“Whose Little Girl Are You? Let Me Take You Home, Warm You Up – A Found Child, Suspicious Neighbours, and the Story of How My Lonely Cottage Became Filled with Love”

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 15 minViews 1

Whose little one are you, darling?… Let me take you home, you’ll warm up. I scooped her up in my arms.

Brought her back with me, and of course, the neighbours were by in no timenews in our village always travels at lightning speed. “Heavens, Alice, where did you find her?” they asked. “And what on earth are you going to do with her?” “Alice, have you lost your mind? How will you feed a child on your own?”

The kitchen floor gave a familiar creakI keep telling myself I must mend that loose board, but there’s always something else. I sat down at the table and pulled out my faded old diary. The pages are as yellow as autumn leaves, but the ink still clings to my memories. It was blowing a gale outside, and the birch by the window was knocking like it wanted an invite in.

“What’s all the fuss for out there?” I joked. “Just wait, spring will come soon enough.”

Sounds daft, chatting to a tree, I knowbut when you live on your own, everything seems a little more alive. After the terrible days of the war, I was left a widowmy William never came home. I still keep his last letter, crinkled and worn at the folds, I’ve read it so many times. Said hed be back soon, said he loved me, said wed be happy together… And then, just a week later, they told me.

Never had children, and perhaps it was a blessing, reallyback then, no-one had enough food to go around. Mr. John Henderson, the head of the village, always tried to cheer me up:

“Don’t fret, Alice, youre still youngplenty of time to marry again yet.”

“Im not marrying anyone else,” Id always answer, firm as anything. “I loved oncethat’s enough for me.”

I worked on the farm from dawn ’til dusk. Old Mr. Thompson, the foreman, would shout across the fields:

“Alice Smith! Shouldnt you be home by now? It’s getting late!”

“Ill manage,” Id call back, “As long as my hands work, my heart does too.”

I kept a small holdingjust a stubborn goat called Daisy, as headstrong as me. Five cheeky hens, who woke me up every morningbetter than any cockerel, truly. My neighbour Jean liked to tease:

“Youre not a turkey, are you, Alice? Why do your hens start up before the suns even up?”

I kept a little vegetable patchpotatoes, carrots, beetrootthe lot, all fresh from the ground. In autumn, Id make picklescucumbers, tomatoes, even mushrooms in jars. When winter came, Id crack open a jar and it felt just like summer had come home.

I remember that day clear as ever. March was damp and cold, rain in the morning then it all froze up by evening. Off to the woods I went for kindlingthe stove needed burning and there was plenty of fallen branches after the storms. Arms full, making my way home past the old stone bridge, when I hear ita child crying. Thought at first it was just the wind, but noclear as day, those sobs.

Down under the bridge I went, found a little girl huddled in the mud. Her dress was torn and soaked, eyes wide with fear. When she saw me, she went quiet but kept shaking like a leaf.

“Whose little one are you?” I whispered, not wanting to scare her more.

She just blinked at me; lips blue with cold, hands swollen and red.

“Youre freezing,” I sighed, talking more to myself than her. “Come on, lets get you warm.”

I picked her upshe weighed nothing at all. Wrapped her in my shawl and held her close to my chest, wondering what sort of mother leaves her child under a bridge. Couldnt get my head round it.

I had to leave the firewoodmy arms were full. She kept silent the whole way home, just clinging tight to my neck with her icy little fingers.

By the time we got to mine, the neighbours were in the lane already. News spreads fast round here. Jean was first through the gate.

“Goodness, Alice, where did you find her?”

“Under the bridge,” I said. “Left there, looked like.”

“Oh, what a tragedy,” Jean gasped. “What will you do with her?”

“Keep her with me.”

“Have you lost your senses, Alice?” Old Mrs. Porter piped in. “Where will you get food for a child?”

“Godll provide,” I answered sharp.

First things first, lit the fire as hot as it would go and set water to warm. Poor thing was covered in bruises, so thin you could count each rib. Bathed her gently, bundled her up in my biggest cardiganhad no childrens clothes in the house.

“Are you hungry?” I asked softly.

She nodded, shy.

Gave her some leftover soup and a thick slice of bread. She ate quickly but carefulproperly brought up, not a street child.

