Juniper loved the walk from the cottage to the battered blue post box at the end of her lane. Her steps took on a lightness as she padded barefoot, swaying with baby Violet tucked on her hip, high on the savoury aroma of wild garlic. Pale yellow primroses, cowslips and bluebells caught the bucolic spring sunshine. This corner of Dorset would always be home. Her mother and grandmother had grown up here. It was here that Juniper could better remember her mother Astrid – the arc of her nose, the daffodil chains they had made, the scent of milky rice pudding straight from the Aga.
She examined the lavender envelope with its looped writing and US postmark and knew immediately it was from her adored godmother, Deidre. Deidre and Juniper’s mother Astrid had been quite the wild pair “back in the day”. As a child, Juniper often hid at the top of the stairs at night, listening to their tales of hitchhiking, music festivals and unsuitable boyfriends.
She made a cup of Earl Grey in her favourite mismatched china cup, settled into the reupholstered chair, put Violet to her breast and began to read.
Dear Juniper,
My darling girl. Forgive me for taking so long to write. I am hopeless with the electronic mail you youngsters are so good with.
I have lacked the energy or inclination to let you know I have been ill for a good few years now. I thought I could beat this vile cancer in my breast, but the fiend had other ideas. It has been a stretch for this wholefood hippie to take on three rounds of chemotherapy, but I gave it a go. The women’s collective has looked after me tenderly, respecting my need to juice fast alongside my treatment.
Throughout this time, Juniper, I have tried to invoke the resilience that is inherent in your name. But now I am at the end of the line and have been given months to live.
Thus I feel compelled to reveal even more challenging news. A secret I promised Astrid, when she slipped out of this life, that I would take to my grave. My conscience tells me I cannot leave without telling you. Sit tight, dear one.
When Astrid and your father Raven found out they could not conceive, I could not bear to witness their agony. So… I stepped in. Yes, that’s right, dear one. I am your biological mother. Make no mistake: Astrid will always be your mother. I was simply the vessel.
I am only telling you this now so you — and eventually your darling baby girl — can test for the BRCA gene and make any necessary decisions that may save you from what I have endured.
The lavender paper slipped from Juniper’s hand and drifted to the floor. Violet sucked rhythmically at her blue‑veined breast. Juniper’s body trembled in time with her daughter’s small movements. Her tea tasted strangely metallic. Pale light streamed through the dusty window. She squinted at the blurred vision of her mother, who looked at her with a question in her eyes. Or was it longing?
