FanStory.com - I Found a Brotherby Richard Frohm

My father had passed away two months ago before I had the strength to go through his house one last time. We had donated almost everything and found a buyer.

My parents lived in the same house since 1946. When I went through the front door, memories filled my head. In the corner of the living room was his chair and footstool. His cane still hung on the right arm. My mother’s chair right across from his. I swear I saw them sitting in their chairs. My parents celebrated their fifty-ninth wedding anniversary in a hospital room. My mother was dying from cancer. Her death was the end of the world for my father. She was his everything.

I saw a change in my father; he was no longer the happy-go-lucky man. His bright Irish smile was no longer. He seemed to give up on life. It seemed the only place he wanted to go was to church and then home. I stopped as much as I could to check on him. Being the only child, it was my responsibility.

Although I never thought about it that way. It was a Saturday morning just before Christmas. I wanted to get his tree decorated. My wife and sons were with me. I knocked, as I always did. This time, he did not come to the front door. I unlocked it and called his name. There was no answer. I walked down the hallway to his bedroom. There was my father, looking as if he was asleep. But I could tell he was not. He had passed away in his sleep and was now with his Carol.

My father died less than three months after my mother. The corner said it was a heart attack. I knew it was from a broken heart.

My son Kieran came up to me. “Where do you want Sean and I to start?” “In the basement, only a few boxes and grandpa’s army footlocker are left. That is a little too heavy for me.” The boys brought up the boxes and dad’s army footlocker and put them in our van.

When we got home. I had them put the footlocker in my study. My wife, when she saw it, asked if I was keeping it. I told her I did not know. I wanted to look through it.

The next day, I sat in my desk chair and opened the footlocker. It was filled with his army uniform, several letters from my grandparents. Most of everything in the box was memories to him. At the bottom was an old Life magazine. When I started looking through it, an envelope fell out. As I picked it up, I noticed that it was addressed to my father at a military address in Italy. When I opened the envelope and pulled the letter inside out, a photograph fell to the floor. I picked it up and looked. It was a young girl who was holding a baby in her arms. Someone had written on the back. I read the letter. Dearest James, I thought you should have a picture of your son, James. He has red hair just like you. It is easy to tell he has your Irish blood in him. He is a fine boy. No doubt he will grow up to be just like his father. I pray you are safe. This bloody war has got to end. I miss you terribly. Your, Margaret I sat there staring at the letter and photograph. My mother and father met after he came home in 1945. My father talked very little about the war. All I knew for sure was that he was badly wounded in Italy. His injuries were so severe he was put on a hospital ship and sent home. He spent months recovering. My mother was a nurse on his floor. The two fell in love and the rest is history.

As I sat there, my wife walked in. “Peter, are you alright?’ she said. I looked up at her. “Denise, I don’t know.” Look at this letter. I handed it to her and the photograph. “Oh, my God. You have a brother.” I halfway smiled. “I guess I do.” “Now what do you do, Peter?” She handed the letter and photograph back to me. I picked up the envelope and its return address. It showed Margaret McPherson, Hale House, Stowmarket Road, Rattlesden IP30 0RRNN. I sat the envelope, letter and photograph on my desk. It sat there for almost a week. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Never would have expected to find anything like this. I went into the family room and asked Denise if we could talk. We spent the next two hours talking over every possibly of what to do. Finally, I went with Denise’s idea, find my brother.

The next two months were dedicated to trying in every way possible to find my brother. I did not know if he or his mother still lived in Rattlesden Village, let alone did he have his mother’s surname? I was ready to give up. Nothing I did worked to find him.

After dinner one night. Denise said she had an idea. “Why don’t we go to England and see if we can find your brother?” I jumped out of my chair and went to Denise. “Honey, I love you. That is brilliant.” The two of us sat down and planned a trip the next month.

Naturally, our boys were ready to go. It was a long shot. I was not a detective, just a high school history teacher. We flew into London and took a train to Rattlesden Village. When we got off the train and walked into the village. We felt as if we had gone back in time. Rattlesden Village looked like a Hollywood movie set.

Where to start? Every letter I had mailed to the address on the envelope were never answered. Our first stop would be the address. When we pulled in front of the address, I could see the reason they were never answered. It looked to be abandoned for years. For the next week, I covered every possibility or lead. What I found was there had been a Margaret McPherson living there. It had been her parent’s home. In the late 1950s, Margaret moved away from Rattlesden. I went to every pub in the area, asking if anyone knew of her or her son, James. I got a few leads, but none panned out. With my time off from school coming to an end. I had given up. I could spend a year even more looking for James and still not find him.

Finally, I got a break. The London Times had heard about my search. They sent a reporter to Rattlesden to interview me. I told them everything that I had done. Plus, I gave them a copy of the photograph. The reporter felt confident that it would reach James. The article came out and was even picked up by the BBC. My time off was ending. So, with no luck, we flew back to Michigan.

For the next few months, I kept doing what I could do. With the end of the school year, I would have more time.

The last day of school I was packing up and just as I was ready to leave for the summer. The school’s principal came in and asked if I had a minute. She needed to speak to me in her office. I accompanied her. The one thing I noted was the lack of expression on her face. Her serious look worried me. When we reached her office. She said, “Peter, there is a reason for bringing you here. I think it is important.” Thinking to myself. “What could be important? The last day of school and I knew I had done nothing wrong.” She opened her door and told me to come in. There standing was a red-haired elderly man, dressed quite well. He came up to me and gave me a hug. That caught me off guard. “Peter, it is my understanding that you have been looking for me. I am James McPherson, your stepbrother.” I cried and so did he. Looking around the room, I saw my wife and sons had come into the room. James’s wife was there as well. After a lot of tears and hugs, we went to our house.

That night, James and I had the opportunity to talk. His mother never married. My father was the only man she loved. James knew nothing about our father. His mother told him he had been killed in the war. All she had was a Celtic cross he had worn. His mother had passed away in 2001. James and his wife stayed with us for a week.

The following Christmas, all of us flew out to spend time with them. One thing, our wives noticed how much we looked like brothers. Tall, thin, fair complected and of course red hair. Finding that letter was truly a blessing.