When Roads Collide

It was a spring morning, not too cold, nor too hot. The sun was mild in the sky, its usual hotness dulled by a looming sense of change. The Wyatts were still asleep in their opulent mansion. The workers were milling around, cleaning here, dusting there. They had to wake up early and satisfy Rosalie Wyatt's OCD by bleaching, sweeping, dusting and mopping the whole compound. Short, plump and with a sharp tongue, Rosalie was feared by all her workers.

The Wyatts were a family figure worth emulating. They held galas, helped the poor, donated a lot of money to charity. Mr. Wyatt even had a statue erected, at the centre of the town, in his honor. Rosalie's sharp tongue was always hidden whenever they were in public. Beyond the pearly gates of their mansion, she was always smiling-her white and neatly arranged teeth out for everyone to see. She was always dotting on her husband and son.

Today was no exception for the workers. As soon as the alarms started ringing, mops, lawmowers and bleaches were out. Morison, one of the workers was headed to the garage to start his daily wash when he heard a sound that was not supposed to be there. Curious, he stopped walking and listened. The sound was coming from the other side of the gate. Armed with the remote and the curiosity of a cat, he opened the gate.

The baby had been placed near the gate. It was wrapped in a blue shawl and placed on a basket. Morison moved close to the basket, towards the child who was now crying loudly, its arms flailing in the air. Accustomed to children since he had a toddler, Morison picked the baby from the basket. The baby stopped crying and looked up to his eyes.

"What is your name? And who left you here? Morison asked loudly. He did not expect an answer from the baby. He looked inside the basket to see if he could get something to identify the baby with. Fortunately, he found a name tag written, Cole. Just that. Morison could not keep Cole as he did not know where he had come from. Besides, he was here to work, not take care of babies. He decided there and then to take the child to the Wyatts, they would know what to do with him, after all, they were the philanthropists of the town.

He carried the infant, a silent, weighty presence, towards the mansion. The scent of roasting coffee and freshly baked pastrie, wafted from the open kitchen windows. He found Mrs. Rosalie Wyatt there, her back to him, supervising a flurry of activity. She was wearing a new set of two-piece and a pair of flipflops. Her blond hair was tied in a tight bun. She was always well-put together, nothing was ever out of place.

“Madam?” Morison’s voice was a bit timid. He knew he was going to be scolded for being in the kitchen without permission.

Rosalie turned, her delicate eyebrows arching in mild annoyance. She abhorred interruptions during her morning kitchen inspection. “Yes, Morison? What is it? Shouldn't you be in the garage?” Her gaze swept over him, then landed on the small, blanketed bundle in his arms. Her eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable – shock, perhaps disgust – crossing her perfectly made-up face.

“Madam, I… I found him. At the main gate. He was just there, Madam. Abandoned.” Morison shifted the baby slightly, who stirred, letting out a soft whimper.

Rosalie took an involuntary step back, as if the child was invisibly contagious. Her lips thinned. “Abandoned? Are you certain? A child? Here?” Her voice, usually cool and composed, was laced with disbelief. “Bring him in. Don’t just stand there, Morison. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him touch anything.”

Morison, accustomed to her often-unreasonable commands, stepped inside, carefully placing the baby on a clean, empty portion of the marble countertop. The baby’s eyes, a startling shade of blue, blinked open, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with a curious, unblinking stare. He was just a baby, why would Rosalie say that?

Rosalie circled the counter, maintaining a safe distance. “He’s…an infant. Who would do such a thing?” She picked up a pristine white kitchen towel, holding it as if to ward off an invisible threat, and gingerly nudged the edge of the blanket with it. “Is he… clean?”

“He appears so, Madam. Healthy, too, by the looks of him.” Morison offered.

“Call Mr. Wyatt from our master bedroom. Immediately. Tell him it’s urgent,” she instructed, her voice regaining its imperious edge. “This is simply preposterous.”

Morison nodded, excusing himself. Rosalie remained rooted, staring at the infant as if it were an alien artifact. Her two-year-old son, Zane, was still asleep upstairs. The thought of adding another child, a stranger, to her already meticulously managed life filled her with a profound sense of exasperation. She barely summoned the emotional energy for Zane, whose care was primarily delegated to a rotating staff of nannies.

A few minutes later, Mr. Alistair Wyatt strode into the kitchen, his silk dressing gown floating around his lean frame, a frown creasing his brow. He was a man who exuded power and control, even before his first cup of coffee. He saw Rosalie, rigid and pale, and then his gaze fell upon the baby.

“Rosalie, what is this?” His voice was low, controlled, but with an underlying current of bewilderment.

“Morison found him at the gate, Alistair. Abandoned. Can you believe it? Right here, on our property.” Her tone was a blend of outrage and disbelief.

Alistair walked closer to the counter, his expression thoughtful as he looked at the sleeping child. He reached out a hesitant finger and gently stroked the baby’s cheek. The infant stirred, a faint smile gracing his lips. Alistair felt a surprising, almost foreign, pull.

“We can’t just… send him away, Rosalie,” he said, turning to his wife. “It would look terrible. We are the Wyatts. Helpful to the needy, remember? This would bring a very bad picture. The headlines… ‘Wyatt Family Rejects an Abandoned Child.’ It would be scandalous.” He could already envision the society columnists, their scathing remarks. Their reputation, that they had built brick by brick, was paramount.

Rosalie scoffed, a brittle sound. “Scandal? Alistair, we have a two-year-old son! And I cannot summon the emotional energy to take care of two toddlers, especially one that is not even ours! I barely have time for Zane as it is.” Her voice rose with genuine exasperation. Sh could not imagine sharing her space, her resources, her time with another child, an unwanted one.

Alistair raised a calming hand. “You don’t have to take care of him, my dear. We have the nannies. You barely take care of Zane now, do you? They can handle this. Think of it as… another charitable contribution. A living testament to our benevolence. Imagine the praises they are going to pour on us. And the votes. We have to be in their good books my dear.” He offered her a reassuring smile, knowing this argument would appeal to her sense of public image.

But Rosalie’s eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding them. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “Is he your son, Alistair? Is that why you’re so eager to keep him?”

Alistair’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his face. “Rosalie! How can you even suggest such a thing? Of course not! If you doubt me, you are welcome to do a DNA test. You know I have never cheated on you. I love you. How could you even ask such a thing?” His voice held a note of hurt, a well-practiced performance of indignation.

Rosalie stared at him, searching his face. He seemed genuine, and the thought of the scandal a DNA test would bring, even if it cleared him, was a headache she didn’t need. She knew Alistair was careful about his reputation. He wouldn't risk it for a child. She grudgingly let it go.

“Fine,” she said, her voice clipped. “He can stay. But he will live in the servants’ quarters. I don’t want him infecting us with… with poverty.” She gestured vaguely towards the baby. “He must know his place.”

Alistair exhaled slowly, a silent sigh of relief. The crisis had been averted. He walked over to Rosalie, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Of course, my dear. Whatever you wish. The servants’ quarters it is. He will be… out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”

He looked back at the baby, who was now quietly observing them. "Take him with you Morison. Tell one of the nannies to get him milk." Mr. Wyatt dismissed Morison and the infant. Disoriented by the occurence, Rosalie abandoned her supervision and went to lay down.