He’s Not My Son—But My Neighbour’s, Catty’s. My Husband Visited Her Often, and She Ended Up Bearing His Child: A Redhead Just Like His Father, No Testing Needed. Now They Want Me to Take Him In, But My Husband’s Gone, and I Have No Idea What He Was Up To… And Now Catty’s Gone Too Tanya Was Weeding the Beds When She Heard Someone Calling out in the Garden. She Wiped Her Brow and Went to the Gate, Where a Stranger Was Waiting ‘Tanya, Hello! We Need to Talk.’ ‘Hello. Well, come in if you’ve come…’ Tanya Welcomed the Woman Inside and Set the Kettle Boiling, Curiosity Bubbling—What Could She Possibly Want? ‘My Name’s Nina. We Haven’t Met, but I’ve Heard All About Your Situation… I’ll Get Straight to the Point. Your Late Husband Had a Son, Michael. He’s Three Years Old.’ Tanya Looked at the Woman, Surprised—She Seemed Far Too Old to Be the Mother… ‘He’s Not My Son—He’s My Neighbour Catty’s. Your Husband Used To Pop Round Her House, That’s How She Ended Up With His Child. Red Hair and Freckles, Spitting Image of His Father—No Need for a DNA Test.’ ‘And What Do You Want from Me? My Husband Only Recently Passed—I’ve No Idea What He Got Up to…’ ‘Well, Catty’s Gone Too—Pneumonia, It Got Her in the End. The Poor Boy’s an Orphan Now.’ Catty Had No Family—She Wasn’t From Around Here, Worked as a Shop Assistant… Poor Lad—He Has No One but the Children’s Home Now… ‘But I’ve Got My Own Kids, Two Daughters—Born Properly Married, Mind You. Are You Suggesting I Take in This Child? It Takes Some Nerve, Coming Here to the Wife and Asking Her to Take in Her Husband’s Love Child…’ ‘But He’s Your Daughters’ Brother by Blood—Hardly a Stranger, Really… And He’s a Good Lad—Kind, Gentle… He’s in Hospital Now; They’re Processing the Paperwork…’ ‘Oh, Don’t Think You Can Play on My Sympathy… I’ve No Idea How Many Children My Husband Left Behind—Am I Supposed to Raise Them All?’ ‘It’s Up to You… My Job Was Just to Let You Know.’ Nina Left, and Tanya Sat Down with a Mug of Tea, Lost in Thought… A Story About a Wife Who Discovers Her Late Husband’s Secret Son—And the Family Choices That Come Next

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 1

Oh, its not my child. Its my neighbours, Kates. Your husband used to come by pretty often, so thats who she got him from. Hes just as ginger and freckled as his fatherno need for a DNA test.
And what do you want from me? My husband passed away recently. I havent the faintest idea what he got up to
Well, this Kates dead too.

Anthea was weeding the vegetable patch when she heard someone calling from the front garden. She wiped her brow and walked over to the gate. Standing outside was a woman she didnt recognise.

Hello, Anthea! Need a word with you.

Oh, hello. Well, come in if youve something to say

Anthea showed her in, set the kettle on the hob, curiosity brewing along with the tea.

Im Nina, by the way, we havent met. But Ive heard about everything I wont beat around the bush. Your late husband had a son, Michael. Hes three.

Anthea stared, surprised. This woman was too old to be Michaels mother, surely

Not my son. Hes my neighbour Kates. Your husband used to drop by a fair bitso she ended up with a ginger, freckly boy, no questions asked.

And what do you expect me to do? My husbands only just gone. Ive no idea who he was seeing

Well, Kates gone too now Pneumonia. So now the boys an orphan.

Kate had no family, no roots round hereused to work at the local shop.

Poor lad. Only place for him is the childrens home

I have children of my own, thank you. Two girls, both born to me and my husband, lawfully wedded. Youre seriously suggesting I just take this boy in? The nerve, honestly. Turning up on my doorstep to ask that

Hes your daughters brother, you know. Not a stranger. And hes a lovely, gentle boy. Hes in hospital at the moment, theyre getting the paperwork ready for him

Spare me the guilt trip, please. Who knows how many children my husband left behindam I meant to take them all in?

Suit yourself. I felt I ought to let you know, thats all.

Nina left. Anthea poured herself a mug of tea and sat down to think.

***

Anthea had met George right after graduating. She was celebrating with friends when a group of young men came over.

