Margaret knew at once when she tugged the scrap of fabric poking out from the bush. The rag turned out to be an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harder. Then she frozethere, in the corner of the blanket, lay a tiny child.
Just before dawn, Margaret had a strange dream: her son, Alfie, standing on the porch, knocking at the door. She startled awake, scrambled to her feet, and ran barefoot to the entrance.
Silence. No one. These dreams came often, always deceiving her, yet each time she flung the door open wide. She did it again now, peering into the empty night.
The quiet and the dim glow of the streetlamps surrounded her. Trying to calm her racing heart, she sat on the porch step. Then, in that stillness, an odd sound reached hera faint rustle, almost a whimper.
«Another stray kitten tangled in the bushes,» she thought, heading to free the little thing, as she had done many times before.
But it wasnt a kitten. Margaret understood the moment she tugged the scrap. The rag was an old, patterned baby blanket, and she yanked harder.
Then she froze. There, nestled in the folds, lay a tiny baby. Completely naked, likely having squirmed freea little boy. His umbilical stump hadnt even fallen off yet; he couldnt have been more than a day old.
The child was too weak to cry, soaked and shivering, clearly starving. When Margaret lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper.
Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and rushed inside. She found a clean bedsheet, wrapped him snugly, tucked him under a warm blanket, and warmed milk. She scrubbed an old bottle, found a teat left over from spring when shed nursed an orphaned lamb. The baby sucked greedily, then, warm and full, fell asleep.
Morning came, but Margaret barely noticed. She thought only of the child. She was past forty now, and the village youth already called her «Auntie.»
Her husband and son had been lost in the war, years apart, leaving her utterly alone. She never grew used to the solitude, but lifes harsh truth kept reminding her, and soon she learned to rely only on herself.
Now, she was at a loss. She glanced at the sleeping childsoft breaths, peaceful, like all babies.
Then it struck her: shed ask her neighbour. She looked at the boy once more and went to see Helen. Helens life was smooth, unburdenedno husband, no children, no grief. She lived for pleasure, her lovers coming and going, none ever staying long.
Helen, elegant and poised, stood on her porch, draped in a shawl, basking in the morning sun. She listened to Margarets story, then shrugged.
«Why would you want that?» she said, turning back inside. Margaret caught a flicker of movement behind the curtainanother fleeting lover.
«Why?» Margaret whispered. «Why indeed?»
She returned home, packed a bag: fed the baby, wrapped him in dry clothes, gathered food, and walked to the roadside to hitch a ride into town. A lorry stopped within minutes.
«Going to the hospital?» the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.
«The hospital,» Margaret replied quietly.
At the orphanage, as they processed paperwork for the foundling, unease gnawed at her. Something felt wrong, against her conscience, a restless guilt in her heart.
And the emptinessit ached. The same hollowness shed felt when the telegrams came, first for her husband, then her son.
«What shall we name him?» the matron asked.
«Name?» Margaret paused, then said, surprising herself, «His name is Alfie.»
«Lovely name,» the matron said. «Weve plenty of Alfreds and Katherines heremost from parents lost in the war. But this one? No clue whod abandon a child. Men are scarceshouldnt a mother cherish her baby? Heartless, thats what she is!»
The words werent aimed at Margaret, but they stung. Returning home that evening, she lit a lamp in her empty house.
Then she saw itthe old blanket. She hadnt thrown it away, just set it aside. Now she picked it up and sat on the bed.
Fingers tracing the damp fabric, she sat in silence. Then her hand brushed a knot in the corner.
Inside was a scrap of paper and a simple tin cross on a string. Unfolding the note, she read:
«Kind woman, forgive me. I dont want this child. My life is a mess, and tomorrow Ill be gone. Dont abandon my son. Give him what I cantlove, care, and safety.»
A birthdate followed. And then Margaret broke. She wept, wailing as if mourning anew. The tears came like a floodshed thought shed cried them all years ago.
She remembered her wedding day, how happy she and her husband had been. Then Alfie arrivedmore joy. The village women envied her; she glowed with happiness.
Why wouldnt she? A husband who adored her, a son she cherished. And they loved her in return. Before the war, Alfie had finished drivers training, promised to take her for rides in the new lorry hed get from the farm.
Then came the loss. In August 42, the telegram for her husband. That October, another for her son. Her happiness ended, the light gone forever.
She became like the others, like nearly every woman in the villagestartling awake at night, rushing to the door, staring into the dark.
That night, she couldnt sleep, pacing outside, listening, waiting. By morning, she drove back to town.
The matron recognised her at once and wasnt surprised when Margaret said shed take the boy backthat her lost son had willed it.
«Good,» the matron said. «Take him. Well sort the papers.»
Wrapped in a blanket, Alfred left the orphanage in Margarets armsher heart no longer heavy, the years of loneliness finally lifting.
New feelings settled inhappiness, love. If life meant for someone to be happy, they would be. And so it was for Margaret.
Her empty house greeted her with photos of her husband and son on the wall.
But this time, their faces looked differentnot solemn or grieving, but soft, approving, as if bathed in light.
Margaret held little Alfie close, feeling stronghed need her for years to come.
«Youll help me,» she told the photos.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine man. Every girl dreamed of him, but he chose the one his heart settled onhis beloved, after his mum, of course. Her name was Grace.
One day, Alfie brought Grace home to meet his mother, and Margaret knew thenher boy was a man now. She blessed them.
They married, built their own nest. Children came, the youngest named Alfie, and Margarets family grew.
One night, noise outside woke her. Out of habit, she went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the dark. A storm brewed, lightning flickering.
«Thank you, son,» Margaret whispered into the night. «Now I have three Alfies, and I love you all.»
The old oak by the porch, planted by her husband when Alfie was born, rustled. Lightning flashedbright as her boys smile.
