by Mark Seaman
I’ve always thought of James and Carol as being my real parents, even after I discovered I was adopted; they were still the ones I went to in times of trouble, the ones I learnt to love and trust over the years. And now I discover that my real mother is a woman called Ruth who, within a few short sentences of a letter, has thrown my life into complete turmoil by saying that she wants to meet with me and hopefully build a relationship between us again, a relationship that, for me at least, died the day she gave me away as a baby. What makes it worse is that I’m the one who started all of this by writing to her in the first place and so have nobody to blame but myself.
How am I supposed to sit down with her and share a cup of tea as she pours out her side of a story, true or false, that still sees me rejected and given up for adoption after seven weeks because she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep me. I suppose it might help to salve her conscience, if she has one, help her to feel better in being able to talk about what actually happened, what she did, and about how hard it had been, or not, for her to give me up. But why now, and only after I’ve been the one to physically make contact, does she say she wants to meet up with me and talk about the events of almost thirty years ago? Presumably she hasn’t worried about me enough over the intervening twenty-eight years to make any attempt at contact herself, no matter what the law may have said in the past. Surely, if you love somebody then those laws become merely an obstacle to overcome in your quest to reunite yourself with the true desire of your heart and ultimate focus of your attentions? Even respecting the fact she may have felt unable to take on the authorities herself in an effort to find me; presumably she still hadn’t been concerned enough about me following my birth or she would have fought harder to keep me in the first place. But if all of that is true, then why is she so interested in opening up these old wounds again now after all this time?
On occasion over the years, if I have been feeling low or unsure of myself, I’ve tried to reason in my own mind as to what might have happened and to understand what could have made her want to abandon her own baby?
I realise she would have been young herself at the time, but I was young too when I had Jenny and never once thought of giving her up or letting anyone take her from me. And yet here she is asking to meet with me and wanting to hear about the person I’ve become, and of what I’ve achieved in my life. What can I say about the past twenty-eight years or of my feelings towards her compared to Jenny? Where do I begin to tell to her about the people and events that have shaped my life, a life she’s never known or been a part of since the day she let me go?
What if we don’t get on, or she thinks I’ve been wrong in the choices and decisions I’ve made in my life so far? What if she questions how I’ve bought Jenny up as her mother? Would I have to listen to her criticisms or suggestions as to what I might have done differently as a parent? Then what? Do I tell her politely she is entitled to her opinions, that I’m grateful for them and then perhaps feel duty bound to act upon them? Does she even have the right to comment? And if she does, am I expected to respond as a scolded child, ashamed of some of the decisions I’ve made simply because she gave birth to me. Or what if she thinks I’ve done well and says she is proud of me how do I respond to that. Do I smile, shake her hand and thank her for her approval? Do I tell her it means a lot to me when in truth it doesn’t?
She wasn’t the one I went to at eight years old broken-hearted because a boy at school had told me Father Christmas didn’t exist or at nine when I broke my arm falling off my bike. It wasn’t she who held me gently in her arms and wiped away my tears as we sat in the back of the car while Dad drove us to the hospital to have it treated and put in plaster. She wasn’t the one I ran to in despair when my pet rabbit died and asked if I would see him again in heaven, or if God would know that he liked a bit of carrot at bedtime. She wasn’t the one I confided in about my first kiss or who sat on the end of my bed when I was twelve and explained how to use a tampon when my periods started or why boys wanted to put their hands up your jumper once you started to develop breasts. Where was she at school parents’ evenings or at the end of summer and winter terms encouraging my performances in plays and pantomimes despite constant nerves and my inability to remember lines?
I don’t remember her being there to applaud me the year I gained my sports certificate for captaining the girls hockey’ team to victory in the inter schools cup when I was fifteen. And it certainly wasn’t her that I went to that day, shamed and with my head bowed, to tell I’d become pregnant.
Mum and Dad couldn’t have been more loving, understanding and forgiving as I sat in that chair confessing to what I’d done. Dad especially was hurt, although he tried not to show it at the time. After all I was his daughter, his precious little girl, who in his mind, had been violated by another man.
“We all make mistakes in life, Mary, and I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed, but I want you to know this won’t affect the way your mum and I feel about you, or that we’ll love you any less. We’re a family and you’re the most precious part of it to us, I hope you know that?”
In that instant, as he and Mum held me close and reassured me of their unconditional love, I knew I had done the right thing in being open and honest with them. I also knew they would look after me, and that whatever happened in the future both my baby and I would be cared for and safe.
Increasingly over the next few days these and other memories along with my doubts and questions about Ruth herself raged through my head, battling with each other to achieve the resolution and answers I was seeking, but the more I struggled with them the more confused I became. The one thing I could be sure of however was that she hadn’t been the one to advise, comfort or encourage me in any of the choices I had made over the years, good or bad. Also, in how I’d lived my life day to day, with both its successes and failures.
