“Not My Son—He Belongs to Katy Next Door: How My Late Husband’s Secret Child, Ginger-Haired and Freckled, Ended Up in My Life After His Mother Passed, and the Choice I Never Thought I’d Face”

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 1

Its not my son, you see. Its my neighbours, Kate. Your husband popped round to hers often enough, and she ended up with a child from him. The spitting image, ginger hair and freckles everywhereno one needs a test to see hes the father.
And what am I supposed to do about it? My husband passed away not long ago. I had no idea who he was seeing
Well, Kates gone too, now.

I was weeding the vegetable patch when I heard someone calling me out in the garden. I wiped my brow and went to the gate. There stood a woman Id never seen before.

Hello, Anthea. Could I have a word? she said.

All right then, I replied. Come inside if you want a chat

I put the kettle on, my curiosity piqued. What was this about?

My names Nina, she began. We havent met, but people have told me whats what Ill come right out and say it. Your late husband has a son, Michael. Hes three.

I looked at her in disbeliefshe seemed much too old to have a toddler.

Hes not my boy. Hes my neighbour Kates. Your husband used to visit her often And, well, she ended up carrying his child. The lads as ginger and covered in freckles as his dadno doubt about whose he is.

So why are you telling me this? I asked. My husbands been gone a while. Who knows what he got up to?

Well, Kates passed as well Pneumonia, so I hear. The poor boys an orphan now.

Kate had no family here; she wasnt local. Worked in the shop, making a living as best she could

Shame about the boy. If nothings done, hell end up in a childrens home.

Ive got children of my own, two daughters, whose father I married, in case thats not clear. Are you seriously suggesting I take this child in? The nerve, coming to the wife and asking her to take on a child from her husbands affair

But hes your daughters brother, isnt he? Family, really And hes a nice lad, sweet and gentle. Hes in hospital now; theyre preparing the paperwork

Dont try to win me over with pity. Lord knows how many children my husband left behindwhat, am I to raise them all?

Im only passing the message, said Nina. Its up to you.

She left, and I sat with my tea, lost in thought.

***

I met George right after I finished college. I was out celebrating with friends when some lads came over to chat.

George stood outa mop of bright ginger hair and freckles all over. Always laughing, mischief in his eyes, making up poems, telling tall tales. He offered to walk me home.

And soon enough, we were married.

We moved in with his gran, who later passed away and left the house to us. Our daughter, Valerie, arrived, and two years later, Ellen. We didnt have much money; things were always tight.

Then George started drinking. No matter how I tried, nothing changed. He could disappear for days. Lost his job, of course, so I had to take on two myself.

Eventually, I decided on divorce.

I thought Id go to the city with the girlsmy aunt was always inviting usand find work. Wed manage.

Then George, after a few too many at the pub, staggered in front of a car. He didnt survive.

I wept for him, the fool, sat by the coffin in tears. The girls cried toohe was still their father.

And now, I find out he had a child elsewhere

My eldest, Valerie, came in just then. Shes tall and slim like me and ginger like her father.

Mum, whats for tea? Im going to the cinema with the girls later, but Im starving! Why do you look so glum?

Im still processing the news. Apparently, your father had a sonthree years old. The mothers gone as well, so the boys being sent off to care. They suggested I take him

Blimey Thats something, Valerie said. Whos the mum? Do you know her?

No. Not local. Her name was KateI dont know her surname

What are you going to do? Wheres the kid now? Hes got no other family?

Doesnt seem so. The boys in hospital. Ginger, like his dad Here, have some boiled potatoes and sausages.

Valerie tucked in, and soon Ellen joined her. I watched my daughtersboth ginger as their father. Those genes, eh

The next day, Valerie said, Mum, Ellen and I went to the hospital To see our brother. Hes funny, chubbylooks a lot like us. Ginger as can be He cries for his mum.

We brought him an apple and an orange. He stood in his cot with his little arms stretched out The nurse let us play with him a bit. Mum lets take him in. Hes our brother, after all.

I bristled. Well, isnt that just great? Your father plays away, and now Im meant to look after the result? Ive enough on my plate already Easy for you to saybring him here

People adopt strangers all the timehes our brother! Its not his fault. You know the saying, children shouldnt bear their parents sins!

But we cant handle another mouth! Im working myself ragged, growing veg for market, running about all hoursand now you want me to take him on?

You know, if you become his guardian, you get some financial help Mum, youre a mumcant you feel for the poor boy? Dad made a mistake, fine, but hes our brother

I was angryat George, at my daughter. She had an easy time of it, trying to land me with someone else’s child

But I decided I ought to see the boy. The next day, I went to the hospital.

Excuse me. Could you tell me where the little boy Michael is? Hes threetheyre preparing his papers to send him off, I asked the nurse at the counter.

And who are you to him? What are you after?

I just want to see him. Hes my husbands child. By another woman. Thats how it is

Go ahead and look, if you want. Your daughters were by yesterday, played with him a bitcant let them, really, but I turned a blind eye He was wailing for his mother afterward.

Ill only be a minute. I wont even pick him up

Well, go on then

I opened the door and stood still for a moment. There he wasa little George, through and through.