“Whats your name, love?”

She stayed quiet; maybe afraid, maybe she just couldn’t speak.

I put her to bed in my own bed, sat myself on the old wooden settle. All night I woke, checking in on hershe slept curled tight, sometimes whimpering.

Next morning I went straight to the parish council, reported what Id found. Mr. Henderson, the chair, just shook his head.

“No one’s reported a missing child. Might’ve been left by someone from town…”

“What do I do now?”

“Law says she should go to childrens care. Ill ring the county today.”

My heart squeezed.

“Wait, Mr. Henderson. Give me a bitif her parents come for her, Ill hand her over. For now, Ill keep her.”

“Alice Smith, you think it through…”

“Already decided.”

I named her Emily, for my own mother. I thought, perhaps her family would come, but weeks passed and no one showed. All the betterI loved her from the start.

It was tough at firstshe didnt speak, always glancing around as if searching for something. Woke from nightmares, shaking through and through. Id pull her close, stroking her hair:

“Its alright, darling, youre safe now. Everythings alright.”

From old dresses, I stitched together clothes for herdyed them blue, green, red. They were simple, but cheerful. Jean clapped her hands when she saw:

“Well, would you look at that, Alice! Golden hands, you have. I thought a shovel was all you ever managed!”

“Life teaches us all sorts,” I chuckled. “A nanny, a seamstresswe muddle along.”

Not everyone was so kind. Especially Mrs. Portershed cross herself when she saw us:

“Can’t be good luck, Alice. Take in a foundling, invite misfortune. Her mother must have been no good. The apple never falls far, you know…”

“Dont start, Edith,” I cut her off. “Not yours to judge. Shes my girl nowend of story.”

Even Mr. Henderson frowned at first.

“Think about it, Alicebetter she goes to the childrens home. Shell be fed and dressed properly.”

“And wholl love her?” I asked. “Theyve got enough orphans in that place.”

He gave up then, but after all started helpingsent over milk, flour once in a while.

Emily slowly thawed. She began with single words, then whole sentences, then one day laughter. I remember I fell off a stool hanging curtains, groaning on the floorand she let out the brightest, most ringing laugh. My aches faded straight away.

She tried to help in the garden. Id give her a little hoeshed march along, imitating me, though mostly she trampled weeds into the rows rather than pulling them. But I never scoldedjust happy to see life returning in her.

Trouble struck laterEmily came down with a fever, burning hot and delirious. I dashed for our local nurse, Mr. Thomas:

“For goodness sake, help!”

He just wrung his hands.

“Medicines scarce, Alice. All Ive got for the whole village is three aspirin. Maybe they’ll get a delivery next week.”

“Next week?” I shouted. “She might not last til morning!”

So I hurried to town, nine miles through mud, shoes ruined, feet blisteredreached the clinic at last. A young doctor, Tom Williams, saw me, muddy and soaking wet.

“Stay here,” he told me.

He brought out medicine and talked me through the doses:

“No charge,” he said. “Just get your girl well.”

Three days I never left her sidewhispered prayers, swapped cold cloths. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered, so quietly:

“Mummy… Im thirsty.”

Mummy. She called me that for the first time. Tears camerelief, joy, everything at once. She reached out and wiped my face.

“Mummy, are you in pain?”

“No, love,” I said. “Just happy. So happy.”

After that, Emily bloomedchatty, gentle. Soon enough, she started school. The teacher couldnt praise her enough:

“Such a bright girllearns in a heartbeat!”

The village folk got used to things, stopped gossiping. Even old Mrs. Porter softenedstarted bringing cakes round. Grew especially fond of Emily when she helped get her stove burning in the coldest snap. The poor woman had thrown her back out, had no firewood. Emily offered:

“Mum, shall we go check on Mrs. Porter? She must be freezing.”

So they became friendsthe cantankerous old lady and my little girl. She told her stories, taught her to knit, never mentioned foundlings or bad blood again.

Emily turned nine when she first asked about the bridge. One evening, I was darning socks, she was rocking her rag dollthe one I made for her.

“Mummy, do you remember the day you found me?”

My heart gave a twist, but I stayed calm.

“I remember, love.”

