Dad, do you remember Nadya Martin? It’s too late today, but come to mine tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to my little brother—and your son. That’s all. Goodbye. He Was Just a Blue-Eyed Boy Sleeping Outside Her Door: When Teacher Irene Found a Lost Child in Her Building, She Had No Idea She’d Uncover a Family Secret, Find a Missing Brother, and Reunite Their Father with the Son He Never Knew Existed. A Heartfelt Story of Family, Forgiveness, and the Unexpected Joy of a Stray Kitten.

Author Emily TaylorReading 11 min

Dad, do you remember Hope Alexandra Martin? Its too late today, but come over tomorrow. Ill introduce you to my younger brother, your son. Thats it. Goodbye.

The boy was fast asleep right by her front step. Harriet was puzzledwhy would a child be asleep in someone elses building at such an hour? Ten years a schoolteacher, she couldnt just ignore it. She bent over and gently shook his bony shoulder.

Hey there, young man, wake up!

What? The boy sat up, still tangled with dreams.

Who are you? Why are you sleeping here?

Im not sleepingwith your doormat so soft, I just sat down and accidentally drifted off, he answered with a sheepish shrug.

Harriet had only lived in that building for half a year, having bought a flat after her divorce. She hardly knew her neighbours, but it was clear this boy wasnt from the building.

He was about ten or eleven, his clothes old but clean. He shuffled awkwardly, hopping from foot to foot as if in some strange, silent dance.

She realised he needed the loo. Run along, but be quick, Im late for work, she said, letting him inside.

He cast a wary look her way, his eyes the peculiar light blue of faded robins eggs.

Such a rare colour, she mused as he, after the toilet, washed his hands in the bathroom. Harriet quickly made him a ham sandwich.

Here, have something to eat.

Thank you! He was already at the door. Youve saved me. Now Ill be all right waiting.

Who are you waiting for? Harriet asked.

Granny Antonia Peterton. She lives near you. Maybe you know her?

I know Antonia a bit, but she was taken to hospital the day before yesterday in an ambulance. I was coming home from work as they wheeled her out.

What hospital? The boy twitched, concerned.

Yesterday the twenty-third city was on duty. Most likely that one.

I see. Whats your name? He finally decided to learn his rescuers name.

Harriet Frederickson, she replied, already dashing off.

School swept her into its whirlwind, but her mind snuck back to the blue-eyed boy all day.

Probably my failed mothering instinct, she reflected sadly. Shed never had children, which explained her calm at her ex-husband moving in with the woman whod given him a daughter.

At lunch break, Harriet phoned the hospital. Her neighbours granny had had a stroke; the prognosis was grimseventy-eight is, after all, no age for miracles.

After work, Harriet found the boy sitting on the stairwells cold sill.

I was waiting for you, he beamed. They wont let me see Granny; shell be in for ages.

Harriet asked his name.

He was called Edgar. Not Eddie, its Edgar, he insisted.

Washed and fed, he soon found himself in Harriets impromptu inquisition.

Run away from home? Your parents must be beside themselves!

I dont have parents. I live with my aunt.

So your aunts going mad right now. Harriet looked stern.

No. I told her I was with Granny. She doesnt know Grannys in hospital. I dont want to go back, even though my aunts kind, barely drinks. But my uncle swigs daily; hes mean. Theyve already four children, soon five, and now theres me.

They threatened to send me off to the childrens home, but I dont want to go. Do I disturb you too much? Mum used to say Im hyperactivejust like my father, these bright eyes too. Shes been gone two years.

What was your mothers name?

Hope Alexandra Martin. She was lovely and good. She worked as a PA for the boss at a chemical plant, cant remember the name.

And your father? Harriets heart tripped.

I never had one. Not ever, Edgar said quietly.

And suddenly, Harriet understood why this blue-eyed boy rattled her so: his eyes! Shed only seen them in one other personher father.

And her father was the director of a plant.

Harriets breath stuck: A directors affair with his PAcould it be any more banal? Did he know? Did he notice her vanishing from his waiting room?

Had she loved him? Edgar had his namehe must have meant the world to her.

Harriet had always been an only child, though as a girl shed longed for siblings.

Would you nip to the shop for some bread? Just across the road, she sent Edgar out.

She immediately called Dad.

