“I knew you’d call, Mum…”
Her phone buzzed right in the middle of the lecture. Sophie pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and declined the call. But it buzzed again.
“Wilkinson, have some decency. Either turn that off or answer it,” the lecturer said irritably.
“I’ll take it. May I?” Sophie gestured toward the door with her eyes.
“Go on, then,” the lecturer sighed.
“Milly, what is it? I’m in class,” Sophie asked, stepping into the hallway.
“Sophie, love… Your parents were in an accident,” Milly said, her voice trembling.
“What?” Sophie repeated, her stomach dropping.
“Come home straightaway.”
Pale and shaken, Sophie hurried back into the room, shoved her textbook and notes into her bag, and headed for the exit.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, Wilkinson?” The lecturer’s sharp voice followed her.
“Sorry, it’s urgent,” Sophie muttered, pushing through the door.
“Soph, what’s wrong? What happened?” Nate caught up with her at the stairs.
“I don’t know. Milly rang—said my parents were in a crash. Told me to come home.”
“Are they… alive? I’ll come with you.”
“Nate, you don’t have to—”
“Might need the help. Give me your phone, I’ll call a cab.” Sophie only then realised she was still clutching her phone, fingers stiff.
“God, please let them be okay,” she whispered, handing it over.
The entire ride, Sophie fiddled anxiously with the strap of her bag. Nate covered her hands with his, steadying her.
“Please, hurry,” she begged the driver. The streets of London crawled past, agonisingly slow.
“Can’t. Speed cameras everywhere,” he shrugged.
“I’ll cover the fines, just *go*,” she pleaded, voice cracking.
The driver exhaled dramatically, then floored it, weaving through traffic. “If we crash, we crash together, eh?”
Finally—home. Nate paid while Sophie bolted through the wrought-iron gate.
Milly spotted them from the window, hurrying onto the porch of their large townhouse. Tears streaked her face, hands clasped over her chest.
“Are they—?” Sophie sprinted up the steps.
“Robert passed instantly. Margaret’s in hospital.”
“Why didn’t you *say*? Which one?”
“St. Thomas’.”
“Nate, did the cab leave?” Sophie whipped around.
“Hold on.” He dialled. “You still nearby? Turn back, please…”
Sophie didn’t rush this time. She cried silently in the backseat, face buried in Nate’s shoulder.
The hospital wouldn’t let her see her mum at first.
“She’s *my mother*! Let me through!” Sophie sobbed, pleading with the doctor.
“She’s critical. Unconscious.”
“I just need to *see* her.”
The doctor relented. “No hysterics. Understood?”
Later, back in the cab heading home:
“Mum… she *will* pull through, won’t she?” Sophie asked Nate. “I’ve no one else. *No one*.”
“What about Milly? She’s family, isn’t she?”
“The housekeeper. Been with us forever—like family, but not *real* family. I just… never corrected people.”
“Why?”
“Think anyone else at uni has live-in help? How’d they treat me if they knew?”
The rest of the ride passed in silence. At the house, Nate moved to follow her inside, but Sophie stopped him.
“Don’t. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Milly met her in the foyer. “Well? You saw her?”
“Yes. She’s in a coma.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Milly pulled Sophie into a hug, weeping. “We’ll pray for your mum. The funeral home’s handling Robert’s arrangements—they rang earlier.” She patted Sophie’s back. “Such a good man, your father. Never raised his voice, always patient…”
Sophie left Milly to her lamenting and retreated upstairs, collapsing onto her bed, curling into a ball.
Milly woke her at dawn. The tears and pity in her eyes told Sophie everything.
“They rang just now. She’s gone, love.” Milly crossed herself quickly. “Oh, Sophie…”
Later, over untouched tea in the kitchen:
“I’m completely alone,” Sophie whispered.
“I’ll stay awhile. But I’m old, pet—time to retire. Thirty years with your family. Started under Harold, your grandfather.”
