Heather was 84 when she discovered she had possibly been adopted. Her adopted parents were long dead, as indeed would have been her biological parents.
Her day had started as quite ordinary. She still had all her marbles and was active for her age. It was late morning when she went to check the mailbox. Her life was about to be turned upside down. Kitty, a dear friend and neighbour, had rather nonchalantly asked a few weeks back at what time was Heather born. Heather said she didn’t have a clue but it might be on the birth certificate. So she wrote away for a copy and on this day the birth certificate arrived.
There was no time of birth, but the couple named as her parents were not the parents she had known. In fact there were other little titbits of misinformation. The date was wrong by several days. In fact, the date was possibly correct. Heather had spent a life time wrongfully thinking her birthday was on the 12th whereas in fact it had been two days earlier on the 10th.
The place of birth was news to her as well. She had always presumed she was born in Thrushport, but the certificate clearly stated Sunnytown. And splashed across the information in another hand-writing was the word – ADOPTED.
But the biggest news of all was her name. She had always been called Heather; plain Heather and nothing else. The birth certificate clearly stated her name was Philomena Heather. Philomena! Clear as a bell – Philomena Heather Brighton.
“But Heather,” exclaimed Kitty the dear friend and neighbour. “Brighton is your married name!”
“This,” declared Heather, “almost certainly calls for a celebratory wine.”