**The Secret Second Family: A Drama in Lakeshore**
*“Did you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”* The voice on the phone was icy and sharp. The woman hung up immediately.
My name is Emily, and my husband is James. We live in Lakeshore and, by all appearances, were a happy family. We have two daughters whom James adored—his little princesses, he called them, spoiling them so much they loved him more than me. I adored him too, and I believed he felt the same. But in recent months, he’d grown tense, snapping at the girls, even shouting at them sometimes.
I couldn’t understand why. When I asked, he just brushed it off:
*“Work’s been rough, Em. Don’t worry about it.”*
I tried to believe him, but the unease lingered. The tension in our home kept growing, and I resolved to confront him properly. But just then, the phone rang. A strange woman’s voice uttered those terrible words:
*“Did you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”*
The line went dead. I stood frozen, as if the ground had vanished beneath me. My Jamie? A cheater? Another family? I couldn’t make sense of it. Waiting for him to come home was agony. The moment he walked in, my voice shook as I blurted out:
*“Jamie, who is Tommy?”*
He froze. His face went pale, and he stammered something incoherent. I snapped:
*“If you don’t tell me the truth right now, I’ll find out myself!”*
James slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Then he confessed: Three years ago, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague. She got pregnant, but he begged her to end it—swearing he loved me and our daughters, vowing he’d never leave us. She refused, determined to use the child against him. A boy was born. The mother was neglectful, and James claimed he couldn’t let his son grow up in poverty or wind up in care.
My world shattered. How could this happen to *us*? But I loved James. I knew he loved me and our girls—his little princesses who wouldn’t sleep unless he tucked them in. Through the pain, I forgave him. We’d get through this.
Then one day, I bumped into an old university friend who worked at a children’s home. We grabbed coffee, and suddenly I spotted James. He was sitting with a boy—about five years old. I knew instantly: *this was his son.* My friend noticed my stare and whispered:
*“That boy has parents, but he’s still an orphan.”* She nodded toward James and the child.
She explained the boy’s mother had abandoned him, remarried, and moved abroad. His father—James—had us, his real family, so the boy was alone in every sense. My heart ached.
After my friend left, I took a deep breath and walked over to their table. Forcing a smile, I said:
*“Gentlemen, time to go home, don’t you think?”*
Tommy looked up at me, scared—then burst into tears. He threw his arms around me and sobbed:
*“Mummy! I knew you’d come for me!”*
I held him tight, and in that moment, I knew: *he was mine.* I would never let him go. James and I adopted Tommy. Now we have three children. Our girls adore their little brother, and he’s the happiest boy alive.
Later, I met Tommy’s grandmother. She told me her daughter had never loved James—and worse, had resented Tommy. Now, our boy is surrounded by love.
Years have passed. Our daughters have grown up, married, and are doing well. Tommy is about to graduate from medical school, and we couldn’t be prouder. I know I did the right thing—giving my husband’s son a real family. No child with living parents should ever be an orphan. That’s the cruelest crime of all.
