Life, Adoption
The day I may have met my dad
An epiphany moment
Not long ago I experienced an intense eureka moment, which led me to view someone I’d previously seen negatively, in a positive way. Preconceived ideas about him were eliminated and new ones, along with a memory, took their place. It was as if this person had re-entered my life, and I was seeing him afresh. My only regret was that I hadn’t joined the dots sooner.
But how to explain and let you feel a little of the emotion that took hold of me that day? That is the task I have given myself. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
Background
I was adopted as a baby in the late 1960s. During that time the authorities coerced thousands of women to give up their newborn children using religious and societal pressures. Once adopted, all links legally or otherwise were severed. I became part of another family and although I adored my new Mum, the woman who brought me up and taught me to be proud of who I am, I didn’t have the kind of childhood my birth-mum would have hoped I’d receive.
Turning twenty-one, I became curious. Some basic research led me to the Catholic Society.
After some primary contact with them and clarification about who I was, my file arrived in the post. It contained many snippets of information such as the full names of both my actual parents. Historically, the most damning content was a letter my birth mother (BM) had written to the council explaining she wanted to keep me. But I was also privy to useful details, which alongside the register for births and deaths, enabled me to follow the trail of my BM and her family. I was overwhelmed to learn I had several half-siblings. However, it wasn’t until a few years later, after having my own child, that I tackled the detective work which led me to meet with them all. But this story is not about that totally intoxicating experience.
Birth Fathers
What happened to some would-be mothers back then was truly shocking. But what about the birth fathers? Attempting to research their stories online wasn’t fruitful. They do seem to have been, at least to some degree, forgotten. Perhaps many were even unaware they had become a parent?
But, stop…
Wait…
Why worry about them? I certainly didn’t. I was only concerned with meeting my BM and siblings. I’d already tagged my real father as loser and scoundrel. Indeed when my BM asked if I wanted further information, so I could also track him down, I dismissed the option without a second thought. But it was clear from the bits she told me, that what passed between them was more than a one-night stand.
However, it’s easy to see why I had no real interest in him. I could empathize with her plight. But where he was concerned I only registered that he had not been man enough to stay on the scene. Yes, it was safer to take on board a stereotypical view, rather than invest any further emotions into someone I’d never met.
The magic of reading
The words of the writer act as a catalyst in the mind of the reader, inspiriting new insights, associations, and perceptions, sometimes even epiphanies.
So back to the eureka moment… Something happened last month that altered my opinion. An everyday occurrence — reading a book — presented a pivotal moment that turned my views around. After thirty years of putting little effort into considering my birth father’s story, I was suddenly transported back to ponder his predicament, as my mind unearthed a vivid memory of me as a young child. One which had constantly orbited my past recollections because the image had remained vibrant and set apart — unique — from any other, even as the years passed by.
The novel that sparked my epiphany centered on an adult named Alice. She had been run over and as a consequence was in a coma. As she lay just beneath the surface of consciousness, her thoughts and experiences were narrated.
Just before the accident, she had learned the man who had brought her up was not her real father. Then she described an incident from her childhood.
Taken shopping by her grandmother, Alice had been drawn into a place selling antiques. What she didn’t know was that her real father owned this shop and was aware of her existence. Inevitably she found herself chatting to him whereupon he stated, “You must be Alice…”
They continued interacting and along the way, he gifted her a necklace she had taken a liking to. I was engrossed, wondering if Alice would be allowed to keep such a lavish present and also registering that if such a thing really did happen to a child they would feel very, very special — and probably never forget the occasion.
Down memory lane
Reading this I experienced a massive surge of emotion — plus a feeling as if the inside of my head had been illuminated and gravity was pulling me back to ‘the unforgettable memory,’ from when I was about seven years old playing in the local park with my older brother…
It was summer. Mum was sitting with the other mothers in the play area but we’d taken it upon ourselves to explore further afield and were acting out “camps” near some trees. I saw two men walking down the grass bank watching us. Watching me. Then at an opportune moment, when my brother was not by my side, one of them walked over with a rose in his hand. He was tallish (although everyone is to a kid) and skinny, with collar length, frizzy fair hair.
He asked — “Is your name May?” Crouching down so he was the same height as me.
Slightly bewildered I nodded and he handed me the flower stating, “Hello May, I want you to know that you are the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen.”
My brother was in hearing distance and sensed something may not be quite right. He shouted over that we should go back to the playground in case Mum wondered where we were. I glanced back at the strange man, who had now returned to his friend, and asked my brother how the man could have possibly known my name. He postulated that we may have been overheard while talking, before snatching the rose from my hand and throwing it on the ground, declaring — “don’t tell mum.”
Walking back to the swings I pictured what I looked like. Skinny limbs, fuzzy blond hair. Skin heavily browned by the sun. And wondered why a grown man would think I was beautiful.
Unfortunately, even at such a tender age, I’d already been exposed to more than one pedophile, and the phrase — able to recognize one a mile off — applied. The man with the flower was not a pervert.
The memory had remained with me as an unsolved, perplexing mystery.
Eureka
As I got older I told many people about the strange meeting in the park, including my partner. Simply because it had stood out in my life and made me feel special — like the girl in the book meeting her father for the first time. Then the eureka moment hit me like a bolt of lightning…
The man in the park simply must have been my real dad.
I was so certain that I actually couldn’t understand why I had never before reached this conclusion. Perhaps subconsciously I hadn’t wanted to introduce any more provocative notions to my world.
I know…you are thinking how tenuous the link is, and anyway, where’s the proof? Of course, I can’t be sure. But when I sat down to dinner with my partner that day, my head bursting with this new understanding, and blurted it all out, he smiled and said,
“I was wondering if and when you would reach that conclusion.”
I asked, “But why would I? How could he have found out where I lived with such strict adoption laws in place?”
My partner replied, “When you first told me about the memory I immediately suspected that he was probably your dad. And… regarding laws, where there’s a will, there is always a way.”
Believe
Before bed I sat back with the book about Alice on my lap — head alight with possibilities, my mind taking all kinds of leaps and bounds — I recognized there had been physical similarities between the man and me. Years ago my BM had informed me that my birth dad was fair-haired with blue eyes and I also know he would occasionally have been working in the area where I lived as a child.
I will never be sure — I am aware he passed away a few years ago. Opportunities missed.
Whatever the case, I’m pleased to have explored the idea of my real father, as it has made me reconsider my world and his part in it. Everyone deserves a second chance, even those you never knew.
Sometimes in life you’ve just got to believe… Because why the hell not?
More from me about being adopted…
Another adoption tale. This one is the incredible story of Geoff Ward.
I agree, memories are powerful. In this story Claire Kelly looks at how they can cause defining moments.
Reference — If you are interested in the history of adoption in England and Wales have a read of this document.