I knew you’d call, Mum…
The phone buzzed right in the middle of class. Sophie pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and declined the call. But it buzzed again.
“Sophie Greene, have some decency. Either turn it off or answer it,” the lecturer snapped, irritation sharp in her voice.
“I’ll answer. Can I?” Sophie gestured toward the door.
“Go on, then,” the lecturer sighed.
“Mila, what is it? I’m in class,” Sophie asked, stepping into the corridor.
“Sophie… Your parents were in an accident,” Mila’s voice trembled.
“What?” Sophie’s stomach dropped.
“Come home. Now.”
Pale and shaking, Sophie hurried back into the lecture hall, shoved her textbook and notes into her bag, and made for the door.
“Not even a word, Greene?” The lecturer’s sharp tone followed her.
“Sorry—I have to go,” Sophie managed before the door swung shut behind her.
“Soph, what’s wrong?” Nathan caught up with her by the stairs.
“I don’t know. Mila rang. Said my parents were in an accident—told me to come home.”
“Are they… alive? I’ll come with you.”
“Nathan, 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 her phone, fingers white-knuckled.
“God, just let them be alive,” she whispered, handing it over.
The whole ride home, Sophie twisted the strap of her bag, restless. Nathan covered her hands with his, steadying her.
“Please, hurry,” she begged the driver, her voice breaking. It felt like they were crawling.
“Can’t speed—cameras everywhere,” the driver muttered.
“I’ll pay the fines, just *go*,” Sophie pleaded, near tears.
The driver exhaled sharply, pressed the accelerator, and overtook the cars ahead. “If we crash, we crash together, then.”
Finally, her house. Nathan paid while Sophie rushed through the gate.
Mila spotted them through the window and hurried onto the porch of the two-story home, tears in her eyes, hands pressed to her chest.
“Are they alive?” Sophie sprinted up the steps, stopping just short of her.
“Leonard passed at the scene. Margaret’s in hospital.”
“Why didn’t you say that? Which hospital?”
“St. Mary’s.”
“Nathan, is the cab still here?” Sophie turned to him.
“One sec.” He pulled out his phone. “Did you leave? Can you come back?”
Sophie wasn’t rushing anymore. She cried quietly in the back seat, face buried in Nathan’s shoulder.
They wouldn’t let her see her mother at first.
“She’s *my mum*! Let me in!” Sophie sobbed, pleading with the doctor.
“She’s critical. Unconscious.”
“I just want to see her.”
“Fine. But no outbursts.” The doctor led them to the ICU.
Later, in another cab home, Sophie turned to Nathan.
“Mum… She’ll pull through, won’t she? She’s all I have left.”
“What about Mila? Isn’t she family?”
“The housekeeper. She’s been with us forever—feels like family. But I lied so people wouldn’t know.”
“Why?”
“Do *any* of our classmates have live-in help? How d’you think they’d treat me if they knew?”
The rest of the ride was silent. At the house, Nathan moved to follow her inside, but Sophie stopped him.
“Don’t. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, slipping inside alone.
Mila met her in the hallway.
“Well? You saw her?”
“Yeah. She’s in a coma.”
“Oh, Sophie.” Mila pulled her into a hug, weeping. “We’ll pray Margaret pulls through. The funeral home’s handling Leonard’s arrangements—they’ve already called.” She stroked Sophie’s back. “What a tragedy. Such a good man, your father. Never a harsh word, always kind…”
Sophie let Mila ramble, then retreated upstairs, curled into a ball on her bed.
Mila woke her at dawn. One look at her tear-streaked face told Sophie everything.
“They just called. She passed in the night… God rest her soul.” Mila crossed herself quickly. “How could this happen, Sophie?”
Later, over untouched tea in the kitchen:
“I’m completely alone,” Sophie whispered.
“I’ll stay awhile. But I’m getting old—time to retire. Been with your family thirty years. Started when your grandfather, James, was still alive.”