“I remember a little bit too. It was cold. And scary. Some lady was crying then she walked away.”

My needles dropped. Emily went on:

“I dont remember her facejust her blue scarf. She kept saying: ‘Forgive me, forgive me…'”

“Emily…”

“Its alright, Mummy. I dont feel sad. Im just glad you found me.”

I hugged her tight, my throat all knotted. So many times I wonderedwho was the woman in the blue scarf? What made her leave a child under a bridge? Maybe there was hardship, hunger, a husband who drank… Lifes complicated. Not my place to judge.

I couldnt sleep that nightthinking how life turns. Once I felt left behind, sentenced to loneliness. In truth, life was just getting me readyfor the moment someone needed me most.

After that, Emily often asked about her past. I didnt hide anything; I only tried to explain so it wouldnt hurt:

“You know, love, sometimes people have no real choice, life just pushes them beyond hope. Maybe your mum suffered terribly, choosing to let you go.”

“And you wouldnt have done that, would you?” shed ask, searching my eyes.

“Never,” I promised. “Youre my joy, my blessing.”

Years passed by in a flash. Emily topped her classes at school. Some days shed burst through the door:

“Mum, guess what! Read a poem in front of the whole class, and Mrs. Bennett said Ive got a real gift!”

Mrs. Bennett often chatted with me.

“Alice Smith, that girl needs to study further. Children like her dont come by often. Shes got talent for languages, for literaturejust look at her essays!”

“But where will we find the money to send her?” I’d sigh.

“Ill help her prep,” Mrs. Bennett replied. “Free of charge. Itd be a sin to waste such talent.”

So Mrs. Bennett tutored Emily after school, evenings at our kitchen table. I made them tea and jam, listened to them discussing Shakespeare and Austen. My heart sangmy girl was flying.

In her final year, Emily fell for a new boy in her class, Jack, whod moved to the village with his family. She was so nervous, scribbling poems in her notebook, hiding it under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, but I remember those first heartbreaksthey always sting so.

After leaving school, Emily applied to teacher training college. I handed her every penny I had put by, even sold our cow Daisya wrench, but what else could I do?

“You dont need to do that, Mum,” Emily protested. “How will you manage without Daisy?”

“Ill be fine, lovea few potatoes, eggs from the hens. You need your education.”

When the letter arrivedEmily had been acceptedthe whole village celebrated. Even Mr Henderson came round.

“Well done, Alice! Raised the girl, educated her. Weve got our own student now.”

I still remember the day she leftstood at the bus stop together, her arms round me, tears in her eyes.

“Ill write every week, Mum. And come home in the holidays.”

“Of course you will,” I smiled, though my chest ached.

When the bus vanished round the bend, I just stayed there. Jean came by and put her arm around my shoulders:

“Come on, Alice. Theres work at home waiting.”

“You know, Jean,” I said, “Im truly happy. Other folk have children of their bloodI have a child given to me by God.”

She kept her wordletters arrived all the time. Each one was a joy, and Ive read them so many times I know every line by heart. She wrote about studying, new friends, life in the citybut between the lines I could see she missed home.

Second year at college, she met her Mark, also a student, reading history. Began mentioning him in her letters, just in passingbut I knew mothers can always tell. On summer holidays, she brought him to visit.

He was a solid lad, hard-working. Helped me fix the roof, mended the gate. Got to know the neighbours in no time. In the evenings, wed sit on the porch while he told us stories of old battlesyou could listen for hours. You could see, clear as day, he loved Emily, never took his eyes off her.

Whenever she came back for holidays, the whole village turned outshed grown into such a beauty. Even Mrs. Porter, ancient now, would cross herself:

“HeavensI was dead set against you taking her in. Forgive me, old fool that I am. Just look at what she’s become!”

Now Emilys a teacher herself, at a city primary. She teaches other children, just like Mrs. Bennett taught her once. She married Mark, and they’re perfect togethergave me a granddaughter, little Alice, named for me.

Little Alice is the spitting image of Emily as a child, only braver. When they visit, she doesnt sit still for a momenteverythings fascinating, she touches, pokes, climbs! I love itlet her make noise and run wild. A house without childrens laughter is like a church without bells.

