The Secret Second Family: A Drama in Lakeshire
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.” The voice on the phone was icy, sharp. The woman hung up before another word could be spoken.
My name is Emily, and my husband is James. We lived in Lakeshire, and by all appearances, we were happy. We had two daughters, whom James adored—his little princesses, he called them, spoiling them so much they loved him more than me. I was devoted to him, and I believed he felt the same. But in recent months, he had grown tense, snapping at the girls, his temper shortening by the day.
I couldn’t fathom why. When I asked, he brushed me off.
“Work’s been hell, Em. Don’t worry about it.”
It didn’t ease my mind. The tension thickened until I resolved to confront him properly. Then the phone rang. A stranger’s voice delivered the blow:
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Tommy.”
The line went dead. My hands trembled. The floor seemed to vanish beneath me. James? Cheating? A second family? It couldn’t be. The hours until he returned from work were agony. When he walked in, I choked out the question before the tears could.
“James. Who is Tommy?”
He froze. His face paled. He stammered, but the words were a meaningless jumble. My voice shook with fury.
“If you don’t tell me the truth right now, I’ll find out myself.”
He slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Then he confessed. Three years ago, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague. She fell pregnant. He begged her to end it, swore he loved me and the girls, that he’d never leave us. But she refused, determined to use the child as leverage. A boy was born. She turned out to be a wretched mother, and James claimed he couldn’t let his son grow up in squalor or wind up in foster care.
The room spun. How could this be our life? But I still loved him. I knew he loved me—loved our daughters, his princesses, who refused to sleep without his bedtime stories. Through the pain, I forgave him. We’d make it work.
Then one day, I ran into an old university friend who worked at a children’s home. Over tea, I spotted James. He sat across the café with a boy who couldn’t have been older than five. I knew instantly—his son. My friend followed my gaze and murmured, “He’s got parents, but he’s still an orphan.” She nodded toward them.
The boy’s mother, she explained, had abandoned him, remarried, and moved abroad. His father—James—had his own family. So legally, the boy wasn’t an orphan. But in every way that mattered, he was alone. My heart shattered.
My friend left. I steadied myself, walked over, and forced a smile.
“Gentlemen, shouldn’t you be home by now?”
Tommy looked up, startled, then burst into tears. He flung his arms around me, sobbing.
“Mummy! I knew you’d come for me!”
I held him tight. In that moment, I knew—he was mine. I would never let him go. James and I adopted him. Now we had three children. Our girls doted on their little brother, and he adored them. He was, at last, happy.
Later, I met Tommy’s grandmother. She told me her daughter had never loved James—and had despised her own son. Now, our boy was surrounded by love.
Years passed. Our girls grew up, married, built their own lives. Tommy is finishing medical school, and we couldn’t be prouder. I know I did the right thing, giving my husband’s son the family he deserved. Children with parents should never be orphans—it’s the cruelest fate of all.
