Thirty years ago Julie Goldsmith became pregnant. She was 17 years old.

Nobody asked her what she wanted to do. Instead arrangements were made for adoption.

The agony of handing over her child has stayed with her. Then, just a year ago, she discovered that birth parents are able to leave letters for their children in their files at social services.

The letter was passed to her son who, she was told, is happy and healthy and living somewhere in the Midlands. But he does not want to see her.

Julie, 46, of Worksop, in Nottinghamshire, now clings on to the hope that one day he may change his mind.

Here Julie describes the torment of spending the last 30 years longing for the son she was never allowed to keep.

She also wants to give advice to other birth mothers who are thinking about tracing their child.

Everything was taken away from me and from then on I had no voice. I wasn't asked what I wanted; it was taken out of my hands.

I was almost 15 when I met Tom in 1967, he was a year older and an apprentice.

He was my first serious boyfriend and we both felt so grown up. We didn't go out a lot, as neither of us had a great deal of money, so we stayed in and watched the television or played records.

We were both naive and knew little about contraception, as the whole subject was taboo. I'd heard about it, but had never seen any.

The Pill had not long been out but, as far as I knew, it was only for married women who had children and didn't want any more. We also knew that if you stopped in time you couldn't get pregnant. That was wrong, too.

In the summer of 1969 I was feeling ill and put it down to the strain of taking exams. Even the doctor said the same.

By the time I knew I was pregnant it was too late. I was so frightened and worried.

After leaving school, I got an office job. Even though I was beginning to put on weight I ignored it, it would all go away. This sort of thing happened to other girls, not an ordinary person like me. Tom was as worried about it all as I was.

Abortion was never mentioned. I didn't really know what one was anyway, so that was never an option. When I was five months' pregnant, Tom's parents found out and told mine. After a horrendous scene at his house, where I was told that I was never to see Tom again, I was taken home.

An appointment was made at the doctors and everything was fine with the baby. A few days later my parents told me that they had been to see a social worker at the Derby Diocesan Council and that an adoption had been arranged.

Everything was taken away from me and from then on I had no voice. I wasn't asked what I wanted; it was taken out of my hands. The "counselling" that I received from an elderly spinster was pitiable, according to her "girls like you breed like rabbits".

On one of the visits, I was told that a couple had been found for my baby; they were young and had no children and they were both professional and had good jobs. Not the sort of advice you need, I already felt ashamed and helpless. What I needed was help. I received none.

I was luckier than most of the girls in my position, at least I wasn't made to go to a mother and baby home like so many others. But life was still unpleasant for a young pregnant girl, you were made to feel wicked and unclean.

The stigma was so great that apart from work I wouldn't go out unless it was dark, in case I met someone the family knew.

Christmas came and went, and in the middle of January I had to give up work as the baby was due in six weeks. In the evenings I used to sit in my room and look at the baby clothes that I'd had to provide for the foster parents.

I cried a lot those last few weeks. Until then it all seemed like it was happening to someone else. I was unable to sleep and I was put onto sleeping tablets day and night. They didn't help and I lay awake most nights trying to find a way out of the terrible position I was in.

Tom phoned every day, but I wasn't allowed to see him. I still loved him and he said he felt the same about me.

One evening in March the pains started and I was taken into hospital by my parents. I felt abandoned. I didn't know what to expect and I was terrified. No one explained what was happening to me and I was left for hours on my own until I was walked to the delivery room where, behind a curtain, another woman was giving birth.

I thought that I may receive a little compassion, but the humiliation carried on. The nurses had very little time for me and seemed to take pleasure in calling me miss.

Just at midnight, my beautiful son was born. I was left naked on the delivery bed until morning as moving me back into the ward would have woken the other mums. I was treated as second class the whole time I was there.

Tom was allowed to see his son only once and then only after I created a scene. He was so sad when he left, we both knew that it was the end for us. The pain we shared was too great.

After 10 all too short days of bathing, feeding and changing my son, I was discharged and my parents took me to Heanor, where the foster parents lived.

I sat and held him the whole journey, my eyes didn't leave his face; after all I wasn't going to see him ever again. At that time I didn't fully understand what "ever again" meant. Surely the authorities couldn't mean never again.

My punishment was never to end. My mum took him from my arms, he was wrapped in a blanket, which she gave back to me a few minutes later, empty. I didn't cry then, I couldn't. But I've cried a lot ever since. We returned home and it was never mentioned again, it was unreal. A few weeks later I was sent a letter to tell me that my son was now someone else's, even the names that I'd chosen for him were spelled wrongly. But they had been changed, so I was recently to find out.

Life carried on. I married at 19 and had a daughter and a son. That violent and abusive marriage ended after four years. I married again in 1979 and had another two daughters. Again the marriage ended in divorce. I couldn't commit to anyone or get close, that way you don't get hurt and nothing can be taken from you.

I married Rob in 1987 and we had a daughter. He has taught me how to trust, but I'm still a hard person to get close to. He's always known about my lost son and it's partly due to him that I began to investigate and question the morality of adoption.

About a year ago I registered with all the adoption agencies hoping that when my son turned 18 he would register too, as the law had changed which meant he could find me if he wanted to. So I sat and waited.

Time passed and earlier this year I saw a programme on BBC2 called Homeground, and from that I found out that I was able to see my files held by social services and also to leave a letter.

To my agony I also found out that I'd been denied the knowledge all those years ago that I could have been given somewhere to live, benefits and a guaranteed place for my child at a nursery so that I could return to work.

I was so angry to discover that with all that help I could have kept my son. All I was told was that because I was a minor I had no say. Another lie.

I am now in contact with a wonderful woman who works as a liaison officer for the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents.

She gave me advice on how I could trace my son legally.

Although I still have not met him or even know his name, I've found out bits of information that satisfy my needs for now. He's healthy and happy, and has a good life and upbringing.

He knows I'd like to meet him but I have to wait until he feels ready. I know that he has another family and their feelings must come first, as there is more to being a parent than just having a child.

I was disappointed when I found out he didn't want to see me, but I understand. Hopefully when he has time to reflect on it in future years he'll want to. My door is always open.

I'd love to meet him, not as a mother, I know it's too late for that, but as a friend.

Who knows, we might not even like each other, but he's still my son and I'd like the chance to tell him I'm sorry. I didn't give him up for adoption, he was taken from me and I have to live with that anguish for the rest of my life. I have lived with the guilt for so long.

I just hope other birth mothers realise that they can try to contact their child if they want to. I want them to contact me if they want advice.

I was recently asked what it was like to be parted from a child and my reply was that it was a never ending bereavement - a pain that never fades. Afterall, love doesn't, does it?

If you want to e-mail Julie, you can

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