I gave up my child for adoption in the late 1960s. I was just 20. It was my choice, but no choice at all (Britain’s apology for the scandal of forced adoption won’t – on its own – heal the wounds of survivors like me, 2 July). The circumstances were such that unless you had parental or a partner’s support, or a trust fund, it was practically impossible to keep your child. I have discovered through coverage of the government’s apology that some state funding was available. It was never mentioned to me.
I had planned to give up my child because I believed the propaganda: as an unmarried mother I could not give her a proper home. What I had not expected was the love I felt. When her father offered to marry me, I jumped at the chance and took the child away from prospective adopted parents. Three days before our wedding, the child’s father left me. My mother had not let me into the house once my pregnancy became obvious, so going home was not an option. I called the adoption agency and said goodbye to her in a small room somewhere near Baker Street.
