I am Clare Caroline, daughter of Susan Caroline, daughter of Sarah, daughter of Sarah, daughter of Sarah Jane, daughter of Margaret.
No name will come after mine. No daughter waits in my future, to join the procession of women with my history, my hands, my heritage.
I am not a mother as they were, but I exist to tell their stories, to pass on their wisdom, choices and whispers. I will tell of their loves, their offspring, their births and deaths. I will walk in their footsteps and visit where their tales were played out.
I will tell of them, but also of the others in my ancestry who were left without daughters to tell of them. Spinster sisters, summoned back from their chosen life across the ocean to nurse parents, then their brother. A disowned granddaughter left with only disinterested sons.
They and the others throng towards my telling; they show glimpses in family trees, yellowed certificates, registers and censuses.Each offers a snapshot of one tiny day in their complicated, overlapping, unique lives. Lonely while surrounded by family. Proud of nephews, but yearning for daughters. Passing down heirlooms of sayings, family jokes and sepia photographs.
I, daughterless, am the daughter of all of them,and my legacy is their gift.