With a deafening bang, the balloon popped. Blue confetti fall like sparkling rain. My dad fist-pumps Jacob. Mum’s nails dig into my arm. Jacob’s parents pump our hands.
“Congratulations,” Bridie whispers, drawing me into a warm hug. Her tears mingle with mine as she kisses my cheek.
“Thanks, sis,” I breathe, holding her close. “Soon you’ll be an aunty.”
“I know, I can’t wait,” Bridie’s voice shakes, her small smile a shadow of her usual toothy grin.
“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how,” I confess.
“I’m happy for you and Jacob. Besides one of us has to keep the bloodline going.”
Hairy, muscly arms squeeze us together. “Congratulations Libby, fantastic news,” my big bear of a brother-in-law bellows.
“Thanks, Dean,” I reply standing on my tiptoes to kiss his whiskered face. “You better trim that monstrosity or you’ll scare the poor kid.”
Dean strokes his bushy beard, “Nah, I’m going for the Hagrid look. My nephew is going to love Harry Potter. I can’t wait to watch The Philosopher’s Stone with him.”
“Well, you’re nailing it,” I laugh. Dean is the epitome of Rowling’s half-giant character. Rough on the outside, soft on the inside.
Jacob fires up the barbeque and the baby talk begins.
“Have you thought of any names?” Jacob’s dad prods. “Harrison is back in vogue you know.”
“Nice one, Dad,” Jacob chuckles, “but we’re going to take our time, wait until he’s born. See what he looks like and what suits him.”
“You’ll end up naming it ET. Most newborns are ugly,” my mother-in-law scoffs as she reaches for a bottle of Pinot.
I roll my eyes at Jacob, who just shrugs.
That night I lie awake contemplating the massive leap we’re about to take. Parenthood.
I wonder what our son will look like, and who he’ll take after.
I almost knock my phone off the bedside table. Bloody brilliant! Why didn’t I think of it before?
A month later I opened the email.
This is the start of our family tree. Something for the baby. I click on DNA matches and an ‘immediate family match’ appears. When I hit her profile picture it’s like looking at an older version of … me. Wavy dark hair with a cowlick. Blue eyes, fair skin and a cleft chin.
There must be a mistake.
Hands shaking, I call Mum. “Who’s Belinda Norman?”
Seconds stretch into minutes. “Who told you?”
“Is Belinda my mother?”
“Sweetheart, let me explain…”
“YES or NO.”
“Yes, but you have to understand. After Bridie, I couldn’t conceive. Belinda was my friend. She got pregnant but couldn’t keep you. Times were different. We wanted to tell you but didn’t know how. I’m sorry darling.”
I hang up and step outside, gulping for air.
Picking up the remains of the blue confetti I toss it to the wind, watching it swirl and spin to the ground.
“Now, that’s what you call a big reveal,” I tell my baby.
