19 October 2024 Diary, For fifteen years I have been setting a steaming plate on the same greenpainted
For five years, she believed she was living with her husbandbut in truth, she wanted to live with him
There was a mother, and there was a daughter. The daughter turned out to be the child of my old friendEmma.
Eleanor had spent three days wrestling with the choice of wallpaper cream custard or ivory bone and the
23February isnt just a day for men. For Emily Tate it marks the thirtieth birthday shes been waiting
One chilly afternoon, I caught sight of my sister across the busy aisles of John Lewis. She looked uncommonly
David announced that I had to look after his mates, and I slipped out for a walk in the park.
Almost two years ago, my husband let fly with a sentence I am fated to remember for the rest of my natural life.
My Dearest One. A Story
Caroline had always believed she’d grown up in her own family.
It still seemed impossible to accept. But there was no one left to talk to about it. Her adoptive parents had passed away, one after the other. First her father fell ill and never recovered. Soon after, her mother followed.
Caroline had sat at her mother’s bedside, holding her frail, lifeless hand. Her mother was very weak. Suddenly, Caroline noticed her mother opening her eyes:
“Carrie, darling, your father and I never managed to tell you. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to say it… We found you. Yes, we found you in the woods, crying, lost. We waited for someone to come looking for you. Reported it to the police. But no one ever did. Maybe something happened, I never knew. And in the end they let us adopt you.
At home, in the dresser where I keep my papers. There are some documents… letters… Please, read them. Forgive us, darling.” Her mother was exhausted and closed her eyes.
“Oh, Mum,” Caroline pressed her mother’s hand to her cheek, unsure what to say, “Mum, I love you and I so want you to get better.”
But the miracle never came. And within a few days, her mother was gone.
It might have been better if she’d told Caroline nothing at all.
She didn’t tell her husband or her children about her mother’s last words. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten, tucking her mother’s secret away in a dark corner of her memory.
The children had adored their grandma and granddad. Caroline didn’t want to trouble anyone with this unwanted truth.
But one day, driven by a strange impulse, she finally opened the folder her mother had mentioned.
There were newspaper clippings, letters, responses. As Caroline began to read, she couldn’t stop. Dearest, beloved parents!
They had found her—Caroline—at eighteen months old, in the woods. They were already in their forties and had no children. Suddenly, a crying little girl had reached out to them with tiny arms.
The village constable had just shrugged his shoulders—no one had reported a missing child.
They adopted Caroline. But her mother kept searching for her real family.
Perhaps not to find them, but to make sure no one would come and take their beloved daughter away.
Caroline shut the folder and shoved it far back on the shelf. Who needed this truth?
A week later, she was called into Human Resources:
“Caroline Paige, there’s someone here asking after you from your previous job.”
A woman about Caroline’s age sat next to the HR manager:
“Hello, I’m Helen. I really must talk to you,” Helen glanced at the HR manager, “It’s about Mrs. Elizabeth Chapman. You’re her daughter, right?”
“You said this was about her old work!” the HR manager fumed. “Private matters aren’t for work hours!”
“It’s all right, Helen, let’s talk outside,” Caroline suggested. They left under the HR manager’s watchful glare.
“I’m sorry, this is strange, but I promised,” Helen began nervously, “Three years ago, I ran into my first primary school teacher—at Littledale Primary. I’d moved on, but she’d stayed. She was old, all alone. Invited me in for tea, asked me for a favour. Said her little girl went missing many years ago. She’d been writing to your mother.”
“I’m sorry, Helen,” Caroline replied stiffly, “My mother died, and I’m not involved in this.”
“I understand, Caroline. It’s just—Mrs. Chapman’s very ill. Cancer, they say she doesn’t have long. She’s desperate to find her daughter, whom she’s searched for all her life. She even gave me a lock of hair to try for a DNA test. Can you imagine?”
Caroline was about to end the conversation, but something stopped her.
“She’s seriously ill, you say?”
Helen nodded.
Caroline took the envelope with the hair and agreed to stay in touch.
A week later, they visited Mrs. Chapman in hospital together.
They walked into her room, and Mrs. Chapman peered at them with dim eyes.
“Oh, Helen, you came! Thank you, dear,” she smiled shyly, then looked questioningly at Caroline.
“Mrs. Chapman, I found her. This is Caroline. She wanted to come herself,” Helen handed her an envelope.
“What’s that? Even with my glasses I can hardly see,” her eyes looked at them, hopeful.
“It’s the test result,” Helen pulled out a sheet, “It says you’re related. Caroline is your daughter.”
Mrs. Chapman’s face lit up with joy, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“My dearest, my child—thank you both—my dearest, what happiness. I’ve found you. Alive and beautiful, looking just like I did as a girl. My dearest child,” she took Caroline’s hands, “Every night of my life I woke thinking I heard you crying, calling for me.
There’s no forgiving me.
Alive, alive. Now I can rest.”
A little later, Helen and Caroline left Mrs. Chapman, who drifted off to sleep, exhausted.
“Thank you, Caroline. You can see how ill she is. You made her happy.”
A few days later, Mrs. Chapman passed away.
Caroline tore up all the papers from her mother’s folder. She didn’t want anyone else to uncover this pointless truth.
But what truth was there, really? After all, Caroline had never had any other mother.
And Mrs. Chapman? That was just a blessed lie. Was Caroline right to do what she did? She believes it was for the best.
In the end, each of us must answer to God for what we have done. Dearest of Mine Mary found out shed grown up in a foster family. She still struggled to accept it.
I often recall that autumn evening, the rain drumming against the windows of our flat in Manchester
