Why Evelyn began knitting booties, she couldnt quite say.
Her daughter, Eleanor, had just turned forty. Two years ago, shed been widowed, never having had children. Last year, she remarried, but her new husband, much younger, insisted he wanted to live for himself firstthere was no rush.
Evelyns son had long since moved to Australia with no plans to return. Her nieces and nephews had grown, but starting families of their own seemed a distant thought. The house was silentno childrens laughter, no whispered hopes of a new arrival.
One day, in the shop, Evelyn spotted yarn. The soft hues of British wool enchanted her. She meant to knit herself a cardigan, bought fine needles and a hook. But without thinking, she found herself making booties instead.
By evening, the first pair was finished. There was plenty of yarn left. The next day, she stitched a bonnet, then a tiny jumper and matching trousers. She dug out an old tin of buttons and picked the prettiestlittle golden suns.
She washed the set in the basin with delicate wool soap, laid them carefully on a tea towel to dry. Gazing at the miniature clothes, Evelyn sighed.
“Ill die without ever holding a grandchild.”
But then another thought came.
“Somewhere out there, a baby needs these.”
She opened her laptop, searching for childrens homes nearby. After reading a few articles, she gathered her things and hurried back to the shopthis time for shades of blue.
Days later, shed knitted a set for a little boy. Then ten more pairs of booties, ten more hats, each in different colours. She packed them into a box and drove to the care home.
“We cant take handmade items without certification,” the worker explained. “Nappies would be more useful.”
Evelyn stood clutching her knitted gifts, tears welling.
“Fine,” the woman relented. “Lets try them on the babies.”
Evelyn cradled the infants, stroked their soft cheeks, slipped booties onto tiny feet. For the older ones, she fitted the hats.
When she returned home, she told her husband, “They said nappies would be better.”
“Right,” he replied. “Well buy some tomorrow. For now, lets get the potatoes on.”
“They wont give us a childwere too old. Im 61, youre 62,” Evelyn murmured.
“Maybe not,” he said calmly. “But no ones barred the door. We can visit, help out. Knit more booties. Theyll need them.”
“Theres a pairtwins, a boy and a girl. Fair-haired. Nearly two,” Evelyn mused. “I think theyd suit knitted sets. Too big now, but theyll grow. The booties fit, thoughI made them like little trainers.”
“Well go together,” her husband offered. “Ill sort it. Well visit them.”
And he did. For four months, they volunteered at the home. Evelyn knitted new outfits, booties for growing feet, and the twins had started calling her “Mum.” But one day, when they arrived, the children were gone.
“Imaginetheyve been adopted, both at once!” the worker beamed. “We took photos in your knitted sets, and a couple rang the same day. Paperwork took months, but this morning, they left. We worried no one would take two.”
Evelyns eyes brimmed.
“Dont cry, love,” her husband chided gently. “Be happy for them.”
That evening, Eleanor called.
“Mum, can you and Dad come over? I need help.”
“Is it the tap again?” Evelyn asked. “Or the neighbours?”
“No,” Eleanor said. “A cot needs assembling. Just let yourselves in.”
“Alright,” Evelyn agreed.
They took their old Rover and drove over. Eleanors flat gleamed, the scent of supper drifting from the kitchen. They slipped off their shoes, padded inside.
“Wash up and wait in the lounge,” Eleanor called. “Ill be right there.”
They settled on the sofa, the news murmuring on the telly. 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 Evelyns knitted sets and tiny trainer booties. The boy clutched an apple slice; the girl, cheeks smeared, grinned and tried to steal a bite. James smiled.
“Didnt know how to tell you Well, youre grandparents now. We kept quiet in case it fell through. Eleanors just heating their porridge.”
Eleanor rushed in, flushed and beaming.
“Mum, Dadmeet Lily and Oliver. I saw their photo on the adoption page. Twins, just like me and my brother. And their bootiesjust like the ones you knitted us. Remember that photo? I showed James, and he said, Were taking them.”
James set the children down. They toddled to Evelyn, arms outstretched, shouting:
“Mum! Mum!”
She gathered them close, kissed their heads, wiped her tears. “Not Mum, darlings. Im your nana. Nana.”
Again and again, she whispered it, as if in a daze.
Her husband chuckled.
“Now whyre you crying? Best buy more wool. Theyll need socks soonbooties wont fit forever.”
