Opening the email took me back over 40 years, to a stark hospital room and a cold, stainless-steel trolley where I lay naked, bleeding, and alone, overwhelmed with fear.

The trauma from that dreadful day in September 1976 rushed back, shaking my body with violent tremors. Memories I’d carefully buried demanded acknowledgement once more. I read the words on my phone repeatedly, insisting to myself that it couldn’t be true.

A 42-year-old named Simon had reached out to me unexpectedly, suggesting that I might be his mother. Adopted at birth, his details matched perfectly; I had secretly given birth on that same day as a naïve, unmarried 21-year-old.

However, Simon couldn’t be my child, as my baby was said to have died. The midwives took the infant away without revealing its gender, returning only to tell me, without emotion, that the baby had passed.

No solace was offered; instead, they viewed me as a disgrace, perceiving my child’s death as just retribution for my supposed sin.

For forty years, I remained silent about the incident: not to family, friends, or even to my husband and two children. I buried my grief and shame, but they never truly left me.

But could this stranger be telling the truth? Had my baby survived?

With trembling fingers, I opened the photos Simon had included with his message.

There I saw one of his daughter: a small, smiling girl, with my exact dark blonde curls and hazel eyes. It honestly felt like I was looking at a picture of myself as a child.

In that moment, my whole world turned upside down. Forty-two years after leaving hospital with nothing but a broken heart and buried trauma, I was finally on my way to learning the shocking truth.

Like thousands of unmarried mothers across the world, I’d been a victim of a heinous scandal. Such was the shame of having a baby out of wedlock back then, that up until the late 1970s thousands of children were adopted against their mother’s wishes.

In my case, the authorities went one step further by lying to me that my baby had died, so I didn’t even get a chance to object.

Of course, no statistics exist citing how many poor young girls were victims of this particularly cruel crime. If, like me, they’d kept their pregnancy secret, possibly hundreds went to their graves never knowing their child had lived.

Although I count myself as one of the lucky ones as I eventually discovered the truth, at the age of 63, my fury was intense.

It was more than anger; it was a sense of total disempowerment. These strangers had taken control of my life, because they thought that they knew better, and treated me like rubbish to be swept away and forgotten.

I was born in 1955 to a strict Catholic family, the eldest of five children, and raised in Wellington, New Zealand.

We went to a religious school and church three times a week. Our ‘sex education’ – if you can call it that – consisted of quite frankly ridiculous ‘advice’ such as never to sit on a bus seat after a boy, as you could get pregnant.

When I left home at 19 to work in a pub in Sydney, Australia, mum had slipped me a booklet about anatomy under the bathroom door, but even then I had only the sketchiest ideas about biology and how babies were made.

From Sydney, I got an au pair job in Canada, where I lived an ideal life, riding horses on the family’s land. And it was here, aged 20, that I fell in love with Jason, a handsome man ten years my senior, who lived on a nearby farm.

Of course, when we began having sex, we didn’t use contraception. Utterly naïve, and hopelessly in love, it just didn’t occur to me.

When Jason got a job in California I went to visit him for a weekend but missed my flight home. When I returned, my employer was furious and sacked me on the spot. No job meant no visa, so I had to return to New Zealand.

I was devastated. By then Jason was travelling and, while I considered writing to his old farm in the hope they might be able to pass on a message, since they didn’t know about our relationship, I eventually decided not to.

A month later I got another job in Sydney, at a horse farm run by a Catholic doctor, Mark, and his wife, Alice. When I started feeling nauseous, I initially put it down to heartbreak. Yet I’d seen enough on the farm to understand what my swelling stomach signalled.

Denial and guilt are a powerful combination, however, so I hid in baggy dungarees and worked from sunrise to sunset, deliberately leaving myself too exhausted to think about the future.

My feelings of shame were so intense I didn’t consider telling anyone – not my family, or even Jason. But there was only so long I could maintain my state of denial.

