Stephen moved into his mother’s flat when she fell ill. He and his wife lived on the outskirts of town in their two-storey house, where they’d raised their daughter and son, both now in their fifties, with two grandchildren of their own.
Stephen had no complaints—his parents had been loving, doting, and he was their only child. He’d been lucky with his wife, Sophie—gentle and devoted. Their son, Michael, had married and lived with his wife and daughter in the family home—plenty of room for everyone.
“Soph, we’ll build a big house,” he’d told her when they started planning. “Hope Mike stays with us, even after he’s wed. The lass will fly the nest, though—girls always do.”
So he built the house—two floors, a cellar, and a garden thriving with everything Sophie planted. She had green fingers; the soil was rich, and the yard bloomed in summer, fragrant with flowers.
It turned out just as he’d predicted. Their daughter, Emily, finished college, married, and moved to her husband’s hometown. Michael stayed.
Stephen’s mother, Clara, had been unwell. After her husband’s death, she never recovered, growing weaker by the day. One evening, she called him over.
“Steve, love, you’ll have to stay with me a while. I won’t be here long—your dad’s waiting. Can’t even get up now…” Tears rolled down her face.
“Mum, don’t cry. Course I won’t leave you alone—you can’t even hold a cup properly.” He dropped everything and moved in.
Clara was eighty-seven. Sensing the end near, she had him sit by her bed. Stephen was a devoted son—he made sure she had her medicine (though it hardly helped), called the doctor, fed her by spoon.
“Steve… soon you’ll be laying me to rest,” she whispered, pausing to catch her breath. “Son, there’s something your dad and I swore to tell you when the time came.”
She wiped sweat from her brow, silent for a moment before speaking again.
“It’ll shock you… but don’t be angry. I can’t take this secret to my grave. Steve… you’re not our blood.”
Seeing his confusion, she pressed on.
“You’re our son in every way that matters. We loved you—you know that. We spoiled you, gave you everything, put you through uni, helped with the house, your wedding. You’re our boy. But…”
The room fell silent. Stephen was stunned; Clara, exhausted.
“Mum, how?” he managed.
She gathered herself.
“We took you from a village near your dad’s hometown. After we married, we couldn’t have children—doctors said it was hopeless. Next door to his parents lived a big family, struggling. You were the youngest, sickly. Your dad asked them to let us raise you. Promised we’d care for you.”
They’d been surprised when the neighbours agreed so easily.
“Take him—just another mouth to feed, always ill. Won’t last long anyway.”
They brought him home, changed his papers with the council’s help, then moved far away to start fresh.
“Your dad’s parents are gone, but your siblings might still be out there. Maybe you’ll find them. We kept you from them… or maybe saved you. You were so frail—we nursed you through. Look at you now. Forgive us, love…”
Tears streaked her wrinkled cheeks. He wiped them away.
“Don’t cry, Mum. You’re my real mum. I’m grateful—wouldn’t change a thing.”
He listened, numb, struggling to process it. That night, he barely slept.
“How can they not be my parents? No one’s ever been closer to me. But whatever… they’ll always be Mum and Dad.”
Clara died two days later. Stephen and Sophie buried her beside his father. When he told Sophie the truth, she wasn’t shocked.
“These things happen. Thank God they raised you right. Life goes on.”
But the news gnawed at him.
“My real family’s out there. Do they look like me? Remember me? Miss me? Same blood, after all.”
Over breakfast, he said, “Soph… maybe I should visit where I’m from. See if I can find them.”
“If it’ll give you peace, go. It’ll eat at you otherwise.”
He went. The village was tiny—maybe seventy houses, some abandoned. Asking around, he found the one where he was born.
A small cottage, two windows facing the road. Hands shaking, he pushed open the gate. No dog. He knocked—no answer. Stepping inside, the place was silent.
“Hello?”
A scruffy-faced man peered out.
“Who’s askin’?”
“I’m looking for John Harper. My brother.”
“That’s me. What brother?”
Stephen explained. John shrugged.
“Steve, eh? I was a kid—don’t remember. Heard Mum mention it, though. Sit.” He gestured to the sofa, then slumped onto a stool. “Got any cash? Just enough for a drink—shop’s close.”
Stephen handed him a twenty. John brightened, dashed off, and returned with a bottle. Clearing a space on the cluttered table, he poured.
“To family,” he slurred.
“I don’t drink.”
“Suit yourself.” John gulped it down. “Don’t remember you. You were crawling when they took you. We got on with our lives—forgot you.”
He kept drinking, growling, “Our brother Paul—died in a fire. Drunk. Pity. Parents gone too.”
Then he perked up.
“Wait—our sis, Val! Might remember you. Let’s go.”
Val didn’t answer at first.
“Who’s knockin’? What d’you want?” she snapped, then opened up. Her yard was a wreck.
“Val, it’s John. Brought our brother.”
As they entered, John muttered, “Dunno if she’ll know you. Fell off a lorry, hit her head. Bit… off.”
Val squinted at Stephen. “What Steve? No brother like you.” Then she launched into complaints—aching legs, lost chickens, ungrateful kids.
John nudged Stephen. “Let’s go. Nothin’ here.”
Three doors down, John led him to his son Nick’s place—a proper house. Nick was tinkering with a car, scowled when he saw his dad.
“Pissed again? Clear off!”
John bolted. Stephen explained who he was. Nick studied him, then shrugged.
“Right. Wash up—I’ll drive you to town. Need to go anyway.”
On the way, Nick said his dad was a lost cause—drank non-stop, drove his mum to an early grave.
Late that night, Stephen was home. Sophie took one look and didn’t ask. He ate silently, then went to bed, exhausted. The day replayed in his mind.
“So much for family. No one needed me. Fine—let them be. At least I know.”
And with that, he slept.
