Dearest diary,
Today, I keep turning over memories in my mind I had always kept buried. I grew up thinking nothing was unusual about my childhoodjust an ordinary English upbringing in Oxfordshire. But a few years ago, just before my parents passed away, I learnt the truth: I was adopted. I still struggle to believe it. Theres no one left to ask for answers now; Dad faded away first, quietly slipping from us in his sleep. Mum followed not long after.
I remember sitting at her bedside, holding her frail, cool hand. She could barely speak, but suddenly she opened her eyes and whispered, Emily, darling Theres something we never told you We found you. Yes, found you, in the woods outside Headington. You were crying, so small, lost. We thought someone would come looking, we reported you to the police. But no one ever came. Maybe something awful happened. I dont know. They finally let us adopt you. All the papersletters, the correspondencethey’re in the drawer with my documents at home. Read them, if you like. Please forgive us, my love. And then she closed her eyes again, exhausted.
Oh Mum, I said, pressing her hand to my cheek, not knowing what else to say, my dearest mum, I love you so much. Please get better. But there was no miracle, and within a few days she was gone.
Part of me wishes now that she hadnt told me anything at all.
I never said a word to my husband or my children about my mothers last confession. For a while, even I managed to tuck it away into the dusty attic of my mind. My children adored their Grandma and Grandpa, and I saw no reason to disturb their memories with a truth that benefited no one.
Yet, not long ago, a strange curiosity overcame me. I pulled open the old bureau and found the folder where Mum had said. Newspaper clippings, letters, official replies. I started reading, and couldnt stop. My sweet, beloved parents!
Theyd found me, just a tiny child of about eighteen months, in the woods at Shotover. They were already in their forties, childless, and then stumbled upon a weeping little girl reaching out to them. Even the village bobby found it an unsolvable puzzlenobody ever reported a missing child. So, they adopted me. But Mum kept searching for my birth family, probably more to reassure herself that no one else would ever take me away.
Slamming the folder shut, I stuffed it far back on the shelf. What good was this truth to anybody?
A week later, I was called into Personnel at work.
Mrs Emily Parker, someone from your previous job has made enquiries, the HR manager announced.
Beside her sat a woman about my age. Hello, Im Hope, she said gently. Id really like to chat, if thats alrightabout Mrs Lily Thompsons correspondence. Youre her daughter, arent you?
But you said this was professional, the HR manager snapped, These personal matters should be dealt with outside of work!
Perhaps we could step outside and talk, I suggested to Hope, and we left under the disapproving glare of Personnel.
Im sorry, Emily, this might sound odd, but I made a promise Hope hesitated. A few years ago, I visited my first teacher from the little school in St Giles. She was lonely and very frail, and asked me to help with somethingsaid shed lost a daughter years ago, when the child was tiny. She told me shed been writing to your mum.
Im sorry, Hope, I replied with a chill, turning away, Mum died. Im not looking into that. Its done.
Hope nodded, understanding. Its just Miss Vera Smithmy teachershes very ill now, with cancer, and hasnt got long. All she wants is to find her daughter before its too late. She even gave me a lock of her hair, hoping for a DNA test. Imagine that
I almost turned away, but something stopped me. You said shes seriously ill?
Hope nodded.
So I took the small bag with the hair, and we agreed to stay in touch.
A week later we found ourselves driving to the hospital in Reading where Miss Smith lay.
Entering her room, I saw her blink up at us, barely able to see. Oh, Hope, you came! Thank you so much, she said quietly, then glanced questioningly at me.
Miss Smith, Hope began gently, I found her. This is Emily, she wanted to come herself, and she handed over the envelope.
Whats this? I cant read it, not even with my glasses, her eyes pleaded for help.
This is the DNA test result, Hope explained. It says youre her mother. Emily is your daughter.
Miss Smiths face transformed, radiant with happiness, tears sliding down her cheeks. My darling Dearest child, what joy. Finally, Ive found you. Youre alive, beautifuljust like me as a girl. Oh, Ive spent years waking at night, sure I could hear your cries, calling me. She shook her head. I can never ask for forgiveness. But youre here, and now I can rest.
Hope and I left her there, completely drained but content, drifting back to sleep. Thank you, Emily. Truly. You made her so happy, Hope said quietly.
Miss Smith died a few days later.
I tore up all the old letters and papers from Mums file. No one ever needed to know this tangled truth.
Because really, Ive never had any mother but mine.
And as for Miss Smithwell, perhaps that was a sacred lie. Was it wrong? I believe it was the best thing for her.
In the end, we each carry our choices before God, and answer for all weve done.
