‘Finding my husband’s birth mother changed our lives for the better’
Clare Empson had always known her husband, John, was adopted – but she could never have predicted the effect that solving the mystery of his birth would have on him and their family
Read one couple’s heart-warming tale
John, my husband, met his birth mother, Frances, for the very first time one rainy afternoon on London’s South Bank. The moment she saw him, Frances placed her hand against her heart. A simple gesture – and yet it said so much.
For how else can you possibly sum up the feeling of being reunited with your mother or your child after a separation of more than 40 years?
Their ‘cup of tea’ lasted four hours. Meanwhile, back at our home in Wiltshire, I couldn’t settle. I paced around, worrying for John. What if this had been a bad idea? What if they didn’t get on?
When John finally called me, he sounded euphoric. ‘I feel lighter, as if a cloud has lifted,’ he told me. ‘I can’t describe it. But I feel different.’ I could tell that already, after just one afternoon, he was changed.
Having grown up in a biological family – mum, dad and two elder sisters – I’d always found it hard to comprehend the mystery around John’s birth: how he didn’t know one single detail about his birth mother – not even her name. Adopted as a baby when he was just two weeks old, he had grown up in a naval family, with parents and a sister with whom he was very close. His adoptive parents were Derek, an admiral, and Diana, a ballet teacher. The family had lived in Singapore for a few years before settling in Hampshire.
A QUESTION MARK
When John was eight, Diana told him that he had been adopted through the Phyllis Holman Richards Adoption Society in London. He still remembers the shock of her words and how, as a little boy, he hadn’t quite been able to grasp the monumental weight of this revelation. However, never for one moment did he question how much he was wanted and loved. His upbringing had been blissfully happy.
I met John in my late 20s, introduced by a mutual friend. She told me that he worked in the music industry, running a record label at the time. ‘You need some rock ’n’ roll in your life,’ she had laughed. I’d thought that was exactly what I didn’t need – but then I clapped eyes on him and in an instant, everything changed.
We loved all the same things: music, clubs, festivals, galleries and hanging out with our friends. John was funny, kind, handsome and so emotionally intelligent, but I also felt there was something he was holding back. Sure enough, not long into our relationship, John told me he was adopted and knew nothing about his birth parents.
Back in 1966, when John was born, adoption was a closed affair. As a birth mother, you signed papers relinquishing all rights to any contact with your child again. As an adopted child, it was
‘He didn’t know anything about his mum, not even her name’
normal to grow up knowing nothing whatsoever about your natural parents. Yet to me, it seemed so strange to have this question mark about his beginning, as if his life had started at two weeks old – on the day he was adopted.
Three years into our relationship in 1999, I became pregnant with our first child. One weekend, we were staying with John’s mum, Diana. On the Sunday morning, while John was still asleep, Diana and I were having breakfast and talking about possible baby names.
‘My favourite name for a boy is Oliver,’ I told her.
Diana’s eyes widened. ‘How strange,’ she said. ‘That’s what John’s mother called him. His birth name was
Oliver Ronaldson.’
I was sure this was information John didn’t know and, as we drove home together, I felt a moment of misgiving before I told him what I’d discovered.
I felt as if I didn’t have the right to know such critical information before he did.
John, however, was intrigued. He wondered why Diana hadn’t mentioned it before. It turned out that, like many adopted children, he had never wanted to bring up the subject of his birth parents for fear of hurting her. And, as a result, she had assumed he wasn’t interested.
THE SEARCH BEGINS
It was only after our son Jake was born five months later that John began to talk more seriously about trying to trace his birth mum. Having his own baby stirred up feelings about his own beginnings and trying to find his natural mother. ‘Why don’t you do it for me?’ he said.
I think this was partly because of the fear of rejection; what if he found her but she didn’t want to know? But also, he couldn’t quite commit to it. It was easier for him if I made the decision.
So, a few months later, while I was on maternity leave, I rang up Westminster City Council. To my amazement, John’s original birth certificate was on file and he would be able to go and pick it up in person. I hadn’t been expecting it to fall into our laps so easily and was slightly anxious about being responsible for something so potentially life-changing.
Fortunately, John was thrilled and, two days later, we were standing outside the Council offices on London’s Marylebone High Street, with a buff-coloured envelope. Inside was the document that would reveal his birth mother’s name. ‘Are you ready?’ I asked.
‘I think so,’ he said, before ripping open the envelope. Time slowed – after a lifetime of wondering who his mother had been, he was about to find out.