*Diary Entry*
The taxi whirred softly along the rain-slicked streets, the autumn drizzle painting the roads in glistening strokes. The elderly driver, familiar with every corner of London, stole occasional glances at his passengers through the rearview mirror.
A young woman cradled an infant, no more than six months old, in her arms, which made the address they’d given him all the more unsettling—a children’s home.
The couple looked every bit the picture of happiness: he, a tall, broad-shouldered RAF officer in his crisp uniform; she, a striking blonde with wide blue eyes and hair spilling over her shoulders like golden thread.
“James, the flowers!” she reminded him softly.
“Of course, Lizzie,” he replied before leaning toward the driver. “Pull over at that florist’s, will you?”
The officer stepped out, unfazed by the wind, and strode into the shop. The driver watched him go before turning to the woman.
“Your husband?”
“My husband,” she beamed, adjusting the baby’s knitted cap.
“Lovely child, and you seem well enough. What business d’you have at a children’s home?” There was an edge of disapproval in his voice.
At first, she didn’t grasp his meaning—then her eyes widened in horror. “Good heavens! You think we’re—?”
“Ah, just a thought. Times being what they are…” He softened. “Why the home, then?”
“I grew up there. Seven years, before I was adopted. And James—he spent four years there too.”
“At Margaret’s place?” The driver grinned. “Well, I’ll be! Straight off the train and back to her? Good on you!”
“You know her?” The woman leaned forward, intrigued.
“Who doesn’t?”
He was about to launch into a tale when the door swung open, and the officer returned with an extravagant bouquet of roses.
“Liz, look what I found! These don’t grow anywhere else!”
“James!” she gasped. “You’ve never given *me* roses like these!”
“Don’t be cross,” he chuckled. “Last time we were here together—when was it?”
“Eleven years ago…”
—
Margaret sat in her office, wrapped in a woollen shawl. The building was warm, but the shawl was comforting, like an old friend.
A rare quiet moment: the older children were at school, the little ones napping. Only the clatter of dishes from the kitchen broke the silence.
She flipped through a photo album—faces of boys and girls, now men and women, still “her” children. There was Lizzie—no longer Elizabeth Carter but Elizabeth Whitmore, adopted years ago by kind-hearted Edward. And James, the boy who’d dreamed of being a vet like Dr. Harris.
A knock at the door. An enormous bouquet of roses appeared, followed by—
“James! My dear boy!” The flowers tumbled to the floor as she embraced him. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“Here now,” he laughed. “And not alone—my wife, Lizzie, and our daughter, Maggie.”
“Lizzie? Is it really you? Hand me that baby, James—let me hold her!”
Once the tears and laughter subsided, they settled around the table. The baby napped on the sofa as they talked.
“How did you two keep your bond all these years?” Margaret asked. “Edward spoke so fondly of you, James.”
“I gave Lizzie my word. And I keep my word.”
“Sounds familiar,” Margaret teased. “And you, Lizzie?”
“Happy,” Lizzie said, and meant it. “Studied medicine, like Edward and my brothers. They’d let no one harm me. Paediatrics now—just like Dad. And James… we were always together, even when apart. And this is Maggie. No question about her name.”
Margaret bent over the sleeping child. “Hello, sweetheart. Your grandad’s seen you yet?”
“We came straight here,” Lizzie admitted.
“Ring him first,” Margaret warned. “Edward and Catherine might faint from joy otherwise.”
She turned to James with a sly smile. “Now, say hello to your other mother.”
James turned—and froze. A tortoiseshell cat sat a foot away, watching him with unblinking eyes. His chest tightened, just as it had years ago in that abandoned house where he’d first found her.
Slowly, the cat blinked, then padded over. She leapt onto his lap, stood on her hind legs, and pressed her paws to his epaulettes, purring as she nuzzled his face.
“Mum… my old girl,” he whispered into her fur. “Never forgot you.”
“She’s half-raised this place,” Margaret said. “When she took ill last year, the whole home stood outside Dr. Harris’s clinic till she pulled through.”
Little Maggie stirred on the sofa. The cat excused herself with a chirp and curled beside the child, her purr lulling the baby back to sleep.
“Time we retire, her and I,” Margaret sighed. “Edward’s old tomcat’s already living the life—warm radiators and all. Our turn soon.”
“Tom,” Lizzie smiled. “How I’ve missed him!”
They stayed till evening, shared supper with the children. The boys crowded James, begging for stories of flights and service. Most vowed to join the RAF.
“It’s hard work, lads,” he told them. “But hold fast to your dreams. Doesn’t have to be flying—just be folk Margaret can be proud of.”
The cat watched, green eyes half-lidded, purring as if in agreement.
They left at dusk, promising to visit again.
“Word of honour,” James said.
Margaret and Lizzie laughed. The cat, Mum, watched him go—just as she’d watched so many children leave, their tears soothed by her silent, steadfast love.
*Lesson learned: Some bonds defy time and distance. A promise kept, a love unchanging—these are the things that truly anchor us.*
