When I saw a little blonde-haired girl climbing into a car outside nursery, my heart stopped –because I knew exactly who it was. By Karen Burke, 54
Looking around the hall of potential adoptive parents, I felt like the odd one out.
I was one of only two women on their own in a sea of couples.
For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted to be a mum. I’d just never met
the right person to have a family with.
Now, at 40, inspired by some friends who’d adopted, I’d come to a meeting to find out more about the process.
When it was time for questions, I raised my hand and asked, ‘What is
the protocol for adoption leave
from work?’
‘If you’re in a relationship, you
can take six months
off, and if it’s just you, we recommend a year,’ the woman from the adoption agency explained.
My mind raced as I left the meeting, but the answer to my question nagged at me most. How could I afford to take a year off work?
After weeks of deliberating, I shelved the adoption idea and instead started IVF at a private clinic.
‘Your eggs look good,’ the doctor told me, lighting a spark of hope inside me.
But after the first three rounds failed, that hope began to dim.
After a fourth go, I
went to the loo at work and realised my period
had started.
For a year, I’d been on
an emotional rollercoaster.
'I can't do this anymore'
I’d injected myself with drugs that sent my hormones all over the place, spent thousands of my savings, and had to pick up the pieces alone each time it failed.
Now, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I thought, I can’t do this any more.
After giving myself some time to think, I returned to the idea of adoption and got the ball rolling with the adoption agency.
While the process was really involved, I felt this time there was more support for single adopters.
And six months on, my social worker called and said, ‘You’ve been approved.’
‘What happens next?’ I asked.
‘It could be very quick for
a child to become available,’ she said. ‘I’d recommend you go on holiday now.’
So, two weeks later, I
jetted off to Egypt with my friend Simon.
One evening, as we sat outside in the sunshine having a drink, my phone pinged.
I’d been sent the profile of a child. And as I opened the email, I saw a photo of the most beautiful little girl, with blonde hair and brown eyes.
‘That’s my daughter,’ I said, showing Simon the picture.
‘You don’t know yet,’ he told me.
Although he was right, and there was a chance she might end up with a couple who’d also been approved, I just knew in my heart that this was my little girl.
Her name was Erica and she was just two and a half years old.
When I returned home to Kent it was all systems go. And after a month of paperwork and reports, I got the news I’d been waiting for.
‘You’ve been chosen to be Erica’s adoptive mum,’ the social worker told me.
I was ecstatic, and could feel my eyes were welling up with tears.
I couldn’t wait to meet her, but first the social worker asked me to visit her nursery to find out more about her from the staff there.
Mum came with me and,
as we pulled up in the nursery car park, she spotted something.
‘Oh my god, that’s Erica’s foster carer,’ she said, pointing to a woman strapping a child into a car seat. ‘Do you think Erica’s in there?’
Mum was now jumping up and down like a lunatic. But
I froze.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I’m not allowed to see her before
the meeting.’
At that moment, Erica poked her head out the car. She waved at us and started blowing kisses.
I desperately wanted to rush over, but scared of jeopardising the adoption,
I just quickly waved then hurried into the nursery.
A week later, I nervously arrived at her foster carer’s house for our first official meeting.
‘This is Karen,’ her foster mum told Erica.
Looking up at me, Erica asked, ‘Are you Nan?’
I stifled a laugh then said, ‘No, darling, I’m Karen.’
Before long she had me running around, hiding
under the table and playing with Peppa Pig figures.
She was energetic and smiley, I couldn’t wait for our life together to begin.
During the next few meetings, I learnt about her routine. I was also given a book detailing her favourite programmes, what food she liked and all her little quirks.
Then finally, it was time to bring her home with me.
It hardly seemed real.
We played happily, had her favourite spaghetti Bolognese for dinner, and then I got her ready for bed – following her routine carefully to keep things as normal as possible for her.
‘Goodnight, Erica,’ I whispered, kissing her feathery, blonde hair and tucking her into her new bed.
That night, I was on tenterhooks, waiting for her to wake up or cry out.
But to my amazement, she slept through.
And from there, our bond just grew and grew.
In time, being Erica’s mum also inspired me to start my own business, Go Goosey –selling quick-drying onesies for kids to wear after they’ve been swimming.
Now, 10 years on, we couldn’t be happier. We are
a great little team.
I’m so glad I made the decision to adopt. Erica is
the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
● To find out more about Go Goosey, visit gogoosey.co.uk