“Mrs. Annie, the girl must continue her studies. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. She has a rare gift for languages and literatureyou should see her writing!”
My daughter was three when I found her under the bridge, covered in mud. I raised her as my own, though people whispered behind my back. Now she teaches in the city, while I still live in my cottage, sifting through memories like precious beads.
The floor creaks underfootIve been meaning to fix it for ages, but never get around to it. I sit at the table and open my old journal. The pages are yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still holds my thoughts. Outside, the wind howls, and a birch branch taps the window as if asking to come in.
“Whats all this fuss about?” I say to it. “Hold onspring will come soon.”
Its silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After those dreadful times, I was left a widowmy Stephen was gone. I still keep his last letter, worn at the folds from how often Ive read it. He wrote that hed return soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy A week later, I learned the truth.
God never gave me children, perhaps for the bestback then, there was barely enough to feed ourselves. The head of the agricultural committee, Mr. Thomas, tried to console me:
“Dont fret, Annie. Youre still youngyoull marry again.”
“Ill not marry again,” I said firmly. “I loved once. Thats enough.”
I worked from dawn till dusk in the fields. The foreman, Mr. Wilson, would often shout:
“Annie, its latetime to go home!”
“Ill manage,” Id reply. “As long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.”
I had a small holdinga stubborn goat named Daisy and five chickens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbor, Mrs. Clark, used to joke:
“Youre not part turkey, are you? Why else would your hens crow before anyone elses?”
I kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, beets. All homegrown. In autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, and mushrooms. Opening a jar in winter was like bringing summer back inside.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was damp and raw. A drizzle in the morning turned to frost by evening. I went to the woods for kindlingthe stove needed feeding. Fallen branches were plentiful after the winter storms. I gathered an armful and was heading home past the old bridge when I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But noa childs whimper, clear as day.
I climbed down under the bridge and saw hera little girl sitting in the mud, her dress soaked and torn, her eyes wide with fear. When she saw me, she fell silent, trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Who do you belong to, little one?” I asked softly, not wanting to scare her more.
She stayed quiet, only blinking. Her lips were blue with cold, her hands red and swollen.
“Frozen through,” I muttered. “Come, lets get you home and warmed up.”
I lifted herlight as a featherwrapped her in my shawl, and held her close. All the while, I wondered: what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge? It made no sense.
I abandoned the kindlingit no longer mattered. The girl stayed silent all the way home, clinging to my neck with icy fingers.
The neighbors came running as soon as I arrivednews travels fast in the village. Mrs. Clark was first:
“Good heavens, Annie, whered you find her?”
“Under the bridge,” I said. “Abandoned, it seems.”
“Oh, what a shame” She clasped her hands. “What will you do with her?”
“Do? Ill keep her.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Old Mrs. Harris chimed in. “How will you feed a child?”
“Ill manage with what God provides,” I snapped.
First, I stoked the fire hot, warmed water, and bathed her. She was bruised and thin, her ribs visible. I dressed her in an old sweaterthere were no childrens clothes in the house.
“Hungry?” I asked.
She nodded shyly.
I gave her yesterdays soup and a slice of bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyclearly not a street child.
“Whats your name?”
Silence. Too scared to speak, or perhaps she didnt know how.
I put her to bed in my own bed and slept on the bench. I woke several times that night to check on her. She slept curled tight, whimpering in her dreams.
At dawn, I went to the parish council to report the foundling. The chairman, Mr. Thompson, shrugged:
“No missing child reported. Maybe someone from the city left her”
“What now?”
“Legally, she goes to the orphanage. Ill telephone the district today.”
My heart ached:
“Wait, Mr. Thompson. Give it timeher parents might come forward. Till then, she stays with me.”
“Annie, think this through”
“No need. Its decided.”
I named her Mary, after my mother. I thought her parents might appear, but no one ever did. And thank GodId grown to love her dearly.
At first, it was hard. She didnt speak, just stared around the cottage as if searching for something. Shed wake screaming at night. Id hold her close, stroke her hair:
“Hush now, love. Alls well.”
I sewed her clothes from old fabric, dyed them bright colorsblue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. Mrs. Clark gasped when she saw:
“Annie, youve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to wield a shovel.”
“Life teaches you to be many things,” I said, glowing at the praise.
But not all in the village were kind. Old Mrs. Harris crossed herself whenever she saw us:
“Its bad luck, Annie. Taking in a foundling invites trouble. Her mother mustve been wicked to abandon her. Like mother, like daughter.”
“Enough, Mrs. Harris!” I cut in. “Judge not, lest ye be judged. Shes mine now, and thats that.”
Even the committee head frowned at first:
“Annie, perhaps the orphanage would be better. Theyll feed and clothe her properly.”
“And wholl love her?” I asked. “The orphanage has enough children without her.”
He relented and even helpedsending milk, flour.
Slowly, Mary thawed. Words came, then sentences. Ill never forget her first laughId fallen off a chair hanging curtains, groaning, and she burst into peals of laughter. The sound of it melted my pain.
She tried to help in the garden, toddling with a tiny hoe. Mostly, she trampled more weeds than she pulled, but I didnt scoldjust thrilled to see her alive with joy.
Then disaster struckMary fell ill with fever. Our local medic, Dr. Bennett, shook his head:
“What medicine, Annie? Ive three aspirin tablets for the whole village. Maybe theyll send more next week.”
“Next week?” I cried. “She might not last till morning!”
I ran six miles through mud to the district clinic. A young doctor, Dr. Edwards, took one look at mefilthy, soakedand said:
“Wait here.”
He brought medicine, explained the doses:
“No charge. Just take care of her.”
For three days, I never left her side. On the fourth, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered:
“Mum Im thirsty.”
Mum. The first time she called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion. She wiped my tears with tiny fingers:
“Mum, why cry? Does it hurt?”
“No, love,” I said. “These are happy tears.”
After that, she blossomedsweet, chatty. At school, her teacher marveled:
“Such a bright girl! She grasps everything.”
The villagers grew used to her. Even Mrs. Harris softened, bringing pies. She adored Mary after the girl helped her light the stove during a bitter freeze. The old woman had been bedridden with lumbago, and Mary insisted:
“Mum, lets help Mrs. Harris. Shes cold all alone.”
They became friendsthe grumpy old woman and my girl. Mrs. Harris taught her to knit and never again spoke of “bad blood.”
Years passed. Mary was nine when she first spoke of the bridge. I was darning socks; she rocked her ragdollone Id sewn for her.
“Mum, remember when you found me?”
My heart lurched, but I kept calm:
“I do, love.”
“I remember a little too. It was cold. And scary. A woman was crying then she left.”
My needles stilled. Mary went on:
“I dont remember her face. Just a blue shawl. And she kept saying, Forgive me”
“Mary”
“Dont worry, Mum. I dont mind. I just wonder sometimes.” She smiled. “Im glad you found me.”
I held her tight, throat