So, here I am, scribbling away in my diary while the wind howls outside. The floor still creaks, the birch still knocks at the window. But the quiet isnt smothering now; its full of peace, and gratitudefor every smile, for every day, for the fate that led me to that old bridge.

On the sideboard, theres a photoEmily with Mark and little Alice. And right next to it, the battered blue shawl I wrapped her in all those years ago. Sometimes I smooth it out, remembering its warmth.

Yesterday, Emily wrote againshes expecting another baby, a boy this time. Mark has already chosen his nameWilliam, for my late husband. So our family goes on, and someone will keep the memories safe.

They tore down that old bridge ages ago and built a new, sturdy concrete one. I dont go there much now, but whenever I do, I pause for a minute and thinkhow much can change in one day, one moment, one childs cry in the chill of a March evening

They say life tests us with loneliness so we can treasure those we find. But I reckon its just preparing usso were ready for the ones who need us most. Doesnt matter if youre bound by blood or notonly what your heart tells you. Mine was right, all those years ago under that bridge.

“If You Don’t Like It, You Can Leave!” – Julia Finally Stands Up to Her Unwelcome Relatives Julia had spent thirty years in silence. If her husband spoke, she nodded. If her mother-in-law arrived unannounced, Julia put the kettle on. When her sister-in-law showed up with suitcases, Julia put her up in the spare room—“Just for a couple of days,” her guest would say, but three months would pass. Julia just gritted her teeth, not wanting to seem a troublemaker or a heartless wife, while everyone slowly took over her life and home. Her husband Anatoly was a simple, no-nonsense man, fond of dinner toasts and a grumble about the boss. He called Julia his “little housekeeper” and never understood her late-night tears. After he died, Julia was left alone in her three-bedroom flat in East London. The family came and went after the funeral, and Julia thought: perhaps now I’ll get some peace. But that was just the beginning. Her sister-in-law called next, insisting her grown son needed to stay “just until uni starts.” Soon enough, Julia’s home was overtaken—dirty plates, loud music, demands for more. Later, her late husband’s daughter arrived, full of old grievances and claims on the flat. Julia tried, gently and then more firmly, to explain the situation. But the relatives didn’t want understanding; they wanted to carve up her flat. With every visit, the pressure grew: “Why do you need three bedrooms alone? Sell it and help the family! Be fair to the kids!” One day, sitting at her own kitchen table as they discussed her home like it was community property, Julia looked at them—and found her courage. “If you don’t like it,” she said quietly, “you can leave.” A stunned silence followed, then the outrage began. But Julia stood her ground. In that moment, decades of silent patience finally ended. She told them—all of them—to pack up and go for good. After thirty years of pleasing everyone else, Julia finally chose herself. Now, learning to live her own life, independence feels strange but liberating. And as the door finally closes on her demanding relatives, Julia discovers the happiness of saying “no”—and not being afraid to be alone. Have you ever had to stand up to family outstaying their welcome? Share your story and don’t forget to subscribe for more real-life tales!

