**Diary Entry**
She left me with the child and ran off. Damn you… Asleep, old fool…” Mary groaned, shaking her head side to side.
The old rattling bus was stifling. Through the open windows rushed air heated to thirty degrees, bringing not relief but road dust. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the heat.
Ahead, the golden domes of a small church appeared, flanked by wooden cottages. Beyond them rose the rooftops of brick terraced houses. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones were already at the doors, eager to escape the stuffy bus.
Only one woman didn’t move, staring blankly out the window. Her hands—blue veins tracing her skin—rested on her knees. Uneven strands of bleached hair, dark roots showing, framed her thin, pale face. Her lips were downturned, her eyelids thin and lined. She looked broken, as if life had knocked her flat and she expected nothing more.
With a final shudder, the bus stopped in the small square by the church. The crowd pushed impatiently toward the doors.
“Ma’am, we’ve arrived. Last stop,” called the balding driver, peering over the divider.
The woman blinked, looking around. The bus was empty except for her and the driver.
“Time to go,” he repeated.
She picked up her small bag, stood, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured at the door, not turning back.
The moment her feet touched the ground, the doors hissed shut behind her. She walked slowly toward the cottages. Then—a single church bell tolled, followed by a chorus of chimes. She stopped, lifted her face to the sky, then turned and headed for the church.
A narrow path lined with wildflowers led inside. Cool air scented with incense met her. A shaft of evening light, dust motes dancing, slanted across the wooden floor. Her heels clicked, disturbing the quiet. She sat on a bench near the door.
“Are you alright? Need water?”
A young woman appeared beside her, a scarf knotted at her neck despite the heat. Her blue eyes were kind.
“Wait here,” she said, vanishing but quickly returning with a glass of water. “From the spring. Stays cold even in summer. Drink.”
Eleanor took the glass. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache.
“Ask if you need anything,” the girl said, rustling her dark skirt as she retreated behind a wooden stall of church trinkets.
Eleanor finished the water and approached. “Thank you. Are you from here? Do you know everyone?”
“It’s a small village. Who are you looking for?”
“Mary… Westerby. Do you know her?”
The girl hesitated. “She was my grandmother. She passed a year ago. Who are—” She stepped closer. “You’re Eleanor, aren’t you? I’m Polly.”
***
**Eighteen Years Earlier**
Mary sat on the bench by the door, squinting in the evening sun.
“Mum.”
She turned. There stood her daughter—Eleanor—who’d run off over a year ago. One arm cradled a baby swaddled in a thin blanket; the other clutched a duffel bag.
“Home at last. Knew it’d end like this. Here for good, or just passing through?” Mary’s voice was cold.
A curtain twitched in the neighbour’s window. Mary heaved herself up. “Inside. No need for gossip.”
Eleanor hesitated, then followed. Inside, she set down her bag, laid the baby on the iron bedstead, and sighed.
“Boy or girl?” Mary asked flatly.
“Girl. Polly.”
Mary exhaled. “Knew it. Must’ve been hard out there, coming back to your old mum. What’s your plan?”
“Not now. I’m exhausted.” Eleanor tucked back a loose strand of hair and sat beside the baby.
“Fine. No rush. Got any milk?” Mary eyed her daughter’s flat chest. “Never mind. I’ll fetch some from Nell—she keeps a goat.”
“I’ve got formula,” Eleanor said quickly, relieved the storm had passed.
“Not poisoning a baby with that muck.” Mary waved her off and vanished into the kitchen.
She returned with a jar, ignored Eleanor, and left again. When she came back, Eleanor was asleep beside the baby, who squirmed, fighting the blanket. Mary watched them both. Only when the baby wailed did she scoop her up.
“Hush now. Your mum’s here—not that she’d notice.” She changed the nappy, warmed the milk, and fed the child.
Half the night, mother and daughter whispered and shouted. Eleanor wept, begging for understanding; Mary spat years of bitterness. They slept near dawn.
A cry woke Mary. She rushed to the baby.
“Ellie! Neglecting your own child, are you? Wet, I’ll bet. And hungry. Ellie!” No answer. Just Polly screaming louder.
“Lord!” Mary sagged onto the bed. “She’s gone. Left me with the bairn. Damn you… Asleep, old fool…” She clutched her chest, rocking.
“Gone. Proper gone. You little rat—” The baby’s cries drowned her curses.
“Quiet!” Mary snapped. Polly fell silent.
“That’s right. Crying won’t bring her back. Too far now.” She stomped to the kitchen, banging pans.
When she returned, she changed the soaked nappy, gave Polly the bottle. The baby sucked greedily.
“Like that, do you? Proper milk—none of that powdered rubbish. What am I to do with you? Punishment from God, this is. Near my grave, and she dumps a babe on me. Shameful.”
Eleanor never returned. Polly grew under Mary’s harsh care. Fed, clothed, but never coddled. Scolded fiercely, even slapped with a broom.
When Polly asked about her mother, Mary said, “She’s dead. You’ve no father either. Just me. And soon I’ll be gone too.”
Polly clung to her, begging her not to die.
“Aye, pray I last. Or you’ll be alone.” Mary crossed herself before the grimy icon on the shelf.
Once, Mary caught Polly staring at old photos of Eleanor. She snatched them, tossed them in the fire. “No mother. No father. Orphan.” But one photo survived—blurred, hidden, treasured.
Polly finished school.
“College for you. Learn a trade.” But Polly insisted on sixth form.
“Plan to live off me till I’m in the ground?” Mary grumbled but let her be.
That winter, Mary fell ill, coughing so hard she wet herself. Polly washed the sheets without complaint, rose at night to warm milk with honey. By spring, Mary recovered. But come autumn, her legs failed. She refused hospital. A month later, she died.
Polly was alone. Potatoes in the cellar, jars of pickles, jam. She’d manage.
Father Paul visited. Crossing himself before the icon, he asked Polly to help in the church.
“Old Nan’s gone blind. Folk here aren’t rich, but they’re kind. Bread, eggs, tins—they’ll see you fed.”
Polly agreed. Weekdays at school, Sundays behind the candle stall, singing with blind Nan, cleaning after.
Though alone, the boys kept their distance. Called her “nun,” but she didn’t mind. They’d knock and run. No one crossed Father Paul—rumoured to be ex-military, shell-shocked.
Polly lived under his protection—and God’s.
She finished school, trained as a nurse.
Once, she asked Father Paul, “Do I light a candle for Mum—for the living or the dead?”
He pondered. “Mary told you she’d died? To her, maybe she had. But I reckon your mother’s alive somewhere, too ashamed to return. Light one for the living. Pray she finds her way back.”
So Polly did. And waited.
***
“Wait here—” Polly darted through the church, snuffing candles, locking up.
They walked home in silence. Polly didn’t know what to say; Eleanor was too afraid to start.
“Polly, guests?” a villager called.
Polly nodded, eyes down.
“That’s Ellie Westerby! Mary said she’d died,” came the whisper behind them.
At home, Polly unlocked the door.
“Come in. I’ve potatoes boiled. I’ll fry them, fetch milk—”
“Wait.” Eleanor caught her arm. “Let me look at you. You’re not like me. Always in that scarf?”
“Only in church.” Polly untied it, shook out her hair.
“Don’t hide it. It’s lovely.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Nowhere else to go. Won’t send me away?”
“No. This is your home too.”
Eleanor’s knees buckled. She crumpled, grasping Polly’s waist.
“I don’t deserve to be called Mum. Left you, never raised youAnd as the years passed, the two of them—mother and daughter—slowly stitched together the broken pieces of their lives, finding peace in the quiet rhythm of forgiveness and home.
