The dream began in the garden, where I discovered two tiny souls among the dew-kissed carrots. Fifteen years later, strangers tried to tear them from my arms.
“Margaret, come quick!” Thomas called from the vegetable patch, and I abandoned the half-kneaded bread dough in the mixing bowl.
I hurried onto the porchmy husband stood by the gnarled oak, and beside him… two small children. A boy and a girl, curled in the grass like stray blossoms, their clothes frayed, their wide eyes reflecting the morning mist.
“Where on earth did they come from?” I whispered, stepping closer.
The girl reached for me, fingers trembling. The boy clung to her but didnt flinch. They couldnt have been older than three.
“No idea,” Thomas scratched his neck. “Went to water the cabbages, and there they were. Like theyd sprouted from the soil.”
I knelt. The girl pressed her face into my shoulder, smelling of damp earth and something faintly sour. The boy watched, unblinking.
“What are your names?” I asked gently.
Silence. Only the girls quiet sniffling filled the air.
“We ought to ring the constable,” Thomas muttered.
“Wait,” I said, smoothing the girls tangled curls. “Lets feed them first. Look at their little ribs.”
I led them inside, the boy clutching my apron hem. At the kitchen table, I poured milk and spread thick butter on warm bread. They devoured it like wolves, crumbs sticking to their chins.
“Could be travellers left them,” Thomas mused.
“Dont think so,” I shook my head. “Their hairs too fair, eyes too blue.”
Once fed, the girl drowsed in my lap, her grip tight on my jumper. The boy even grinned when I offered a second slice.
By dusk, Constable Whitmore arrived, scribbling in his notebook.
“Well make inquiries,” he said. “For now, theyll stay with you. The childrens home in Leeds is full.”
“We dont mind,” I said at once, cradling the sleeping girl. Thomas nodded. Wed longed for childrennow, impossibly, we had two.
That night, we tucked them by the hearth. The boy lay awake, clutching my finger when I offered it.
“Sleep, love,” I whispered. “Youre safe now.”
Morning came with tiny fingers brushing my cheek.
“Mummy” the girl murmured.
My breath caught. I lifted her close.
“Yes, sweetheart. Mummy.”
Fifteen years melted like sugar in tea. We named her Ameliagrown into a willowy beauty with golden plaits and eyes like Cornish skies. Oliver became sturdy as an oak, his fathers shadow.
Both aced their studies, helped on the farm, filled our lives with laughter.
“Mum, Im off to Cambridge,” Amelia declared one supper. “To study medicine.”
“And Ill take over the farm,” Oliver added. “Dad, we could expand the south field.”
Thomas ruffled his hair. We never had children of our womb, yet never missed themthese two were ours in every way.
Whitmore found no leads. We fostered them, then adopted. They always knew the truth, yet we were their real parents.
“Remember my first Victoria sponge?” Amelia giggled. “Sank like a stone!”
“And you, Oliver, hid from the sheep!” Thomas teased. “Thought theyd trample you!”
We laughed, weaving memories like a quiltAmelia sobbing on her first school day, Oliver walloping the lad who called him “foundling,” the headmasters stern words that ended it.
Later, on the porch, Thomas squeezed my hand.
“Turned out alright, didnt they?”
“Mine,” I whispered.
Then came the sleek black car. A polished couple emerged, their smiles tight.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said, voice like chilled porcelain. “Were searching for our twins. They vanished fifteen years ago.”
Ice flooded my veins. Thomas stepped beside me.
“And what brings you here?” he asked evenly.
The man brandished papers. “These confirm it. Theyre ours.”
The dates aligned. My heart refused it.
“Fifteen years of silence,” I said softly. “Where were you?”
“We searched!” the woman protested. “The nanny took thema car crash, the children vanished. Only now did we trace them here.”
Amelia and Oliver appeared, confusion knitting their brows.
“Mum?” Amelia gripped my hand.
The woman gasped. “Eleanor! And William!”
The children recoiled.
