In 1968 I realised that my uncle was actually my father (“uncle” was a friendly family term). I cherished odd moments I had with him which were ‘blue moon’ moments.
In 2010 I happened to come across information relating to my father (he died in 1988) – that he had 6 children, two more than I had been told. I met them that same year, felt a connection with them – upset his two daughters, one of which was 9 months older than me. Sadly I have not seen them again to date.
I still search for my father’s acknowledgement of my presence.
1944 coming home from Cheshire to find soot everywhere, pictures crooked and cracks in the walls after a doodlebug landed nearby in North London.
Adam – my first kiss with Melanie Smith, 1962
Dec 20th 1968, the birth of our son. Delivered by my father in the presence of my husband. Wendy.
I was born in 1968, the youngest of three children. And that was our family “story”.
But then three years ago my mother told me that they had concieved a fourth child, but there had been complications and they had the pregancy terminated after three months or so.
I now wonder what our family “story” might have been.