Connect with us

З життя

My Darling Girl: A Story of Family, Secrets, and the Search for a Lost Mother Marina always believed she grew up with her real parents, but after their deaths, she discovers she was adopted after being found alone in the woods as a baby. Torn by the late confession, Marina keeps the truth hidden from her own family. Years later, a stranger arrives with a plea from an elderly, dying woman—Marina’s birth mother, who has searched for her daughter all her life. With a DNA test confirming their bond, Marina must face both the joy and sorrow of her newfound origins, ultimately choosing to protect the love and memory of the only parents she has ever known.

Published

on

My Dearest One. A Reminiscence

Margaret learned, almost by accident, that she had grown up with adoptive parents.

Even now, she found it difficult to truly accept. But by then, there was no one left to talk things over with. Her adoptive parents had passed away, almost one after the other. First her father grew weak, took to his bed, and never recovered. Soon after, her mother followed.

Margaret had sat by her mothers bedside, clutching her frail, lifeless hand. Her mother was terribly poorly. Then, suddenly, Margaret noticed her mothers eyelids flutter open:

Margaret, darling, your father and I we never found the words to tell you. Our tongues just wouldnt let us… We found you, you know. Yes, we found you. In the woods, cryinglost and all alone. We waited, thought someone would come for you. Reported you to the constable. But no one ever searched. Perhaps something had happened, but I never knew. At last, they allowed us to adopt you.

In the drawer at home, with my papers, there are bits and pieces letters and things. Have a read sometime. Please forgive us, my dear. Her mother sighed and closed her eyes.

Oh Mum, please dont Dont say such things, Margaret whispered, pressing her mothers cold hand to her cheek. My darling mum, I love youplease get well.

But the miracle she longed for never came. A few days later, her mother was gone.

How Margaret wished her mother had said nothing.

She never mentioned her mother’s final words to her husband or their children. She herself pushed those words to the back of her mind, as if willing herself to forget.

Her children had always adored their grandmother and grandfather. Margaret couldnt bear to stir up pointless trouble with a truth that no one needed.

Still, one day, led by some vague, uneasy feeling, she finally opened the folder her mother had spoken about.

A yellowed newspaper clipping, official letters, replies. Margaret began to read, and soon could not stop. Dearest, beloved parents!

They had found hera tiny girl of only eighteen monthsabandoned in the woods. They were already in their forties with no children of their own. And thenout of fatea weeping, reaching little girl.

The village constable had shaken his head: no one had reported a missing child.

They took Margaret as their own daughter. But her mother had never given up searching for her birth family.

It seemed now that it was no longer about finding anyone, but rather, to be sure that no one would come to make a claim on the daughter they had grown to love so completely.

Margaret shut the folder and slipped it to the back of the shelf. Who needed that sort of truth?

A week later, Margaret was unexpectedly called into the personnel office at work.

Mrs. Brown, weve had an enquiry from your former employer.

Next to the clerk sat a woman, roughly Margarets age.

Good afternoon, my names Faith. I do need a word with you, the woman said anxiously, glancing at the clerk. Its about the letters from Mrs. Lucy Williams. She was your mother, wasnt she?

But you said this was a work enquiry! the clerk huffed. Personal business belongs outside office hours.

Faith, shall we step outside to talk? Margaret suggested, already rising. The two left in silence, ignoring the clerks pointed stare.

Im sorry, its a strange story, but I promised Faith began, her nerves plain to see.

Three years ago, I ran into my old primary school teacher in Little Ashfield. I was a pupil of hers long ago. She had grown quite reclusive, very frail by then. Invited me in for tea, then asked for a favour. Her daughter had disappeared years ago, when she was very small. She told me shed been corresponding with your mother.

Im sorry, Faith. My mother passed awayand I havent looked into it, Margaret replied curtly, turning away.

I understand, Margaret, but theres something else. Miss Vera Whitethe teachershes quite ill. Cancer, they say. Doesnt have much time left. She desperately wishes to find her daughtershes been searching her entire life. She even gave me a lock of hair to try and arrange a DNA test. Can you imagine?

