"Dear Mrs Rosina Todd,

I've imagined writing this letter for so many years, ever since I found out about you as a small child, but I've only now plucked up the courage to pick up a pen..."

The page swims in front of my eyes and I throw the dog-eared letter back into my bag. I rip open a packet of sugar and dump it into my mug of rapidly cooling tea. My nerves are starting to get to me. She should be here by now.

A selection of dismal scenarios flit through my mind; she's stuck in a traffic jam, she's lying dead in a ditch, she forgot, this is some elaborate hoax set up by a hidden-camera show... I try to take calming breaths in a vain attempt to relax but it is no use, I'm too tense.

I watch the door intently, hoping the next person to push through the door of the café will be her. Although, panic creeping into my mind, I realise I don't know what she looks like. I send a quick prayer to the gods that by some miraculous motherly intuition I will recognise my own daughter. What if I don't though? The thought stops me mid-gulp of tea as I am filled with a paralysing dread. What if she has already come and gone? I splutter as the tea chokes me.

'Excuse me', a soft voice interrupts me as I hastily try to stop choking. 'Rosina? Rosina Todd?'

I stare uncomprehendingly at her. She tries again, going for the direct route. ' Ms Todd, I'm Nell, your daughter, um....' Her voice trails off uncertainly and she turns as if to leave. I force myself to get a grip and manage to whisper, 'I'm Rosina.'

Unexpectedly I find myself crying, tears trailing down my cheeks at the sight of her. She sits down warily, not wanting to get too close. She opens her mouth to say something but I beat her to it, biting back the tears that are threatening to spill out of my eyes. 'Sorry, I was choking on tea, I'm not crazy.'

I don't know what to say to her so I just stare. My fears of not recognising her are unfounded as she is a perfect replica of me at sixteen, from her long black hair, her petite frame, even the spattering of freckles across her nose. I spent the last sixteen years staring avidly at any girl-child who walked past me, hoping against hope that it would be her. I never dreamed that she would want to track me down, even less to meet me.

My reverie is interrupted by a single word 'Why?'� She doesn't elaborate, and she doesn't need to. I know exactly what she is asking. She folds her arms, as if trying to protect herself from the painful truth that she is about to hear.

I sip my tea, frantically thinking how I can explain my reasons behind giving my child away for adoption in a way that she might possibly understand. One solitary tear drips into my tea as my memories overwhelm me.

I fight to control myself. She has a right to know the truth. The reason why she was abandoned to be raised by biological and emotional strangers.

'It was 1990, I was seventeen. I had a boyfriend called Max. We were childhood sweethearts, very much in love. We were actually engaged, our plan was to get married on my eighteenth birthday. I still wear the ring.' My voice wobbles, threatening to crack. I show her my wedding finger. Nestled next to my wedding ring from my husband sits a silver claddagh ring.

She sits in silence, waiting. I plod on with my explanation, but even to my ears it sounds desperate and pathetic.

'I fell pregnant and we were both so happy. We couldn't wait to be parents. We spent months making a beautiful nursery for you in our cottage, and Max and I chose your name together - Nell Jinny. Everything was great and I went into labour just after midnight on the 3rd January 1991.'

She looks disgusted as I rummage in my bag for a handkerchief to stop the tears that have now begun to cascade down my face.

'I called Max at work from the hospital. I told him to hurry as you were about to be born. He never turned up. I waited all night for him, feverish on drugs, crying out for him. It wasn't until the next day that I was told what happened. He had been involved in a hit and run accident just outside the hospital, and died that morning. My heart broke. The nurses tried to console me, saying that he had seen you before he died and he was so happy and that he had told them to tell me that he loved both of us very much.'

I couldn't stop the tears now, and I began to weep silently, rocking back and forth. Even after all these years the pain of losing Max was raw. I lose myself in my thoughts, wishing desperately that I could change the past and thinking about what my life could have been, how different and happy.

'Do you want another cup of tea or a cake Rosina?', her voice jolts me back to the present out of the fug of memories. I look at her, with the pain of Max's death etched over my face, and realise that she is still here, still listening to me, not condemning me, not yet anyway.

'Another tea and a slice of shortbread please', I sniffle in a very unladylike manner, reaching for my purse. She places her delicate, pale arm on mine. 'My treat' she says unsmilingly.

While she is up at the counter I take the opportunity to recompose myself. She places the mug of tea in front of me, steam swirling from it comfortingly, alongside the shortbread.

I nibble the shortbread, relishing the sweet yumminess of it and continue doggedly on.

'Max's death destroyed me. He was everything to me, my entire world. I got post-natal depression and became suicidal. I blamed myself for his death, if I hadn't got pregnant he would still be alive. By extension I blamed you for his death. It got so that I couldn't bring myself to look at you, you were a constant reminder of my loss. In the end I was advised by social services and my psychiatrist to give you up for adoption as it was the best thing for both of us. As soon as I gave you away I knew it was the wrong thing to do but by then it was too late. I have regretted that decision every day since then. That's it...', I trail off lamely.

I watch as she cups her tea in both hands like a small child with a hot drink. She takes a sip, looking thoughtful.

'Sorry', I repeat. I feel listless and dull, knowing she is about to walk out of this door without looking back never to be seen again. The realisation that I will never see her again makes my heart sink as I suddenly realise that I want to get to know her. I want to find out what her favourite flavour of ice-cream is, what her favourite film is.'

She reaches out with one achingly beautiful hand, and touches mine as light as a feather. I drink in every last detail so I can preserve this memory, after all it will have to last me the rest of my life. 'It's ok. I understand. My parents said that it was a very distressing situation but they didn't know all the details. Thank you for having the courage to tell me what I needed to hear.'

She swills the dregs of her tea around her mug and then gets up, pulling her scarf and coat on. I knew it, I knew she wouldn't want to get to know me, that she wouldn't be able to be in the same room with me once she knew the damning truth about my betrayal of my own child.

'I've got to go.' She pauses, chewing her lip nervously. 'Shall we meet here again next week, same time? We can take it from there, see how it goes?....Mum'. She whispers the final word more to herself than me, as if trying it out for size.

She smiles at me, pushes a wrapped present towards me and presses a piece of paper with her phone number on it into my hand and walks out the door saying 'See you soon.'

I sink back into the red cushioned chair and take another bite of shortbread, contemplating what the present could be. I sit up, rip the wrapping paper off in one smooth movement and sitting in front of me is a photo album, full of pictures of her. My mood takes a sudden upswing, and my heart feels elated in a way I haven't felt for sixteen years. I recline into the chair with the album and wait for my husband to come and meet me so I can tell him about my wonderful afternoon.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...