“Whose Girl Are You, Love?.. Let Me Carry You Home to Warm Up — I Lifted Her in My Arms, Brought Her to My Cottage, and the Village Was Ablaze With Gossip: ‘Goodness, Anna, Where Did You Find Her?’ ‘What Will You Do With That Child?’ ‘Anna, Have You Lost Your Mind? How Will You Feed Her?’ The Floor Creaked Underfoot — Again I Remind Myself I Should Fix It, But Never Find the Time. Settling at My Table, I Opened My Faded Diary: Pages Yellowed Like Autumn Leaves, Yet Its Ink Preserved My Thoughts. Outside, the wind howls and a birch tree taps the window, begging to be let in. ‘Why All The Fuss?’ I Ask It. ‘Just Wait — Spring Will Come Soon Enough.’ It’s Funny to Talk to a Tree, I Know, But When You Live Alone, Everything Feels Alive. The war left me a widow — my dear Stephen gone, his last letter still folded tight and worn with rereading. He promised to return, promised love, promised happiness… A week later, I learned the truth. God did not grant me children—perhaps merciful, as there was little to feed them in those harsh years. The farm boss, Mr. Nicholas Evans, tried to comfort me: ‘Don’t worry, Anna. You’re young yet, you’ll marry again.’ ‘I won’t remarry,’ I always replied. ‘I’ve loved once, that’s enough.’ The day begins at sunrise and ends at sunset at the farm. The foreman, Mr. Peterson, often shouts: ‘Anna Evans, go home already! It’s getting late!’ ‘I’ll manage,’ I reply. ‘As long as my hands work, my soul stays young.’ My little farm: stubborn nanny goat Maggie and five hens that woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour, Claudia, liked to tease: ‘You’re not a turkey, are you? Why do your hens crow before the others?’ I kept a garden — potatoes, carrots, beets. All from my own soil. Each autumn, I’d jar pickles, tomatoes, mushrooms — winter’s jar cracked open brought summer right back to my kitchen. I recall that day vividly: March, damp and cold. Morning drizzle turned to an evening freeze. Off to the woods for kindling, I gathered an armful. Passing the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was just the wind, but no — clear, childlike sobs. Beneath the bridge I found a little girl, caked in mud, soaked and ragged, terrified eyes wide and silent. She froze at seeing me, shivering like a leaf. ‘Whose girl are you?’ I whispered, not to frighten her. She didn’t answer, just blinked. Blue lips, swollen red hands. ‘You’re freezing,’ I murmured. ‘Let me carry you home and warm you up.’ Tiny and featherlight, I wrapped her in my scarf, pressed her to my chest, wondering — what sort of mother leaves a child under a bridge? Couldn’t comprehend it. I left the kindling behind, the child more urgent. All the way home she clung tight and quiet. At the cottage, neighbours gathered — news travels fast in English villages. Claudia arrived first: ‘Good grief, Anna! Where did she come from?’ ‘Found her under the bridge — abandoned, so it seems.’ ‘Oh, dear… What’ll you do with her?’ ‘I’ll keep her.’ ‘Anna, you’ve surely lost your mind! How will you feed a child?’ ‘I’ll feed her with what God provides,’ I retorted. First, I stoked the fire hotter than ever and heated water. The poor girl was all bruises, ribs sticking out. I bathed her gently, dressed her in my old jumper — nothing else fit. ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked. She nodded, shy. Yesterday’s soup and a slice of bread — she ate hungrily but neatly. Not a street child, I reckoned, but someone’s family. ‘What’s your name?’ She stayed mute, whether fearful or not knowing the words. That night I tucked her in my bed, myself taking the bench. Woke several times to check on her — she slept curled, crying softly in dreams. At dawn, I marched to the parish office — notified Mr. Stephen Jones, the Council Chair: ‘No child’s been reported missing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps someone from town abandoned her…’ ‘What now?’ ‘By law she goes to the children’s home. I’ll call the district today.’ My heart clenched: ‘Wait, Mr. Jones. Give me time — maybe her parents will come. Until then, I’ll care for her.’ ‘Anna Evans, think carefully…’ ‘No need. I’ve decided.’ I named her Mary, after my mother. I kept hoping her family would appear — none ever did. Thankfully; I was already smitten with her. At first, she hardly spoke, only searched the room with her eyes. At night, she woke screaming — I’d hold her, stroke her head: ‘It’s all right, darling. Everything will be fine.’ Out of my old dresses, I stitched her some clothes — dyed them blue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. Claudia clapped when she saw: ‘Anna, you’re a wizard with your hands! I thought your talent stopped at the spade.’ ‘Life makes you a seamstress and a nanny too,’ I replied, secretly proud. But not everyone was so clever — especially old Mrs. Martha, crossing herself at the sight of us: ‘Nothing good comes of this, Anna. To take in a foundling is to call trouble. Must have been a wicked mother — an apple never falls far from the tree…’ ‘Hush, Martha!’ I snapped. ‘Not your place to judge another’s sins. That girl is mine now, and that’s final.’ The farm boss also frowned at first: ‘Why not send her to a proper children’s home, Anna Evans? They’ll feed and dress her well.’ ‘And who will love her?’ I asked. ‘Plenty of orphans in homes already.’ He shrugged, but soon started helping — sending milk, oats. Mary thawed slowly; words came, then sentences. The first time she laughed, I was knocked off my stool hanging curtains. Sat on the floor, groaning, and she burst out with honest, child’s laughter — so bright my pain vanished. In the allotment, she’d “help” — tiny hoe in hand, copying me, mostly trampling weeds into the beds. I never scolded, just pleased to see life spark in her. Then disaster: poor Mary fell sick with fever. Red and raving. I ran to our paramedic, Simon Peterson: ‘Please, you must help!’ ‘Anna, I’ve three aspirin for the whole parish! Maybe some will arrive next week.’ ‘Next week? She might not last till morning!’ Off I trudged nine muddy miles to the hospital. Shoes battered, feet blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex Mitchell, took one look at wet, filthy me: ‘Wait here.’ He returned with medicine, explained the dosages: ‘You don’t owe me, just nurse her back to health.’ For three days I didn’t leave her side. Whispered every prayer I knew. Changed compresses round the clock. On the fourth day, the fever broke: ‘Mum… water.’ Mum — her first word for me. I wept for happiness, for exhaustion, for everything at once. She wiped my tears with her little hand: ‘Mum, why are you crying?’ ‘Not pain, darling — joy.’ Afterwards she blossomed — chatty, cheerful. Soon school beckoned; her teacher couldn’t praise her enough: ‘Such a quick learner!’ Village folk warmed in time, stopped whispering. Even Mrs. Martha softened — shared pies, especially after Mary helped her light the fire during a nasty cold snap. Martha, laid up with arthritis, no wood chopped. Mary offered: ‘Mum, should we check on Mrs. Martha? She must be freezing alone.’ They became friends — the old grump and my girl. Martha shared stories, taught knitting, never again speaking of foundlings or bad blood. Years passed. At nine, Mary began asking about the bridge. One evening while I darned socks and she cradled her homemade doll: ‘Mum, remember when you found me?’ My heart skipped, but I nodded: ‘I remember, darling.’ ‘I remember a bit too. It was cold. I was scared. There was a woman crying, and then she left.’ My needles dropped. She continued: ‘I don’t remember her face, just a blue scarf. She kept saying “Please forgive me…”’ ‘Mary…’ ‘Don’t fret, Mum, I’m not sad. I just remember sometimes. You know what? I’m glad you found me that day.’ I hugged her tight, throat knotted. So many times I wondered — who was that woman in blue? What drove her to leave a child under that bridge? Starvation? Cruelty? Not for me to judge. That night sleep would not come. I thought: life seems so empty, so unfair, until the moment it prepares us for what matters — to warm a lost child. Often, Mary would ask about her past. I held nothing from her, always gentle: ‘Sometimes people are driven to desperate choices, darling. Maybe your mother suffered terribly.’ ‘You’d never do that?’ she would ask, searching my eyes. ‘Never. You are my joy, my blessing.’ Years raced on. Mary shone at school, rushed home: ‘Mum! Mum! Today I recited a poem at the board, and Miss Jane said I have talent!’ Her teacher, Miss Jane Williams, often said: ‘Anna Evans, that girl ought to go further. Gifted, especially with words. You’d be amazed at her stories.’ ‘How? We’ve got no money…’ ‘I’ll tutor her for free. Can’t bury that kind of gift.’ Miss Williams coached her in our cottage. I brought tea with raspberry jam, listened in as they debated Shakespeare, Dickens, Eliot — my heart swelling. At sixteen, Mary fell for a new lad who’d moved to the village. Wrote poems in a notebook, hidden under her pillow. I played innocent, knowing all too well — first love, tender but bittersweet. After school, she applied to teacher training college. Gave her all my savings, even sold our cow — fond Zora, but what could I do? ‘You can’t, Mum!’ protested Mary. ‘How will you manage?’ ‘Potatoes for me, eggs from the hens. You must go.’ When her acceptance letter arrived, the village rejoiced. Even the farm boss came round: ‘Well done, Anna! You raised and educated a daughter. Now we’ll have a student from our village.’ On the day she left, we stood at the bus stop. She hugged me, crying. ‘I’ll write every week, Mum.’ ‘You will,’ I choked, heart breaking. When the bus vanished round the bend, Claudia joined me: ‘Come, Anna. Chores are waiting at home.’ ‘You know, Claudia,’ I said, ‘I’m happy. Others have children by blood; mine was Heaven-sent.’ True to promise, Mary wrote often. Each letter a holiday. I memorised every line — tales of college, friends, the city, but always between the lines, her longing for home. Second year, she met her own David — a history student. He crept into her letters, at first in passing, but I knew. At summer, she brought him home. A solid lad, handy too: fixed the roof, mended the fence, won neighbours over. On the porch he shared stories of history — captivating. Clearly loved my Mary. When Mary visited, the whole village gathered to see the beauty she’d become. Even Mrs. Martha, aged and slow, crossed herself: ‘Dear me! I was so wrong when you brought her home. Forgive me, foolish old woman. Look at this joy!’ Mary became a teacher herself, at city school now. She’s married to David, happy as can be. They’ve given me a granddaughter — Annabella, named for me. Annabella — the spit of Mary at that age, only bolder. When they visit, not a moment’s peace. Wild with curiosity, always exploring. Brings life to the house — without a child’s laughter, a home is silent as a church without bells. I sit, writing in my diary again, while the wind howls outside. Still the floor creaks, still the birch taps, but the quiet is peaceful now — gratitude for every smile from Mary, for fate guiding me to the old bridge that day. On my table: a photo of Mary, David, little Annabella. Beside it, my tattered scarf, the one I wrapped her in all those years ago. I keep it safe — sometimes I lay it out, stroke it, and the warmth of those distant days floods back. Yesterday a letter arrived: Mary’s expecting again. A boy! David’s picked the name Stephen, for my late husband. The family line goes on — someone will remember. The old bridge is long gone, replaced by sturdy concrete. I rarely pass that way now, but I always pause, remembering: how one day, one chance, one child’s cry on a damp March night… changed everything. They say fate tests us with loneliness, so we cherish those we love. I believe something else — life prepares us to meet those who need us most. Blood means nothing; only the heart’s truth matters. And under that old bridge, my heart did not fail me.”

