Dear Diary,
My wife, Susan, was a fairhaired blonde and I, Alex, a deepbrownhaired man. Our love was steady, and two years after our wedding we were blessed with a daughter.
The birth was tricky; the baby became briefly tangled in the umbilical cord and couldnt emerge straight away. The anaesthetist took the newborn for a quick oxygen boost before she could be placed on my wife’s chest. Susan was moved to a recovery ward, and she didnt see her little one until ten hours later. When at last she caught sight of her, she was stunned. A nurse handed the infant, still swaddled, to Susan, laid her on the bedside table and unwrapped her. There, on the crisp white sheet, lay a tiny, redhaired girl with surprisingly long, curly hair.
Are you sure this isnt someone elses child? Susan asked in a whisper.
The guarantee is 100percentthis is yours, the nurse replied, noting that we had only taken the baby to the pressurised chamber. Your husband must be a redhead as well, she added with a smile before stepping out.
Susan stared at the bundle, hardly believing her eyes. The infant began to scrunch her face in protest, searching the air for her mothers breast, and let out a loud wail that echoed through the whole ward. Susan clumsily tried to swaddle her, but the babys cries grew louder until Susan finally pressed her to her chest, and the crying subsided.
When I arrived to collect my two girls, I looked at the little one with a puzzled expression, but said nothing.
Back home we traced our family trees, phoned relatives and discovered that my greatgreatgrandmother on my fathers side was a fieryred, curlyhaired Polish woman. After her, the line had produced only darkhaired ladsjust like me.
After the first bath, when Susan dried the baby with a towel and lifted her into her arms, I exclaimed, She looks like a May dandelion. Though we had already chosen the name Alice, we began calling her Daisy, and the whole family settled on the nickname Dandelion.
Daisy grew into a lively child; the neighbours called her GigglePuff, and she only wept when there was a clear reason. At four, spring freckles dotted her nose.
Mom, what are these? she asked innocently.
Theyre freckles, Susan said, kissing her cheek, Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youll help. She never imagined that Daisy would take those words to heart and carry them for life.
In the sandpit, whenever another child began to sob, Daisy would abandon her sandcastle, rush over, smooth the youngsters hair and whisper soothing words. The crying stopped at once, and she became convinced she was an angel.
When other toddlers saw the large doll Daisy clutched and demanded the same, they threw tantrums that rattled the whole block. Daisy would sprint over and hand over her beloved doll. When she got home, the doll was back in its place, thanks to Susan and the other mothers buying icecream and coaxing the children into returning it. Daisy thought this was simply how angels behaved.
In Year5, returning from school, she saw an elderly man on the pavement struggling with untied shoes. He bent down to retie them, while a boy on the fifth floor of the flat opposite peeked out and, by accident, knocked a hefty ficus pot over the balcony. The pot fell, but before it struck the man, Daisy darted forward, gave him a hard shove, and the pot landed on the ground where the man had just been. The old man, bewildered, managed to thank her, calling her an angel and saying she had saved him from certain injury. That only reinforced her belief.
Each spring, more freckles blossomed on her nose. One day, standing before a mirror, she examined her orange curls, blue eyes, rosy lips and the new speckles on her upturned nose. She asked, Mum, where will I find all the unlucky souls who need my help?
For a moment Susan forgot her earlier promise and answered, Darling, what are you talking about? I cant follow you.
But look at my nose, Daisy persisted, the freckles are multiplying every year. That must mean more people are waiting for my aid.
Your freckles mean the sun loves you, Susan tried, each new one is a kiss from the sun. She never quite grasped Daisys literal interpretation.
Maybe the sun does kiss me, Mum, but you told me Im an angel and every freckle is a person I must help, Daisy concluded.
Susan recalled how she had explained the freckles when they first appeared, stared in astonishment at her daughter, embraced her and thought, Its rare for a child to remember a fouryearolds words. She whispered, My little Dandelion, you truly are an angel, and pressed a kiss to Daisys golden hair.
As a teenager, Daisy helped elders cross the road, carried their shopping bags even when they lived on the other side of town, and often bought icecream and chocolate for a frail old lady who stood indecisively before the dairy aisle, giving the treats to her and refusing any for herself.
One afternoon, a stylish lady in an elegant coat and a faint scent of exotic perfume walked past her. The lady hurried toward a gleaming Lexus. Daisy, feeling shy, wanted to ask about the fragrance but hesitated, fearing it would seem rude. Suddenly the car behind the lady screeched, brakes shrieking, as a drunk driver lost control and smashed into the Lexus. The impact mangled the front door, twisted the steering wheel and sent the driver’s seat flying.
The lady clutched Daisy, whispering, Youre my angel!
Years later, in deep autumn, drizzle turning to snow, Daisy stood at the mouth of the underground station, hat with pompoms shielding her hair. A stranger asked, Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Willow Street? She turned and saw a young man with ginger curls slick with rain, freckles still bright as spring, and warm brown eyes. She laughed heartily, removed her hat and the two of them burst into shared laughter despite the damp weather.
Two years on they welcomed a curlyhaired redbaby, a new little Dandelion, a fresh angel. When he turned four, freckles appeared on his nose and he asked, Mum, what are these?
I answered, Those are freckles. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youll aid.
Looking back, I realise that love, kindness and a willingness to act can turn ordinary moments into miracles. My lesson: never underestimate the power of a single compassionate act; it may be the very thing that makes you an angel in someones eyes.
