The Secret of the Second Family: A Drama in Lakecrest
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Oliver,” the voice on the phone was icy and sharp. The woman hung up immediately.
My name is Eleanor, and my husband is William. We lived in Lakecrest and seemed the picture of a happy family. We had two daughters whom William adored, calling them his little princesses and 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 grew tense, irritable, even snapping at the girls.
I couldn’t fathom what was wrong. When I asked, he brushed it off:
“Work troubles, Ellie. Don’t trouble yourself.”
I tried to settle, but unease lingered. The tension in the house thickened, and I resolved to confront William properly. Then the phone rang. A stranger’s voice uttered those dreadful words:
“Do you know your husband has another family? He has a son named Oliver.”
The line went dead. I stood frozen, as if the ground had vanished beneath me. My William? Unfaithful? Another family? I couldn’t believe it. Waiting for him to return from work was agony. When he walked in, tears burning my throat, I blurted:
“William, who is Oliver?”
He froze, clearly unprepared. His face paled, and he stammered incoherently. I snapped:
“Tell me the truth now, or I’ll find out myself!”
William slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Three years ago, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague. She’d fallen pregnant, but he pleaded with her to end it, swearing he loved me and our girls, that he’d never leave us. Yet she carried the child, intent on using the baby to bind him. A boy was born. She proved a neglectful mother, and William, by his own account, couldn’t bear the thought of his son in squalor or an orphanage.
I listened as my world crumbled. How could this happen to us? Yet I loved William. I knew he loved me and our girls—his princesses, who wouldn’t sleep unless he read them a story. Through the pain and tears, I forgave him, determined we’d endure.
One day, I ran into an old university friend who worked at an orphanage. We stopped for tea, and there I saw William. He sat at a table with a boy of about five. I knew at once—his son. My friend, noticing my gaze, murmured:
“He’s got parents, yet he’s still an orphan.” She nodded toward William and the boy.
She explained the boy’s mother had abandoned him, remarried, and moved abroad. His father—William—had his own family, so the child, though not an orphan by law, was alone in every way that mattered. My heart shattered.
My friend left, and gathering my courage, I approached their table. Forcing a smile, I said:
“Gentlemen, isn’t it time to come home?”
Oliver stared at me, frightened—then burst into tears, flung himself into my arms, and cried:
“Mummy, I knew you’d come for me!”
I held him tight, and in that moment, I knew: he was mine. I’d never let him go. William and I adopted Oliver. Now we have three children. Our daughters dote on their little brother, and he is the happiest boy alive.
Later, I met Oliver’s grandmother. She confessed her daughter had never loved William—and had despised her own son. Now, our boy is surrounded by love.
Years have passed. Our girls are grown, happily married. Oliver is finishing medical school, and we couldn’t be prouder. I know I did right, giving my husband’s son a true family. Children with parents should never be orphans—it’s a sin too great to bear.
