Page 106 of The Unplanned Wedding

"It’s my fault; sorry, he took me by surprise." I hold out my palm, and he sniffs it. Then he licks my fingers, and I smile. "He’s adorable."

She looks at her dog. "He’s a rescue, and from the day he arrived, he changed my life." Her features soften. Then she clears her throat and looks at me. "You’re my daughter."

Her words hit me in the chest. I take another step back, or would, if not for my husband’s grip on my shoulders stopping me. He must sense the turmoil in me, for he holds out his hand. "Knox Davenport, and this is my wife June Donnelly Davenport."

She buries her fingers in Bruno's fur and scratches behind his ears, crooning, "It's okay; it's okay." I can tell, it's as much to calm her nerves as it is for him. Slowly, she smiles and reaches out to shake my husband’s hand. "Claire Gilbert."

So, that was my original surname? It doesn’t feel familiar, at all. In fact, I don’t feel anything for it. My mother’s name, though… That was in the 'life story book' Irene once handed to me. She’d pieced it together, based on the file she’d received from social services. That book was part of my nighttime reading throughout my growing years. Every time I had questions, Irene would read it with me. She explained how I came to be with her, and that primal wound inside me would be filled, temporarily. Only, it never went away.

Now, I follow the woman who possibly has answers to so many of my questions. She leads us to the living room, which is an open plan, separated from the adjoining kitchen by a breakfast counter.

The decor is modern and comfortable. Wooden floors, deep sofas with cushions, a modern television hung on the wall above the fireplace. There are white and blue curtains at the windows of the living room, through which a backyard is visible. There are paintings—all abstracts—on the walls, but no photographs of family. One wall has a bookshelf overflowing with books, and there are more books in a stack next to it, pushed up against one wall.

There’s no sign of dust anywhere. Everything is sparkling, and there’s a vase full of flowers on one end of the breakfast bar. The scent of roses and lilies fills the air. It’s not overpowering, but soothing. In fact, the entire space has a peaceful feeling about it. Some of the tension drains from my shoulders.

She walks straight through to the kitchen and begins to fill a pot with water. "I’m going to makes us some tea." She flicks the kettle on and busies herself with taking down cups from the shelves, then turns to look at us. "You will have some tea, won’t you? Goodness, I should have checked first. I just assumed"—she shakes her head—"I’m sorry, I’m more thrown than I realized."

"Me too." I walk over to join her. "Why don’t I make the tea?"

Standing so close to her, I realize, I’m a couple of inches taller than her, probably because I’m wearing stilettos. But our frame is similar. I’m not a slim person, and neither is my mother. She’s not overweight either, and her figure is youthful and curvy, similar to mine. She wears her blonde hair piled it on her head in a fashion I often prefer. And her eyes—her brown eyes—so like mine, gleam with intelligence. She’s also wearing spectacles. I’ve always hated that I was short-sighted, but now it makes me feel a kinship with the woman who birthed me.

She looks well put together. And I... I’m not sure what I expected? That she’d be a sad, lonely person? Someone who spent her every waking moment thinking about the daughter she gave up?Did she think of me at all?

Perhaps, she sees some of my questions in my eyes, for her own grow watery. She sniffs, then blinks away her tears, and her lips curve in a gentle smile. "The teabags are in that shelf"—she gestures to the one above me on my right—"and the milk is in the fridge. If you need sugar?—"

"I don’t."

She looks at me with a hint of surprise and recognition. "I don’t either. I have a sweet tooth, but when it comes to my tea, I prefer the natural bitter taste."

"Me too," I swallow.This…this is what I’ve been looking for.This feeling of being recognized. Of seeing myself in the face of another. Of being mirrored in some form. All my life, I’ve searched for this feeling of kinship. No matter, that I love Irene and my siblings, I’ve always felt something was missing. Despite the fact that I’ve resented my biological mother for giving me up, I’ve always known I needed to meet her face-to-face, in order to move on. Now that I’m here, though, all those questions have vanished. Everything I thought I wanted to ask her? All of that seems so unimportant.

My husband clears his throat. "Why don’t I take Bruno for a walk while the two of you catch up."

"Thank you." She gazes at Knox with a grateful look on her features. "If you don’t mind…" She disappears inside the house and re-emerges with a leash that she hooks onto his collar. She hands the leash over to Knox. "There’s a park at the end of the road."

"I’m sure I’ll find it okay. Come on, boy." He hooks the leash onto Bruno’s collar. The dog woofs and prances about, evidently sensing the outing and happy to follow him.

My husband leads him over to me. He kisses my forehead. "I’ll be a phone call away, if you need anything." He surveys me closely. "You okay?"

"Yes." I lean up on tiptoes and, not caring that Claire is watching, I press my lips to his. "Thanks."

He kisses me back, then heads for the door.

"He’s a good man," Claire says softly. "He obviously loves you very much."

“He does.”Even though he hasn’t said it to me yet, I know he does.I could see it in his features when he wanted to accompany me in here. I've seen it in his eyes when he makes love to me. And I knew it when he said,As you wish.So, why hasn’t he said the actual words yet?Tears prick my eyes, and I realize I’m much more emotionally fragile than I thought.

My husband was right; I couldn’t have done this on my own. Just knowing he’s nearby gives me the strength to keep this conversation going. Never mind the fact that he hasn’t come clean about his feelings which, along with the shock of meeting my birth mother, is making me feel too vulnerable. I clear my throat. "I’ll uh—make the tea."

I hear her move away, then the scrape of a chair against the floor as she seats herself.

I’m conscious of her watching me as I pour the hot water onto the teabags, then retrieve the milk from the fridge. I pour a little milk into both cups, then take a spoon and stir the tea.

"Leave the teabag in," she instructs.

I stiffen, then turn slowly to look at her. "That’s how I also take my tea," I whisper.

A teardrop rolls down her cheek. I hold back a sniffle and carry bothcups over to the dining table. We sip our tea for a few seconds. I look up. "I?—"

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