**Diary Entry**
I never imagined my quiet days would be upended like this, but then a child walked into our home, turning everything on its head. He wasn’t meant to stay, yet I saw the bond forming. When the time came to let him go, I knew I had to act. Could I help him find his true family before it was too late?
Who’d have thought, at my age, I’d still stumble into trouble? You’d assume I’d have learned by now, but life has a way of catching you off guard.
Of course, like any self-respecting woman, I won’t tell you my age—but trust, I’ve lived long enough to sense when something’s amiss.
I live with my son, Oliver, and his wife, Beatrice. They insisted it was easier this way, though I often wondered if it was for my sake or theirs.
Oliver and Beatrice had no children. Not for lack of wanting—anyone with eyes could see they ached for a child. But something always held them back, some quiet fear they never voiced. I never pried. Some things people must work out alone.
Lately, though, I’d noticed the distance between them growing, like a crack in the foundation of a house. They still loved each other, that much was clear, but love isn’t always enough.
Then, one evening, Oliver and Beatrice stepped inside—but they weren’t alone.
Between them stood a boy, no older than ten, his small frame tense, his eyes darting about as if unsure he belonged.
“Mrs. Grace, meet Timothy. He’ll be staying with us,” Beatrice said, her voice softer than usual, almost careful.
Oliver rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, though the gesture did little to ease him.
Timothy barely looked at me. He gave a quick nod, lips pressed tight. Not a word.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Oliver said, leading him away.
I watched them vanish down the hall, my mind racing for an explanation. A child? Just like that?
For a wild moment, I even wondered if they’d stolen him. It wouldn’t be the first time those two landed themselves in a pickle. When they were younger, I kept a steady supply of chamomile tea just to survive their antics.
“Care to explain?” I asked Beatrice, folding my arms.
She glanced toward the hall, lowering her voice. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
We sat at the table, and after a deep breath, Beatrice told me everything. They’d met Timothy in the park. He’d run away from social services, and after reporting him, Beatrice had an idea—a bold one.
“He seemed a sweet boy,” she said, hands wrapped around her teacup. “We could foster him, just until he finds a permanent home. It’d be good for all of us.”
“Don’t you think this is wrong?” I pressed.
Beatrice tilted her head. “Wrong? How?”
“What if he grows attached?” I countered. “What if he starts seeing you as his parents? Then you send him off to strangers?”
She sighed. “He was already in care. He’d have gone to another family anyway. At least with us, he’s safe.”
“Safe for now,” I said. “But what happens when it’s time to let go?”
Beatrice hesitated. “Oliver felt the same. He didn’t want to do this, but I convinced him it was right.”
She had an answer for everything. I could argue, but the decision was made. Sometimes, you just let things unfold.
Timothy changed us in ways I never expected. We began spending time together—not just as people under one roof, but as a family.
Oliver, who once buried himself in work, now rushed home every evening. He wanted to be there—to help, to listen, to be present.
The distance between him and Beatrice faded. They laughed more. They spoke with warmth. They became the couple they’d been before life got in the way.
Beatrice blossomed as a mother. She gave Timothy all her attention, helping with schoolwork, ensuring he had everything. She no longer seemed lost. She had purpose.
I grew fond of the boy, too. He was curious, full of questions, always eager for my stories.
“What was Oliver like as a boy?” he’d ask, wide-eyed. I’d chuckle and tell him the truth—Oliver was trouble from the start.
I began to wonder if they’d adopt him. But it wasn’t my place to ask.
Then, one evening, Oliver walked in, his face grim. Something was wrong.
“What happened?” I asked as he set down his briefcase.
“A family’s been found for Timothy,” Oliver said. “They want to adopt him.”
Beatrice’s hands froze on the dish she was drying. She blinked, then forced a smile. “That’s wonderful. He’ll finally have a proper family.” Her voice wavered.
I looked between them. “You’re just going to let him go?”
Oliver rubbed his temples. “That was the plan. I was against this from the start. Beatrice convinced me. But it was always temporary. We don’t have time for a child right now.”
I folded my arms. “You’ve managed these past few months.”
“We had help,” Oliver said, glancing at me. “And even then, it was hard.”
I opened my mouth to argue—then heard it. Soft footsteps on the stairs. Timothy stood in the doorway, fists clenched.
“You’re lying,” I muttered. I looked at Oliver and Beatrice. “You need this boy as much as he needs you, if not more.”
Timothy’s face crumpled. He turned and bolted upstairs.
That night, I barely slept. The house was too quiet. Then, just before dawn—the creak of the front door.
I hurried outside. A small figure walked down the road, a backpack slung over his shoulders.
“And where do you think you’re going?” I called.
Timothy spun around. “Oh, Mrs. Grace! What are you doing here?”
I narrowed my eyes. “What are *you* doing here?”
“I want to find my real family,” he muttered. “If Oliver and Beatrice don’t want me, I’ll find someone who does. Social services must have records, but they won’t let me see.”
“And how do you plan to manage that?”
He shrugged.
I sighed. “Come on. I’ll help you.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
I nodded. “Everyone deserves a family.”
We arrived at the social services office. The building loomed, cold and unwelcoming. Timothy fidgeted.
“How will you get the records?” I whispered.
“Maybe you could distract the guard?” he said, hopeful yet unsure.
I sighed. “Fine. But be quick.”
We stepped inside. The air smelled of stale paper and disinfectant. Timothy gave me a look before darting toward the archives.
I squared my shoulders and knocked on the security door. A young guard answered.
“Yes?”
Time for the frail old lady act.
“Oh dear,” I said, clutching my chest. “I think I’m lost. My legs ache so. I was walking… and then I forgot where I was going.” My voice trembled.
The guard frowned. “Do you need to sit?”
“Oh, yes, dear, that’d be lovely,” I said, easing into a chair.
I peeked at the monitors. Timothy slipped out of the archives, giving me a thumbs-up.
I sprang up. “Oh, I feel much better now! I’ll be off.”
The guard eyed me suspiciously.
Timothy met me in the lobby. “Let’s go before he figures it out.”
We reached the exit—then heard it.
“Hey!” the guard called.
My heart raced. We were caught.
He marched over, holding out my handbag. “You forgot this.”
“Oh! Thank you, dear.”
We hurried to the street and hailed a cab. As we drove off, the guard pointed. “That boy stole from the archives!”
Timothy and I waved as we sped away.
Once safe, I turned to him. “Did you find your parents’ names?”
Timothy clutched the papers. “I haven’t looked yet,” he admitted.
I nodded. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”
At home, police cars lined the street.
Timothy paled. “They’re sending me away, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s find out.”
Before I could stop him, he ran.
“Beatrice! Oliver!” I shouted. They chased after him.
In the yard, Timothy hid the papers behind his back, trembling.
“Where were you?” Beatrice asked.
“We were worried sick,” Oliver said.
“I don’t want to go! I don’t want a new family!” Timothy cried.
Oliver frowned. “How do you know?”
“I overheard.”
Beatrice took Oliver’s hand. “After they told us about the new family, we realised something.”
Oliver nodded. “We want you to stay.”
Timothy’sTimothy’s face lit up, tears spilling as he dropped the papers and flung his arms around them, finally home.
