"I didn’t know I had a brother - then I found a photo of us as children" The extraordinary story of two siblings reunited

I first went to London Zoo in 1984. I was very young and don’t remember it, but for years afterwards, I would look at a photo of that day and marvel at the majestic animals and, later, at the impressively colourful 80s fashions displayed by my two aunts. The baby in the photo is my cousin. I’m the girl pointing (‘Look! A giraffe!’). And the little boy who looks like the Milky Bar Kid is my brother, Lee.

‘Aww...’ I hear you say. ‘What a nice family picture.’ I expect you have similar photos, with people wearing similarly garish jumpers. Except that, at the time this was taken, I wasn’t even aware that I had a brother. I didn’t find out about his existence until almost 30 years later, when his foster mother died and he used her papers to track me down.

I was born in 1982 in Guernsey, a small island where everybody knows everybody. I was adopted soon after birth, by parents who’d longed for a child but had none of their own. They had links to the island (my adoptive mum grew up there and her sisters were still there) but lived in Lancashire. I later found out the authorities felt I would be safer away from the island and people who might identify me.

I don’t remember being told I was adopted. It was something I always knew, as my parents were very open about it and treated it as something that was simply factual. I grew up an only child and was doted upon but, with no siblings, I often felt lonely.

As I grew older, I found the fact I was adopted interesting and maybe even slightly romantic – something that made me different. I devoured novels like Anne Of Green Gables, whose feisty heroine, with a love of writing and a short temper, was someone with whom I very much identified. I asked about the circumstances of my birth, mostly out of curiosity, but my parents hadn’t been told very much. In the early 80s, secrecy was still the norm, particularly for infant adoptions. The authorities believed (wrongly, I now realise) that adoption was a clean slate and it was better for all concerned to have as little baggage as possible. As a result, I knew nothing about my birth parents or that I had any siblings.

As I reached adulthood, my curiosity grew and I considered trying to find out more, even discussing it with a counsellor while I was at university. I revisited the idea when I was about to get married and was thinking about having children of my own. I felt, for the first time really, that a part of me was incomplete without the background knowledge that unadopted people take for granted. Ultimately, though, I decided against it, worried that it would be too disruptive for me and others involved. I was starting with no information at all and there were too many variables; I was worried I could find out something terrible or create problems for my birth family if I turned up unexpectedly after so many years. Then I found myself on the receiving end of the very thing I’d been concerned about.

One evening in 2013, I was sitting at home, a glass of wine in my hand after a long day. I was just closing my work email account when a message popped into my inbox that said ‘Seeking family’. The text read: ‘This may sound strange, but I think I’m your brother.’

The email was from someone called Lee, who’d grown up on Guernsey. He said he’d been fostered for the whole of his childhood and his long-term foster mother, Beryl, had recently died. He’d been given some documents that related to him and his sister: me. These included letters that my adoptive mum had written to my former social worker. That social worker was Beryl.

I called my mum (blindsiding her completely) and read her the email. There was a sharp intake of breath, then a long pause while she tried to decide what the correct response was to a situation none of us had ever considered. Eventually, she said the name Lee sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it – it was a long time before I found out why. She reiterated that they’d never been told anything, so next I called the adoption agency to request my file, which took weeks, during which time I fretted my way close to a breakdown.

I worried about how this might impact my relationship with my mum and what on earth I’d find out, as I knew nothing about the circumstances around my adoption – whether my mother had relinquished me or if the authorities had taken me away and why. I sent Lee a quick reply to let him know I was making enquiries and would be back in touch, which sounded slightly formal and impersonal, but I didn’t know what else to say in case this was all just some terrible misunderstanding.

Finally, after two months, I was summoned to Blackburn, where a social worker went through my file with me in an airless Portakabin while it rained unseasonably outside. The file contained just a few bits of paper – a hospital report, a document where my mother signed me away and a brief summary of our situation. It was clear that my birth mother would never have been able to care for two children – at the time, she had no fixed address or job and was in a relationship described euphemistically in my file as ‘tempestuous’ – my father was in prison. The paperwork also told the story of two children who ended up leading very different lives and is still one of the saddest things I’ve ever read.

It turned out that Lee and I had both parents in common and were just 18 months apart in age, yet the ‘system’, such as it was, had decided to separate us. As a newborn baby girl, I was considered pretty desirable for would-be adopters and indeed a home was found for me very quickly, with doting parents who gave me every opportunity available. Lee, meanwhile, was passed between foster carers and the local children’s home before finally ending up with Beryl, and some level of stability, aged six.

Knowing for sure now that Lee was my brother, I immediately sent him an email with the good news. We messaged back and forth, obsessively and awkwardly, trying to find things we could connect over.

Lee and I finally met in December 2013. Seeing him for the first time was overwhelming. We desperately wanted to have lots in common, but instead found a rift between us, which is completely understandable given the passage of time and our different upbringings. He wanted a sister so badly, but I, having been an only child up to that point, had no idea what to do with a sibling. While we share similar interests (we both love football, outdoor swimming in all weathers and are musical), ultimately we haven’t become as close as we would have liked. He’s married, with a beautiful daughter, and I chat regularly to his wife, but we’re not close in the way my husband is with his siblings – he has a relationship with them that, if I’m being honest, I envy.

So, how did we come to be in the same photo when we lived hundreds of miles apart? It turned out that Lee’s name was familiar to my adoptive mum for a reason: one of her sisters had fostered him for a year in 1984. Neither of them were told we were siblings and neither realised the connection. During this time, we all met up in London – three sisters and their children. My adoptive mother took the photo. Lee and I have a theory: that our social worker and Lee’s eventual foster mother, Beryl, was trying to keep us together by having the sister of my adoptive mother foster Lee. Beryl died in 2012, so this isn’t something we’ll ever be able to verify, but it’s a romantic thought and I hope it’s true.

Aside from that brief encounter at the zoo, Lee and I never met again during our very different childhoods – his much harder than mine, simply because he had the misfortune to be born first.

We’ve since shared multiple photos of ourselves at various stages through our separate childhoods and I’m always struck by how similar we look. I willnever not feel sad when I look at them.

Since the day I received that first email, I’ve experienced every emotion, from loss to guilt to anger, knowing how the authorities played God with two tiny children, leading to them becoming very different people, like an unethical experiment from an earlier era.

My emotions about our situation change on an almost daily basis. There are so many what ifs. What if we’d been adopted together? What if he’d stayed with my aunt and we’d grown up as cousins? That old photo feels like a sliding doors moment where the doors closed just a bit too early, and looking at it makes me wistful.

Initially, my brother finding me felt like a violation of privacy: as an adopted person, one of your few pieces of autonomy is the decision to trace or not, and I’d decided not to. However, if I’d known there was a brother to find, I might have made a different decision.

His finding me ultimately answered many questions, introduced me to other family members and, while not necessarily what I’d pictured, gave me something I’d dreamed about: a big brother.