After the funerals, the nine-day mourning, the forty-day remembrance—the house emptied. Colleagues, friends of her father’s, stopped visiting. The landline fell silent. The townhouse swallowed itself in suffocating quiet.
Sophie attended lectures only because Nate dragged her. Otherwise, she’d have stared at the wall indefinitely. Milly forced her to eat, threatening to leave if she didn’t swallow at least a spoonful of broth. “What’s the point? I cook, no one eats.”
So Sophie ate—just to stave off the hollow echo of the empty house.
One evening, over cold tea, Milly broke the silence.
“I swore to your parents I’d never tell. But they’re gone now. You deserve the truth.” She crossed herself again. “May Robert and Margaret forgive me.”
“What truth?” Sophie’s voice was flat.
“This. You’re not alone. You’ve a mother.”
“Have you lost it? Mum’s *dead*.”
“Margaret wasn’t your birth mother. Your real mother’s likely still alive. Though I’ve no idea where.”
Sophie gaped.
“Your father was blood. I’ll explain. Worked here decades—he trusted me. Wouldn’t believe gossip otherwise.”
Margaret couldn’t conceive. She and Robert tried everything—doctors, treatments abroad. Given up hope. Then a girl started at your father’s firm. Eighteen, just failed uni entrance, too proud to go home to her village. And Robert? Handsome, charismatic. Women flocked to him. Your mother was no exception.
She got pregnant. Planned to terminate. Came begging Robert for money. But he—somehow it became a plan. Persuaded her to carry the baby, promised support if she’d give the child to him and Margaret. She agreed… until labour. Couldn’t go through with it.
Then Robert laid it bare: He’d dug up her past. Raised by a single mum in poverty—hand-me-downs, mocked at school. ‘Want that life for your daughter? I won’t support you forever. I’m married, can’t wed you. Think hard.’”
So, at the hospital, she signed the papers. Robert spun it as Margaret’s ‘miraculous’ pregnancy—kept her ‘recovering’ out of sight.
“You screamed nonstop those first weeks. Like you *knew* Margaret wasn’t yours. Then your birth mum turned up—haunting the house, begging to see you. Robert caved. Hired her as your nanny, made her swear never to reveal herself.”
“Margaret *hated* it. Let her nurse you, then whisked you away. Only at night. Eventually, your real mum left—couldn’t bear hearing you call Margaret ‘Mum.’ So there. You’re not alone.”
Milly exhaled. “Now let me go. My conscience is clear.”
“Fine. At least tell me her name.”
“Natalie. Natalie Wren. That’s all I know. Not my place to pry.”
Sophie let Milly go. Alone again. Now what?
She told Nate. His dad was Met Police—maybe he could trace Natalie.
Three weeks later, Nate found her. Just one match fit: living in Brighton.
Sophie packed immediately.
“Where’re you off to? Exams are next week. We’ll go together,” Nate insisted.
“No. I need to do this alone.”
“Honestly? Don’t. She gave you up. Probably took your dad’s hush money. *Margaret* was your mum.”
But Sophie was adamant. “I need to see her face.”
Nate sighed. “Did Milly mention any identifiers? Otherwise, any con artist could—”
“Scar on her left brow. Fell off a swing as a kid. Hair never grew back there.”
Brighton. Dawn. The flat was in a crumbling Georgian, likely once a boarding house.
Heart pounding, Sophie rang the bell. The woman who answered was fit, sharp-eyed.
“Natalie Wren? May I come in?”
Natalie stepped aside. Watched Sophie toe off her trainers, tuck her hair behind her ears.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen table.
Sophie glanced around—tiny, dim, cramped.
“Building belonged to some lord pre-war. Turned tenements later.” Natalie lit a cigarette.
“I’m your daughter.”
“Oh?” No flicker of surprise.
“I don’t want anything. Just… why did you leave?” SophieNatalie crushed her cigarette and finally met Sophie’s eyes, whispering, “Because loving you from afar was the only way I knew how.”
