**The Ginger Sprout of Love**
Tanya knelt in the garden, yanking weeds between the vegetable patches when she heard a voice at the gate. She wiped sweat from her brow, straightened her back, and stepped into the yard. There, by the fence, stood a stranger—a woman in her forties.
“Tanya, hello. We need to talk,” the woman said firmly.
“Hello… Come in, since you’re here,” Tanya replied flatly, letting her inside.
While the kettle boiled, Tanya studied the woman from the corner of her eye. Her face was worn, eyes squinting from years in the sun. Whatever she wanted, it wasn’t small talk.
“My name is Nina. We’ve never met, but I’ve heard about you. I’ll cut to the chase… Your late husband had a son. A little boy, three years old. His name’s Michael.”
Tanya froze, her grip tightening around her mug. The woman seemed too old to be the mother.
“Not mine,” Nina clarified, catching Tanya’s look. “My neighbour, Katie. Your Jack used to visit her… Well, you know how it goes. The boy’s ginger, freckled—spitting image of your husband. No DNA test needed. But… Katie’s gone. Pneumonia. Left the boy an orphan.”
Tanya said nothing, her knuckles whitening.
“Katie had no family. Worked at a corner shop, rented a room. If no one steps up, they’ll put him in care. You’re Jack’s wife—you’ve got two girls. By blood, the boy’s their brother.”
“And what’s that to me? I’ve got my own to raise! You expect me to take in some stranger’s child? After what he did?” Tanya’s voice shook. “You take him, if you’re so bloody generous.”
“Just telling you the facts. The boy’s sweet-natured, gentle… He’s at the hospital now, paperwork’s being done. Clock’s ticking.” With that, Nina stood and left.
Tanya sat alone, tea untouched, the past crashing over her.
She’d met Jack fresh out of university. Ginger, quick to laugh, always with a stupid joke or a bad poem. They married within a year, moved into his nan’s old house. First came Sophie, then Alice. Money was tight, but they made it work. Until Jack started drinking. Vanishing for days, lying, losing jobs. She worked herself ragged, thought of leaving. Then—he died. Drunk, stumbling into traffic.
They’d all wept. Even little Alice. And now, it turned out, Jack had a son…
The front door burst open. Sophie stormed in.
“Mum, why the long face? We’re going to the pictures—I’m starving!”
Silently, Tanya slid a plate of boiled potatoes and bangers onto the table.
“Did you know you have a brother?”
“…What?” Sophie froze.
“Your father’s son. Three years old. His mother died. They’re sending him to foster care. That’s it.”
Next morning, Sophie cornered her in the kitchen.
“Mum, me and Alice went to the hospital. We saw Michael. He… looks like us. Ginger, chubby cheeks. Stood in his cot reaching out. We gave him an apple, an orange. He cried, kept calling for his mum…”
“What were you thinking?!” Tanya snapped. “I’m breaking my back, you’re in school, we’re skint—and you want another mouth to feed?”
“You always say kids aren’t to blame. He didn’t ask to be born—he’s ours. Our blood. Not his fault Dad was a cheating git!”
“There’s no money!” Tanya shouted. “Alice needs tutoring, you’re off to college—how?”
“If we foster him, we’d get support. Just… look at him, Mum. Just once.”
Tanya caved on the third day. At the hospital, the nurse eyed her.
“Michael, is it? Three years old. They’re moving him soon…”
“And you are?”
“His father’s wife. The dead one. I just… want to see him.”
“Your girls came yesterday. He’s been crying non-stop since. Go on, then.”
Tanya pushed the door open. And stopped.
In the cot sat a ginger-haired boy. Jack’s double. Blue eyes, unruly curls.
“Auntie…” he whispered. “Where’s my mummy?”
“She’s gone, sweetheart…”
His sobs shattered her. She lifted him, cradling his head, something inside her snapping.
“Take me home… I’m hungry… I wanna go home…”
The next day, Tanya gathered the papers. Left work early, signed the forms. Filed the application.
Fifteen years later…
“Mum, stop worrying. I’ll be fine. Listen to my CO, write every week. A year’s nothing. Then I’ll get that garage job with Dave’s uncle—you know I’m good with cars.”
“My little mechanic…” Tanya ruffled his ginger curls, still refusing to behave.
He wasn’t little anymore. Tall, broad—her son.
She pulled him into a tight hug, chest aching.
“Remember, Mikey… Don’t be afraid to follow your heart. Like I did. Life’s not always about the numbers.”
The boy who came with pain had become her purpose. Love that survived betrayal doesn’t weaken. It purifies.
