“Anna, dear, you must let the girl continue her studies. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. She has a real gift for languages and literatureyou should see her writing!
My daughter was just three years old when I found her under the bridge, covered in mud. I raised her as my own, though people whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, while I still live in my little cottage, sorting through memories like precious beads.
The floor creaks under my feetI keep meaning to fix it, but never quite get round to it. I sit at the table and pull out my old journal. The pages are yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still holds my thoughts. Outside, the wind howls, and the birch tree taps its branch against the window as if asking to come in.
‘Whats all this fuss about?’ I say to it. ‘Hold on, spring will come soon.’
Silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After those terrible times, I was left a widowmy Stephen was gone. I still keep his last letter, worn at the folds from all the times Ive read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy A week later, I got the news.
God never gave us childrenmaybe for the best, back then there was barely enough to feed ourselves. The head of the farm, Mr. Thompson, would try to comfort me:
‘Dont fret, Anna. Youre still youngyoull marry again.’
‘I wont marry again,’ Id say firmly. ‘I loved once. Thats enough.’
I worked on the farm from dawn till dusk. The foreman, Mr. Harris, would shout,
‘Anna, love, its getting latetime to go home!’
‘Plenty of time,’ Id reply. ‘As long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.’
I had a small homesteada stubborn goat named Bess, just as headstrong as me, and five hens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour Clara would joke,
‘Anna, are you sure youre not part hen? Yours are always the first to crow!’
I kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, beetroot. All homegrown, from the earth. In autumn, Id make preservespickled cucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar was like bringing summer back inside.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. March was damp and raw. A drizzle in the morning, frost by evening. I went to the woods for kindlingthe stove needed feeding. After the winter storms, there was plenty of deadwood to gather. I bundled it up and was walking home past the old bridge when I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind. But noclear as day, a childs whimper.
I climbed down under the bridge and there she wasa little girl, filthy, her dress soaked and torn, eyes wide with fear. When she saw me, she went quiet, trembling like a leaf.
‘Who do you belong to, sweetheart?’ I asked softly, not wanting to scare her more.
She didnt speak, just blinked up at me. Her lips were blue with cold, her hands red and swollen.
‘Youre freezing,’ I muttered, more to myself. ‘Come on, lets get you home where its warm.’
I lifted herlight as a featherwrapped her in my shawl, and held her close. All the while, I wonderedwhat kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge? I couldnt make sense of it.
I left the kindling behindit didnt matter now. The whole way home, she stayed silent, clinging to me with her icy little fingers.
When we got back, the neighbours came runningnews travels fast in the village. Clara was first.
‘Good Lord, Anna, whered you find her?’
‘Under the bridge,’ I said. ‘Abandoned, it seems.’
‘Oh, what a shame’ Clara wrung her hands. ‘What will you do with her?’
‘Do with her? Im keeping her.’
‘Anna, have you lost your mind?’ Old Martha huffed. ‘Where will you get food for a child?’
‘Well manage,’ I snapped. ‘God provides.’
First, I stoked the fire hot, heated water. The girl was bruised, skinnyribs sticking out. I bathed her, dressed her in an old jumperno childrens clothes in the house.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.
She nodded shyly.
I gave her yesterdays stew, a slice of bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyclearly not a street child.
‘Whats your name?’
Silence. Too scared to speak, or maybe she didnt know how.
I put her to bed in my own, sleeping on the bench. That night, I woke again and again to check on her. She slept curled tight, whimpering in her dreams.
At dawn, I went to the parish council to report the found child. The head, Mr. Wilson, just shrugged.
‘No missing children reported. Mustve been left by someone from the city’
‘What now?’
‘By law, she goes to the orphanage. Ill ring the county today.’
My heart clenched.
‘Wait, Mr. Wilson. Give it timemaybe her parents will turn up. For now, she stays with me.’
‘Anna, think this through’
‘No need. My minds made up.’
I named her Mary, after my mother. I thought her parents might come, but no one ever did. And thank GodId already grown to love her.
At first, it was hard. She didnt speak, just wandered the cottage with her eyes, searching for something. Shed wake screaming at night. Id hold her, stroke her hair.
‘Shhh, love. Its alright now.’
I sewed her clothes from old fabricdyed blue, green, red. Simple, but cheerful. Clara gasped when she saw.
‘Anna, youve got hands of gold! I thought you only knew a shovel.’
‘Life teaches you,’ I said, glowing at the praise.
But not everyone was kind. Old Martha crossed herself when she saw us.
‘Bad luck, Anna. A foundling brings trouble. Her mother mustve been no goodlike mother, like daughter.’
‘Hush, Martha!’ I cut in. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged. Shes mine now, and thats final.’
Even Mr. Thompson frowned at first.
‘Anna, maybe the orphanage is best. Theyll feed and clothe her proper.’
‘And wholl love her?’ I asked. ‘The orphanage has plenty without her.’
He waved me off but started helpingsending milk, grain.
Slowly, Mary thawed. First words, then sentences. Ill never forget her first laughId tumbled off a chair hanging curtains, groaning, and she burst into giggles, bright as bells. The pain vanished in that sound.
She tried helping in the garden, toddling with a tiny hoe, trampling more weeds than she pulled. But I didnt scoldjust glad to see her alive.
Then fever took her. Burning up, delirious. I begged the village medic, Mr. Clark.
‘Please, help her!’
He shook his head.
‘What medicine, Anna? Ive three aspirin for the whole farm. Maybe next week theyll send more.’
‘Next week?’ I cried. ‘She might not last till morning!’
I ran to the townnine miles through mud. Shoes ruined, feet blistered, but I made it. At the hospital, young Dr. Bennett took one look at mefilthy, soakedand said,
‘Wait here.’
He brought medicine, showed me how to dose it.
‘No charge. Just get her well.’
Three days, I never left her side. Whispered prayers, changed compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered,
‘Mum Im thirsty.’
Mum. First time she called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with tiny fingers.
‘Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt?’
‘No, love,’ I said. ‘These are happy tears.’
After that, she blossomedsweet, chatty. Started school, and the teacher couldnt praise her enough.
‘Such a clever girl! Learns everything in a flash.’
The village warmed to her. Even Martha softenedbringing us pies, especially after Mary helped her light the stove in a bitter freeze. The old woman had been laid up with rheumatism, no firewood. Mary said,
‘Mum, lets visit Martha. She must be cold alone.’
They became friendsthe gruff old woman and my girl. Martha told her stories, taught her to knit, and never spoke of ‘bad blood’ again.
Years passed. Mary was nine when she first spoke of the bridge. Evening
