I am sorry that I haven’t written this letter before now. It has taken me four years to pluck up the courage. I have started it so many times in my head, but was afraid that you would think it presumptuous or disrespectful of me to write to you. It does seem strange writing to someone I have never met, but part of me feels that I know you so very, very well.
We read your file one morning in September. We knew the contents would be difficult. We never anticipated how important these details would be to us or how indelibly etched on our memories they would become. Yours was a story so far removed from our own that it took every ounce of imagination to understand what you must have gone through.
Later that afternoon, we received the call from our social worker to tell us that you had passed away. Suddenly, we knew what we had to do.
There was never any doubt. All I remember was an overwhelming desire to protect this little boy, to give him the love and care he deserved. And really that was that; as far as we were concerned, David was now our son. There were further meetings, questions, paperwork, panels, decisions, arrangements and preparations. Then, two months later, we met him for the first time. I hope the fact that I call him “our son” does not offend you. Sarah, you will always be his birth mother. But I make no apology in referring to him as our son.
For the past four years, we have loved and cared for David. We have dealt with his rage, and his tantrums, his confusion and his anxieties. We have played with him, laughed at his jokes, wrestled with him, calmed him, and nurtured him. David was taken away from you soon after his second birthday. I cannot imagine the pain that must have caused you. He was your second child, the second child to be taken away. It must have been devastating. We know that you really wanted to be a good mother to David, but you could not cope when his father left, and the pressure and scrutiny of the social workers meant that you lied to cover up your mistakes and left them without any choice but to remove him from your care.
It is tragic that your life ended so early, and that your addictions meant you were unable to prioritise your children’s needs over your own. I don’t know how I will explain all these things to David as he grows up, or how he will interpret his story and what happened to him during his early years. I hope that it does not cast a shadow over his life as his understanding deepens. I hope you can find solace in the fact that, from all this pain, Sarah, you have given us the most wonderful gift – an amazing little boy who is utterly fearless and who wears his heart so openly on his sleeve. We know the road ahead may not be easy, and not a day goes by when you are not in our thoughts. When he asks about you, we will tell him that you loved him very much and he will know that you will always be his birth mother.
In fact, you will always be his only mother – as we are both men. And I cannot help but wonder how you would feel about the fact that David has two Daddies and I hope that you would be accepting of that.
Nothing can take away the pain you experienced in life. It is so unfair that you did not receive the love and the warmth in your childhood that David now takes for granted. And although you never chose to hand your beautiful toddler over, I can only feel gratitude towards you for this wonderful little boy who has made our lives complete.
And I want you to know what a strong, intrepid, open and honest little chap you brought into this world, and one who I hope, in time, will be proud both of his heritage and of his adoptive family in equal measure.
Anonymous