In my twenties, I had a girlfriend who was also adopted. She too knew nothing about her father, and together we sometimes imagined romantic stories of brave young pilots lost in war, leaving behind grieving sweethearts in early pregnancy. We laughed at ourselves for the fantasy, but beneath the whimsy was something very real: we both longed to know who our fathers were.
It was only during the pandemic, when time allowed for reflection and research, that I finally began seriously investigating my origins. In recent years, I have learned the identity of my birth mother and, through that, discovered a whole new maternal family. Alongside this came some understanding of the circumstances surrounding my birth. However, it quickly became clear that no details existed regarding my father.
My birth mother died fifteen years ago, and the only faint clues I have come from the memories of my newly discovered brother, who is nine years older than me.His own story explains much about the secrecy of that time. He was brought up believing my mother was his sister, because my grandparents would not allow it to be known that he had been born outside marriage. That deception shaped the entire family. None of the younger siblings knew the truth about him, nor did they know anything about me.
DNA testing has since confirmed that my brother and I had different fathers. Yet he did remember fragments from childhood about the men in my mother’s life.
There were three possible candidates. One was a Native American from British Columbia, but DNA quickly ruled that out. One was an elderly greengrocer who had been my mother’s landlord and was clearly far too old. The third was a merchant seaman who, in the early 1950s, had asked my mother to marry him.
My grandparents refused to allow it.
Whether that was because they feared their earlier deception about my brother would be exposed, I cannot know. But the result was that the sailor, likely heartbroken, sailed out of her life, and mine, forever. We know only his first name. No surname. My brother recalls vague mention of his family being involved in mining in East Africa, but beyond that there is nothing concrete.
My birth certificate names only my mother. DNA analysis has confirmed my maternal heritage absolutely, but my paternal side remains a mystery. There are no meaningful UK matches and only the faintest indications from mainland Europe. We have searched shipping records, Lloyd’s Register, business directories and archives, but with no names and only rough dates, every trail has gone cold.
Still, when I was first put in touch with my mother’s family, I felt an overwhelming sense of fulfilment. I was welcomed warmly and immediately. We get on wonderfully, and whenever we meet, they often remark that my appearance, mannerisms or expressions remind them of my mother. I had not expected how much hearing that would mean to me, but it truly does.
Yet while that reunion has brought enormous joy, it is not quite complete.
My father will almost certainly have passed away by now, but somewhere there may still be another family, people who, if I were ever able to meet them, might recognise themselves in me just as my mother’s family do.
That lifelong search for identity is why improving support for adult adoptees matters so much.
