Given the task definition and input, reply with output. In this task, you are given a text of many news articles seperated by special token "|||||". Your task is to summarize them.

For more than 80 years, Eileen Wagner kept a secret from her children. She thought it was the best way to protect all of them — not only the two kids she raised with her husband, but also a third child, whom she had given up for adoption in 1933 when she was a teenager. 
  
 Then, last month, 99-year-old Wagner sat alone in the front window of her home in Monroe, Wis., her eyes blurred by glaucoma, her legs weak from knee replacements, but her mind and memory intact. The phone rang, and Wagner picked up the call she had all but given up on. 
  
 "Hello, Mother," the long-lost daughter, Dorien Hammann, 83, recalls saying. 
  
 Wagner said her eyes filled with tears of joy and relief to hear the voice of her baby, now a retired senior who spends most of the year living two hours away from Wagner on the other side of Wisconsin. 
  
 "I thought this day would never come," Wagner told Hammann. 
  
 Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune Dorien Hammann, who was given up for adoption by her mother, is seen in a photo from her childhood. Hammann, now 83, recently reconnected with her birth mother, 99. Dorien Hammann, who was given up for adoption by her mother, is seen in a photo from her childhood. Hammann, now 83, recently reconnected with her birth mother, 99. (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) 
  
 Weeks later, the birth mother and daughter reunited in person when Hammann and her husband drove from their winter residence in Florida to visit Wagner in Monroe, just north of the Illinois border. They enjoyed their time together so much that the pair came together again on Mother's Day, when Hammann's half brother and sister welcomed her to the family with tears and hugs. 
  
 And when Wagner blows out the candles for her 100th birthday over Memorial Day weekend, she will be surrounded, for the first time, by all three of her children. 
  
 National adoption advocates say it's the longest span of time between adoption and reconnection they've heard of, despite how the Internet and attitudes about open adoptions have dramatically changed the way birth and adoption families connect today. 
  
 "What you usually hear is the tragic side, when people begin their search on their biological parents just a little bit too late," said Chuck Johnson, president and CEO of the National Council for Adoption, an adoption advocacy organization based in Washington. 
  
 Neither Wagner nor Hammann expected, in their twilight years, to find each other. But now that they have, they are determined to make the most of the time they have left. 
  
 "I almost gave up on ever finding her," said Wagner, who added that she has thought about the baby girl she had given up every day "from the day she was born." 
  
 "It is still so hard to believe that at my age, my birth mother is still alive," Hammann said. "I get chills and goose bumps all at the same time when I think of this." 
  
 Secret past 
  
 Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune Eileen Wagner, 99, who was raped at age 16 and recently reconnected with the daughter she had given up for adoption more than 80 years ago, sits at her home in Monroe, Wis., on May 13, 2016. Eileen Wagner, 99, who was raped at age 16 and recently reconnected with the daughter she had given up for adoption more than 80 years ago, sits at her home in Monroe, Wis., on May 13, 2016. (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) 
  
 More than eight decades after it happened, Wagner can recount details of the circumstances that she said led to her pregnancy. 
  
 It was 1932. Wagner, then 16, and a girlfriend were walking home from the library in De Pere, Wis., the Green Bay suburb where she grew up. Just after crossing a bridge, the friends bumped into two young men. Her girlfriend knew one of them, she said. The teens walked together until the other boy suggested that he and Wagner take a shortcut through the park to get her home before her 10 p.m. curfew. She agreed, and he sexually assaulted her, she said. 
  
 Wagner, who never saw the young man again, became pregnant and hid it from her parents as long as she could. When they eventually found out, they sent her to a home in Milwaukee that took in pregnant girls planning to give up babies for adoption. For three months, with only a handful of visits from her father, Wagner cleaned, worked in the nursery and washed sheets as chores while waiting to give birth, she recalled. 
  
 "In those days, it was such an embarrassment," Wagner said. "It was a lonesome time." 
  
 On April 15, 1933, Wagner delivered a baby she named Beverly Ann because she thought the name was beautiful. For nearly two years, the baby was in the custody of Children's Home & Aid Society of Wisconsin. Wagner saw her daughter again briefly in the Milwaukee County Court when the toddler was adopted by George and Dorothy Schmidt, according to a document provided by Hammann and verified by the Tribune. 
  
