Margaret understood immediately when she tugged the frayed cloth sticking out from the bushes. It was an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harderthen froze. In the corner of the blanket lay a tiny child.
By dawn, Margaret had dreamed a strange dream: her son, Alfie, stood on the porch, knocking at the door. She jolted awake, scrambled to her feet, and rushed barefoot to the entrance.
Silence. No one. These dreams haunted her often, always deceiving, yet every time she flung the door open wide. Now, she did the same, staring into the empty night.
The quiet and the dimness of the hour pressed around her. Trying to steady her racing heart, she sat on the porch step. Then, in the stillness, a faint sounda whimper, a rustle.
«Another stray kitten tangled in the bushes,» she thought, moving to free it, as she had done before.
But it wasnt a kitten. Margaret knew the moment she tugged at the scrap of fabric. The cloth was an old baby blanket, and she pulled harder.
And then she saw hima small, naked baby boy. His umbilical cord still fresh, he couldnt have been more than a day old.
The child was too weak to cry, soaked and exhausted, likely starved. When Margaret lifted him, he gave a feeble whimper.
Without thought, she clutched him to her chest and ran inside. She wrapped him in a clean sheet, swaddled him in a warm blanket, and heated milk. Finding an old bottle and teat from when shed nursed a lamb last spring, she fed him. The boy suckled greedily before drifting off, warm and full.
Morning came, but Margaret barely noticed, lost in thought. She was past forty now, and the village youth already called her «Auntie.»
Her husband and son had been taken by the war in the same year, leaving her utterly alone. She never grew used to the solitude, though lifes bitter truths reminded her daily. Soon, she learned to rely only on herself.
Now, she was lost, unsure what to do. The child slept soundly, breathing softly like all infants do.
She thought of consulting her neighbor. Glancing once more at the baby, she went to see Evelyn. Evelyns life was smooth, untouched by griefno husband, no children, no loss. Men came and went, none ever kept too long. Now, Evelyn stood on her porch, wrapped in a shawl, basking in the morning sun. She listened to Margarets tale, then said bluntly,
«Why would you want that?» And with that, she turned inside. The flick of a curtain told Margaret another suitor had spent the night.
*»Why?»* she whispered to herself.
Back home, she prepared: fed the child, wrapped him dry, packed food, and walked to the roadside to hitch a ride to town. A lorry stopped within minutes.
«To the hospital?» the driver asked, nodding at her bundle.
«To the hospital,» Margaret replied flatly.
At the orphanage, as they processed the paperwork, guilt gnawed at her. Something felt wrongunnatural. A hollowness filled her, the same emptiness shed felt when she learned of her husbands death, then her sons.
«Whats his name?» the matron asked.
«His name?» Margaret hesitated, then said unexpectedly, «Alfie.»
«A fine name,» the matron said. «Weve plenty of Johns and Emmas herechildren of the fallen. But yours? Who knows who left him. Birds abandon their nests, but a mother abandoning her childshameful!»
The words werent aimed at her, yet Margarets heart ached. Returning home at dusk, she lit the lamp.
There, on the table, lay Alfies old blanket. She hadnt thrown it awayjust set it aside. Now, she picked it up and sat on the bed.
Absently running her fingers over the damp fabric, she sat in silence. Then her fingers brushed against a knot in the corner.
Inside was a small scrap of paper and a simple tin cross on a string. Unfolding the note, she read:
*»Kind woman, forgive me. This child is not wanted. My life is tangled; tomorrow, Ill be gone. Dont leave him. Give him what I cannotlove, care, protection.»*
A birthdate followed. And then Margaret brokeweeping, screaming as if mourning the dead. Tears she thought had long dried flowed anew.
She remembered her wedding day, the happiness she and her husband shared. Then Alfie camemore joy. The village women envied her radiant happiness.
Why wouldnt she glow? A beloved husband, a cherished son. Both had adored her. Before the war, Alfie had just finished his driving course, promising to take her out in the new lorry hed been promised at the farm.
Then came the horror. In August 42, the death notice for her husband arrived. By October, her son was gone. Her light had vanished forever.
She became like the otherslike nearly every other woman in the village. Waking at night, running to the door, staring into the dark.
That night, sleep eluded her. She paced, listening, waiting. By morning, she returned to town.
The matron recognized her at once, unsurprised when Margaret declared she was taking Alfie backthat her lost son had willed it.
«Very well,» the matron said. «Take him. Well sort the papers.»
Wrapped in a blanket, Alfie left the orphanage in Margarets arms. Her heart was no longer heavy, no longer hollow.
New feelings took rootjoy, love. If happiness was meant for her, it would find her. And so it had.
Her empty house greeted her with only the photographs of her husband and son on the wall.
But this time, their faces seemed differentno longer solemn or mournful, but gentle, approving, as if urging her on.
Holding little Alfie close, Margaret felt strong. He would need her for years to come.
«Youll help me,» she whispered to the photographs.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine young man. Every girl dreamed of happiness with him, but he chose the one who stole his hearthis dearest after his mother, of course. Her name was Grace.
One day, Alfie brought Grace home. Seeing them together, Margaret knewher son had become a man. She blessed them.
They married, built a home. Children followed, the youngest named Alfie. Margarets family grew rich.
One night, she woke to noise outside and, out of habit, went to the door. Opening it, she stepped into the dark. A storm approached, lightning flickering in the distance.
«Thank you, my boy,» she murmured into the night. «Now I have three Alfiesand I love you all.»
The great oak by the porch, planted by her husband when Alfie was born, stirred in the wind. Lightning flashedbright as Alfies smile.
