**Tuesday, 12th July**
The phone call shattered the morning quiet like a blade through silk. Anna Elizabeth Whitmore sat by the window, her embroidery forgotten, her fingers trembling as she lifted the receiver. A woman’s voice, urgent and breathless, crackled through.
“Anna Whitmore?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Forgive the intrusion… but this is about your son.”
“Is something wrong with Jamie? Has there been an accident at nursery?”
“No—not James. I mean *Paul*.”
“I’m sorry, I only have one son.”
“Paul Whitmore. Born 12th July, 1998. Your details are listed in his file.”
The breath left Anna’s lungs. That date was a wound that never fully healed. She steadied herself.
“Yes… I did have a son back then. But he passed two days after birth. He was premature. If this is some cruel joke—”
“No! He’s *alive*! He’s in a children’s home! I’m a carer there, and—he believes his mum will find him one day. Please, meet with me… I couldn’t keep silent any longer.”
Anna’s grip on the phone tightened. She agreed, numb, arranging to meet by the statue of Queen Victoria in the square. Part of her still clawed at the idea of a scam, but her heart knew better. She needed to see for herself.
An hour later, she stood before an elderly woman with kind, weary eyes—Margaret Collins, a carer at the Sunshine House on Liberty Lane.
“I’ve spent my life with children. Never had my own. But Paul… he’s special. Bright, gentle, so loving. I had to try and find his family. The records say you signed him away.”
“I *never* signed anything!”
“Then someone did it for you. Someone who decided your family’s fate without you.”
As if to confirm her darkest suspicion, Margaret handed her a photograph. A boy stared back—the mirror image of her Jamie, though bespectacled. The same chin, the same lips, but with a quiet sadness, as if his childhood had been stolen.
Anna clutched the picture. “His eyes?”
“Astigmatism. Nothing serious. But his heart… He talks every day about finding his mum.”
The air left her lungs. This was her son. Her boy. Her blood.
“You’ve no idea what those people took from me. I *grieved*. I ached for him. And all this time—he was *alive*!”
Without another word, she rushed to the home. Behind the iron gates, she spotted him—curled by the sandpit with a book. *Paul*. Her son.
When the carer called out, “Whitmore!”—it was enough. Anna marched straight to the director’s office.
“I overheard his surname and… wondered if we might be related. He looks so familiar.”
“You’re *Whitmore*? Just a coincidence? Odd. He’s being adopted next week—”
“You don’t understand. That’s my *son*.”
The director, Mrs. Harriet Lowell, frowned but pulled the file. The relinquishment papers bore Anna’s forged signature. The handwriting? Her mother-in-law’s. Only Eleanor Rosemary could sink so low.
Anna’s voice shook as she explained—seven years ago, the premature birth, the lies about his death. Now, seeing his face, hearing his name, the truth crashed down.
Mrs. Lowell’s expression softened. “I won’t let Paul go to another family. Sort things out. Bring your husband. We’ll handle the paperwork.”
On the drive home, fury bubbled in Anna’s chest. Her husband, Thomas, had mourned with her. Only one person could’ve done this.
She collected Jamie from nursery, forcing calm. But the moment she saw Eleanor at the stove, the words spilled out:
“Funny how some ghosts vanish for seven years. And now the truth’s coming out.”
That evening, she laid the photo before Thomas.
“This is Paul. *Our* son.”
He frowned. “Is this Jamie with glasses?”
“No. This is the boy we buried.”
Eleanor paled but retreated to her room, chin high. Anna, raw with pain, told Thomas everything.
The next day, they stood in the director’s office. When Paul walked in, no words were needed. The boy simply *knew*.
“We’ve found you at last, son,” Thomas whispered.
“I *knew* you’d come,” Paul breathed.
Anna cradled him, stroking his hair, tears falling freely now.
On the way home, they stopped at Marks & Spencer. Paul hesitated, bewildered—*choosing* clothes? A mum who asked which coat he liked? A dad who swung him onto his shoulders?
At home, Jamie glared, jealousy thick. Anna guessed the source—Eleanor had been busy.
“That’s *my* train! I’m not sharing!” Jamie huffed.
“Maybe you’re not even my real brother!”
Anna guided them to the mirror.
“Look. Same noses, same mouths, same ears. You’re brothers.”
And then—Jamie smiled. Shy, but genuine.
Meanwhile, Eleanor packed. Thomas offered her the flat he’d bought years ago. No shouting. Just finality. She’d never rule this house again.
Anna overheard her phone call in the hall:
“Yes, moving today. Lovely flat. My son takes care of me. Time to live for *myself* now. I’m *happy*.”
Anna smirked bitterly.
*When did you ever live for anyone else, Eleanor Rosemary?*
But now—her family was whole. Two sons. And her heart? It didn’t weep anymore. It sang.
