**Diary Entry – 15th June**
This afternoon, while the family was away, I found myself moved by an unexpected encounter. The house was quiet after I’d finished my duties, and as I sat by the window, I noticed a small boy walking along the garden fence. He was thin, dressed in tattered clothes, and looked utterly exhausted. My heart ached for him.
“Poor lad must be starving,” I thought. Glancing at the clock, I knew the Whitcombes wouldn’t return for hours, so I stepped outside.
“Hello there. What’s your name?” I asked gently as I approached.
“Oliver,” he mumbled, eyeing me warily.
“Come inside,” I offered. “I’ve just baked an apple pie.” Without hesitation, he followed—ravenous, no doubt, after a day without food.
In the kitchen, I cut him a generous slice. He devoured it eagerly. “This is brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Mum used to make pies like this.”
“Where is your mum now?” I asked carefully. His face fell.
“I’ve been looking for her… She’s gone missing,” he whispered.
“Eat up, love,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You’ll find her.”
Just then, the front door opened—Mr. and Mrs. Whitcombe had returned early. Startled, I turned as footsteps approached the kitchen.
“Who’s this, then?” Mr. Whitcombe demanded, frowning at the boy. His expression shifted to shock as he took in Oliver’s face.
“Who have you brought into our home, Margaret?” he snapped.
“The child’s lost his mother, sir. He was hungry,” I replied calmly.
“So you’re feeding every stray off the street now?” he retorted.
Oliver flinched, tears welling. “I’ll go,” he muttered, pushing back his plate.
But Mrs. Whitcombe—always kinder than her husband—stepped forward. “Wait, dear,” she said gently. “Where did you last see your mother?”
Oliver sniffed. “I live with Grandad, but he’s always cross.” Pulling a crumpled photo from his pocket, he added, “These are my parents. We used to be together.”
Mrs. Whitcombe gasped. “James!” she cried, clutching the picture. “It’s our Elizabeth!”
Mr. Whitcombe snatched the photo, disbelief in his eyes. “Oliver, where did you get this?”
“Found it at Grandad’s. There was an address on the back, so I came here. Thought Mum might be here.” His voice wavered. “Grandad says she left me, but I don’t believe him!”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s hands trembled. Years ago, their daughter Elizabeth had run off with a man named Peter. They’d heard nothing until the dreadful news—she’d died in a car crash on her way home.
“And your father?” Mr. Whitcombe asked roughly.
“Died six months ago,” Oliver whispered.
The couple stood frozen. After years of loneliness, they’d found their grandson.
“Come along, sweetheart,” Mrs. Whitcombe said softly. “Let’s show you your room.”
“Will Mummy come too?” Oliver asked.
His grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. “Your mummy’s with your daddy now.”
The colour drained from his face.
Within weeks, the adoption was settled—Oliver’s grandfather didn’t object, knowing the boy would want for nothing.
As for me, I couldn’t be happier. That chance meeting mended broken hearts. Now Oliver’s no longer an orphan but a well-dressed, well-mannered boy with a family who adores him.
