A Meeting with Kin
In his mother’s final days of illness, Stephen moved into her flat. He and his wife lived on the outskirts of the city in their two-storey house, having raised a daughter and a son, both now in their fifties with children of their own.
Stephen had little to complain about in life. His parents had been kind, and as their only son, he had been cherished. His wife, Eleanor, was a calm and loving woman. Their son had married and lived with his wife and daughter in the family home—there was room enough for all.
“Ellie, we’ll build a big house,” he had told her years ago when they first planned it. “I hope Michael stays with us even after he weds. Our girl will fly the nest soon enough—that’s the way of lasses, isn’t it?”
And so, he built it: a grand two-storey home with a cellar, set in a garden that flourished under Eleanor’s care. She had a green thumb, and in summer, the courtyard was thick with the scent of blooming flowers.
It came to pass as he had foreseen. Their daughter, Margaret, finished college, married, and moved to her husband’s hometown. But their son remained with them.
Stephen’s mother, Edith, had been unwell. After losing her husband, she never recovered her spirits. Day by day, she weakened, until one evening she spoke to her son in a voice thin with exhaustion.
“Stephen, my dear, you’ll have to stay with me awhile. I shan’t be long for this world—your father’s waiting for me, I think. I can’t even rise from bed now—look how low I’ve sunk.” Tears slipped down her withered cheeks.
“Mum, don’t weep. Of course I won’t leave you alone here,” he promised. “I can see it myself—you can’t even hold a teacup steady.” So he set aside his affairs and moved in with her.
Edith was eighty-seven, and sensing the end near, she called Stephen to her bedside. He sat on the chair beside her, the dutiful son, determined to see her off with dignity. He brought her medicine, though it did little good, summoned the doctor, fed her spoonful by spoonful.
“Stephen,” she whispered, pausing to gather breath, “I feel it won’t be long now. But before I go, there’s a family secret your father and I kept all these years. We agreed—whoever left this world last would tell you.”
She wiped the sweat from her brow with trembling hands, falling silent a moment before pressing on.
“It will come as a shock, but don’t hold it against us. I can’t take this to my grave. Oh, my boy, how to say it… Stephen, love, you’re not our blood.”
She saw the confusion on his face and hurried on.
“Of course you’re our son—dearer to us than any. You know we’ve always loved you. We spoiled you, gave you all we could. Put you through university, helped you build your home, settle down. You’re our beloved boy, make no mistake. But—”
The room was silent, a heavy quiet. Stephen sat stunned, while Edith rested, the confession having drained her.
“Mum, how can that be?” he managed, but she motioned for him to wait.
With effort, she continued.
“We took you in from a village where your father was born. After we wed, we couldn’t have children, and the doctors gave us no hope. Next to his parents’ cottage lived a poor family—four children. You were the youngest, sickly and thin. So your father spoke to them. Promised we’d care for you, raise you well. They gave you up gladly—your own mother said, ‘Take him, he’s just another mouth to feed, and he’ll not live long besides.'”
Edith and her husband had been surprised by their eagerness. In those days, papers were easily altered. They spoke to the village headman, and it was done. They moved away soon after, settling in another county where no one knew them—or Stephen’s past.
“Your father’s parents are long gone, but your brothers and sister—they may still be out there. Perhaps you’ll find them, reconnect. We wronged you, keeping you apart. Or perhaps we saved you. You were so frail—we nursed you through hospitals, and look at you now. Forgive us, Stephen.”
Tears wet her cheeks, and he wiped them away.
“Don’t cry, Mum. You’re my mother, the only one I’ve ever known. I’m grateful to you and Dad. I wouldn’t have had my life any other way.”
Still, the revelation weighed on him. He stayed by her side until she passed, just two nights later, and buried her beside his father. When he told Eleanor, she took it in stride.
“These things happen, Stephen. Be thankful they raised you well. Life goes on.”
But he couldn’t shake the thought: *Somewhere, my kin still live. Do they look like me? Do they remember me?*
“Ellie,” he said at breakfast one morning, “I think I’ll go to the village—see where I came from, meet my blood. Mum told me the name. It’s been troubling me.”
“If it’s what you need, love, go. Otherwise, it’ll prey on your mind.”
So he went. The village was small—no more than seventy cottages, some abandoned, some well-kept. Asking locals, he found the house where he’d been born: a humble dwelling with two windows facing the lane. His heart pounded as he pushed open the creaking gate.
No dog barked. He followed the narrow path to the door, knocked, but no one came. Tentatively, he stepped inside.
“Hello?”
A scruffy face peered from the adjoining room.
“Who’s askin’?”
“I’m looking for John Thatcher. My brother.”
The man squinted. “I’m John Thatcher. What brother?”
Stephen explained—how he’d been given to neighbours as a child.
“Little Stevie? I was too young to remember you. Though I think Mum mentioned it once. Sit down.” He gestured to the sofa before slumping onto a stool.
“Had a bit too much last night—head’s poundin’. Say, you wouldn’t have a fiver for a pint, would you? Shop’s just ’round the corner.”
Wordless, Stephen handed him a note. John’s face brightened, and he was back in minutes. Without waiting, he cleared a space on the cluttered table and poured two glasses.
“Come on, brother—to reunion.”
“I don’t drink,” Stephen said.
“Suit yourself.” John knocked his back and cheerily refilled it. “Don’t recall you at all. You came after me, and they took you when you were still crawling. We had our own lives—you were never part of ’em.”
The bottle was near empty when he slurred, “Our older brother, Paul—gone now. Drank himself to death. Pity, that. And Mum and Dad are long buried.”
Then, drunkenly inspired, he lurched up. “Wait—our sister, Val! She might remember you. Let’s go—just down the lane.”
Valentine didn’t answer at first, grumbling through the door before finally opening it. Her yard was overgrown, her shed half-collapsed.
“Val, it’s me—John! Brought our brother!”
As they entered, John muttered, “Dunno if she’ll know you. Fell off a lorry years back—hit her head. Not right since.”
She didn’t recognize him. “Stephen? Never had a brother by that name.” Then she launched into grievances—her aching legs, scattered chickens, absent children. John and Stephen exchanged glances.
“Let’s go,” John muttered. “No sense here.”
Three cottages down, John veered into another yard.
“My boy, Nick, lives here. Place is too cramped for me, but he’s got space.”
Nick was tinkering with a car. At the sight of his swaying father, he scowled.
“Drunk again? Get out of my sight!”
John fled. Stephen introduced himself, and after a long pause, Nick shrugged.
“Right. Let me wash up. I’ll drive you to town—need to head there anyway.”
In the car, Nick spoke bitterly. “Father’s a drunk. Mum couldn’t take it—passed off years ago.”
That evening, Stephen returned home. Eleanor asked no questions—his face said enough. He ate in silence, then went straight to bed, exhausted.
*So that’s my blood. My kin. Well, I’ve seen them now.* The thought was bleak, but it settled something in him.
“Let them be. Let them live as they will.”
And with that, he slept.
