I found a baby under a birch tree and raised him as my own. But who could have guessed…
“What on earth are you doing here?” Michael Andrews froze, unable to believe his eyes.
Under an ancient oak, curled up on a bed of fallen leaves, was a childa skinny little thing, no older than four, shivering in a threadbare jumper. His wide, frightened eyes locked onto the park ranger.
Michael glanced around cautiously. Not a soul in sightjust the wind rustling through the pine needles and the occasional creak of a branch. He crouched down, trying to look less intimidating.
“Whats your name, lad? Where are your parents?”
The boy pressed himself against the rough bark of the oak. His lips trembled, but instead of words, only a faint chattering escaped.
“Se… Se… Sammy,” he finally whispered.
“Sammy?” Michael reached out, but the boy flinched. “No need to be scared. I wont hurt you.”
Dusk was settling over the woods, and the temperature kept dropping. Who in their right mind would leave a child out here? The nearest village was miles away, down a winding country lane.
“Come with me,” Michael said gently. “My cottage is warm, and theres food.”
At the mention of food, a flicker of interest lit up the boys eyes.
Michael shrugged off his thick waxed jacket and draped it over Sammys bony shoulders. The boy didnt resist.
“There we go,” Michael murmured, lifting him into his arms.
Light as a feather. The poor thing was skin and bonesclearly hadnt eaten properly in ages.
They trudged through the woods, and soon enough, the faint glow of a thatched cottage peeked through the treesa wonky porch, a smoking chimney.
“Home sweet home,” Michael announced, nudging the door open with his boot.
The smell of wood smoke and dried herbs filled the air. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting a warm glow over the rough-hewn table and wooden bench.
Michael sat Sammy down, tossed a few logs onto the fire, and soon the flames roared back to life, illuminating the boys pale, frightened face.
“Youll warm up in no time,” Michael said, hanging a pot over the fire. “Then well talk.”
Sammy wolfed down the stew, coughing between gulps. Michael watched him, an old ache stirring in his chest. How long had it been since hed cared for a child? Ten years? Fifteen? Since
No. Not now.
“Where are you from, Sammy?” he asked when the bowl was empty.
The boy shook his head.
“Your mum and dadwhere are they?”
Another shake. Tears welled up, spilling over his cheeks.
“I dunno,” he whispered.
Michael sighed. “Tomorrow, well have to pop into the village, let Constable Harris know. A lad cant just turn up out of nowheresomeone must be looking for you.”
“Youll stay here tonight,” he decided. “Well sort it out tomorrow.”
He tucked Sammy under a worn but clean blanket on the bench by the fire. The boy curled up, still eyeing him warily.
In the middle of the night, Michael woke to the sound of quiet sniffles. Sammy sat huddled on the bench, knees to his chest, crying silently.
“Hey,” Michael called softly. “Come here.”
He patted the bed beside him. The boy hesitated, torn between fear and trust.
“Go on,” Michael coaxed. “No need to be scared.”
Sammy slid off the bench and, after a few wobbly steps, crawled under the blanket next to him.
“Sleep,” Michael said. “Youre safe here.”
At first light, Michael got ready to head to the village. He hesitated, glancing at Sammy, still fast asleep. Should he take him? Leave him? What if the boy woke up alone?
In the end, he gently shook him awake.
“Off to the village,” Michael said. “Weve got to find whoevers missing you.”
Sammys eyes flew open.
“No!” he shouted, clear as a bell for the first time. “Dont leave me!” he added, clutching Michaels hand.
“Why not?” Michael crouched to his level. “Your parents must be worried sick.”
Sammy shook his head, fear flashing in his eyes.
“No mum,” he whispered. “No dad.”
A sharp pang twisted in Michaels chesthe knew that look. The utter desolation of someone whod lost everything.
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Youll stay here today. But tomorrow, were going, no arguments. Understood?”
The boy nodded, still gripping Michaels hand.
Three weeks later, Michael Andrews finally made it to the village.
They cooked stew over the firepotatoes, onions, wild herbs from the woods. The flames painted their facesone weathered and bearded, the other young and freckled. But their eyes were the samebright, serious, intent.
“School next week,” Michael murmured, stirring the pot. “Nervous?”
Sammy shrugged.
“A bit. What if the other kids laugh at me?”
“What?” Michael blinked.
“Cause Ive never been to school. Cause Im different.”
Michael set the spoon down, pulled Sammy close, and said quietly,
“Listen hereyes, youre different. But youre better.” Youve faced down a badger in the woods. You can start a fire with one match. You know what rain smells like before it falls.
And youre starting Year One. Nobody knows school till they gonot even them.
Sammy looked up.
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” Michael said, ruffling his sandy hair. “And one more thingIll always be here. Always.”
September arrived, bright and crisp. Sammy, in a new jumper and backpack, waited by the door. Michael adjusted his collar.
“Ready?”
Sammy nodded. Together, they walked down the village lane to the schoola little white building with a Union Jack fluttering out front. Kids swarmed in with flower bouquets, parents snapping photos.
At the gate, Sammy slowed.
“Dad,” he said finally, and Michael froze, not wanting to break the moment. “Will you wait here?”
“Course I will,” he said, voice rough. “Right here. Off you go.”
Sammy took a deep breath and stepped through the gate, blending into the crowd. Michael stayed rooted, watching the door with a soft smile. The breeze ruffled his hair.
His son was starting school, just as he should. The circle was completeloneliness had given way to warmth, to a life brimming with meaning, love, and hope.