One night in September 1976, when I was 21, my contractions started. By morning, the pain was so intense, I staggered to the main house begging for help, saying I had dreadful stomach-ache.

Alice drove me to the local doctor. I heard him say, ‘oh my God’ as he removed my overalls, and I saw the shock – and anger – on Alice’s face when the truth hit her.

She refused to even go with me to the hospital.

The same attitude greeted me on the labour ward, where one glance at my ringless left hand told the medical staff everything they needed to know.

I’ve managed to block out most of the details of the birth: the agony, the terror and the strange silence that descended as my baby was bundled up and spirited away in a stranger’s arms.

I never heard him cry. I never even saw his face. I was left naked, bleeding, freezing and sobbing on the hospital trolley.

What happened next is still a horrible blur; I can’t remember the specific words used, but I know a woman returned to tell me my baby hadn’t survived.

At that moment, I shut down, without the strength to ask any questions, telling myself I deserved this.

The next thing I remember, some paperwork was thrust into my hand, and a cold voice told me I couldn’t leave until I’d signed the discharge papers. Like a robot I did what I was told.

I was in turmoil, and without anyone to comfort me. Nobody knew about my pregnancy except Alice and Mark, and their house was the only place I had to go.

I can’t recall how I got there, I just remember walking into the house and no one uttered a word. They didn’t ask about the baby, or what had happened – nothing.

It was such a dark time. But how could I grieve a child I’d tried so hard to pretend I’d never carried?

I did the only thing I could think of; I put it all – Jason, the pregnancy, the baby – in a mental box and slammed it shut.

Later that year, when a visiting vet offered me a job elsewhere in Sydney, I left Alice and Mark’s house without saying goodbye.

A new Diane had replaced the naïve, trusting girl who’d first left home at 19 – a young woman hardened to the world and determined never to be made to feel so powerless again.

I ploughed all my energy into work, going on to study veterinary science at university and qualifying as a vet.

In 1983, I met Ian, another student. He was my first sexual partner since Jason but, having now abandoned my faith, our relationship felt fun and exciting – free from the guilt I’d previously felt.

We went on to marry in 1987, yet I never came close to sharing my terrible secret with him; while he might have been supportive, I didn’t want to risk ruining my fresh start by opening Pandora’s box.

In 1991, our daughter Sarah was born. The pregnancy was a world away from my first one; now, everyone was so happy for me, and I felt loved and respected.

As for the birth itself, it was night and day compared with my previous labour.

And yet, after Sarah was taken to be weighed and measured, I didn’t automatically hold out my arms to get her back. I was frozen. The nurse had to gently ask, ‘Do you want to hold your baby?’

When I did, the wave of love I felt was incredible. Cradling my beautiful daughter in my arms, it hit me: this one I get to keep.

I promised her I wouldn’t let a day go by without me telling her how much I loved her.

I adored motherhood, and at times watching Sarah I’d find myself thinking ‘What if …?’

Yet I’d quickly push those thoughts away.

When our son Daniel was born two years later, I felt the same fierce love of a woman who knows what it’s like to not bring a baby home. Somehow, 25 years passed. The children grew into happy, healthy adults and, although my marriage didn’t last, I was living a good life, filled with love.

Then one evening in December 2018, I’d been out for dinner with Daniel and on my return noticed an email on my phone from an unknown address.

It was long, and at first only certain phrases jumped out at me. That Simon, the writer, had been adopted at birth, from the same hospital I’d attended, and had recently taken a DNA test, which had led him, via a long, convoluted path, to me.

He’d found a picture of me online and had immediately recognised a similarity to his own daughter, then three.

While some people might have thought it was a mistake, or a scam, when I saw the picture of Simon himself, I was left in no doubt. He was the image of Jason. I knew, just knew, that this 42-year-old man was my first-born child, and that the hospital authorities had lied to me.

Those ‘discharge’ papers at the hospital? They must have been adoption papers. The cruelty took my breath away.

I had no idea where to turn to or what to do.

