I have always known that I was adopted. In early 2003, I travelled from Scotland to visit my aunt Grethe in Denmark yet again. She was like a mother to me. She insisted that I look up the data of my real mother. My aunt wanted me to find my roots.

We both looked up at the tall building, as we slowly made our way to the front entrance. The hospital where I had been born so many years ago, loomed high above us.

It was a blustery March day, so typical for this time of the year in Denmark. Spring hinted at its arrival, but wasn't quite ready to unfold, still knowing that a blast of cold air could spoil its efforts.

Earlier in the morning, after a late breakfast, Grethe and I set off towards our destination and, as we entered the hospital, I glanced at her and saw my own apprehension mirrored in her face.

An hour later, we emerged from the building yet again, and stopped for a moment, giving me time to study the piece of paper I held in my hand.

What I looked at was a copy of my birth certificate issued on the day I was born. The information was different from the birth certificate I knew so well, the one that had been issued at the time of my adoption. I recognised the two first names, but not the surname. The two first names had always been my middle names, and I suddenly understood that those two names were given to me by my real mother.

For some reason, my adoptive parents chose to hang on to them or, they had not been able to get rid of them. Something I will never know. What is more, I realised that it was my adoptive parents who gave me the name Ulla.

At the bottom of the certificate was an address which would be my mother's address at the time of my birth in 1952.

Hence, not only had I obtained my original data, but also that of my mother, like her full name, her date of birth and her address at the time. At least, it was some information about her, whatever it was worth. I realised that I would need much more if I was ever going to find her.

I don't know what I had expected. But the feeling of being completely deflated was not one of them.

Grethe looked at me, touching my arm.

"I suggest you and I go for a bite to eat and a glass of wine. You sure look as if you need it." She watched me, but didn't wait for an answer. "I so happen to know a little place around the corner that will suit our purpose just fine. What do you think?"

I looked at her lovingly, thinking that I wouldn't know what to do without her. Hard to believe she was eighty eight and so full of energy, and I readily agreed.

The restaurant was, as promised, small and quite busy, but we managed to get a corner table that was perfect for our purpose. We sat down, and after ordering, Grethe looked at me expectantly. "Well, Ulla, what we need to do next is to pay a visit to the town hall where your mother resided, and see whether they have any record of her. I know it's a long shot, but we have to start somewhere."

Again, I looked at her, marvelling at her vitality. Right now, I could have done with some of that. We clinked glasses, and I agreed that it was exactly what we would do. We carried on eating not saying much, each of us deep in our own thoughts. After we'd finished our meal, we set off towards our next destination.

At this point, I have to explain a few things. In 1968 Denmark introduced what is called a personal number. Everybody is issued with a four digit number after their date of birth, which is registered with the authorities, who then hold essential information about any given person. The data are protected and nobody, but certain official departments have access to them.

We arrived at the town hall and were soon directed to the clerk who could deal with our enquiry. The gentleman was very sympathetic, and told us to take a seat while he went to see what he could find.

After a long wait, he came back shaking his head. He regretted that he'd found nothing, and went on to explain that my mother had either died or emigrated. No person with her name and date of birth had ever been issued with a personal number and therefore never been registered. Even marriage, and a change of name, would still have enabled them to find her, if she had been issued with the number.

What he could do though, was to instigate a wider search trying to find out what had become of her. It would cost a small fee, but he warned me that it could take a very long time to find anything, if at all.

I paid the fee, as I couldn't see I'd anything to lose, and we left. On an impulse, I said to my aunt that I would like to go to the address where my mother had lived. It turned out to be a pleasant road lined with villas, but we couldn't find the one that corresponded with my information. I suddenly noticed a small car park further on, and right enough that was where the house should have been. All but gone!

Much later that evening, Grethe and I talked about my adoptive mother and the strange person she'd turned into after the death of my adoptive father. We had often spoken about her in the past, wondering why she became the person she did. What had possessed her we would never know.

As for me, I can't say I was overly concerned. Not any more. She'd tried to dominate and manipulate me and everybody else for that matter, but when I didn't cooperate, she decided to throw me out of her life, which, I must admit, was a great relief. In the end she even denied my very existence. She simply told people she didn't have a daughter.

I sat up in my chair looking at Grethe. " Grethe do you know what? I think we should put it all to rest. It is someting we'll never be able to change anyway."

My aunt nodded in agreement. It was a chapter closed, and we never spoke of my adoptive mother ever again.

The following day was the last of my visit, and I looked forward to seeing my daughter, Amelie. We had agreed to meet up in the afternoon together with her father and his wife, and I looked forward to the get together. Those meetings were always good fun as we all got on well.

I was in for a surprise.