A Child of My Own

by Vanessa Carnevale

Genres: Family Life; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

‘I devoured this novel whole in one sitting. My God what a ride… it broke my heart… A definite must read.’ Marmite Miss ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

As I watch her walk away, an arm raised to her face as she wipes tears from her eyes, I wonder if I really can go through losing her again. Because if I do this, I might gain a child, but I’ll lose her in the process. Isla and Ben are devoted parents to their beloved daughter, Reese. She is their little miracle, the child they thought they’d never have until donors made her existence possible. But Isla has never told Reese about her biological parents. She wants to be honest with her daughter, but can she bear to open up old wounds? Then Isla receives a call from Lucy, once her closest friend, and it seems she may need to make a decision sooner than she thought. They haven’t spoken in almost ten years, but Lucy has devastating news: she has lost her beloved husband Nate, just after they decided they wanted to become parents after all. Heartbroken for her friend, Isla welcomes Lucy back into her life. But then Lucy comes to Isla with a request that changes everything. If Lucy gets what she wants, Isla’s perfect family could be destroyed. But would she deny the woman who helped her become a mother the chance for her own happiness? A Child of My Own is a heartbreaking, gripping and emotional story about motherhood, loss and friendship, perfect for fans of Jodi Picoult, Kelly Rimmer and Kate Hewitt. Why readers love A Child of My Own : ‘ Unforgettable… I literally could not put this book down… You will need to lock yourself away and clear your diary as you will not be able to look up until you’ve reached the end… order yourself a bumper pack of tissues.’ On The Shelf Books ‘ I devoured this novel whole in one sitting. My God what a ride… it broke my heart… I cried and it takes a lot for a book to make me cry. A definite must read novel for 2021.’ NetGalley reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Wow keep the tissues handy… This book will make you laugh and cry but also just fill your heart with love and friendship.’ NetGalley reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Grabbed me by the heart and wouldn't let go… emotional and passionate.’ Yaya Reads Lots of Books ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Spectacular and emotional… I was spellbound; Carnevale was instantly able to grab my attention and hold it for the entire plot! Her characters are so realistic you'll feel they are your friends, too. ’ Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ This book had me go through every emotion possible… I was in tears at some points and smiling at other points... It really was a rollercoaster… Absolutely brilliant!’ Stressed Rach ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Such a moving and emotional book, I absolutely loved every second of it… Immediately, I was pulled into this story, and totally consumed by it… I adored this stunning book.’ Sibzzreads ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ I cried like a baby… I really loved it... This is an emotional roller-coaster and a real tear-jerker.’ The Book Lovers Boudoir ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Pulled on my heart strings from the first page until the last. I went through every rollercoaster of emotions that both couples experienced. I cried... phenomenal.’ Cait is Booked

Release date: March 5, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Five weeks shy of Christmas, Nate lifts me in his arms to get the last bauble on the tree. We both take a step back to admire it. I had been searching for those snow-filled baubles since June, finally tracking them down in Rüdesheim am Rhein, a small town in Germany. Amazingly, they have travelled 16,000 thousand kilometres to Australia and arrived intact. Now, they catch the light and cast tiny rainbows on the walls, worth every bit the small fortune they’ve cost me. It looks like the kind of tree you’d see in an upscale department store. I catch myself smiling at it – or, rather, grinning. I glance over at Nate, who is standing beside me, beaming.

‘I have a surprise for you.’ He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands me a torn-out page from a travel brochure. ‘How do you feel about a White Christmas this year?’

I smooth the page out and take in the images of snow-capped mountains and a street that looks like a scene out of a vintage snow globe, with a horse and cart to boot. With a gold Sharpie, Nate has scribbled some dates onto the page.

‘Chamonix? Leaving next week?’

He nods, satisfied with himself.

We’ve just come out the other side of a three-month renovation of the place we’ll call home for the foreseeable future – a two-storey Californian bungalow in our dream suburb of Balwyn. We surpassed our initial budget by twenty-eight per cent, and our second budget by thirty-five per cent. I was on a first-name basis with the local store managers at Bunnings, Pottery Barn and Provincial Home Living. There is no doubt in my mind that the Dulux paint guys were expecting an invite to our housewarming barbecue as a thank you for all their hard work – aka patience with me – while I spent several months ferrying sample pots of paint between the store and home until blush-obsessed me landed on the colour: Elation. Which was not blush at all but a muted pastel blue that Nate said was ‘just blue’.