I Know Best – What on earth is going on? – Dimitri wearily crouched before his daughter, inspecting the rosy patches on her cheeks. – Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and oddly grown-up, already used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, endless ointments and pills. Maria approached and sat beside her husband, gently tucking a strand of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. At all. May as well be giving her water. And the doctors at the clinic… they aren’t doctors, more like who knows what. This is the third new treatment, and it’s made no difference. Dimitri stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside, the world was grey—the day promised to be as dull as all the others before it. They hurriedly packed up—Sophie bundled in her warm coat—and half an hour later, they were seated in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on so many medicines. It’s such a strain on her body, – she perched Sophie on her knee, and the little girl nestled close—familiar comfort. – It’s heartbreaking. – We wish we didn’t have to give them, – Maria sat at the edge of the sofa, fingers intertwined. – But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve eliminated everything—absolutely everything. She only eats the most basic foods, and still, the rash persists. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. We do tests, take samples, and the result… – Maria waved a hand – this result, here, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and smoothed Sophie’s collar. – Hopefully she’ll outgrow it. Kids sometimes do. But for now, no comfort. Dimitri gazed at his daughter. Small and thin. Big, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and memories flickered—snatching pastries from the kitchen as a child, begging for sweets, eating his mum’s jam straight from the jar… But his daughter? Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no treats, no proper children’s food. Four years old, on a diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else there is to cut, – he spoke quietly. – Her diet’s nearly nothing as it is. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the backseat; Dimitri checked her in the mirror every so often. At least she wasn’t scratching. – Mum called, – Maria spoke up. – She wants Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. – Theatre? – Dimitri changed gear. – That’ll be nice. Good distraction. – I thought so too. She could use it. …On Saturday, Dimitri parked outside his mother-in-law’s and carried Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes—woken too early. He picked her up, and she snuggled into his neck, warm and weightless as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor appeared on the porch, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a shipwreck survivor. – Oh, my dear, my little ray of sunshine, – she scooped up Sophie, hugging her close to her vast chest. – So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are hollow. You lot have worn her out with your diets, you’re ruining her. Dimitri thrust his hands in his pockets, holding back irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing it for her sake. There’s a reason, you know. – What sort of sake? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though—just returned from a prison camp. – Skin and bone. Some childhood—she should be growing, not starved. She carried Sophie inside, not looking back, leaving the door to click shut. Dimitri lingered at the gate, a sensation nagging at the edge of his mind, some half-formed hunch that vanished like mist. He rubbed his forehead, waited one more minute listening to the quiet of this foreign yard, then sighed and returned to the car. A weekend without their daughter—a strange, nearly-forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Maria trawled the supermarket aisles, piling up groceries for the week. At home, he spent three hours fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Maria emptied wardrobes and packed old things into bags for the tip. The usual chores, but the absence of Sophie’s voice made the flat feel wrong, too empty. In the evening, they ordered pizza—the mozzarella and basil kind, forbidden to Sophie. Opened a bottle of red, sat talking about nothing much—work, their postponed holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. – It’s nice, – Maria said, then paused, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful. – I know, – Dimitri covered her hand with his. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday, he went to pick up their daughter just before sunset. The garden glowed orange beneath old apple trees. Mrs Taylor’s place, in the evening light, seemed almost cosy. Dimitri stepped from the car, pushed open the gate—its hinges groaned—and stopped short. Sophie was sitting on the porch. Mrs Taylor beside her, radiating sheer happiness. In her hands was a pastry. Big, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was devouring it. Cheeks smeared, crumbs on her chin, eyes sparkling—happier than he’d seen in ages. For a moment, Dimitri simply stared. Then a surge of hot anger swept up from his chest. He strode forward, snatched the pastry away. – What’s this supposed to be?! Mrs Taylor jumped, shrank back, her face turning red from neck to hairline. She flailed her hands, desperate to wave away his fury. – It’s just a tiny piece! No harm done, honestly. Dimitri wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up—she went quiet, clutching his coat in fright—and headed for the car. Buckled her in, hands trembling with rage. Sophie gazed at him, lips quivering, about to cry. – It’s okay, darling, – he stroked her head, forcing his voice to sound calm. – Just wait here for Daddy, alright? He shut the door and marched back to the house. Mrs Taylor was rooted to the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown, blotchy and pale. – Dimi, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he stopped short, exploding. – Six months! Six months, and we couldn’t work out what was wrong with our daughter! Tests, allergy screenings—do you have any idea what it all cost us? The stress, sleepless nights?! Mrs Taylor edged back toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dimitri advanced. – She’s been on boiled chicken and water! We’ve cut out every single possible allergen! And you—you secretly feed her fried pastries? – I was building up her immunity, – Mrs Taylor suddenly bristled, chin raised. – A little at a time, to get her body used to it. One bit more and it would’ve cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing—I’ve raised three kids! Dimitri looked at her, unrecognising. This woman he’d endured for years, for his wife, for peace—she was poisoning his child. On purpose. Convinced she knew better than any doctor. – Three kids, – he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. – Doesn’t mean they’re all the same. Sophie isn’t your daughter—she’s mine. And you won’t see her again. – What?! – Mrs Taylor clutched the rail. – You have no right! – I do. He walked to the car, shouts erupting behind him. But Dimitri didn’t look back. Started the engine. In the rear-view, his mother-in-law’s frantic silhouette flared behind the gate as he pulled away. At home, Maria met them in the hallway. One look—his face, their tearful daughter—and she understood. – What happened? Dimitri explained. Briefly, coldly, all emotion spent outside. Maria listened, face hardening. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?! Dimitri got Sophie into the bath—to wash away the pastry and tears. In the next room, Maria’s voice—sharp, unfamiliar—rang out. She scolded her mother as he’d never heard before. Her words finished loud and clear: “Until we’ve sorted the allergy—no visits, Mum.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. Today, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries sat on the table. And Sophie was eating it herself, big spoon, getting cream everywhere. Her cheeks—perfectly clear. – Would you believe it, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. – Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, – Maria spread butter on her bread. – The moment we cut it out and switched to olive oil—her rash vanished in two weeks. Dimitri couldn’t stop watching his daughter. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally able to eat real food—cakes, biscuits, everything made without sunflower oil. Turns out, that’s a lot. Relations with his mother-in-law stayed chilly. Mrs Taylor called, apologised, cried down the phone. Maria kept her replies short and brisk. Dimitri didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga moved the plate closer. – Go on, love. Eat as much as you like. Dimitri leaned back in his chair. Outside, rain fell; inside, warmth and the scent of baking. His daughter was better. Nothing else mattered.