Dad, do you remember Hope Alexandra Martin? Its late, come tomorrow. Ill introduce you to your sonmy little brother. Thats all. Goodbye. More tomorrow, she said, and hung up.

She turned to Edgar when he returned. Ive made up the sofa for you in the lounge. Take a shower and get some sleep.

She had no idea what would happen nextbut she knew exactly one thing: she would not let her brother vanish into a bad home or, worse, the care system.

Her father arrived early next morning. Usually, Harriet would sleep late at weekends, but not todayshed barely closed her eyes.

She loved her father. He had always been present, quietly aware of everything in her life, never like her mother.

He had always been her rescuer, from way back in childhood. Hed supported her when she wanted to train as a teacher, while her mother raged that education was for nobodies and losers.

Her mother didnt consider herself a nobody, though shed grown up in the country. It was her father who blessed Harriets marriage, wiped her tears through divorce.

He arrived as ever: trim, composed, in spotless trousers and shoes shining like wet pavements, exuding the lightest hint of expensive cologne.

So, whats this brother youve found? Had me up all night worrying, he said as he walked through.

Shhh, Dad, my guest is still asleep, Harriet led him to the kitchen. Lets get breakfast, you must be starving.

Over a fry-up and tea, Harriet explained everything.

Well, its all rather strange! Dad said. Yes, I remember Hope Martinbright, young, beautiful. Always looked at me starry-eyed. I may have been middle-aged but Im not a block of woodher feelings were flattering!

I admit it, I let my guard slippercentages of utterly faithful men are low, you know. Im not holy. But I never meant to leave your mother.

One lunchtime, Hope casually asked if I wanted a son. I said I already had a daughter and was too old for sons.

Her mother fell ill, she asked for a long leavewent to her village. We replaced her with a stand-in. Hope returned after about a year, looking radiant as a Coxs apple. I joked whether shed married. She said yes, she had a lovely husband and a son. They rented a flat together. She kept her name, thoughMartin. But people do just live together these days. From then, things stayed strictly business.

Three years ago, Hope grew ill, was off work, and thengone, suddenly. I found out signing the paperwork for financial support for her family.

A shame, she was so young. But I dont buy this idea of a son, darling. She told me she married.

At that moment the guest appeared. He greeted them, impeccably polite. The father paled. Now the two were side by side, the resemblance was uncanny.

Lets get to know each other! said Dad, extending a slightly trembling hand. Edgar Michaelson.

Edgar Edgarsen Martin, replied the boy, fitting his hand into the large one.

They raised their brows in matching surprise.

All these Edgars in my kitchen! smiled Harriet, her laughter wobbling.

Edgar (the younger) went to wash, while Edgar (the older) stared at his daughter.

I dont understand. Hes me as a child. But she said she married and had a boy by someone else?

No. She never married. She left so she could have the baby in secret, answered Harriet quietly. Check with payrollwhen was she absent on leave?

She invented marriage to ease your conscience. She must have cared for you deeply. Edgar is sure hes never had a fatherdo you see?

Waitanother thing. Hope had no sister or brother. Just her mother, now long gone. Where did this aunt and Granny come from? Dad asked.

Edgar answered, already lingering in the hall, You mean Mum? Aunt Val isnt a real auntjust a distant cousin. She came into town when Mum couldnt get out of bed. Granny Toni is Aunt Vals mum. After Mum died, Aunt Val took me in.

And what else? They got some money for me. Uncle always moans its not enough.

But I remembered you, Edgar Michaelson! Mum kept your picture, framed, on her dressing table. Now its in the photo album. I thought you were her favourite film star, asked her who you were.

She promised shed tell me one day, when I was older.

Harriet sent Edgar off to the Saturday morning cinemajust round the corner after breakfast.

Well then, Dad, any doubts left? she asked.

Not really though well need DNA teststo prove it legally, he replied.

After that, there was a showy and suspicious fainting fit, then high blood and a supposed pre-heart-attack from Edgar Michaelsons wife, Linda Jane.

She soon calmed, taking a break at the coast, only daring to meet the boy much later. She decided she liked himvisits, yes, but as for keeping him Not with my nerves, dear! Ive a housekeeper, but shes not a nanny!

No one pressed. Edgar Michaelson spent countless hours with his new son, delighted by their similarities: their mutual loathing of porridge, their identical adoration of cats.

