I was pulling weeds from the vegetable patch when I heard someone calling my name from the yard. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and walked over to the gate. A stranger stood there, a woman Id never seen before.
Hello, Helen. We need to talk.
Hello. Come in, if youve come this far, I said, opening the door and setting the kettle on the stove. I wondered what she wanted.
My names Nora. We dont know each other, but Ive heard enough to get straight to the point, she began without any niceties. Your late husband had a son, a little boy named Mick. Hes three now.
I stared at her, puzzled. The thought of my husband fathering a child with someone else didnt fit.
Its not my son, I corrected. Hes the child of my neighbour, Kate. Your husband used to visit her often, and thats why he looks just like his father ginger hair and a freckled face. No need for a doctors report.
What do you want from me? I asked, feeling my temper rise. My husband died not long ago. I have no idea who he was seeing.
Nora sighed. Kates also gone. She died of a lung infection, leaving Mick an orphan. Kate never had a family of her own; she moved here from the north and worked in a shop. Its a hard road for a boy to end up in a childrens home.
I have my own childrentwo daughters, both born in my marriage. Are you suggesting I take this boy in? Youve the gall to come to my house and ask that, I snapped.
The boy is your brothers, by blood, so hes not a stranger. Hes a good, gentle child. The hospital is sorting out his paperwork right now.
Dont try to tug at my heart strings. My late husband may have left behind a handful of kids, but Im not meant to raise them all, I replied, feeling the anger subside a little. Im just warning you.
Nora left. I poured a cup of tea and stared at the steam, thinking.
Id met George right after we both got our diplomas. We celebrated with friends, and a couple of lads came over to introduce themselves. George stood out with his bright ginger hair and a scatter of freckles across his nose. He was lively, always cracking jokes, reciting verses, and offering to walk me home.
Years later we were husband and wife, living in the cottage our late grandmother had left us. Emma was born first, then two years later Olivia arrived. Money was always tight, but we made do.
Then George turned to drinking. I tried to pull him away, but my efforts were futile. He disappeared for days, lost his job, and I had to take on two jobs just to keep the roof over our heads.
When he finally diedhit by a car while drunkmy world collapsed. I wept over his coffin, and the girls cried too, each for their own father.
That night I learned there was another child, a boy, who had been fathered on the side.
Our older daughter, Violet, came home one afternoon, tall and slim, with my ginger hair and her fathers. Mum, whats for dinner? The girls are going to the cinema and Im starving. Why do you look so sad? she asked.
I tried to swallow the news. They told me your father had a boy with someone else three years ago. The mother is dead, the childs now in a childrens home. Someone suggested we take him in.
Violet stared, Blimey, thats a lot. Whos the mother?
Someone called Kate. I dont know her, I said.
What are we going to do? Where is the boy now? He has no relatives, does he?
Apparently not. Hes in the hospital, paperwork being drawn up. Hes ginger, looks just like his father. I gestured toward the pot of boiled potatoes and sausages on the stove.
Violet rushed to the food, and Lucy soon joined her. I watched my daughters, both gingerhaired like their dad, and thought how strong those genes were.
The next day Violet announced, Mum, Lucy and I visited the hospital to see our brother. Hes a cheeky little thing, jolly as can be, looks a lot like us. He cries a lot, wants his mother.
We brought him an apple and an orange. He lay in his crib, reaching for our hands, while a nurse let us play with him a while. Can we take him home? Hes our brother, after all, Lucy asked.
I snapped at my daughter, Whats this? My husbands misdeeds, and now I have to clean up? Ive got enough on my plate as it isselling produce from the garden, working round the clock. You want to hang this boy on my neck?
Lucy tried to reason, If we get legal guardianship, theres some allowance, isnt there? Youre a woman, arent you moved by his plight? The fathers done poorly, but the boys innocent.
My anger flared at both Georges memory and my daughters suggestion. I decided Id get a look at this child for myself.
The following day I walked into the hospital. Excuse me, could you tell me where little Mike, three years old, is? I hear theyre about to send him to a care home, I asked the nightshift nurse.
What business is yours? she retorted. And who are you?
Im his stepmother, from another marriage. I just want to see him.
She sighed, Your daughters were here yesterday, playing with him. Hes been crying, asking for his mum.
Ill just have a quick look, thats all, I said.
She opened the door and I froze. There, in a small cot, was a tiny version of Georgeginger curls, blue eyes, a strikingly handsome little boy. He stared at me and smiled.
Auntie wheres my mum? he asked.
Theres no mum, Mike, I whispered.
I want to go home, he sobbed, his small shoulders shaking.
The nurse shouted, You cant just take him! What are you doing?
Mike, dont cry, I soothed, cradling him gently.
The nurse protested, but I held him close, promising, Ill be back, love. No more tears.
I left the hospital with a new resolve, the anger in me melting away as I looked at the helpless boy who looked just like my daughters.
Fifteen years later, Mike received his callup papers for the army. He was grown now, a fine young man.
Answer the phone, lad, and listen to your sergeant, I told him, Times are tough, but youll make it.
He replied, Dont worry, Mum. I wont let you down. Ill get a job at the garage, just like your old friend Tom, and youll be proud.
I ran my hand over his unruly ginger hair, smiling.
Life is a narrow path through the woods, often leading us to unexpected places. I thought my husbands betrayal had been a cruel test, another cross to bear. Yet hidden among the thorns of that bitterness was a fragile sprouta boy who bore no guilt for the sins of his father.
Sometimes the heart sees what the eyes miss. It recognized, in Mike, not foreign blood but a lonely soul yearning for warmth. It heard not a shout of another mouth to feed but a soft whisper: Mum. And despite all logic, fear, and fatigue, I reached out.
Years have shown that kindness isnt a sacrifice; its a gift. Mike never became a burden. He fetched water from the well while I turned the soil, he made my daughters laugh when the world felt heavy, and as he grew he would say, Thank you, Mum, a phrase that carried the whole universe in its echo.
