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afternoon had been for her and my grandfather. ‘I suppose you might want to go and live with Eileen [my birth-mother] now?’ she had said.
‘No of course not,’ I had tearfully replied. ‘Why would I ever want to do that?’
But later, as I lay sobbing on my bed, they were crying in each other’s arms in their own bedroom next door. Having failed to find any way of comforting their precious little ‘daughter’, they shared a fear that must be common to many adoptive parents. Now I knew who my ‘real’ mother was, and now I knew that she still lived less than an hour’s drive from my house with a new young family, might I demand that we all be reunited? After years of caring and raising me as their own, this loving couple were scared that the girl they thought of only as their own little daughter might suddenly vanish from their lives. It was to be a long time before they lost that particular fear.
Finding out such a momentous truth as I had that day, at an age when one can start to understand the ramifications, is an astonishing experience. Every family relationship you think you have straight in your head is thrown out of the window. My mummy was suddenly my grandma, and my daddy was my granddad. My sister was my mother, her husband was my step-father, my cousins were my brother and sister, my other big sister was suddenly my aunt with her children promoting themselves instantly from nephew and niece to yet more cousins. I instantly had a new little brother and a new little sister. And where was my real daddy in all this… and my real nan and grandpa, on the other side of my family?
Amidst such confusion it is perhaps not surprising that in my soon-to-come teenage years, my sweet little Miranda-wagon would soon be running off of the rails.

CHAPTER 5
LEFT BEHIND
I still thought of my grandparents as my mum and dad, as indeed they legally were because they adopted me at the age of two or three shortly before Eileen, my birth-mother left home. I loved my nan and granddad dearly and would never suggest for a moment that they failed to give me the most loving childhood they could. Equally truthfully, however, I can’t pretend that I had same upbringing as my siblings and most of my peers at school. When one’s parents are in reality one’s grandparents there are significant, yet subtle differences that conspire towards presenting a unique experience of childhood. A combination of their greater age, their old-fashioned attitudes and their relative poverty left me feeling that for me, life was different from that of others my age. It wasn’t that I was jealous or envious of other children; just that I was always aware of the differences
In retrospect, I can also see that my grandparents’ own knowledge of the truth of our relationship might sometimes have influenced their attitude to me. I have never doubted their total love and devotion, but having suddenly to raise a young child must at times have brought them heartache as well as love. They never showed any resentment towards my unexpected invasion of their late middle-age but surely there must have been occasions when it must have have felt, albeit for fleeting moments, I was a fledgling cuckoo in their nest?
I have no more than the vaguest of memories of the day that my ‘big sister’ left home and left me in the care of the couple who were to become the only mum and dad I’ve ever known. My deeper understanding of what happened has come over the years from various members of the family. I’ve been told that during the first couple of years of my life my birth-mother, the woman I’ve always known by her first name, Eileen, did look after and care for me at my grandparents’ house. Apparently, at that age, I knew her as ‘my mummy’ – a crucial fact, of course, that was rapidly forgotten as I grew from an infant into a child. (These days, when speaking of my birth-mother I invariably refer to her simply as my birth-mother, rather than ‘Mum’ or