A very moving account of a daughter finding her father after 30 years
of her mother denying them contact.

Quote #1: I'd grown up with the stigma of not having a father and I
resented the fact that my mum had never told my dad she was pregnant
with me. It left a void in my life, which became more painful with
each passing year, and I'd constantly nagged my mother to tell me
where he was. Usually, she fobbed me off, but by the time I was ten I
was furious with her and one day shouted at her: "You have to tell me
about him. I must know!"

Quote #2: Some children insist they don't mind, but I never got over
the heartbreak of not having a dad - I didn't even have a picture of
him - and all my life I had wanted to find him. I felt strongly that
he had the right to know about me and that I, however shocking my
sudden appearance in his life might be, had the right to meet him. I'd
always fantasised about the relationship we would have and now,
finally, here I was on the verge of meeting him.

Quote #3: Honestly, I found the whole experience emotionally
overwhelming. On the one hand, it was wonderful to meet him; on the
other, I felt so angry that I'd been cheated of him for so long: This
was a man I would like to have had as a father all my life.

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<http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/femail/article.html?in_article_id=514231&in_page_id=1879>

Daily Mail (Britain)
13 February 2008

How I found my long lost father ... in a Jamie Oliver cookbook
By Angela Carless

Last June, Femail told the story of Louise Jones's search for her
father. Her mother, Sharon, had never told him she was pregnant with
Louise. Now, thanks to a bizarre twist of fate, Louise has found her
father. Here, Louise, 33 - an estate agent who lives in Sussex with
her husband Mark, 41, a landscape gardener, and their children, Ellie,
eight, and Harvey, six - tells her story, while her dad tells his.

Sipping coffee on the terrace of a stylish London restaurant, I stared
at a middle-aged man in chef's whites just beyond the restaurant door.

No doubt he thought I was just another customer at the popular seafood
restaurant he owns near Marble Arch, a young mum with her two children
and a female friend.

How could he possibly imagine the real reason I was sitting there that
day, or how I had longed for this moment for more than 25 years?

I clutched an envelope of family photos and a copy of my story
published a few months earlier in the Mail, which told of my
disappointment at never having known my father, and anger that my mum
had never told him about me.

The father I had never known had been my mother's first love more than
three decades before.

They separated acrimoniously when she suspected him of seeing another
woman and since then there had been no contact between them - not even
after my birth in August 1974.

Consequently, I'd grown up with the stigma of not having a father and
I resented the fact that my mum had never told my dad she was pregnant
with me.

It left a void in my life, which became more painful with each passing
year, and I'd constantly nagged my mother to tell me where he was.

Usually, she fobbed me off, but by the time I was ten I was furious
with her and one day shouted at her: "You have to tell me about him. I
must know!"

And so, finally, she told me how, as an 18-year-old, fresh out of
secretarial college, she'd worked at a hotel on Shaftesbury Avenue in
central London, where she'd become friendly with the 23-year-old
pastry chef, George.

They began seeing each other, but after losing her virginity to him
they fell out because she suspected he was seeing someone else.

She quit her job and left London for her widowed father's house in
Tunbridge Wells. A few months later she found out she was pregnant
with me.

She never told George because she did not want him to interfere with
her life, and her family thought it best that I was adopted.

I went to live with foster parents shortly after my birth, yet my
mother could not go through with giving me up and took me back after
six weeks.

But she still didn't tell George and raised me single-handed, working
all hours at different jobs to provide for me.

Some children insist they don't mind, but I never got over the
heartbreak of not having a dad - I didn't even have a picture of him -
and all my life I had wanted to find him.

I felt strongly that he had the right to know about me and that I,
however shocking my sudden appearance in his life might be, had the
right to meet him.

I'd always fantasised about the relationship we would have and now,
finally, here I was on the verge of meeting him.

I'd rehearsed so many conversations with him in my head, yet now that
he was just a few yards away from me I didn't have a clue what I was
going to say.

Thinking about the situation, I began to feel sorry for this
56-year-old stranger.

What if he resented me turning up out of the blue after all these
years and rejected me? I was, after all, a stranger to him, and yet I
felt I knew so much about him.

I knew that he had forged a successful career as a chef and that he
had another family of his own. I even knew that he was friends with
Jamie Oliver.

In fact, in a bizarre twist, it was only thanks to Jamie that any of
it came to light.

