**Found Beneath the Oak: How Two Boys Became Our Sons**
*—We have two new children now. I found them in the woods under an old oak tree. We’ll raise them as our own.—* Simon’s voice sounded oddly muffled, as if pushing through deep water.
Lillian froze by the stove. Steam curled from the pot, fogging the window. Through the misted glass, she saw the outline of a man carrying two bundles in his arms.
*—What did you say?—* She set her cup down slowly. *—What children?—*
The door swung open. Simon stepped into the kitchen, his hair dishevelled, his jacket dusted with pine needles. In his arms were two boys, wrapped in an old woollen blanket. One clutched a battered stuffed rabbit, the other slept soundly.
*—They were just sitting under the oak, like they were waiting for someone—* Simon whispered, sinking into a chair. *—No one else around. Just adult footprints leading toward the marsh.—*
Lillian moved closer. One of the boys opened his eyes—dark, clear. His forehead was warm, but his gaze was sharp.
*—What have you done, Simon?—* she murmured.
A rustling came from the bedroom. Six-year-old Emily, their daughter, padded into the hallway, rubbing her eyes. *—Mum, who’s that?—*
*—They’re…—* Lillian hesitated.
*—They’re Oliver and Henry—* Simon said firmly. *—They’re staying with us now.—*
Emily crept forward, tilting her head. *—Can I hug them?—*
Lillian nodded, her throat tight.
The days blurred into endless tasks. The boys were younger than Emily—three or four, perhaps. They startled at loud noises, refused meat, Henry hid behind the stove, and Oliver cried in his sleep.
*—You ought to report this to social services—* said Nurse Margaret, who’d come to check on them. *—Someone might be looking for them.—*
*—No one’s looking—* Simon said sharply. *—The footprints led to the marsh. That’s all that matters.—*
*—People talk, Simon. Why take on extra mouths? You’ve already got…—* Her eyes flicked to Lillian.
*—Enough—* Lillian’s voice was cold as steel. *—We’ve already got what?—*
*—You’re not living by the seaside—* Margaret muttered, turning away.
At night, Lillian stood by the window. Pine tops swayed in the dark. In the bedroom, three children slept—Emily curled around the boys as if shielding them.
*—Can’t sleep?—* Simon wrapped his arms around her from behind.
*—Remembering.—*
He understood. Four years ago, after moving to this house on the forest’s edge, they’d lost a child. Swiftly, almost quietly. 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 eyes lingered on the woods, where their new story had begun beneath an oak.
A week later, the boys stopped hiding. Oliver taught Emily to make sand pies. Henry petted the neighbour’s dog.
*—Spitting image of yours—* the neighbour chuckled. *—Especially that one with the dimple. Your double.—*
Simon stayed silent. But that evening, he sat with the children and told them a fairy tale, his voice soft as a forest brook.
The house grew louder, messier—but fuller.
Six years passed. Autumn painted the woods again. Wild ivy crawled up the house, and a blackthorn bush sprouted near the shed.
*—They’re teasing us again—* Oliver tossed his schoolbag down. *—Saying we’re not real.—*
*—Did you hit back?—* Emily turned sharply.
*—Henry did. Then sat under the tree till dusk.—*
Simon came in, shaking rain from his coat. *—Fighting again?—*
*—Punched Liam Carter—* Oliver nodded. *—Said we don’t have a proper surname.—*
Simon stayed quiet. Every morning, he drove the children through the woods to school. In winter, they dug the car from snowdrifts; in spring, they waded through mud.
*—Builds character—* he said softly.
*—It’s not character—* Lillian appeared. *—It’s cruelty, and it hurts to watch.—*
Henry came in last, bruises on his arms.
*—I won’t do it again—* he whispered.
*—You will—* Simon rested a hand on his head. *—If they hurt you—fight back.—*
That evening, they walked into the woods. Rain drizzled as they followed familiar paths.
*—See the rings on this stump?—* Simon pointed. *—One for every year. The bark protects it. Without it, the tree dies.—*
*—Am I the bark?—* Henry asked.
*—We all are. And the roots. Holding each other up.—*
At home, Lillian brushed Emily’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 was scared you’d stop loving me—* Emily whispered. *—But now I can’t imagine life without them.—*
Emily thrived in school. Oliver dreamt up worlds, sketching them endlessly. Henry fixed anything broken.
*—Your family’s unusual—* their teacher remarked. *—But strong.—*
*—The woods taught us—* Lillian replied.
Simon built a hut in the forest. There, the children learned to read tracks, to listen to the wind. They had a “day of silence”—no words, just glances and gestures.
One day, in an old trunk, Lillian found a photograph: young Simon with a friend. *”Alex. Summer in Millfield.”* That evening, a letter arrived—from Margaret Clayton.
*”My son’s gone. His heart gave out, but shame weighed heavier. The boys are his. Their mother passed long ago. No kin left. I’m ill. He knew you’d give them life… Forgive my silence. Time was needed.”*
*—Alex Clayton—* Simon said quietly. *—We worked together. Thought he’d vanished forever.—*
*—Their father?—* Lillian asked.
He nodded. Neither noticed the creak in the hallway. Emily stood there, hand over her mouth, the boys behind her.
*—We had another dad?—* Oliver asked.
*—You had someone who loved you—* Simon said. *—But you’re mine. From that oak onward.—*
Henry took the photo. *—This him?—*
*—Yes. Alex. My friend.—*
*—I’ve got his eyes—* Henry whispered. *—Ollie’s got his hands.—*
*—Doesn’t change a thing—* Emily said firmly. *—We’re family.—*
The next morning, Simon hung two pictures side by side—one of them all by the hearth, the other of him and Alex.
*—So they know their roots—* Lillian said.
That weekend, they walked into the woods. Beneath the oak where it all began, Simon planted saplings—oaks, like the one that sheltered them.
*—Let them grow with you—* he said.
That evening, as the children slept, they sat on the porch. Leaves rustled in the wind.
*—Any regrets?—* Lillian asked.
*—Not a day—* he answered. *—The woods just brought us together.—*
On 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 story. A family.