It wasn’t ‘just blue’, I told him. Nothing is ever just something. For instance, our renovation wasn’t just a renovation. It was a commitment to the next chapter in our lives. It was a statement. One that said we were in this for the long haul, that neither of us had any desire to be checking out soon. No, this house, our house, is going to be the place where we create a life for ourselves that includes all the things we love: strolling on the beach on Saturdays, winery hopping on Sundays – and despite my mother’s deepest wish for us, our future does not involve making babies.

‘But how can we afford this? We’ve spent all this money on the house and—’

Nate presses a finger against my lips. ‘I’ve been saving up. Plus, we have loads of frequent flyer points.’

‘Are you sure?’

He tilts his head. Trust me. Of course he’s sure.

I plant a kiss on his lips. ‘This is the best Christmas present ever. Aside from the subway tiles in the kitchen.’ I mean this. The subway tiles are really something. And so is Chamonix in winter.

Nate smiles, his lips pressing against mine. He smells like mint and cardamom – his favourite aftershave that no matter the time of day makes it seem like he’s just walked out of the shower. ‘Nothing is sexier than subway tiles in the kitchen.’

He pulls away, but not completely, and for a few moments he stands there, gazing into my eyes like he used to when we first met.

I squint at him. ‘Is my husband going all romantic on me?’

‘Just thinking about how lucky I am – how lucky we are.’ He reaches for the switch and flicks the tree lights on. It sparks to life, golden flickers starting at the base and working their way up to the peak and back again.

‘We were lucky. You were lucky,’ I say.

‘What if it wasn’t luck?’ comes his reply.

‘How else would you describe it?’

‘Fate.’

‘Fate?’

‘Yep.’

And then, right after that unremarkable ‘yep’, Nate chooses this very moment to tell me he’s quit his job. Of course those aren’t his exact words. His exact words are, ‘It’s funny how almost losing your life makes you rethink your priorities.’ Which, coming from Nate, is jaw-droppingly unbelievable since this is a man who risks his life almost every time he goes to work.

Nate’s career as a photojournalist means he is often away from home for weeks at a time. Over the years he’s experienced a broken leg, a fractured collarbone, an emergency helicopter landing, two cases of frostbite and a kidnapping in Fallujah that lasted the longest seventy-two hours of my life. He’s stayed in a hotel surrounded by rebels, been bitten by a snake, chased by a wild elephant, and while it is all for the sake of capturing humanity, truth and beauty on film, it isn’t exactly the kind of job that falls under the ‘family-friendly’ banner; I’ve often wondered if it can even be classified as ‘marriage-friendly’. Somehow we’ve made it work, and I’ve made as much peace as a loving wife can with the fact that Nate’s job often involves a certain level of risk that would make most people uncomfortable. He has travelled to some of the most dangerous places on earth in the fourteen years I’ve known him, but nothing prepared me for the call I received six months ago.

Stuart, a guy on Nate’s crew, delivered the news over a crackling phone line. I could barely make out his voice. Nate had been involved in a diving accident. His rebreather had failed to keep delivering oxygen. He’d lost consciousness. Under water.

And then the phone cut out.

Later, I learnt that the crew had managed to resuscitate him, but we all knew what a close call it had been – even if Nate, until this moment, has said little to acknowledge it. He simply came home and said he was taking the rest of the year off. We bought a fixer-upper. A week after we settled on the house, he submitted plans to council for renovations, and a week after they’d been approved, he started knocking down walls.

And now, here he is talking about priorities, and I am pretty certain he isn’t referring to the walls needing an undercoat before we splash the ‘just blue’ Elation on them.

‘What kind of priorities? Because if you’re thinking of knocking out the sunroom wall, I don’t think I have it in me.’

The sunroom wall has been contentious. Knocking it out would mean a much larger sunroom. Leaving it equates to cosy. We’ve agreed on cosy.

‘Part of me thinks it might finally be time to settle down, to move on to the next phase in our lives,’ he continues, in a way that is wholly out of character for him. Nate is not of the planning-the-next-stage-of-our-lives variety. No, he is more of the let’s-live-life-today-and-work-it-out-tomorrow variety… well, tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

‘The next phase?’