“Were your true parents,” the man blurted. “Come home.”
“Home?” Amelias voice cracked. “We are home.”
The woman stepped forward. “Weve a manor in Surrey. Youll want for nothing. Blood matters more than strangers.”
Rage boiled in me.
“You didnt search,” I hissed. “Now theyre grownusefulyou appear?”
“We filed reports!” the man snapped.
“Show me,” Thomas demanded. The man fumbledthe date read three weeks prior.
“Forgery,” Thomas said. “Wheres the original?”
Oliver stepped forward, jaw set. “Whitmore checked. No reports existed.”
“Silence, boy!” the man snarled. “Pack your things!”
“Were not going,” Amelia stood tall. “Our parents are here.”
The woman flushed, jabbing her mobile. “Im calling the authorities. Blood trumps paperwork.”
“Ring them,” Thomas nodded. “Ask for Whitmore. Hes kept records all these years.”
Soon, the yard swarmed with uniformsWhitmore, a detective from York, even the parish councillor. Inside, I held my children close.
“They shant take you,” I vowed. “Never.”
“We know, Mum,” Oliver clenched his fists. “Let them try.”
Thomas returned, grim. “Fakes. Their alibi puts them in Brighton when the children appeared. Whitmore reckons theyre drowning in debtneeded free farmhands.”
Outside, the man was shoved into a squad car. The woman shrieked about solicitors.
“Theyre ours! Youre stealing them!”
Amelia faced her, spine straight.
“I found my parents fifteen years ago. They loved me, never left me. Youre strangers with lies.”
The woman stumbled back as if struck.
When the dust settled, we four stood alone. Neighbours murmured, drifting away.
“Mum, Dad thank you,” Oliver hugged us.
“Silly lad,” I stroked his hair. “Youre ours.”
Amelia wiped tears. “I used to wonderwhat if my real parents came? Now I know. Youve always been real.”
That evening, we gathered round the tablejust like years ago, but taller, wiser. The love unchanged.
“Mum, tell the story again,” Amelia begged.
I smiled, beginning anewthe garden, the tiny hands, the hearts entwined.
“Granny, look!” Little Henry waved a crayon scribble.
“Lovely! Is that our house?”
“Uh-huh! And theres you, Grandad, Mum, Dad, Aunt Amelia and Uncle James!”
Amelianow Dr. Hartwaddled in, round with her second babe.
“Mum, James rang. Theyll be here by tea. Did the mince pies turn out?”
“Course,” I grinned. “Your favourite.”
Years had flown. Amelia returned after uni, marrying James, our stablemaster. Oliver ran the farm with Thomas, wed to Sophie the schoolmistress. Baby Henry was their joy.
“Grandad!” Henry squirmed free, darting to Thomasgreyer now, but sturdy as ever.
“Whatll you be, eh?” Thomas swung him high.
“A farmer! Like you!”
Amelia and I exchanged smiles. History repeating.
James Land Rover crunched up the drive. Sophie bounded out with a dish.
“Brought trifle!”
“And news!” she beamed.
“Oh?”
“Twins on the way!”
Amelia squealed. Thomas grin couldve split his face.
“Proper full house now!”
At supper, we crowded the table Thomas and Oliver had built. Laughter rang like church bells.
“Remember those frauds?” Oliver mused.
“How could I forget?” Amelia chuckled. “Whitmore still tells recruits about it.”
“I wondered,” Oliver said quietly. “What if theyd been truthful? And I kneweven then, Id have stayed. Family isnt blood. Its this.” He gestured at us all.
“Dont get soppy,” Thomas grumbled, eyes twinkling.
“Uncle Ollie, tell the story!” Henry begged.
“Again?” Sophie laughed.
“Pleeease!”
Oliver began. I watched my familychildren, in-laws, grandbabes. Thomas, dearer with each year.
Once Id feared barrenness. Then life planted two miracles among the carrots. Now our home brimmed with joy.
“Granny,” Henry ya
