On Valentine’s Day, we had special guests for lunch: my husband Alan’s older brother Tom and his family. Tom and his wife drove down from their home in Scotland, Lynne their daughter up from where she lives in Lincoln.
We talked. We ate. We looked at family photographs and talked about the past.
Sounds nice enough, I hear you cry, but why so special?
Well. Thereby hangs a tale, and it’s not mine to tell, but: until December, we didn’t know that Alan had an older brother. Tom was given up for adoption when he was born in the late 1930s, although it was only when his daughter started looking into the family history 5 years ago that he discovered the truth about his parentage. With only his mother’s name to go on, Tom and his family, with the help of an expert, eventually found Alan.
Who was delighted to be found. No-one needs money, or a kidney, or has an axe to grind; both men had happy upbringings; it was a lovely occasion.
Alan’s and Tom’s mother died some years ago, so we’ll never know the full story. But we are glad to be reunited.
Don’t they look pleased?
And aren’t they like their Mum?