A tiny hand reaches through the gap in the garden fence, stretching toward the ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice as I weed the onion patch.
“Hello, Auntie Alice!” chirps a small voice.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile. “Come here, help me pick some strawberries.”
The fence wire sags, and I lift the lower edge easily. In steps my Angel—that’s what I call little Alfie. Close behind him, panting and huffing, squeezes Bear, his enormous dog, nearly twice his size. I place a large bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch. Alfie picks the biggest, ripest berries. His fair hair and blue eyes catch the light, and his shoulder blades stick out like little wings—hence his name. He’s five, curious and kind.
“Alfie, why was your mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, but I spilled the tin,” he confesses. “I was trying to paint Bear’s kennel and dropped it.”
“Well, no harm done. We’ll have tea, then buy another tin.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being asked and settles at the table, his favourite spot by the window. From the treats offered, he chooses strawberries with cream and a still-warm scone dusted with sugar. Soon, his top lip wears a milky moustache. Bear lies patiently on the doormat—he knows the rules—and waits for his share: a cheese scone. He eyes the lone offering with disappointment, then glances between us as if to say, *Is that all?* We laugh, and I set down a bowl of leftover stew. Bear forgives us and tucks in.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with two tins of paint: white and green. The sky is blue, the sun high, the air warm. I pop home to change, then pack the remaining strawberries and scones into a bag. On Alfie’s doorstep sits his grandmother—blind these past two years. My Angel adjusts her scarf carefully, tucking away a stray curl. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap; she loves them.
On the veranda, Alfie and I paint the stools white, then Bear’s kennel green. Alfie beams; Bear couldn’t care less.
Helen, Alfie’s mum, returns from work. She praises his handiwork and invites us in. Alfie takes his grandmother’s hand, guiding her inside. He feeds her rice pudding, patient and precise. She sips her tea alone, a caramel melting on her tongue. She moves through the house by memory, knowing which floorboard creaks where. Helen works at a roadside café two miles away. If it’s a late shift, she relies on her son.
I watch Alfie shovel in buttered porridge, gulp down sweet tea, then scamper off to watch cartoons. A child yet a man—or perhaps a man still a child?
He sweeps floors, washes dishes, helps his grandmother dress, carries firewood (two logs at a time), and fetches water in a small pail. He adores his dog and sometimes cries bitterly when his mum shouts unfairly. But he also laughs with pure joy when he splashes in the river, water droplets glittering in the sun.
Helen walks me to the gate. I tell her not to shout at Alfie. “He’s a man—don’t shame him. Cherish him. Find reasons to praise him.”
She sighs about her struggles—her blind mother, her meagre wages.
I reply, “You’ve a home, your mother alive and close, a job, a son who helps, and good health. Treasure what you have—don’t compare.”
Helen smiles and waves goodbye.
My time with Alfie isn’t wasted. At five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to his grandmother. On still evenings, we trek to the river with fishing rods. The sun, like a ripe sunflower, dips slowly behind the trees, casting golden light on the clouds. The world grows quiet, resting from the day’s noise. Our chatter doesn’t scare the fish—soon, a pair glisten in the bucket. Dinner for my cat is sorted.
…Today, my Angel visited. He’s grown now—42, a respected surgeon. Each year, he tends his mother’s and grandmother’s graves, then arrives at my door, arms full of treats. The world calls him Dr. Alfie Carter, but I know the truth—he’s still my Angel. Broad-shouldered, kind. In every season, he brings strawberries, sits by the window, and smiles over tea and warm scones. He smokes a cigarette on the step and, when he leaves, hugs me with great, warm wings.
We never know the weight of the small kindnesses we plant—but one day, they bloom into something vast.
