All I’ve ever wanted is for her to be happy...

You always have this dream of who you think your child might be. I loved Faith as a baby, and I’ve loved her ever since, imagining her going to school, growing up, getting married. But all I have ever wanted is for her to be happy and content.

I knew immediately when I became pregnant all those years ago that my life was going to change. I managed to keep my pregnancy a secret until five weeks before Faith was born. My intention was to disappear and have my baby. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it but I’d saved up a bit of money.

When my mum realised I was pregnant, the first thing she said was, “Tell me it isn’t true”. My daddy was an old-school gentleman, so he couldn’t believe it either. I was his little girl, the apple of his eye. Regarding sex, my parents had told me nothing at all. I had to find out things for myself. Times have changed now and things are more open, which I think is mostly a good thing.

I hadn’t seen the father of the baby since shortly after I’d conceived. My boyfriend of the time wanted us to get married and raise the baby as if it were his own, but I knew living like that would be a lifelong lie. Things like having a baby outside of marriage were frowned upon in those days – there were stigmas. So my parents agreed that the baby should be adopted and not spoken about. Our doctor came round and said that nobody need know about the pregnancy, not even the neighbours. He’d write a letter to my college and say I had hepatitis, which can make you bloated.

Soon the time finally came for me to be induced. I remember Faith being taken from me. I went back to this ward where everyone else had their babies, so I demanded to have mine. When I finally met her, I saw this tiny, beautiful baby with dark hair and eyes. She looked just like me when I was a baby.

During my week at the hospital, my gynaecologist mentioned that he had two very good friends who couldn’t have children. They came from a large, close-knit family, very similar to my own. We both agreed that they should privately adopt Faith. The only condition I made was that the couple had to tell Faith about her adoption when she was older. He telephoned the couple to tell them the good news, and they were apparently over the moon.

When I was discharged, my mum and I took Faith to an arranged holding place, where I went to see her every day. I wanted to buy her a teddy, because everyone needs a childhood teddy. But my mum said no, her adoptive parents should be the first people to buy her that.

As the couple wanted Faith to be living with them by Christmas, I said goodbye to my little girl three weeks after she was born. Our gynaecologist later told us that when the couple took her home, the whole family was waiting at their house to welcome the new mum and dad with their baby. All the presents were under the Christmas tree. Apparently it was absolutely fantastic, which is nice for me to know.

Four letters from Faith’s new mum and dad were forwarded on to me, telling me how she was getting on, and in return I answered some questions about myself and what I could about her father. I wrote and told them I loved animals; I was very headstrong; I was emotional but resilient. That’s the last time we had contact.

After Faith was adopted, I went back to college as if nothing had happened. There was no post-adoption support. My only involvement with social services was to sign the paperwork.

I went through life seeming to be a bubbly person, but inside myself, at times, I reached absolute despair. I wasn’t coping well with losing Faith, and having to keep it to myself. In 1983, I wrote some of my thoughts down: “Never a day goes by when I don’t think of Faith and hope she’s well and happy, and understands why that decision was made all those years ago. To me it still seems like yesterday and the memory of her will haunt me forever. In death one can grieve, but when one gives one’s baby away there can never be a final goodbye, and the pain goes on forever.”

I used to have this constant gut ache. Every minute of every day I’d ask myself, ‘Is Faith going to knock on the door today?’. Every time I used to pick up the phone, I’d wonder whether it was going to be her. I’d think to myself, ‘Please let it be her’. I always kept myself presentable and tried to keep a good home, just in case she turned up.

Another reason I felt despair is that I’d always suspected that I didn’t ‘belong’ to my family. I gave my mum all the opportunities to tell me whether I was adopted, but she just used to say, “You and your imagination!”. When my parents died I discovered that, yes, I was adopted.

A lot of things began to make sense. Instead of overwhelming grief, heartache and tragedy, I was able to put events in sequence, and file everything away into little boxes in my head.

I discovered that everything about my adoption was ‘cloak and dagger’. All my files had been removed. My mother had gone around with a pillow under her dress, pretending to be carrying a baby. I managed to trace my birth family, but it was an absolute fluke, and it took me 25 years. When I eventually met some of my birth relatives, I realised that I didn’t necessarily like them. I have four birth siblings, but my adoptive sister will always be my ‘real’ sister.

I’m convinced that Faith has a good mum and dad, and that she’s happy with herself. Hopefully she knows that there’s somebody out there who gave birth to her, which is how it should be: no more lies. She probably doesn’t have that strong gut ache of wanting to trace. If she wanted to find me, she would have done. I feel it’s her right to go looking, not mine.

If Faith were to turn up on my doorstep now, I would welcome her with open arms. But she might not be looking for a second mother; she might be looking for the woman who gave birth to her, which is completely different. A mum is the person who does without, who gives you things, who tends to you. She meets you off the school bus with your cake and your glass of milk. She kisses your grazed knee better and puts a plaster on it. She’s there for you when you’ve sort of ‘fallen in love’ at the age of nine, and he’s kissed the other girl in the class and you come home devastated. That’s what a mum is! ‘Family’ is the one you’re brought up in. I know that now.

As told to Sophie Offord.

Faith’s real name could not be used in this article.

You might like to read more articles:

How do I find out about tracing birth relatives?
Where can I get advice if my child has been, or is going to be, adopted?
What happens when my child reaches 18?

A shorter version of this article was originally published in the Be My Parent newspaper in September 2007.

This article is published with the kind permission of the people involved. You may download it for your own reference but if you wish to use it for any other purpose, please contact Be My Parent for authorisation: Be My Parent, BAAF, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Telephone: 020 7421 2666/5/4.

Last updated: 16 January 08

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