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FACTS & ARGUMENTS

I held you in my arms and you seemed to understand that I couldn't keep you, Heidi Greco writes

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

Hello. I'm writing to wish you a Happy Birthday – your 50th – where do the years go? It doesn't seem it could have been that long ago. The memories feel so fresh. So, why don't I just phone you – or have you over for supper – or at least put this message into a card and mail it to you? Because I have no idea where (or even who) you are.

Twenty. That's how old I was. Some might say, old enough to know better. Or perhaps, young enough to be forgiven for making mistakes. That's how old I was when you were born. The same age my mother was when she gave birth to me.

July, 1967 – a season that was touted as the Summer of Love. But, for many of us, it didn't always feel as though love was in the air. Back then, a baby born out of wedlock was called a love-child. Only not everyone seemed to be in agreement on that. It was a time when taboos were spelled with a capital T. A young woman was simply not supposed to have a child unless she was married. Even if the marriage might be an unhappy one, a wedding was an essential requirement for having a baby. So, walking down the street with a belly full of love was not met kindly by many of those I encountered.

On advice from a friend, I bought myself a cheap gold band from the local Woolworth's. Almost immediately, those scowls eased. So at least I was able to pass through those final, biggest stages of pregnancy feeling blessed with gentle smiles from strangers, smiles that I returned as I made sure to flash my ring. Hypocrisy. A word I was learning while I was waiting for you.

The gold band wasn't my only pretense. Because I lived just far enough away from the town where my parents lived, I found ways to avoid letting them in on the "secret'" I was carrying. Occasional phone calls were filled with excuses – lies about job demands, important social commitments, even wildly impossible false travel plans. I felt lucky that they didn't insist on coming to visit me. After all, I'd heard plenty about how they'd worked to establish their good name in the church and in the community – and how so-and-so's kid had gone wrong. Words such as "tarnish" and "shame" still rang in my ears loudly enough to keep me quiet and alone.

I was 20 and on my own. Living in a cheap basement suite that didn't have much of a heater. Who knew what it would be like come winter. I had a sketchy part-time job, one I couldn't rely on as long-term with no real prospects for anything better, especially if it meant needing to hire a sitter. I knew I had no way to support you – or to give you the experiences, the education, the love I knew you deserved. So, like so many young women of that time, I met a sympathetic-seeming social worker and answered as many of her questions as I could, then signed the papers she handed to me – the papers that would place you up for adoption – papers that would find a better mother for you, one who would love you and keep you as a gift from me.

Your birth took place in a hospital delivery room that didn't allow entry to a friend or relative – not even a husband, if I'd had the luxury of one. A delivery table with leather straps that were bound around my wrists to fasten my hands down. The Middle Ages? Not exactly, although the conditions do seem archaic.

It turns out, I wasn't alone. Over a 20-year span, it's been reported that more than 300,000 babies were given up for adoption in Canada. Many of these babies were granted to the courts unwillingly, the mothers coerced into a decision that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. I'm only fortunate that I was not among those. I knew, especially having kept the secret as long as I had, that I needed to start my life over on my own – and that you needed a better chance than I could offer.

But was that the end? Not then, and not now.

I still look at the clock just about every morning, almost magically, at 10:23, the time you were born. Last night, those numbers flashed at me in my dream.

I remember how you looked when I held you, the cleft in your tiny chin, the dimple that assured me I was holding the right baby, your bright little face still unsure of where to look. How you seemed to listen when I explained that you were going to someone who would take care of you and love you always.

I remember, too, leaving the hospital, feeling flabby and empty, but assuring myself that your life would be better with a proper family to look after you. Although I admit, I wonder still – who you are today, what became of that child I left behind half a century ago.

These days, I focus on the two sons I was able to keep and am grateful they're still willing to come over for Sunday-night suppers and that they let me at least try to be the mother I always wanted to be. And as I wish you a happy birthday, I place my trust in believing that you had a much better mother than I would have been able to be.

Best wishes for a wonderful day and for what remains of what I can only trust has been a wonderful life.

With love from your birth mother.

Heidi Greco lives in Surrey, B.C.