Peeling back the layers

I was interested to read your articles about adoption (“The ties that bind”, August 13) and the tracing of relatives in David Cohen’s “My Irish question” (August 27).

I was adopted in 1943 by loving parents. I was never told of my adoption by them or family members, who were given strict instructions never to divulge this fact. I found out by chance when I was 42, at a time when my dad had died and mother had early dementia.

I spent many years battling the strict “rules” of the British government to obtain my original birth certificate. At one stage, they advised me I needed “counselling” in London by one of their staff before they could consider giving me this vital piece of paper. Counselling by an equivalent person here in New Zealand was out of the question, they said – at a time New Zealand adoption laws were less draconian than Britain’s and officialdom here was willing to help.

Eventually, I travelled to England and had the “counselling” interview. It lasted less than three minutes and I had the vital information in my hand.

Contacting my birth mother in England some eight years later, I was delighted, as she was, that I had made the effort to find her. Over the months, she and new cousins filled in their family history.

My birth mother was