Natural Mother

People from 'natural families' are curious to know if I ever felt the urge to find my biological mother. Despite my horrendous upbringing at the hands of my adoptive mother and its effect of stunting my growth in mind and soul, I never felt it would be appropriate as long as this 'unnatural' mother was still alive. Curiously enough, she hung onto her life with dogmatic obstinacy, so that I was 47 years of age when she finally met her Maker. By this time, she had been living in Spain, where the procedures for bank accounts and last testaments of the deceased were handled in a relatively lax manner. Thus, it was that 'Brother' John swiftly cleared out the family silver, her jewellery, all the childhood souvenirs and her four bank accounts, leaving me the crumbs.

Amongst the crumbs of my inheritance were four photographs of me in various stages of development, together with my adoption papers, the existence of which had previously been vigorously denied. On receipt of these papers ten months after her death, I finally knew what my natural mother's family name was at age 17 when she gave birth to me.

It took me a further three years to act upon this information. One can debate why I was so hesitant to find this long-awaited mother, when things seemed within reach. Could it have been a premonition that postponed the process? I tend to feel that the inertia was fuelled by the feeling that I should be old enough to cope with life without submitting to these nostalgic emotions. I was running my own business, which consumed every waking hour, to the exclusion of any other activities. I finally sold that business and took off to Australia to write my autobiography. The assignment churned up so much deep-rooted pain in me that when I returned, I finally broke off all contact with John and mobilised myself into finding my natural mother.

At this time, I was living in Switzerland, so I flew to London and went to the Search Room to trace her in the National Register, where all British subjects are recorded. This comprises a large area of files, split up into departments of births, marriages and deaths, and alphabetically divided up into large heavy volumes of three-month periods. The place was full of people searching for one reason or another. The atmosphere was laden with emotions as people stumbled across information, some of it totally unexpected. Loud-speakers warned the public of pickpockets who continually exploited people's distraction to help themselves to belongings left momentarily unguarded. I searched for a whole day among these intricate records, telephoning my son intermittently upon each new exciting discovery in connection with my roots. Not only did I find the details of my mother's marriage and subsequent name, but additional evidence of two half brothers. With further complicated research, I found out that she lived in Birmingham and traced her address on the basis of the man she had married 45 years beforehand. I simply needed to know that she was still the wife of Albert, in whose name the telephone and address was registered.. The first time I spoke to her was a rock-shaking moment for me at age 51. It conjured up a picture of my kindly and matronly mother I had always envisaged. It felt mean to creep up on her like that and not reveal my identity, but I was sensitive to the delicate situation and uncertain as to how to best approach her.

With the help of my laptop, I already started drafting my letter to her during the flight back to Zurich. I told her in my letter that I hoped she was sitting in the privacy of her own company and explained who I was and what I had discovered. I assured her that I didn't want to disrupt her life, I simply wanted to meet her and give her the chance to meet me. I was hoping to have found the mother I never knew. I told her that she should know that she has a grandson called Stefan, studying in a London Art School. I explained that I was elated to know I had two half-brothers. I concluded my letter by reassuring her that I would not hold it against her if she chose to ignore me if it meant avoiding problems, and that I had never blamed her for giving me away at birth. I sent the letter off from Switzerland, and I sat back and waited.

About a week later, I received a reply from her confirming that my information was absolutely correct. Her husband had known about my birth before he even proposed to her some 47 years previously so it was no hideous revelation for him. However, they both agreed that they didn't want either of their sons, then 40 and 38 to know about me. She mentioned that they were two fine men who enjoyed a good relationship with their parents and had families of their own, and she wanted to leave it that way. In conclusion she added that she didn't want me to visit her privately, but if I insisted on meeting her, we could meet in some neutral, public place. She personally attached no particular value to the meeting and would restrict any communication to just the one encounter. She said she detected a note of sadness in my letter and insisted that she had been assured that my adoptive family was good and she had nothing for which she should reproach herself.

This was devastating for me. Her attitude confirmed my previous misgivings and my wary approach and made me feel as if I was trespassing on private property. She would tolerate a meeting more for my benefit and as a sense of duty. My courting days with a new family to whom I would belong were cut off in their prime. I felt myself fighting the despondency that surfaces when too many expectations have been cultivated for too long. I couldn't believe it. I knew at that point that she was not the mother I had been expecting. I had seriously overestimated her maternal impulses and based them on my own experience as a mother. I assumed I would be a chip off the old block, but I was wrong. I didn't want to be an encumbrance - once again. I didn't even bother to reply to her letter.