After my story appeared in the newspaper, a Mail writer discovered a
picture of Jamie on the internet advertising a cookery series called
Oliver's Twist.

Jamie was pictured with a London fishmonger and restaurateur called
George Ngyutin who starred with him in a 30-minute episode called
George's Day Off.

The advertising blurb said George was Mauritian, but had lived in the
UK for more than 30 years.

The main clues I had about my father were that he was called George
and came from Mauritius.

During the many years I had searched for him - even hiring private
detectives - I had believed him to be using the surname Roberts,
though my mum had also known him by the name Nygutin.

Yet nothing had ever come to light under these surnames.

Could it be that Mum had the wrong spelling, and as a result of one
transposed letter I had failed to find my father for all these years?

As I studied the small, blurred image on the internet, I felt a stab
of disappointment. Mum had always described my father as a handsome,
dashing man who looked like the singer Johnny Mathis. This man with
Jamie Oliver was stocky and balding.

But the more I scrutinised his features, the more I recognised myself
and my son Harvey in him. It had to be him.

Knowing he'd starred in a television programme, it was easy to order
the DVD on the internet, and after a few days I was excitedly watching
George's Day Out, in which Jamie describes George as the best
fishmonger in London.

I felt quite overwhelmed when I heard him speak for the first time. He
still had that broad French accent my mother had described and
appeared jovial, good-natured and intelligent.

Obviously a hard-working man, he'd built up a thriving business and it
was such a relief to see he was a decent man who clearly adored his
family.

I watched in tears as Jamie served a slap-up meal to George, his wife
and various relatives.

As the camera panned round the happy, smiling faces, I wondered who
was who - and how my life would be if I was part of this close-knit,
loving group.

I wasn't sure I would fit in or if they'd ever want me to, but this
first glimpse into my long-lost father's world was astonishing.

I sat and watched him prepare and eat a meal with Jamie Oliver, and
smiled as Jamie told the story of when he first met George and,
misunderstanding his French accent, thought he was called Joe.

"I feel sorry for him," Jamie grinned.

"There's a big picture of him in one of my books labelled Joe!"

As a Jamie Oliver fan, I had half-a-dozen of his cookery books on my
kitchen bookshelf.

I rushed to examine them and there, in The Return Of The Naked Chef,
was a double-page picture of George - my own father - holding a big
fish. I was astounded.

My husband, Mark, had bought me this book when it came out in 2000.
I'd had a picture of my father on my bookshelf for seven years!

It sent a shiver down my spine. My dad, who I had so wanted to have in
my life, had been there all along.

The chance Jamie Oliver connection was a breakthrough and, with a
little more detective work, it led me to George's restaurant.

Now here I was, watching him at work. The shape of his face, his olive
skin, his dark hair - it all seemed so familiar, it was just like me.

As I looked at him and he looked back, impulsively, I smiled and
waved. Immediately, he started walking towards me and my stomach
lurched.

"Do I know you?" he asked. "Not now, but I do have something I'd like
you to read," I replied, handing him the Daily Mail cutting.

"Do you remember someone called Sharon Skentelbery?" I asked.

"Yes, I do. We used to work together round the corner from here," he
said. He looked me intently in the eyes. "Is that you?" he asked,
somewhat bizarrely.

"No, it's my mum - and that makes you my dad!" I blurted out.

He took a step back and his eyes widened. He looked completely shell-
shocked and I worried for a moment that he might be about to have a
heart attack or start shouting at me.

But he was actually really calm, considering what I'd just told him.
He certainly didn't push me away, which is what I'd most feared.

Instead, he ushered me and my little entourage towards a table and sat us down.

I passed him the article and he sat reading it in silence. It
explained everything.

The moment was completely surreal. At the far side of the restaurant I
could see his wife who I recognised from a scene on the Jamie Oliver
DVD when all the family are sitting around a table, laughing.

She glanced over at us and smiled, but she had no idea who I was or of
the astonishing revelation I had just made. I smiled back, feeling
intensely guilty and awkward.

When George had finished reading, I asked him: "Did you know about me?"

He replied: "No, your mother never told me, but I wish she had."

We sat chatting for about half an hour. He seemed a lovely man,
charming and gentle. I introduced him to the children as their grandad
and they were very excited.

He actually hugged and kissed them, which was incredible considering
what a shock it must have all been for him.

