Beneath the Oak: How Two Boys Became Our Sons
“We’ve two new children now. I found them in the woods under the old oak. We’ll raise them as our own,” Edward’s voice sounded oddly muffled, as though speaking through water.
Lillian froze by the stove. Steam billowed from the pot, fogging the window. Through the misted glass, she glimpsed her husband’s figure, two bundles cradled in his arms.
“What did you say?” She set her cup down slowly. “What children?”
The door swung open. Edward stepped inside, dishevelled, his coat flecked with pine needles. In his arms lay two boys, swaddled in an old woollen blanket. One clutched a threadbare stuffed rabbit, the other slept soundly.
“They were just sitting beneath the oak, as if waiting for someone,” Edward murmured, sinking into a chair. “Not a soul around. Only adult footprints leading toward the marsh.”
Lillian drew closer. One boy opened his eyes—dark, clear. His forehead was warm, but his gaze was sharp.
“What have you done, Edward?” she whispered.
A rustle came from the bedroom. Six-year-old Beatrice, their daughter, peered into the hallway, rubbing her eyes. “Mum, who’s that?”
“It’s…” Lillian hesitated.
“It’s Oliver and Henry,” Edward said firmly. “They’ll live with us now.”
Beatrice edged forward, stretching her neck cautiously. “Can I hug them?”
Lillian nodded. Words stuck in her throat.
Days blurred into ceaseless chores. The boys were younger than Beatrice—three or four. They flinched at loud noises, refused meat, Henry hid behind the stove, and Oliver cried in his sleep.
“You ought to report this to the authorities,” said Nurse Margaret, who’d come to examine them. “Someone might be searching.”
“No one’s searching,” Edward snapped. “The footprints led to the marsh. That’s all you need to know.”
“People talk, Edward. Why take on extra mouths? You’ve already got—” She glanced at Lillian.
“Enough,” Lillian’s voice was sharp as steel. “We’ve already got what?”
“You don’t live by the sea,” Margaret muttered, turning away.
At night, Lillian stood by the window. Pine tops swayed in the dark. In the children’s room, three slept: Beatrice hugging the boys as if shielding them.
“Can’t sleep?” Edward embraced her from behind.
“Remembering.”
He understood. Four years ago, when they moved to this house by the woods, they’d lost a child. Swiftly, almost unnoticed. There’d been no others.
“If you could carry them home,” Lillian turned to him, “then I can’t let them go.”
He said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the woods, where beneath the oak their new life had begun.
A week later, the boys stopped hiding. Oliver taught Beatrice to shape sand pies. Henry petted the neighbour’s dog.
“Spitting image of yours,” the neighbour chuckled. “Especially him, with the dimpled chin. Your double.”
Edward stayed silent. But that evening, he sat with the children and told them a tale, his voice soft as a forest brook.
The house grew noisier, busier—yet brighter.
Six years passed. Autumn painted the woods anew. Wild ivy tangled round the house, a sea-buckthorn bush sprung by the shed.
“They teased us again,” Oliver tossed his bag down. “Said we’re not real.”
“Did you hit back?” Beatrice turned.
“Henry did. Then sat under the tree till dusk.”
Edward entered, shaking rain from his coat. “Fought again?”
“Beat up Charlie Wilson,” Oliver nodded. “Said we’ve no proper surname.”
Edward said nothing. Each morning, he drove them through the woods to school. Winters meant digging the car from snowdrifts, springs meant slogging through mud.
“School toughens you,” he said quietly.
“It’s not toughening, it’s torment,” Lillian appeared. “I can’t bear it.”
Henry entered last, bruises on his arms.
“I won’t do it again,” he whispered.
“You will,” Edward rested a hand on his head. “If they hurt you—fight back.”
That evening, they walked into the woods. Drizzling rain, familiar paths.
“See the rings on this stump?” Edward pointed. “One for each year. The bark protects. Without it, the tree dies.”
“Am I the bark?” Henry asked.
“We all are. And the roots. Holding each other up.”
At home, Lillian combed Beatrice’s hair.
“Mum, did you love them straightaway?”
“No. First came fear. Then worry. Then I knew—they were always ours. Just not born to us.”
“I feared you’d stop loving me,” Beatrice whispered. “Now I can’t picture life without them.”
Beatrice excelled in school. Oliver was the dreamer, sketching worlds. Henry, the handyman.
“Yours is an unusual family,” the teacher said. “But strong.”
“The woods taught us,” Lillian replied.
Edward built a hut in the forest. There, the children learned to track, to read the wind. They kept a “day of silence”—no words, just glances.
One day, Lillian found an old photo in a chest: young Edward with a friend. Inscribed: “Thomas. Summer in Elmford.” That evening, a letter arrived. From Mary Caldwell.
“My son’s gone. His heart gave way, but shame weighed heavier. The boys are his. Their mother’s long passed. No kin remain. I’m ill now. He knew you’d give them life… Forgive my silence. Time was needed.”
“Thomas Caldwell,” Edward said softly. “We worked together. I thought he’d vanished for good.”
“Their father?” Lillian asked.
He nodded. They didn’t notice the floorboard creak. Beatrice stood in the doorway, hand over her mouth. Behind her—two boys.
“We had another father?” Oliver asked.
“You had one who loved you,” Edward said. “But you’re mine. From that oak.”
Henry took the photo. “Him?”
“Aye. Thomas. My friend.”
“I’ve his eyes,” Henry whispered. “Oliver’s got his hands.”
“It changes nothing,” Beatrice said firmly. “We’re family.”
Come morning, Edward hung two photos side by side. One: all of them by the hearth. The other: him and Thomas.
“So they know their roots,” Lillian said.
That weekend, they walked into the woods. Beneath the oak where it began, Edward planted saplings.
“Let them grow with you,” he said.
That evening, as the children slept, they sat on the porch. Leaves whispered.
“Ever regret it?” Lillian asked.
“Not a day,” he replied. “The woods just brought us together.”
On the edge of the forest slept three children. A stubborn girl and two boys once left beneath an oak. Now they were roots of a new story. A family.