Ginger curls, blue eyes. Beautiful boy. He sat in his cot, playing with wooden blocks. When he saw me, he smiled.

Auntie wheres my mummy? Ma-ma?

Shes not here, Michael.

I want to go home

And he burst into heartbreaking sobs. My heart twisted. I stepped up to the cot and picked him up.

If you take him out, Ill be left with his howling all afternoon! Put him back, woman! the nurse scolded.

Dont cry, Michael, love

I stroked his hair, wiping away tears.

Please take me Im hungry, and theres no one to play with

I promise Ill come back for you, Michael. Dont cry, all right?

I went home certain of what Id do. All the bitterness vanished as soon as I saw that poor, defenceless little boyso like my girls

***

Fifteen years later.

Time for Michael to head off to college in the city. My boy, all grown up. The years have flown.

Ring me, son, and come home as often as you can I worry so

Mum, Ill be fine! I promise I wont let you down. The two years will go by quickly, and Ill finish my course!

After that Ill get a job. Alex Sidders says his uncle pays well at the garage, and Im good with cars, you know thatIll have a proper mechanics diploma by then.

My clever boy I said, running my hand through his curly ginger hair.

***

Life, like a winding country lane, leads you to places you never expect.

I once thought fate had dealt me another hardshipone more cross to bear, more pain from Georges betrayal.

But in the thorny bush of resentment, there blossomed a tender shoota little boy, blameless, except that hed been born at all.

Sometimes a heart sees what eyes cant: in Michael, I saw not someone elses child, but a lonely soul needing warmth.

I heard not the cry of someone elses boy, but a quiet plea: Mum.

And so, against logic, against fear and fatigue, I reached out.

Years later, I know that kindness isnt a burdenits a gift. Michael never became another mouth to feedhe became the boy who fetched well water to help me in the garden.

He made his sisters laugh when spirits were low. And as he grew, the words Thank you, Mum grew with himcarrying a world of meaning.

My Husband Only Thinks of Himself – He Eats Everything in Sight, Leaving Nothing Even for Our Son “Adam, where have the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. “I ate them, I fancied a snack,” he says. “Couldn’t you have saved just one for our son’s tea?” “You’re making a fuss over nothing. It’s not like you can’t buy bananas at the shop.” “Then pop out and get more, please.” “I’ve got the football match on – how can I go?” This is constant in our family: fromage frais, biscuits, apples – I even have to hide food or else our son might go hungry with a dad like this. We’ve been married for five years. Our son’s nearly two. We’re paying off our mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband claims he’s the breadwinner for getting us this house, but really, he just sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit, and my parents helped too. My mum says Adam is so selfish. I kind of agree. One time we were getting ready for a birthday do. I was cooking for guests, and there he was, hovering, emptying dishes. Worst was the cake – I left it on the balcony because there was no fridge space, brought it in to slice up, only to find there was just a bit of decorated chocolate left. Imagine how embarrassed I was. This happens all the time. Yes, he works, but surely he could think of others. His only excuse: “We’ll just buy more – don’t stress!” Fine, don’t care about me, but how can you not care about your own child? Especially when we don’t have lots of money and I’m trying to budget. We can eat a month’s worth of food in a week. “Why are you going on at him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Don’t nag, just cook more,” his mum says, defending him. Funny thing is, no matter how much I cook, it’s never enough for him – he’ll eat everything. There’s no question of buying more with the mortgage, clothes and other bills to pay. In the end, I told my husband that if he did it again, I’d divorce him. We’ll split the flat and go our separate ways. He sulked, whined to his mum, and now my mother-in-law won’t even speak to me. But I honestly think I’m right. What would you do?

