The Gift of Healing: How a Chance Meeting at the Bus Stop Saved My Daughter
When Igor and I welcomed our little girl into the world, the entire hospital staff couldn’t stop marvelling at her. She was like a picture—tiny, with delicate features, a button nose, ears as if carved by hand, and those eyes… cornflower blue, clear as crystal, seeming to look straight into the soul as if she already understood the world.
At first, all was well. She held her head up by two months and tried to stand by four. We rejoiced at every milestone, making plans, unaware of the shadow creeping closer. By six months, a hard lump appeared on her neck. The doctors just shrugged, offering no answers. We tried compresses, ointments, visited specialist after specialist—nothing worked. She grew restless, barely ate, cried incessantly, and slept fitfully. I rocked her through the nights until dawn, while the doctors insisted everything was fine—blood tests clear, no cause for concern.
I turned to folk healers—useless. Despair settled in.
Then, when she was eighteen months old, the miracle happened. We were on our way to my mother’s, waiting at the bus stop as the coach ran late. My girl sat pale and listless in her pram when a woman approached—strong-built, her hair braided in a crown, wearing a simple cotton dress. She had the look of the countryside, with piercing blue eyes and a warmth that disarmed me.
She gazed at my daughter and said softly, “Poor child. Poor mother. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, does she?”
I nodded. Then she added, “I treat such cases. She’ll fade soon. If you want to save her, come before sunset. I’m Granny Eleanor. Just round the corner. Bring a dozen fresh eggs.”
With that, she stepped away, standing apart as if sensing my hesitation. And I did waver—another charlatan? Another trick to frighten me into parting with money? Yet something pricked at me, a certainty that if I didn’t go, I’d regret it forever.
When I told my mother, she simply said, “Go. If she asks too much, walk away.”
I bought the eggs and found the house—small, with green shutters, flowers beneath the windows, and a garden where a little girl of about three played near the fence.
“You came,” Granny Eleanor said, stepping out. “Wasn’t sure you would. Don’t like to impose, but my heart wouldn’t let it pass. That’s little Rosie—came all the way from Newcastle. A month later, she was walking.”
Rosie clapped her hands, grinning as if to prove it.
“Come inside,” Granny Eleanor beckoned. I hesitated.
“How much do you charge?”
“Not a penny,” she waved me off. “Take what’s given. Don’t trade kindness for coin. Children are innocent—adults reap what they sow.”
In the kitchen, she rolled the eggs over my daughter’s limbs, spiralling upward, murmuring words like a whisper to the wind: “Out with the ache, the withering, from bone and blood, from this precious frame…” My girl watched curiously, reaching for the eggs.
Then, she cracked them into glasses of water. In the sunlight, a stark cross formed on each yolk, while the whites bubbled like tiny springs.
“See?” she said. “A death curse. Folk forget the fear of God. But we’ll mend her.”
“Who did this?” I asked.
“Best not to say. Tried naming names before—only brought more grief. Let the Lord sort them.”
Three rounds of treatments—ten days each, with breaks. First, the crosses faded, then the bubbles. My girl improved—sleeping, eating, laughter returning, her cheeks blooming pink.
“Do you eat the eggs?” I once asked.
“Good heavens, no,” she laughed. “The pigs take them. They’ve no fear.”
She told me later how she inherited the gift—from her mother, who’d received it from hers. A jealous sister had tried to steal the prayers, but the gift wasn’t in words—it lived in the heart.
By summer’s end, Rosie was running. Her father returned for her, leaving crates of strawberries, jams, honey—gifts for Granny Eleanor, who only said, “See how they repay? But that lass stays right here,” tapping her chest.
And then, it was done. After the last session, the eggs ran clear. My daughter was well.
Now she’s nineteen—bright, beautiful, fluent in languages, dreaming of Oxford. Sometimes I look at her and can’t believe she was almost lost to me. Passing that bus stop, I still think of Granny Eleanor and whisper, “Thank you.”
For she didn’t just save my daughter. She saved my motherhood. My very life.
