**Diary Entry 16th March**
“This woman is my real mother. Shell be living with us now,” said Edward as he stepped into our home with a frail-looking stranger in her seventies.
I froze, the soup ladle still in my hand. The table was set for dinner, the cottage pie nearly readyand now this.
“How can she be your real mother?” I managed to say. “Edward, what are you saying? Your mother passed ten years ago. We buried her together.”
“That woman was my adoptive mother,” he replied, helping the stranger out of her coat. “This is Margaret Haywoodmy birth mother. She gave me up to an orphanage.”
My legs turned weak. Twenty-five years of marriage, and suddenly this.
“Sit down, Margaret,” Edward said, guiding her to the table. “Ellen, fetch another plate.”
“Im waiting,” I said, lowering the ladle. “Explain this to me first. Where did she come from? Why didnt you mention her before?”
“I only just found out myself,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Margaret tracked me down through a tracing service. We met, talked. Shes alone, with nowhere to gono family left.”
“And where *has* she been living, then?” I asked, studying the woman.
Margaret stayed silent, fingers twisting in her lap. Her clothes were worn but clean, her face weary, eyes sorrowful.
“In a council flat,” Edward answered for her. “But the new owners sold it. She was evicted. Its my duty to help her now.”
“*Your* duty,” I repeated. “And you didnt think to discuss it with me? This is my home too.”
“Ellen, come now,” he frowned. “Shes my *mother*. Would you really turn away an old woman with nowhere to go?”
I looked at my husbandthe same man Id known for decadesbut his expression was different now. As if I were an obstacle to his noble gesture.
“Fine,” I said at last. “Lets eat first. Then well talk.”
Dinner passed in heavy silence. Margaret ate quietly, occasionally nodding thanks to Edward. I pushed food around my plate, trying to make sense of it all.
“How did you find him?” I asked Margaret.
“Through an advert,” she said softly. “The tracing service put it in the papers. I remembered the surname they gave him at the orphanage. And his birth date, of course.”
“Why only now?” I pressed.
Her head dipped lower.
“Couldnt face dying with the guilt,” she whispered. “Spent my life regretting what I did. Now Im poorlyknew time was running out. Wanted to make things right.”
Edward squeezed her shoulder. “Its in the past. What matters is weve found each other now.”
Watching them, something coiled tight inside me. It wasnt about the space or the extra mouth to feed. Something about this didnt sit right.
After dinner, Edward showed her around. I stayed to wash up, listening as they moved through the house.
“Thisll be your room,” he said. “Our daughters old roomshes married now, lives away.”
“Edward, really, I dont want to impose,” Margaret murmured. “The sofa would do just fine.”
“Nonsense,” he insisted. “Youre family.”
Later, in our bedroom, I tried again.
“Ed, are you *certain* shes your mother?”
“Of course,” he snapped. “Shes got papers from the orphanage.”
“Have you verified them? Checked records? A DNA test, even?”
He turned on me, face twisted as if Id suggested something vile.
“Ellen, how can you say that? Shes an ill, elderly woman who crossed the country to find her son. And youre talking about *tests*?”
“I just want to be sure were not being tricked,” I said. “You know how many scams there are these days.”
“A *con artist*?” He scoffed. “Look at her! Whats there to steal? Old clothes, tatty documents? Shes not after moneyshe wants her son.”
Arguing was pointless. His mind was made up.
The next morning, I rose early. Peeking into the spare room, I found Margaret curled under the blankets, a worn handbag on the bedside table.
Downstairs, Edward was at the table with his tea.
“Morning,” I said. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough,” he replied. “Why the face?”
“Just thinking how thingsll be now. The three of us.”
“Itll be fine,” he waved me off. “Shes quiet. Wont be underfoot. Might even be niceless lonely.”
“*Lonely*?” I stared. “We were lonely before?”
“Well, the kids are grown, we barely see the grandkids. Now therell be someone here.”
“Someone,” I echoed. “A stranger you know nothing about.”
“I know shes my mother.”
A timid voice interrupted:
“Sorry to bother…”
Margaret stood in the doorway in a faded dressing gown.
“Morning,” I said stiffly. “Tea?”
“Thank you. And Im sorry about yesterday. I know its awkward.”
“Not at all,” Edward cut in. “This is your home now. Right, Ellen?”
I nodded, setting a cup before her.
“Tell me,” I said, “what did you do all these years? Where did you work?”
She stirred sugar into her tea.
“Worked as a care assistant. Retired after. Lived modestly, but honest.”
“No family? Other children?”
“No,” she sighed. “Never married. After I gave Edward up something broke in me. Couldnt bear to care for anyone else.”
Edwards eyes softened.
“Why *did* you give me up?” he asked quietly.
She wouldnt meet his gaze.
“Was young. Stupid. His father was militarypromised to marry me, then vanished when he heard about the baby. My parents were poor country folk. No work, no money. Thought the orphanage would give him a better chancegood education, decent adoptive parents.”
“And they did,” Edward said. “I had both. You did the right thing.”
“I didnt,” she whispered. “A mother should never abandon her child. I realized too late.”
Her story fit. The papers seemed genuine. Yet still, something nagged at me.
Days later, odd things began. Food vanished faster. A new tin of tea disappeared.
“Ed,” I said, “I think your mothers hoarding things in her room.”
“Like what?”
“Food. I saw her take bread. The teas gone.”
“Ellen, dont be absurd!” he snapped. “Shes known hungerold habits die hard. Its normal.”
“Or shes not alone,” I ventured. “What if shes feeding someone?”
“Good God, woman!” He looked at me as if Id gone mad. “What someone? Shes a sick old lady!”
“Sick? She seems spry enough.”
“Youve seen how she barely eats! Probably just shy.”
“Or pretending,” I thought but didnt say.
A week later, my gold earrings vanished. Not priceless, but still. Id left them on the dressernow they were gone.
“Ed,” I said that evening, “my earrings are missing. The gold ones with stones.”
“Maybe you misplaced them?”
“Ive looked everywhere.”
His face darkened.
“And whats that supposed to mean?”
“Just stating a fact.”
He paced. “If youre accusing my mother”
“Im accusing no one. But theyre gone.”
“You probably lost them,” he muttered, storming out.
I *hadnt* lost them. Theyd vanished after Margaret arrived.
The next day, while Edward was at work, our neighbor knocked.
“Ellen, love,” she said, uneasy, “saw your lodger this morning. Leaving with a man. Looked shifty.”
My stomach dropped.
“What man?”
“Dunno. Never seen him. Well-dressed, but rough face. She handed him something in a bag.”
After she left, I sat stunned. My suspicions were right. Margaret wasnt alone.
That evening, I told Edward.
“Shes lying,” he said flatly. “Or mistaken.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Jealous, maybe. No kids of her own, so she resents us.”
“This isnt jealousy! She was warning me!”
“About what? That my mother *talks to people*? Whats wrong with that?”
“That she *lied* about being alone!”
“Maybe shes private!”
Arguing was futile. He saw only a victim in Margaretnever a threat.
Days later, I came home to a disturbed house. Nothing obviousjust wrong.
I checked my