George had stood out: bright ginger hair and a scatter of freckles across his cheeks.

He was cheeky, funny, read her poems, told the daftest jokes. Offered to walk her home.

Soon enough, they were married.

They moved in with her grandmother, who later passed away and left them the house. First came their daughter, Valerie, then two years later, Ellen. They got by, but money was always tight.

And then George started drinking. However hard Anthea tried, she couldnt cure him. Hed vanish for days. He lost his job, and it was Anthea who wound up working two jobs to support everyone.

She decided to leave him.

She was planning to take the girls back to Londonher aunt there had been inviting them for ages, promised to help find work.

But thats when George, drunk, stepped into the road and was run down by a lorry. Didnt make it.

She wept at his gravethe foolish man, though shed cared for him. The girls cried tootheir dad was gone.

And now, it seemed, her husband hadnt just left debt, but a child on the side as well.

Her elder daughter, Valerie, came in from outsidetall and slim like her mother, ginger like her father.

Mum, is there anything to eat? Im going to the cinema with the girls, and Im starving! Why the long face?

Ive just heard some news Im struggling to digest. Apparently your father has a sona three-year-old. And with the boys mother now dead, hes to be sent to a childrens home. Someone popped round to suggest I take him in.

Well, thats quite something. Whos the mum? Do you know her?

No, she wasnt local. Her names Kate, but thats all Ive got.

So whatll you do? Is he really alone in the worldno other family?

None, apparently. The boys in hospital while they prepare the paperwork They say hes ginger, a spit of his dad Here, have some boiled potatoes with sausage.

Valerie dove into her food. Ellen joined her. Anthea looked at her girls and smiled; both flaming-haired, just like their father Genes are remarkable things.

The next day Valerie came out with it:

Mum, Ellen and I went to the hospital to see our brother. Hes adorable, chubby, really looks like usa little ginger sunbeam. He misses his mum, cried and called for her.

We took him an apple and an orange. He stood up in his cot and reached out. The nurse let us play with him a bit. Mum Please, lets take him home. Hes our brother, after all.

Anthea was cross with her daughter.

Oh, you cant be serious! Your fathers deeds arent mine to sort out. I have enough to deal with Easy for you to saytake him in.

When people adopt unrelated children, they make room. But this is our brother, mum, our blood. Its not his fault things turned out this way. You know the sayingchildren shouldnt bear the sins of their parents!

But we cant feed another mouth! I already work myself to the boneselling homegrown veg, doing all I can. Now you expect me to shoulder another child?

Youll be off to university next yearthat costs money. Ellens growing too, always something needed

If you get a guardianship, youre supposed to get some help, arent you? Mum, dont you feel sorry for him? Dad was in the wrong, obviously, but the boys still family.

Anthea felt angry at her husband, and at her daughter. How easy to suggest taking in someone elses child

Still, she decided to at least see the boy. The very next day, she visited the hospital.

Excuse me. Could you tell me where Michael is, the three-year-old whos being sent to the childrens home? she asked a nurse at the desk.

And you are? What do you want?

I just want to see him. Hes my late husbands child by another woman It is what it is.

Youll look, then what? Your daughters came in yesterday, played with himI let them, though I shouldnt have. He wailed afterwards, calling for his mum.

I only want a minute, just to see. I wont even hold him.

Well, go on then, if you must.

Anthea opened the door and froze. There he waslittle George, the image of his father.

Curly ginger hair, blue eyes. A beautiful boy. He sat in the cot stacking bricks. When he saw her, he smiled.

Auntie Wheres my mummy mummy?

Your mum isnt here, Michael

I want to go home.

He sobbed bitterly. Antheas heart tightened. She walked over and picked him up.

Madam, youll go and Ill have to deal with the crying! What are you doing? Put him down at once! barked the nurse.

Dont cry, Michael, hush now

She stroked his hair and wiped away his tears.

Please take me. Im hungry, and theres no one here to cuddle.

All right, Michael. I promise Ill come back. Dont cry, love.

Anthea walked home certain in her decision to take him. The anger melted away after seeing the little, helpless child who looked so much like her girls.

***

Fifteen years later.

It was time for Michael to leave for college in London. Her little boy, all grown up. How quickly time had flown.

Call often, son, and come home as much as you can Oh, I do worry about the world these days.

Ill be fine, Mum! I promise youll be proud of me. Two years will fly by, and Ill finish my course!

