The phone’s shrill ring cut through the morning silence like a blade. Anna Fletcher sat by the window with her embroidery, jolting at the sound before slowly lifting the receiver. The woman’s voice on the other end was breathless, urgent:
“Anna Fletcher?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you… but it’s about your son.”
“Is Oliver alright? Did something happen at nursery?”
“No, no! I’m not talking about Oliver. I mean Thomas.”
“Excuse me, but I only have one son.”
“Thomas Fletcher, born July 12, 1998. Your details are in his records.”
The breath left Anna’s lungs as if she’d been struck. That date was an old wound, never fully healed. She forced herself to inhale.
“Yes… I did have a son then. But he died two days later. He was premature. If this is some cruel joke—”
“No! He’s alive! He’s in a care home! I—I’m a carer there, and… he still believes his mum will come for him. Please, meet me. I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
Her hand trembled as she agreed, arranging to meet by the statue of Shakespeare. Part of her clung to the hope it was all a mistake, a scam. But her heart knew better. She had to see for herself.
An hour later, she stood before an elderly woman with kind, tired eyes. She introduced herself—Margaret Higgins, a carer at the Sunvale Children’s Home on Liberty Lane.
“I’ve spent my life with children. Never had my own. But Tommy… he’s different. Gentle, clever, soft-hearted. I had to try. His file says you signed him away.”
“I never signed anything!”
“Then someone did it for you. Someone who decided your family’s fate.”
As if to prove it, Margaret handed her a photograph. The boy staring back was the spitting image of her Oliver—only with glasses. The same chin, the same lips, the same eyes, but haunted, as if his childhood had been stolen.
Anna’s chest tightened.
“His eyesight?”
“Just astigmatism. Nothing severe. But his heart… He still prays his mum will find him.”
Anna clutched the picture. No doubt remained. This was her son. Her boy. Her blood.
“You’ve no idea what they’ve done to me. I grieved. I ached. And he… he was alive!”
Without another word, she ran to the home. Beyond the iron gates, she spotted him at once—sitting by the sandpit with a book. Thomas. Her son.
A carer called out—”Fletcher!”—and that was enough. Anna marched straight to the director’s office.
“I heard his name and… thought we might be related. He looks so familiar.”
“You’re Fletcher? A coincidence? Odd. He’s being placed with another family soon.”
“You don’t understand. That’s my son.”
The director—Mrs. Eleanor Hart—skeptically checked the records. The paperwork bore Anna’s forged signature. She recognized the handwriting at once. Her mother-in-law, Veronica Ashford, was the only one cruel enough.
In a trembling voice, Anna explained how seven years ago, she’d given birth prematurely, how they’d told her the baby had died. Now, with the photo and the name, the truth crashed over her.
For the first time, the director softened.
“I won’t let Tommy go to another family. Sort things out, bring your husband. We’ll fix this.”
On the drive home, fury coiled inside her. Who could do this? Her husband, James, had been shattered with grief. Only one person fit—his mother.
She collected Oliver from nursery, forcing herself to stay calm. But the moment she saw Veronica stirring a pot in the kitchen, the dam broke.
“Funny how some people vanish for seven years. Now it all comes out.”
That evening, she slid the photo across the table to James.
“This is Tommy. Our son.”
He frowned.
“That’s… Oliver with glasses?”
“No. This is the boy we mourned.”
Her mother-in-law’s reaction was instant—paling, then sweeping upstairs with icy dignity. Anna, raw with rage, told James everything.
The next day, they returned to the home. When Thomas entered the room, no words were needed. The boy didn’t ask questions. He just knew.
“Found you at last, son,” James murmured.
“I knew you’d come,” Thomas whispered back.
Anna held him, stroking his hair, tears spilling as the years of loss dissolved.
On the way home, they stopped at a shop. Thomas hesitated, unused to choosing his own clothes, unused to a mother asking which jacket he liked, a father lifting him onto his shoulders.
At home, Oliver waited—sullen, jealous. Anna suspected Veronica’s whispers.
“That’s mine! I’m not sharing!” Oliver grumbled.
“Maybe he’s not even my brother! Just some orphan!”
Anna led them to the mirror.
“Look. Those noses, those mouths, those ears. You’re brothers.”
And slowly, Oliver smiled. Shyly. But truly, for the first time.
Meanwhile, Veronica packed. James quietly arranged her move to a flat he’d bought years ago—no shouting, just finality. Her reign in their home was over.
Anna lingered in the hall, overhearing her phone call:
“Yes, moving. The flat’s lovely. My son’s taking care of me. Time to enjoy myself. I’m happy.”
Anna scoffed bitterly.
When were you ever happy for anyone but yourself, Veronica?
Now, her family was whole. Two sons. And her heart, at last, no longer wept—it sang.
