I adopted on my own at the AGE OF 47

The journey to motherhood may not have been easy for Margaret Reynolds, but she doesn’t regret a moment of it

- MARGARET REYNOLDS, JOHN LAWRENCE

My daughter and I wrote The Wild Track together: the story of my attempts at motherhood was hers, too, after all. But when lockdown happened, it added another dimension to the relationship of adoptive mother and child, so we agreed to create an epilogue in a shared voice, a ‘we’ that spoke for us both. Lucy, just turned 18, wrote, ‘In our lives and in the world, there is no perfect. We know that. But we don’t need perfect to make this work.’ In lockdown, as in our 12 years together, that has been the case.

When I decided that I wanted a child, I was single, and past childbearing years, but I had a teaching job that I loved, a career as a broadcaster, and a staunch group of friends. The answer was adoption – an arduous path – and in my case, it was to take seven years. What was it that I was pursuing? Love, purpose, joy. I was determined to love someone I did not know, could only imagine. And someone who, to begin with at least, most certainly would not love me. But my need to find a place for that love persisted and grew across that time. By the time I first told those closest to me that I wanted to adopt, I was 45, living in the country and working as an academic: they were supportive (‘When you have that kind of love in you, you have to put it somewhere’), enthusiastic even (‘Let’s go for it!’).

At no stage did I give up, though there were many false starts – partly because I began with intercountry adoption (which is especially difficult), and for which I was, strictly, not qualified – but also because of the intense scrutiny that must be undergone by any adoptive parent. Over and again, I had to present, persuade and convince authorities. But is this not the essence? That love never gives up, no matter how fierce the trial.