Thirty years ago, when Sacha Mansuran, of Brighton, was six, something odd happened in her life - a woman came to stay at their family house, gave birth to a baby and then disappeared.

It was only years later that she realised the significance of the events that her young eyes had witnessed...

I was six when Laxhmi came to stay. I didn't know who she was; only that she was going stay with us for a while.

When she arrived that evening I was awake. I heard the doorbell and daringly I got out of bed and crept to the top of the stairs.

It was 1968. My mother was an English woman married to an Indian. Racial tolerance was a concept that had yet to be born. At the age of six I was not really aware that I was different. But that would change as I got older.

As I watched my mother let Laxhmi into the house I was curious about this stranger. I noticed before I slipped back to my bed that she had a big tummy that was covered by a heavy black coat.

I wondered if I would like Laxhmi? I would soon find out I thought, as I fell asleep.

I didn't like Laxhmi. She had a habit of pinching my cheeks and exclaiming: "This child is fat, you feed her too much Pauline, she's not like her sister is she? She's a butterball, not good you know, not good."

My mother came to my defence, which surprised me, as she thought some hard knocks from life built character.

"You have to bounce back," she'd say fiercely to us, especially when we cried that some child had told us we couldn't join in a game because we were "Pakis".

"No one is going to help you but yourself, remember that!"

My mother's words were of no comfort but it was no use arguing. If you argued with my mother you usually ended up with a thick ear.

However my mother was very protective of us during Laxhmi's visit. I asked my sister why but she didn't answer. My sister could be as secretive as our mother when she wanted to be.

Laxhmi, I learnt, had come to England to have a baby and then she was going to go back home. What I didn't know then was that Laxhmi was going to leave the baby behind.

Only once did I venture to ask my mother about Laxhmi and why she was staying with us? I expected a clip around the ear for my audacity but instead I got this cryptic reply.

"Sometimes," she said. "Debts have to be paid even when the price is high."

Of course I didn't understand what she meant but I was flattered that my mother had taken me into her confidence. I nodded wisely as if I understood what she was saying and didn't ask any more questions.

Laxhmi had her baby four months later. Three weeks later she flew back to India leaving behind a small squalling bundle. I fell in love with this baby in a way I had never done with its mother.

I wanted to hold him all the time and my mother let me. My father detested the baby. If the baby cried and he was around he wouldn't let me pick him up.

When the baby's screams got too much I chanced my father's wrath and lifted him out of his carrycot. I had watched my mother do it and became quite adept.

Looking back I am surprised that I didn't drop him on his head but somehow he survived my ministrations. My siblings weren't interested in the baby. It soon fell down to me to feed him because my mother had become sick.

I had watched her prepare the feed so it wasn't difficult. This went on for two weeks and how that the child did not become ill is a miracle in itself. Luckily my mother seemed to pick up health-wise and took over. This didn't last though. Not long afterwards the baby was adopted.

In 1968, private adoptions were still legal. A couple were found who were eager to adopt him.

We went to the potential new home which was somewhere in Shropshire. My father drove us there and left us with the family for a week as my mother insisted on vetting them. The memory of this family is intense in parts but hazy in others.

I remember that the father, Brian, was much older than his wife Barbara, and that she was even stricter than my mother!

I also remember it was near to Christmas and my brother and I were talking about Father Christmas. Barbara had scorned our innocent chatter, cruelly telling us that Father Christmas didn't exist.

It was the longest week of my life, especially as Barbara disliked me as much as I disliked her. She made a point of praising my sister and brother.

"Your oldest daughter is a real beauty, and your son is so handsome, you're very lucky."

For an insecure child like myself this was a mortal blow not to be acknowledged even by one as despicable as Barbara. I didn't want my mother to leave the baby with her but there was nothing I could do.

Baby Richard as they called him, was left with them after the week was up and I never saw him again.

I grew up. It was in the mid 1980s, however, that I began to ask questions. Not about Richard but about my own family.

There were odd things that niggled me. Like why did my mother not let me see my birth certificate? I had grown into a curious young woman who had the uncanny ability to ferret out secrets.

I asked questions, dug around in my parent's bedroom until I found various documents that made me realise that my whole life was built on lies.

It was a terrible shock for me to find out that I was not the person I thought I was. However all the signs had been there, and finding these documents bought to the surface many memories that had long been suppressed.

I confronted my sister. Instinct told me she knew everything and I was right. I cornered her one day when we were alone and demanded she tell me everything. She did.

Our mother had been married twice. First to a violent man and then to the man I had always thought was my father but was in fact my brother's biological father.

Our mother had gone to India to marry her first husband. My sister had been born there, and I was conceived there.

She left her first husband when she was six months' pregnant with me. However her husband didn't take too kindly to this and he followed her back to England.

She then met my brother's father. He was totally different from her first husband. He was good and kind, and didn't mind that she had two children already.

He supported her, giving money for the upkeep of not only his son but for us as well. Eventually our names were changed by deed poll; our histories were reshaped by circumstance, lies and subterfuge.

My sister chose to live the lie as she hated her biological father but I was young enough to forget, helped by my mother, and my now father who had been a part of my life since I was a few months old.

So where does Laxhmi fit into all of this? She was my biological father's sister. She helped my mother escape her brutal marriage by giving her money to buy a plane ticket. This was the debt my mother was talking about all those years ago.

Laxhmi came to England and demanded my mother help her get rid of the unwanted child she was carrying. A child born of an affair with an American service man. My mother could not refuse her.

But she paid a high price. She was pregnant too, and she lost the twins not long after Laxhmi went back to India. Too much stress and worry the doctor said.

My father blamed Laxhmi, and when she was gone, he blamed the child, hating it for being alive when his children were dead.

So Richard was a cousin, at least to my sister and myself. Family without being family. An odd concept but an accurate one.

I'm now 36 years old. Yesterday's secrets are a heavy burden to carry. I have many memories. I remember a blue striped romper suit that crackled when I touched it. I remember the feel of soft baby skin, and how much I had loved him, memories I had hidden away. Memories I both cherished and feared.

I won't go looking for Richard. As far as I know he has never tried to find us so maybe he is content with his life and doesn't want to know about his biological family.

So Richard - or Sweet Pea, as I called you then - if you're out there with a family of your own, all I can say to you is what I never got to say to you 30 years ago: "Goodnight and God bless, but most importantly of all...goodbye..."