“I knew you’d call, Mum…”
The phone buzzed in the middle of the lecture. Sophie pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and dismissed the call. But it buzzed again.
“Gregory, have some decency. Turn it off or answer,” the lecturer said irritably.
“I’ll take it. May I?” Sophie gestured toward the door.
“Go on,” the lecturer sighed.
“Mila, what’s wrong? I’m in class,” Sophie asked, stepping into the corridor.
“Sophie… Your parents were in an accident,” Mila said, her voice trembling.
“What?” Sophie’s breath caught.
“Come home. Now.”
Pale and shaken, Sophie hurried back into the lecture hall, shoved her books into her bag, and rushed for the door.
“Nothing to say, Gregory?” the lecturer’s sharp voice followed her.
“I’m sorry, it’s urgent,” Sophie muttered, already halfway out.
“Soph, what’s going on?” James caught up with her at the stairs.
“I don’t know. Mila called—said my parents were in an accident. Told me to come.”
“Are they… alive? I’ll come with you.”
“James, you don’t have to—”
“You might need help. Give me your phone—I’ll call a cab.” Only then did Sophie realise she was still clutching it, knuckles white.
“God, just let them be alive,” she whispered, handing it over.
The entire ride home, Sophie fidgeted with the strap of her bag. James covered her hands with his, steadying her.
“Please, faster,” she begged the driver, every red light an eternity.
“Cameras everywhere, miss,” he said flatly.
“I’ll pay the fines. Just *go*.”
With a sigh, he floored it, weaving through traffic. “If we crash, we all go together.”
Finally, their house. James paid while Sophie bolted through the gate.
Mila spotted them from the window, stepping onto the porch of the large two-storey home. Tears streaked her cheeks, hands pressed to her chest.
“Are they alive?” Sophie panted, skidding to a stop.
“Leonard passed instantly. Margaret’s in hospital.”
“Why didn’t you *say*? Which one?”
“St. Thomas’.”
“James, did the cab leave?” Sophie spun around.
“Hold on.” He dialled. “You still nearby? Turn back, please…”
Sophie didn’t rush now. She wept in the back seat, face buried in James’s shoulder.
The ICU staff tried to bar her from seeing her mother.
“She’s *my mother*! Let me in!” Sophie sobbed, pleading with the doctor.
“She’s critical. Unconscious.”
“I just… need to see her.”
“Fine. No shouting.”
The sterile room, the machines—Sophie barely recognised Margaret beneath the tubes.
Later, in the cab home, she whispered, “Mum… she’ll pull through, won’t she? I’ve got no one else.”
“What about Mila? She’s family, isn’t she?” James asked.
“The housekeeper. Been with us forever—like family. I lied so no one at school would treat me differently.”
James frowned. “Why?”
“You think *anyone* in our class has ‘help’? How’d they look at me if they knew?”
Silence. At the house, James moved to follow her inside, but Sophie stopped him.
“Don’t. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Mila met her in the kitchen. “How is she?”
“In a coma.”
“Oh, Sophie…” Mila pulled her into a crushing hug. “We’ll pray for Margaret. The funeral home’s handling Leonard’s arrangements. They rang earlier.” Her voice cracked. “Such a good man. Never raised his voice, always kind…”
Sophie slipped away, retreating to her room. She curled into a ball, the walls pressing in.
At dawn, Mila woke her. The woman’s tear-streaked face said it all.
“The hospital just rang. She didn’t make it…” Mila crossed herself. “Oh, love…”
Later, over untouched tea, Mila broke the silence.
“I swore to your parents I’d never tell. But they’re gone now, and you deserve the truth. Forgive me, Leonard… Margaret…” She crossed herself again.
“What truth?” Sophie said dully.
“You’re not alone. You have another mother.”
Sophie scoffed. “Mum’s *dead*. Are you mad?”
“Margaret wasn’t your birth mother. Your real mother—I think she’s still alive. Though God knows where.”
Sophie stared.
Mila laid it out: Margaret’s infertility, Leonard’s affair with a young woman—barely eighteen, a cleaner at his firm. A deal struck: the girl would carry the baby, hand it over. She’d tried to back out last minute, but Leonard convinced her.
“Your mother—Natalie—was raised in poverty. He told her, ‘Is that what you want for your daughter?’ She signed the papers. Came to work as your nanny later, sworn to secrecy. Margaret was jealous—only let her feed you, never tuck you in. Eventually, Natalie left. Too painful, watching you call Margaret ‘Mum’.”
Sophie fired Mila that night.
Alone, she told James. His father, a policeman, traced Natalie to a tiny flat in Manchester.
Sophie took the first train.
“Wait—exams are next week!” James argued. “We’ll go together.”
“No. I need to do this alone.”
“You really think she’ll welcome you? She *gave you up*. Probably took a payoff to vanish.”
Sophie ignored him.
The flat was cramped, dim. Natalie—athletic, sharp-eyed—studied her as Sophie removed her shoes.
“You’re my daughter,” Sophie blurted.
Natalie lit a cigarette. “Suppose you want to know why I left?”
Sophie got the same story: the poverty, the impossible choice.
“You think I’d kneel, begging forgiveness?” Natalie snapped. “Did they starve you? Beat you?”
“No. They loved me.”
“Then what’s your problem? I gave you a better life.” Smoke curled between them. “You came because you’re lonely. Thought I’d magically replace them? I couldn’t have given you *half* of what they did.”
Sophie scribbled her number on a scrap of paper.
Natalie walked her to the station. At the platform, she suddenly hugged Sophie, tight. “Forgive me, if you can.”
Sophie’s anger melted. She understood now—Natalie’s harshness was fear. Fear of hope, of losing her again.
A month later, the phone rang.
“I knew you’d call, Mum,” Sophie answered, smiling.
And for the first time in years, she meant it.
Some wounds never fully heal—but forgiveness? That’s a choice. And sometimes, it’s the only one that sets you free.
