“This woman is my real mother. Shell be living with us,” said James, stepping into the house with a thin, elderly stranger by his side.
Emma froze, a ladle in her hand. The cottage pie was nearly ready, the table set for dinnerand now this.
“What do you mean, your *real* mother?” she managed to say. “James, what are you talking about? Your mother died ten years ago. We buried her together.”
“That woman was my adoptive mother,” James replied, helping the stranger out of her coat. “This is Margaret Whitmoremy birth mother. She gave me up to an orphanage.”
Emmas legs felt weak. Twenty-five years of marriage, and suddenly this.
“Have a seat, Margaret,” James said, guiding the woman to the table. “Emma, set another place, will you?”
“Wait.” Emma put the ladle down and turned to her husband. “Explain this to me first. Where did she come from? And why have you never mentioned her before?”
“I only just found out myself,” James avoided her eyes. “Margaret tracked me down through a family tracing service. We met, talked. Shes got nowhere to gono family left.”
“And where *was* she living before this?” Emma asked, studying the woman.
Margaret stayed silent, fidgeting with her hands. She was dressed plainly but neatly, her face worn, eyes sad.
“In a council flat,” James answered for her. “But the new owners sold it. She was evicted. Its my duty to help her now.”
“Your *duty*,” Emma repeated. “And you didnt think to discuss it with me? This is my home too.”
“Emma, dont be like that,” James frowned. “Shes my *mother*. Surely you wouldnt turn an old woman out onto the street?”
Emma looked at her husband and saw the same man shed spent half her life withonly now, he was watching her with something new in his eyes, as if *she* were the obstacle to his noble gesture.
“Fine,” she finally said. “Lets eat first. Then well talk properly.”
Dinner passed in heavy silence. Margaret ate quietly, occasionally nodding thanks to James. Emma pushed food around her plate, trying to make sense of it all.
“How *did* you find James?” she asked Margaret.
“Through an advert,” the woman murmured. “In the paper. I remembered the surname they gave him at the home. And his birth date, of course.”
“And why now? Why wait so long to look for him?”
Margaret bowed her head further.
“Couldnt face dying with the guilt,” she whispered. “Spent my whole life regretting what I did. Now Im poorly, time running out… just wanted to say sorry.”
James rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Margaret, dont talk like that. Whats done is done. Weve found each other nowthats what matters.”
Watching them, Emma felt something tighten inside her. It wasnt about the extra mouth to feed or the space. Something about this just didnt sit right.
After dinner, James showed Margaret around the house. Emma stayed to wash up, listening as their footsteps moved from room to room.
“Thisll be your bedroom,” James was saying. “Our daughters old roomshes married now, lives in Bristol.”
“Oh, I couldnt” Margarets voice was hesitant. “The sofas fine, really.”
“Dont be silly,” James insisted. “Youre family. Youll have a proper room.”
That night, when they were alone, Emma tried to voice her doubts.
“James,” she began carefully. “Are you *certain* shes your mother?”
“Of course I am,” he snapped. “Shes got papers from the childrens home.”
“Have you *checked* those papers? We could contact the records office, do a DNA test”
James turned to her with a look of disgust.
“Emma, how can you say that? Shes an *ill old woman*. Came all this way to find her son, and youre talking about *tests*?”
“I just want to be sure were not being fooled,” Emma said. “You know how many scams there are these days. People prey on emotions.”
“Scam?” He scoffed. “Look at her! Whats there to steal? Her coats threadbare, her papers are falling apart. Shes not after moneyshe wants her *son*.”
Emma sighed. Arguing was pointless. Hed made up his mind.
The next morning, she rose early as usual. Peeking into the spare room, she saw Margaret curled under the blankets, a worn handbag on the nightstand.
James was already at the kitchen table, coffee in hand.
“Morning,” Emma said. “Sleep alright?”
“Fine,” he muttered. “Whats with the face?”
“Just thinking how well manage, the three of us.”
“Well manage fine,” he said dismissively. “Margarets quiet, keeps to herself. Might be nice, actuallybit of company.”
“*Company?*” Emma stared. “We werent *lonely* before.”
“Kids are grown, hardly see the grandkids. Be good to have someone about.”
“*Someone,*” Emma repeated. “A stranger youve known five minutes.”
“I know the important partshes my mother.”
A soft voice interrupted:
“Sorry to intrude.”
Margaret stood in the doorway in a faded dressing gown.
“Morning,” Emma forced out. “Coffee?”
“Ta, love. And Im sorry about yesterday. Know Ive put you out.”
“Dont be daft,” James cut in. “This is your home now too. Right, Emma?”
Emma nodded stiffly, sliding a mug across the table.
“So,” she pressed, “what *have* you been doing all these years? Whered you work?”
Margaret stirred sugar into her coffee.
“Care assistant at the hospital,” she said. “Then my pension came. Got by, just about.”
“Any family? Other children?”
Margaret shook her head. “Never married. After I gave my boy up… something broke in me. Couldnt love anyone after that.”
Jamess eyes were soft with pity.
“Why *did* you give me up?” he asked quietly.
Margarets hands trembled.
“Young. Stupid. Your dad was a sailorpromised the world, then vanished when I told him. My parents were farm folk, dirt poor. No work, no money… thought the homed give you schooling, proper folks might take you in.”
“And they did,” James said quickly. “Good family, good life. You made the right choice.”
“Wrong choice,” Margaret whispered. “No mother should leave her child. Took me too long to see that.”
Emma listened, turning it over in her mind. It made sense. The papers, the storyall plausible. And yet…
Then the odd things started.
Food vanished faster from the fridge. Small thingsmilk, cheese, a fresh loaf. Then a new tin of tea went missing from the cupboard.
“James,” Emma said, “I think your mothers hoarding things in her room.”
“What things?”
“Food. I saw her take bread. And that teas gone.”
“Emma, dont be ridiculous!” James scowled. “Shes known *hunger*. Probably just saving bitsold habits die hard.”
“Or maybe shes *not* alone,” Emma countered. “Maybe shes feeding someone else.”
James gaped at her. “*What?* Shes a frail old woman who can barely walk!”
“Frail? She seems pretty spry to me.”
“Christ, Emmashe hardly eats! Probably embarrassed!”
Emma kept quiet. But a week later, her gold earrings disappeared. Not her best pair, but still. Shed left them on the dressing tablenow they were gone.
“James,” she said that night, “my earrings are missing. The gold ones with sapphires.”
“Probably mislaid them,” he muttered.
“Ive *looked*. Theyre *gone*.”
His face darkened. “And whatre you implying?”
“Just stating facts.”
James paced the room.
“If youre accusing my *mother*”
“Im accusing *no one*,” Emma said evenly. “But those earrings vanished after *she* arrived.”
James stormed out.
Emma *knew* she hadnt lost them.
The next day, while James was at work, the doorbell rang. Their neighbour, Linda, stood there pale-faced.
“Emmasaw your, uh, *guest* this morning,” she blurted. “Leaving with some bloke. Late thirties, dodgy look about him. She handed him somethinga bag, like.”
Emmas stomach dropped.
“*What* bloke?”
“Dunno. Never seen him before. They were whispering by the bins.”
When James came
