I knew you’d call, Mum…
The phone buzzed right in the middle of the lecture. Sophie pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and swiped the call away. But it buzzed again.
“Miss Harper, have some decency. Either switch it off or answer it,” the professor snapped, exasperated.
“I’ll take it. May I?” Sophie gestured toward the door with a pleading look.
“Go on,” the professor sighed.
“Millie, what is it? I’m in class,” Sophie asked, stepping into the corridor.
“Sophie… Your parents—they’ve been in an accident,” Millie’s voice trembled.
“What?” Sophie’s stomach dropped.
“Come home. Quickly.”
Pale and shaking, Sophie returned to the lecture hall, stuffed her textbook and notes into her bag, and bolted for the door.
“Anything to say, Miss Harper?” The professor’s sharp voice followed her.
“Sorry. It’s urgent,” Sophie muttered before pushing the door open.
“Soph, what’s going on?” Nick caught up with her at the stairs.
“I don’t know. Millie called. Said my parents were in an accident. She told me to come home.”
“Are they—? I’m coming with you.”
“Nick, you don’t have to—”
“You might need help. Give me your phone, I’ll call a cab.” Only then did Sophie realise she was still clutching it.
“Please, just let them be alive,” she whispered, handing it over.
The ride home was unbearable. Sophie fidgeted with the strap of her bag until Nick covered her hand with his.
“Please, go faster,” she begged the driver. It felt like they were crawling.
“Can’t. Speed cameras everywhere,” he replied flatly.
“I’ll pay the fines. Just *go*,” Sophie pleaded, voice cracking.
The driver sighed, then floored it, weaving past cars. “If we crash, we crash together, eh?”
Finally, home. Nick handled the fare while Sophie sprinted through the gate.
Millie spotted them from the window and rushed out onto the steps of the grand two-storey house, tears streaming, hands clutched to her chest.
“Are they alive?” Sophie skidded to a halt in front of her.
“Leonard… he didn’t make it. Margaret’s in hospital.”
“Why didn’t you *say*? Which one?”
“St. Mary’s.”
“Nick—did the cab leave?” Sophie turned to him.
“Hold on.” Nick pulled out his phone. “You still nearby? Can you turn back?”
Sophie wasn’t hurrying now. She sobbed in the back seat, face buried in Nick’s shoulder.
At the hospital, they wouldn’t let her see her mother.
“She’s *my mum*! Let me in!” Sophie begged the doctor through tears.
“She’s critical. Unconscious.”
“I just need to *see* her.”
“Fine. But no hysterics.” The doctor led them to intensive care.
Later, back in the cab, Sophie clung to Nick.
“Mum… She’ll pull through, won’t she? She’s all I have left.”
“What about Millie? Isn’t she family?” Nick asked.
“The housekeeper. Been with us forever—like family. I just never said. Didn’t want people at uni knowing.”
“Why?”
“How many of our classmates have live-in staff? How d’you think they’d treat me if they knew?”
The rest of the ride was silent. At the house, Nick moved to get out, but Sophie stopped him.
“Don’t. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said before disappearing inside.
Millie met her in the hallway.
“Well? Did you see her?”
“Yes. She’s in a coma.”
“Oh, Sophie…” Millie pulled her into a crushing hug. “We’ll pray for Margaret. The funeral home’s handling Leonard’s arrangements—they rang earlier.” She stroked Sophie’s back. “Such a good man he was. Never raised his voice, always kind…”
Sophie let Millie ramble, then slipped upstairs, curled into a ball on her bed.
Millie woke her at dawn. The tears on her face said everything.
“They rang. She passed in the night. God rest her soul,” Millie crossed herself quickly. “Oh, Sophie…”
Later, over untouched tea, Millie broke the silence.
“Your parents made me swear never to tell you. But they’re gone now, so the oath is broken. And you deserve the truth. May Leonard and Margaret forgive me.” She crossed herself again.
“What truth?” Sophie asked, exhausted.
“You’re not alone. You have a mother.”
“What? Mum *died*.”
“Margaret wasn’t your birth mother. Your real mother—I think she’s still alive. Though I’ve no idea where.”
Sophie stared.
“Not my mother? Then my dad—?”
“He *was* your father. Listen. I’ve worked here for years—Leonard trusted me. That’s how I know. Wouldn’t believe gossip otherwise.”
Margaret couldn’t have children. She and Leonard were devastated. They tried everything—doctors, treatments. Then a girl started working at his firm. Fresh out of school, failed her uni exams, stuck in London. Your father was handsome—women fancied him left and right. Your mother was no exception. Eighteen and foolish.
That’s when the plan hatched. Or maybe it just happened. Either way, she got pregnant, wanted rid of it. Came to Leonard for money for an abortion. Can’t blame her—where’s a kid fit into that life?
He convinced her to keep it. Rented her a flat, paid her to carry the baby and hand it over. She agreed—then changed her mind last minute. Not every mother can give up a child she’s carried nine months, even a young one.
Leonard dug into her past. Raised by a single mum in some backwater, dead-end jobs, hand-me-downs. Dreamed of escaping.
“You want that life for your daughter?” he’d said. “I can’t support you forever. I’m a public figure—scandal’s no good. And I’m *married*. Think about it.”
So she signed the papers at the hospital. Leonard spun a story about Margaret giving birth—she’d been “recovering at home” for months. No one questioned it.
You screamed nonstop when they brought you home. Like you *knew*. Then your birth mother showed up, lurking outside, begging to see you. Leonard took pity—hired her as your nanny. Made her swear never to reveal she was your mum. Margaret was jealous. Only let her feed you, never overnight. Eventually, she left—couldn’t bear you calling Margaret “Mum” while she was just “the help.”
So there you are. You’ve got a real mother out there. And now I’m done. Said my piece—time to retire.
“At least tell me her name,” Sophie said, half-believing.
“Natalie. Natalie Wells. That’s all I know—never pried. She joined the firm straight after school, so she’d have been eighteen. You’re nineteen now. Do the maths.”
Sophie let Millie go. Alone again. How to find her? She told Nick—his dad was a detective. Maybe he could help.
Three weeks later, Nick found her. Just one match fitting the details.
Sophie packed for London immediately.
“Where’re you going? Exams are next week—you’ll fail. We’ll go together,” Nick argued.
“No. I need to do this alone. I’ll be back in time.”
“Honestly? Don’t go,” Nick said. “She gave you up. Sold you, probably. Your *real* parents raised you. Leave it.”
But Sophie was adamant. She needed to look her in the eye.
“At least ask Millie for identifying details. What if she’s a fraud after money?”
“Millie said she’s got a scar above her left eyebrow—fell off a swing as a kid. Hair doesn’t grow there.”
The London flat was in an ageing brick building, its worn staircase hinting at better days. Heart pounding, Sophie rang the bell.
The woman who answered was fit, sharp-eyed.
“Natalie Wells? Can I come in? Bit awkward on the landing.”
“Fine.” Natalie watched as Sophie toed off her trainers, then swept a loose strand of hair back.
“Where to?” Sophie asked.
Natalie gestured curtly. The flat was cramped, dim.
“Building belonged to some toff pre-war. Turned into council flats later. This was the maid’s quarters,” Natalie said, misreading Sophie’s glance.
“I’m your daughter.”
“That so?” Not a flicker of surprise.
“I don’t want anything. Just… why did you leave me? You’ve got a scar here—” Sophie touched her own eyebrow. “From a swing?”
Natalie didn’t answer. She lit a cigaretteSophie reached out, hesitantly brushing the scar on Natalie’s brow, and in that touch, years of silence dissolved like morning fog over the Thames.