— Whose little girl are you, love? ..— Come on, let me carry you home, you’ll warm up. I lifted her in my arms and brought her to my cottage. Before I knew it, the neighbours gathered round—news travels fast in an English village. — Good grief, Anna, where did you find her? — And what are you going to do with her? — Anna, have you lost your senses? What will you feed the child with? The floorboard creaked underfoot—reminding me yet again to fix it, though I never got round to it. I sat at my kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tapped the window, as if asking to come in. — What’s all the commotion, then? — I said to it. — Patience, spring will come soon enough. It’s funny to talk to trees, but when you live alone, the world around you feels alive. After those awful times I was left a widow—my dear Stephen lost to war. I still keep his last letter, creased and faded from countless readings. He promised he’d return soon, said he loved me, that we’d be happy… But a week later, I learned the truth. We never had children, perhaps just as well—there was nothing to feed them with back then. The village head, Nicholas Evans, always comforted me: — Don’t fret, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again. — I won’t. — I replied firmly. — I loved once, that is enough. I worked at the farm from dawn till dusk. Foreman Peter would shout: — Anna Evans, off home with you! It’s late as it is! — I’ll manage, — I’d say. — As long as my hands still work, my spirit stays young. My little home was modest—a stubborn goat called Maggie, five hens to do a better job of waking me than any rooster. My neighbour Claudia would often joke: — Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your hens always start up before everyone else’s? I kept my garden—potatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything from the land itself. In autumn I’d preserve pickles, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar felt like bringing summer into the house. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was wet and cold. The drizzle lasted all morning, and by evening it froze. I went to the woods for firewood—needed fuel for the stove. After the storms, there was plenty of deadfall, just waiting to be gathered. Arms loaded, I headed home past the old bridge, when I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But no—it was a child, sobbing. I scrambled down beneath the bridge, and there she was—a little girl, muddy and soaked, dress torn, eyes full of fear. When she saw me she fell silent, shivering like a leaf. — Whose little girl are you? — I asked quietly, so as not to scare her more. She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, lips blue and hands swollen red from cold. — Frozen stiff, — I muttered. — Let’s get you home and warm you up. I scooped her up—lighter than a feather—wrapped her in my old scarf, held her close. And all the while, I wondered what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge. I couldn’t fathom it. The wood I’d gathered was abandoned—it didn’t matter now. All the way home, the girl stayed silent, clutching my neck with her icy fingers. I carried her inside, and the neighbours were there in a flash—news spreads like wildfire in our village. Claudia was the first to burst in: — Oh heavens, Anna, where did you find her? — Under the bridge, — I replied. — Clearly abandoned. — Dear God… — Claudia gasped. — What are you going to do? — What else? She’ll stay with me. — Anna, have you gone mad? — Old Maude croaked. — How will you provide for a child? — Whatever God gives, I’ll make do, — I said. First thing, I stoked the stove and set water to heat. The girl was covered in bruises, skin-and-bones, her ribs sticking out. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in my old jumper—no children’s clothes in my house. — Are you hungry? — I asked. She nodded shyly. I gave her leftover vegetable stew and thick slices of bread. She ate hungrily, yet her manners showed she wasn’t a stray, but rather raised in a home. — What’s your name? She stayed silent. Either afraid or unable to speak. I put her in my bed to sleep, curling up myself on the bench. I woke several times through the night to check on her. She slept, curled tight, whimpering in her dreams. At first light, I went to the parish hall—to report my find. The head, John Stephens, just spread his hands: — No word of any missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her… — What do we do now? — By law, she belongs in an orphanage. I’ll ring the council today. My heart ached: — Wait, John. Give me time—perhaps her parents will turn up. Meanwhile, let her stay here. — Anna Evans, think carefully… — There’s