I’d been watching her house. I saw it empty for a few days and then I saw the lights come on, the car in the driveway, the sight of a tired and pale woman rocking a baby in her arms walking back and forth in front of the window. The ceiling light illuminated the picture of motherhood in front of me.
Advertised it, even.
I saw her handsome husband leave for work each morning just before nine. He didn’t return at lunchtime. But he came home just after five – no working late with a newborn. I noticed that she was never dressed in time for him coming home. That she handed the baby to him when he walked in the door and he took up the task of walking in front of the window for a while, until it was time to close the curtains. The show ended for another day.
It had been ten days since I first saw them walking up and down in the living room. It was then I decided it wouldn’t be wise to leave it much longer. The day I’d been waiting for, planning for and praying for had come.
I’d stopped and bought a bunch of flowers. I’d coloured my hair red and that day I’d pulled it back into a bun. I’d put on a pair of reading glasses I’d bought in the chemist. It was a weak disguise, admittedly, but I hoped it would be enough to confuse her tired eyes.
I’d slipped into a dress, a coat and a pair of horrible sensible shoes – brown, laced – which I picked up in a charity shop. I could discard them as soon as I got away.
I parked my car two streets away. I had a large bag with me. A blanket in it. A folder. Maternity notes. She’d have had no reason to know or think they were mine and not hers.
I’d seen how tired she was. How her eyes were dead in her head from exhaustion. How she looked ahead, staring into space as she paced up and down and up and down in front of the window.
She was practically begging someone to take her child.
A girl.
My daughter.
I’d seen a pink balloon. Pink cards. Flowers – pink carnations. A pink blanket.
It was meant to be.
I knew it all along.
My Eliana was ready for me to bring her home.