I was born in 1965 in a CofE Mother and Baby home in England. My mother conceived at 16, delivered at 17. Her parents were working class but 'proper' and gave her no choice but to go to the home. Her younger brother and sister were not told where she went or that she was pregnant. The father did offer marriage, but they had split up by the time she knew she was pregnant and she said no as she knew it would not work. She never contacted him again. She was largely ignorant about sex and did not know that pregnancy could result from their sexual activity.
The home was a cruel place where the emphasis was on shame and punishment. The girls were made to work, scrubbing and polishing, until they gave birth. Every Sunday they walked in crocodile through the village to the church, feeling the shame of people's eyes on them, where they were seated in a rear pew away from the main congregation. They were not told what giving birth entailed, but as each girl delivered, the others moved rooms nearer to the delivery room so that when they were almost due, they could hear the screams of the girl delivering in the next room. There was no pain relief, or encouragement, or sympathy, during labour. It was terrifying.
After my mother gave birth, she did not want to give me up and would not sign the adoption papers. Social workers visited regularly to persuade her. Her mother visited to persuade her. They told her she couldn't bring up a child alone, financially or practically. After four months, she was ground down and signed.
Her father came with a car to the home and drove my mother and I to a children's home. Her father chatted and chatted to the children's home staff while my mother was silently screaming. Eventually they said goodbye and left me to drive home.
There our stories diverged - my mother went back home, but could not talk about what had happened to her at home, her siblings still had no idea, and she went back to work. But it was too difficult and after a few months she left home and got small jobs with accommodation around the country. She married three times, but had no further children.
I was adopted from that same children's home by a couple from Middlesex with a seven year old son. The social workers' notes my adoptive mother was a housewife who liked knitting and baking and had a little boy who was polite and had good manners.
What they didn't know, because they didn't really try and find out in those days, was that my adoptive father had a vicious temper and simply couldn't cope with children. My first memory is when I was very small and had vomited in bed in the night. My adoptive father got up and stood me at the top of the stairs and slapped me and slapped me, and said 'It was a mistake to get you, we should send you back to where you came from'. I didn't know where I'd come from at that time, but the words terrified me. It was a refrain I was to hear many more times over my childhood. There were many more beatings too, and as I grew up I got to understand the story - my adoptive mother had a late miscarriage and could not have any more children, but she wanted a sibling for her son, and somehow my adoptive father had agreed, although I was under no illusion it wasn't what he wanted.
There were other, darker abuses too when I was very young, but I was too young to process or understand what was happening and the memories are dark but vague, too vague to process even now.
As I grew into my teens I started to have suicidal ideation and depression but there was no signposted support available directly to teenagers so I just suffered in silence. I was a quite clearly vulnerable teenager which led to me being sexually abused by a teacher at school at age 14. It all erupted when I was 17 and away at university and I was admitted as an inpatient at a psychiatric hospital, but even then, I don't remember ever explaining to anyone what had happened to me, it was all medication and a daily group relaxation session.
I made my way through life, often badly, I sabotaged every good relationship I had, but I had four children. Things got better as I got past middle age, I became more stable and able to hold down jobs and relationships for longer.
When I was fifty, I made contact with my mother, via an internet database of people looking for adopted relatives which my mother's brother had subscribed to. She was unsure at first, but we met after a few months and have developed a good relationship over the last eleven years. I have not told her about my upbringing, or my struggles. She supplied the information about the mother and baby home and her home life at the time, although some I knew from the social workers' notes I asked for when it became legal to do so in the 90s.
So yes, I think there's a lot to apologise for. My mother's guilt. The abuse of the mother and baby home. My abusive adoptive family. We're both older now, I'm retiring soon, but her life and my life could have both been very different.