The Secret Daughter by Kelly Rimmer

table and we all leaned this way and that to talk around it, discussing world events and the theatre, but every now and again I felt like the elephant might have just trumpeted a reminder to us that he was in fact there, and awaiting our attention. The trumpets were disguised as inexplicably tense statements and guilty glances, but I recognised them for what they were. Still, I forced myself to stay on topic, to avoid that nasty a -word, and most importantly to avoid another scene. When our orders arrived, I ate my pancakes; every last mouthful.
    When I was a child, Mum had drilled into me that restaurants always serve too much food, and that it is proper manners to leave something on your plate. I looked over to see a perfect quarter of her egg white omelette resting on her plate beside her carefully aligned knife and fork. There was something so enraging about that – the healthy, pleasure-free choice of breakfast food, the sharp edges of her leftovers, and the cleanness of her plate around them. How many times had I felt the stab of shame when we ate out – that I wanted to eat my entire serving, and that she never even seemed tempted to? How many times had I stared at my body in the mirror and wished that I’d inherited her lightning-fast metabolism, or even wondered if I actually had inherited her blessed genes, but my weight loss efforts were hampered by a disgusting lack of self-control?
    I stared right at my mother’s face, and without breaking that gaze I reached over to pick up Ted’s leftover toast, and then I took a determined, satisfying and unnecessarily noisy crunch of it. I’ve always been an emotional eater, and it was inevitable that I’d gorge myself that day, when it felt like my emotions were so out of control that they’d never be sated again.
    We’d ordered a second round of coffees and swapped the papers all the way around the table when I felt it was time to push the issue again. I felt I’d done some kind of penance, some pretence of happy family time just as my parents wanted, but it was nearly time to go home anyway and if things became awkward again, so be it .
    ‘I know this is really difficult for everyone, and I’m trying to be mature about it, but I just want to understand. You seem so sure that I won’t be able to find her, but surely you have some idea …’
    ‘I don’t know what else you want from us, Sabina. I don’t know what else you think we can tell you,’ Dad said. I tried not to glare at him.
    ‘Well, I want you to know that I’ve decided to try to track her down anyway.’
    ‘Why can’t you just trust us when we tell you that is not going to be possible?’ Dad was frustrated, but calm. I hated the steely quality to his voice, the flat finality in the way he politely enunciated a question, but intended a statement to wrap up the conversation.
    ‘I just need to try.’
    ‘Then, by all means, try, but you won’t get anywhere. We’ve told you, there are no records. Megan worked in the home; if there was anything recorded, we’d know about it. And if we knew who she was, we’d tell you. From your birth you’ve been ours , and there’s nothing more to add to that.’
    ‘I’m going to contact an organisation that helps adoptees find their families,’ I said, hesitantly, and Dad’s hand shot out as if he was stopping traffic.
    ‘ We are your family, Sabina.’
    ‘Dad!’ I groaned in frustration. ‘Of course you are. But I probably have another family out there, I just want to see if I can find out some further information about them. I was actually hoping, Mum, that you might come with me to meet with the social workers there.’
    I hadn’t been hoping that at all. It was an impulsive test, to see if she’d support me.
    ‘ No ,’ Dad said, and I raised my eyebrows at him.
    ‘Mum can speak for herself, Dad.’ I tried to say the words gently, but as soon as I opened my mouth he gave a fierce shake of his head.
    ‘ No , Sabina, I won’t allow it.