**A Family Reunion**
Stephen moved in with his mother during her illness. He and his wife, Eleanor, lived on the outskirts of Cambridge in their two-storey home. They had 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 had been good to him—their only son, dearly loved and cherished. Eleanor was a blessing, gentle and devoted. Their son, Michael, had married and lived with his wife and daughter under their roof. There was space enough for everyone.
*”Ellie, we’ll build a big house—hope Michael stays with us, even after he’s married,”* he’d told her when they first planned it. *”Our daughter will likely fly the nest—that’s girls for you.”*
He built a grand two-storey house with a cellar. Their garden was rich with life—fruit trees, vegetables, flowers. Eleanor loved tending to it, her hands always in the earth. In summer, the scent of blossoms filled the air.
And so it was. Their daughter graduated from university, married, and moved to her husband’s hometown. Michael stayed.
Margaret—Stephen’s mother—had been unwell. After her husband’s death, she withered by the day until finally, she called her son to her side.
*”Stephen, I’ll need you to stay with me,”* she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. *”I won’t be here much longer. Your father’s waiting. I can’t even lift a cup—look at me now.”*
*”Mum, don’t cry,”* he promised, taking her frail hand. *”Of course I won’t leave you alone.”*
Margaret was eighty-seven. Sensing the end, she summoned him again. He sat beside her bed—a dutiful son, determined to see her off with dignity. He gave her medicine (though it hardly helped), called doctors, fed her by the spoon.
*”Stephen, my time’s near,”* she breathed, weak between words. *”Son, there’s something—a secret your father and I kept all our lives. We agreed—the last of us would tell you.”*
She wiped sweat from her brow, pausing for breath.
*”It’ll shock you, but don’t be angry. I can’t take this to my grave.”* Her voice was thin. *”Stephen… you’re not ours by blood.”*
His face froze. She pressed on:
*”You *are* our son—more than any child could be. We loved you, gave you everything. You were our treasure. We spoiled you, sent you to university, built you this home, saw you married. You *are* our son. But…”*
Silence rang in the room. Stephen reeled; Margaret rested, her confession heavy.
*”Mum… how?”*
She motioned for patience. Gathering strength, she whispered:
*”You came from your father’s old village. After we married, we couldn’t have children—doctors gave us no hope. Next to his parents’ cottage lived a poor family—four children. You were the youngest, sickly, weak. They could barely feed you. So your father made a deal—they’d let us raise you. We promised you’d want for nothing.”*
Margaret hesitated, recalling the mother’s cold words: *”Take him—he’s always ill, won’t live long anyway.”*
They took the boy, changing his papers with the local council’s help. Later, they moved far away—no one would know he wasn’t theirs.
*”Your father’s parents are gone, but your siblings… they may still be there. We wronged you, separating you—or maybe we saved you. You were so frail. We nursed you to health. Forgive us, Stephen.”*
Her tears fell; he wiped them away.
*”Don’t cry, Mum. You’re my only family. I’d never want a different life.”*
The truth settled over him like a weight. That night, he lay awake, thoughts churning.
*”Not their son? But no one in this world is dearer to me. Still… blood kin out there.”*
Margaret passed two days later. Stephen buried her beside his father. When he told Eleanor, she wasn’t surprised.
*”Life’s full of surprises,”* she said softly. *”But your parents raised you well. We move forward.”*
Yet the thought gnawed at him.
*”My real family… do they look like me? Do they wonder about me?”*
At breakfast, he finally spoke:
*”Ellie… I need to go back. Find them.”*
She nodded. *”If it’ll ease your mind, go.”*
Stephen left. The village was small—maybe seventy cottages, some crumbling. Asking around, he found the house where he was born.
A shabby place with two grimy windows. He pushed open the rusted gate, walked the cracked path, and knocked. No answer.
Inside, the air was stale. *”Hello?”*
A rough voice called out. A bearded man peered from a doorway. *”Who’re you?”*
*”Are you John Smith? My brother.”*
The man squinted. *”I’m John, aye. But what brother?”*
Stephen explained. John scratched his head. *”Oh—little Stevie? I barely remember. Sit down.”* He gestured to a battered sofa.
*”Got a fiver for a pint? Just one—shop’s close.”*
Stephen handed him a tenner. John brightened, returning with whisky. He pushed aside dirty plates, pouring two glasses.
*”Go on, drink to family.”*
*”No, thanks. You go ahead.”*
John shrugged, downing his quickly. *”Dunno much. You were a baby when they took you. Never thought of you, really.”*
He refilled his glass. *”Our eldest, Paul—dead. Drank himself to it. Parents gone too.”*
As the bottle emptied, John brightened. *”Hey—maybe Val remembers you. Lives nearby.”*
They walked to a crooked cottage. A woman shouted from within before opening the door. *”Who’s this then?”*
*”Val, it’s me. Brought our brother.”*
Val’s eyes were vacant. *”What brother? Never had one.”*
John nudged Stephen. *”Hit her head years back. Talks nonsense.”*
She rambled about pain, runaway chickens, ungrateful children. Stephen and John exchanged glances before leaving.
*”My lad Nick lives down here,”* John muttered. *”He’ll put you up.”*
Nick was under a car hood. Seeing his father drunk, he snapped: *”Piss off, old man!”*
John fled. Stephen introduced himself. Nick studied him, then sighed.
*”Right. I’ll take you to the station.”*
On the way, Nick confessed: *”Dad’s always drunk. Mum died of it.”*
That evening, Stephen returned home. Eleanor read his face and asked no questions. He ate silently, then went to bed, the day replaying in his mind.
*”So that’s my blood. My roots. And not one of them cared I existed. Fine—let them be. At least I know.”*
With that, he closed his eyes.
