The moment Emily tugged at the frayed scrap of fabric poking from the bushes, she knew. The scrap 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.
Just before dawn, Emily had a strange dream: her son, Alfie, stood on the porch, knocking at the door. She jolted awake, scrambled to her feet, and rushed barefoot across the yard.
Silence. No one. These dreams had taunted her for years, always deceiving, yet she still flung open the door each time. Tonight was no different. She stared into the empty night, her breath shallow.
The quiet pressed in around her. Trying to steady her racing heart, she sat on the porch step. Thena sound. A rustle, maybe a whimper.
That neighbours kittens got stuck again, she muttered, heading toward the gooseberry bushes as shed done a dozen times before.
But it wasnt a kitten. Emily knew the moment she tugged at that scrap of fabric. The blanket was old, its colours long faded. She pulled harder.
And then she saw hima tiny, naked boy, no older than a day or two, his little belly still raw where the cord had been. The child was too weak to cry, damp and shivering, his breath thin as a whistle. When she lifted him, he gave a faint whimper.
Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and bolted inside. She found a clean sheet, swaddled him, wrapped him in a warm quilt, and heated milk. An old baby bottle, saved from feeding an orphaned lamb last spring, would do. The boy gulped hungrily, thenwarm and fulldrifted into sleep.
Morning came, but Emily barely noticed. She stared at the child, lost in thought. She was past forty now, the village women already calling her Auntie.
Her husband and son had been lost to war in the same cursed year, leaving her utterly alone. Shed never grown used to the silence, though life had forced her to bear it.
Now, she was adrift. She looked at the sleeping childhis tiny chest rising and fallingand made up her mind. She needed advice.
Her neighbour, Margaret, had always lived freeno husband, no children, no grief. Just fleeting lovers shed never clung to. Now, Margaret stood on her porch, draped in a shawl, basking in the sun. She listened to Emilys story, then shrugged.
Why would you want that? she said flatly before turning inside. Through the window, Emily caught the flick of a curtainanother man slipping out before dawn.
*Why?* The question gnawed at her.
Back home, she packed a bagformula, nappies, a change of clothesand waited at the roadside. A lorry pulled up within minutes.
Hospital? the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.
Hospital, she answered quietly.
At the orphanage, as they filled out forms for the foundling, unease twisted in her chest. This felt wrong.
Whats his name? the matron asked.
Name? Emily hesitated, then blurted, Alfie.
Lovely name, the matron said. Weve too many Johns and Kates herechildren of the dead. But this one? No one wanted him. Ungrateful, some women are.
The words werent meant for her, yet they cut deep.
That evening, back in her empty house, she lit a lamp. Her gaze fell on the old blanket, still damp. She picked it up, sat on the bed.
Her fingers traced the fabricthen paused. A small knot was tucked in the corner. Inside, a scrap of paper and a simple tin cross on a string.
*Kind woman, forgive me. I cant keep this child. By tomorrow, Ill be gone. Dont abandon my son. Give him what I couldntlove.*
A date followed.
Emily shattered. Sobs wracked her body, grief pouring out as if shed never cried before.
She remembered her wedding day, how radiant shed been. Then Alfie camemore joy. The village women had envied her.
Why wouldnt they? A loving husband, a cherished son.
Then the war. August 42 took her husband. October claimed Alfie. Her light went out.
Now, she was like all the othershaunted, half-alive, waking at night to fling open the door, searching.
That morning, she returned to the orphanage.
The matron recognised her instantly. Youre taking him back.
Yes, Emily said. Its what my Alfie wouldve wanted.
Wrapped in a quilt, the boy in her arms, she walked outher heart lighter, the hollow ache gone.
New feelings took root: happiness, love. If fate decreed joy, it would come.
At home, the photos of her husband and son watched from the wall. But now their faces seemed softer, approving.
She held little Alfie close. *Youll need me for years yet.*
Youll help me, she told the photos.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine man. Every girl fancied him, but he chose oneLouise, the kindest after his mum.
When he brought her home, Emily knew: her boy was a man now. She blessed them.
They married, built a home, had children. The youngest was named Alfie.
One night, thunder rumbled. Emily woke, stepped outside.
Thank you, son, she whispered to the dark. Now Ive three Alfies to love.
The old oak by the porchplanted by her husband when Alfie was bornswayed. Lightning flashed, bright as a smile.