nothing more to think about. It’s decided. I named her Mary—after my mother. I hoped her real parents might turn up, but no one ever did. Perhaps that’s for the best—I grew to love her with all my heart. It was hard at first—she never spoke, only her eyes searching my home as if looking for something. She woke up screaming, trembling with fear. I held her close, stroked her head: — It’s alright, sweetheart. Everything will be alright now. I stitched clothes for her out of old dresses—dyed in all colours, blue, green, red. Not fancy, but cheerful. Claudia was amazed: — Anna, you’ve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a spade. — Life teaches you both sewing and mothering, — I replied, secretly glad for her praise. Not all in the village were understanding, especially old Maude—whenever she saw us, she’d cross herself: — No good can come of this, Anna. Bringing in a foundling—asking for trouble. No doubt her mother was bad—that’s why she abandoned the child. The apple never falls far from the tree… — Enough, Maude! — I snapped. — Other people’s sins aren’t for you to judge. That child is mine now, end of. Even the farm head frowned at first: — Think about it, Anna Evans, maybe she’d be better off in the orphanage? They’d feed and clothe her properly. — Who will love her, though? — I challenged. — There are enough orphans there already. He shrugged but soon helped—sometimes sent milk, sometimes grains. Bit by bit, Mary grew brighter. At first one word at a time, then sentences. I remember her first laugh—I was reaching up to hang curtains and toppled off my chair. Sitting there rubbing my back, she burst out laughing—clear and bright. My pain vanished instantly in her joy. She started helping in the garden. I’d give her a little hoe—she’d step beside me, copying everything, more stamping down weeds than pulling them. But I never scolded, just delighted to see her full of life. Then tragedy struck—Mary came down with a terrible fever. Burning up, raving. I ran to our local medic, Simon Peters: — For heaven’s sake, help! He only spread his hands: — Medicine? All I’ve got for the whole village are three aspirin. Wait—they may send more next week. — Next week? — I cried. — She might not last till morning! I ran to the town—nine miles of mud. Shoes ruined, feet sore, but I made it. The young doctor there, Michael Alexander, looked at me—filthy and soaked: — Wait here. He brought out medicine, explained how to use it: — No pay needed, — he said. — Just get the girl better. For three days I never left her bedside, mumbling prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke and she quietly said: — Mum, I want water. Mum… She called me mum for the first time. I wept—joy, relief, everything at once. She wiped away my tears with her little hand: — Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt? — No, — I replied. — I’m just happy, sweetheart. After her illness, she was changed—loving, chatty. Soon she started school—the teacher couldn’t praise her enough: — Such a bright girl, picks up everything instantly! The villagers grew used to her; even old Maude thawed, dropping off pies for us. She grew fond of Mary after the child helped stoke her fire during a bitter cold snap. The old woman was laid up and hadn’t prepared wood. Mary volunteered: — Mum, let’s go to Maude’s? She must be so cold alone. They became friends—the old grump and my little girl. Maude shared stories, taught her knitting, never spoke again of foundlings or bad blood. Time passed. Mary was nine when she first mentioned the bridge. We sat together in the evening; I was darning socks, she rocking her homemade doll. — Mum, do you remember how you found me? My heart jumped, but I kept calm: — I remember, love. — I remember it a bit too. It was cold, and frightening. There was a woman crying, and then she left. My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she went on: — I don’t know her face, only her blue scarf. And she kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me…” — Mary… — Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t upset me now. I just recall sometimes. And you know what? — she suddenly smiled. — I’m so glad you found me that day. I hugged her tight as my throat tightened. How often I’d wondered—who was that woman in the blue scarf? What drove her to leave her child under a bridge? Hunger, a drunken husband? So many things can happen in life. It’s not mine to judge. That night I lay awake, thinking how fate turns. Used to be, I felt cheated by life, condemned to loneliness. Yet it was all preparing me for the greatest task—to shelter and warm an abandoned child. From then on, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, always