As my sister Michelle and I stood in the playground, another schoolchild came up to us and told us we were ‘black-market babies’. At six years old, I didn’t understand what they meant. But now, decades on, I know that they were exactly right.
It was a little after that encounter at school in 1971 that our father Jim called Michelle, then 11, and I into the living room because he had something he wanted to tell us. While he fumbled over his words, our mum Joan stepped forward and made the announcement – we were adopted. Again, I was too young to fully understand, and apart from the fact we weren’t blood-related, we were just like any other family. We lived in America, and took holidays in Dad’s camper van, and spent the summers in our grandmother’s pool.
It wasn’t until my teenage years that curiosity took hold of me. At 14, I found my birth certificate and it said I had been born at ‘Hicks Clinic’ to my parents ‘Jim and Joan’. But I knew by now they weren’t my biological parents – so who were? I bombarded my parents with questions but they shrugged me off or told me not to worry. A desperation grew inside me to find out the truth.
At 18, I told my family I wanted to look for my biological parents. I contacted the relevant authorities for Georgia State asking them for my adoption records but I discovered there was nothing about me on its system. It didn’t make any sense and I had no idea where to go from there. So I called in help, contacting a private investigator in New York. Although I couldn’t afford his services, he gave me some tips on how I could start my own investigation.
This story is from the June 27, 2022 edition of WOMAN - UK.
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This story is from the June 27, 2022 edition of WOMAN - UK.
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