Whose child are you, little one?.. Let me carry you home, youll get warm.

I lifted her in my arms and brought her into my cottage. Of course, in a village, news travels on the wind, and before the kettle boiled half the neighbours had gathered at my gate.

Good heavens, Anna, where did you find her?
And what are you going to do with her?
Anna, have you lost your mind? How will you feed a child?

The floor groaned beneath my feet, making me think yet again that I really ought to fix those old boards, but never did get round to it. I sat down at the table and pulled out my battered old diary. The pages were yellowed, like autumn leaves, yet the ink still held my memories. Outside, the wind rattled the branches of the silver birch, tapping on the glass as if asking to come in.

Whats all the fuss about, eh? I said to the tree that day. Be patient. Spring will come soon enough.

Its daft, talking to trees, but when you live alone, you find company in all sorts of places. I was left a widow after those terrible yearsthe war stole my George away. I still keep his final letter, all creased and fading, as Ive read it so many times. He promised hed be home soon, that he loved me, wed be happy… but a week later, everything changed.

We never had children. Maybe it was for the best. There was naught to spare. Mr Edwards, the farm manager, often tried to comfort me:

Dont fret, Anna. Youre still young. Youll find someone else.

I shant marry again, Id reply, firm as oak. I loved once; thats plenty.

I worked dawn to dusk on the farm. Old Mr Peterson, the foreman, would shout sometimes:

Anna! You ought to be home by now, its late!

Ive plenty of time, Id answer. So long as my hands work, my heart stays young.

My little cottage held a stubborn nanny goat called Maisieshe was just as headstrong as meand five hens that woke me better than any alarm clock. Mrs Clark next door often joked:

You sure youre not an old turkey? Why do your chickens crow before the rest?

I kept a vegetable patchpotatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything homegrown. In autumn, Id pickle cucumbers and tomatoes, or marinate mushrooms. Come winter, opening a jar made it feel like summer climbed back into my kitchen.

I recall that March day clearly, cold and damp. The rain drizzled all morning and the ground froze by nightfall. Id gone to the woods for kindlingthe stove needed fuel. Plenty of fallen branches left by winter storms, just waiting to be gathered. I had a bundle under my arm, heading home by the old stone bridge, when I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the winds mischief, but it was unmistakablea childs sobs.

I went down under the bridge and saw a little girl, all mud and torn dress, shivering and wide-eyed. When she spotted me, she fell silent, trembling like a leaf in a gale.

Who do you belong to, love? I asked softly, not wanting to scare her.

She didnt speak, only blinked. Her lips were blue, hands red and swollen from the cold.

Shivering, poor mite, I muttered. Let me bring you home, get you warm.

She was light as a feather when I picked her up. Wrapped her in my scarf and held her close, wondering what sort of mother would leave a child under a bridge. I dropped the kindlingthere were more serious matters now. All the way home, she clung to my neck with frozen fingers.

At home, the neighbours had already gathered. Mrs Clark was first.

Anna, where in Gods name did you find her?

Under the bridge, I said. Abandoned, seems.

Oh mercy, Mrs Clark wrung her hands. What are you going to do?

What else can I do? Ill keep her.

Anna, you must be mad, old Mrs Morgan joined in. How will you feed another mouth?

Ill manage, I said. By Gods grace, well not starve.

I got the fire roaring, set my biggest kettle boiling. The poor child was bruised and thin as a rakeher ribs poking through. I bathed her gently, then dressed her in an old jumperhad no childrens clothes about.

Are you hungry? I asked.

She nodded shyly.

I ladled out leftover stew and sliced bread. She ate hungrily, but neatlyclear shed once been someones cherished daughter.

Whats your name?

She said nothing. Maybe afraid, maybe unable.

I tucked her into my own bed and made do on the settle. All night I got up to check on her. She slept curled up in a ball, sobbing in her dreams.

By morning, I walked straight to the parish council to report her. Mr Stanley, the chairman, could only shrug.

No missing children reported. Maybe someone from town left her here…

What should I do now?

Legally, she ought to go to the childrens home. Ill ring them today.

My heart knotted.

Wait, Stanley. Give me timethe parents may come looking. Ill care for her meanwhile.

Think hard, Anna…

No need. Ive decided.

I named her Maryafter my own mum. Thought maybe someone would come for her, but no one did. I thanked my lucky starsId grown deeply attached.

Those early days werent simple. She didnt speak, just peered round the room, searching for something. Woke at night crying, shaking uncontrollably. Id hold her close and stroke her hair:

Hush, darling, hush. Everythings going to be alright.

