**The Ginger Shoot of Love**
I was kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds between the vegetable beds, when I heard a voice at the gate. Wiping sweat from my brow, I straightened up and walked into the yard. There stood a woman I didn’t recognise—mid-forties, maybe—her expression weary but firm.
“Toni, hello. We need to talk,” she said briskly.
“Right. Might as well come in, since you’re here,” I replied dryly, stepping aside.
Inside, while the kettle boiled, I studied her. Sun-squinted eyes, tired lines—whatever she wanted, it wasn’t small talk.
“I’m Nina. We don’t know each other, but I’ve heard about you. I’ll cut to the chase. Your late husband has a son. A boy, three years old. His name’s Mikey.”
I froze, staring. She looked too old to be his mother.
“Not mine,” she said, catching my look. “My neighbour, Cathy. Your Johnny used to visit her… well, you know how it goes. The lad’s ginger, covered in freckles—spitting image of your husband. No DNA test needed. Thing is… Cathy’s gone. Pneumonia. Left the boy an orphan.”
My fingers tightened around the mug.
“Cathy had no family, just a rented flat and a job at the corner shop. If no one takes him, it’s foster care. And you—Johnny’s wife, two daughters of your own. He’s their half-brother.”
“What’s that to me? I’ve got my kids! You expect me to raise some stranger’s child? After *that*?” My voice shook. “You take him if you’re so bloody noble.”
“I’ve said my piece. Your choice. The boy’s sweet-natured, gentle… He’s in hospital now, paperwork’s being sorted. Clock’s ticking.” With that, she left.
I sat there, tea cooling, the past flooding back.
I’d met Johnny fresh out of uni—ginger, quick to laugh, always with a bad joke or a silly rhyme. Married within a year, moved into Gran’s old house. First came Sophie, then Emma. Money was tight, but we scraped by. Then Johnny started drinking. Vanishing for days, lying, losing jobs. I worked myself ragged, nearly left him. Then—gone. Drunk, stepped in front of a lorry.
We all wept. Even little Emma. And now—this. A son.
Just then, Sophie burst in.
“Mum, why’re you so quiet? We’re off to the cinema—I’m starving…”
I slid a plate of boiled potatoes and bangers onto the table.
“Did you know you have a brother?”
“What? How?”
“Your dad’s boy. Three years old. Mother’s dead. They’re sending him into care.”
“Who was she?”
“Cathy, apparently. Shop girl. Never met her.”
Next morning, Sophie cornered me in the kitchen.
“Mum, we went to the hospital. Saw Mikey. He’s… he looks like *us*. Chubby cheeks, ginger. Standing in his cot, reaching out. We gave him an apple, an orange. He cried, kept calling for his mum…”
“What were you *thinking*?” I snapped. “I’m stretched thin as it is—you’re in school, money’s tight, and now you want *another* mouth to feed?”
“Mum, you always say kids aren’t to blame. He’s *ours*. Family. Not his fault Dad messed up.”
“We can’t *afford* it!”
“Foster allowance, though. Just *look* at him. Please.”
I gave in on the third day. Went to the hospital.
“Mikey Turner. Three years old. Heard he’s being put into care…”
“And you are?”
“His father’s widow. Just… want to see him.”
“Your girls were here yesterday. He’s been crying non-stop since. Go on, then.”
I opened the door. There, in the cot—a ginger boy. Johnny’s face, blue eyes, curly hair.
“Auntie…” he whispered. “Where’s my mummy?”
“She’s gone, love.”
He sobbed. I lifted him, stroked his hair. Something tore inside me.
“Take me home… I’m hungry… *Please*…”
Next day, I gathered the paperwork. Left work early, signed the fostering papers. Filed the application.
Fifteen years later.
“Mum, don’t fret. I’ll be fine. Listen to my CO, write every week. A year’s nothing. Then I’ll apprentice at Tom’s uncle’s garage—you know I’m good with motors.”
“My little mechanic…” I ruffled his ginger curls—still stubbornly untamed.
He stood tall now, a man. *My* son.
I hugged him tight, throat aching. He’d grown so fast.
“Remember, Mikey… Don’t be afraid to follow your heart. Like I did. Life’s not always about sums.”
That boy, born of betrayal, became my purpose. Love forged in pain doesn’t weaken—it purifies.
