Mary Cuthbertson, of East Ayrshire, Scotland, was adopted after her mother died. Is her tale one of coincidence or is a sense of belonging all in the genes?

My natural mother died when I was eight months old and I have no idea where I was for the next four years of my life.

In 1949 a Derbyshire couple, who had lost two sons in the previous four years - one stillborn and one six weeks old - were persuaded by well-meaning folk to adopt a replacement.

Instead of a baby they chose a child, just over the age of five years. Instead of a son they chose a daughter: I became a poor substitute for my adoptive mother's dreams of motherhood.

It was a sad and lonely affair for both of us and I always put my sense of estrangement and alienation down to the non-relationship that existed between us.

She would go months without speaking to me except for absolute essentials and my adoptive father, who worked a three-shift system for the railways was not a man for talking - although I remember, fondly, the times I spent with him, on his Sundays off, either in his shed, making things from wood, or in the house, repairing watches and clearing out his wardrobe which had little puzzles and games and interesting knickknacks packed into the shelves.

Any enquiry into my natural parentage was not only forbidden but met with hostility and anger by my mother and I simply didn't broach the subject with my father - ever.

As with many people who have unhappy home lives, I sought to create a home for myself at quite a young age.

I was always attracted to older men and almost always to Scotsmen - not necessarily the easiest choice of nationality in the middle of England - but I did manage to meet quite a few.

At the age of 18 I met my future husband. His father was born in Glasgow and had moved to Luton with many of the family during the terrible blitz. So my husband-to-be was half Scottish but always claimed full Scottish nationality when it came to football matches!

My two children came early in the marriage and we were settled in Spondon in Derbyshire with the average son and daughter family by the time I was 22.

In 1968, my husband's job took us to live in Ayrshire, Scotland. My adoptive mother was appalled. We had developed an understanding and having had children I realised how dreadful the experience of losing them must have been for her.

She loved her baby grandchildren and I shared them with her as much as I could. Her attitude to the Scots was interesting. "You can't go there," she wailed. "It's full of thieves and drunks." She had watched a lot of television of course!

As soon as I came to Scotland I felt at home. I had no problems with the accent and I loved the terse sense of humour displayed by many of the Scottish people I came into contact with.

Interestingly enough, both my children claim Scottish nationality although they were born in England and one now lives in Singapore and the other in Leicestershire.

People died and relationships broke up. By 1995, both my adoptive parents were dead and I was remarried to yet another Scotsman.

I had found my original birth certificate in my father's belongings and we were on our way north from London when my husband persuaded me to stop off at the village where I had been born to see if we could locate my mother's grave.

It was a wet winter's evening and the only graveyard we could find was obviously too old. We parked in the town centre and I went to buy a couple of things before the shops closed.

On the off-chance of getting more information I stopped a lady who was about to get into her car and asked her about cemeteries.

It turned out that she was the vicar's wife and I gave her a few details along with my address in case she came up with any further information about the family.

This encounter led to my receiving a letter from a half-sister who was still living in the house where I was born and I was subsequently reunited with quite a large family.

My natural father and mother had both lost their partners and each had three children from previous marriages. I was the product of a two-year marriage which ended in my mother dying of 'tuberculosis and exhaustion'.

I have a half-brother some three and a half years older than me who was adopted at the same time. We have yet to find him or a picture of my mother which I should dearly love to see before I die.

The others remained together as children in the village with various relations and neighbours although a number moved away in adult life. From all accounts they had a tough life with little to call home comfort to fall back on.

To be honest I'm not sure that I like the sound of my natural father and have since figured that destiny had a part to play in ensuring that I had at least one 'undesirable' parent to contend with whichever way the chips fell.

Finding brothers and sisters when you're 50 is a strange experience and does not necessarily clarify all life's little problems.

However there was one major discovery made at this time which is perhaps more mysterious and yet more enlightening than all the other information put together. My mother was Scottish and was born within 20 miles of my present brother-in-law.

What is it that makes us English or Scottish or Irish or Welsh or any other nationality on this earth of ours? I have no idea. But I am Scottish and I was - even before I knew it.