He'd been married for 30 years and had three grown-up daughters - the
eldest is just four years younger than me.

Honestly, I found the whole experience emotionally overwhelming. On
the one hand, it was wonderful to meet him; on the other, I felt so
angry that I'd been cheated of him for so long: This was a man I would
like to have had as a father all my life.

It was so stressful that after half an hour I stood up to leave.

He invited us to stay for lunch, but I said no - it was all a bit too
much too soon. He hugged the children goodbye and I stood awkwardly,
not knowing whether to shake his hand.

"Aren't you going to give me a hug?" he asked me, and I stumbled
towards him, trying to swallow the sobs.

It felt so good - finally being hugged by my father - and I cried and
laughed at the same time.

I gave him my number and said it was up to him to contact me. Then I
left, tears still rolling down my cheeks.

Two days later he called. "I haven't slept for two nights. I still
can't believe your mum didn't tell me about you," he said.

I was ecstatic to hear from him and readily accepted his invitation to
come and see him again with my husband, Mark, and the children that
Sunday.

I happily imagined it would be the first of many get-togethers and was
delighted to see that he'd put champagne on ice for us when we
arrived.

But while the visit went well, it was clear that it had been tough for
him explaining my existence to his wife, who was evidently upset by
the revelation of a secret daughter.

She refused to meet me and asked George and me to take DNA tests to
prove I was his child.

This, I must admit, was upsetting because it was obvious to anyone who
saw us together that we were related.

But I understood how hard it must have been for her and wanted to
reassure his family I was genuine, so I agreed.

Soon after, George and I both had swabs taken. George paid the £400
fee and six weeks later the proof arrived in the post: there was no
doubt that George was my biological father.

By now it was approaching Christmas, and it was the best present I
could have wished for.

I wept as I read that precious bit of paper which somehow helped
partly to heal the hurt of having a blank space on my birth
certificate where my father's name should have been.

I rang George at his restaurant, hoping he would be as happy as me,
but his wife answered the phone and asked me who I was when I asked
for him.

"It's Louise, his daughter," I answered proudly. But she said he was
too busy to speak to me and it was another week before he rang back.

He was pleased, he said, with the DNA results, but admitted things had
been difficult at home with his wife and daughters coming to terms
with the situation.

"Don't worry, things will improve in time," he assured me.

Sadly, I don't think they have. To date, I have still seen George just
twice and spoken to him on the phone only briefly.

While I have reassured his family I don't want anything from George,
just to get to know him, I'm not sure they believe me.

After spending so long looking for my father, it's as if the happy
ending I have craved for is still eluding me.

Maybe too much time has passed for him to be my father now. But
whatever happens, I have no regrets about telling him who I am.

Why shouldn't he be aware that it has been hard for me growing up
without him? His other children have had him all their lives and I can
never even have a fraction of that.

But if I can see him only once or twice a year, it will be worth it.
George is my dad and I want everyone to know about it.

The father

George Ngyutin, 57, runs a fish restaurant in London's West End. He
has been married for 30 years and has three daughters from his
marriage who are in their 20s.

He says: It was a huge shock when Louise walked into the restaurant
and told me who she was. My first impression was that she looked like
my sister, but I honestly didn't have a clue that Sharon had had a
baby.

I was a young man when I knew Sharon. I wasn' t ready for commitment
and it was a different world.

We'd been together only once, but I would have liked to have known she
was pregnant.

Now it has been proved that Louise is my daughter, I accept that - as
do my wife and daughters. But it hasn't been easy and it will take
time.

My eldest daughter is especially upset as she bore me a grandson a few
months ago, and she has said: "Dad, I was supposed to give you your
first grandchild, but now you already have two others."

The family are in a bit of turmoil. However, I do think it is a good
thing that Louise found me for her sake. She wanted to know who she is
and what sort of person I am.

She said to me: "You can either accept me or send me away, but at
least I know who my father is."

I respect that and I know life has not been easy for her, but I am
here for her. I want to take it one step at a time and I hope she will
meet the rest of my family soon.

Picture #1: Reunited: Louise Jones found her father in a Jamie Oliver cookbook
http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/02_02/louiseDM1402_468x985.jpg

Picture #2: Long lost: George Ngyutin, pictured here in a Jamie Oliver
cookbook, had no idea his daughter Louise even existed
http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/02_02/fishmongDM1402_468x420.jpg