About a month later she suddenly called me up in Switzerland, wanting to know why I hadn't replied. She admitted that she had reacted a little hastily and that she hadn't intended to be quite so callous. She asked if I was "well placed" which apparently meant, "married". I told her I had been divorced for some 17 years so she decided she would come to Switzerland and meet me. My spirits rose again.

I stood in the airport, clutching the bouquet of flowers, waiting for her to emerge through customs. I had never seen a photo of her, so I had no idea who I was looking for, but I had an image in my mind. I imagined a rather large, grey-haired lady with a kindly smile and a matronly manner. When this wizened little lady with too much make-up tottered out in high heel shoes despite an obviously chronic arthritic problem, I assumed she must have alighted from a previous flight. She came and stood some ten feet away and we both continued to wait on our respective plots for about ten minutes, ostensibly looking into thin air. There was a pillar between us, which mercifully hid her from view until she stepped forward or backward. Finally, with sinking heart I approached her and asked her if she was Mary. She almost jumped at me asking where my car was. She had the hardest facial features I had ever seen - this was my mother. Even allowing for an over-reaction on her part, her lack of emotion and her disappointment in what she found was evident. I spent 26 difficult hours as we both laboured through the motions of communication. She displayed no feelings, no interest in me or my son and no similarity to me whatsoever. She flew home on the Sunday afternoon, and as I stooped to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek at the airport, she visibly stiffened.

We wrote sporadic e-mails for 18 months after that. We were always courteous and I was open with her about my life and it's various aspects. One day she told me she thought we had reached a degree of confidence in each other and that I could ask her anything I liked. I did just that. I asked her about my father. I didn't hear from her for a further three months, but continued to write with small bits of news. When she finally wrote she explained that she had hurt her foot. I repeated my question about my father and once again heard nothing more from her at all. After a further three months I wrote to her and told her that I wanted to cease all contact with her, giving my reasons.

I told her that I had lived on the outskirts of a family all my childhood, I had suffered a failed marriage and nearly lost my son to cancer. Either I was accepted as a daughter or friend, or I would prefer to discontinue these clandestine e-mails. The purported relationship with her actually created more inner turmoil than it alleviated. I had answered a natural call to investigate who my father was, and only she could tell me, but chose to keep it a secret. I had demonstrated clearly my sense of discretion with her, and would have done the same with regard to my father. Even a minor explanation would be better than just ignoring my query. I was weary of living as an unwanted element and I was taking this step to help myself on the road to self-confidence. I told her that she had set the rules of the game and she was neither being fair to me nor to my half-brothers, who weren't even aware of what she was withholding from them. She replied half-heartedly saying that she didn't understand me, and if she failed to provide me with particulars about my father, it was because she had hurt me enough already.

The insinuation she made with this statement was malicious. It was a primitive form of poking her tongue out and running away. It was designed to conjure up an evil picture of the man without making the effort to qualify it. This was underhand and unmerited and told me far more about her than anything else. This was all the more reason for me to assume that I must have taken after my father, and probably my son did too.

I don't regret meeting her and I hope I satisfied her curiosity, even if she couldn't relate to me. This seems all she needed from me. I can now relegate this information to where it belongs in the archives of my mind and I can get on with my life. Ostensibly the case is closed.

However, anyone who has been down that road will know full well that the case is far from closed. The effects of the second rejection were far more traumatic than the first and no rational thinking will alter that. I had found a mother who was anything but a mother and not even a friend. A woman who didn't even have the character to confront the issue with herself or her sons, and continues to live this unprovoked lie. I had discovered two half brothers that sheer courtesy dictates I should not attempt to contact. I know about them but they will never know about me as she protects them from this disclosure, thus relegating me once again to the ranks of the sub-standard by comparison to them. She invented the rules of her game, I never had any choices in the matter at all and nor do they. Rather than answering a normal call of natural instincts to offer love to the person she created, she chose to ferociously defend her reputation in the eyes of her sons. They have no idea what is happening around them.

She had left her caring family home to marry into a safe and happy environment. For half a century she has had a kind and loyal husband. Her sons were brought up with their natural parents in a loving atmosphere, enjoying her undivided attention from birth. Her constant references to her large cars, antique furniture and rich life-style had left me cold, but her access to loving family relationships were enviable to me. She had succeeded not only in rejecting me but also in obstructing my access to both half-brothers and my father, when it was apparent that I was in great need.

It is a natural phenomenon that those born into a loving environment consider it unconsciously as their birthright and are often indifferent to it. Those with a love-deficiency from birth onwards often crave for it for the rest of their life. They will go to any lengths to find it, continuously mistaking their instincts into believing they have finally located and identified it. If you belong to the first category, learn to appreciate it with all your heart. If you belong to the second category - God bless you!