And if that were true, aligned with the fact she had never been there to offer that same degree of love and support as James and Carol, then why should I be interested in hearing what she had to say now, no matter how well intentioned her words might be?
That’s when Mum and Dad spoke to me in greater detail about my adoption. Up until that point I don’t think any of us had wanted, or felt the need, to go into any real depth about the circumstances that had brought us together, outside of the basic facts we already knew and accepted. I think we all held a fear that if we talked about a truth different to the one we had come to believe over the years then something might change in our relationship and, unspoken though it was, we all knew that was something none of us wanted to happen.
I knew early on, from around seven or eight, that I had been adopted. We had been talking about our families at school and Dad and Mum decided that this might be a good time to tell me the truth, or as much as I needed to know at that early age. I did ask about what had happened but they said there would be plenty of time to have those sorts of conversations when I was older.
“All you need to know for now, sweetheart, is that in our eyes and hearts you are our daughter and we love you more than anything in the world; always have and always will.”
Of course, being told I was adopted came as a bit of a shock. I didn’t fully understand all they were saying, but I knew I felt secure in our relationship and that I didn’t want to be anywhere else, or for anyone else to be my mum and dad.
I think when you’re younger you’re more relaxed and less questioning about situations or the things adults tell you, especially if you’re settled and content. And so although I didn’t really grasp the detail of what they were saying I was still happy to accept I was their little girl; that they loved me and would always be there for me.
But now ten years on as a young woman, pregnant, with my maternal instincts and hormones racing around my body the true reality of being adopted suddenly unnerved me, as did the prospect of discovering more about my birth mother and the circumstances of why she had let me go. H
ere I was carrying a baby of my own, one that I knew, even at this early stage, would be a part of my life forever. Yet in the same instant I was being told, in far greater detail than had been the case as a child, that I had been given up for adoption by my own mother at only a few weeks old. Mum and Dad did their best, when explaining the circumstances of my adoption, to be as gentle as they had been in understanding about my telling them I was pregnant, even though I knew I had hurt and disappointed them. I think they were saddened I had got pregnant so early in my life, and of course that it had happened with someone they felt wasn’t going to be the man they would have chosen to be my long term partner or the father of my child, their grandchild.
On that point I had to agree. Mum in particular hadn’t been keen on Gerry and I certainly wasn’t going to defend him now.
“Gerry was nice enough, but I’m sure deep down you knew he wasn’t the man for you. It’s just a pity you both let it go as far as you did, although I’m sure he more than played his part in that decision, knowing how persuasive men can be when it comes to sex.”
I remember the day I told them I was expecting. I was scared of how they might react but, as I say, they couldn’t have been more generous in their love and support for me. It might sound strange but I think in a way that’s why they decided to tell me more about the circumstances of my adoption, or at least the detail they were aware of and could remember. I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation for any of us and felt for Dad as he rubbed his hands together, staring at the floor and glancing at Mum for support as he took the lead.
“Perhaps this is the time for that bigger conversation, Mary? The one we avoided when you were younger and first told you that you were adopted.”
Mum became quite emotional as she remembered their disappointment in not being able to have a baby of their own.
“We always knew we wanted children, even after discovering I couldn’t carry a baby long term myself so we decided to adopt. That wasn’t an easy decision to make, not because we were against adoption but more because by agreeing to adopt we were also admitting to ourselves, finally, that we would never be able to produce a little one of our own.” Dad smiled and squeezed Mum’s hand as she struggled to continue. “All that changed once we saw you of course. We knew straightaway you were the one for us. It was like God had made this precious little bundle just for your Dad and I, and not in any way as a substitute because we hadn’t been able to produce a baby of our own. It was more like a special gift for the two of us and one we could pour all our love into as he knew how much we had to give. And that’s never changed Mary, we love you just as much today as we did the first time we saw you and held you in our arms.”
I had known from early on that Mum couldn’t have children herself and that’s why they’d chosen to adopt. As I got older she explained that she’d lost a baby girl when she and Dad had been married for less than two years and that she’d nearly died from complications resulting from the miscarriage. This was the first time though that they’d shared the full detail of the events and circumstances that had led to their decision to adopt.
“We were advised against trying again, and eventually after further tests and examinations the doctors told your dad and I that we would never be able to have children of our own.”
“Do you still think about her, the little girl you lost?”
“Sometimes, but only about how old she might be, simple things like that.”
Dad smiled. “Once you came along there was more than enough to think about in keeping you fed and watered. You certainly made your presence felt in those early days I can tell you.” He looked at Mum and rubbed her shoulder. “But yes, sometimes we think about her. Your Mum called her Holly because she would have been born at Christmas.”
