**Diary Entry 13th March**
“This woman is my real mother. Shell be living with us now,” said James as he stepped into our house with a frail, unfamiliar woman in her seventies.
Charlotte froze, a ladle in her hand. The roast was nearly done, the table setand now this.
“How can she be your real mother?” she managed to say. “James, what are you talking about? Your mother passed away ten years agowe buried her together.”
“That woman was my foster mother,” James replied, helping the stranger out of her coat. “This is Margaret Whitmore, my birth mother. She gave me up to an orphanage.”
Charlottes legs went weak. Twenty-five years of marriage, and suddenly this.
“Take a seat, Margaret,” James said, guiding the woman to the table. “Lottie, set another place, will you?”
“Wait,” Charlotte set the ladle down and turned to him. “Explain this first. Where did she come from? And why keep it secret all these years?”
“I just found out myself,” James avoided her gaze. “Margaret found me through a tracing service. We met, talked. Shes got no onenowhere to live.”
“And where was she living before?” Charlotte asked, studying the woman.
Margaret said nothing, just fidgeted with her hands. Her clothes were worn but clean, her face weary.
“In council housing,” James answered for her. “But the new owners sold the flat. She was evicted. Its my duty to help her.”
“Your duty,” Charlotte repeated. “Without consulting me? This is my home too.”
“Lottie, dont be like that,” James frowned. “Shes my mother. Would you turn away an old woman?”
Charlotte looked at himthe same man shed known for decadesbut his expression was new, as if she were an obstacle to his noble act.
“Fine,” she said finally. “Lets eat first. Well talk later.”
Dinner was tense. Margaret ate quietly, nodding gratefully whenever James refilled her plate. Charlotte pushed her food around, her mind racing.
“How did you find James?” she asked Margaret.
“Through an advert,” the woman murmured. “In the papers. I remembered the surname he was given. And his birth date.”
“Why now?” Charlotte pressed.
Margaret lowered her head. “Shame caught up with me,” she whispered. “Ive carried this guilt all my life. Now, with my health failing… I wanted to make amends.”
James squeezed her shoulder. “Its in the past. What matters is weve found each other.”
Charlotte watched them, her stomach knotting. It wasnt about the space or the foodsomething felt off.
After dinner, James showed Margaret around. Charlotte stayed to wash up, listening as they moved through the house.
“Thisll be your room,” he said. “Our daughters old room. Shes married now, lives away.”
“James, perhaps not so soon,” Margarets voice wavered. “The sofas fine.”
“Dont be silly,” he insisted. “Youre family.”
That night, alone in their bedroom, Charlotte tried reasoning with him.
“James,” she said carefully, “are you *certain* shes your mother?”
“Of course,” he snapped. “Shes got papers from the orphanage.”
“Have you verified them? Checked archives, done DNA?”
He turned on her, disgusted. “Lottie, how can you say that? Shes an ill, elderly woman who crossed the country to find her sonand you talk about *tests*?”
“I just want to be sure were not being conned,” Charlotte said. “Scams like this happen.”
“Look at her!” James scoffed. “Whats there to steal? Her coats threadbare. Shes after family, not money.”
Charlotte sighed. Arguing was pointless.
The next morning, she rose early. Peeking into the spare room, she saw Margaret curled under the blankets, a shabby handbag on the nightstand.
James was already at the kitchen table.
“Sleep well?” Charlotte asked.
“Well enough,” he said. “Youre scowling.”
“Just thinking how three of us will manage.”
“Itll be fine,” he waved her off. “Shes quiet. And its nice having someone heresince the kids left.”
“Nice?” Charlotte echoed. “A stranger?”
“Not a stranger. My *mother*.”
A soft voice interrupted:
“Sorry to intrude.”
Margaret stood in the doorway, clutching a faded dressing gown.
“Morning,” Charlotte forced a smile. “Coffee?”
“Thank you. And forgive me for… springing this on you.”
“Nonsense,” James cut in. “This is your home now. Right, Lottie?”
Charlotte nodded stiffly.
“Tell us,” she said, “what did you do all these years?”
“Worked as a hospital cleaner,” Margaret stirred her coffee. “Retired after. Lived modestly.”
“Any family? Other children?”
Margaret shook her head. “Never married. After giving James up… I couldnt bear to care for anyone else.”
Jamess eyes softened. “Why *did* you give me up?”
She sighed. “Young and foolish. Your fathera soldierpromised to marry me, then vanished. My parents were poor village folk. I thought… an orphanage would give you a better life.”
“You were right,” James said quickly. “I had good foster parents.”
“No,” Margaret whispered. “A mother shouldnt abandon her child. I realised too late.”
The story made sense. Yet Charlottes unease grew.
Days later, oddities began: missing food, then her favourite tea.
“James,” she said, “I think Margarets hoarding things.”
“Old habits,” he dismissed. “People whove known hunger do that.”
“Or shes feeding someone else.”
“Ridiculous!” James glared. “She can barely walk!”
The next week, Charlottes gold earrings vanished.
“James,” she said that evening, “my earrings are gone.”
“Misplaced them?”
“*Everywhere*.”
His face darkened. “If youre implying”
“Im stating a fact.”
He stormed out.
The final straw came when their neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, knocked.
“Charlotte,” she said nervously, “saw your… guest leave with a rough-looking man this morning. She handed him something.”
Charlottes heart sank.
That evening, she confronted James with the neighbours account.
“Shes lying,” he said flatly.
“Why would she?”
“Jealousy, maybe. No family of her own.”
Charlotte called their daughter, Emily, who arrived with her husband, a solicitor.
“Dads being scammed,” Emily said after hearing everything. “These fraudsters target middle-aged lonersstudy obituaries, social media.”
They urged a records check.
Next day, Charlotte visited the alleged orphanage. The matron frowned at Margarets documents.
“These forms are fake. We dont use this format.”
A records search confirmed: no “James Whitmore” existed there.
That evening, Charlotte placed the proof before James.
He paled. “It cant be…”
Margaret entered, saw the papers, andjust like thather meekness vanished.
“So what?” she sneered. “Youve a roof, meals. James got to play the dutiful son.”
“You *thief*,” Charlotte said.
Margaret smirked. “Prove it. And good luck evicting meyour sweet husband registered me here.”
James buried his face in his hands. “God, what have I done?”
Police were called. The documents were forged. Neighbors testified about suspicious visitors.
Margaret was arrested within dayspart of a ring preying on vulnerable families.
James wept that night. “Forgive me. You were right.”
Charlotte hugged him. “Its over.”
But her gold earrings were never recovered.
**Lesson learned:** Trust, but verifyespecially when “long-lost” kin appear out of nowhere.
