I was taken into care at two years old – what really happened?
The aftershocks of growing up poor affect me every day. I set out to solve the puzzle of my early years
When I was a few months old, my father came to see me. We met up in a cafe in Aberdeen. It was winter. My mum often described the scene, how I was all wrapped up in a snowsuit, a baby Michelin Man. She said she sat me on the table between them and then pushed me towards him. “I can’t do this. You take her.”
My dad, who was probably drunk and would definitely have been stoned, pushed me back. “I can’t look after a child. I never wanted to bring a child into this world.” Mum pushed me towards him again and he returned me. Mum said I was good while this was going on, that I thought it was some sort of game. Baby ping-pong. This was often repeated as a funny story. But I never found it quite as funny as everyone else.