I'd always known there was something wrong with my daughter, Amelia.
The countless hours I spent breastfeeding her in that rocking chair; she would never look at me. It was as if she was deliberately averting my gaze. There was no bond between us and I felt disenchanted with motherhood.
'She doesn't love me,' I'd cry to Tom.
Tom made me go to the doctor, who diagnosed post-partum depression and put me on Zoloft.
'You did the right thing, bringing your wife in,' the doctor said, patting Tom on the back on the way out.
'There's nothing wrong with me - it's her!' I wanted to scream.
By the time Amelia was nine months, Tom could no longer ignore it; she treated him with the same indifference she did me.
While my mothers' group friends shared stories of what made their little ones giggle and laugh, and the babes crawled around, babbling and curious to all the other little faces around them, Amelia sat in the corner, playing with her doll. She would bite anyone who approached.
At one and a half, Amelia could speak, but usually chose not to. We were having a silent lunch of sandwiches, when suddenly Amelia pointed vehemently at me.
'Nit me mum.'
'Are you saying 'Mum'?' I said hopefully. Amelia has bypassed 'mummy' and 'daddy' as her first words, had never uttered them no matter how often Tom and I chanted then.
'Nit. My. Mum.'
Her blue eyes glared at me, finger still pointed accusingly.
'That's right. 'Mum,'' I said uncertainly.
'NIT MY MUM!'
She was screaming now, banging her fists on the table of the high chair. I fled the room, my heart pounding. I realised what Amelia was saying.
Not My Mum.
Tom and I took Amelia to a paediatrician.
'How are you today, Amelia?'
Amelia starred blankly through the doctor as the questions continued.
'Classic autism,' he diagnosed. 'The disinterest with human connection. The fixation with the doll. Early intervention is key...'
But I believed we had a problem far more sinister than that.
Did I mention the doll? She was hand-knitted of wool, down to the tiny 'x''s for eyes. Amelia had acquired her at birth.
The maternity ward was heaving when we'd arrived. I was contracting every few minutes and was in amazing pain. They'd wheeled me into a room with a single and Tom wasn't happy.
'All the rooms with double beds are taken,' I overheard the nurse tell Tom, while I concentrated on my breathing.
'I don't give a shit!' Tom said. 'We've paid for a double, and that's what we're getting. Switch us with someone who hasn't paid for one!'
Cover photo courtesy of La Tarte au Citron , entitled ‘Cerisedolls Manon for
Velkane.’
https://www.flickr.com/photos/tartaucitron/8473784691/in/faves-125476168@N05/
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