After that, Ill get a jobLes Saunders says his uncle pays well at his garage, and you know Im good with cars, especially once Ive got a mechanics diploma.

My clever boy, said Anthea, running her hand through his stubborn ginger curls.

***

Life is like a winding woodland path; you never know where it will lead next.

Anthea had thought fate was punishing her, laying on her yet more burdensmore pain left by her husbands betrayal.

But as it turned out, where the thorn of anger grew, so too did a delicate shoota little boy, innocent of anything but being born.

Sometimes the heart sees what the eyes miss.

It saw not a strangers blood in Michael, but a lonely soul in need of warmth.

It heard not the cry of someone elses child, but a small, scared plea: Mummy.

And Anthea, against all logic, weariness, and fear, reached out her hands.

The years proved that kindness isnt a sacrificeits a gift. Michael never became an extra mouth, but rather the boy who carried water for the garden while Anthea weeded the beds.

The one whod cheer up his sisters on rainy days. The one who, growing up, would say, Thank you, Mum, and in those simple words, Anthea heard the whole world.

Lifes lesson is this: where there is room in the heart, there is always room in the home. Compassion is never wasted, and love, once given, grows on and on.

“You’re Driving Me Up the Wall!… You Never Eat Right, Dress Right, You Can’t Do Anything Properly!” Pavel’s Voice Finally Broke Into a Shout. “And You’re Useless! Can’t Even Earn Decent Money, Never Help At Home…” Marina Burst Into Tears. “And We Have No Children…” She Whispered. Belka – a ten-year-old, white-and-ginger cat – Watched Another “Tragedy” Unfold from atop the Wardrobe, Wondering Why Mum and Dad Hurt Each Other with Such Bitter Words When They Clearly Love Each Other So Much. Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Sat Chain-Smoking, and Belka Wondered: “A Family Needs Happiness… and Happiness Means Children… But Where to Find Them?” Belka Couldn’t Have Kittens (She’d Been Neutered), and Mum – Well, Doctors Said She Might, but Nothing Worked Out… The Next Morning, Once Her Owners Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window for the First Time and Popped Over to See Her Neighbour, Paws, for Advice. “Why Would Anyone Want Kids?” scoffed Paws. “Mine Drive Me Mad—Hide From Them All Day! Covered In Lipstick One Minute, Squashed the Next!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Good Kids… Just Not Sure Where To Find Them…” “Well,” mused Paws, “Street Cat Maisie Downstairs Has Five… Take Your Pick…” Taking a Deep Breath, Belka Braved Her Way Down, Squeezing through Railings and Calling, “Maisie! Please, Can I Talk to You?” From the Depths of the Basement Came Tiny, Desperate Squeaks. Belka Crawled Over—Five Scruffy, Blind, Hungry Kittens Huddled Under the Radiator, Clearly Abandoned for Days. Heart Heavy, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten Up to Her Building’s Entrance. Curling Protectively Around Them, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Return. When Pavel and Marina Arrived, Stunned to Find Belka (Who’d Never Been Outside Alone) Surrounded by Five Squeaking, Colourful Kittens, They Could Only Stare in Amazement. “How On Earth…?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina, Scooping Up the Cat and Kittens and Hurrying Indoors. Cradling the Purring Feline and Her Furry Brood, Pavel Asked, “What Now?” “I’ll Bottle-Feed Them… When They’re Bigger, We’ll Find Them Homes. I’ll Ring My Friends,” Marina Replied Softly. Three Months Later, Stroking Her Cat Family, Marina Whispered Again and Again, “Things Like This Don’t Just Happen… It’s Impossible…” But Soon She and Pavel Were Laughing Through Their Tears, Holding Each Other Close, and Dreaming Aloud: “I’m Glad I Finished the House!” “It’s the Perfect Place for a Child!” “The Kittens Can Roam, Too!” “We’ll Fit Just Fine!” “I Love You So Much!” “Oh, And I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together.