With old frocks I stitched her new clothes. Painted them bright blue, green and red. They looked plain, but cheerful. Mrs Clark clapped her hands when she saw the results:

Anna, youve golden fingers! I thought you could only wield a spade!

Life teaches you to be a seamstress as well as a nurse, I laughed, grateful for the praise.

Not everyone was so generous. Especially Mrs Morganevery time she saw us, shed cross herself.

No good will come, Anna. Bringing a foundling home is a bad omen. Her mother must have been no good to leave her. An apple doesnt fall far from the tree…

Hush now, Morgan, I cut her off. Dont judge others’ sins. That girls mine now, end of.

The farm manager frowned at first.

Think it over, Anna, maybe the childrens home is best? Shell be fed, dressed proper.

And loved? Wholl love her there? I replied. They have enough orphans as it is.

He shook his head but soon helped outsending fresh milk or a sack of oats.

With time, Mary thawed. First a word, then sentences. I remember her first laughI’d slipped off a stool trying to hang curtains, groaning on the floor. She burst out in a peal of laughter, bright and pure. That laughter healed me.

She tried helping in the garden; I gave her a tiny hoe and shed strut alongside me, imitating every movethough she stamped more weeds into the rows than she pulled out. I never minded; I was just glad to see her coming alive.

Then trouble struckMary took to bed with a cruel fever. She burned, delirious. I rushed to our village medic, Tom Peterson:

For pitys sake, help us!

He threw up his hands.

Anna, Ive three aspirin for half the parish. Maybe theyll bring more next week.

Next week? I cried. She might not last the night!

I took to the road, trudged six miles through mud to town. My boots were ruined, feet blistered, but I made it. At the surgery, young Dr Lucas took one look at memuddy, wet.

Wait here.

He brought out medicine, explained how to care for her.

No charge, he said. Just get the girl well.

For three days I didnt leave her side, whispered every prayer Id ever learned, changed compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke. She opened her eyes and murmured,

Mum, Im thirsty.

Mum… it was the first time. I criedfrom joy, exhaustion, everything together. She wiped my tears with a small hand:

Mum, why are you sad? Does it hurt?

No, love, I said. Its happiness, darling girl.

After her illness, she transformedchatty, warm. Soon, off to schoolher teacher couldnt praise her enough.

Shes clever as they come, Mrs Brown. Picked up everything in a flash!

Villagers grew accustomedno more whispering behind hands. Even Mrs Morgan softened, bringing over cakes. She took a particular shine to Mary after she helped light Mrs Morgans fire in a bitter cold spell. The old lady had been laid up with a bad back and hadnt prepared her wood. Mary piped up,

Mum, lets visit Mrs Morgan. She must be cold.

And so, unlikely friendsmy girl and the old grumbler. Mrs Morgan showered her in stories, taught her knitting, and, most importantly, never again mentioned bad blood or foundlings.

Time passed. When Mary turned nine, she spoke of the bridge for the first time. We sat together in the eveningI darning socks, she rocking a homemade rag doll.

Mum, do you remember how you found me?

My heart skipped but I stayed calm.

I remember, love.

So do I, a bit. It was cold. Scary. There was a lady crying, and then she left.

I dropped my knitting. She went on:

I dont remember her face. Just a blue scarf. She kept saying Forgive me, forgive me…

Mary

Dont worry, mum, Im alright. Sometimes I remember. But you know what? She smiled suddenly. Im glad you found me.

I hugged her tight, unable to speak. Countless times Id wonderedwho was the woman in the blue scarf? What pain drove her to leave a child under a bridge? Was it hunger, a husband who drank? Theres all sorts in life. Not for me to judge.

That night, sleep wouldnt come. I lay thinking how life has its twists. Id thought myself cursed by loneliness, left out by fateturns out, I was being prepared for something bigger, for a child to shelter and love.

From that night, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, but explained gently:

Sometimes, love, people are pushed into corners where choices disappear. Maybe your mother suffered terribly to do what she did.