 The experience made such an impression on Wagner that she was inspired to go to nursing school to follow the example of the nurses who cared for her. Yet she shared her story with only one person — her husband, Richard, whom she met in nursing school and married in 1938. 
  
 "Everything is so open now, but years ago, that was taboo," explained Wagner, who said it was difficult to hide the past from her close-knit family. 
  
 But she guarded the secret because she always worried about how its disclosure would affect each of her children. 
  
 "A couple of times, I was about to say something and I thought, 'Well, I better well let it be left alone,'" Wagner said. "If the Lord wanted things like that, he'd take care of it for me." 
  
 Happy childhood 
  
 Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune Dorien Hammann, 83, was given up for adoption by her mother, who had her after a rape at age 16. Hammann, seen May 13, 2016, at her home in Plymouth, Wis., recently reconnected with her birth mother. Dorien Hammann, 83, was given up for adoption by her mother, who had her after a rape at age 16. Hammann, seen May 13, 2016, at her home in Plymouth, Wis., recently reconnected with her birth mother. (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) (Anthony Souffle / Chicago Tribune) 
  
 The baby, meanwhile, completed the family for the Schmidts, a civil engineer and homemaker who lived in a Milwaukee suburb. The family, which at the time Hammann was adopted also included a 3-year-old boy the Schmidts had adopted previously, lived in a three-bedroom house on three-quarters of an acre not far from the Milwaukee River, Hammann said. 
  
 Hammann has fond memories of spending days with her brother skipping stones along the river. At home, her mother and a neighbor took turns visiting over a pot of hot coffee as they prepared home-cooked dinners and baked desserts, including German stollen cake, her mother's specialty. 
  
 From the time she and her brother were old enough to understand, the children knew they were adopted. 
  
 "I was told I was special," Hammann recalled. "Because other people got to take what they got, but they got to choose me." 
  
 Hammann attended two years of college, paid for by her adoptive parents, then worked in various jobs, eventually retiring as a health unit clerk at a hospital in Sheboygan. She married three times, and had three children and three grandchildren. In 1979, she married her third husband, Fred, with whom she celebrated her 37th anniversary this year. 
  
 Her adoptive father died in 1978, and her adoptive mother died two years later. 
  
 Through it all, Hammann never felt the desire to find her birth family. She was happy with her life. 
  
 "There are good stories and there are bad stories, and I never wanted to open a can of worms and spoil anything," she said. 
  
 In the 1930s, adoptions were not culturally accepted and typically kept confidential, said Johnson of the National Council for Adoption. In the 1940s and '50s, adoption agencies and advocacy groups fiercely fought for laws to keep adoption records closed, citing concerns about how the parties involved would handle reunions. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, research began to show that open adoptions could be positive experiences if all parties had matching expectations, Johnson said. States gradually began opening up adoption records and today, 93 to 97 percent of adoptions have an element of openness. ||||| A half-century after they were hidden away in maternity homes then forced to give up their babies for adoption – sometimes without holding them even once – a number of former “unwed mothers” want public acknowledgment of the trauma they endured. 
  
 Several of the women met with politicians on Parliament Hill on Tuesday to ask for an inquiry into the postwar treatment of pregnant unmarried women in Canada. 
  
 They are being joined in their request by indigenous leaders who say that, after the closing of the Indian residential schools, many aboriginal children were removed from their families and adopted by non-aboriginal families in a practice known as the Sixties Scoop. 
  
 “We need an inquiry to allow the voices of the victims to be heard, to allow the stories and the accounts of what took place to come out,” said Valerie Andrews, the executive director of a group called Origins Canada, which supports people who were separated by adoption. 
  
 “There were illegal, unethical and human-rights abuses in adoption policy and practice,” said Ms. Andrews whose own son was taken from her and placed for adoption when she was 17. An inquiry, she said, “would allow for the acknowledgment and validation of those women who suffered through this, and continue to suffer through this. Some people don’t even believe us that these things took place because they are so horrendous.” 
  
 The request for an inquiry is not new. It was also made three years ago but the Conservative government of the day was not enthusiastic, said Ms. Andrews. Now that the Liberals are in office, she said she has renewed hope that something will be done. 
  
