Eleanor, have you gone completely mad? Youre forty-five! Your son is a grown man, serving in the army! And youre taking in a baby? And with all those illnesses? By the time hes in school, youll be an old woman! Hell wear you into the grave!
Eleanor quietly folded the tiny vests into her bag as her dearest friend, Grace, raged in the kitchen.
Ella, snap out of it! We were going to Italy, remember? Wed finally live for ourselves! You only just freed yourself from that drunkardcouldn’t you finally breathe easy? Why put this yoke around your neck? He’s a cripple, a weak heart, a burden for life!
Eleanor did up the zip on her bag and looked up at Grace, tired but calm eyes meeting the storm.
Grace, when I saw him At the childrens home, I mean, the day we went with the charity, bringing bits and bobs for the little ones. There he was, lying by himself in the corner, not crying, just staring at the ceiling. His eyes, Grace not a childs eyes, but deep, quiet, like someone whos seen it all and accepted it. I realised I could not just walk away. If I left him there, Id stop being able to breathe.
The baby was called Thomas. He was eight months old. His mother had left him behind at the hospital. Hopeless case, the doctors said. Wont survive, they nodded.
But Eleanor took him home.
The nightmare Grace predicted came true.
Thomas slept little and cried from pain, from spasms. Eleanor taught herself to give massages, injections, set up tube feeding.
She left her good position at the bank and began working as a remote bookkeeperbarely scraping by.
Neighbours whispered, calling her mad, pretending she was some saint for show. Even her son, Peter, fresh from the army, was baffled.
Mum, what is this? he asked, looking with something like disgust at the twisted little boy in the cot. Are you going to spend all your money on him? What about my wedding? You promised youd help.
Peter, your wedding can wait. Life cannot.
Five years went by.
Eleanor had agedstrands of grey, deep lines by her eyes. Her back ached from carrying Thomas everywhere.
But Thomas was alive.
Against all expectations, he wasnt a shell of a person. Eleanor took him to every rehabilitation centre she could, selling her little cottage by the coast, the car, all of her rings.
Every daytherapy, swimming, speech practice.
Mum, he said at three, for the first time.
She cried into the warmth of his little head. That word was worth more than all the gold in England.
At five, he began to crawl. At sevencould stand, holding on.
Doctors just shook their heads: A miracle.
Eleanor knew better. It was thankless labour. And love. Not the easy kind, but the love fierce enough to move mountains.
Betrayal and reward.
At ten, Thomas needed an expensive operation on his legs that might let him walk.
It cost a fortune.
She asked Peter for help. He had his own garage now, doing all right for himself.
Peter, can you lend me Ill pay you back, well move into a little flat
Peters eyes were cold. Mum, Ive got my own plans. Im building a house. You chose this problem. I warned you. Theres nothing I can do.
Eleanor left his empty house unsteady, barely able to keep walking. She sat on a bench in the park, hollow.
A man came bylimping, with a cane.
Are you all right, miss? he asked.
That was Henry. An old soldier, a sapper in his youth.
They spoke, and Eleanor found herself spilling her whole heart: Thomas, the surgery, her son.
Henry simply nodded as she spoke.
Ill help, he said, quietly. Ive savings, the sort you put aside for later. What do I need them for? Im alone, my wifes gone, no children. The boy deserves a chance to walk.
He gave her the moneyno questions, no contracts.
The operation went ahead.
A year of hard rehabilitation followed. Henry moved in; it was easier for two to push wheelchairs and carry a growing lad.
He became the father Thomas had never knownbuilt him makeshift gym equipment, taught him chess, told stories of the war.
And one day, Thomas walked.
Unsteady, using a walker, heavy braces on his legsbut he walked, by himself.
Dad Henry, look! Im walking! he shouted.
In the hallway, Eleanor and Henry stood hand in hand, two worn-out souls, who had done the impossible.
Another decade slipped by.
Thomas turned twenty. He still used a stick, but he could walk. He studied computer science, a clever, gentle lad with those deep, wise eyes.
Peterher own sonnever found any joy in his big home. His wife left, his children wild. He rang his mum sometimes to complain, but never visitedshame, perhaps.
Eleanor and Henry lived quietly and peacefully.
At long last, they travelled to Italy, the three of them, using the money Thomas had earned writing software for mobile phones.
Mum, Dad, this is for you, he said, handing them the tickets. You gave me legs; I want to give you the world.
In a tiny café in Rome, they drank coffee together.
Grace, that old friend, saw their photo on social mediaEleanor, grey-haired but glowing with laughter, arms wrapped around an old man and a young one.
Grace left a comment: You were right, Ella. Youre no old womanyoure the most alive of us all.
Moral:
Sometimes what feels like our burden is actually our wings. We fear hardship, shy from sacrificing comfort, calling it common sense. But the true meaning of life is not found in rest or holidays by the seaits in mattering so much to someone that your love works miracles.
Dont fear loving the difficult ones or making the uncomfortable decisions. At the end, well not regret being tired, only that we walked past anothers suffering.
And youhave you known of times when adopted children became more precious than any of blood?