Would you ever have done it? she asked, her eyes searching mine.

Never, I replied firmly. Youre my joy, my blessing.

Years flew by unnoticed. Mary excelled at school, raced home to tell me:

Mum! I recited a poem at assembly and Mrs Green says I have real talent!

Her teacher, Mrs Green, spoke to me often.

Anna, she needs to study further. A mind like hers shouldnt be kept small. Shes gifted in language. You should read her essays!

But how? Weve no money

Ill help her, free of charge. Itd be sinful to waste such gifts.

Mrs Green began tutoring Mary evenings at our house, leaning over books together while I brought in tea with jam. I listened as they discussed Shakespeare, Dickens, Wordsworth. My heart swelledmy girl, soaking it all up.

By Year Eleven, Mary had fallen in lovewith a boy new to the village, his family just moved in. She fretted over poems she scribbled in a notebook kept under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, but every mother knowsthe first love aches, bitter-sweet.

After her exams, Mary applied to teacher training college. I gave her every penny I had. Even sold the cowold Blossom. It hurt to let her go, but what could I do?

No, mum, dont. Howll you manage without Blossom?

Ill be fine, love. Theres potatoes, the hens lay. You must study, though.

When the letter arrived, saying shed been accepted, the whole village celebrated. Even Mr Edwards came to congratulate me.

Well done, Anna! You raised that girl well, taught her too. Now weve our own student!

The day she left for college, we stood at the bus stop, waiting in the morning mist. She hugged me close, tears streaming.

Ill write to you every week, mum, and come back for holidays.

You better, I said, my heart breaking.

When the bus vanished round the bend, I stood there a long time. Mrs Clark appeared and took my arm.

Come along, Anna. Theres work to do at home.

You know, Clara, I said, I reckon Im lucky. Some folks have children of their own; mine was given by fate.

She kept her promise, writing regular letterseach one a celebration. I read and reread them, memorising every line. News of friends, studies, city lifebut between the words I could tell she missed home.

Second year at college, she mentioned a young manSimon, a history student. At first, just passing notes in letters, but a mother senses love. That summer, she brought him home.

Simon proved earnest and hard-working. Fixed the roof and mended the fence; chatted easily with the neighbours. In the evening, he’d sit on the porch, spinning stories about history that could make you forget about supper. He loved Mary truly, never took his eyes off her.

When she visited, the village flocked to see how lovely shed grown. Old Mrs Morgan, now frail, always murmured,

Heavens, I was against it when you took her in. Forgive me; how much happiness youve grown!

Now Mary teaches at a city school, shaping young minds just as Mrs Green shaped hers. She married Simon and they live in harmony. Theyve a daughter, Annienamed after me.

Little Annie is Mary all over again, only braver. When they visit, theres not a minutes peaceshes into everything, touches and explores. Im gladlet her run wild! A house without a childs laughter is like a church with silent bells.

So, I sit at my desk, pen in hand, window shaking as wind blows again. Still the floor groans, still the old birch taps its branches. But the quiet no longer feels lonelyit holds peace, gratitude for every day, every smile, the fate that brought me to that old bridge.

On my desk, a photographMary, Simon, and Annie. Next to it, the worn blue scarf I wrapped her in that first day. I keep it for memory. Sometimes I stroke itfeels as if warmth returns.

Yesterday brought another letterMarys expecting again, a boy this time. Simons already chosen his nameGeorge, after my husband. So the family grows, and our story continues.

The old bridge is gone now; a new concrete one stands. I rarely walk that way, but when I do, I stop for a moment and reflect. How much can change because of one day, a single chance, a childs cry in the chill of an English March…

They say that fate tests us with loneliness, so we learn to treasure loved ones. I think differentlyit prepares us for the moment someone needs us most. Blood isnt the only thing that binds us; our hearts know better. Mine was right, that day under the old bridge.

If Ive learned anything, its that true family is found in kindness, not kinshipand a single act of compassion can change not just one life, but generations.