trying to cushion the truth: — You know, child, people sometimes face choices with almost no way out. Maybe your mother suffered terribly deciding what she did. — Would you have ever done that? — she peered into my eyes. — Never, — I said firmly. — You are my joy, my blessing. Years flew by. Mary was top of her class, sometimes bursting home— — Mum, Mum! I read my poem in front of everyone today, and Miss Maria said I have a real gift! Her teacher, Maria Potter, often spoke to me: — Anna Evans, your girl must go on with her studies. Such a rare talent for words and language. You should see her work! — Where could she study? — I’d sigh. — We’ve no money… — I’ll help tutor for free; it would be a shame to waste such promise. So Maria tutored Mary—nights bent over books at our table. I’d bring them tea and homemade jam, listening as they discussed Shakespeare, Keats, Austen. My heart swelled—my girl soaked up everything. In her final year, Mary fell in love for the first time—with a new boy come to our village. She was heartbroken at times, scribbling poetry into a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, though my heart ached for her—all first loves are bittersweet. After graduation, Mary sent off papers to teacher training college. I gave her everything I had and sold our cow—dear Daisy, I hated to part with her, but what else could I do? — No, Mum, — Mary protested. — How can you get by without the cow? — I’ll manage, love. There’s still potatoes, and hens laying. You need to study. When the acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm head came to offer congratulations: — Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter and educated her. Now our village has its own scholar. I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting, arms around each other, tears streaming down her face. — I’ll write every week, Mum. And come home every break. — Of course, you will, — I said, heart breaking. The bus vanished over the hill, and I kept standing, unable to move. Claudia came and put her arm round me: — Come on, Anna, there’s plenty needing doing at home. — You know, Claudia, — I said, — I’m happy. Some have blood children, but mine was sent by God. She kept her promise—letters came often, each one a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every word by heart. She wrote of lectures, new friends, the city; between the lines, I read her longing for home. In her second year, she met her own James—a history student. She mentioned him in letters, shyly, but I sensed straight away—she was in love. That summer she brought him home, to meet me. He was serious and hard-working, helped me fix the roof and fence, made friends with neighbours. Evenings he sat on the porch, sharing stories from history that captivated us all. It was clear how deeply he cared for my Mary—never took his eyes off her. When she came for summer visits, everyone came to see what a beauty she’d grown into. Old Maude, now very frail, always crossed herself: — Lord, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, I was a foolish old woman. Just look at the happiness she’s grown to! Now Mary teaches in the city—her own pupils, as Miss Maria taught her. She married James; they live together in love and harmony. They gave me a granddaughter—Annie, named after me. Little Annie is the spit of Mary as a child, only bolder. When they visit, she fills the house with clamour—always exploring, touching, climbing. I delight in her energy—a home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells. So here I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls again. The floorboards still creak, the birch still taps the glass. But now, the quiet carries peace and gratitude—for every day lived, every smile of my Mary, for fate leading me to that old bridge. On my table stands a photo—Mary, James, and little Annie. Beside it, the old scarf I wrapped her in that day. I keep it to remember. Sometimes I stroke it—feeling the warmth of those days return. Yesterday Mary wrote again—she’s expecting another baby, a boy this time. James has already chosen a name—Stephen, for my late husband. So our family goes on; the memories will live. The old bridge is long gone—a sturdy new concrete one stands in its place. I rarely go by now, but each time I stop for a moment. Just thinking—how much life can change in a single day, a chance moment, a child’s cry on a damp March evening… They say fate tests us with loneliness so we learn to cherish those close. But I think otherwise—fate prepares us for the ones who need us most. It doesn’t matter if it’s blood—only that we heed the call of the heart. Mine, that day under the old bridge, did not lead me astray.