“I was about four months pregnant when I had the miscarriage. I developed an infection that carried through to her and affected the supply of blood and oxygen to her little body which meant she was unable to survive.
Whatever caused the infection was associated with the change to my body during pregnancy and the doctors advised I shouldn’t try for any more children as it could carry a threat to my own life next time if we did. I was poorly for a while afterwards and had to stay in hospital for a few weeks, but we were still hopeful, at least early on, that we might be able to try again.”
I could see this wasn’t an easy conversation for either of them.
“You don’t need to tell me about this if you don’t want to; this is something personal between the two of you.”
Mum smiled, appreciating my sensitivity. “No, we want to.” She squeezed Dad’s hand as if confirming their decision to speak out. “It was after your dad and I had spoken to another doctor and asked again about the possibility of my getting pregnant that he confirmed I would never be able to carry a baby full term. There was something in my system that would reject the foetus after a few weeks or months as had been the case with Holly, and because of this any future attempt to carry a baby could also pose a serious threat to my own health. We were heartbroken to think we would never have a baby of our own, but we knew we still wanted a family, and so after coming to terms with the loss of Holly and what the doctors had told us we began to think about adoption.”
“Why didn’t you choose a boy? Surely another girl would only bring back painful memories after losing Holly?
“We always wanted a girl, even before I got pregnant with Holly.” She paused and caught her breath. “It was devastating when we lost her, but it also made us all the more determined to have a girl once we decided to adopt.
And, as we said earlier once we saw you we both fell instantly in love with you.” Mum leant forward, taking my face in her hands. “Your dad and I love you, Mary, not because we adopted you but because you’re our daughter, maybe not by birth but in every other way possible. I can’t tell you how precious you are to us.” She paused, stroking the hair from my forehead in affection as she had done so many times before when I was younger. “Unconditional love is not easy to explain, but it is something your dad and I have for you.” She took her hands from my face and placed them on my tummy. “And I do know it is something you will also feel for this baby of yours when it arrives, as will your dad and I all over again, never doubt that.”
We sat holding hands, allowing this shared moment of intimacy and understanding to wash over us. Eventually I broke the silence.
“I love the two of you as well. Thank you for your support, and for not suggesting I might have an abortion.”
Mum squeezed my hand tightly. “Don’t ever think that, Mary, not even for a second. We would never ask you to do such a thing; your dad and I know only too well how precious a new life is.” She smiled. “Especially our grandchild.”
Their support throughout my pregnancy meant so much, especially with Gerry proving less than useless when I first told him I was expecting. He was a nice enough bloke, at least early on; he even respected my decision not to sleep with him until we’d been going out for a while, or so he said. But after that first time in his car it became the usual story of him assuring me that regular sex would only add to our relationship and help us become even more committed to each other.
“It’ll help make us more of a couple, bring us closer.” It certainly brought us closer alright, every Tuesday night when Mum and Dad went to the social club to meet their friends.
“Now behave yourself, you two, okay? Mum and I are trusting you, especially you, Gerry. No funny business with our daughter, alright?”
Gerry would leer at me, checking that Dad couldn’t see his hand from the doorway as he placed it on my knee and ran it up my leg before answering.
“She’ll be safe with me, Mr Rowland, she’s in good hands.”
Then as soon as we heard the car start Gerry would be all over me. “Come on, girl, we’ve got the place to ourselves now, no point in wasting the opportunity for a b
it of you know what.”
If I’m honest I’d always felt guilty about sleeping with Gerry, especially after promising Mum and Dad we wouldn’t.
There was one night we were doing it on the bedroom floor and as Gerry put himself inside me it felt different. He said he hadn’t got any protection with him, but that it would be okay because he would come out before anything happened.
“It’ll be fine; soon as I get worked up I’ll whip it out.”
“No, Gerry, I’m serious, get off me.”
“Relax; just enjoy the ride, you know you like it.”
I could feel him getting more excited and tried to push him off but he kept saying it would be okay. I felt it go warm inside me and I panicked, shouting at him again to get off but it was too late.
“That’s the last time we’re doing it, Gerry, what if I’m pregnant?”
“Sorry, Mary, I’ve never done it without anything before. It just felt different and got me worked up quicker than usual.” He knew I was upset and tried to reassure me. “You’ll be fine, it was only a bit and you can’t get pregnant from just that little amount. I promise I’ll never do it again, not without a Johnny okay?”
I stared at him, furious for what he had done but equally angry with myself for allowing him do it.
“There won’t be a next time, Gerry, rubber Johnny or not. I’m serious.”
He grinned and put his arm around me. “Come on Mary, you know you don’t mean that, you like bonking as much as I do.”