‘A baby.’

‘A what?’ Suddenly, those blinking Christmas lights seem more distracting than mesmerising.

‘You know – a little person, grows in there.’ He points to my midsection.

I laugh it off. Well, more like guffaw. Because, really, what other option do I have? This is borderline ridiculous. And Nate doesn’t even break a smile. Sometimes keeping up with him feels like a full-time job. That’s the thing about him – he is full of surprises.

‘What have you done with my husband?’

‘I think I left part of him off the coast of Florida when I flatlined.’ He helps himself to a candy cane hanging off the tree and starts unwrapping it.

‘A baby.’

‘Large head, button nose. Hopefully eyes like her mother.’ He pops the candy cane into his mouth and snaps off a piece. He’s smiling now.

‘Sleepless nights.’

‘Ball games. Bike rides. Sport matches.’

‘Babies are expensive,’ I counter.

‘Lucky we have savings.’

This is debatable, given the budget blowout and the fact I’ve already started buying new furniture. Besides, I’m on a career break. Up until recently I worked as a travel presenter for a small TV network. The show I’d been contracted on came to an end, so now, after spending years of my life in hotels and airports, I’m officially out of work and in the process of deciding whether to turn my hand to something else.

‘You’re supposed to be going back to work in February. The Alaska trip. You’ll be away for weeks. When would we even…?’

Nate crunches the candy between his teeth. ‘Quit my job, remember?’

I let out a sigh. No, I can’t keep up with him. ‘What are you planning to do instead?’

‘Another fixer-upper.’

‘Oh,’ is the only response I manage to summon.

Nate steps forward and presses a finger to my lips. ‘The baby… it was just a thought. That’s all.’

My body floods with relief. ‘Oh, just a thought,’ I repeat, only it comes out in the wrong pitch – like a strangled warble.

‘Maybe I’ll feel differently tomorrow. This feeling, it might fizzle out to nothing.’ He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

The oven timer beeps, shrill and unrelenting.

Nate waggles his eyebrows. ‘Your sugar cookies are ready.’

We don’t speak of the thought again.

Instead, we spend the next few days trying to come to a mutual decision about how to best decorate the room across the hall from the master bedroom, and up until now we haven’t been able to agree on things. Nate isn’t the type of guy who preoccupies himself with how things look so much as with how things work. He can tell you exactly, and I mean exactly, how a propulsion system works, or how a toaster is made, or how a plane can actually stay suspended in the air. Me, on the other hand? I can’t even work out how to pop the bonnet of my car. It isn’t exactly like Nate has taken a huge interest in the styling of our house – he’s been quite happy to be the hands-on guy who fastens the tool belt around his waist and rolls up his sleeves to put the furniture together, even if he does have an eye for design. We have similar taste and he usually nods approval whenever I flash him a peek at my Pinterest board of distressed timber entryway benches, or natural fibre rugs I have my eye on. So Nate’s recent non-committal ‘mmm’ and ‘yeah, that could look good’ responses to my suggestions for the spare room are plain odd. No matter how many times I try to get a thumbs up for the hanging egg chair and fiddle leaf fig tree, I can’t move these items from my online wish list to my shopping cart.

I do not suspect that Nate’s reticence has anything to do with the thought he had a few days ago. In my mind, the thought has fizzled out, like the way some of Nate’s other plans have eventuated into nothing like bath bombs dissolving in a tub, never to be seen again: the time he declared he wanted to learn Japanese, the summer he vowed to give up carbs, the year he said he was going to master the art of French cooking.

‘If you’re not keen on the hanging chair, why don’t we put a day bed in there instead?’ I suggest as I trail out to the veranda with a plate of slow-roasted beetroot and potato salad. Nate turns the steaks over and with a quick pump of his fist drizzles lemon juice over them.

He looks at me quizzically.

‘The spare room. Peach & Lemon have them on sale right now.’ I settle the plate in the middle of the table and pour us both a glass of Verdelho, which I brought home from my last work trip to Pico Ruivo.

‘Why don’t we wait and see?’ He looks at me with a thoughtful gaze.

‘For what? It’s thirty per cent off and they never go on sale.’

Nate’s response comes in the form of an ambiguous shrug that gives nothing away.