“Well, Rusty, shall we?” muttered Val, adjusting the homemade lead fashioned from an old rope. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and shivered. February this year had been particularly vicious—sleet and biting winds that cut straight through. Rusty—a scruffy mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye—had come into his life a year ago. Val was just coming home from the night shift at the factory when he spotted the dog by the bins: beaten, starving, his left eye clouded over. A voice rattled his nerves. Val recognised it at once—Steve Squint, the local “top lad,” barely twenty-five, with three teenage lads swaggering at his side—his “crew.” “Out for a stroll, eh?” Val replied, eyes fixed on the pavement. “Oi, mister, you got a license for that mutt?” one lad jeered. “Ugly thing, innit—look, his eye’s all funny!” A stone hurtled and smacked Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered, pressing himself to Val’s leg. “Sling your hook,” Val said softly, but there was steel in his voice. “Oi, listen to this! Granddad MacGyver’s giving us orders!” Steve strolled closer. “You forget whose patch this is? Dogs walk round here if I say so.” Val tensed. He’d been taught in the army to solve problems swiftly and firmly. That was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a knackered, retired mechanic desperate to avoid trouble. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time, your freak won’t be limping—he’ll be gone for good!” At home, Val couldn’t sleep a wink, replaying the scene. The following day, sleet pelted down. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty perched patiently by the door, eyes brimming with hope, and Val relented. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts—Steve’s crew were nowhere to be seen, probably sheltering from the sour weather. Val was just starting to relax when Rusty froze by the derelict boiler house, one ear cocked, nose sniffing at the damp air. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whimpered, tugging towards the rubble. Strange noises drifted out—half cry, half moan. “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Silence, only the wind howled reply. Rusty insisted, pulling hard on the rope. In his one good eye was pure worry. “What is it?” Val crouched by him. “What have you found?” Then, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped the rope and followed Rusty through the shattered entry. Behind a pile of broken bricks, a boy lay crumpled—about twelve, face battered, lip split, clothes torn. “Good lord!” Val dropped to his knees. “What happened?” “Mr. Val?” the boy croaked, barely opening an eye. “Is it you?” Val peered closer—Andy Mason, his neighbour’s quiet lad from number 5. “Andy! What on earth happened?” “Steve and his lot,” the boy sniffed. “Wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell the copper. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val stripped off his coat, wrapped the shivering boy. Rusty pressed close, covering Andy with his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg… hurts. Bad.” Val felt it—sure enough, broken. Who knew what else was wrong inside. “Have you got a phone?” “They took it.” Val pulled out his ancient Nokia, rang for an ambulance. Help would be there in half an hour. “Hang on, lad. They’re coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy whimpered. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t hurt you again,” Val promised, voice firm. “Not anymore.” Andy looked doubtful: “But last night you ran from them…” “That was different. It was just me and Rusty then. Now…” He left it hanging. How to explain thirty years back, he’d sworn to defend the weak? That in Afghanistan they taught him—a real man never abandons a child? The ambulance arrived faster than expected. Andy was whisked away. Val remained with Rusty in the drizzle, thinking. That night, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came by in tears. “Mr. Grant,” she sobbed, “the doctors said if he’d stayed another hour in the cold… you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val stroked Rusty. “He found your boy.” “What now?” she whispered, eyes darting to the door. “Steve’s not finished. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word isn’t enough.” “It’ll be all right,” Val said, though he hadn’t a clue how. He barely slept, the questions looping—how to protect Andy? And not just him; how many kids here put up with Steve and his gang? By morning, he had his answer. Val donned his old military dress uniform—the lot, medals and all. He checked himself in the mirror—a proper soldier, if a bit battered. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve a job to do.” Steve’s lot lounged outside the corner shop. Seeing Val march over, they cackled. “Oi, Grandad, off to the Cenotaph, are ye?” one jeered. Steve stood, smirking: “Run along, old timer. Your day’s over.” “The day’s just starting,” Val said calmly, stepping up. “What’s up with the fancy dress?” “Serving my country. Protecting the weak from scum like you.” Steve’s grin faded. “Andy Mason—remember him?” “Why bother with that loser?” “Because he’s the last kid you’ll ever hurt round here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “Let’s see who runs things, grandad!” Val didn’t move an inch. Thirty years gone, but the soldier was still there. “The law runs things now.” “What law? You a copper?” “I don’t need a badge—I’ve got my conscience.” Then something wholly unexpected happened. Rusty, who’d sat at Val’s side quietly, rose. The hair on his hackles bristled, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “And your mutt—” Steve began. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in. “Afghan war, bomb squad. He can sniff out a villain from a mile off.” It wasn’t true—Rusty was just a scrappy stray. But Val sounded so convincing, everyone believed it. Even Rusty seemed to believe, straightening proudly, baring his teeth. “He’s found twenty terrorists—tied up every single one,” Val carried on. “Think he can’t handle one junkie?” Steve backed off. His mates froze. “Listen well,” Val stepped forward. “From now on, these streets belong to everyone. I’ll be out every day, every alley, every playground. And Rusty will sniff out any trouble. Then we’ll see…” He left it unsaid. But they understood. “You trying to scare us?” Steve tried bravado. “I make one call—” “Go ahead.” Val nodded. “Just remember—I know more people in prison than you ever will. Plenty owe me favours.” That wasn’t true either. But Steve bought it. “The name’s Val the Para,” Val said. “Remember it. And keep your hands off the kids.” He turned to go. Rusty trotted proudly at his side. Silence settled behind them. Three days on, Steve and his crew vanished from sight. And Val truly did start walking the neighbourhood every day—with Rusty, head held high and chest out. Andy was discharged a week later. His leg hurt, but he could walk. He showed up at Val’s door. “Mr. Val, can I help with your patrols?” Andy asked hopefully. “You’ll have to check with your mum first.” Mrs. Mason couldn’t have been more pleased—at last, her son had a role model. So every evening, you’d see them: the battle-scarred old gent in uniform, a quiet boy, and a scruffy ginger stray. Everyone adored Rusty. Even the mums let the kids stroke him, rough as he looked—there was something proud in his bearing. Val told tales of his army days, of true friendship. The children listened, wide-eyed. One evening, heading home with Andy, the boy asked, “Mr. Val, were you ever scared?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Of not being strong enough.” Andy patted Rusty. “I’ll grow up and help you, Mr. Val. I’ll have a dog just like him—clever, brave.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Of course you will.” Rusty just wagged his tail. And everyone round those streets knew: “That’s Val the Para’s dog. He can spot a hero from a villain in a second.” Rusty bore the title proudly—no longer just a stray. He was the neighbourhood’s protector.

