**Diary Entry 15th March, 1983**
“Annie, you must let the girl continue her studies,” Mrs. Wilkins said, her voice firm but kind. “Minds like hers dont come along often. She has a gift for words, for literature. You should see her essays!”
My daughter was three when I found her beneath the bridge, half-buried in the mud. I raised her as my own, though the whispers followed me for years. Now she teaches in the city, while I remain here in my cottage, turning memories over like precious beads.
The floor creaked underfootIve told myself a hundred times to fix it, but never get round to it. I sat at the table and pulled out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch branch tapped the window as if begging to come in.
“Whats all this racket?” I muttered. “Hold on, springs coming.”
Talking to a tree might seem foolish, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After the war, I was left a widowmy John never came home. His last letter, worn at the folds, still sits in my drawer. He wrote that hed return soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy. A week later, I got the news.
God never gave us childrenperhaps for the best. In those days, putting food on the table was hard enough. The farm manager, Mr. Thompson, tried to comfort me.
“Dont fret, Annie. Youre still youngyoull marry again.”
“I wont,” I said flatly. “I loved once. Thats enough.”
I worked the fields from dawn till dusk. The foreman, Mr. Harris, would shout, “Annie, go home! Its late!”
“Ill manage,” Id reply. “So long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.”
I kept a small homesteada stubborn goat named Daisy and five chickens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour, Mabel, often teased, “Are you sure youre not part hen? Yours are always the first to crow!”
I grew my own vegetablespotatoes, carrots, beets. Come autumn, Id pickle cucumbers and tomatoes. Opening a jar in winter was like bringing summer back indoors.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. A raw, wet March. Drizzle in the morning, frost by evening. Id gone to gather firewoodplenty of fallen branches after the winter storms. On my way back, near the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind. But noclear as day, a childs whimper.
I climbed down and there she wasa little girl, covered in mud, her dress torn and soaked, her eyes terrified. When she saw me, she went silent, trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Whose child are you?” I whispered, careful not to frighten her further.
She said nothing, just blinked up at me, lips blue with cold, hands red and swollen.
“Youre frozen through,” I murmured. “Come on, lets get you warm.”
I lifted herlight as a featherwrapped her in my shawl, and held her close. All the way home, she clung to me, her tiny fingers gripping my neck.
The neighbours came runningnews travels fast. Mabel arrived first.
“Good Lord, Annie, whered you find her?”
“Under the bridge,” I said. “Abandoned, it seems.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Mabel gasped. “What will you do with her?”
“What do you think? Im keeping her.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Old Mrs. Thatcher chimed in. “How will you feed her?”
“However God provides,” I snapped.
I stoked the fire, heated water. She was bruised, thin, her ribs showing. I bathed her, dressed her in an old jumperno childrens clothes in the house.
“Hungry?” I asked.
She nodded shyly.
I gave her yesterdays soup and bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyclearly not a street child.
“Whats your name?”
Silence. Maybe afraid, maybe unable to speak.
I named her Mary, after my mother. Thought her parents might come forward, but no one ever did. And thank Godmy heart had already claimed her.
At first, she barely spoke, just stared around the cottage as if searching for something. Shed wake screaming at night. Id hold her, stroke her hair. “Hush now, love. Its alright.”
From old fabric, I sewed her dressesblue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. Mabel gasped, “Annie, I never knew you could sew!”
“Life teaches you,” I said, glowing at the praise.
But not everyone approved. Mrs. Thatcher crossed herself when she saw us. “Bad luck, taking in a foundling. Mark my words.”
“Enough,” I cut her off. “Shes mine now.”
Even Mr. Thompson frowned. “Annie, the orphanage could feed and clothe her properly.”
“And whod love her?” I asked.
He relented, sending milk and grain when he could.
Mary slowly thawed. First words, then sentences. Ill never forget her first laughId tumbled off a chair hanging curtains, and she burst into giggles, so bright it melted my aches.
She tried helping in the garden, stomping more weeds than she pulled. I didnt scoldjust glad to see life in her.
Then fever struck. Our local medic, Dr. Lewis, shook his head. “Ive only aspirin, Annie. Supplies might come next week.”
“Next week?” I cried. “She might not last till morning!”
I ran to the townsix miles through mud. Shoes ruined, feet blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Dr. Carter, took one look at medirty, drenchedand returned with medicine.
“Dont worry about payment. Just get her well.”
Three days I barely slept, whispering prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered, “Mum, Im thirsty.”
Mum. First time shed called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears. “Mum, whyre you crying?”
“Happy tears, love.”
After that, she blossomedchatty, affectionate. School came next. Her teacher, Miss Bennett, praised her endlessly. “Such a bright girl! She grasps everything!”
The village warmed to her. Even Mrs. Thatcher softened after Mary helped her light the stove during a bitter freeze. The old woman taught her to knit, told her stories, and never again spoke of “bad blood.”
Years flew. Mary excelled, fell in love (unrequited, as first loves often are), and won a place at teachers college. I sold our cow, Bessie, to pay her fees.
“You shouldnt have, Mum,” she protested.
“Ill manage. You need your education.”
When her acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even Mr. Thompson nodded. “Youve done well, Annie.”
The day she left, we stood at the bus stop, clinging to each other.
“Ill write every week,” she promised.
“Of course you will,” I said, heart breaking.
She kept her word. Her letters were my joyfull of studies, new friends, city life. Between the lines, I read her homesickness.
In her second year, she met Robert, a history student. Brought him home that summera serious, hardworking lad. He fixed my roof, mended the fence, charmed the neighbours. It was plain he adored her.
Now shes a teacher herself, married to Robert. Theyve given me a granddaughterLittle Annie, the image of Mary at that age, only bolder. The house rings with her laughter. A home without it is like a church without bells.
As I write this, the wind still rattles the birch branch. But the silence doesnt weigh on me now. Its filled with gratitudefor every day, for Marys smile, for the fate that led me to that bridge.
On the table sits a photoMary, Robert, and Little Annie. Beside it, the old shawl I wrapped her in. Sometimes I take it out, running my fingers over the fabric, feeling the warmth of those days return.
Yesterdays letter brought newsanother baby on the way. A boy, theyll name him John, after my husband. The family line continues.
They tore that old bridge down years ago, replaced it with concrete. I rarely go there now, but when I do, I pause. And I thinkhow one day, one chance, one childs cry in the rain can change everything.
They say fate tests us with loneliness to teach us to cherish love. But I think it prepares us for those who need us most. Blood or not, what matters is
