I’d rather be honest than impressive

Tuesday 16 June 2026

My dads have told me the story of how I was born about a hundred times. It’s not even hidden. When I was four they made me a little book with photos of the hospital in Modesto and the surrogate holding my hand. I think it’s still in a drawer in my room.

The book ends with all of us on the plane back to London.

I went and looked at it this weekend, between getting ready for the internship and a family lunch on Sunday at our favourite dumpling restaurant in Covent Garden. And here’s what I noticed: every single page is about them. About them flying out. About them in the delivery room. About what they felt the first time they held me. Which is great — that’s the part of the story they own. They were there.

But here is what the book doesn’t say:

• What the surrogate was thinking the night before.
• I know she has children of her own but what did they think of all this.
• Whether she remembers me.
• What the egg donor looks like.
• Whether anyone in California has ever thought about me since.

I’m not blaming my dads. They couldn’t have written those pages. They weren’t in those rooms. The point is just that I have a book about my birth and it is almost entirely a book about other people.

If I want a book that’s about me, I think I’m going to have to write it.

It is 11:14 pm and I’m not sleeping yet because of this. Tomorrow is Day 3 of the internship. I should be sleeping.

— D.