**The Secret Second Family: A Drama in Lakeborough**
*”Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”* The voice on the phone was icy, sharp. The woman hung up before I could respond.
My name is Emily, and my husband is William. We lived in Lakeborough, the picture of a happy family. We had two daughters, whom William adored—his little princesses—spoiling them so much they loved him more than me. I loved him desperately, and I believed he loved me too. But lately, he’d been tense, snapping at the girls, his temper flaring without warning.
I couldn’t understand it. When I asked, he brushed me off:
*”Just work stress, love. Nothing serious.”*
I tried to believe him, but dread gnawed at me. The air in our home grew thick, heavy. That night, I resolved to confront William. But before I could, the phone rang. A stranger’s voice delivered the blow:
*”Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”*
The line went dead. My knees buckled. The world tilted. *William—cheating? Another family?* I couldn’t breathe. Waiting for him that evening was agony. When he walked in, I choked out the words:
*”Will… who’s Tommy?”*
He froze, colour draining from his face. He stammered, fumbled—sounds, not words. Rage tore through me.
*”Tell me the truth, or I’ll find out myself!”*
William collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. Three years ago, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague. She got pregnant. He begged her to end it—swore he loved me, loved our girls—but she refused. She wanted leverage. A boy was born. She was unfit, he vowed. Neglectful. He couldn’t let his son languish, unwanted.
The room spun. *How?* But I loved him. I knew he loved us. Our princesses, who wouldn’t sleep without his stories. Through tears, I forgave him. We’d survive.
Then, one day, I met an old university friend—now a social worker—for coffee. There, across the café, sat William. And beside him, a boy. Five years old. His son. My friend followed my gaze.
*”That child? He has parents. But he’s still an orphan.”*
She explained—Tommy’s mother abandoned him, remarried, moved abroad. His father, William, had his *real* family. So the boy floated between lives. Alone. My heart shattered.
After my friend left, I gathered my courage and approached them. Forcing a smile, I said:
*”Gentlemen, shouldn’t you be heading home?”*
Tommy—frail, wary—stared at me. Then, with a sudden sob, he hurled himself into my arms.
*”Mummy! I knew you’d come for me!”*
I held him tight. And at that moment, I *knew*—he was mine. I’d never let him go. We adopted Tommy. Three children now. Our girls adore their little brother, and he—he’s the happiest boy alive.
Years later, I met Tommy’s grandmother. She told me her daughter—Tommy’s mother—never loved William. *Hated* her own son. Now, he’s surrounded by love.
Our girls are grown, married, thriving. Tommy is studying medicine. We couldn’t be prouder. I did the right thing—giving my husband’s son a home. No child with living parents should be an orphan. That’s a sin too great to bear.
