Letter to my Late Birth Mother, Betty

Dear Betty,

I must underline from the outset, you became pregnant at 16 and you were 17 when I was born, and I don’t blame you for passing me on to someone else. If the same thing had happened to me at that age, my adoptive mother would have forced me to do the same. There are simply other issues that have bewildered me for years.

I spent a lot of time foraging for data, trying to locate you after I received my adoption papers at age 50. Eventually, knowing your maiden name, I flew to London and researched it at the Offices of Public Records. It was there that I discovered that you had married a company director six years after my birth, and that you had had two sons, ten and twelve years after my birth. I was delighted for you, to have experienced the haven of an intact family. I didn’t want to disturb that idyllic scene, and took the trouble to write a letter to you, hoping that you were reading this letter in the privacy of your own company. I was thrilled to find out that I have two half-brothers and you should know that you have a grandson by the name of Stefan who was studying Art in London at that time.

Your reply was unmistakably cool, and intentionally distant. You made it clear that you were quite content with your two legitimate sons and your grandchildren; that would be normal. You said you were prepared to meet me on neutral ground, if that was my wish, but there would be no further contact afterwards. You didn’t seem interested in the least; it came across as more of a duty, which I suppose was better than complete indifference. Did you not wonder whether you might enjoy a longer connection with your firstborn, or were you in such a hurry to offload me again? One of your immediate concerns was to keep my existence secret from your two authentic sons, although your husband was informed before he married you. Surely your adult offspring were old enough to digest their mother’s issues, long before they were born, over half a century earlier? They simply are unaware of what you are denying them. Did it ever occur to you, that your grandson would like to have contact with his maternal grandmother? He might have been very happy to have contact with cousins, that he has never had so far.

Did you ever stop to wonder, all those years, exactly what kind of auxiliary mother you had passed me off onto? You made it clear you had been told that you were handing me over to a ‘nice’ family. With the advantage of hindsight, did you ever wonder if that was true; if I was happy? It’s certainly not your fault that my upbringing, (or down bringing) during my first two decades of life were abysmal, but it might have interested you.

Once again, you took over all the decisions, just the same as when I was adopted. From where I am now, it seems everyone in the equation made thoughtful decisions about me, except me. We did ultimately meet, and we laboured through a 24-hour period, where you showed me how indifferent and apathetic you are towards me. I remain mystified about the women who gave birth to me. After my second failed marriage, it occurred to me that there was something gravely wrong with me, gravitating by default to men who could not give me the love I had never had. So I allowed myself to call up my half-brother and we arranged to meet, the next time I visited England. He checked with you, to confirm my story, and you were very enraged with me. That doesn’t matter; your son survived the ordeal and we had a long and pleasant chat.

What mystifies me more than anything is your reaction to my plausible enquiry regarding my father. You said you perceived that I had been hurt enough through life, and you would therefore withhold that information. How very thoughtful of you. How was I supposed to digest that? One doesn’t need a wild imagination to picture the scenario you were implying. Pardon me for asking!

Betty, there is nothing left to say to you. I hope it wasn’t me that made you cynical. I understand that you may have thought I wanted something from you to which I was not entitled. That’s not me Betty. I have built up my own financially comfortable life, through hard work. I only felt a desperate need to find some roots; pity, they were too frail to take effect. In the meantime I ask myself, who was the better ‘mother’, you or her?

Sincerely, not yours

Rosemary

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