The Secret of the Second Family: A Drama in Lakeshire
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.” The voice on the line was sharp, icy. The woman hung up before another word could be spoken.
My name is Emily, and my husband is James. We lived in Lakeshire, the picture of a happy family—two daughters whom James adored, spoiling them so much they loved him more than me. I loved him desperately, and I believed he felt the same. But lately, he’d grown tense, snapping over nothing, even shouting at the girls.
I couldn’t understand it. When I asked, he brushed me off.
“Work’s been rough, Em. Don’t worry about it.”
I tried to ease my mind, but unease clung to me like fog. The air in our home thickened with unspoken tension, and I resolved to confront him. Then, the phone rang. A stranger’s voice, chillingly calm, delivered the blow:
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”
The line went dead. My legs turned to stone. My James? A cheat? Another family? I couldn’t breathe. Waiting for him to come home was torment. When he finally walked in, my voice shattered before I could steady it.
“James. Who is Tommy?”
He froze, face draining of color. His lips moved, but no words came. Rage clawed up my throat.
“Tell me the truth, or I’ll find it myself!”
He sank into a chair, hands over his face. Three years ago, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague. She’d fallen pregnant. He’d begged her to end it, swearing he loved me, loved our girls, that he’d never leave us. But she refused—used the child as leverage. The boy was born. She was a wretched mother, he claimed, and he couldn’t let his son rot in neglect or wind up in care.
My world split apart. How could this be us? But I loved James. I knew he loved me, loved our girls—his princesses, who wouldn’t sleep without his bedtime stories. Through tears, I forgave him. We’d survive this.
Then, one afternoon, I ran into an old university friend, Sarah, who worked at an orphanage. Over coffee, I spotted James. He sat with a boy of about five. My stomach dropped. Sarah followed my gaze.
“He’s got parents, but he’s still alone.” She nodded toward them.
The boy’s mother had abandoned him, remarried, and fled the country. His father—James—had his own family, leaving the child stranded in silence. My heart cracked open.
Sarah left. Gathering my strength, I walked to their table, forcing a smile.
“Gentlemen, time to go home?”
The boy—Tommy—stared at me, trembling. Then, without warning, he burst into tears, hurling himself into my arms.
“Mummy! I knew you’d come!”
I held him tight, and in that moment, I knew—he was mine. I’d never let him go. We adopted Tommy. Now, we have three children. Our girls adore their little brother, and he’s the happiest child alive.
Later, I met Tommy’s grandmother. She confessed her daughter never loved James. Had despised her own son. Now, our boy is loved.
Years have passed. Our girls are grown, married, flourishing. Tommy is finishing medical school—we couldn’t be prouder. I know I did right, giving James’s son a family. No child with parents should be an orphan. That’s the cruelest sin of all.
