Dear Diary,
Today I finally got a chance to reflect on the first months after Primrose entered our world. Emma, my motherinlaw, was a fairhaired nurse, while James, my husband, was a darkhaired doctor with a quick wit. They had been married for two years when they learned they were expecting a little girl.
The birth was anything but easy. Primrose became briefly entangled in the umbilical cord and could not be delivered straight away. The anaesthetist hurried in to give the newborn a burst of extra oxygen, and Emma was moved to a separate ward. She didnt see her daughter for ten long hours. When the moment finally came, the nurse placed the swaddled infant on a tray, unwrapped her, and there she was a tiny, redhaired girl with surprisingly long, curly locks.
Are you sure this isnt a mixup? Emma whispered, halfin awe.
Positive, the nurse replied. Mothers take their babies straight back to the ward, and yours was the only one that spent time in the hyperbaric chamber. And, by the way, your husband must be just as fieryred, she added with a smile before disappearing behind the door.
I stared at Primrose, stunned, as she began to squirm and let out a fullbodied wail, searching for my breast. My attempts at swaddling were clumsy; each cry grew louder until I finally pressed her gently against my chest, and she settled down.
When James arrived to collect his two daughters, he glanced at the baby, puzzled but said nothing. At home we started digging into our family trees, phoning relatives. It turned out that Jamess greatgreatgrandmother on his fathers side was a strikingly redhaired, curlyhaired Polish woman. After her, every child in that line was a brunette just like James.
After the first gentle bath, when I dried Primrose with a towel and lifted her into my arms, James looked at her and exclaimed, She looks like a Mayday dandelion. Though we had already chosen the name Primrose, the nickname Daisy stuck, and everyone called her that with affection.
Daisy grew into a cheerful child. Neighbours called her the giggler because she rarely cried without a clear reason. When she turned four, the first sprinklings of freckles appeared on her nose.
Mum, what are these? she asked innocently.
Theyre freckles, I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youre meant to help. I never imagined she would take those words to heart, but they stayed with her for life.
In the sandpit, whenever another child began to sob, Daisy would abandon her sandcastles, rush over, and soothe the youngster by gentle strokes and soft words. The calming effect was immediate; the crying ceased, and Daisy became convinced she was an angel.
When a small child spotted the large doll Daisy was cradling and began wailing for the same toy, Daisy would hand over her beloved doll. Somehow the doll always returned to its proper place at home a mystery I never solved, but Daisy believed it was the work of an angel.
The fifth year of school brought a dramatic episode. Walking home, Daisy saw an old man on the pavement struggling with untied shoes. He bent down to relace them, while a boy on the fifth floor peered out of a window above. The boys elbow knocked a heavy pot of ficus onto the street. Before the pot could hit the ground, Daisy sprinted, shoved the old man aside, and the pot crashed where he had been, shattering into pieces.
The mans anger turned instantly to gratitude. Little one, youre an angel, he gasped. You saved me from a terrible fall. Those words cemented Daisys belief in her celestial purpose.
Each spring she sprouted a few more freckles. One day, standing before the mirror, she examined her bright red curls, blue eyes, rosy lips, and the evergrowing constellation on her nose. Then she asked me, Mum, where will I find all the people who need my help?
I was taken aback. What are you talking about, love?
She persisted, Look at my nose every new freckle means another person I must aid.
I tried to explain, Your freckles are just sunshines kisses, darling. She shook her head, Maybe the sun kisses me, but you always said Im an angel and each freckle is a soul I must reach.
I remembered my own words from years before, hugged her tightly, and whispered, You truly are my little angel, pressing a kiss to her golden curls.
As a teenager, she made a habit of helping the elderly across busy streets, carrying their shopping bags even when they lived on the other side of town. Once, in a supermarket, she saw an elderly lady hesitating between milk and butter. Without a second thought she bought both, gave them to the lady, and forwent her own treat.
One rainy afternoon, a elegantly dressed woman with a distinct perfume walked past her, trailing a faint, otherworldly scent. The woman approached a sleek black Lexus and hesitated. Daisy, emboldened by curiosity, reached out and grasped the womans sleeve. Excuse me, madam, she stammered, Your fragrance is extraordinary may I ask what it is? Before the woman could answer, a screech of brakes filled the air; a reckless driver had lost control and crashed into the womans car. The vehicles front was mangled, the steering wheel twisted, and the drivers seat smashed.
The woman clutched Daisys arm, trembling, Youre an angel! You saved me! she whispered.
Later, in early autumn, she waited at a tram stop, rain pelting her bonnet. A young man approached, shivering, asking for directions to Willow Lane. His red, curly hair was damp, his freckles bright despite the gray sky, and his eyes were brown. She laughed out loud, and he laughed too. They shared a moment of pure, spontaneous joy under the drizzle.
Two years later they welcomed a baby boy a curlyhaired, redcheeked little one, the newest dandelion. When he turned four, he too asked, Mum, what are these? and I answered, These are freckles, dear. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more souls youll help.
Now, as I write this, I see the thread that runs through our family: red hair, curls, freckles, and an unshakable belief that kindness is a gift were meant to share. It feels as if the universe has been whispering the same story for generations, and I am grateful to be part of it.