I help myself to a cube of Cheddar and study him for a beat. ‘What’s going on? Is it because you don’t want to put a bed in the spare room? You’re going to fulfil your lifelong dream of learning to play the drums and having your own music studio?’ Another plan that has dissolved.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m thinking about whether one day we might want to turn it into a nursery.’

I gulp in too much air, which I exhale as a hybrid cough-gasp. ‘A wha—’

Nate waits a second before continuing. ‘What I’m trying to say is that up until now I thought our plans were solid. Our plan being that we weren’t going to have kids. But…’

There it is: But.

‘Something changed,’ I say.

‘Yeah. Something changed. This year, the house – we’re settling, Lucy. For the first time in ten years, we’ve actually got a place where we can anchor ourselves, and when I think about the next ten years, I can’t help wondering if there’s some space for us to have a…’

‘Baby.’ Nate is actually serious about this. It isn’t a flippant thought; he is actually considering converting our spare room into a nursery. This realisation feels like someone ordering a burger and fries on my behalf at the McDonald’s Drive-Thru instead of asking me what I want. I really don’t want a burger and fries. When given the choice, I will always opt for nuggets and a hot apple pie, and Nate knows this. Yes, chicken nuggets are what Lucy Harper can reliably count on as a constant in her life. But not this.

‘But I thought we weren’t going to… This was never on the radar.’

‘I know. We don’t have to. Like I said, I’ve just been thinking about it.’ He bites into a cracker. Fig and pecan. I only ever buy them for him. I prefer the rosemary and olive ones. I am comfortable with the rosemary and olive crackers.

‘Sounds like you’ve been doing some pretty serious thinking,’ I say.

‘It’s a pretty big decision.’

That is an understatement if I ever did hear one. It is a decision that undoes the decision we’ve already made. We are not having children – by choice. Not ever. That was the agreement. I’ve never felt the maternal pull to have children, and besides, I was too busy travelling for my career. Nate was the same – focused on a career he loved, which at times was dangerous. Our lifestyle wouldn’t easily accommodate a child. Now things are changing – my career is in limbo and I’m no longer travelling, and Nate won’t be either. Sure, on a practical level there’s room for us to make space for a baby, but there’s still the issue of whether I can do something I always said I wouldn’t.

‘But what happens if I don’t want this and you do? What then?’ Oh, I’ve read my fair share of women’s magazine articles over the years, not to mention watched a ten-part documentary series on this very topic, and I know that a couple’s inability to mutually want a baby does not bode well for the longevity of a relationship. Even if they have been married for a decade.

He shrugs. ‘Then we get a puppy?’

I don’t laugh. I’ve been nagging Nate for a puppy for years. A goldendoodle I’ll call Ellie. But even I know that if Nate really wants a baby, a puppy isn’t going to satiate that desire any more than a celery stick might satisfy a sugar craving.

Nate leans over and kisses me. ‘Maybe think about it, and then we can talk some more. When you’re ready to, that is.’

Silence hangs in the air.

‘Lucy?’

‘Chicken nuggets,’ I murmur, mostly to myself.

‘I thought we were having grilled steak tonight.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Since when does thinking about it have to equate to anything more? I can think about it for five minutes, an hour, a couple of days or even weeks and then come back to him with my answer. A firm no. Then life can resume as per normal. After all, it’s always been a no. A mutually agreed, we-will-not-have-children-ever no. Only Nate’s priorities have shifted without me – he’s beginning to move in one direction while I, his wife, am lagging behind. If I decide having a baby isn’t for me, then Nate will undoubtedly feel the tug, the weight of someone holding him back. I don’t want to be this person for Nate. It’s not as if I don’t like children – I love them. And so does Nate. We are godparents to his brother’s son, and as far as I’m concerned, we are pretty darn great at the job. Nate and I have always been on the same page – even when we were faced with the biggest decision of our lives ten years ago. A decision we made in part because we never wanted children of our own.

Nate tops up my glass. He flicks his eyes up and holds my gaze. ‘Left field, huh?’

I have to remind myself to breathe. My insides are like a violin strung too tight.

‘I wasn’t expecting it either – to feel this way,’ he admits.

Yet here we are, miles away from where we were – closer to the place we always said we’d never go.

My theory is correct. Nothing is ever just something.