But senior Edgars wife was allergic, and little Edgar had never owned a place he could bring a kitten to.

They both lisped, ever so slightly. And the striking resemblance went deeper each time.

All the formalities for guardianship were finally done, after months of waiting. Edgar Michaelson called little Edgar to him at Harriets flat.

From today, youre my son in law as well as in heart. Heres your new document. I want you to knowyouve always been my boy, I just never knew. Forgive me, if you can.

I cant make you call me Dad, but you have a family now. You have me. You have Harrieta sister.

I guessed straight away you were my dad, Edgar smiled. The moment I saw you.

Children are sharp as tacks these days! chuckled his father, hugging him.

Harriet glimpsed a rare tear in her fathers eye, but he quickly composed himself. Edgar stayed with Harrietsometimes he went to visit Linda Jane; Dad dropped by every day. And then they brought home a kitten.

An old man handed out kittens outside the supermarket, free to a good home. Edgar picked the weakest. He called him Whiskers. At that moment, Edgar felt like the luckiest boy alive.

P.S.
Edgar Michaelson had a white marble headstone made for Hope.

He and little Edgar often visited her grave, bringing flowers.

One day after laying fresh posies, Edgar said,

You know, Dad, Mum told me the day before she died not to cry too much. She wouldnt really disappearshed just move into another world and keep an eye on me from there. She said shed help me however she could.

I think now she made all this happenso Harriet found me and then you. I know she did! Do you believe me, Dad?

Of course I do, said his father.

