I never once told you I loved you. And now it’s too late. You took me home when I was six weeks old and loved me unconditionally. You said I had not grown under your heart, but right inside it. Yet, from the moment you told me you were not my real mother, I was too scared to accept your love. I felt so little and alone in the world. So afraid you would abandon me too.

I lived in fear of exposure. You had red hair and mine was dark brown. Your skin was freckled and I was tanned. How could anyone believe you were my mother? I was terrified that if people guessed the truth, the game would somehow be up. It was my shameful secret. No child wants to feel different, and I felt so different from you – and all my friends who lived with a mother who had given birth to them.

I had a comfortable childhood, yet something inexpressible was missing. You gave me everything a little girl could ask for. Ballet classes and brownies. Trips to the park and swimming lessons. But I wouldn’t let you fill the space that had been vacated by the mystery woman who had given me away.

My classic teenage rebellion morphed into something more sinister, a wish for a new and superior set of parents

Later, being adopted was the perfect excuse for my adolescent angst. Every argument became further evidence that I was growing up in the wrong family. I had so many unresolved feelings towards my natural mother. How could she have given me up? I clearly remember telling myself: “I must be such a bad person if my own mother didn’t want me.” I was hurt and confused – and I took it out on you. Once you make up a story in your head, it’s very hard not to believe it. I was loved very much, but chose not to notice.

My classic teenage rebellion morphed into something more sinister, a wish for a new and superior set of parents who would understand me. I wish I could have shared my anxieties with you, but adoption was never spoken about in our house. We lived a life of middle-class restraint where feelings were kept private. My adoption was the elephant in the room. I played by the rules and never once gave you a chance to rationalise my fears.

Only after I met my natural family could I fully appreciate what you had given me. My boring suburban upbringing felt a much safer place than the chaos I could have experienced. The mystery had been solved, and I felt an innate bond with you at last.

Three days before you died, I finally found the words to say, “I’m so glad you were my mother.” You had been unresponsive for 24 hours, but your eyes shot open for the second it took you to whisper, “Why?”. It made me laugh, and as I cried I was able to tell you for the very first time.

If I had that moment again, I would keep talking even as you lay there so still. I would tell you how grateful I will always be for your patient love and loyalty. How being your daughter has made me who I am. Your subtle triumph of nurture over nature.

Most of all, I would tell you how sorry I am for my misplaced self-preservation. I have always loved you. I just hope that underneath your quiet reserve, you knew all along. Ten years on, I still look up at the sky to ask for your guidance. No one could have wished for a better mother. I have finally learned that giving love is considerably more important than giving birth.

Anonymous

We’d love to hear your stories



We will pay £25 for every Letter to, Playlist, Snapshot or We Love to Eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@theguardian.com. Please include your address and phone number.