A Visit to One’s Roots
When his mother fell ill, Stephen moved into her flat for a time. He and his wife lived in their own two-storey house on the outskirts of town, where they had raised their daughter and son, both now in their fifties, with two grandchildren of their own.
Stephen had no complaints about his lot in life. His parents had been good to him—their only son, doted upon and cherished. He counted himself fortunate to have married Margaret, a calm and loving woman. Their son had married and still lived with them, along with his wife and little girl. There was space enough for everyone.
“Maggie, we’ll build a big house,” he’d told her when they first planned it. “Maybe Michael will stay with us, even after he weds. The girl will likely fly the nest—that’s just how daughters are.”
And so he built it—a grand two-storey home with a cellar. The garden flourished with all manner of plants, for Margaret had a green thumb and loved tending the rich soil. Flowers were her passion, and in summer, the yard was alive with their fragrance.
It happened just as he’d thought. Their daughter finished college, married, and moved to her husband’s homeland. Their son remained.
Stephen’s mother, Clara, had taken ill. After her husband’s passing, she never quite recovered, growing weaker by the day. One evening, she turned to him and said, “Stephen, my boy, you’ll have to stay with me awhile. I shan’t be long for this world—your father’s waiting. I can scarcely rise from bed now.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Mum,” he promised. “I won’t leave you alone here—I can see you can’t even hold a teacup steady.” So he set aside his affairs and moved in.
Clara was eighty-seven and, sensing the end near, called him to her bedside. Stephen sat beside her. He had always been a dutiful son, determined to see her off with dignity. He gave her medicine—though it did little—called the doctor, spoon-fed her broth.
“Stephen,” she whispered, voice frail, “I know you’ll soon be laying me to rest. I must tell you our family secret—something your father and I swore to keep until the last of us passed.” She paused, wiping sweat from her brow. “You’ll be shocked, but don’t hold it against us. I can’t take this to my grave.” Another breath. “Stephen… you weren’t born to us.”
His face went slack with disbelief.
“You *are* our son,” she pressed. “Dearer than any blood. You know we’ve loved you—gave you everything. You were our treasure. We spoiled you, saw you educated, helped build your home, saw you wed. You are our own, without question. But…”
The flat was silent, the air thick. Stephen struggled to grasp her words while Clara rested, spent.
“Mum… how?” he managed.
She motioned for patience and, mustering strength, continued: “We took you in from the village where your father was born. After we married, we had no children of our own—doctors gave us little hope. Next to his parents’ house lived a large family, poor as church mice, with four children. You were the youngest, sickly and slight. Your father spoke to them, offered to raise you. Promised you’d want for nothing.”
It stunned her and her husband how readily they agreed.
“Take him,” your mother had said. “He’s just another mouth, always ailing—won’t last long anyway.”
So they took the boy, made him theirs. In those days, papers were easily altered. A word with the village council, and it was done. They moved away, first to another village, then to a distant town where no one knew them—or Stephen’s past.
“Your father’s parents are long gone,” Clara murmured. “But your brothers and sister may still live there. Perhaps you’ll seek them, mend those ties. We wronged you, separating you… or perhaps we saved you. You were so frail—we nursed you through illness, and look how strong you grew. Forgive us, Stephen.”
Tears traced her wrinkled cheeks. He wiped them gently.
“Don’t cry. You *are* my mother. I’m grateful—to you and Dad. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Two days later, Clara passed quietly in the night. Stephen and Margaret buried her beside his father. When he confided the secret to Margaret, she merely nodded.
“Life takes such turns,” she said. “Thank God they raised you right. We’ll carry on.”
But the news gnawed at Stephen.
“Somewhere, my kin still live. Do they look like me? Remember me? Miss me?” He sighed. “Blood calls to blood.”
One morning over breakfast, he said, “Maggie… I think I’ll go there—see where I came from. Mother told me the village. I need to know.”
“If you must,” she replied. “Better than wondering forever.”
So he went.
The village was small—perhaps seventy homes, some empty, some well-kept. Asking passersby, he found the house where he was born. A humble dwelling, two windows facing the lane. Heart pounding, he pushed open the creaking gate. No dog barked. He followed a narrow path to the door, knocked, waited. No answer.
He stepped inside. Silence.
“Hello?”
A grizzled face peered from the next room. “Who’re you?”
“I’m looking for John Miller—my brother.”
“That’s me. What brother?” The man squinted.
Stephen explained—briefly—how neighbors had raised him.
“Stephen, eh? I was just a lad—don’t recall you.” John scratched his head. “Though Mum might’ve mentioned it. Sit.” He gestured to the couch, took a stool. “Had a drop too much last night. Say… you wouldn’t spare a few quid? Just for a nip—shop’s close.”
Stephen handed him a fiver. John brightened, dashed out, returned with a bottle. Clearing grimy plates, he poured.
“To meeting you,” he said, raising his glass.
“None for me,” Stephen said.
“Suit yourself.” John downed it, mood lifting. “Don’t remember you at all. You came right after me—they took you when you were still crawling. We lived our lives, you lived yours. Forgot all about you.”
The bottle dwindled. John’s speech slurred.
“Our eldest, Paul—gone. Burned up in the pub, drink did it.” He hiccuped. “Parents, too—long gone.”
Finishing the bottle, he brightened. “Hey—our sister, Val. She might remember. Let’s go.” He swayed upright.
Val didn’t answer at first. “Who’s there?” she called through the door.
“It’s John,” he said. “Brought our brother.”
Her yard was sparse, just a crumbling shed. She squinted at Stephen.
“Fell off a wagon once,” John muttered. “Never right after.”
“Stephen?” Val frowned. “Never had no Stephen in our family.” She launched into woes—aching legs, lost chickens, children who never visited.
John nudged Stephen. “Let’s go. Waste of time.”
Three houses down, John stopped. “My boy Nick lives here. Place is big—you can stay.”
Nick, tinkering with a car, scowled at his swaying father. “Drunk again? Clear off!”
John fled. Stephen explained himself. Nick studied him, then shrugged.
“Right. I’ll wash up, drive you to town. Need to head that way.”
On the road, Nick spoke plainly. “Dad’s a sot. Mum couldn’t take it—died of it.”
Late that night, Stephen returned home. Margaret asked no questions—his face said enough. He ate little, went straight to bed, exhausted.
“So that’s my blood,” he thought, drifting off. “My roots. Well… let them be. I’ve seen enough.” And with that, he slept.
