The wind howled through the village of Hartwell, clawing at my coat as I trudged toward the station. A sudden, thin whimper sliced the cold February night, barely audible over the storms roar. It seemed to drift from the tracks themselves.
I stopped dead in my tracks, halfway between the platform and the old signal box, halfburied in snow. Near the rails lay a dark, shivering bundle.
Cautiously I drew nearer. A threadbare blanket concealed a tiny figure. A small hand poked out, crimson from the chill.
My God, I breathed, my heart hammering.
I fell to my knees and lifted the infant. A baby girl, no more than a year old, perhaps younger. Her lips were blue, her cry barely a squeak, as if she lacked the strength even to be frightened.
I pressed her against my chest, flapped open my coat to shield her from the biting frost, and sprintedmy legs moving as fast as they couldtoward the cottage where Emily Harper, the villages sole paramedic, lived.
Claire, what on earth? Emily gasped, eyes widening at the bundle in my arms, her breath coming in ragged pulls.
I found her on the line. She was nearly frozen.
Emily cradled the child with gentle hands, her professional gaze scanning the little one. Shes hypothermic but shes alive. Thank heavens.
We need to call the police, she said, reaching for the phone.
I stopped her. Theyll only send her to a childrens home. She wont survive the journey.
Emily hesitated, then opened a cupboard. Here. I have some infant formula left over from my granddaughters last visit. Itll keep her going for now. But Claire what are you going to do?
I stared at the small, warm face pressed into my sweater, her breath a soft puff on my skin. She had stopped crying.
Ill raise her, I whispered. Theres no other way.
Whispers rose around us almost instantly.
Shes thirtyfive, single, lives alonenow shes scooping up abandoned babies? they muttered.
Gossip never mattered to me. With a few contacts at the town hall I secured the paperwork; there were no relatives, no missingchild reports.
I named her Ethel.
The first year was the hardest. Sleepless nights, fevers, teething. I rocked her, soothed her, sang lullabies I barely remembered from my own childhood.
Mum! she announced at ten months, reaching her arms toward me.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. After years of solitudejust me and my little houseI was suddenly someones mother.
By two she was a whirlwind, chasing the cat, tugging at curtains, demanding answers to everything. At three she could point out every letter in her picture books. By four she spun whole stories.
Shes brilliant, the neighbour, Mrs. Hargreaves, said, shaking her head in amazement. I dont know how you do it.
Its not me, I replied, smiling. She just shines.
At five I arranged rides to the nursery in the nearby town of Ashford. The staff were astonished.
She reads better than most sevenyearolds, they told me.
When she started primary school she wore long chestnut braids tied with matching ribbons, each one braided to perfection every morning. No parentteacher evening passed without my presence. Her teachers praised her endlessly.
Miss Bennett, a teacher once said, Ethel is the kind of pupil we dream of. Shell go far.
My heart swelled with pride. My daughter.
She grew into a graceful, striking young womanslender, confident, eyes a clear blue that held determination. She won spelling bees, math Olympiads, even regional science fairs. Everyone in Hartwell knew her name.
Then, one evening in her final year of secondary school, she turned to me and said, Mum, I want to be a doctor.
I blinked. Thats wonderful, love. But how will we afford university? The tuition, the rent, the living costs?
Ive got a scholarship, she replied, eyes bright. Ill find a way. I promise.
And she did.
When the acceptance letter from the medical school arrived, I wept for two daystears of joy and terror entwined. She would leave me for the first time.
Dont cry, Mum, she said at the train station, squeezing my hand. Ill be home every weekend.
Of course she didnt. The city swallowed herlectures, labs, exams. At first she visited once a month, then every two or three weeks, but she called every night without fail.
Mum! Ive aced anatomy!
Mum! We delivered a baby today in the clinic rotation!
Each call made me smile, hanging on to her stories.
In her third year she sounded unusually excited. Ive met someone, she confessed shyly.
His name was James, a fellow student. He came over for Christmastall, courteous, eyes warm, voice steady. He thanked us for the meal and cleared the table without being asked.
Good catch, I murmured as I washed the dishes.
Or what? she giggled. And dont worryIm still getting top marks.
After graduation she began her specialist training, pediatrics, of course.
You once saved my life, she told me one night. Now I want to save other children.
Visits grew rarer. I understood; she had her own life. Yet I kept every photo, every tiny patient note.
One Thursday evening the phone rang.
Mum can I come tomorrow? her voice was low, nervous. I need to talk.
My heart thumped. Of course, love. Is everything alright?
She arrived the next afternoon alone, no smile, no sparkle in her eyes.
Whats wrong? I asked, pulling her into an embrace.
She sat down, hands folded, and said, Two people came to the hospital. A man and a woman. They said they were my uncle and aunt. They claimed my niece disappeared twentyfive years ago.
A cold dread settled over me. What do you mean?
They had photographs, DNA results. Everything matched. Its true.
Silence stretched between us.
They left you on the tracks, I whispered. Abandoned you in the snow.
They say it wasnt their fault, she continued. That my parents fled a violent situation, got lost at the station, and searched for years.
My parents? I asked, breath catching. They died in a car crash ten years ago.
I didnt know what to say.
Ethel reached for my hand. They just want the truth. Hold my hand and tell them, she said, no matter what the past says, you are and will always be my mother.
