Searching, searching - " I found you!"

“What we seek is some kind of compensation for what we put up with.”

― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

Peeling away the layers of my past, I've reached some conclusions about my birth mother. It took a long, painful journey to process everything, but now I can finally say with clarity, "I get it." Her torment was rooted in being pregnant in 1964—a time when society shamed and ostracised unwed mothers. It was an era of judgment and humiliation, a stigma that could shadow a lifetime.

She didn't suffer alone, but her pain was unspoken. Forced to give up her child, she was expected to erase the memory of those nine months—the agonising labour—only to have me taken from her moments after my first breath. How did she endure it?

Some may wonder how such cruelty could be inflicted on a mother and her child. By today’s standards, it's almost unfathomable.

But I understand now.

Being a child of the '60s has afforded me the perspective of witnessing nearly six decades of societal evolution. We’ve changed irrevocably, though at a cost. The older generation carries the wisdom of experience, a perspective the young can’t fully grasp. Each generation creates its own rules, often disregarding both the past and future, consumed by the urgency of the present. With age, we yearn for younger generations to understand: "We were young once too."

After discovering I was adopted, I embarked on a quest to uncover my birth family. Initially, I contacted Communities in NSW, which provided non-identifying information within three months. This was before access to full adoption records became available. While the details were sparse—my birth mother’s first name, physical features, and some family history—they were enough to begin.

The next step in my search involved writing a column in a Sydney newspaper hosted by a well-known priest. A bit of a celebrity, he shared life advice in his papal role and addressed the struggles of his readers on Sunday radio. To my surprise, he published my letter in full, urging my birth mother—known to me only by her first name—to contact him.

At the time of publication, I was on a holiday up the coast, oblivious to the priest’s numerous attempts to reach me. With only a fixed phone line and no answering machine, I missed his calls. Having thought that was the end of it, I moved on.

Undeterred, I placed a personal ad in a statewide newspaper as a final attempt. It ran among birth and death announcements and the precursor to Tinder ads—where, instead of swiping, you called a number to arrange a date. For sixteen dollars, I purchased a two-day listing, not expecting much.

To my surprise, the very next day, a woman from five hours up the coast called. She had stumbled across the ad despite rarely buying newspapers or reading the personals. She explained she had a peculiar feeling and believed she recognised my mother.

As it turned out, they had worked together in a factory, and she remembered my mother’s pregnancy. Although they hadn’t stayed in touch, she offered to send me a photo she had of the two of them. When the letter arrived, I stared at the black-and-white picture for hours, my curiosity spinning into overdrive.

The photo was a portal into an imagined world, one I pieced together in my mind through countless scenarios. Each detail, real or imagined, became part of a story I desperately wanted to complete.

Not long after receiving the photo, I got a call from the priest. He was brusque and impatient, a sharp contrast to his media persona. He was frustrated by a woman who had repeatedly called him, he gave me her number. I eagerly dialled.

When she answered, my heart raced so fast I could barely speak. I don’t remember our exact words, but we agreed to meet at her home in Sydney’s western suburbs. My husband, our two-year-old, and I made the trip. As I knocked on her door, I felt equal parts exhilaration and terror. I wanted to meet the real woman—someone who might finally feel like “my mother.”

When she opened the door, I saw a petite woman in her forties with the faint scent of scotch on her breath. She hugged me, fussed over her first grandchild, and welcomed us inside. Offering us refreshments, she casually added, “What about a scotch?” My husband eagerly accepted, though I declined.

My nerves got the best of me that day. I couldn’t focus on studying her closely or interacting with my nine-year-old half-sister. It felt like she was sizing me up, perhaps fearing judgment, as she downed her drink with ease. Our conversation turned to her pregnancy, how her family had confined her to her bedroom, and the overwhelming shame she still carried.

The meeting was far from the fairy tale I had envisioned. When she revealed that she had considered abortion but couldn’t go through with it, I was overwhelmed. Adding to the complexity, she admitted her children didn’t know about me, though she seemed relieved to finally know I was ok.

By the end of the visit, I was deeply disappointed. I had built up unrealistic expectations of a mother who could replace the one I had. It was an impossible dream. Over the years, I’ve learned to temper my expectations; after all - it’s unfair to demand more than someone can give.

Our relationship never took off. Her late-night drunken calls, filled with sorrow over her family’s treatment, dredged up pain for both of us. While I sympathised, her struggles became too much for me to bear.

After moving to Perth, we exchanged letters for a time, but they eventually lost their charm. She insisted I call her “Mum” and wanted my daughter to address her as “Nan.” This demand began at our first meeting, and I found it stifling. Her letters rarely focused on me, which created a distance I couldn’t bridge. Ultimately, I decided to step away—a choice I now regret. With the weight of our shared baggage, the relationship never stood a chance.

Nearly 40 years later, I reached out again through my half-sister. The answer was a resounding “no.” By then, my birth mother was ill with emphysema. There was no last-minute reconciliation, no deathbed redemption. I assume she has passed on.

My mistakes in the failed relationship remain with me. Apart from brief contact with my half-sister, my other siblings—a brother born a year after me and a much younger sister—have stayed silent. Their lack of curiosity troubles me. Where I once thought I didn’t deserve their interest, I now believe they’ve missed out on having a fabulous older sister.

As for my birth mother, I think of her on her birthday and wonder what might have been. But life has a way of reminding us that some things aren’t meant to be.

I was given “Mum” as my mother—for better and worse—and I’ve made my peace with that.

EDIT: Information came to me through Ancestry that my birth mother passed away in 2023 aged around 78.

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