At Patrick Whitakers funeral I spotted a frail old woman clutching a tiny infant. Strange, isnt it?
Nancy Harts world turned upside down the moment she saw that elderly lady with a baby on the freshly dug grave of her husband. The woman claimed the child was Patricks daughter. Could it be true? Or was Nancy about to be hit with even more jawdropping revelations?
She stood by the new mound, still refusing to believe Patrick was gone. Hed been killed in a car crash. A week had passed, yet Nancy clung to the hope that it was all a horrible nightmare. How could it have happened?
With a heavy heart she made her way toward the cemetery gate, trying to convince herself she could go on living. Then a greyhaired woman with a baby blocked her path.
Are you Nancy? the stranger asked while the infant snuffled quietly.
Nancy stared at her shed never seen this woman before.
Yes. And you are? she replied, wary.
The woman introduced herself as Amanda and calmly said the child in her arms was Patricks daughter.
Only you can look after her now. Her mother is unable to, Amanda added in a low voice.
A cold shiver ran through Nancy. She glanced at the baby and instinctively took a step back.
No! That cant be right! Patrick was a faithful husband. He would never do something like that!
She spun on her heel and fled. In her mind, Patrick remained the perfect, nevercheating man.
Watch yourself! a familiar voice called out. It was Mike, an old friend of Patricks, who had just stepped out of the chapels garden. Nancy was so lost in thought she barely registered him.
Mike offered his condolences. Nancy wasnt in the mood for a chat, but she managed a polite nod before hurrying to her car.
The baby kept popping back into her thoughts. She tried to shake them off, but when she opened the boot the infant was already on the back seat, whimpering softly.
Nancy turned around Amanda had vanished.
How did it get here? she whispered, her face blanching.
Outside it was biting cold, so she shrugged off her coat and wrapped the baby in it. Then she froze: a tiny birthmark on the childs neck matched the one Patrick had on his own.
Could it be real? she muttered.
She didnt want to believe Patrick had been unfaithful, but she needed the truth. She set out to prove whether he was indeed the father.
Back home she fetched Patricks old hairbrush, collected a few strands of his hair, and drove to the local GP surgery.
Good morning, Id like a paternity test, please, she told the receptionist.
Results will be ready in a few days, the lady replied.
Can it be faster? Im willing to pay extra.
Theres an express service, but it costs a bit more, she said.
Fine, Ill take it, Nancy agreed and handed over the samples.
While waiting in the corridor she tried to soothe the nowcrying baby. The nappy was dry, so the infant must have been hungry, Nancy guessed. She popped into a supermarket, bought baby formula, a bottle and a fresh pack of nappies, then returned to the surgery and fed the child. Time crawled.
At last a nurse appeared with an envelope.
Thank you, Nancy said, taking the papers.
She thought, Ill have to accept whatever the truth is.
Her eyes widened as she read: Paternity probability: 99%.
Nancy looked at the sleeping baby in her arms. Tears welled up. Patrick had been leading a double life.
Determined not to let the matter rest, she vowed to find the childs mother and return the little girl to her.
She rummaged through Patricks belongings, finding nothing that hinted at a lover. She then visited his office, rifling through drawers, filing cabinets and personal effects all dead ends.
Defeated, she drove back home. The baby lay peacefully on the sofa. She grabbed the baby monitor, checked Patricks car for hidden compartments, under the seats, in the glovebox nothing.
The whole ordeal had begun at the cemetery, when an unknown elderly woman had claimed the infant was Patricks daughter. Was she lying, or was this just the first twist of an even more shocking tale?
Nancy stood on the damp grass, still staring at the spot where Patricks coffin had been lowered. A car accident had taken him away, and a week later she was still clutching at the fantasy that he might walk back through the gates.
Summoning what little resolve she had left, she made her way to the exit, intent on starting a new chapter. Then, out of the cold mist, the grayhaired woman appeared again, cradling the baby whose tiny sobs filled the air.
Are you Nancy? the woman asked.
Yes. And who are you? Nancy replied, eyes narrowed.
My name is Amanda. This is Patricks child, she said. Her mother cant care for her. Only you can.
What on earth are you talking about? Nancys voice trembled with anger. Thats impossible! My husband would never betray me! She spun and walked away.
At the gate she nearly collided with Mike, who offered his sympathies. She brushed him off, slipped into her car, and slammed the door only to find the baby already on the back seat, wailing. Amanda had disappeared.
Instinctively she wrapped the infant in her coat. When she looked closer, a birthmark on the childs neck mirrored the one Patrick had. Her world tilted once more.
Back at home she gathered the hairbrush, collected a few hairs, and headed to the clinic.
I need a quick paternity test, please, she told the desk clerk. Im happy to pay extra for speed.
The express option runs £120, the clerk said.
Done, Nancy replied, handing over the samples.
She spent the waiting hours soothing the baby, buying formula and fresh nappies, and trying not to imagine the worst. When the envelope finally arrived, she tore it open.
Probability of paternity: 99%, she read, hand shaking.
The truth hit like a cold rain: Patrick had been unfaithful. But Nancy decided she would not simply walk away. She would locate the mother and hand the child over.
She searched Patricks wardrobe, his desk, his laptop nothing hinted at a secret lover. She drove to his office, opened every drawer, checked his calendar still nothing.
Finally, she remembered a name Amanda had mentioned in passing: Emma Warren. Nancy asked around and discovered Emma had died a few days earlier from a heart attack, apparently after hearing the news of Patricks crash.
She tracked Emmas address, a modest terraced house in a quiet suburb. When she knocked, no one answered. She went next door, where a neighbour opened the door.
Its Amanda, the neighbour said, eyes widening. Shes been here for a while, looking after Emmas things.
Nancy stared at the woman shed met at the cemetery.
Youre the one who gave me the baby, Nancy whispered.
Yes, Amanda replied, sighing. Emma was pregnant when the accident happened. She wanted her child to be with someone she trusted. I thought you were that person.
Nancys anger softened into something like weary resignation.
Ill raise her as my own, she said, looking at the sleeping baby now in her arms. Maybe thats the only way I can make peace with this mess.
So Nancy kept the little girl, named Poppy, and when Poppy turned sixteen, Nancy finally told her the whole story.
I was scared youd hate me, Nancy confessed.
Poppy smiled. Youve always been there, Mum. Thats all that matters.
Tears slipped down Nancys cheeks. In that moment she felt a sliver of forgiveness from her daughter, and perhaps even from the ghost of Emma and the memory of Patrick.
