Fragments of Me

I was born in Nottingham. I don’t know the hospital, the time, or even the weather that day. Those details feel like gaps in a story someone forgot to write down, but I know one thing for certain: it was just my mum and me. Nobody else. No cheering relatives waiting in the hallway, no proud father pacing nervously. Just her bringing me into the world, and me arriving into it without much fanfare.

My mum told me that from the very beginning, I was a quiet, serious baby. Not the kind that wailed for hours or kept everyone awake at night. I was “good,” she always said, as if that one word summed up my whole personality. Serious. Observant. A little too grown-up, even in those first months. Maybe I came into the world already watching, already trying to figure out where I fit.

We lived in a house in Nottingham then — me, my mum, my three older brothers, and my dad. His name was Michael, though I almost feel strange writing it. He doesn’t belong in the part of the story that includes me. My mum told me he wasn’t even at my birth. He didn’t want me. He had wanted sons only, and he already had three of them: Kristofer, Benjamin, and Ashley. In his eyes, a daughter was worthless. He made his feelings clear from the beginning.

The house itself wasn’t much of a home. My mum described it as unpleasant, a place that never felt safe or welcoming. We didn’t stay there long before moving, though I imagine as a baby, I knew little of the tension swirling around me. Still, sometimes I wonder if that heaviness—the rejection, the unhappiness—sank into me anyway, lodging somewhere deep before I even had words to name it.

From a few months old, my mum said I spent a lot of time with my grandparents in London. My grandmother was strict, the kind of woman whose presence filled a room before she even spoke. My mum said she could be scary, the sort of strictness that left no room for nonsense, but still… I grew close to her. Children don’t always understand rules, but they can understand consistency. She was who she was, always, and maybe I found comfort in that.

But my granddad—that’s where the warmth came from. My mum told me I had a special closeness with him, one that stood apart from the rest. He wasn’t strict or distant. He was gentle with me, the kind of grandfather who would hold me a little longer, who would take his time with me. I like to imagine that baby-me could sense his kindness, the way I probably leaned into his shoulder or grabbed his finger as if to say, Stay here with me just a little longer.

My dad might have wanted nothing to do with me, but my granddad wanted me. That matters.

Somewhere in those first two years, life shifted. My mum met someone new—Andy. She told me he accepted me as if I were his own. He didn’t treat me differently, didn’t mind that I wasn’t “his” by blood. In many ways, he became the father I should have had from the beginning. Even though I can’t remember his face from those early years, I know from her stories that he was gentle, steady, and willing to give me what my biological father wouldn’t: acceptance.

It’s strange, trying to write about a time I don’t remember. My memories of those years are patchy, almost non-existent, like looking at a foggy photograph where the outlines blur and fade. What I have instead are my mum’s words—her stories stitched together with my imagination. I’ve replayed them so many times that sometimes I’m not sure if I actually remember something, or if I just built the memory out of the way she told it.

I don’t remember my first laugh, my first word, or even my first steps. Those milestones are lost to me. What I do know is that I wasn’t a fussy child, not the kind that tested patience. I was observant, watchful. Maybe too serious for a baby, though who can really explain that? Some children are born with lightness, with easy smiles. I think I was born with questions in my eyes, even if I couldn’t yet speak them.

When I look back now, I see those first two years as a strange mix of rejection and belonging. On one hand, I had a father who didn’t want me, who made it clear that my existence was a disappointment. On the other, I had a mother who carried me through it, grandparents who stepped in, and a man who came along and chose me even though he didn’t have to.

Sometimes I wonder how much those first two years shaped me—the seriousness, the quiet, the way I learned to observe before I acted. Maybe it started with being unwanted. Maybe it grew out of learning quickly who was safe to lean on and who wasn’t. Or maybe it’s just who I was meant to be all along: a girl born into a storm but carried through it by the ones who stayed.

What I do know is that even from the beginning, I was never completely alone.