Dear Diary,
Tonight the house felt like a whirlwind. My son Tom and his wife Molly burst into our flat in Camden as if theyd been summoned. In truth, this visit had been overdue. Mum has been battling a serious illnessstage two of a rare cancer. Shes just finished a round of chemotherapy and radiation, and for a brief moment her hair started to grow back, giving us a glimmer of hope. Yet the respite was fleeting; her condition began to deteriorate again.
Good evening, Mum, Tom, please come in, I whispered, my voice thin, my frame as fragile as a childs.
My dears, have a seat, my husband George said, looking a little bewildered. We have a rather unusual request, so please listen carefully.
Molly and Tom sank onto the sofa, eyes fixed on me. I sighed, glanced at George for support, and began.
Tom, Molly, this may sound odd, but we need a favour. Wed like you to adopt a boy for us, please. Were too old to have more children, and there are other reasons as well.
A heavy silence fell. My eldest daughter, Emily, was the first to break it.
Mum, I think youll be shocked, but weve been wanting this for a long time. Tom and I really want a son, yet we already have two granddaughtersyour and GeorgesMegan and Tara.
Theres no certainty that the third child will be a boy. Moreover, my health is failing. I had a Csection before; the doctors warned me against another pregnancy. We thought perhaps adopting a little boy from the childrens home might be the answer.
I dont even know where to start, I said, running a trembling hand over a stray patch of hair that was slowly returning. Im feeling worse again.
Just then Aunt Nancy, an old colleague from my previous job, walked in. Do you remember her? She once had a large mole over one eye that almost blocked her sight. Doctors urged its removal, fearing it might turn malignant. Yet when Nancy arrived, the mole was gone and her eye was clear as day. Shed been visiting Granny June in the countryside, and I decided to join them. The journey reminded me of what I might be losing.
Molly and Tom listened, holding their breath, though the purpose of my tale was still unclear to them.
Now, children, I continued, Granny June asked me a strange question the other day: Do you have a son? Hearing that I only have one daughterMollyand two cherished granddaughters, she pressed, What about a girl?
I was stunned. No one but George and I knew that Id suffered a lateterm miscarriage. A baby boy, my firstborn, had been lost.
It didnt survive, I whispered, fingers fidgeting at the edge of my blouse.
What happens now? Molly asked, her large eyes searching mine.
Granny June said we should adopt a boy, I answered, tears spilling as if I were somehow to blame for not saving my first child. Now I must give another little one warmth and love, to restore the balance thats been broken.
And then I heard my own heart. I truly want this. George and I can offer a child both love and security, not just to heal ourselves but to rescind a lonely fate from a tiny soul. Do you understand, dear diary?
Mum, I hear you, Molly said, her voice shaking, and Ill support you fully. Lets do this.
Molly and Tom had already spoken with the childrens home manager and arranged a visit. I, along with George, went too. In the playroom, children of three and older were scattered on a soft carpet, laughing.
Look, Mum, Molly whispered, pointing to a ginger boy diligently stacking blocks, hes just like you, even his tongue sticks out when he concentrates.
I smiled, but from a corner a soft murmur reached my ears. A slightly older boy with sad eyes whispered something incomprehensible.
Did you say something to us? I asked gently.
He stepped forward, his voice barely audible. Auntie, please take me. I promise youll never regret it. Take me
Molly and Tom quickly completed the paperwork and adopted the boy, naming him Michael. Megan and Tara beamed with pride at their new little brother. Michael settled in fast, calling Molly Mum and Tom Dad. He spent many afternoons with Granny June and George, whose house was just a short walk from his school.
He oddly began calling me Mum Irene, a name that felt both strange and tender. In that moment I saw a reflection of the son Id never held.
Doctors urged me into another treatment round, but it only worsened my condition. Michael would sit beside me, his short hair brushing my cheek as he asked, Mum Irene, why are you ill? I want you to get better!
I dont know, Michael dear, I replied, trying to hold onto hope, but Ill fight for you.
George spoke with the surgeon, who said the operations success rate was fiftyfifty, yet they would try everything.
On the day of the surgery, nerves cracked everyones composure. Molly called George repeatedly. He promised the surgeon would keep us informed, while George sat on pins and needles.
When the operation ended, a frantic George couldnt find Michael. He discovered him curled up on a chair in our bedroom, clutching Irenes nightgown, whispering, Mum Irene, dont leave me. I cant bear losing you again. Stay with me, please.
The phone rang, and the surgeons weary voice told us the operation had gone well. Mr. Harrison, the surgery was difficult, but your wife made it through. Shes stable now.
Relief washed over us as if a guardian had steadied us at the brink.
Thank you, doctor, George said, embracing Michael. You saved our mother, our Irene, and our family.
I sit here now, pen in hand, feeling the weight lift a little. I am grateful for the chance to give Michael a home, for the love that now fills our lives, and for the fragile thread of hope that holds us together.
Irene.