Margaret had meant to end the conversation there, but something made her pause.

Did you say shes very ill?

Faith nodded in silence.

Margaret took the small, envelope containing the hair and promised she would be in touch.

A week later, they travelled together to the hospital to see Miss Vera White.

When they entered her ward, Miss White peered feebly at their faces, squinting.

Oh, Faith, youve come! Bless you, my dear, she smiled gratefully, and then, shyly, turned her gaze to Margaret.

Miss White, Ive found her. This is Margaretshe wanted to come herself, Faith said, handing Vera an envelope.

Whats this? Oh, I doubt I could make much of it even with my spectacles, Veras eyes looked at them, helplessly.

Its the test results, Faith explained gently, drawing the paper out. It says hereyou are mother and daughter. Margaret is indeed your child.

Veras whole face seemed to shine with transformed joy. Tears of quiet happiness escaped her eyes.

My darlings, thank you, thank you both, she said, reaching for Margarets hands.

My dearest one what bliss, Ive found you! Alive, beautifuljust as I was in my youth. My dear child. All my life Id wake at night, sure I heard your crying, you calling for me.

I can never forgive myself.

Alivealive. Now I am at peace.

Before long, Faith and Margaret left Miss White to rest. She was quite exhausted and soon dozed off.

Thank you, Margaret, truly. Youve made her so happyshe does not have much time left, as you can see.

Within days, Miss Vera White slipped away quietly.

Margaret destroyed all the documents from her mothers folder. She wanted no one ever to know that unnecessary truth.

For after all, there never had been any other mother for Margaret.

As for Miss Vera White? Call it a sacred untruth. Whether she had done right, Margaret could not say. She believed it was for the best.

In the end, each must answer to God alone for all they have done.

Click to comment

Leave a Reply

Ваша e-mail адреса не оприлюднюватиметься. Обов’язкові поля позначені *

5 × один =

Також цікаво:

З життя4 хвилини ago

He Told His Wife She Was Too Boring—But When She Transformed Her Life, She Found Herself Bored of Him Instead

It was nearly two years ago now, though it feels a lifetime past, that I heard words from my husband...

З життя5 хвилин ago

No One’s Home

Nobodys House Henry would wake, just as he always had, without an alarm, at half past six. Silence filled the...

З життя1 годину ago

The Letter That Never Arrived

Diary entry I sat by the window for a long while last night, although there wasnt really much to see....

З життя1 годину ago

My Darling Girl: A Story of Family, Secrets, and the Search for a Lost Mother Marina always believed she grew up with her real parents, but after their deaths, she discovers she was adopted after being found alone in the woods as a baby. Torn by the late confession, Marina keeps the truth hidden from her own family. Years later, a stranger arrives with a plea from an elderly, dying woman—Marina’s birth mother, who has searched for her daughter all her life. With a DNA test confirming their bond, Marina must face both the joy and sorrow of her newfound origins, ultimately choosing to protect the love and memory of the only parents she has ever known.

My Dearest One. A Reminiscence Margaret learned, almost by accident, that she had grown up with adoptive parents. Even now,...

З життя2 години ago

My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Beloved Lawn at Our Country Cottage to Plant Vegetable Beds—So I Made Her Restore Everything Just as It Was

William, are you sure we havent forgotten the charcoal? Last time we ended up at the village shop, and all...

