**Diary Entry 15th March**
The knock at the door came just as I was stirring the stew for dinner. Two strangers stood on the porcha man in his forties with dark hair and a woman with a pinched, nervous face.
“You must give us our child,” the man said. “We’re his real parents.”
I froze.
Inside, our eight-year-old, Oliver, was sprawled on the sofa, complaining of yet another headache. It had been the third time this week.
“Mum, can I skip school tomorrow? My head hurts again.” His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes.
I sighed. “Oliver, love, you cant keep missing school. Maybe we should see the doctor?”
“Im just tired,” he muttered, pushing his untouched dinner around his plate.
Something wasnt right. Oliver had always been full of energy, but lately, hed been quietstaring out the window for hours.
That night, I tiptoed into his room. He was restless, murmuring in his sleep. When I touched his forehead, his eyes fluttered open.
“Mum do you love me?”
“Of course I do, more than anything.”
“What if what if I’m not really yours?”
My breath caught. “Dont be silly. You *are* mine.”
But the next day, those strangers showed up with papersDNA tests, hospital records. They claimed there had been a mix-up at the hospital. The boy wed raised wasnt ours by blood. Their son, Max, wasnt theirs either.
My husband, James, came home just as the womanElenaburst into tears. “We dont want to take him away,” she pleaded. “We just we just needed to meet him.”
Oliver walked in then, his school bag slung over one shoulder. He looked at them, then at us, and said quietly, “I knew.”
Turned out, hed seen them lingering near his school. Noticed the man had the same ears as him. The same mole.
That night, we sat at the kitchen table, the weight of it pressing down on us. Oliver, practical as ever, said, “I think we should meet Max. Maybe we can all be something.”
James was against it. “Youre *our* son.”
“But theyre part of me too,” Oliver said. “Doesnt mean I love you any less.”
Id spent eight years loving this boyreading him stories, holding him through fevers, teaching him to ride a bike. Was blood really all that mattered?
In the end, we agreed to meet. That Saturday, in Hyde Park.
Oliver was right. Love isnt just in the genes. Its in the everydaythe packed lunches, the bedtime stories, the way he still calls me “Mum” even now, knowing the truth.
**Lesson learned:** Family isnt always who youre born to. Sometimes, its who chooses you, every single day.
