by tinaadams

Created on: May 06, 2009   Last Updated: May 07, 2009

My childhood had been spent in the City of Liverpool with my adoptive family. My adoption had never been kept a secret from me but it was a subject rarely spoken about. I had been told my birth mother was an unmarried catholic girl. My father was a no good womanizer. Neither had wanted me so I should consider myself lucky to have found a family that wanted me. That is how it was.

My birth mother was a constant thought in my head. From as early as I can remember I felt a part of me was missing. I never spoke about her but a day never went by without me thinking of her. I am not sure if it is a mother and child thing, an invisible bond that made her so important to me. I do know though that I never once thought about my father while I was growing up.

I started to grow apart from my adoptive family and at the age of sixteen, I left the family home. Without the constant feeling of not fitting in I started to spend less time thinking about my birth mother. Three uneventful but peaceful years passed and then I met my future husband. I had become secure in myself and no longer carried a sense of loss around with me.

A year after marrying we had our first child. As soon as I held my son, I immediately thought about my birth mother. I could never imagine handing my son over to some one not knowing if I would ever see him again. What was it like for her? How did she feel? So many questions went through my mind. My son was a week old when I decided I had to find my birth mother.

Twenty - two long and frustrating years later I found her. She was ready to answer anything I wanted to know. I had brothers and sisters who all knew about me and wanted to meet me. It could not have gone any better. Then she mentioned my birth dad. She had assumed I would want to know just as much about him as I had her. It had not crossed my mind to even ask about him. I still had no interest in a father.

Over the next few months, my relationship with my mother and siblings grew. My youngest sister was more than a bit curious about my father, wanting to know what our mothers' first boyfriend was like. All I knew about my father was that he was every thing I had raised my boys not to be. Curiosity finally got to me. Together we decided to track him down.

I penned a short appeal in the local paper. Amazingly, the very same day I had a reply. It was from his son. That was not something I had accounted for. My intention had been to see my fathers face, say my piece and walk away. I wasn't

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