**Diary Entry 12th May**
The knock at the door came just as I was setting the kettle on. Two strangers stood therea man and a woman, both stiff in their posture, like theyd rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
*”You need to give the child to us,”* the man said, his voice tight. *”Were his real parents.”*
I nearly dropped the mug in my hand.
Earlier that morning, my son, Jamie, had lingered by the kitchen door, his fingers gripping the frame. *”Mum, can I stay home tomorrow? My head hurts again.”* His face was pale, dark smudges under his eyes. This was the third time this week.
*”Again?”* I turned from the stove, where Id been stirring soup. *”Jamie, love, maybe we should see the doctor?”*
*”Dont need a doctor. Just tired. Can I stay?”*
*”Well see in the morning. Finish your homework.”*
*”Already done.”*
*”All of it? Even maths?”*
*”Even maths.”*
I pressed my hand to his foreheadno fever. But lately, hed been quiet, withdrawn. The boy who used to bounce off the walls now sat for hours by the window, staring out like he was waiting for something.
When my husband, Richard, came home from work, he took one look at my face and frowned. *”Whats wrong?”*
*”Jamies complaining of headaches again. Third time this week.”*
*”So take him to the doctor.”*
*”He refuses. Maybe hes just worn out? End of term, tests and all.”*
Richard went to talk to him. I heard murmurs from Jamies room before he returned, rubbing his jaw. *”Says hes fine. But hell see the doctor tomorrow.”*
At dinner, Jamie barely touched his food. Pushed his peas around, drank his tea, then asked to go to bed. Richard and I exchanged a glance.
*”Dyou think hes got a crush?”* Richard muttered. *”Happens at that age.”*
*”Hes eight, Richard.”*
*”Kids grow up fast these days.”*
That night, I checked on Jamie twice. He tossed in his sleep, mumbling. When I smoothed his hair, his eyes flickered open.
*”Mum?”*
“*Go back to sleep, love.*”
*”Mum do you love me?”*
*”Of course I do. More than anything.”*
*”Even if” His voice was small. *”Even if Im not yours?”*
I froze. *”What kind of question is that? Of course youre mine. Sleep now.”*
He turned away, and I stood there in the dark, my chest tight. Where had that come from?
The next morning, Jamie was up before I called him. Ate his toast, packed his bag. *”Im going to school. Heads better.”*
*”You sure? We could still see the doctor”*
*”Im fine.”* And he was out the door before I could argue.
Then, that afternoon, the knock came.
The strangers introduced themselves as Daniel and Claire Whittaker. They had papersDNA tests, hospital recordsclaiming Jamie was biologically theirs. A mix-up at the hospital eight years ago. Their son, Liam, wasnt theirs by blood. And Jamie wasnt ours.
My legs gave way. Richard came home just as Claire was saying, *”We dont want to take him. But wed like to see him. To know him.”*
Then Jamie walked in.
He looked at them, then at me, and said, *”Mum, its alright. I already knew.”*
*”Knew what?”* Richards voice was rough.
*”That I wasnt yours. Not really.”*
Claire burst into tears. Daniels hands shook as he showed Jamie a photo of Liam*our* son, biologically. A boy with Richards nose, my laugh lines.
Jamie studied it calmly. *”Can I meet him?”*
*”Absolutely not!”* Richard snapped.
But Jamie just looked at us, steady. *”Im not going anywhere. Youre my parents. But theyre part of me too.”*
That night, after Jamie was in bed, Richard and I sat at the kitchen table, exhausted.
*”What do we do?”* I whispered.
Richard rubbed his face. *”Let him meet Liam. If thats what he wants.”*
*”What if he prefers them?”*
*”He wont. Did you hear him? Were his family. Blood doesnt change that.”*
The next morning, Jamie said, *”Lets all go to the park. Liam too. Then well figure it out.”*
So I called Claire.
When we met, Liam had Richards stubborn chin. Jamie had Daniels ears. And as the boys kicked a football between them, laughing, Claire squeezed my hand.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered.
Jamie grinned at me over his shoulder. *”See, Mum? Its going to be alright.”*
Maybe it will be.
**Lesson learned:** Love isnt in the blood. Its in the bedtime stories, the scraped knees, the quiet moments. And no piece of paper can take that away.