Things nobody tells you about becoming a mother: Labour can last for days. Sleep deprivation can last years. Your feet can go up a shoe size, rendering your entire collection of footwear redundant. Of course these are things you already know at least on some kind of level. (Though I had no idea about the shoes.)

The obvious expectation is that your life will change to revolve around the little person who you’re suddenly responsible for. My hairdresser Deb, a random meme I saw on Facebook and my long-time colleague Monica unanimously agreed that parenting is the most rewarding job in the world while simultaneously being the most difficult. So in some ways, when Reese came along I was prepared.

But here’s what they didn’t tell me: For some parents, the sleep deprivation, the tantrums, the dirty socks left under the coffee table, the spilt bowls of cereal on the kitchen floor, the homework that needs to be kept on top of form the least worries of all. Nobody gave me advanced notice about the emotional toll becoming a mother can have on a person. And I certainly wasn’t prepared for the fact that I – Isla Louise Sutherland – would become a mother who worried. About more things than most.

Take, for instance, this morning. About five minutes ago, Mrs Raynor, Reese’s Year Three learning advisor – apparently at this school, the term ‘teacher’ is passé – called me, advising there had been an incident.

‘What kind of incident?’ I asked, hoping it was a run-of-the-mill knee scrape and a few too many tears. Deep down, I suspected this wasn’t the case.

‘Why don’t you make your way over here and we’ll talk about it face to face?’ came her reply.

‘I’ll be there soon,’ I told her, moments before Natalie and Simon joined me in the light-filled kitchen of one of my most recently listed homes on Botanica Drive. They’ve brought their chequebook. In fact, Simon even has a pen in his right hand.

‘You were right about the sunroom – it’ll make a perfect nursery,’ Natalie declares, rubbing her swollen belly.

Of course I was right about the sunroom. Natalie is merely weeks away from giving birth to her first child, and whenever a pregnant couple books a private inspection before auction, my money is always on the nursery versus the kitchen as the number-one selling point. Certainly the mood board I showed Natalie prior to our meeting has helped. I came prepared, with a business card for the best interior decorator I know, and within moments Simon was nodding away as Natalie ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ her way through the thirty-square stunner with views of the bay.

‘Fantastic,’ I reply. ‘Did I mention the shoe closet?’

She lets out a gasp – not dissimilar to the kind of sound one makes when they set eyes upon a puppy, or a diamond ring, depending on one’s tastes.

‘It’s perfect,’ she coos.

‘She has quite an extensive collection of shoes,’ reports Simon, who looks almost pained by this admission.

My gaze momentarily lands on Natalie’s swollen feet, squeezed into a pair of Simone Rocha leather sandals, before beaming in their direction. ‘Shall we get the paperwork sorted then?’

They both nod adorably.

I don’t have the heart to tell Natalie about what happened to my shoe collection after I gave birth.

A whole thirty-four minutes later, I’m ushered into the vice principal’s office to find Reese sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing Fish with a deck of cards. She flicks her eyes up at me briefly before returning her attention to the game.

‘Hey, Button,’ I say, crouching down to her level. ‘Everything okay?’

She shrugs and gives an almost inaudible response that sounds something like a yes but I can’t be sure.

I turn my attention to Mrs Raynor. ‘She seems fine to me. What happened this time?’ This is the third incident I’ve been called to in two weeks.

Mrs Raynor presses her lips together and gestures towards the door that leads to another office. ‘Reese, I’m going to leave you in charge of Mrs Hoffman’s office for a minute, is that okay? If any of the Year Threes come in for a sticker, they’re in her top drawer.’

I wait for Reese’s response to this. It comes in the form of a curt nod that tells us she gets it.

I enter the pokey meeting room with boxes of Christmas decorations that have obviously been pulled out of storage and are ready to be dusted off for the reception foyer.

Mrs Raynor closes the door behind us. ‘Please, take a seat,’ she says, motioning to an upholstered tweed armchair in a pea-green colour.

I obediently sit and cradle my handbag against my chest. Mrs Raynor swivels closer to me on her chair, the tiny bells on her Christmas earrings jingling as she moves. She looks at me with the eyes of a woman who seems worn out and ready for the school break.

‘She’s not herself,’ she says.

‘She can get quiet when she’s tired,’ I explain. ‘Do you think she’s coming down with something? Have you checked her temperature?’

Mrs Raynor shakes her head. ‘She’s removed herself from the company of her usual . . .