The Letter Between Us

Claire Bennett had learned to keep her office quiet without making it feel empty. The clock above the bookcase ticked softly, the air conditioner hummed, and the small fountain on the side table moved water over smooth stones. Nothing in the room demanded attention. That was how she liked it. At forty-three, Claire had spent half her adult life helping people find words for things they had avoided saying. She was good at it. Patients trusted her because she did not rush to fill silence, and because she never pretended that understanding a problem was the same as solving it. She knew how to sit with grief without trying to make it useful. She knew how to let anger have its say. She was less skilled at offering herself the same patience. “Your three o’clock cancelled,” Naomi said from the doorway. Claire’s assistant had worked with her for eight years and could read her moods from the way she arranged a pen. “And the adoption coordinator called again.” Claire looked up from the notes she was reviewing. “Again?” “She said she’d prefer to speak to you directly. It’s about the next stage.” “Did she say what the next stage is?” “No. I asked. She said she’d explain when you call.” Claire placed her pen parallel to the edge of the folder. “All right. Put her through.” Naomi didn’t move. “You can call her after you’ve eaten something.” “I had breakfast.” “Coffee isn’t breakfast.” “It had milk in it.” “That is not a defence.” Claire almost smiled. Naomi had earned the right to be blunt, though Claire rarely admitted how much she appreciated it. “I’ll eat after the call.” Naomi gave her a look that said she had heard this before, and left the door open behind her. The coordinator, Margaret Ellis, answered on the second ring. Her voice was warm and brisk, the voice of a woman who had learned to be kind without making promises she couldn’t keep. “Claire, thank you for calling back. I wanted to let you know that we’ve reviewed your application and would like to invite you to a matching information session.” “Matching?” Claire repeated. “It doesn’t mean a match has been made. It means you’re ready to learn how the next part works. We have a few prospective parents attending, and we’ll talk about the children currently waiting, the practical side of placement, and what happens when a family is identified.” Claire reached for the notebook she kept beside the telephone. She wrote the date, although she knew she would remember it. “When is the session?” “Thursday at ten, at the centre.” “I can be there.” “Good. There is one other thing. The session is shared. You’ll meet other applicants, and we ask everyone to respect one another’s privacy.” “Of course.” “Some people find it helpful to speak with others who are at the same stage. Others prefer to listen. You don’t have to say anything you’re not comfortable sharing.” Claire thanked her and ended the call. For a few seconds she stayed still, looking at the page where she had written: Thursday, 10 a.m. The handwriting was neat, the ink dark. She put a small box around the time, then closed the notebook. She had wanted to adopt for years. At first the thought had seemed too large to touch. Then it became something she could consider on good days, when she had slept well and the past felt far enough away to be a story that belonged to someone else. Eventually it became a decision she could say aloud. She had made it through the interviews, the forms, the home assessment, and the questions that were asked gently but still found their way under her skin. Why adoption? What did family mean to her? How would she respond if a child struggled to trust her? What support did she have? What would she tell the child about their birth family? She had answered honestly. She had not told them everything. There were parts of her life she could explain in clinical language, and other parts that resisted being arranged into a tidy account. She could say that she had experienced a traumatic loss. She could say she had worked through it in therapy. She could say she had built a full life afterwards. All of those statements were true. None of them explained why, on certain nights, she still woke with her heart racing because she had dreamed she was standing outside a locked bedroom door. Claire stood, walked to the window, and lifted one slat of the blind. Below, traffic crawled along the road. A woman in a yellow dress hurried across the crossing, one hand holding down her hat. A delivery rider stopped beside a bus and checked his phone. Ordinary life continued with a confidence Claire sometimes envied. She returned to her desk and opened the folder marked ADOPTION. The first page held her application details. The second held the report from her home visit. At the back, tucked between two forms, was a photograph she had not looked at for months. Lily was eighteen months old in the picture. She had round cheeks, a serious expression, and a curl that refused to stay behind her ear. Claire had taken the photograph on a Sunday morning when Daniel was trying to make pancakes and Lily kept reaching for the bowl. The kitchen was a mess. Daniel had flour on his shirt. Lily had a spot of batter on her nose. Claire remembered laughing so hard that she had to sit down. She put the photograph back before the memory could become a place she lived in. That evening she went home to a quiet flat with pale walls, a small balcony, and more books than she had shelves for. She heated soup, ate half of it, and left the bowl in the sink. Then she sat on the sofa with the adoption folder on her lap. She had prepared the spare room carefully. A single bed stood against the wall, with a new mattress still wrapped in plastic. She had painted the room a soft green, then worried it might be too much colour, then decided a child deserved more than beige. A low shelf held picture books, puzzles, and a wooden toy train she had bought before she had been approved to move forward. She had told herself it was practical to be prepared. She knew it was also hope, and she had not wanted to name it. Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister asked if she was free on Sunday. Claire replied that she was, then opened the photograph of the spare room she had sent her sister weeks earlier. “Looks like someone is expected,” her sister had written. Claire had typed, “Not yet,” and deleted it. She eventually replied with a heart. She went to bed early but did not sleep straight away. When she closed her eyes, she saw the room as it had been before: the small cot, the yellow blanket, the night-light shaped like a moon. She opened her eyes and counted the sounds around her until the memory settled. On Thursday she would go to the centre. She would listen. She would ask the questions she needed to ask. She would not allow herself to turn a possibility into a promise. That was the plan. She had no idea that Daniel Hayes would be in the room.