Who's House

Since Christmas I have thrown myself into the EU adoption site I set up with Mariana from illegal adoptions Greece I had hoped that my own situation would become something to let go of and put down to experience, that hasn't happened. The memories still keep bombarding me with no sense to them. I found it too painful writing this blog before but it did put a few things into order for me so here goes... round two.

Who's house was it? I know now it wasn't my real mums, so who's? We went after school one night, I know that because I remember wearing a green knitted cardigan so I must have been in junior school. Again I wanted to know about my mum and again I was told not to get upset but she didn't want me and she couldn't give a damn about me.

The next day you took me out of school early. In the car you told me we were going to see my mum. I don't remember how I felt. I can picture the house as though it was yesterday. The front door opened into the living room. It had red lino on the floor (think that's what it was called) and a window both sides of the door. There was a wooden table that wobbled under one window, I sat there with a boy painting. It was a magic painting book. You just dipped the paint brush in water and the colours came on the page (god why cant' everything be that easy). The woman (she wasn't my mum) had a beehive hair style though I haven't a clue what she looked like or who she was. You must have told me something about her, even if just to explain why we were at her house. A bit later (not sure how long) I was told my mum wasn't coming and we left. The woman gave me a tiny tears doll (which my niece now has) and the foot had been chewed on it.

All the way home I kept hearing 'told you she couldn't be bothered' 'you should have listened' 'its your own fault' (meaning my crying). I don't think I ever asked to see my mum after that. My mum knew nothing about it (I know now). Who's house was it, woman, who were you. All I am sure of is whoever she was she wasn't on my adop mums list of hate. I know because she didn't take tiny tears away from me. I don't even know if over the years I ever asked about the lady who gave me my doll, I probably did because I loved my tiny tears and a child would ask wouldn't they?