When Tommy Rogers Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother: “He’s a Big One. He’ll Grow Up Strong.” His Mother Said Nothing—She Already Looked at the Bundle As If It Wasn’t Her Child. Tommy Didn’t Grow Up to Be a Hero. He Became the Spare—You Know the Type, the Kid Who’s Born but Nobody Knows Quite What to Do With. “Your Strange Boy Is Sitting in the Sandpit Again, Scaring Off the Other Kids!” Aunt Louise, Local Neighbourhood Watch Queen, Shouted Down from the Second-Floor Balcony. Tommy’s Mother, a Worn-Out Woman With Lifeless Eyes, Only Bit Back: “If You Don’t Like It, Don’t Look. He’s Not Bothering Anyone.” And Tommy Really Didn’t Bother Anyone. Big, Awkward, Head Always Down, Long Arms Dangling at His Sides. At Five, He Didn’t Speak. At Seven, He Only Grunted. At Ten, He Finally Talked—But So Scratchy and Odd That It Might Have Been Better if He Hadn’t. At School They Put Him on the Back Row. Teachers Sighed at His Empty Gaze. “Rogers, Are You Even Listening?” the Maths Teacher Would Say, Tapping the Board With Chalk. Tommy Nodded. He Heard. He Just Didn’t See the Point in Answering. Why? They’d Give Him a Pass Just to Keep the Numbers Up, Then Send Him on His Way. The Other Kids Didn’t Bully Him—He Was Built Like a Young Ox and Looked Half-Wild. But No-One Befriended Him Either. They Steered Clear, Like Skirting a Deep Puddle. Home Wasn’t Any Better. His Stepdad Moved In When Tommy Turned Twelve, and Laid Down the Law: “I Don’t Want Him Here When I Get Home From Work. Eats Like a Horse, Useless as One.” So Tommy Learned to Disappear. Roaming Building Sites and Sitting in Basements, He’d Mastered the One Skill He Needed: To Blend in, To Melt Into Grey Concrete, To Become Invisible. Then Came the Night Everything Changed. It Was Drizzling, Miserable. Tommy, Now Fifteen, Sat on the Stairs Between the Fifth and Sixth Floor. Couldn’t Go Home—His Stepfather Had Guests, Which Meant Noise, Smoke, Maybe a Heavy Hand. The Flat Door Opposite Creaked Open. Tommy Tried to Make Himself Small. Out Stepped Mrs. Margaret Thompson. Older, Well Past Sixty With the Bearing of Someone Half That Age. The Estate Called Her Odd—She Didn’t Gossip on Benches, Never Quibbled Over Bread Prices, Always Walked Tall. She Looked at Tommy—Not With Pity, Not With Disgust, But the Way You’d Examine a Broken Gadget, Wondering if it Could Work Again. “What Are You Doing Here?” She Asked, Her Voice Low and Commanding. Tommy Sniffed. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Cats Are Born for Nothing,” She Replied. “Are You Hungry?” Tommy Was. He Was Always Hungry. Still Growing, Need Food, and at Home the Fridge Was Only Good for Rearing Mice. “Well? I Won’t Ask Twice.” He Stood, Awkwardly Unfolding to His Full Height, and Followed Her. Her Flat Was Like No Other—Books Everywhere: Shelves, Floor, Chairs. It Smelled of Old Paper and Something Delicious and Meaty. “Sit,” She Nodded at a Stool. “Wash Your Hands First. Soap’s Over There.” Tommy Obeyed. She Set a Plate Before Him—Potatoes and Real Beef Stew, Chunks of Meat, Not Sausage. He Couldn’t Remember When He’d Last Eaten Actual Meat. He Ate Fast, Barely Chewing. Mrs. Thompson Watched Him, Cheek Resting on Her Hand. “Where’s the Fire? No One’s Taking It Away. Chew—Your Stomach Will Thank You.” He Slowed Down. “Thanks,” He Mumbled, Wiping His Mouth on His Sleeve. “Not Your Sleeve. Ever Heard of Napkins? There.” She Slid a Pack Over. “You’re a Wild One, Aren’t You? Where’s Your Mum?” “At Home. With Him.” “I See. An Extra in Your Own Family.” She Said It So Matter-of-Fact, It Didn’t Even Sting—Just a Truth, Like ‘It’s Raining’ or ‘Bread’s Gone Up.’ “Listen, Rogers,” She Suddenly Said Sharply. “You’ve Got Two Choices. Drift Through Life and End Up Lost, or Get a Grip. You’re Strong—I Can See That. But There’s Not Much Upstairs.” “I’m Thick,” Tommy Admitted. “That’s What School Says.” “School Says a Lot. Curriculum’s Made for the Average. You’re Not Average. You’re Different. Show Me Those Hands.” He Looked at His Big, Bruised Knuckles. “Didn’t Think So. We’ll Find Out. Tomorrow, Fix My Tap—It’s Leaking. Don’t Want to Call the Plumber—It’ll Cost Me. I’ve Got The Tools.” From That Evening, Tommy Went to Mrs. Thompson’s Nearly Every Night. First, He Fixed Taps. Then Sockets, Then Locks. Turned Out His Hands Knew How Things Worked, Not by Logic, More by Instinct. Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Coddle—She Taught. Firmly, Demanding. “Don’t Hold It Like That!” She Barked. “Who Holds a Screwdriver Like a Spoon? Get a Grip!” And Rapped His Knuckles With a Ruler. It Stung. She Gave Him Books—Not School Ones, But Real Stories. About Survivors, Explorers, People Who Made it Against the Odds. “Read,” She’d Order. “Let Your Brain Work. You’re Not the First, You Know. There Are Millions Like You—and They Got Out. Why Can’t You?” Gradually, Tommy Learned Her Story. Mrs. Thompson Had Spent Her Whole Life as an Engineer at a Factory. Her Husband Died Young, She Had No Children. The Plant Closed in the Nineties, She Lived Off Her Pension and the Odd Technical Translation. But She Never Broke. Never Grew Bitter. Just Kept Going—Straight-Backed, Strict, Solitary. “I’ve No One,” She Said One Day. “And Neither Do You. But That’s Not the End. That’s the Start. Get It?” He Didn’t Really, But Nodded Anyway. When Tommy Turned Eighteen and Army Service Beckoned, She Called Him In for a Serious Chat. Laid the Table Like a Feast—Pies, Jam, The Lot. “Listen, Thomas”—For the First Time She Used His Full Name—“You Can’t Come Back Here. You’ll Sink. The Place Won’t Change—Same Estate, Same Faces, Same Despair. After Service, Find Yourself Somewhere New. Up North, Maybe—On a Site, Anywhere. But Not Here. Right?” “Right,” Tommy Nodded. “Here—Thirty Grand. All I’ve Got Saved. It’ll See You Through the Start If You Use It Wisely. Remember: You Don’t Owe Anyone Anything—Only Yourself. Become Someone, Thomas. Not for Me. For You.” He Wanted to Refuse, Say He Wouldn’t Take Her Last Penny. But Her Stern, Insistent Eyes Told Him: This Was Her Final Lesson, Her Last Command. He Took It and Left. He Never Came Back. Twenty Years Passed. The Estate Changed. The Old Poplars Were Felled, Asphalt Car Parks Poured in Their Place. Benches Were Metal Now—Uncomfortable and Cold. The Building Had Aged, the Façade Flaked, But Still Stood—Stubborn As an Old Man With Nowhere Else to Go. A Black 4×4 Pulled Up. Out Stepped a Man—Tall, Broad-Shouldered, Dressed in Subtle, Costly Clothes. His Face Weathered by Northern Winds, Eyes Calm, Certain. It Was Thomas Rogers. Mr. Rogers, His Staff Now Called Him. Owner of a Construction Firm in the North. 120 Staff. Three Big Projects. A Reputation for Doing Things Properly. He’d Started at the Bottom—A Labourer, Then Foreman, Site Manager. Studied Nights, Got His Degree. Saved, Invested, Took Risks. Failed Twice, But Climbed Back Twice. The Thirty Grand Mrs. Thompson Gave Him—He Sent Back Long Ago, Monthly, Until She Refused and Threatened to Bin It. But She Still Cashed the Cheques. Then One Day, the Transfers Came Back—“Addressee Not Found.” He Stared Up at Her Fifth-Floor Windows. All Dark. In the Courtyard Sat New Faces—The Old Crowd Were Gone. “Excuse Me,” He Asked a Woman, “Do You Know Mrs. Margaret Thompson—Flat Forty-Five?” The Women Perked Up—Well, Who Wouldn’t, Seeing a Man Like That Step Out of a Car Like This. “Oh, Love, Margaret… Well, She’s Not Well Now. Memory’s Gone, Gets Confused. Left Her Flat to Some ‘Relative’—Supposed Nephew. Now She’s in Some Village. Sold the Flat, I Think.” Rogers’ Heart Turned Cold. He’d Seen This Trick Up North: Be-friend a Lonely Old Soul, Get a Signature for the Flat, Ship Them to the Back of Beyond—If They Make It at All. “Where’s This Village?” “Out Past the Market Town—Forty Miles Down. Road’s Awful, But You’ll Manage.” He Thanked Her, Got in His Car, and Sped Off. The Village—Limberfield—Was Dying: Three Streets, Half the Homes Boarded, Autumn Rains Had Churned Up the Lanes. Just a Handful of Old Folks, Families With Nowhere Else. Tommy Found the Right House by Asking Round—a Sagging Cottage, Fence Down, Yard a Mess. Damp Clothes on a Washing Line. He Pushed Open the Gate—It Gave a Wretched Squeal. A Man Came to the Door—Unshaven, Vest Filthy, Eyes Bleary With Booze. “What Do You Want, Mate? Lost Your Way?” “Where’s Margaret Thompson?” Asked Tommy. “No Margaret Here. Get Lost.” Tommy Didn’t Bother With Talk. He Stepped Forward, Lifted the Man Out of the Way Without Effort, and Walked In. The Smell Hit Him—Damp, Mould, Something Sour. First Room—Dirty Plates, Bottles, Leftover Food. Second