give me away? What did she look like? Would she be pleased to see me? Or would she be angry and turn me away? The distant screech of brakes jolted me out of my reverie and I glanced in horror at the clock. I was late already and it was only my first day on the job! I ran out of the door, purposely ignoring the letter lying on the frayed mat. It was anything but welcome.

I had never wondered about it when I was young. Although I was tall and skinny with dark hair and pale skin, I didn’t wonder why my family were all short, fair and, well, round I suppose. In all the family photos I stuck out like a sore thumb but for some reason it never worried me. I was proud to be individual. Mum said…No, Sue said that it was my great-great-grandfather’s genes on my Dad’s sides. It never even crossed my mind that she was joking. Perhaps I was too young, or just avoiding the obvious truth. I only discovered the full story when I was twelve.

It was a hot, claustrophobic sort of day in late June and I was searching for old photos of my family for a school project on family trees, when a rolled up, ragged piece of paper fell out of the side of Mum’s drawer. It was my birth certificate, it had to be – the date and everything was correct, but it was not my name, it was not my parents. This could NOT be happening. This kind of thing only happened in soaps. But there was no dramatic music, no close-up camera angles, just plain old me frozen in shock and bewilderment. It was most definitely happening, whether I liked it or not.

From that moment on, it felt like there was a placard around my neck, labelling me ‘ADOPTED’. I was an outsider in my own home. It felt like a strange girl called ‘Amber Rose Velara’ had replaced ordinary, contented ‘Jane Jones’ in her perfect life with her perfect family. Nothing could ever be the same. I left home at the first possible moment.

It all seems so long ago now, but I have forgotten the look on Mum…Sue’s face when I walked out of the door. She was not angry, or confused, she just stood there with such a deep hurt in her eyes that it felt like I was the worst person in the world. I never ever thought I would go back, but now it seemed like the right thing to do. I was so confused.

All day at work, the letter was there. It followed me wherever I went, and I could not even conduct a simple conversation without drifting off into distraction. What did it say? What should I do? Should I open it? Would it be right? The questions whirled around and around my head until I was dizzy and the angel and devil on my shoulders were having a full-out riot. At the end of the day, my supervisor, Mrs. Lancey, took me to one side and said kindly, “I notice you’ve been a little, um, distracted today dear. I’m not here to interfere, but I suggest you face up to whatever your little problem is, or it will affect your work. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think”. I had a nagging feeling she was right but I just could not decide. At the time when I started enquiring, I had still been angry with Mum…Sue for deceiving me and I thought that finding my birth mother would sort out all of my problems. Now, I wasn’t so sure, and it seemed like treachery. I walked the streets for hours, thinking and worrying until the rain began to fall. I hailed a taxi and collapsed gratefully onto the soft leather seats.

When I was tiny, I once had a pink birthday party. The cake was pink, the balloons were pink, the presents were pink, even the cocktail sticks were pink! I remembered opening the largest present, wrapped in pink shimmery paper, which I had saved until the very last with shaking hands I untied the bow and peeled the paper away carefully. My feeling of excitement was immense, I felt like I was about to live my wildest dreams. Inside, I discovered the most gorgeous pink dress, made of silk and sequins. It was every little girl’s ambition to own a dress like that. When I put it on, I felt like Princess of the World. I still had that same dress now, hanging forgotten, or at least ignored, in the very back of my wardrobe. At that moment I couldn’t believe there was a better mother than mine in the whole wide world. I loved her so much then. Did I love her now?

Suddenly I found myself standing at the door to my house, the shiny knocker reflecting my face, stretched in unusual shapes, all out of proportion. Was it me? Or was it someone else pretending to be me?? I shook myself. This was getting ridiculous. I was hallucinating about conspiracy theories and talking to a brass doorknocker! I fumbled in my bag for my key and opened the door uncertainly. The letter was still there, in exactly the same place. It had not grown to the massive proportions I had imagined, it had not grown legs and walked. Nor had it disappeared like I so fervently wished it had. I took a deep breath, bent down and picked it up. It felt light, small. Who would think that such a small piece of paper could cause so much trouble? I made my way along the dim hall, past the battered sofa and the ragged rug and into the kitchen, which had certainly seen better days. With a deep sigh I sat down on an old plastic chair, which creaked ominously, and remembered my home.

The small black gate always creaked in a friendly way as you swung it wide open and stepped onto the concrete path. There were always bright, cheery flowers either side of the path, even in winter when the cold air bit through your blue school jumper and grey skirt. The shiny blue door had a silver sign on it, saying ‘Millbrook’, and a gold-coloured knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. When I was very young, I thought it was a real lion and always approached it with great caution in case it leaped off the door and ate me up. Dad said I read too many storybooks! Every day when I walked home from school, I would knock twice and almost immediately the door would open, revealing Mum’s smiling face. There was always a vase of fresh flowers perched on the hall table, and the sweet smell would permeate the house. The soft, deep carpet was a pale cream and we always had to remove our shoes when we came in. It seemed stupid at the time. Now my bedraggled carpet wouldn’t notice if you trod all over it. That carpet had been a sea, a jungle, a desert to me. The wide stairs were unexplored mountain ranges, perfect for intrepid explorers. My older brothers were far too old for my games but they always played along and encouraged me in my efforts to cross the Sahara or scale the Himalayas.

I remember once when I tried to slide down the banisters like my older brothers did when they thought Mum wasn’t watching. I was so envious of the graceful way they glided down and leaped off the end to land lightly in the hall. It seemed a very long way down from the top. I hauled myself onto the banister, trembling with excitement and fear, closed my eyes, then let go. I was fine until I reached the bottom. As the air rushed past my face, it occurred to me that I should open my eyes. The door was rushing towards me, and then suddenly I reached the end and flew off, straight into Mum’s expensive new vase. I found myself in a bruised heap on the floor, surrounded by broken china and flowers strewn all over the place. I was more surprised than anything. Then dad came through the door, tripped over me and went headlong into the kitchen where Mum was cooking dinner. He didn’t stop laughing for hours. I was terrified of what my punishment would be, but Mum just laughed, told me to clear up the mess and be more careful next time I decided to copy my brothers’ antics. I never tried sliding down there again.

The heating clicked on with a gurgle and a splutter in my damp kitchen. I picked up the envelope off the rickety table and glanced at the typed, impersonal letters in staid lines. Ms A.. That was not my name and never would be, and in that moment I knew exactly what to do with the letter.

As the flames licked hungrily around the slowly curling envelope, I watched until every last bit of it had turned to powdery grey ash, then I picked up the phone. It was time to face up to my problems. “Hi ...Mum, it’s me. Jane. I know it’s been a while, but I want to know if you can forgive me.”