Voices of the Left Behind - Melynda Jarratt

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my parents. Grandmother was very frightened of my stepfather and his violence. Her house was like a refuge for both my mom and me, so whenever I could, I stayed with her. I loved my grandmother a lot. She was my best friend.

      As I got older I wanted to ask my grandmother about my real dad, but I never did. Without her, I would not have existed. She took me away from my brutal stepfather, and I was afraid to hurt her by bringing up the past. I suppose my mom did love me in her own way, but she always put my stepfather first. I always felt that it was guilt over my birth. But the truth is that my mother was beaten up so often she was scared to death of him. It was a matter of survival for her.

      I never felt any hate towards my mother. She suffered enough. But what I couldn’t forgive was that she wouldn’t tell me the name of my Canadian father. My mom passed away without telling me anything at all. I don’t even know if she knew his name. It is a torment I have to live with for the rest of my life.

      Even after I was married and had two children, I thought she might have some respect for me and tell me something about the man who fathered me, but nothing at all. No one in the family would tell me anything about my Canadian father, so for ten long years I never saw my mother. The last time we spoke by phone, she said she didn’t want to know me.

      At that time I needed her so badly because my own marriage was not good and I was trying to hold my family together. My grandmother had passed away — the only one who had understood me and given me the love I needed. My marriage ended and my life became pure hell. I longed for a father and often wondered if he had only known how I suffered, would he care?

      During those ten years I always said that as long as I lived I would never let my mother in my house again. Then one day the doorbell rang, and there stood my mom and my younger sister, whom I hadn’t seen for years because she lived in another part of England. Mom and I looked at each other and I felt so sorry for her. She looked so old and sickly. I forgave her for all the hurt she caused me. I decided that I would try and make the best of things and stay in touch with my mom. This was very short-lived, because a few weeks later she had a brain hemorrhage. I was the only one at her bedside when she died. Then I knew that my mother had taken her secret to the grave and I would never know my father’s name.

      Fortunately, the relationship with my sister was good because she lived closer to me now; we became very close and were able to laugh together, which made me so happy. This was also short-lived. A few years after my mother died, my sister died at the age of fifty-three.

      I placed ads in different papers in the area where my mother lived at the time I was conceived. I wanted to find someone who knew my mom at that time and see whether they could shed some light on my Canadian father. I did get some letters and phone calls, and they were mostly the same — people who had known my mother and who said she went out a lot with Canadian soldiers at the time my stepfather was a prisoner of war. They also told me that my mother had had to take me to my grandmother’s house for safety after her husband came back from Japan.

      The best thing to come out of the search for my father is contacting Project Roots. I would like to pay a tribute to Olga and Lloyd Rains, better known as my “Canadian mom and dad.” I am their “English daughter” and I am very proud to know them. Whilst they couldn’t find my father, they have written to me now for several years, and through their caring and support have been my pillar of strength.

      I know that without Project Roots, and a great deal of compassion from Olga and Lloyd, many people would have never found their fathers in Canada. I will always be grateful for the happiness brought into my life by these two wonderful people. Olga and Lloyd could not find my happiness, but they have helped my hurt. They have given my life a meaning and I am proud of my Canadian mom and dad.

      by Mary K.

      This story is about my mother. I will call her Rosie (not her real name). My mother was seventeen years old in 1943 when the she met a young Canadian soldier in London, England. She and the soldier fell in love and dated for about a year. They planned to get married after the war’s end.

      Just before her boyfriend was sent to the fighting lines in Italy, Rosie knew she was pregnant. Rosie was raised in a Catholic family and had a very strict upbringing. Her parents were furious that their only daughter was pregnant by a Canadian soldier, so they were going to make her pay for bringing such shame onto the family.

      They made a plan, and Rosie had to obey. She was sent to a home for unwed mothers until her son, Jimmy, was born in February 1945. Rosie was forced to sign papers turning Jimmy over to her parents. Two weeks later, Rosie slipped out of sight. For sixteen years she had no contact with her family. The shame and humiliation was too great.

      At first, Rosie’s parents were frantic and walked the streets of London night after night praying to find her, but they never did. For all intents and purposes, Rosie had disappeared off the face of the earth.

      Some years later, Rosie married my father and had three more children, my two brothers and me. It was my dad who persuaded Rosie to look for the son she had left behind with her parents.

      By the time she made contact, my grandmother had already passed away. My half-brother Jimmy, then sixteen years old, wanted nothing to do with our mother. My grandfather was still alive, and he told Rosie that her Canadian soldier had been back to see her in the hope of marriage. They had sent the young man away without telling him he had a son.

      When my mother told her story to the three of us, we realized how she must have suffered when she was young and later, as a mother of three more children. She must have always thought of the baby she left behind with her parents. I asked her if she was mad at the Canadian. She said she wasn’t. He had been her first love.

      My mother died young. Her life was completely destroyed by this event. It scarred her for the rest of her life.

      by Pat K.

      Dear Olga and Lloyd,

      Thank you so much for returning my photograph. I am sorry to tell you that I am no longer in contact with my father. He just would not admit that he was my dad. He did send me a couple of photographs of himself, also quite a nice letter, but he just kept saying he has doubts because he wasn’t told about my mother’s pregnancy while she was four months pregnant. He said he felt if he was responsible then he should have been told first.

      When I read that, I felt I just had to explain things to him, so I phoned him that very evening to tell him my mother always had a medical condition that meant she never knew of a pregnancy until she was four or five months pregnant. Well, the minute I tried to explain this he got so mad, he said that I was pushing him and he wasn’t going to have that. Just think: after fifty years he felt he was being pushed!

      Anyway, he then repeated what he said the first time I called him: “What do you think you are going to get out of all this?” Before I could answer, he said, “Because I sure as hell know there’s nothing in it for me.”

      I was so hurt and told him that I just wanted to know something about him. He said he just could not see any point in any of it and didn’t want to carry on with it. I was rather upset, so I just said that I understood and said goodbye.

      I waited a few days, then wrote to him explaining properly on paper about my mother’s condition. I said as far as I was concerned he was, always had been and always would be my father.

      My mother was not a liar. She had no reason to bring me up telling me he was my father if he was not.

      To date I have never heard from him again and now sadly accept the fact that I never will. It is so sad that after all the work Project Roots did making many phone calls, writing letters, talking to so many people to find him. He did not understand your part in of all this and often told me that he did not want to hear from Project Roots anymore.

      I really haven’t learned anything about him at all. He would not open up to me. I sent him two photos of my two sons and me.

      I

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