Note: Fassit were
contacted by Linda some weeks ago where we helped in the editing of her story
before sending it to different media sources. More on Linda's
story will be included in the weekly edition of
Bella
Magazine on June 6
As a teenage single mum, Linda Kirkham was forced to give up her daughter
Annette. Alone and penniless, she desperately wanted her baby to have a better
life than she could offer. But Linda, now 53, never forgot her daughter's tiny
face or the pain of giving her up for adoption. And 18 years later she vowed to
track down Annette. After another 17 years, Linda found her daughter.
But in the most horrible way - by reading her death notice. There was more
heartache to come when she learned how her daughter had lived an unhappy life
and had died alone at the age of 33.
Here, Linda, who is from Liverpool, tells her heartrending
story...
BY THE age of just 19 I'd already given up dreaming about the future. Dreams
were a luxury I couldn't afford. I was a single mum with a three-year-old son
and a baby on the way.
I could put up with muddling through life but I wanted more for my' children. So
when social services knocked on my door and promised a better life for my unborn
child, I listened.
"You can't cope," the social worker told me. "We know plenty of couples who
would love and care for your child."
They wanted me to put my baby up for adoption. At first I shook my head, wiped
away my tears and said that under the circumstances I was doing very well. But
the more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe they were right.
My life was scrimping and saving, hoping the couple of eggs and potatoes in the
cupboard would stretch to yet another meal. The baby's dad wasn't interested.
The sisters who had brought me up lived on the other side of the city. I felt
alone.
Things had got so bad that I'd had to ask social services for help. They'd given
me some food vouchers and now they were recommending I let them find a better
mother for my child. It suddenly hit me what I'd done.
'I ran back for her but my baby had gone'
Believing it was a sacrifice I should make, I agreed to put my
child into care
Weeks later I went into labour and on April 11, 1972 my beautiful daughter
Annette was born. She had chubby cheeks and light brown hair. Doctors told me
she might be blind. But to me she was perfect.I held her close and thought: "How
long do we have?" The next day I carefully dressed her in a white knitted baby
grow and a little hat with a bobble on top.
When I looked up there was a couple standing by the bed. With them was the
social worker. I looked back at Annette. Our time together was up. They had come
to take her.
"This couple can't have children but they are prepared to care for Annette,"
explained the social worker.
How could I compete? They were married professionals in their 40s. They were
everything I wasn't. But in the grounds of the hospital it suddenly hit me what
I'd done. I turned and started running back to Annette. But when I got to the
ward it was too late. She had gone.
"One day I'll get her back," I vowed. After that there was no room for doubts or
regrets. In those days I knew not to expect much sympathy. I'd had two children
out of wedlock. Most people would probably agree that adoption was for the best.
I moved in with a relative.
My son Andrew and I had to sleep in the front room and things were cramped, but
I wanted to have my family around me. I put Andrew in a nursery and found a job
in a plastics factory. Annette's dad, James, had kept in touch since the birth.
Perhaps it was the pain of giving her up, but we became close again. I found him
a job at the same factory and eventually we got married. But Annette was always
missing from our lives.
I got pregnant again and our daughter Suzanne was born. A third daughter, Kerry,
followed. But although our family was happy, it was not complete. Annette was
always the missing piece of our jigsaw. Knowing she was out there somewhere
haunted me.
Every "first" the children achieved - first words, first steps, first day at
school - I wondered if she had learned the same. When I took the girls shopping
for shoes I couldn't help secretly choosing a third pair | I would have bought
for Annette.
When I collected the children from school or took them to play in the park, I
couldn't help but scan the other children's faces. Was one of them my daughter?
Every year on Annette's birthday I busied myself with housework, trying not to
think of what might have been.
When I thought the children were old enough, I told them about their sister.
"Mum, try and find her," they pleaded. I gave them my word that before I died I
would. The year Annette turned 18; I decided the time was right. I was going to
find her. I contacted social services but was passed from one department to
another. The reply was always the same - they had no record of my daughter.
But I didn't give up. I learned how to use a computer and went on the internet,
searching for support groups. I discovered a whole world of people searching for
loved ones. Some had been reunited and this gave me hope. I began talking to one
lady and with her help I soon had a long list of women with the same name as my
daughter. I wrote to them but none was my Annette. I posted message after
message on different websites, hoping that one day Annette would come across
one. I wrote: "I'm sorry for giving you away. If you feel able to find me,
please get in touch." But I never got a reply. Then one evening I sat down to
read the local paper and something caught my eye. It was a notice in the births,
deaths and marriages column. It read: "Annette Best died peacefully after a
short illness."
With a feeling of dread, my eyes flicked down to her age. Thirty-three. It
matched my daughter's.
I phoned the funeral parlour. "Could you tell me if this Annette Best could
possibly be my daughter, please?" I asked. They agreed to contact social
services to find out.
For two agonising days I waited to hear back. Finally they phoned and confirmed
what I feared. My daughter had died. After 17 years of searching, I'd found her
- but it was too late.
Later I went to see her in the chapel of rest. It was the first time I had seen
her since her birth. I cried so hard, thinking of all the things she would never
know. That her mother loved her and was sorry for giving her away.
That she had a family who wanted the chance to get to know her. That she was
always in our thoughts. And that I'd only done what I thought was for the best.
Just one and a half hours later I attended her cremation. I was inconsolable. I
felt like a bystander at my own daughter's funeral.
‘So many unanswered questions about her life remained. But the
more we probed, the more the truth about Annette's tragic life unravelled’
The couple that had taken her at birth kept her for just six weeks before giving
her back to social services. After that she was put in a children's home. She
wasn't blind but had learning difficulties.
Eventually one of the carers took pity on her. She began to take Annette home at
weekends. Her parents became attached to Annette and shortly before her third
birthday they fostered her until she was 18.
Then she went to live in a residential care home for adults. This is where she
died, from a cancer called retroperitoneal malignancy.
I was told that her carers once asked 1 Annette if she wanted to change her
name, but she was adamant she wanted to keep my maiden name.
The family who fostered her clearly loved her and gave her a happy life. It's
thanks to her foster sister that I know a little about my daughter. I'll always
be grateful to them.
But I can't help but feel angry, too. i didn't give my daughter up lightly. I
decided to secure her a better future.
The thought of her abandoned in a care home and the fact that someone ' had to
take pity on her breaks my heart.'
Five months after her death we’re’ still trying to piece together her life. I
went to see the room where she-lived at the care home. I looked at all the
things other people had bought her. I felt so ashamed that someone else had
cared for her.
I've recently been given two albums of Annette's photos. They are now my most '
treasured possessions.
Nobody can take them from me now.
AS TOLD TO SASKIA KYLE
