My darling William,
We’ve talked about this before, I know. Many times. I remember each conversation so clearly; me asking if you were ever curious, and you, always so sure, saying, ‘I’ve got everything I need, Mum.’
You never wanted to go looking, and I respected that. But I also made a promise to myself, just in case one day, after I was gone or you were just ready to know more, you’d have the information at your fingertips. So, if you’ve opened this letter, that day might have come.
I’ve enclosed a sealed envelope. This is for you to open when you are ready. As you know, your biological mother died during childbirth and I was never told your father’s name, but there are two people who may hold the key to that mystery.
I need to preface this by saying that nothing will ever change the love your father and I shared for you every single day.
It’s not a straightforward story, I’m afraid. The adoption wasn’t done through the usual channels, but I swear to you, we never did anything with bad intentions. We loved you from the moment we saw you.
Your father and I were given a call one evening by someone we knew: Alistair Montgomery. You met him once when you were little, though I doubt you remember. He was a distant cousin on my mother’s side, though we hadn’t stayed close over the years. He and his friend, Nathaniel Loring, came to us in confidence.
They said a tragedy had happened. A young woman had died giving birth, and there was no one else; no family, no next of kin. They wanted the baby to go to someone who would raise him with love, in safety and privacy. They said they trusted me. That it had to stay quiet, that the child’s legacy was going to possibly be complicated. We didn’t go through the system. No paperwork. Just a private arrangement.
I think back now and wonder, Why me? Why not someone else? I think they believed I wouldn’t ask too many questions and, for better or worse, I didn’t. I saw you, and I couldn’t imagine a life without you in it.
I know we have talked about you registering your DNA on different sites in the future to track down your biological father but I can share with you, your mother’s name was Matilda Hartley.
You were– you are– my greatest joy. Nothing could ever change that.
With all my love,
Mum (Mabel)
By the time Daniel finished reading, his hands were visibly shaking.
‘So that’s how Alistair and Nathaniel managed to pass this off, by saying Matilda had died during childbirth. It’s just lie after lie,’ murmured Fern.
‘So my grandmother told my father that his biological mum had passed away, and he went looking for his real father through a DNA website…’
‘Which, we know, is how Matilda found out about him,’ Fern finished.
‘This is all so sad.’
Daniel looked down at the other envelope, then met Fern’s gaze before he opened it.
Inside was a short note and a composition.
They also gave me this piece of music and said it was written by your mother, and that maybe, one day, you’d want to know who she was through her music. I remember holding it in my hands for the first time, thinking it was heartbreakingly beautiful when I played it on the piano. It’s definitely in a class of its own.
Daniel looked at the title: ‘Waiting for His Arrival: A New Chapter, for My Baby Boy’.He sat there in silence, the letter from Mabel still in his hand, the composition laying on the desk in front of them. Close to tears, Fern picked up the manuscript.
‘Matilda wrote a song for her unborn baby… your father,’ Fern said softly. ‘Then she wrote “Echoes of the Past”when she thought she’d lost him.’
Daniel nodded. His eyes teemed with tears and he couldn’t speak.
Fern glanced at the letter again. ‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ she added. ‘Why would Alistair and Nathaniel give the composition to your grandmother? Does that mean… maybe, deep down, they felt conflicted? Guilty, even? Like they knew what they’d done was too awful to wipe Matilda away completely?’
Daniel let out a long breath. ‘It’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe this was their twisted version of a conscience. A parting gift. Like they were trying to hang on to some shred of decency.
‘I’m going to learn to play this,’ he said, placing it carefully back in the envelope before pulling her in for a hug. They stayed wrapped up in each other’s arms for a long while, neither of them wanting to move.
Finally, Fern pulled away slowly. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘Home?’ he quizzed.
‘Our home. No. 17 Curiosity Lane.’
