Reunion with Kin
Stephen moved into his mother’s flat when she fell ill. He and his wife lived on the outskirts of town in their two-storey house. They’d raised a daughter and a son, both now in their fifties, with two grandchildren of their own.
Stephen never complained about his life. His parents were good to him—he was their only son, cherished and doted on. He’d been lucky with his wife, Helen—steady and loving. Their son had married and lived with his wife and daughter under their roof, where there was space enough for all.
“Love, we’ll build a big house,” he’d told Helen when they first planned it. “Hope young Michael stays even after he weds. The girl’s bound to fly the nest—that’s lasses for you.”
He built a large two-storey home with a cellar. The garden flourished with everything under the sun—Helen was a fine homemaker who loved digging in the rich soil, planting whatever took her fancy. Flowers were her passion, and in summer, the yard was alive with their scent.
And so it went. Their daughter finished college, married, and left for her husband’s hometown. Their son stayed.
Margaret, Stephen’s mother, had been ill. After her husband’s passing, she never quite recovered, growing weaker by the day until she told her son:
“Stevie, you’ll need to stay with me awhile. I won’t linger long—your father’s waiting. Can’t even get up now, look at the state of me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Mum, don’t cry. Of course I’ll stay. You can’t even hold a cup proper.” So he dropped everything and moved in.
At eighty-seven, sensing the end near, she called him to her bedside. A dutiful son, Stephen cared for her—gave her medicine though it did little, called the doctor, spoon-fed her.
“Stevie,” she whispered, breath frail, “soon you’ll see me off. But first, there’s a secret your father and I kept our whole lives. We agreed—whoever went last would tell you.”
She wiped sweat from her brow, pausing, winded. Then she went on:
“It’ll shock you, but don’t hold it against us. I can’t take this to my grave. How to say it… Stevie, you’re not our own.”
Seeing his confusion, she pressed on:
“You’re our son in every way that matters. We loved you—you know that. Gave you everything, spoiled you rotten. Put you through uni, helped build your home, saw you wed. You’re ours, no question. But—”
The room fell dead silent. Stephen was reeling; Margaret gathered strength.
“Mum, how?” he managed.
She motioned for patience, then continued:
“We took you from your father’s village. After we wed, no children came—doctors gave us no hope. Next door to his parents lived a family with four kids. You were the youngest, sickly, thin. They were poor as church mice. So your father struck a deal—they’d let us raise you as ours. Promised you’d want for nothing.”
She and her husband were stunned when the neighbours handed the boy over gladly.
“Take him—just another mouth to feed, always ill. Won’t last long anyhow,” his birth mother had said.
They took him, made him theirs. Papers were easily changed then—a word with the council chairman, and it was done. At first they lived nearby, then moved far off where none knew them, nor Stephen’s roots.
“Your father’s parents are long gone. But your siblings—they’d be alive, likely still there. Maybe you’ll find them. We wronged you, Stevie, taking you from them… or maybe we saved you. You were so frail—we nursed you proper. Look at you now. Forgive us.”
Tears streaked her wrinkled face. He wiped them gently.
“Don’t cry, Mum. You’re my only mother. I’m grateful to you and Dad. I wouldn’t change a thing. Truth be told, it’s better you took me.”
He listened, stunned, then lay awake all night turning it over.
“How am I not theirs? No one’s ever been dearer. But blood or not, they’ll always be my parents.”
Two days later, Margaret slipped away peacefully in the night. Stephen and Helen buried her beside his father. When he told Helen the truth, she wasn’t surprised.
“Life’s full of twists, Steve. Bless your folks—they raised you right. We carry on,” she said.
But Stephen couldn’t shake it.
“My kin are out there somewhere. Do they look like me? Remember me? Miss me? Blood’s blood.”
At breakfast, he said, “Helen… maybe I should go to where I’m from. Meet them. Mum mentioned the village… It’s weighing on me.”
“Love, if you need to, go. Else it’ll always haunt you.”
So he went. The village was small—maybe seventy houses, some abandoned, others well kept. Asking around, he found his birthplace: a little two-window cottage. Heart pounding, he pushed open the creaky gate. No dog barked. He knocked—no answer. Stepping inside, he called out.
A scruffy-faced man peered from a room.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m looking for John Barley—my brother.”
The man blinked. “That’s me. What brother?”
Stephen explained briefly.
“Stevie, eh? I was just a nipper—don’t recall you. Heard Mum talk of it once. Sit down.” He gestured to the sofa, taking a stool himself.
“Had a skinful yesterday—head’s killing me. Brother, any chance of a few quid? Just for a quick nip—shop’s close.”
Stephen handed him a tenner. John’s face lit up. He was back in minutes.
Pushing aside dirty dishes, John poured vodka. “To meeting you.”
Stephen declined. “Don’t drink.”
“Suit yourself.” John knocked it back, cheerier at once. “Don’t remember you, truth be told. You came right after me. They took you when you were barely crawling. We lived our lives—you were gone. Forgot about you, really.”
He drank steadily, growing bleary.
“Our older brother Pete—gone now. Burnt up in his shed, thanks to this stuff.” He tapped the bottle. “Shame. Could’ve lived years yet. Parents are long gone too.”
Finishing the bottle, he slurred, “Wait—our sis Val might recall you. Let’s try hers—just down the way. Good thinking, eh?” He swayed upright.
Val didn’t answer at first. “Who’s banging at this hour?”
John called, “Val, it’s me—brought our brother!”
As she fumbled with the lock, he muttered, “Doubt she’ll know you. Fell off a lorry years back—hit her head. Not right since.”
She didn’t recognise him. “Stevie? No Stevies in our lot.” Then she launched into woes: “Legs ache, chickens fled, kids never visit…”
John nudged Stephen. “Let’s go. No sense here.”
Three houses down, John veered into another yard. “My lad Nick lives here—place is cramped at mine. He’s got space.”
Nick was tinkering with a car. Seeing his drunk father, he snapped, “Pissed again? Get out of my sight!”
John bolted. Stephen explained himself. Nick studied him, then said, “Right. Just let me wash up—I’ll run you to town. Need to head there anyway.”
In the car, Nick said his dad was a hopeless drunk, his mum dead from the strain.
Late that night, Stephen was home. Helen asked nothing—his face said it all. He ate silently, then slept fitfully, the day replaying in his mind.
“So much for blood. So much for home. Well—let them be. I’ve seen enough.” And with that, he drifted off.
