Found Under the Oak: How Two Boys Became Our Sons
*”We have two new children now. I found them in the woods beneath the old oak. We’ll raise them as our own,”*
Simon’s voice sounded oddly muffled, as if pushing through deep water.
Emily froze by the stove. Steam billowed from the pot, fogging the window. Behind the misted glass, she saw her husband’s shape, two small bundles cradled in his arms.
*”What did you say?”* She set her mug down slowly. *”What children?”*
The door swung open. Simon stepped into the kitchen, dishevelled, his jacket studded with pine needles. In his arms were two boys, swaddled in an old wool blanket. One clutched a worn teddy bear; the other slept soundly.
*”They were just sitting under the oak, as if waiting for someone,”* Simon murmured, sinking into a chair. *”No one else around. Just footprints, leading toward the marsh.”*
Emily moved closer. One of the boys opened his eyes—dark, sharp. His forehead burned with fever, but his gaze was clear.
*”What have you done, Simon?”* she whispered.
A rustle came from the bedroom. Their six-year-old daughter, Lily, shuffled into the hallway, rubbing her eyes. *”Mum, who’s that?”*
*”They’re…”* Emily faltered.
*”They’re Thomas and Samuel,”* Simon said firmly. *”They’ll live with us now.”*
Lily crept forward, stretching her neck. *”Can I hug them?”*
Emily nodded. Words stuck in her throat.
Days blurred into relentless routine. The boys were younger than Lily—three or four. They feared loud noises, refused meat. Samuel hid behind the stove; Thomas cried in his sleep.
*”You ought to report it,”* muttered Nurse Margaret, checking the children. *”Someone might be searching.”*
*”No one’s searching,”* Simon snapped. *”The tracks led to the marsh. That’s all that matters.”*
*”People talk, Simon. Why take on more mouths? You’ve already got—”* She glanced at Emily.
*”Finish that sentence,”* Emily’s voice cut like steel. *”We’ve already got what?”*
*”You don’t live by the sea,”* Margaret mumbled, turning away.
At night, Emily stood by the window. Pine tops swayed in the dark. In the children’s room, Lily curled around the boys as if shielding them.
*”Can’t sleep?”* Simon wrapped his arms around her.
*”Remembering.”*
He knew. Four years ago, settling in this house by the woods, they’d lost a child. Quick, almost unnoticed. No others came.
*”If you could lift them,”* Emily turned to him, *”then I can’t let them go.”*
He said nothing. His eyes strayed toward the trees, where their new story had begun.
A week later, the boys stopped hiding. Thomas taught Lily to shape sand pies. Samuel petted the neighbor’s spaniel.
*”Spitting image of you,”* the neighbour chuckled. *”Especially this one, with the dimple. Your mirror.”*
Simon stayed silent. But that evening, he sat with the children and told them a fairy tale, his voice soft as a brook.
The house grew louder, busier—alive.
Six years passed. Autumn painted the woods again. Ivy tangled round the cottage; a rowan bush sprouted near the shed.
*”They’re at it again,”* Thomas tossed his backpack. *”Saying we’re not real.”*
*”You hit them?”* Lily turned.
*”Sam did. Then sat under the tree till dusk.”*
Simon strode in, shaking rain from his coat. *”Another scrap?”*
*”Beat up Jack Wells,”* Thomas nodded. *”Said we’ve no proper name.”*
Simon stayed quiet. Every morning, he drove the children through the woods to school. Pushed the car from snowdrifts in winter, slogged through mud in spring.
*”Builds character,”* he muttered.
*”It’s bullying,”* Emily appeared. *”It hurts to watch.”*
Samuel slipped in last, bruises on his arms.
*”Won’t do it again,”* he whispered.
*”You will,”* Simon rested a hand on his head. *”When they harm you—fight back.”*
That evening, they walked into the woods. Rain drizzled; familiar paths unfolded.
*”See the rings on this stump?”* Simon pointed. *”One for each year. Bark protects. Without it, the tree dies.”*
*”Am I the bark?”* Samuel asked.
*”We all are. And the roots. Holding each other up.”*
At home, Emily brushed Lily’s hair.
*”Mum, did you love them straight away?”*
*”No. First, fear. Then worry. Then—I knew they were always ours. Just born to someone else.”*
*”I feared you’d stop loving me,”* Lily whispered. *”Now I can’t picture life without them.”*
Lily became top of her class. Thomas—a dreamer, sketching worlds. Samuel—handy with tools.
*”An unusual family,”* the teacher said. *”But strong.”*
*”The woods taught us,”* Emily replied.
Simon built a lean-to in the forest. There, the children learned to read tracks, decipher winds. They kept a *”silent day”*—no words, only glances.
One evening, Emily found an old photo in a chest: young Simon with a friend. *”Alex. Summer in Willowbrook.”* That same night, a letter arrived. From Mary Clayton.
*”My son’s gone. His heart gave out, but shame ran deeper. The boys are his. Their mother’s long passed. No kin left. I’m ill. He knew you’d give them life… Forgive my silence. Time was needed.”*
*”Alex Clayton,”* Simon said softly. *”We worked together. Thought he’d vanished for good.”*
*”Their father?”* Emily asked.
He nodded. Neither noticed the floorboard creak. Lily stood in the hall, hand over her mouth. Behind her—two boys.
*”We had another dad?”* Thomas asked.
*”You had one who loved you,”* Simon replied. *”But you’re mine. From that oak.”*
Samuel took the photo. *”Him?”*
*”Yes. Alex. My friend.”*
*”I’ve his eyes,”* Samuel whispered. *”Tim’s got his hands.”*
*”Changes nothing,”* Lily said firmly. *”We’re family.”*
Come morning, Simon hung two pictures side by side. One—the five of them by the hearth. The other—him and Alex.
*”So they know their roots,”* Emily said.
That weekend, they walked into the woods. Beneath the oak where it all began, Simon planted saplings—oak, like their start.
*”Grow with them,”* he said.
That night, with the children asleep, they sat on the porch. Leaves rustled secrets in the wind.
*”Ever regret it?”* Emily asked.
*”Not a day,”* he said. *”The woods just brought us together.”*
At the forest’s edge slept three children. A stubborn girl and two boys once left beneath an oak. Now they were roots of a new tale.
Their family.
