About 30 years ago I was sorting out my photographs and I asked my adoptive mother if she had any of me as a baby.
To my amazement, among the ones she gave me, was the one reproduced here, which she said was the only thing that came with me [when I was adopted]. If I hadn’t asked for baby photos I would never have known about it.
I was born on May 10th 1940, registered by my mother on 23rd May, and my adoption was finalised on 27th January 1941.
Like many adopted people I did not try to trace my family until both my adoptive parents had died (when I was 58). The first member of my family that I contacted was my mother’s sister-in-law Mary. Mary was incredibly kind to me, accepted me as her niece straight away, and sent me a photograph of my mother. We wrote to each other a few times before she died and she put me in touch with my half sister.
It was only then that I found out that my mother was still alive, although I was warned that she had kept my birth a secret and wanted no contact with me.
However, I hoped I might change her mind: and in any case I thought this was something she should tell me herself and not use my half sister as an intermediary.
I sent her a note telling her a bit about myself. No answer. Nearer her birthday I sent her a card, with copies of one or two photos of myself when young, including the one above.
This was her reply:
My first response was one of complete shock. How could a mother treat her daughter like this?
As time went on I began to empathise with what I imagined her feelings to be. Shame at being found out. Memories of what must have been one of the most dreadful periods of her life. Anger at me for stirring things up. Disappointment that I was not completely happy with my adoption.
My sister had seemed pretty angry too, and bitter about some of the events of her own life. What she didn’t tell me was that she too had had a daughter adopted, and that our mother had even then not told her about me.
Yet my contact with my mother and half sister helped a great deal with my feelings about myself. This family was the source of my energy, my drive and enthusiasms. My tendency to fly off the handle. My intelligence. My directness of expression. I quite admired my Mum for her bravery in handing me over to my adoptive parents, and even for her toughness in making it clear that she didn’t want contact with me. When she died I was pleased and satisfied that my name was included in a memorial to her.