The funerals passed. The nine days, the forty. The house filled with silence as colleagues and friends stopped coming. The landline stopped ringing.
Sophie went to lectures because Nathan dragged her. Otherwise, she’d have lain facing the wall. Mila forced her to eat, threatening to leave if Sophie didn’t swallow at least a spoonful of broth. So she ate—because being alone in that big house terrified her.
One evening, over cold tea, Mila broke the silence.
“I swore to your parents I’d never tell you. But they’re gone now, so the oath is void. And you deserve the truth. God forgive me.” She crossed herself.
“What truth?” Sophie’s voice was hollow.
“This. You’re not alone. You have a mother.”
“*What?* Mum’s dead.”
“Margaret’s dead. She wasn’t your birth mother.”
Sophie stared. “What? Then Dad—?”
“*He* was your father. I’ll explain.”
Margaret couldn’t conceive. She and Leonard tried everything—doctors, clinics, prayers. Then a girl joined Leonard’s firm. Eighteen, fresh from some backwater town, failed her uni entrance. Your father was handsome—women always fancied him. Your mother fell hard.
She got pregnant. Wanted an abortion. Came to Leonard for money. He persuaded her to carry the baby—rented her a flat, paid her to give the child to him and Margaret. She agreed. Then, at the last moment, she changed her mind.
Leonard found out her background: raised by a single mum in poverty, hand-me-down clothes, desperate to escape.
“*You* want that life for your daughter?” he’d said. “I can’t support you forever. I’m married—scandal would ruin me. Think about it.”
So at the hospital, she signed the papers. Leonard passed you off as Margaret’s. She stayed out of sight—no one questioned it.
You screamed constantly in those early days, like you *knew*. Then your birth mother started lurking outside, begging to see you. Leonard took pity—hired her as your nanny. Made her swear never to reveal herself. Margaret was jealous. Let her feed you, but took you back at night.
Eventually, your mother left. Couldn’t bear watching you call Margaret “Mum.” So. You’re not alone.
“Tell me her name,” Sophie said, numb.
“Natalie. Natalie Foster. That’s all I know.”
Sophie let Mila retire. Then she told Nathan. His dad was a detective—maybe he could help.
Three weeks later, he found her. Only one match fit.
Sophie packed for London immediately.
“*Now?* Exams are next week! We’ll go together,” Nathan insisted.
“No. I need to do this alone.”
“Honestly? Don’t go. She *gave you up*. Probably took a payoff to disappear.”
But Sophie wouldn’t listen.
“At least get details from Mila. What if it’s a scammer?”
“Mila said she has a scar above her left eyebrow. Fell off a swing as a kid—hair doesn’t grow there.”
The London flat was in an old building, likely once tenement housing. Heart pounding, Sophie rang the bell.
A fit woman answered. “Natalie Foster?” Sophie asked. “Can I come in?”
Natalie studied her as she removed her trainers.
“Living room,” Natalie said curtly.
The flat was cramped, dim.
“Pre-war building. Was servants’ quarters,” Natalie explained.
“I’m your daughter,” Sophie blurted.
Natalie didn’t react. “That so?”
“I don’t want anything. Just… why did you leave me? You’ve got a scar—from a swing?”
Natalie lit a cigarette. “Didn’t expect this.”
“I only just found out you existed. Mila told me—after my parents died.”
“Mila’s still with you?”
“Not anymore.”
Natalie stubbed out the cigarette. “Fine. Here’s how it was.” Her story matched Mila’s exactly.
“You want me to beg forgiveness? I was *stupid*. Did your parents beat you? Starve you?”
“No. They loved me.”
“You came because you’re alone. Thought I’d *replace* them? I could’ve given you *nothingA year later, Sophie sat across from Natalie at a sunlit café, watching her birth mother smile for the first time as she stirred her tea, and realized that some families aren’t lost—just waiting to be found.
