There was a mother, and there was a daughter. The daughter turned out to be the child of my old friendEmma.
A holiday trip to the sunny coasts of Spain ended with a pregnancy, and later with a birth. A little girl entered the worldPoppy. Darkhaired, with deep brown eyes, a proper English lass.
Emma kept her job, while her daughter looked after the baby, but each evening Emma slipped away to escape the routine of daily life.
Sometimes she would bring a man home. My mother knew of these visits, but she never meddled in Emmas affairs.
When Poppy turned five, Emma announced that she was moving in with a new boyfriend. Her fate was being decided, and the man knew nothing of the child. Emma begged my mother to let Poppy stay with her.
My mother had to leave her work and live on a meagre state pension. Emma would now and then slip a few pounds into the old womans bank card.
Poppy missed her mother terribly. She would stare out of the window, twitching at every creak in the hallway, as if the house itself were whispering her name.
Emmas visits grew rarer, her transfers to the card smaller. Yet one day she decided to see her daughter. She bought a few gifts, some sweets, and arrived late in the afternoon, just as Poppy, fresh from a bath, was perched in her nightgown watching her favourite programme, Goodnight, Sweetheart.
Hearing her mothers voice, Poppy leapt from the sofa, ran to Emma, and clasped her neck with both small hands. Mum, Ive missed you so much! I love you, she cried.
Poppy, love, youre hurting melet go of my neck. I love you too, Emma whispered, trying to pry the tiny fingers free.
The girl held on so tightly that Emma could barely free her little hands. In desperation, Poppy clutched at Emmas ankles.
Are you not going to leave? Wont you ever abandon me again? Are we together now, forever? she pleaded.
Patience, love, Emma replied, theyll soon take you back. I must be off now.
I sat in the kitchen, tears streaming down my cheeks like rain. Emma rummaged through the medicine cabinet for some valerian tablets.
Emma gave one last goodbye, slammed the door, and Poppy stayed on the floor, hands folded on her knees. She did not sob; she simply stared at a point beyond the walls.
Mother doesnt love me, she whispered. Shes gone. I have no father. Everyone else has one, I have none.
My dear, Im here for you, said my grandmother, lifting Poppy from the floor.
Poppy threw her arms around the old lady, resting her head on her shoulder.
Grandma, could you tell me the story of the rooster and the fox? she asked.
Of course, love. Ill tuck you in and tell it straightaway, the grandmother replied.
I waved to Emma as I left the room; she answered with a look that said, Take care. I prayed that God would keep my grandmother healthy enough to raise this child, and perhaps that Emma might one day change her mind. After all, life is full of twists.
I recall another tale from the old days of the Commonwealth, when a woman had a child with a man and never mentioned the baby. A year later the truth emerged by accident when the mother needed medical help. The man, upon learning how she had treated his child, cast her aside, saying a mother like hers was unfit for his future offspring.
Still, we cling to hope that things can turn out for the best.
