The memory of that winter night still haunts me, as if the wind itself were whispering the tale anew.
Papa, I want to eat and go out! the little Elsie squealed once more, tugging at my sleeve.
I was at that moment polishing off the last of my pint of bitter and thumping away at a shootinggame on my old desktop. The battle on screen demanded my full attention, yet the incessant chirps of my fiveyearold grated on my nerves. I could not comprehend when she would finally tire and cease demanding my time. My irritation grew when she clutched my coat, pleading for a glance. Five, was it? She was supposed to be learning to make her own porridge by now. While I roamed the village backstreets with my mates, my daughter seemed a helpless little thing.
My distraction cost me dearly I lost the game. Fury clouded my eyes. I sprang up, lunged for the kitchen, grabbed a hardcrusted loaf and flung it at her.
Take it and chew it, cant reach it yourself? I barked.
I poured a glass of milk from the fridge, set it on the table, and, when Elsie reminded me that Mother always warmed the milk, I snapped that I was not Mother and that she ought to learn that long ago. I returned to the computer, hopeful that a satisfied child would not interrupt my play. Yet anger still held me captive. After a quick trip to the loo, I hurried back, but did not reach my favorite armchair.
Papa, I want to go out. Mother and I used to walk every day! Elsie whined, puckering her lips.
Want a walk? Fine! Off you go! I replied, seizing the chance to be alone. I rifled through her wardrobe, snatched a warm pair of trousers, a sweater, mittens, a coat and a hat. Hastily dressing her, I shoved her outside and told her to stay out until I called her back. I slipped on my headphones, cranked up the music, cracked open a fresh bottle of cider and resumed blasting enemies, reveling in the silence.
Elsie shivered in the cold. She remembered Mother always dressing her in cozier clothes for such weather. The sun had long set, and it was past the hour when a mother would let a child out. She missed her dearly, yearning for the warmth of her mothers lap. Her small lips trembled as she tried the front door, only to find I had locked it. To stave off the cold, she tried to run, but the snowunchanged for daysclogged her feet. She attempted to roll a snowman, but the powder was more sand than snow, refusing to compact. She wondered if perhaps the snow was just frozen sand. She knocked on the cottage door, but no one answered, as if she were invisible. Fear tightened around her. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and she began to sob, calling for father, but I ignored her cries.
She wrapped her arms around herself, sniffling, and noticed the garden gate ajar. She slipped through, hoping any heat might thaw her freezing limbs. She thought of Mrs. Lucy, the neighbour who often offered milk, but Lucys house was dark. She knocked again, to no avail; perhaps nobody was home. She kept moving, the village edge drawing nearer as her cottage sat on the outskirts. Snow swirled, blinding her, and a gale howled, seeping under her coat. She called out for Dad, but in her mind only my angry face and my harsh wordsLeave me alone, Im not your mother!returned.
When at last she could bear no more, she fell to her knees, the biting snow searing her skin, the wind tearing at her clothes.
Only two in the morning did I remember Elsies absence. I might never have thought of her again, if not for the sudden crash of a windowpane as I rushed to the loo. Bare branches of the lilac by the window, glazed with hoarfrost, shivered in the wind.
A proper blizzard, I muttered, but the thought of leaving my child out in the night froze my blood.
I bolted into the garden, shouting for Elsie, but she was nowhere. A wave of dread swept over menight was deep, the snowstorm fierce, and my daughter could be dying out there. I waved my hands helplessly. Shell manage herself, I told myself, as if she could simply walk home in that storm.
Assuming a neighbour had taken her, I returned inside, still shivering from the cold outside. I told my wife, Claire, that the neighbours, especially Aunt Lucy, often looked after Elsie. Seeing a light in Lucys kitchen window eased my mind. When Claire asked how we were faring, I replied coldly that we were asleep and all was well.
Our marriage had grown strained; Claire, echoing her late mother, nagged me about finding work rather than lingering over games. I dreamed of becoming a professional gamer, hearing stories of lucrative tournament winnings, and blamed Claire for never supporting my ambitions. I chastised her, promising that one day I would earn the big bucks.
I crashed onto the bed, snoring loudly. I left the front door unlocked, fearing a sudden return of my daughter. At dawn, my sisterinlaw, Diana ClarkeClaires sisterburst in, voice shaking.
Has he gone mad? Hes left the child out! Where is Elsie? she cried.
