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My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
My Dearest One. A Story
Sarah had found out, much to her disbelief, that shed grown up in a foster family.
It still felt unreal to her, even now. But there was no one left she could properly talk to about it. Her foster parents had both passed away, one right after the other. First her dad wenthe took to bed and never got up again. And soon after, her mum followed.
Sarah had been sitting by her mums bedside that last day, gently holding her frail, lifeless hand. Mum was very poorly. Suddenly, Sarah noticed her mums eyelids flutter open:
Sarah, sweetheart, your dad and I… we never had the courage to tell you. We just couldnt find the words We found you, darling. Yes, we did. In the woods, you were cryinglost. We waited, hoping that someone would come looking for you. We even told the police. But no one ever came. No one. Maybe something happened, but weve never known. They let us adopt you in the end.
In the bureau, where I keep my papers… There are letters and things. You should read them, love. Please, forgive us, darling. Her mum was so tired and closed her eyes again.
No, Mum, please… Sarah pressed her mothers hand to her cheek, words barely whispering from her lips. My dearest Mum, I love you so much, and wish more than anything for you to get better.
But the miracle never came. A few days later, her mum was gone too.
She almost wished her mum had never said a word.
Sarah never told her husband or the children anything about her mums confession. It was as though she herself filed it away, deep in the back of her mind.
The children had adored their grandma and granddad. Sarah couldnt stand the thought of upsetting everyone with a truth that wouldnt do anyone any good.
Still, one day, on a strange impulse, she went and pulled out the folder her mum had mentioned.
Snippets from old newspapers, letters to and from the authorities. Sarah started reading and couldnt stop. Oh, her lovely, lovely parents!
Theyd found her, little Sarah, not quite two, alone in the woods. They were already in their forties, childless all that timeand then there she was, a tiny girl reaching her arms out to them, sobbing.
The village bobby had just shrugged; no one had reported a missing child.
They adopted Sarah. But her mum had kept searching for her birth family.
By the look of it, maybe she wasnt hoping to find anyone anymore. Perhaps she just needed to be suresure that no one would come along and try to claim their precious daughter.
Sarah snapped the folder shut and shoved it out of sight. Who really needed to know all that, anyway?
A week later, Sarah was called up to HR at work:
Sarah Williams, someone from your previous workplace has been asking about you.
There was a woman about Sarahs age sitting next to the HR manager.
Hello, Im Jennifer. I really need to have a word, if you dont mind. Jennifer glanced at the HR manager. Its about the letters from Mrs Jane Smith. She was your mother, wasnt she?
You said this was work-related! the HR manager huffed. Personal business is best sorted in your own time.
Jennifer, lets go talk outside, Sarah said, and off they went under the HR managers watchful eye.
I hope youll forgive me, this is a little odd, but I made a promise, Jennifer began nervously. A few years ago, I ran into my first teacher. Primary school, back in Brambletonthats where I had her. She left later, turned into a bit of a recluse. She invited me round for tea one day, and asked me a big favour. She said her daughter had gone missing years ago, when she was just a child. Turns out, shed been writing to your mum all that time.
Im sorry, Jennifer, my mothers passed away, and I dont want to get involved, Sarah answered curtly, turning away.
I understand, Sarah, I honestly do. Its justwell, the teacher, Mrs Vera Harris, shes very ill now. Cancer. She hasnt got long, apparently. All she wants is to find her daughterthe one shes been searching for her whole life. She gave me a lock of her hair, would you believe, for a DNA test.
Sarah almost brushed her off, but something made her ask, You say shes really poorly?
Jennifer nodded.
Sarah took the envelope with the hair from Jennifer and promised to be in touch.
A week later, the two of them were heading to the hospital to see Mrs Harris.
They went into her room, and Mrs Harris peered up, her eyes squinting to focus on the visitors.
Oh, Jennifer, its you! Thank you, love, she managed a shy, grateful smile before looking up at Sarah inquiringly.
Mrs Harris, Ive found her. This is Sarahshe wanted to come on her own accord. Jennifer handed Mrs Harris a large envelope.
Whats this? I doubt I could make it out even with my glasses these days, Mrs Harris said, gazing at them uncertainly.
Its your results, Jennifer replied quietly, pulling out the sheet. It says here youre related. Sarah is your daughter.
In that instant, Mrs Harriss face was transformed. She glowed, her eyes filling with tears.
Oh, my darlings, thank you. Thank you, she whispered, holding her hands out to Sarah. My angel, my darling girl. What joy. Ive found you. Alive, beautifulyou remind me of myself when I was young. My precious child, my dear one. All my life, I would wake in the night and feel like you were crying for me, calling.
I dont deserve forgiveness.
Alive alive. Now I can rest easy.
After a time, Jennifer and Sarah left Mrs Harriss side. She was exhausted, drifting off to sleep.
Thank you, Sarah, honestly. You could see how unwell she is. Youve made her happy, Jennifer said softly.
A few days later, Mrs Harris passed away.
Sarah tore up all the old papers from her mums folder. She wanted no one to ever learn a truth that no one needed to know.
What did it matter anyway? Sarah never had any other mum but her own.
And Mrs Harris? That was just a beautiful, gentle untruth. Was she right to do what shed done? Sarah believed it was all for the best.
But in the end, everyone must answer to God themselves for all theyve done in this world.
My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.
My Dearest One. A Story Sarah had found out, much to her disbelief, that shed grown up in a foster...
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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