Page 1 of All Your Life

Prologue

AUDREY HAMILTON

When did everything change?

She used to snuggle in so close it was hard to tell where I ended and she began. And the way she used to look at me? I was this wonderful creature, the center of her universe. She’d sit perched on my bed, watching me put on makeup and jewelry, taking it all in as if she wanted nothing more than to be me someday.

“You’re so pretty, Mommy.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

She still says that last one, but Mommy has been shortened to Mom, and her delivery is routine, just a task to cross off her list. Brushes her teeth, pokes her head in the doorway, tells each of us goodnight and that she loves us.

When did I become ridiculous in her eyes? Everything I do is embarrassing, everything I say is wrong. It’s like navigating a minefield, and the eye rolls coupled with her disappointed sighs have blown me to bits more times than I’d care to admit.

He tells me it’s just the teenage years, it will pass, I’m being too sensitive—I’ve heard it all. He doesn’t understand, and how could he? She still smiles when she tells her father she loves him, still asks him to come to the stables with her, still abandons what she’s doing and hops off the couch if he asks her to ride into town with him to run errands. A new wardrobe, a spa day, ditching school for a Wednesday matinee on Broadway—she won’t bite. No, whenIsuggest any kind of outing she has too much schoolwork, and how can I argue with that?

I’d love to chalk it up to adolescent angst, but I can’t.

She sees through me, examines me and finds me lacking. It’s the same way I looked at my own mother years ago. My life would be more, I’d do better, climb higher. I looked at my mother and saw a life with no meaning. She didn’t earn, didn’t create, didn’t dream. I would be different. Yet here I am, a few months shy of fifty, and what have I accomplished? I live in a beautiful home, in a neighborhood with high manicured hedges and long driveways, with staff arriving on alternate days to handle the gardening, upkeep and cleaning. I traded in my dreams, my aspirations and my career for the comfortable life I now live.

I tell myself that I love my life, but that sparkle I used to see when I caught my reflection in the mirror isn’t there anymore. I have everything I thought I ever wanted: the handsome, successful man, the beautiful child, the perfect family. But it’s not enough. Now when I look in the mirror and force myself to take a long, hard look, I feel hollow.

I feel unnecessary.

My marriage is somewhat of an achievement, especially if I’m comparing us to the other couples we know. We share a deep, abiding love, there is mutual respect and the sex is still decent, so I see us as better than most in that regard. I used to view parenthood in that same way: a status I’d achieved and something I was good at. Especially since our road to becoming parents was a years-long, uphill battle that we ultimately won. But when that child begins to look at you with an expression that manages to be both dismissive and pitying, it’s impossible to feel successful.

Does she know?

It’s become that thing we don’t talk about. I’m convinced every family has one. In my family it was infidelity, in my husband’s family it was the decades-long rift between his mother and his aunt that they took to their graves.

We always planned to tell her. When she was six, seven...We reasoned that it would only confuse her. When she was nine, ten, eleven...We were so blissfully happy it was something I wouldn’t even consider. When she was twelve, thirteen...I told my husband it would only hurt her. And more recently, when she was changing right before my very eyes, I told myself to hold on tight, with everything I had. She was ours,ourdaughter.

Not hers.

I used to dig that envelope out every once in a while, study the picture the social worker handed over as my husband waited for me by the elevators with our precious newborn strapped into her top-of-the-line car seat. She was only a few years older than Sarah is now. The realization makes me shudder.

Back on that hot August morning I felt victorious, absconding with our treasure. I saw that girl in the drab hospital gown as a threat, as someone who could change her mind and crush me. After everything we’d endured on the road to becoming parents, I didn’t think I could survive another loss. I never truly knew the meaning of the word relieved until the waiting period had expired and I was certain she had no recourse, no way of taking her away from us.

It’s in my nightstand now. Sarah asking me out of the blue to tell her about the day she was born made me fish it out, but only after I was sure she was asleep for the night. It’s grainy and unfocused, but it takes me right back to that spot in the corridor where I stood with shaking hands.

The Kate Spade sleeveless sheath, a navy cardigan draped over my shoulders, brand-new Chanel loafers and my lucky pearl studs. It’s ridiculous that I remember every detail of what I wore, but not surprising given the amount of thought I put into that outfit. I wanted our outward appearance to assure anyone who mattered that we were established, deserving, and would give this child a good home. No, not just agoodhome, the best kind of upbringing imaginable. I wanted everyone: the social workers, nurses, maybe even the birth mother herself, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this child would be better off with us.

The social worker told me she didn’t even want tolook at the baby, let alone hold her.It took some convincing, she said. I had to suppress my urge to slap the woman. Why on Earth would she want her to hold my baby, to—God forbid—bond with her? I knew the well-meaning woman was giving the girl an opportunity to change her mind, but that was obviously the last thing I wanted.

Holding my gaze, the social worker handed over the Polaroid she’d snapped. I guess since the girl’s face wasn’t visible there was no breach of confidentiality, but it wasn’t right. I was tempted to voice my disapproval, but thought better of it as I took the picture and carefully slid it into my purse.

I didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for her then, not one. But looking at that snapshot now, I’m back in that moment and feel the loss as if it’s me curled up on the bed.

Why do I keep referring to the subject of the picture asthe girl,she,her, when there’s no secret? I know her name. I know herfullname, her date of birth, where she attended university, her blood type and pertinent medical history. And with the background check we conducted on her, I could go on, believe me.

That day in the hospital, I circled back for one last look at Grace Dawson. Like a Peeping Tom I stood at a distance, sneaking a look while trying to be discreet and nonchalant. She was facing the wall, hiding herself. Hiding tears? Yes, her shoulders were shaking and her arms were wrapped tight around her middle. She was alone. No mother to hold her hand, no boy to shoulder this ache with her, no friends.

I didn’t think much of her. Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful, but not to her. I was grateful for this blessing, for this happy turn of events, but in no way did I feel personally indebted to this girl, and I certainly didn’t take a moment to acknowledge what she was sacrificing. Honestly, I looked down on her, wondered what kind of person could sign those papers. Not only signing away her child, but signing an agreement that was basically a pledge to never interfere in our lives. Who knows if it was even legally binding.

Maybe she was happy to get on with her life and put it all behind her. That’s what I told myself back then, and I do hope that was the case. I don’t like to think of her as a young woman with regrets, sadness, or a longing for the child she gave away.

The child she gave to me.

---