Why Edith took up knitting booties, she couldnt quite say.
Her daughter had turned forty. Two years prior, shed been widowed, never having had children. Last year, she remarried, but her new husband was much younger and insisted he wanted to live for himself, with no rush for a family.
Ediths son had long since moved to America with no plans to return. Her nieces and nephews had grown, but none were ready for children of their own. The house lacked the sound of childish laughter, the anticipation of little feet.
One day, in the shop, Edith spotted a skein of wool. The soft hues of English yarn enchanted her. Shed meant to knit herself a cardigan, buying fine needles and a crochet hook. Yet, without quite knowing why, she began knitting booties.
By evening, the first pair was done. There was still plenty of wool left. The next day, she stitched a bonnet, then a tiny jumper and a pair of little trousers with braces. Finishing the set, she fetched an old box of buttons and picked the prettiestshaped like tiny suns.
She washed the garments in warm water with wool-safe soap, carefully spreading them to dry on a towel. As she gazed at the delicate set, Edith sighed.
“Ill die without ever holding my grandchildren.”
But then another thought came.
“Somewhere, theres a child who needs these.”
She opened her laptop to search for orphanages in her town. After reading a few articles, she gathered herself and returned to the shopthis time for yarn in shades of blue.
Days later, shed knitted a set for a little boy. Then ten more pairs of booties, ten snug hats, each a different colour. Packing them into a box, Edith set off for the orphanage.
“Without certification, we cant accept handmade items,” the matron explained. “Nappies would be more usefulwe always need those.”
Edith stood clutching her knitted gifts, tears welling.
“Sorry, love,” the matron relented. “Come, lets try them on the little ones.”
Edith cradled the babies, stroked their soft cheeks, and slipped the booties onto tiny feet. The older ones wore her hats.
At home, she told her husband, “They said nappies wouldve been better.”
“Right,” he said. “Well buy some tomorrow. Now, lets boil the potatoes.”
“Theyll never let us adopt, not at our age. Im 61, youre 62,” Edith murmured.
“Maybe not,” he said calmly. “But no ones barred the door. We can visit, help out. Knit more bootiestheyll be needed.”
“Theres a pairtwins, a boy and a girl. Fair-haired. Nearly two,” Edith mused. “I think Ill knit them little suits. Too big now, but theyll grow into them. The booties fit perfectlyI made them like plimsolls.”
“Lets go together,” he offered. “Ill sort it. Well visit them.”
And he did. For months, Edith and her husband volunteered at the orphanage. She knitted new suits and booties for growing feet, and the twins began calling her “Mum.” But one day, when they arrived, the children were gone.
“Would you believe it? Theyve been adoptedboth at once,” the matron said. “We took photos in your knitted suits, and a couple rang that very day. Took months to sort the paperwork, but they left this morning. We worried no one would take two at once.”
Ediths eyes filled.
“Now, now, dont cry, silly,” her husband chided gently. “This is good news.”
That evening, their daughter called.
“Mum, Dad, can you come over? I need help.”
“Something with the tap?” Edith asked. “Or the neighbours flooded you again?”
“No,” her daughter replied. “Need help assembling a bed. Just let yourselves in.”
“Right, were coming,” Edith nodded.
They climbed into their Rover and drove over. The flat gleamed, the kitchen rich with the smell of supper. Edith and her husband slipped off their shoes.
“Wash up and wait in the sitting room,” their daughter called. “Be right there.”
They settled on the sofa, the news murmuring in the background. Suddenly, her husband nudged her.
She looked up. In the doorway stood her son-in-law, James.
In his arms were the twins, dressed in Ediths knitted suits and tiny plimsoll booties. The boy clutched a slice of apple; the girl, cheeks smeared, grinned mischievously. James smiled.
“I dont even know how to say it Well, youve got grandchildren now. We kept quiet in case it fell through. Janes just making their porridge.”
Jane rushed in, flushed and beaming.
“Mum, Dad, meet Lily and little George. I saw their photo on the Children Waiting page. Twins, just like me and my brother.”
“And the bootiesjust like those plimsolls you knitted us. Remember that photo of us at two? I showed James, and he said, Were taking them.”
James set the children down. They toddled to Edith, reached up, and cried, “Mama! Mama!”
Edith gathered them close, kissing their heads, wiping tears as she whispered, “Not Mama, my loves. Im your gran. Granny.”
Again and again, as if in a daze, she murmured, “Gran Gran Gran”
Her husband chuckled.
“Well, why the tears now? Best buy more wool. Theyll need socks soonthose booties wont fit forever.”