 The fifties, sixties and even the seventies were a time when the stigma of having a child “out of wedlock” was so great that many girls were sent to wait out their pregnancies at one of the homes, most of which had ties to religious orders. In some cases, they were forced to perform prison-style labour until they secretly gave birth. 
  
 The women told the politicians about being subjected to physical and psychological abuse. But, they said, it was the aftermath of the pregnancy – the years of living without the child that was taken from them – that was the most emotionally difficult part of the experience. 
  
 “The punishment for women at that time was the relinquishment of their child for adoption,” said Ms. Andrews. It was the “lesson learned” about the consequences of premarital sex. 
  
 In her case, her mother and her doctor had her admitted to the Bethany Home in Toronto on the day after her pregnancy was confirmed. “I had no idea of my rights,” she said, “I thought this was what I had to do.” 
  
 When her son was born, she asked to be able to see him but was told that would not happen because he was to be put up for adoption. 
  
 “I did insist, I threw a fit, and I did end up seeing my baby in hospital,” said Ms. Andrews. But he was quickly taken away and the two were not reunited for another 31 years. 
  
 “Unfortunately my son died when he was 38 of cancer,” she said. “So I was able to be with him before he died, but it was a very bittersweet reunion.” 
  
 Raven Sinclair, an associate professor in social work at the University of Regina in Saskatoon, was taken from her parents, along with four of her siblings, at the age of four. The two older children ran back home, but Dr. Sinclair and the two youngest “were basically lost to our family. I was placed for adoption on my fifth birthday, so I remember the day.” 
  
 She was told she was Métis and it wasn’t until she searched for her roots that she learned she had been born a status Indian. 
  
 The forced adoptions of indigenous children were different to those of other Canadians, said Dr. Sinclair. “But there are common themes, of course, that underpin our collective experiences, which is separation and loss from family and, in many instances, community and culture.” 
  
 Australia’s Senate has conducted a study of the forced adoptions in that country that resulted in a national apology in 2013 by then-prime minister Julia Gillard. 
  
 Art Eggleton, the Liberal senator who chaired the meeting between the women and the politicians, said the intent of the gathering was to create a greater awareness of the issue and to see whether Members of Parliament or senators are interested in pursuing it. 
  
 “I think the apology is important,” said Mr. Eggleton. “When a government apologizes, it’s really apologizing on behalf of society in general for the kind of pain and suffering that were inflicted on these people.” 
  
 Ms. Andrews says an apology would be nice, but that is not the end goal of her group. She and the other women most want an inquiry, or some other type of public hearing, where they can tell their stories and perhaps draw out other mothers who are are still hiding in shame. 
  
 “Anything would be good,” said Ms. Andrews. “Let’s get to the bottom of it.” 
  
 Report Typo/Error |||||

Eileen Wagner kept a secret for over 80 years—and it was a big one. As a teenager living in a Green Bay suburb in 1932, she was raped by a boy, sent to a home for pregnant girls, and forced to give up the child for adoption. "In those days, it was such an embarrassment," the 99-year-old tells the Chicago Tribune. "It was a lonesome time." She never hoped to see her daughter again, but a phone call she received in her Monroe, Wis., home last month brought tears of joy. "Hello, Mother," said her long-lost daughter, 83-year-old Dorien Hammann, on the line. The way it happened is an astonishing testament to how modern attitudes and technology have revolutionized adoption reunions. As for Wagner, she admits to thinking of her daughter every day but says she only told the true story to her now-deceased husband, Richard. "Everything is so open now, but years ago," experiences like hers were "taboo," says Wagner. Meanwhile, Hammann was raised by a civil engineer and homemaker in a Milwaukee suburb and told about her adoption—but never felt the need to reconnect. Then states began revealing adoption records after research in the 1980s and '90s showed that adoption reunions were often positive experiences. Eventually Hammann's daughter-in-law Googled names from the adoption document, contacted Wagner, and a reunion was in the works. It turned out to be a happy one, with mom and daughter talking and comparing similarities for hours. "I thanked her for giving me up because I did have such a good home," says Hammann. But not everyone is so happy: In Canada, unwed mothers who were forced to give up their children for adoption decades ago are demanding that the government acknowledge their trauma, the Globe & Mail reports.