**BABY ON THE PLATFORM: 25 YEARS LATER, THE PAST COMES KNOCKING**
I found a baby on the railway tracks and raised her as my owntwenty-five years later, her past came calling.
*”Wait what was that?”*
I stopped dead in my tracks halfway to the station, a faint sound cutting through the silence. The biting February wind tugged at my coat, whipped my face, and carried a tiny, stubborn whimperalmost drowned out by the howling storm.
The noise came from the rails. I turned toward the old, abandoned signalmans hut, barely visible under the snow. Beside the tracks lay a dark bundle.
Carefully, I stepped closer. A worn, grubby blanket hid a tiny figure. A small hand stuck outred with cold.
*”Good Lord”* I breathed, heart pounding.
I dropped to my knees and scooped her up. A baby. A little girl. No older than a year, maybe younger. Her lips were blue. Her cries weak, as if she didnt even have the strength to be afraid.
I bundled her against my chest, opened my coat to shield her, and ranas fast as I couldback to the village. To Bridget Holloway, our only medic.
*”Margaret, what on earth?”* Bridget saw the bundle in my arms and gasped.
*”Found her by the tracks. Nearly frozen.”*
Bridget took the baby gently, checking her over. *”Shes hypothermic but alive. Thank goodness.”*
*”We should call the police,”* she added, reaching for the phone.
I stopped her. *”Theyll just send her to an orphanage. She wont survive the trip.”*
Bridget hesitated, then opened a cupboard. *”Here. Ive got formula left from my granddaughters last visit. Itll do for now. But Margaret what are you thinking?”*
I looked down at the tiny face nuzzled into my jumper, her breath warm on my skin. Shed stopped crying.
*”Im keeping her,”* I said softly. *”Theres no other way.”*
The gossip started almost instantly.
*”Shes thirty-five, single, lives alonenow shes collecting abandoned babies?”*
Let them talk. Tittle-tattle never bothered me. With help from a few friends at the council, I sorted the paperwork. No relatives. No missing child reports.
I named her Emily.
The first year was the hardest. Sleepless nights. Fevers. Teething. I rocked her, soothed her, sang lullabies I barely remembered from my own childhood.
*”Mummy!”* she said one morning at ten months, stretching her little arms toward me.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. After years of solitudejust me and my little cottageI was someones mother.
By two, she was a whirlwind. Chasing the cat. Yanking curtains. Asking *why* about everything. By three, she knew every letter in her picture books. By four, she was telling whole stories.
*”Shes brilliant,”* said my neighbour Helen, shaking her head. *”No idea how you did it.”*
*”Wasnt me,”* I smiled. *”Just let her shine.”*
At five, I arranged lifts to get her to the nursery in the next village. The teachers were stunned.
*”She reads better than most seven-year-olds,”* they told me.
When she started school, she wore long chestnut plaits with matching ribbons. I braided them perfectly every morning. Not a single parents evening went without me. Her teachers couldnt praise her enough.
*”Mrs. Whitmore,”* one said, *”Emilys the sort of pupil we dream of. Shell go far.”*
My heart swelled with pride. My daughter.
She grew into a graceful, stunning young woman. Slim, confident, with bright blue eyes full of determination. She won spelling bees, maths competitions, even regional science fairs. Everyone in the village knew her name.
Then, one evening in Year 11, she came home and said, *”Mum, I want to be a doctor.”*
I blinked. *”Thats wonderful, love. But how will we afford uni? The city? Rent? Food?”*
*”Ill get a scholarship,”* she said, eyes gleaming. *”Ill figure it out. Promise.”*
And she did.
When her medical school acceptance letter arrived, I cried for two days. Tears of joyand fear. She was leaving me for the first time.
*”Dont cry, Mum,”* she said at the station, squeezing my hand. *”Ill visit every weekend.”*
Of course, she didnt. The city swallowed her whole. Lectures, labs, exams. At first, she came monthly. Then every few months. But she called me every night without fail.
*”Mum! I aced anatomy!”*
*”Mum! We delivered a baby in clinical rotations today!”*
Each time, I smiled and listened.
In her third year, her voice buzzed with excitement.
*”Ive met someone,”* she said shyly.
His name was James. A fellow student. He came home with her for Christmastall, polite, with kind eyes and a quiet voice. He thanked me for dinner and cleared the table without being asked.
*”Good catch,”* I whispered to Emily while washing up.
*”Right?”* she beamed. *”And dont worrystill top marks.”*
After graduation, she started her specialist training. Paediatrics, naturally.
*”You saved me once,”* she said. *”Now Ill save other kids.”*
She visited less often. I understood. She had her own life. But I kept every photo, every little patient story.
Then, one Thursday evening, my phone rang.
*”Mum can I come tomorrow?”* Her voice was quiet. Nervous. *”Need to talk.”*
My heart thudded. *”Of course, love. Everything alright?”*
The next afternoon, she arrived alone. No smile. No sparkle in her eyes.
*”Whats wrong?”* I asked, pulling her into a hug.
She sat, hands folded. *”Two people came to the hospital. A man and a woman. They asked for me.”*
I frowned. *”What do you mean?”*
*”They said they were my uncle and aunt. That their niece went missing twenty-five years ago.”*
My head spun. *”And?”*
*”They had photos. DNA tests. Everything. Its true.”*
Silence stretched between us.
*”They left you,”* I whispered. *”Abandoned you in the snow.”*
*”They say they didnt. That my parents were fleeing violence. That we got separated at the station. That they searched for years.”*
My breath caught. *”And your parents?”*
*”Gone. Car crash, ten years ago.”*
I didnt know what to say.
Emily grabbed my hand. *”They dont want anything. Just to tell the truth.”*
I held her hand tight and whispered, *”No matter what the past says, youll always be my daughter.”*