Room— There She Lay. Small, Withered, Hair Tangled, Face Ashen, Eyes Hollow. But Still Her. Still Mrs. Thompson—The Woman Who’d Taught Him How to Hold a Screwdriver, To Believe in Himself, Who’d Given Him Her Last Savings and Told Him to Be Someone. She Looked Up, Vision Cloudy. “Who’s There?” Her Voice Weak, Cracked. “It’s Me, Mrs. Thompson. Tommy. Rogers. Remember? Fixed Your Taps.” She Gazed a Long While, Eyes Blinking to Focus. Then Tears Sparkled. “Tommy…” She Whispered. “Back Again… Thought I Was Dreaming. You’ve Grown… You’re Somebody…” “I Am, Mrs. Thompson. Because of You.” He Wrapped Her in a Blanket—She Was Light as a Feather—And Picked Her Up. She Smelled of Illness and Damp, but Underneath Still That Scent of Old Paper and Soap. “Where Are We Going?” She Asked in Fear. “Home. My Home. It’s Warm and Full of Books—You’ll Love It.” At the Door, the Bloke Tried to Block the Way. “Oi, Where You Taking Her? Show Me Papers! She Signed Over the House—She’s Mine!” Tommy Fixed Him With an Even, Cold Stare That Made The Man Pale. “My Solicitors Will Want a Word. So Will the Police. If This Is a Scam, and It Will Come Out, You’ll Pay—Properly. Understood?” The Man Nodded, Shrinking Away. It Took Months—Court Cases, Forms, Proofs—to Undo the Fraud: The Flat Had Been Signed While Mrs. Thompson Wasn’t Competent. The Man Was a Known Small-Time Con, Already Convicted Before. The Flat Went Back. He Was Sent Down. But Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Need the Flat Anymore. Tommy Built a House—Large, Timber, Just Outside His Northern City. Not a Showy Mansion, Just Solid and Real—Larch Clad, Big Fire, Sun-Filled Windows. Mrs. Thompson Had the Brightest Room on the Ground Floor. The Best Doctors, a Live-In Carer, Good Food. She Grew Stronger, Got Some Colour Back—Her Memory Didn’t Fully Recover, Faces and Dates Evaded Her, But Her Spirit—Unchanged. Reading Again (Big Glasses), Bossing Staff for Dust on the Shelves. “What’s That? Cobwebs? Is This a House or a Shed?” She’d Grumble. Tommy Would Only Smile. But He Didn’t Stop There. One Day He Came Home With a Young Lad—All Ankles and Elbows, Gaunt and Watchful, A Scar on His Cheek, Clothes Hanging Off Him. “Mrs. Thompson,” Said Tommy, “Meet Alex. He Turned Up on Our Site—No Home, Straight Out the Care System, Just Turned Eighteen. Brilliant With His Hands, Mind All Over the Place.” Mrs. Thompson Put Down Her Book, Adjusted Her Glasses, Surveyed Alex. “What Are You Standing There For? Go Wash Your Hands—Soap’s There. It’s Meatballs for Tea.” Alex Flinched, Looked at Tommy, Who Smiled Encouragingly. A Month Later, a Girl Arrived—Katie, Twelve, Limping on Her Left Leg, Staring at the Floor. Tommy Had Her Put Into Care—Her Birth Mum Lost Parental Rights. The House Filled Up—Not Showy Charity, But a Family. A Family of the Unwanted, the Lost, Who’d Finally Found Each Other. Tommy Watched Mrs. Thompson Teach Alex the Plane, Tapping His Knuckles With Her Old Ruler. Watched Katie Read Aloud From a Book, Stirring in the Armchair, Stumbling Over Words, But Reading. “Tommy!” Mrs. Thompson Would Bark. “Don’t Just Stand There—Give Us a Hand! They Can’t Shift the Wardrobe Alone!” “Coming!” He’d Call. And He’d Go. To His Odd, Uneven, Complicated Family. For the First Time in Forty Years, He Felt He Belonged. “So, Alex,” Tommy Asked One Evening As Stars Dotted the Northern Sky, “How Are You Settling In?” The Lad Sat on the Step, Glancing Skyward. “Alright, Mr. Rogers. Just… Feels Weird. Why Me? I’m Nobody.” Tommy Sat, Pulled Out an Apple, Passed It Over. “You Know, Someone Once Told Me—‘Only Cats Are Born For Nothing.’” Alex Snorted. “What’s That Mean?” “Means Nothing Happens Without a Reason. Good or Bad. There’s Always Something Behind It. You’re Here Now—Not By Accident. So Am I.” A Light Flickered in Mrs. Thompson’s Room—Reading Late Again, Doctor’s Orders Be Damned. “Go to Bed, Alex. Big Day Tomorrow—We’re Fixing That Fence.” “Night, Mr. Rogers.” “Night.” He Sat Alone Under the Vast, Real Silence—No Yelling, No Fights, No Fear. Just Crickets and the Distant Hum of the Bypass. He Knew He Wouldn’t Be Able to Save Them All—All the Lost Cubs Cast Out by Life. But He’d Saved These. Mrs. Thompson. Himself. And For Now, That Was Enough. And When it Wasn’t? He’d Get Up and Carry On—Just Like She Taught Him.