“Come on then, Rusty…” muttered Val as he straightened the homemade lead of old rope. He zipped up his jacket to his chin and shivered—it was a particularly nasty February, sleet hammering down and the wind cutting right through him. Rusty—a faded ginger mongrel with one milky, blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. He’d been finishing a night shift at the factory and seen the battered, starving dog by the bins with a clouded left eye. The shout set Val’s nerves on edge. He recognised the voice—Sean “Scarface”, the local twenty-five-year-old “hard man”. Three spotty teenagers hung around with him—his “crew”. “We’re taking a stroll,” Val answered shortly, gaze fixed on the icy ground. “Oi, mate, you pay your dog-walking tax for that freak?” one of the lads jeered, cackling. “Look at him—proper ugly, his eye’s all mashed up!” A stone flew, hitting Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed close to Val’s leg. “Get lost,” Val said quietly, steel in his tone. “Oh! Gramps found his voice!” Sean sauntered closer. “Don’t forget whose patch this is. Dogs walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. The army had taught him to deal with problems swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary retired mechanic who didn’t want trouble. “Let’s go, Rusty,” he muttered, turning for home. “Yeah, run along! Next time your mutt’s a goner!” Sean yelled after him. All night, Val replayed the scene in his mind. The next day, wet snow fell. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty waited by the door, so devoted that Val gave in at last. “All right, all right—make it quick,” he grumbled. They stuck to quieter paths—but there was no sign of Sean’s lot, likely hiding from the foul weather. Val relaxed, until Rusty suddenly stopped by the deserted boiler house. The old dog pricked his one ear, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whimpered, pulling towards the derelict building. Strange sounds drifted out—sobs, or moans, hard to tell in the howling wind. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called. No reply—just the wind. Rusty strained forward, anxiety shining in his lone good eye. “What is it? What is it, boy?” Then Val heard it, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help me!” Heart pounding, Val unclipped the lead and followed Rusty in. In the wrecked boiler room, behind a mound of bricks, lay a boy of about twelve—bloody-faced, split-lipped, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val dropped beside him. “What happened?” “Mr Valentine?” The boy squinted up. Val recognised him—Andy Mason, the shy lad from next door. “Andy! What is it?” “Sean and his gang… wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell. They caught me…” “How long have you been here?” “Since this morning. It’s so cold.” Val stripped off his jacket and wrapped the boy up. Rusty curled close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand up, Andy?” “My leg hurts—think it’s broken.” Val gently checked—yes, broken, and who knows what else. “Got a phone?” “They took it.” Val dug out his ancient Nokia and dialed 999. Paramedics would be there in thirty minutes. “Hang on, son—the ambulance is coming.” “What if Sean finds out I survived?” Andy whispered, panic rising. “He said he’d finish me…” “He won’t,” Val said firmly. “He’ll never touch you again.” The boy stared, surprised. “But you walked away yesterday.” “That was different—just me and Rusty. Now…” He trailed off. What was there to explain? How thirty years ago he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? How Afghanistan taught him: a real man never abandons a hurt child? The ambulance came fast; Andy was whisked to hospital. Val, left at the ruins with Rusty, pondered. That evening Andy’s mum, Mrs Mason, came round in tears, thanking Val over and over. “The doctors said one more hour alone, he might have died! You saved his life, Mr Valentine!” “Not me—Rusty found him,” Val replied, stroking the dog’s head. “But what’ll happen now?” Mrs Mason looked fearfully at the door. “Sean won’t stop. The police say they have no proof without witnesses.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He didn’t sleep; worry gnawed at him. How could he protect Andy? Or every other child bullied by that gang? By morning, he knew. He put on his old army uniform—parade dress, medals and all. Checked the mirror—not young, but still a soldier. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Sean’s crew lounged by the shop as usual, mocking as Val approached. “Oi! Looks like Remembrance Day came early—look at Granda, what a hero!” Sean got up, sneering. “Clear off, pensioner. Your time’s over.” “My time’s just started,” Val said quietly, closing the gap. “What’s with the get-up?” “To serve my country. And protect kids from people like you.” Sean laughed. “What kids? What country, old man?” “Andy Mason—remember him?” Sean’s sneer faded. “Why should I remember losers?” “Because he’s the last child you’ll ever hurt here.” “Threatening me, granddad?” “A warning.” Sean stepped in, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “I’ll show you who runs this place.” Val didn’t move an inch. The army never really leaves you. “The law runs things here.” “What law? Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience did.” That’s when Rusty, who’d been still as a statue, suddenly bristled. A low, menacing growl rumbled from his throat. “And your mutt—” “My dog’s a veteran,” Val cut in. “Afghanistan. Bomb detection. He can sniff out scum with one look.” It was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val delivered it so convincingly, everyone believed it. Even Rusty straightened up, baring his teeth. “He found twenty militants in Afghanistan. Brought every one in alive. Think he can handle one junkie?” Sean backed off; his mates froze behind him. “Listen up,” Val stated, stepping forward. “From now on, every yard, every night—I walk these streets. Me and my dog. Any trouble, we’ll find it. And then…” He left it hanging. “You trying to scare me, old man? I could—” “Go on then, call for help. But I’ve got connections—real ones. Prison’s full of mates who owe me favours.” Another lie, but Val’s steel convinced them. “Name’s Valentine—Val Afghan, they call me. Don’t touch the kids again.” Val turned and walked away. Rusty trotted at his side, tail held like a flag. Silence followed them down the street. Three days passed. Sean and his crew were nowhere to be seen. Val truly did patrol the streets daily. Rusty kept close—proud and serious. Andy was discharged a week later, limping but on the mend. He visited that day. “Mr Valentine—can I help with your rounds?” he asked. “I could be your deputy.” “Talk to your mum first, Andy. But I’d be honoured.” Mrs Mason agreed. She was only glad her son had someone to look up to. So every evening, neighbours spotted a curious team—a grandad in uniform, a boy, and a scruffy old ginger dog. Rusty became beloved, even by mums who’d normally shoo away strays. There was something special—noble—about him. Val told the kids tales of the army, of loyalty, of courage. They listened wide-eyed. One night, as they walked home, Andy asked: “Were you ever scared, Mr Valentine?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Rusty. “When I’m grown-up, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog just like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Absolutely.” Rusty’s tail wagged. Everyone in the area knew him now. “That’s Valentine’s dog. He can spot a hero from a scoundrel,” they said. And Rusty wore the role with pride—no longer just a mongrel, but a defender.