Margaret knew instantly when she tugged the frayed ribbon poking from the bushes. The scrap of fabric turned out to be an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harder. Then she frozethere, curled 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 up, and stumbled barefoot toward the entrance.
Silence. No one. These dreams came often, always deceiving her, yet each time she ran to the door and flung it open. She did so now, staring into the hollow night.
The quiet and the dimness of the hour wrapped around her. Trying to calm her restless heart, she sat on the porch step. And in that stillness, a faint sounda whimper, a rustle.
«That blasted neighbours kittens got itself tangled again,» Margaret muttered, heading to free the poor thing from the gooseberry bushes as shed done before.
But it wasnt a kitten. Margaret knew the moment she tugged the ribbon jutting from the bush. The rag was an old, patterned baby blanket, and she yanked it harder.
Then she went still. On the edge of the blanket lay an infant. The child was naked, likely having wriggled freea boy, by the look of him. His umbilical stump still clung, meaning he couldnt have been more than a day or two old.
The baby was too weak to cry, drenched and exhausted, probably starving. When Margaret lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper.
Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and bolted inside. She found a clean bedsheet, swaddled him, tucked him under a warm quilt, and heated milk.
She scrubbed an old bottle, found a teat left from spring when shed nursed a lamb. The boy sucked greedily, choking in his haste, thenwarm and fulldrifted off.
Morning came, but Margaret noticed nothing. She could only think of her discovery. Nearing fifty, the village youth already called her «Auntie.»
Shed lost her husband and son to war in the same year, left alone in this world. Shed never grown used to the solitude, yet lifes cruel reminders forced her to rely on herself.
Now, she was lost. She glanced at the childsleeping soundly, like all babies do.
Then she thought of her neighbour, Edith. Ediths life was smooth and untroubled: no husband, no children, no war losses, no telegrams of death. She lived for pleasure.
Her men came and went, none ever staying long if they displeased her. Now, elegant and poised, Edith stood by her porch, wrapped in a shawl, stretching in the sunlight. She listened to Margarets tale, then said flatly:
«Well, what dyou want with that?» And she turned inside. As Margaret left, she caught the flutter of a curtainanother overnight guest.
«What for? Really, what for?» Margaret whispered.
She returned home, gathered suppliesfed the baby, wrapped him dry, packed foodand walked to the bus stop. A lorry heading into town stopped within minutes.
«Off to the hospital?» the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.
«To the hospital,» Margaret said quietly.
At the orphanage, as they processed the paperwork, she couldnt shake the feeling she was doing wronga gnawing guilt in her chest.
And the emptiness inside! The same hollowness shed felt when the news camefirst her husband, then her son.
«Whatll we call him? His name?» the matron asked.
«His name?» Margaret hesitated, then surprised herself: «His names Alfie.»
«Lovely name,» the matron said. «Weve too many Jacks and Emilys here. Some parents diedothers just toss their kids away. Men are scarce, yet folk abandon blessings! What kind of mother does that?»
The words werent aimed at her, yet Margarets heart twisted. She returned home by dusk, lit a lamp, and thereAlfies old blanket. She hadnt thrown it out, just set it aside.
Now she picked it up and sat on the bed.
Her fingers traced the damp fabric absently, untila small knot in the corner.
Inside, a scrap of paper and a plain tin cross on a string. Unfolding the note, she read:
«Kind woman, forgive me. I cant keep this child. Im lost, and by tomorrow Ill be gone. Dont abandon my son. Give him what I cantlove, care, safety.»
A birth date followed. Then Margaret brokesobbing, wailing as if mourning the dead. The tears came like a flood, though shed thought herself dried up long ago.
She remembered her wedding day, how happy she and her husband had been. Then Alfie camemore joy. The village women envied her radiance.
Why wouldnt she shine? A beloved husband, a cherished son. Even now, men still adored her. Right before the war, Alfie finished driving lessons, promised to take her out in the new tractor hed get from the farm.
Then the horror. August 42 brought the telegram for her husband. October, her son. Just like that, her happiness ended, the light gone forever.
She became like the restlike every other woman in the village. Waking at night, rushing to the door, staring into the dark.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. She paced outside, listening, waiting. By morning, she went back to town.
The matron recognised her instantly and wasnt surprised when Margaret declared shed take Alfie backthat her lost son had willed it.
«Very well,» the matron said. «Take him. Well sort the papers.»
Wrapping Alfie in a quilt, Margaret left with a different heartno more the heavy grief and void that had lived there for years.
New feelings settled injoy and love. If happiness is meant for someone, it finds them. And so it did with Margaret.
Her empty house greeted her with only the photos of her husband and son on the wall.
But this time, their faces seemed changednot solemn or sorrowful, but soft, approving, almost smiling.
Margaret held little Alfie close and felt stronghed need her help for years to come.
«Youll guide me,» she told the pictures.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine man. Every girl fancied him, but he chose the one who stole his hearthis dearest after Mum, of course. Her name was Lucy.
One day, Alfie brought Lucy home to meet his mother, and Margaret knew thenher boy was a man now. She blessed them.
They wed, built their nest. Children came, the youngest named Alfie, and Margarets family grew.
One night, a noise outside woke her. Habit sent her to the door. She opened it and stepped out. A storm loomed, lightning flickering.
«Thank you, son,» she whispered to the dark. «Now Ive three Alfies, and I love you all.»
The great oak by the porchplanted by her husband when Alfie was bornrustled. Ahead, lightning flashed, bright as Alfies smile.