Frantically googling for answers, I found The Benevolent Society, which supports people affected by adoption.

The very next day, I found myself sitting in their office with a counsellor.

For the first time in 42 years, I talked about my past. Everything I’d bottled up for decades, all the pain, fear, guilt and shame, came pouring out – as well as my new-found anger.

The counsellor told me there had been thousands of forced adoptions in Australia in the past and, shockingly, telling unmarried mothers their babies had died wasn’t uncommon.

With her help I was able to sit down and write a reply to Simon a few days later.

‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ I wrote. ‘But when you were born, I was told you’d died.’

I tried to explain the impact that losing him had on my life, and told him about Sarah and Daniel, his half-sister and brother.

Without my counsellor I’d never have made it through; my emotions were in free-fall. I was grappling with exhaustion and guilt at hiding this bombshell from Sarah and Daniel, as well as the awful fear that when they did discover it, they’d judge me.

I knew I’d have to tell them at some point, but I needed to meet Simon first, to get my facts straight.

In follow-up emails, Simon explained he’d been adopted at birth by a lovely couple who adored him. Though he always knew he was adopted, he’d had a wonderful childhood.

After becoming a father himself he decided he wanted to find his birth parents, and he’d registered his DNA on an ancestry website, which led him to Jason’s family in Canada.

Jason had recently died, but a relative remembered him mentioning his old girlfriend Diane in Australia, and he’d managed to trace me. When he did, he realised his ancestry results had linked him to some of my relatives too.

Of course, Simon was devastated to learn about the terrible circumstances of his birth. Like me, the sheer cruelty of it astounded him.

His adoptive parents had been kept in the dark too; they’d been told I had chosen to give Simon up but wanted him to be raised by a Catholic family, and for years they’d even sent me letters and photos showing his progress to an address they’d been given. Who knows where they ended up.

The next month I flew two hours from my home in Brisbane to meet Simon.

I was almost hyperventilating with fear. Would blood be enough to bring us together, or would Simon decide he didn’t want me in his life after all? And what would all this mean for Sarah and Daniel?

Then suddenly I was walking through arrivals and saw him, holding a bunch of white flowers. All my fears flew away, and I fell sobbing into his arms – the first time I’d ever held him. He didn’t feel like a stranger at all.

Our conversation – about his family and mine – was warm and easy.

I couldn’t stop staring at him, unable to believe I could reach across the table and touch him. It felt impossible, yet wonderful.

It was hard to say goodbye the next day, but there was one huge hurdle I needed to clear: I had to tell Sarah and Daniel my secret.

Two days later, I invited them over for a dinner, shaking with nerves as we sat down.

Hearing my shocking story, they were incredible; hurt and horrified for me, yet excited to meet their new half-brother.

My relief was indescribable; I fell asleep with a smile on my face for the first time in decades. It was only after it lifted that I realised the true weight of what I’d been carrying all these years.

A few weeks later, we were all sitting in a busy restaurant in Brisbane, sharing food and laughing. Looking around at my three children was overwhelming, and I felt a sense of peace that had once seemed impossible.

There were still more emotional moments to come, like telling my siblings and seeing their shock and sadness, though they were all supportive. My parents had died years before.

In 2019, a year after Simon’s email, I met his adoptive parents. Though what happened at his birth is so sad, I’m glad he found such a loving family.

I investigated pursuing the matter with the hospital where I’d given birth, but was told the buildings had been demolished and the records destroyed.

I decided not to pour my energy into a fight I probably wouldn’t win, and I refused to let bitterness consume me. Instead, I chose peace, to live for now and spend the time I do have with my incredible family.

It isn’t always easy. The anguish of those lost years, and the love I could have given Simon, is a wound that will never heal.

Still, our relationship is wonderful, comfortable and peaceful. We see each other every month and talk or text three times a week.

I’m so proud of the kind, caring person, and amazing father, he is – and the incredible bond we have built against all odds.