“Anna, you must let the girl continue her studies. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. She has a rare gift for languages, for literature. You should see her writing!”
My daughter was three years old when I found her under the bridge, caked in mud. I raised her as my own, though people whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, and I still live in my cottage, sifting through memories like precious beads.
The floor creaks underfootI keep thinking I ought to fix it, but never get round to it. I sit at the table and pull out my old journal. The pages have 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 got you so restless?” I say to it. “Just wait a little longer, spring will come.”
Its silly, of course, 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, yellowed with age, worn at the folds from how often Ive read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed live happily A week later, I got the news.
God never gave us childrenperhaps for the best, in those years when there was barely enough to eat. The head of the village council, Nicholas, tried to comfort me:
“Dont fret, Anna. Youre still young, youll marry again.”
“I wont,” I said firmly. “I loved once. Thats enough.”
At the farm, I worked from dawn till dusk. The foreman, Peter, would shout,
“Anna, you ought to head home, its late!”
“Ill manage,” Id reply. “As long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.”
I had little to my namea stubborn goat named Daisy, as headstrong as I was, and five hens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour Clara often joked,
“Are you sure youre not part turkey? Why do your hens crow before anyone elses?”
I kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, beetroot. All homegrown, from the earth. In autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, and mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar was like bringing summer back into the house.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was damp and raw. A drizzle in the morning turned to frost by evening. I went to the woods for kindlingthe stove needed feeding. Fallen branches littered the ground after winter storms, easy pickings. I gathered an armful and was heading home past the old bridge when I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But noclear as day, a childs whimper.
I went down under the bridge and saw hera little girl sitting there, covered in mud, her dress soaked and torn, her eyes wide with fear. When she saw me, she went quiet, trembling like an aspen leaf.
“Whose child are you?” I asked softly, not wanting to frighten her more.
She stayed silent, blinking up at me. Her lips were blue with cold, her hands red and swollen.
“Youre frozen through,” I murmured, more to myself. “Come on, lets get you home and warmed up.”
I lifted herlight as a featherwrapped her in my shawl, and held her close. All the while, I wondered: what kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge? I couldnt make sense of it.
I left the kindling behindthere were more pressing matters. All the way home, she stayed quiet, clinging to my neck with her icy little fingers.
The neighbours came running as soon as I brought her insidenews travels fast in the village. Clara was the first to arrive.
“Good Lord, Anna, whered you find her?”
“Under the bridge,” I said. “Abandoned, by the look of it.”
“Oh, what a shame” Clara clucked. “What will you do with her?”
“What do you mean? Im keeping her.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Old Martha chimed in. “How will you feed a child?”
“Ill manage with what God provides,” I snapped.
First, I stoked the fire hot, heated water. The girl was bruised and thin, her ribs showing. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in an old jumper of minethere were no childrens clothes in the house.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
She nodded shyly.
I gave her yesterdays soup and a slice of bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyclearly not a street child.
“Whats your name?”
Silence. Maybe she was afraid, or couldnt speak.
I put her to sleep in my bed and took the bench for myself. That night, I woke several times to check on her. She slept curled tight, whimpering in her dreams.
At dawn, I went to the village council to report the find. The head, John, just shrugged.
“No ones reported a missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her”
“What now?”
“By law, she ought to go to the orphanage. Ill ring the district today.”
My heart clenched.
“Wait, John. Give it timemaybe her parents will come forward. Until then, 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 appear, but no one ever came. And thank GodId already grown attached.
At first, it was hard. She didnt speak at all, just stared around the cottage as if searching for something. At night, shed wake screaming, shaking. Id hold her close, stroke her hair.
“Its all right, love. Its all right now.”
I sewed her clothes from old fabric, dyed them blue, green, redsimple but cheerful. When Clara saw, she gasped.
“Anna, youve got hands of gold! I thought you only knew how to wield a shovel.”
“Life teaches you to be a seamstress and a nursemaid,” I said, glowing at the praise.
But not everyone in the village was kind. Old Martha, especiallyshed cross herself when she saw us.
“This wont end well, Anna. Taking in a stray invites trouble. Her mother mustve been no good, to abandon her like that. The apple doesnt fall far”
“Enough, Martha!” I cut in. “Dont judge what you dont know. Shes mine now, and thats final.”
Even the farm head frowned at first.
“Think on it, Anna. The orphanage could feed and clothe her proper.”
“And wholl love her?” I asked. “The orphanage has enough children without her.”
He gave up, but later helpedsending milk, grains.
Mary slowly thawed. First words came, then full sentences. I remember her first laughId toppled off a chair hanging curtains, groaning, and she burst into giggles, bright as bells. The ache in my back vanished at the sound.
She tried to help in the garden. I gave her a tiny hoe, and she marched about importantly, copying methough she trampled more weeds than she pulled. I didnt scoldjust rejoiced at the life in her.
Then illness struck. Mary took fever, delirious. I ran to the village medic, Samuel.
“Please, help!”
He shook his head.
“What medicine, Anna? Ive three aspirin tablets for the whole farm. Maybe next week theyll send more.”
“Next week?” I cried. “She might not last the night!”
I slogged nine miles through mud to the town clinic. Shoes ruined, feet blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex, took one look at mefilthy, drenchedand said,
“Wait here.”
He brought medicine, showed me how to dose it.
“No charge,” he said. “Just get her well.”
Three days I barely left her side. Whispered prayers, changed compresses. On the fourth, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered,
“Mum Im thirsty.”
Mum. The first time shed called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with tiny fingers.
“Mum, whyre you crying? Does it hurt?”
“No,” I said. “It doesnt hurt. These are happy tears, love.”
After that, she blossomedsweet, chatty. At school, her teacher marvelled.
“Such a bright girl, picks up everything!”
The village grew used to her. Even Martha softened, bringing pies. She adored Mary after the girl helped her light the stove in a bitter frost. The old woman had rheumatism and no firewood. Mary said,
“Mum, let
