My mother always repeated: — A mother is not the one who gave birth, but the one who brought up the child
She was an educated woman — she graduated, before the war, from the Faculty of Historical and Social Sciences, but believed that she would best find her fulfilment in the role of a mother.
I never asked her about my biological parents. I knew that reminding her that she did not give birth to me would hurt her severely.
My looks were absolutely unlike those of my parents, they both were blond while I was a dark-eyed brunette. Mother tried to dispel my doubts explaining that I took after my grandmother.
I was raised like a princess. I had no home chores — I did not clean, I did not make my bed, I did not cook — all that I had to do was to study. My parents did not spare money for my education — I attended a private school run by Felician Sisters. Care was taken that I learn foreign languages. Though English was taught at school, a tutor came home for additional lessons. Later we had
a tenant with whom I only spoke in that language. Mother’s sister, who lived with us, additionally taught me Russian. Thanks to my parents I was able to obtain an additional job — I have worked as an excursion leader and guide. I am very grateful to them for that.
My parents treated me as their own child, and I always felt myself to be their daughter. I had from them a feeling of safety, care and love. Knowing that they raised me properly was their reward. When I received my distinctions last year, I thought of them - I knew that they would have been proud. An adopted child can be loved as if though it were one’s own. I experienced this as a child and as a mother. I have an adopted son, who joined our family as a teenager. I love him as much as the two others.