Last August my search for clues on the life of my genetic Grandmother Gladys Greenwood took my daughter and myself to Gladys’ birthplace Scarborough. As it turned out, I found nothing I didn’t know already, but the trip wasn’t wasted, as I spent three wonderful days in the old seaside town.
My father took one big secret with him to his grave; that of his mother. We had known since my brother and I were teenagers that the woman we called our Grandmother (and she will be referred to as my Grandmother for the remainder of the story) was not in fact our fathers genetical mother. That fact became obvious after two little boys rummaging around where they had no business found my fathers Birth Certificate.