**The Angel**
A tiny hand reaches through the chain-link fence, stretching toward the ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice, busying myself with weeding the onions.
“Hello, Aunt Martha,” pipes a small voice—it’s little Alfie.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile. “Come over here and help me pick some strawberries.”
The fence sags; I lift the bottom easily, and in walks my Angel—that’s what I call Alfie. Right behind him, huffing and puffing, squeezes his massive dog, Rufus, nearly twice the boy’s size. I place a big bowl in the middle of the patch, and Alfie picks the largest, juiciest berries. His blonde hair and blue eyes shine, and his shoulder blades stick out like little wings—that’s why I call him Angel. He’s five, full of curiosity and kindness.
“Alfie, why was Mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, and I spilled the paint,” he says. “I was trying to paint Rufus’s kennel, but I knocked the tin over by accident.”
“Never mind that. We’ll have some tea, then buy more paint.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being told and sits at the table by the window—his favourite spot. From the treats laid out, he chooses strawberries with cream and a warm, sugar-dusted scone. Soon, his top lip wears a dusting of powdered sugar.
On the mat by the door, Rufus waits patiently, knowing the rules. He gets a cheese scone, then stares sadly at the lone pastry before glancing at Alfie and me as if to say, *Is that all?* We laugh, and I set down a bowl of stew. Rufus forgives us and digs in slowly.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with tins of white and green paint. The sky’s blue, the sun high, the air warm. I duck inside to change, packing leftover strawberries and scones into a bag.
On Alfie’s porch sits his grandmother, blind these past two years. The little Angel gently straightens her headscarf, tucking back a wisp of hair. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap—her favourite.
Out on the veranda, Alfie and I paint the stools white, then Rufus’s kennel green. Alfie beams; Rufus couldn’t care less.
Soon, Jane—Alfie’s mum—comes home from work. She praises her son’s handiwork and calls everyone to tea. Alfie guides his gran inside, then carefully feeds her rice pudding. She drinks her tea alone, a caramel melting in her cup. She moves through the house by memory, knowing every creak in the floorboards. Jane works at a roadside café two miles away. On late shifts, she relies on Alfie.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him tuck into his porridge, dripping with golden butter. After a mug of sweet tea, he trots off to watch cartoons. A child, yet already so grown. Or is it the other way round?
He sweeps floors, washes dishes, helps his gran dress, carries firewood (two logs at a time) and water (in a little pail). He adores his dog and sometimes cries when his mum scolds him unfairly—but he also laughs wildly, splashing in the river, sunlight sparkling on the droplets.
As I leave, I tell Jane not to shout at him. He’s a man now; don’t shame him. Cherish him. Find reasons to praise him.
She sighs, complaining about life—her blind mother, her meagre wages.
I say, “You’ve a home, a mother still with you, work, a fine son who helps, good health. Treasure what you have—don’t measure by others.”
Jane smiles and waves me off.
My time with Alfie isn’t wasted—at five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to his gran. On still evenings, we stroll to the riverbank with fishing rods. The sun, like a golden sunflower, dips slowly behind the trees, casting its last warm glow. Gilded clouds drift above, and everything stills, resting from the day’s noise. Our chatter doesn’t scare the fish—soon, two silvery minnows flicker in our jar. Dinner for my cat is sorted.
Today, my Angel visited—all grown now, 42, a respected surgeon. A few times a year, he tends his mother and gran’s graves, then comes by with treats. The world knows him as Dr. Alfred Wilson, but I know the truth—he’s still my Angel. Broad-shouldered, kind.
He sets a basket of strawberries on the table, sits by the window, and smiles. Over tea and warm scones, we talk. Later, he smokes a cigarette on the porch, then hugs me goodbye—his arms like great, warm wings.
**Lesson:** The smallest kindnesses grow into the deepest bonds. A boy taught me that.
