Identity matters

Julie had finally found her real mother. But was she too late?

The instant I knock, I regret my decision to come here. If my true mother had really wanted to see me, she would have turned up at our rendezvous last Wednesday. As it was, I sat in the café for two hours, just in case.

So why am I here today, palms sweating, barely able to trust my own voice? But what else can I do? This address, written on the back of an envelope, is all that I have to go by.

I can hear sounds inside the big house and take a couple of deep breaths to steady my nerves. I' m wiping my palms on my skirt when the door opens.

A slender woman is there, her clear blue eyes regarding me curiously. She' s wearing faded jeans and a knitted jumper. There' s a smudge of flour on her cheek. From inside the house comes the tantalising smell of apples and cloves.

Are you Mrs Hamilton?'

I' ve imagined this moment so many times. She hasn' t volunteered her name in the few letters we' ve exchanged, but I was able to discover it when I checked the address online.

No, but this is her home. Why do you want to see Mrs Hamilton?'

Her voice is soft and unmistakably Irish.

I don' t know what to say. I' m hardly going to start telling a complete stranger that I' ve spent the last 10 years of my life trying to find out who my real mother is.

I was 16 when the woman I believed was my mother broke the news to me. It was like a bomb going off inside me and 10 years later I' m still reeling.

I look past the woman to see what the house is like inside. Tall decorative ceilings, wooden panelling, chandeliers. I' ve never seen anything like it. I couldn' t even guess how many rooms there are in a house this big.

It' s nothing like the poky council flat I was brought up in. I had to share a cramped bedroom with my sister until I was 10. At least I thought she was my sister. Not that I blame her she didn' t know either.

I start to feel resentment. If my birth mother has all this money, why has she left me to live in relative poverty all these years? Surely she could at least have sent money for my clothes and food? That wouldn' t be asking too much, would it? Apparently it was.

There' s a kind note in the woman' s voice and concern in her eyes as she answers: I' m afraid Mrs Hamilton died last week. I' m the housekeeper.'

I have to hold on to the door for support, my head resting wearily on my hands.

I' ve lived through this scene in my imagination for so long, but now it' s all been snatched away from me. I feel as though someone has physically struck me. Come inside and sit down,' the woman says kindly. I' ll make you a cup of tea.'

She puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me inside.

I nod dumbly. The sudden emptiness inside me is a gaping hole, a vacuum sucking me down. My chest aches and I have to steady my breathing.

Someone' s stolen the script for the rest of my life, leaving me with blank sheets of paper where there were meant to be faces, laughter and understanding.

I' ll never look at my mother' s face now, hear her voice or hold her hand.

If my true mother had really wanted to see me, she would have turned up at our rendezvous

She pours me a cup of tea and adds some sugar.

It' s good for shock,' she says. You need something sweet.'

She cuts me a generous slice of her home-made

apple pie and serves it with a big dollop of clotted cream.

My mouth waters as the scent of cloves wafts up from my plate and I suddenly realise how hungry I am.

In my hurry to come here this morning, I' ve forgotten to have breakfast.

What happened?' I' m talking with my mouth full, but she doesn' t seem to mind. She' s been smiling to herself, watching me tuck into the pie.

She was in a car accident last Wednesday,' she says.

Was anyone with her? Did she say anything?'

Anything about abandoning her baby, for example? Any message before she abandoned me again?

I stayed with her at the hospital. But she never regained consciousness. There was nothing they could do for her.'

My eyes sting as the tears begin to spill. No wonder she couldn' t come on Wednesday. She was in hospital dying while I was sitting in the café drinking cappuccinos, feeling hard done by.

You' ve had a big shock.' She tentatively puts her arms around my shoulders. I' m surprised to see tears in her eyes.

Mrs Hamilton I' ll never be able to call her Mum now

was very fortunate to have such a devoted housekeeper. Did she have any family?' I have to know if I have brothers and sisters. Cousins, aunts and uncles. Real ones, that is. And whether she' s ever told anyone about me. Maybe I was just a mistake?

Just the one daughter,' she says. Mr Hamilton died when they first moved here. Her daughter will be a very rich woman when she inherits all of this.'

She' s looking at me very closely to see how I react.

Did Mrs Hamilton say something to her after all?

You still haven' t explained why you' re here today?'

I shake my head. It' s too late now. It was something personal that I could only talk about with Mrs

Hamilton.'

Are you sure, dear?' Something in her voice makes me look up. I' m surprised by the tender look in her eyes. The urge to unburden myself is overwhelming.

She feels like the kind of woman who' d understand. Besides, I have no one else I can talk to about it.

So I begin. She was my mother. I wanted to know why she left me when I was a baby. But I' ve made my trip for nothing.'

She slowly adds some sugar to her tea. A woman would have to have powerful reasons to leave her own baby.' She leans forward confidingly. Perhaps she was only a teenager and wasn' t given any choice?'

She' s not a teenager now. Wasn' t, I mean. Why didn' t she ever contact me?'

Maybe your mother didn' t know how to find you?' she says. Maybe she tried?'

I' ll never know now.

I wish I hadn' t come.'

She absentmindedly fiddles with the button on her pocket. What about the inheritance?' she asks.

Will you be challenging Mrs Hamilton' s daughter for a share in the property?'

No. That' s not what I came for,' I tell her. All I wanted was to meet my mother.'

Your mother would be very proud of you if she could hear you say that.'

She starts to weep. Deep shuddering sobs that go right through me. I tentatively put my arms around her and her head rests against my chest.

She' s still a fairly young woman herself, the first white hairs appearing among her light brown curls. When she finally looks up, her eyes are red, but they have a luminous sparkle that takes me completely by surprise.

She gently touches my hair, which is brown and curly like her own.

My own heart lifts as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. I' ve come to the right address and found what I was looking for after all.

I' ve waited all these years to meet you, Julie,' the woman finally says. I knew you' d turn up on my doorstep one day. I' m so proud of you. You' re everything I' ve wanted my daughter to be.'

I stayed with her at the hospital but she never regained consciousness. T here was nothing they could do