The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, only to remember too late: the milk would rise, overflow, and she’d wipe the stovetop in frustration. In those moments, she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since the birth of her second grandchild, the whole family seemed to have come off the rails. Her daughter looked exhausted, thinner, spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes went straight to his room. Anna saw it all and thought: how can you just leave a woman to manage alone? So she spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then her son-in-law. And then, she noticed something strange: her words didn’t lighten the atmosphere—they made it heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew sullen, and Anna went home feeling as though she’d done something wrong—again. That day, she went to see Father Matthew—not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. “I must be a terrible mother,” she began, eyes cast down. “I keep getting it wrong.” The priest was seated at his table, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I only wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her carefully, but kindly. “You’re not terrible. You’re tired. And you’re very anxious.” She sighed. It felt true. “I worry about my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different now, since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “He acts like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you see what he does?” Father Matthew asked. Anna thought. She recalled how, last week, he’d quietly done the dishes late at night, believing no one saw. How on Sunday he’d taken the pram out, though he looked like he just wanted to sleep. “He does… things,” she admitted. “But not the way he should.” “And what way would that be?” Anna was ready to answer, but then realised she wasn’t sure. In her mind there was only: more, better, kinder. But what, exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” Anna said. “Then say that,” Father Matthew replied quietly. “But say it to yourself, not to him.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re fighting her husband, not fighting for your daughter. And fighting brings tension. That exhausts everyone—you included.” Anna was silent for a long time. “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words—actions. Not against anyone, but for someone.” On her way home, she turned all this over. She remembered how, when her daughter was small, she hadn’t lectured her—just sat nearby when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day she dropped in, unannounced, bringing soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I’m not staying long,” Anna said. “Just here to help.” She watched the children while her daughter napped. She slipped away without saying how hard things were, or how they “should” live. A week later, she came again. And the week after that. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect—but now she noticed other things: how gently he lifted the baby, how in the evenings he covered her daughter with a blanket, thinking no one saw. One day, Anna couldn’t help but ask him in the kitchen: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It’s hard,” he replied after a pause. “Very.” And said nothing more. But after that, something sharp in the air between them vanished. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what she needed was to begin with herself. She stopped criticising him to her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to check in. None of it came easily. Anger was much easier. But gradually, the home became quieter. Not better. Not perfect. Just—quieter. The ever-present tension faded. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now—instead of against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood one simple thing: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits fault. It’s when someone is first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law were more attentive. That feeling never left. But another, more important wish grew alongside it: that the family be at peace. And each time the old feelings resurfaced—frustration, hurt, the urge for a sharp word—she asked herself: Would I rather be right, or make things easier for them? The answer almost always guided her next steps.