Helen’s happy home was filled with laughter, until one terrible day...
Smiling, I listened to the rough and tumble as my twin boys played outside. Patrick and Thomas, 9-and-a-half, were so full of life. ‘We’re going down the park!’ they’d holler. ‘Be good then,’ I’d call back. Luckily, their older brother, Jonathan, 21, who adored them, was around to keep them safe.
When they got home, I’d ask what they’d been up to.
Swimming, playing footie against Jonathan… it was always something like that.
My husband, Thomas, 46, and I had taken Jonathan in when he was 3 days old, officially adopting him at 15.
We loved him like our flesh and blood. So did Paddy and Tom Tom, as we called them.
They all loved boxing and karate.
Obsessed with motorbikes, Paddy would plead, ‘Can I get one when I’m older?’
While Tom Tom wanted to join the Army.
At 17, Jonathan announced, ‘I want to find my family.’ We weren’t upset. We understood his need to trace his roots.
Sadly, though, we couldn’t help him.
‘I don’t know anything about them,’ I said, regretfully.
And social services only had his parents’ names, not their whereabouts.
‘They wouldn’t tell me anything about my brothers and sisters either,’ he said. Jonathan was heartbroken. I’d find him glued to reunion shows on TV.
A mum hugging her
My poor sons will never be forgotten