З життя2 години ago

The Troublesome Next-Door Neighbour “Don’t touch my spectacles!” bellowed the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, aren’t you?” Tamara Borisovna replied in surprise. “Is that who you’ve got your sights set on! I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-rolling machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself!” shot back Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond any machine’s help now? Don’t think I don’t notice!” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and wandered over to her home icon corner to recite her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself especially religious: she knew, out there, something must be in charge—someone had to be running the show! But who? That was anyone’s guess. That higher power went by many names: the cosmos, the prime mover, and, of course, the good Lord! Yes, that kindly white-bearded gent with a halo, sitting on his cloud and pondering everyone on earth. After all, Tamara had long since left her prime and was edging up to seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if he doesn’t exist, a believer has lost nothing; but if he does, a nonbeliever has lost everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Mrs Tamara added a few personal words—naturally! The ritual done, her soul lighter, she could face the new day. In Tamara Borisovna’s life, there were two main problems. And no, not the classic British ones of fools and potholes—those were old hat! Hers were her neighbour Lynda and, of course, her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were simple: today’s lot never wanted to do anything. Still, at least they had their parents to handle them! But as for Lynda—the woman was a nightmare, forever needling Tamara in the classic style! On the big screen, feuding national treasures like Judi Dench and Maggie Smith are charming and funny. But in real life? Not so much—especially when someone starts picking at you for no reason. And, to top it off, Tamara had a friend known as Pete the Moped. His full, grand name was Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove—that’s just his surname! His nickname was easy to work out: as a lad, Pete—what a name!—loved tearing around the village on his moped. Or, as his cheeky younger self called it, his “mopette.” So, the nickname stuck: Pete the Mopette—or “the Moped” for short. His decrepit moped had long been gathering dust in a garden shed, but the name clung on: that’s village life! Once, they’d all been family friends: Moped Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her own late husband. Now, their other halves rested peacefully in the churchyard. Tamara carried on her friendship with “the Moped” out of habit: they’d known each other since school, and Pete made a good mate. Back then, they were a friendly trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—and pure friendship it was, with no hint of flirtation from the young gent. They’d go everywhere shoulder to shoulder: Pete the dashing suitor in the middle, with the two girls symmetrically hanging off his arms. Like a teacup with two sturdy handles! Well, you never know… Over time, that friendship soured. First into coldness from Lynda, then open hostility. Like in those cartoons: sometimes you notice someone’s been replaced… It was as if Lynda had become someone else—starting after her husband passed away. Before that, things had been bearable. Of course, people change over the years: the thrifty become stingy, the chatty become gossipers, and the envious get torn apart by spite. Maybe that’s what happened to Lynda. Old ladies can be like that—and the men are no better. Not that she didn’t have something to be jealous of. First of all, Tamara, despite her advanced years, still had a trim figure. Lynda, on the other hand, had grown as round as a pudding—where to find her waistline was anyone’s guess. Against her neighbour, she came up short. Second, their shared old friend had been paying Tamara much more attention lately. They’d often sit and giggle over private jokes, almost bumping their grey heads together. Lynda only got short, clipped phrases. And Pete popped round to see Tamara much more often—they rarely needed to beckon him over at Lynda’s. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as that insufferable Tamara. And her sense of humour was lacking—while Pete was always one for a laugh. There’s a fine old British word—“natter”—that sums up Lynda’s recent behaviour. She’d grumble at Tamara for the slightest thing. It began with the loo: Lynda griped that Tamara’s was in the wrong place and stank! “That bog of yours reeks!” blasted Lynda. “Really, now? It’s been there forever, and you notice only now?” retorted Tamara, not missing a beat. “Oh, and you had your cataracts done on the NHS for free! Nothing good comes for nothing!” “Don’t you talk about my bloody cataracts!” screamed her former friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “Oh, so you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara replied. “I’ll get you a lip-rolling gadget for Christmas—you’ll need it!” “You want to keep it yourself?” Lynda shot back. “Or are your lips a lost cause now? Think I can’t tell?” Oh, she could tell all right. This wasn’t the first row, not by a long shot. Pete advised Tamara to fill in the old outdoor lav