The Day a Stranger Brought News to My Door: How My Late Husband’s Secret Red-Haired Son Changed Our Family Forever

Author Wanda MirandaReading 9 minViews 4

It’s not my son, you know. It’s my neighbours, Kate. Your husband used to call in to hers often enough, and now shes had his child. You can see for yourself the boy is as ginger-haired and freckled as his father, no need for any tests.
And what do you want from me? My husband passed not long ago. Ive no idea what he got up to…
Well, Kates gone now as well.

Antonia was weeding the vegetable patch when she heard someone calling from the front gate. She wiped her brow and went to see. Standing outside was a woman she didnt recognise.

Hello, Antonia. Mind if I come in? We need to talk.

Well, if youve come all this way, step inside.

Antonia invited the woman inside and put the kettle on. She wondered what this was about.

Im Nina. Weve not met, but folk around here talk. Ill get straight to the point… your late husband had a son, Michael. Hes three.

Antonia glanced in surprise at the visitor. She was far too old to be the mother.

Not my son, Antonia. Kate next doors. Your husband popped round there plenty, and Kate ended up pregnant. The boys a spit of him ginger, freckly, you’d know at a glance.

So whats this got to do with me? My husbands gone, and I dont know who he mixed with.

Well, Kate has died too… pneumonia, started as a cough, and she didnt see a doctor. Now the poor boys an orphan.

Kate had no family round here, shed come from somewhere up north, working in the village shop…

Poor little lad, and with no one left, hes bound for a childrens home.

But I have my own children two daughters, born in wedlock, for the record! And youve the nerve to ask me to take that child in the stray your husband fathered.

Hes your girls brother, blood all the same. And hes a good lad, gentle-hearted. Hes at hospital now theyre sorting the paperwork.

Dont try for my sympathy. Who knows how many more my husband left behind. Am I supposed to take them all in?

Think it over, Antonia. Im just here to let you know.

Nina left. Antonia poured herself tea and sat, mulling over what shed heard.

***

Antonia first met George just after graduating. She and her friends were celebrating at the pub when a group of lads came over. George stood out with his bright ginger hair and a face full of freckles. He was lively, cheeky, reciting poems, telling jokes offered to walk her home.

Soon enough they were married.

They moved into her grans old house shed passed away and left it to them. First came Val, then two years later, Eleanor. Life was modest, money always ran short.

Then George turned to drink. No matter how Antonia tried, he wouldnt stop. Hed disappear for days at a time. Lost his job, of course. Antonia took on two jobs to make ends meet.

Eventually, she decided on divorce.

She planned to move to the city with the girls her aunt had begged them to come, thered be work, they wouldnt starve.

But then George, drunk, wandered in front of a car. Didnt make it.

Antonia wept at his grave, mourning his foolishness. The girls wept as well he was their dad, after all…

And now it turned out hed fathered a child elsewhere as well.

Antonias elder daughter, Val, came in. Tall, slim, her mothers frame and her fathers ginger hair.

Mum, anything to eat? Off to the pictures with the girls, starved! Whyre you looking glum?

Oh, just mulling something over. Seems your dads got a little boy somewhere three years old. The mothers dead too, and now hes set for the childrens home. Someones suggested we could take him.

Flipping heck. Thats something. You know who the mother was?

No. Kate, apparently. Not from these parts…

So what are you thinking? Wheres the boy now? No relatives at all?

Apparently not. Hes at hospital. Theyre preparing him for the home… Ginger, just like your dad. Here, eat some boiled potatoes with sausages.

Val tucked into her meal. Eleanor soon joined her too. Antonia looked at her daughters, both sporting their fathers coppery hair… funny, just how strong those genes could be.

The next day Val announced:

Mum, Eleanor and I went to see our brother at the hospital. Hes adorable! A proper little bruiser. Looks loads like us little ginger ray of sunshine… He cries, though, misses his mum…

We took him an apple and an orange. He stands in his cot, arms out… The nurse let us play with him for a bit. Mum… lets bring him home. Hes our brother after all.

Antonia grew cross.

You cant just say that! Your fathers trouble is not mine to mop up. Ive enough on my plate. Easy for you to say just bring him home…

People take in other peoples children, mum, and hes ours by blood. Hes not to blame for what happened. You always said yourself, children shouldnt pay for the sins of their parents.

And how do you think I can feed another mouth? I work flat out as it is sell vegetables from the allotment to keep us afloat, and you want to stick me with another one.

Next year, youll both need money for college, and ever more expenses…

If you take him in officially, theres some help from the council, you know… Mum, youre kind dont you feel for the poor little lad? Dad made mistakes, we all know it, but hes still our brother…

Antonia was angry at George, and her daughter. Well, easy for Val to say!

But she decided shed have a look at the boy. The next day she set off to the hospital.

Excuse me, could you tell me where Michael is? Three years old, soon to be taken to the childrens home, she asked the nurse.

And you are…?

Id like to see him. Hes my late husbands child, from another woman. Its… complicated.

Look, if you must. Your daughters were here yesterday, played with him strictly against the rules, but I let them. Poor thing wailed afterwards, wanted his mummy.

I just want a look, I wont pick him up.

All right, but make it quick.

Antonia opened the door and stopped in her tracks. Little George his fathers image.

Ginger curls, blue eyes. Handsome young lad. He sat in his cot, playing with bricks. Seeing her, he smiled.

Auntie… wheres my mummy?

Shes gone, Michael…

I want to go home…

And he began to cry, bitterly. Something in Antonias heart twisted. She stepped to the cot and lifted him into her arms.

Lady, youll go and leave me with the howling put him back at once! scolded the nurse.

Michael, dont cry, darling…

Antonia stroked his hair, wiped his face.

Take me… Im hungry, and theres no one to cuddle…

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

Back home, Antonia knew what shed do. All the anger melted away when she saw that lost, helpless little soul who looked so like her own girls…

*
Fifteen years passed.

Time for Michael to head to university in the city. Her boy, all grown up… How the years had flown by.

Do ring often, love, and visit when you can. My hearts in my mouth, times being what they are.

I will, Mum! I promise I wont let you down. Two years will fly by and Ill have my certificate. Then Ill get work Alex Smiths uncle runs a good garage, says the pays decent, and you know Im handy with cars. Ill have my mechanics diploma soon.

My clever lad, Antonia said, running her hand through his ginger, unruly curls…

Lifes a winding path through the woods it can lead you somewhere youd never expect.

Antonia had thought fate had handed her another trial, another burden, another wound from betrayal.

But in the sharp thicket of resentment, there’d been a fragile bud a boy, blameless but for his arrival in this world.

Sometimes the heart sees what the eyes miss.

Hers recognised not just a strangers blood, but a lonely spirit longing for warmth.

It heard not a strangers child, but a quiet plea: Mum.

And, against reason, exhaustion, and fear, she reached out her hands.

The years proved this: kindness is not a sacrifice, but a gift. Michael didnt become another burden he was the one bringing water for the garden, the one who made his sisters laugh on hard days. And as he grew, hed say, Thank you, Mum, and in those words, the whole world seemed to be contained.

Sometimes, opening your heart to another not only changes their life it saves your own.

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.