She stared at the reflection in the mirror. Her mousy-blonde hair seemed to have flecks of gold which magically appeared when the summer sun shone high and bright in the sky. Her green eyes could hold the mystery of an old forest, even while she smiled. She never used to compare her own appearance to her parents, until one day in science class, she learnt that her green eyes were impossible from her own parents. Her mother’s sky blue eyes and red hair that seemed to have an almost fiery glow about it, unlike that of her real mother. Her father had similar hair, but his didn’t shine in the sun as hers did and his eyes were a hearty brown that seemed to make those who met him comfortable, yet unable to be her real father’s eyes.
She asked the question. Her parents didn’t lie. They explained the process her mother, her own flesh and blood mother, had gone through. She sat and listened to the stories her parents told her. She was horrified by the new found knowledge she gained. The horror young girls suffered through alone. She wanted to know more. Needed to. Whilst she was at it, she was determined to find her mother, whatever it took. Even if it was just a head stone.
She had found it, her birth certificate and adoption papers, her mother’s rushed chicken scratch faded. She could still read the name: Maria Barnes, her mother. She had a name, a strong start. She sieved through everything that she could lay her hands on. Now she really wanted to know where her mother was. She wanted to ask, why did you need to give me up?
The more she searched for her mother, the more she read up on the horrible things girls like her mother had to endure. She could never imagine being disowned by her parents because of pregnancy, forced to give her own baby up because of the shame on the family. The girls, like her mother, were never added to the equation. They were never given any choice: ‘give up your baby or you’re disowned’. How could she accept that with another human needing her full support and attention?
Her birth certificate at least had two names, a mother and a father. Maria Barnes, her mother only 19 years old. Her father, James Rogers. The adoption papers that her mother would have had placed in front of her. She could never imagine having to make that decision.
The more she dug, the more she wanted to understand what her mother went through. Her mother helped her find what she was now reading. A letter, from her mother. It was addressed to her. Her shaking hands opened it and the first line she read was written as though her mother was writing out her thoughts and by the end it was addressing her.
‘My darling, daughter. My babe. I have never let a day go by when I have not thought about you. I dare not speak my thought aloud or I may weep. I am sorry, I have never forgiven the life I was forced to give you. All I hope is that you understand that I, your mother, love you and that I will always look after you. The cruel world is restricting the pages left in my story. I hope you will always know I tried to meet you. My illness made it hard, but I tried. And although I may never see you, my dear Cynthia, grow into the wonderful young woman you will no doubt become. Make me proud.
Your loving mother,
Maria Barnes’
She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes as she read through, sitting on the grass of the cemetery, looking up to the head stone every time she needed to become grounded. Through her blurred vision, she could still read her name. Her mother.