and set up a nice modern inside one. Her children clubbed together for a new indoor bathroom, while trusty Pete did the hard graft and filled the old pit. There—time for you to rest, Lynda, and sniff somewhere else! Oh, hardly! The next gripe: Tamara’s grandkids had supposedly scrumped Lynda’s pears, since the branches hung over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought the tree was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, even though she could swear no one touched the pears—they were all still hanging. “Your hens are always digging up my vegetable patch and I don’t complain!” “Hens are stupid birds!” Lynda sniffed. “Just a broiler or a layer! And your grandchildren need discipline, Grandma—not giggling with strange men morning to night!” Wash, rinse, repeat: it all swung back round to Pete. The grandkids got an earful, pear season ended—“Rest easy, Lynda!” …but no, suddenly, the overhanging branches were “damaged”! “Show me where!” Tamara demanded—there was nothing, swear to God. “There! And there!” insisted Lynda, jabbing gnarled fingers sideways—while Tamara’s hands, with their long, even fingers, still looked elegant. A woman’s hands are her signature! Even in the country—a little style never hurt. So, “The Moped” suggested they just prune the branches: “They’re on your land—your rules!” “She’ll just start screaming!” fretted Tamara. “Bet you she won’t! And I’ll back you up,” promised Pete. And, true enough: Lynda witnessed Pete sawing away but never uttered a word! The pear tree matter closed. But soon it was Tamara’s turn to raise a fuss—Lynda’s chickens were constantly foraging in her veg patch. This year, Lynda’d bought a new breed—worse than before. And a chicken, well, it’ll scratch up anything and everything. As a result, every seedling ended up dug out. Kindly requests to pen in the hens only earned a nasty smirk from Lynda: “Go on, tell someone—what will you do?” One option: nab a couple of hens and roast them, just to make a point! But Tamara was too kind-hearted for such risky experiments. So, her clever, fun-loving friend suggested a technique straight from the internet: sneak some eggs out onto the veg patch at night. Then, in the morning, ostentatiously collect them—“Oh look, as if the chickens laid here!” He was tech-savvy: their village had had internet for years. And, you know, it worked: thank you, World Wide Web—at last, you’re good for something! Lynda froze, eyes wide, as she watched Tamara gathering eggs by the handful and strolling back indoors. Needless to say, the chickens stayed away from then on. “So, how about making peace now? Lynda, what do you say? Nothing left to argue about!” Yeah, right! The next complaint: smoke and cooking smells from Tamara’s summer kitchen, where she cooked until autumn. “As if! It never bothered you before—and maybe I hate the smell of roast meat! Maybe I’m vegetarian now! And besides, Parliament’s brought in new barbecue laws!” “Where do you see a barbecue?” Tamara argued. “Maybe try cleaning your glasses, dear!” Tamara Borisovna was patient and polite, but by now, even her patience had run out: Lynda was simply impossible—what a word! In short, there was no pleasing her… “Maybe someone should experiment on her for science,” Tamara sighed to Pete as they sipped tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” Tamara really had become thin and drawn—the daily drama took its toll. “She’d choke! And I won’t let her,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!” A couple of days later, one fine morning, Tamara heard singing: “Tamara, Tamara—come out and see!” At the door stood Pete, beaming: he’d fixed up his battered old moped—Pete and his Mopette! “Why was I always so glum before?” began Peter Geoffrey with a grin. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a spin, gorgeous? Let’s relive our youth!” And Tamara leapt right on! After all, Parliament had declared old age officially cancelled: now, everyone over sixty-five was an ‘active pensioner’! Off they rode, in every sense, into a new life. And soon, Tamara became truly Mrs Cosgrove: Peter Geoffrey Cosgrove proposed! Everything fit together, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda stayed behind: lonely, bitter, and cross. Tell me, isn’t that yet another reason for envy? With no one left to quarrel with, all her spite just built up inside. And that’s not good—you’ve got to let it out somewhere… So, hang in there, Tamara, and lock your door! Who knows what’s next—oy vey! Village life is a song, after all. What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…

Dont touch me spectacles! shrieked the former friend. Mind your own eyes! You think I cant see who youre ogling?...

З життя3 години ago

The Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace: When Family Means Control, Not Love, and One Sister’s Choice Sets Everyone Free

His wife had packed her belongings and vanished into thin air. Stop pretending youre some martyr. Shell calm down. Women...

З життя3 години ago

My Relatives Took Offense When I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My Brand New Flat: How I Defended My Personal Space from Pushy Family – and Why ‘My Home Is My Castle’ Matters More Than Keeping Everyone Happy

Saturday, 27th March I can still hear Auntie Graces voice ringing in my ears from this mornings calllouder than the...