Something Like a Miracle
I stepped out of the hospital into a fresh April afternoon, cradling my newborn son. There was no miracle. My parents hadnt come to fetch me. The sun shone, warm for the season, and I wrapped my now-loose jacket closer around me, holding a plastic bag full of my things and documents in one hand, balancing my son more securely in the crook of my other arm.
I had nowhere to go. My parents had flatly refused to let me bring my child home, Mum had demanded I sign away my rights. But I grew up in care, after my mother left me behind, and Id promised myself I would never, ever do that to my own child, no matter what.
My foster parents had treated me kindly enough, sometimes even spoiling me, though they never did teach me much about independence. We always scraped by, and illnesses were common. Of course, its my fault my son has no fatherat least I see that now.
Tom seemed so dependable, or so I thought. Hed even spoken about introducing me to his folks. But the moment I told him about the baby, hed said he wasnt ready for any of that, grabbed his coat, and left. He never picked up the phone after thatgot rid of me with a few taps.
I let out a sigh. No ones ever ready, not Tom, nor my parents. So here I am, with the responsibility all on my shoulders.
I took a seat on a nearby bench, letting the sun touch my face for a moment. Where could I go now? Id heard about shelters for women in my situation, but Id never asked where they actually weretoo proud, perhaps. Id just kept hoping Mum and Dad would come, that theyd forgive me, but they never did.
So, I chose what Id planned in desperation: Id make my way to a small village in Surrey, where my gran lived. Shed take me in, and Id help around the house and garden while the child benefits lasted, and later Id find work. Surely, something would turn up for me.
I adjusted my sleeping son and pulled out my battered old phone, intending to search for bus times to Surrey, nearly stepping in front of a passing car in my distraction.
The driver, a tall, silver-haired man, leapt out, shouting at me for not looking where I was going, warning that hed end up in prison if anything happened. The shock made tears spring to my eyes, and my sonsensing my fearstarted to cry as well. The man softened, asking where I was headed with the boy. My honest answer: I didnt really know.
Well, come on then, get in, sit yourself in the cab. Well get you sorted and figure out what next, he grumbled, ushering me off the street. Names Kenneth Wright, by the way. And you are?
Im Lucy, I managed, sniffling.
He helped me and my son into his car and drove us across town to his flat. Once inside, he gave us a room where I could feed my baby in peace. He had a sizeable three-bedroom place. I didnt even have anything to change my son into. I hesitantly offered him my little purse, with the paltry remains of my benefits, asking if hed pop out for nappies. He flatly refused, telling me he had nobody else to spend money on anyway.
Kenneth nipped round to his neighbour, a GP called Mrs. Matthews, in hope she might be in. Luckily, she was home on a day off. She telephoned someone, made a proper list of everything I might need, and handed it to Kenneth.
When he returned with the shopping, he found Id dozed off, sitting upright with my head nodding on the pillow, my son awake and wriggling next to me. Kenneth washed his hands and scooped the baby up so I could rest a little longer.
No sooner had he shut the bedroom door than I startled awake, panicked not to see my son. He came back in, baby in arm and a kind smile on his lips, assuring me hed only hoped to let me rest. He set down his bags and showed me all hed brought for us.
Shell pop over this evening, the doctor, and explain how to look after the little oneand shell ring the surgery for a check-up tomorrow, he said.
Then he sat down for a talk.
You neednt trek off to any village, or look for your gran. Live here. There’s plenty of space. Im a widower, no children or grandchildren of my own. Still working a bit on top of my pension. The loneliness weighs on me terribly. Id be glad of some company.
Did you ever have children? I asked.
He nodded, his gaze clouded.
Yes, Lucy. I had a son. I worked up in Newcastle, half the year away. He was at university, seeing a girl. They decided to marry in his final yearshe was expecting. Held off the wedding until I made it home. But he loved his motorbikes and he crashed and died before I even arrived. Straight to the funeral. My wife never recovered. I lost touch with his fiancée, though I knew she was pregnant. Searched, but never found her. So please, Lucystay. Lets help each other feel less alone for once. By the way, have you named your son yet?
I have I wanted to call him Oliver. It just seemed right, even if its not that common these days.
Oliver? Lucy, that was my sons name. I never told you that. Youve gladdened an old heart. So will you stay?
Yes, gladly. My foster parents wont have uswouldnt even pick us up. They were good to me, gave me a chance, but wouldnt accept my son. If not for them, who knows where Id have ended up. Even so, growing up in care, Id have qualified for a council flat. My birth mother left me at the orphanage with just a chain and locket tucked in my blanket.
Well then, why dont you go freshen up? I bought you some clothes, too. Well get on with sorting the baby and the flat. The bath needs cleaning before his bath, the doctor will show you how. And you must eat properly, for your milk.
When I returned in new clothes, Kenneth spotted my necklace.
Is that the chain your mum left you? he asked. I nodded, drawing out the locket for him to see. Suddenly, Kenneth went white as a sheet and almost fainted. I steadied him quickly.
When he recovered, he asked to see the locket, turning it over in his hands.
Have you ever opened it? he asked.
I shook my headthered never been a clasp.
He took it softly. I had this made for my son. It opens a special way. He pressed it; the locket split neatly in two. Inside was a tiny lock of hair.
Thats my boys hairI put it there myself. So you must be my granddaughter! It must be fate that brought us together.
Lets still do a test, to be sure, I blurted, tears in my eyes.
Not a bit of it. Youre my granddaughter, and theres my great-grandson. Thats the end of it. Besides, you do have your fathers featuresI kept thinking you looked familiar. I even have a photo of your mum. I can show you your family, at last.He hurried from the room, returning with a gilt-edged photographworn at the corners, the image soft with age. A young woman with bright eyes, laughing, arms wound around a man who must have been Kenneths son. At the edge of the frame, a pale necklace glimmeredmy necklaceagainst her blouse.
Something inside me settled and bloomed, a trembling sense of belonging Id never, in my whole life, allowed myself to imagine. For a moment, the world reversed course; the loneliness of the hospital, my parents absence, Toms silenceall of it softened at the edges. I leaned in, and Kenneths hand trembled as he offered me the photograph.
We found each other, Lucy, he said simply, voice thick. Its not a miraclejust something like one.
Oliver fussed, and Kenneth reached for him, cradling him with a tenderness that nearly undid me.
Well make a home now, the three of us, he whispered, as if he, too, dared not break the spell. I pressed the locket to my lips, marveling at the unexpected, improbable family that had grown from years of loss and longing.
Outside, sunlight spilled through the window. I thought of all the doors that had closed and the one, just now, that had opened wide. I took a shaky breath, cradled my sonand at last, I let myself believe wed be all right.