Enough shouting! Shes not at home, I snapped, turning over. Diana clutched my arm, yanked me upright, and I fell to the floor in a halfsleep.
What will I do to you, you fool! she threatened, rubbing her bruised wrist. Unlike her gentle sister Olesia, Diana was a karatetrained, nononsense woman, not easily frightened. She demanded, Where is the child? Who took my niece? I came for Elsie!
I tried to explain that Elsie had gone out on her own, that I had merely tossed her into the cold so I could finish my game. Dianas eyes widened. She was ready to seize me then and there, as if I had acted with impunity.
She stormed to Aunt Lucys cottage. Is Elsie here? The little girl from the ninth lane? she asked. Lucy shook her head, pale, and confessed she knew nothing, for she had been away on a short trip and had not seen the child. The village, blanketed in snow, offered no sign of the missing child; every door stayed shut, every window dark.
I was shaken, but I kept returning to my computer, as if the world would not notice my negligence. Diana pounded on Lucys door, her hands trembling, until finally Lucy opened, a weary smile on her face.
Sorry, dear, I havent seen her, she said. Perhaps she wandered farther out, beyond the village?
Diana rushed home, shook me violently, and demanded answers. Did you really leave her out in that storm? she hissed.
I tried to smooth things over, claiming I thought she could look after herself. Diana, fearing for her sisters healthOlesia was awaiting heart surgerykept the truth from her. She called the police, who arrived swiftly. The officers, appalled at what they saw, placed handcuffs on me.
What have you done? the sergeant asked, voice thick with disgust. Leaving a child alone in a blizzard is child endangerment, you know that.
I shouted, I didnt harm her! but they pressed on, insisting they would investigate every detail.
Diana broke down, tears streaming as she imagined the tiny hands curled around a cold branch. A search team combed the surrounding fields, finding only a pair of mittenshers, which she had brought from a business trip. The sight of those mittens sent her reeling; they were the last tangible link to Elsie.
Hours turned into a sleepless night. Finally, a patrol officer called with news: a girl, estimated five or six, had been found unconscious in a ditch and was being rushed to the county hospital. Dianas heart leapt, though fear still clenched her throat.
At the hospital, the girlElsielay thin and pale, her cheeks blue from frostbite. A young doctor, Dr. Samuel Price, introduced himself. Shes suffered partial frostbite and may have pneumonia, but weve stabilized her, he said gently.
Diana, still shaking, whispered, Shes my niece my sisters child. The doctor reassured her, Shes a strong little thing; shell pull through.
When the police arrived, they took me into a holding cell, questioning me again about my role. Do you understand the gravity of abandoning a child in such weather? one officer asked, eyes cold. I could only stare, numb.
Days later, the case made the local papers. The village gossip swirled, and Claire, already weary from her own health battles, left me forever. She signed the divorce papers, packing her things, and moved into a modest flat with Olesia, who, with a new resolve, began her recovery.
In the meantime, Dianas life took a turn. She found solace in Dr. Price, who had rescued Elsie. Their bond grew, and soon Charlie, a golden retriever belonging to Samuel, became a constant visitor to the cottage. Elsie adored the dog, begging for treats and a big bone each day.
Samuels own story unfolded. He had been on a weekend break, driving home with Charlie, when the dog darted into the snowdrifts, barking. The dogs frantic howls led Samuel to a small, shivering figure halfburied in the white. The child clutched the dogs collar, eyes wide with terror. Samuel acted quickly, administered first aid, and rushed her to the nearest A&E.
Later, as Samuel and Diana sat together over tea, Diana sighed, If it werent for Charlie, she might not be here. Samuel nodded, You saved her, Diana. Were grateful.
Months passed. Elsie regained strength, her frostbitten fingers healing, her lungs clearing. Olesia, once set for heart surgery, was discharged, her operation cancelled thanks to the unexpected turn of events. The family, fractured by betrayal, began piecing together new lives.
Andrewmy name now, the oncereckless gamerserved his sentence, a modest term for child neglect. He emerged, gaunt and broken, his pride shattered. He never truly repented, but the village remembered him as a cautionary tale: a man who let a game conquer his humanity.
Now, when I look back, the winter wind still carries the echo of Elsies tiny voice, the slap of the cold against the shutters, and the distant bark of Charlie. The memory serves as a stark reminder that no pastime is worth the warmth of a child’s heart.
