The Foster Child My Family Took in Came to Me and Begged Me to Find His Biological Family
I never imagined my quiet life would shift so suddenly, but then a child arrived, turning everything upside down. He wasn’t meant to stay, yet I saw the bond forming. When the time came to let him go, I had to act. Could I help him find where he truly belonged before it was too late?
At my age, you’d think I’d know better than to stumble into trouble. But life has a way of surprising you.
I won’t share my age—no self-respecting woman does—but I’ve lived long enough to recognise when something isn’t right.
I live with my son, Henry, and his wife, Evelyn. They insisted it was easier this way, though I sometimes wondered if it was for my sake or theirs.
Henry and Evelyn had no children. It wasn’t for lack of wanting—anyone could see they longed for a little one. But something unspoken held them back. I never pried. Some things people must work out themselves.
Lately, though, I’d noticed the distance between them growing, like a crack in an old stone wall. They still loved each other, but love isn’t always enough.
Then, one evening, Henry and Evelyn came home—but they weren’t alone.
Between them stood a boy, no older than ten, his small frame tense, his eyes darting around as if unsure he belonged.
“Mrs. Whittaker, meet Oliver. He’ll be staying with us,” Evelyn said, her voice softer than usual, almost careful.
Henry rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but the gesture did little to ease his nerves.
Oliver barely glanced at me, offering only a tight-lipped nod. Not a word.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Henry said, guiding him away.
I watched them disappear, my mind racing. A child? Just like that?
For a wild moment, I wondered if they’d taken him. It wouldn’t be the first time those two landed themselves in a scrape. In their younger years, I kept a steady supply of Earl Grey just to soothe their reckless schemes.
“Care to explain?” I asked Evelyn, folding my arms.
She glanced down the hall, lowering her voice. “Kitchen. We’ll talk there.”
We sat at the table, and after a deep breath, Evelyn told me everything. They’d met Oliver in the park. He’d run from social services, and after reporting it, Evelyn had an idea—a bold one.
“He seemed sweet,” she said, cradling her teacup. “We could foster him, just until he finds a permanent home. It’d be good for all of us.”
“Don’t you think this is wrong?” I pressed.
Evelyn tilted her head. “Wrong? How?”
“What if he grows attached? What if he starts seeing you as his parents, only to be sent away?”
She exhaled. “He was already in care. He’d have gone to another family. With us, at least he’s safe.”
“Safe for now,” I said. “But what happens when you have to let him go?”
Evelyn hesitated. “Henry felt the same. He didn’t want to, but I convinced him it was right.”
She had an answer for everything. I could argue, but the decision was made. Sometimes, you just let things unfold.
Oliver changed us in ways I never expected. We began spending time together not as individuals under one roof, but as a family.
Henry, once buried in work, now hurried home each evening—to help, to listen, to be present. The strain between him and Evelyn faded. They laughed more. Spoke with warmth. Became the couple they’d been before life got in the way.
Evelyn blossomed as a mother. She doted on Oliver, helping with schoolwork, ensuring he had all he needed. No longer lost in thought, she had purpose.
I grew fond of the boy too. He was curious, full of questions, always eager for my stories.
“What was Henry like as a boy?” he’d ask, wide-eyed. I’d chuckle and tell the truth—Henry was trouble from the start.
I began to wonder if they’d adopt him. But it wasn’t my place to ask.
Then, one evening, Henry came home, his face grave.
“What’s happened?” I asked as he set down his briefcase.
“A family’s been found for Oliver,” Henry said. “They want to adopt him.”
Evelyn’s hands stilled on the dish she was drying. She forced a smile. “That’s wonderful. He’ll finally have a proper family.” Her voice wavered.
I looked between them. “You’re just going to let him go?”
Henry rubbed his temples. “That was always the plan. I was against it from the start. Evelyn convinced me. But it was only ever temporary. We haven’t the time for a child now.”
I folded my arms. “You’ve managed these past months.”
“We’ve had help,” Henry said, glancing at me. “Even so, it’s been hard.”
I opened my mouth to argue—then heard soft footsteps. Oliver stood in the doorway, fists clenched.
“You’re lying,” I said quietly. “You need that boy as much as he needs you.”
Oliver’s face crumpled. He turned and fled upstairs. I shook my head and retreated to my room.
That night, sleep eluded me. The house was too quiet.
Just before dawn, I heard shuffling. The front door clicked shut.
I rushed downstairs and outside. A small figure trudged down the road, backpack slung over his shoulders.
“And where do you think you’re off to, young man?” I called.
Oliver spun, eyes wide. “Mrs. Whittaker! What are you doing here?”
I narrowed my eyes. “What are *you* doing?”
“I’m finding my real family,” he muttered. “If Henry and Evelyn don’t want me, I’ll find someone who does. Social services must have records, but they won’t let me see.”
“And how do you plan to manage that?”
Oliver shrugged.
I sighed. “Come on. I’ll help you.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
I nodded. “Everyone deserves a family.”
At the social services office, we stood before the glass doors. The building looked cold, unwelcoming. Oliver shifted nervously.
“How will you get the records?” I whispered.
He bit his lip. “Maybe you could distract the guard?”
I sighed. “Fine. But be quick.”
We stepped inside. The air smelled of old paper and antiseptic. Oliver gave me a look before darting toward the archives.
I squared my shoulders and marched to the security office. A young guard answered my knock.
“Yes?”
Time for the frail old lady act.
“Oh, dear,” I said, clutching my chest. “I’m ever so lost. My legs ache, and I’ve forgotten where I was going.”
The guard frowned. “Need to sit down?”
“Oh, yes, that’d be lovely,” I said, easing into a chair.
I glanced at the monitors. One showed Oliver slipping into the hallway.
“Shall I call someone?” the guard asked.
“My son! His number is… 020…” I hesitated. “Or was it 019?”
The guard sighed and reached for the phone. “I’ll call the police.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, hand on my chest.
On the monitor, Oliver reappeared, giving me a thumbs-up.
I sprang up. “Feeling much better now! Off I go.”
The guard eyed me suspiciously.
Oliver met me in the lobby. “Let’s go before he cottons on.”
We hurried out—then heard, “Hey!”
The guard approached, expression unreadable.
“You forgot your handbag,” he said, holding it out.
“Oh!” I laughed nervously. “Thank you.”
We bolted to a cab. “Drive, please,” I said, shutting the door.
The guard pointed. “That boy took something!”
The cab sped off. Oliver and I waved as we vanished down the road.
Once safe, I turned to him. “Did you find your parents’ names?”
Oliver clutched the papers. “Haven’t looked yet.”
I nodded. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”
At home, police cars sat outside.
Oliver paled. “They’re sending me away, aren’t they?”
“Let’s find out,” I said.
Before I could stop him, Oliver ran.
“Evelyn! Henry!” I shouted. They chased after him.
In the yard, Oliver hid the papers behind his back, trembling.
“Where were you?” Evelyn asked.
“We were worried,” Henry said.
“I don’t want to go! I don’t want a new family!” Oliver cried.
Henry frowned. “How d’you know?”
“I heard you.”
Evelyn took Henry’s hand. “After they found a family for”We don’t want you to leave either—we’d like you to stay with us forever,” Henry said, and Oliver’s face lit up with a joy so bright it washed away every shadow in our hearts.
