‘The best Dh120,000 I ever spent’

For me, my life lacked purpose without a child and I had so much to give – but it just wasn’t happening.

When we were 25, we started trying. After a year, I was put on a fertility drug called Clomifene. I could never have prepared myself for just how difficult it would be to have my hormones tampered with in such an intrusive way. The drug made me incredibly unhappy. I suffered from mood swings and took everything out on Paul.

It was emotionally exhausting and consumed my every waking moment. Every time the fertility clinic called and said the test was negative, I felt like a failure.

Most women trial Clomifene for six months. For two long years, we persevered.

It made me angry that I had to take all the drugs, mess with my hormones and my moods... I was depressed, life was no fun anymore.

After two years on the fertility drug, Paul called time on it. “It’s not working,” he told me gently.

For some families living in poverty in the Nepali culture, less value was placed on girls than boys. They were seen as an expense and were often abandoned. I read horror stories about baby girls being dumped in fields. Orphanages were overcrowded and often, older kids were put out on the streets to make room for babies.

So in 2004, we began the long and expensive process of finding our baby.

We needed close to £20,000 (around Dh120,000) – £5,000 each to be paid to the UK and Nepali governments, £1,000 for the baby’s visa, £3,000 to be paid to the orphanage as part of its fees and then the cost of tickets, stay in Nepal, and clothes and stuff for the baby. I will be eternally grateful to all the friends, family and complete strangers who helped us. We announced in our church that we were desperate for funds and within eight weeks, our community had raised £10,000. The rest of the money we pooled in from our savings.

For a year, a social worker visited us and ensured we were ready for what would be an invasive process. We were asked all about our family history and the strength of our marriage. After the difficult few years we’d had, Paul and I could have tackled anything; we were stronger than ever.

In our ignorance, we thought it would probably take about a year. After six months, the department of education signed off on our adoption request and we went out to buy a cot and baby clothes. Then Nepal announced it was closing international adoptions. It was expected to reopen eight months later, so we dutifully waited.

Two years of empty promises later, we didn’t know what to do. We were in limbo – we’d invested so much time and emotion in applying to adopt from Nepal, we felt it would be a step backwards to cancel our plans and pick a different country. We didn’t dare take time off work – Paul was a chief inspector at Lincolnshire police and I still worked at The Leprosy Mission – or spend any money on the house or make any plans because we never knew if they were about to call.

In 2007, we were told Nepal was reopening international adoptions and a year later, it did. I had friends in Nepal through work and they did so much to help – continuously badgering the government on our behalf and assuring us our case was being seen to. Although it was difficult being at the mercy of a foreign government, I was happier then than ever.

And then one day in December 2010, we were sent an email from my friend in Nepal who had been helping with our case. Attached was a photograph of a beautiful little baby girl called Marika. She was eight months old. “This will be your daughter!” the email read.

Pandemonium ensued – we raced about buying car seats and things for the nursery, booked time off work and tried to guess what size baby clothes to buy.

And then, on July 6, 2011, we travelled to Lalitpur, Nepal.

Were we crazy? What if she didn’t warm to us? What if we don’t bond? We had so many questions, so much anticipation. Marika was 16 months old then and as the carer carried her out, she clung to her, terrified by the very sight of us. Not only was our skin a different colour, we spoke a different language and Paul, at almost 1.9m, was far taller than the few men Marika had ever seen.

Marika was placed on my chest and eventually, she fell asleep. It was the greatest feeling in the world – Paul cried as he watched us.

We spent the next few weeks together at a guest house within a hospital, so Marika could adjust to us before we took her home. She was wary and we needed her complete trust. On our sixth day, a volunteer at the hospital, who knew the lengths we’d gone to for this little baby girl, smiled as she watched Paul blow raspberries on Marika’s tummy, making Marika giggle. “It took you six years to adopt Marika,” she said, “but it only took Marika six days to adopt you.”

We stayed in Nepal for a month and in August flew home. Waiting for us were sacks-full of baby clothes from my friends whose daughters had long since grown out of them. They’d saved everything for me. As I sorted through the bags, I saw the very romper suits that I’d bought my friends’ babies all those years ago.

Marika was in a sorry state when we found her. But I watch her now, a healthy, bubbly three-year-old who never stops chattering, loves her friends, her ballet, her toys, and I can’t believe it is the same little girl.

We know it’s important to keep Marika’s heritage alive – we have a big map of Nepal in her room and our Nepali friends visit often. She’s too young for questions now, but we always will be open about where she came from. One day, I’ll take Marika back to Nepal. I want her to be proud of her roots.

Paul and I are preparing to adopt another child – a boy – to complete our family. People say when you adopt, the baby doesn’t grow in your womb, it grows in your heart. My journey to motherhood took me to the brink and back, but Marika is worth every tear and every penny.

Louise Timmins, 38, lives with Paul and Marika in Lincolnshire, UK