At Patricks funeral I caught sight of a frail old woman cradling a whispersmall baby. It felt like a fragment of a dream, absurd and unsettling.
Nancy Whitakers whole world flipped on its axis that gray morning when, standing beside the freshly turned earth in Highgate Cemetery, she saw the elderly stranger. The womans eyes were fixed on the infant, and she whispered that this was Patricks child. Could it be true, or would even stranger truths emerge from the mist?
She stared at the new grave, still unable to accept that Patrick was gone. A sudden crash on the motorway had taken him. A week had passed, yet the ache in her chest clung to the hope that this was only a night terror. How could such a thing happen?
With a heavy heart she trudged toward the cemetery gate, trying to convince herself that life must go on. Then the path was blocked by a silverhaired figure, a baby nested in her arms, the childs soft whimpering like the sigh of a distant wind.
Are you Nancy? the stranger asked, her voice barely louder than the rustle of fallen leaves.
Nancy stared, bewildered. The woman was a complete stranger.
Yes and who are you? she replied, guarded.
The old woman introduced herself as Amanda, her tone calm as a still lake. The child I hold is Patricks daughter, she said. Only you can look after her now; her mother cannot.
A cold shiver ran through Nancys veins. She glanced at the baby and instinctively stepped back.
No! That cant be, she stammered. Patrick was faithful. He would never do such a thing!
She spun and fled, her mind clinging to the image of Patrick as the perfect husband, no shadows of betrayal. A sudden voice called, Careful! It was Mike Hargreaves, an old friend of Patricks, emerging from the mist like a phantom. Nancy, lost in her thoughts, barely noticed him.
Mike offered his condolences. Nancy, too raw for conversation, managed a polite nod and hurried to her car. The babys cries lingered in her head, a phantom echo she tried to silence. When she swung open the passenger door, her breath caught: the infant sat on the back seat, eyes wide, quietly sobbing.
She turned aroundAmanda was gone.
How did it get here? she whispered, her skin turning pale.
Outside the chill bit at her skin. She slipped off her coat, wrapped it around the child, and then froze: a birthmark sat on the babys neck, an exact replica of the one Patrick had borne.
Is this really happening? she muttered, half to herself, half to the night.
She could not fathom that Patrick had hidden a secret. She needed the truth. Grabbing Patricks comb, still damp with his hair, she drove to St.Thomass Hospital.
Good afternoon, Id like a paternity test, please, she told the receptionist.
Certainly, the results will be ready in a few days, the woman replied.
Can it be done faster? Im willing to pay extra.
There is an express option. Let me checkyes, but it will cost more. The receptionist typed, the screen flickering like a dying candle.
Fine, Nancy said, handing over the swabs.
In the waiting corridor she tried to soothe the crying baby, whose diaper was dry; perhaps hunger, she guessed. While awaiting the report, she made a quick stop at a local supermarket, buying infant formula, a bottle, and fresh nappies.
Back at the hospital she fed the child, time dragging like thick molasses. At last a nurse appeared, an envelope clutched in her hand.
Thank you, Nancy said, taking the paper.
She opened it, feeling the weight of whatever truth lay inside. The words stared back: Paternity probability: 99%.
Tears welled in Nancys eyes as she looked at the sleeping infant in her arms. Patrick had deceived her, lived a double life.
But she would not let the story end there. She resolved to find the mother and return the child to her.
She returned home, rummaging through Patricks belongings. Nothing hinted at an affair. She drove to his office, rifling through drawers, folders, personal effectsnothing. Disappointed, she went back to her flat, where the baby slept peacefully in a wicker chair. She checked the car, the glove compartment, under the seats, every nookno trace of any other woman.
Later, a lingering sense of unreality pressed against her thoughts. The old woman, Amanda, had reappeared in a narrow lane of a quiet town, her eyes hollow, clutching the same tiny figure. Nancy followed the scent of damp earth and old stone, the world around her melting into watercolor.
She knocked on a modest cottage door, but no one answered. She turned to the neighbours garden where a familiar silhouette emergedAmanda, now younger, eyes wet.
Is it really you? Nancy asked, breathless.
How did you find me?
I am looking for the woman who was with my husband, to give her the child, she replied.
Amanda sighed. Her name was Emma Warren. She passed away a few days ago, heart attackshe couldnt bear the news of Patricks death.
Emma? Nancy whispered, the name echoing like a lost hymn.
Yes, we were schoolmates
In the soft glow of the lamp, Nancys mind drifted back twenty years, to a school corridor where Patrick had whispered, I love someone else, Nancy. Im sorry. The words had shattered her then, sending her running home in tears.
I wont let them be together! she had shouted at his mother.
Dont ruin anothers happiness, the older woman had replied softly.
In the years that followed Nancy had plotted, spread rumors, tried to poison his mind. She even claimed she was pregnant, a lie that Patrick had believed. He left Emma, who, broken, fled with her parents.
Later, Nancy told Patrick the test was faulty; they stayed together, but the happiness was a veneer.
Now, cradling the infant, she whispered, I will raise her as my own, perhaps that will earn me forgiveness.
The child, named Catherine, grew under Nancys care, and at sixteen Nancy finally revealed the tangled past.
I was afraid you would hate me, she confessed.
Catherine smiled, You were always there, Mum. Always will be.
Tears streamed down Nancys face. In that moment, the dreamlike fog lifted just enough for her to feel a sliver of peace, a fragile redemption born from a night that began at a funeral and spiraled through shadows, whispers, and the soft breath of a babys lullaby.
