“Hannah,” the headmaster said, his voice warm but firm, “the girl should continue her studies. Minds like hers dont come along often. She has a gift for languages, for literature. You should see her essays!”
My daughter was three when I found her under the bridge, caked in mud. I raised her as my own, though the village whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, while I still live in my little cottage, sifting through memories like precious beads.
The floor creaked underfootanother reminder it needed fixing, but I never got around to it. I sat at the table and pulled out my old journal. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and a birch branch tapped the window, as if begging to come in.
“Whats all this fuss about?” I said to it. “Wait a little longer. Spring will come.”
It was silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After those terrible years, I was left a widowmy Stephen had died. I still keep his last letter, worn at the folds from how often Ive read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy again. A week later, I learned the truth.
God never gave me children of my own, and perhaps it was for the bestin those days, there was barely enough to feed ourselves. The head of the village council, Thomas Whitmore, tried to comfort me:
“Dont fret, Hannah. Youre still young. Youll marry again.”
“I wont,” I told him firmly. “I loved once. Thats enough.”
I worked from dawn till dusk in the fields. The foreman, old Mr. Harris, would shout,
“Hannah, you should head home. Its late!”
“Ill manage,” Id reply. “As long as my hands work, my soul wont grow old.”
I kept a small homesteada stubborn goat named Daisy, five chickens that woke me better than any rooster. My neighbor, Margaret, often teased,
“Are you sure youre not part turkey? Why do your hens crow before anyone elses?”
I grew potatoes, carrots, beetsall from my own patch. In autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. Opening a jar in winter was like bringing summer back into the house.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. March had been wet and raw. A cold drizzle had turned to ice by evening. I went to gather firewoodthere was plenty after the winter storms. On my way back, passing the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind. But noit was unmistakably a childs whimper.
I climbed down and there she wasa little girl, filthy and trembling, her dress torn and soaked. When she saw me, she froze, her blue lips quivering like a leaf.
“Who do you belong to, little one?” I whispered, trying not to scare her further.
She didnt answer, just blinked up at me with wide, frightened eyes.
“Youre freezing,” I murmured, more to myself. “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 a child under a bridge?*
I left the firewood behind. The whole way home, she clung to me, her tiny fingers stiff with cold.
The neighbors came runningnews travelled fast. Margaret was first.
“Good heavens, Hannah! Where did you find her?”
“Under the bridge,” I said. “Abandoned, it seems.”
“Oh, what a tragedy” She clutched her chest. “What will you do with her?”
“What do you mean? Shell stay with me.”
“Are you mad, Hannah?” Old Mrs. Wilkins hobbled over. “How will you feed her?”
“However God provides,” I snapped.
I stoked the fire, heated water. The girl was covered in bruises, ribs poking through her skin. I bathed her, dressed her in an old jumperthere were no childrens clothes in my house.
“Are you hungry?”
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. Whether she was afraid or couldnt speak, I didnt know.
I put her to bed in my own cot, sleeping on the bench myself. That night, I woke often to check on her. She slept curled tight, whimpering in her dreams.
At dawn, I went to the council office. The head, Edward Whitmore, sighed.
“No reports of a missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her”
“What now?”
“By law, she should go to the orphanage. Ill ring the district today.”
My heart clenched.
“Wait, Edward. Give it timemaybe her parents will come. Until then, she stays with me.”
“Hannah, think carefully”
“Theres nothing to think about. Its decided.”
I named her Mary, after my mother. No one ever came for her. And thank GodId already grown to love her.
At first, she barely spoke, just watched everything with wary eyes. Shed wake screaming at night. Id hold her close, stroke her hair.
“Hush now, my girl. All is well.”
From old fabric, I sewed her dressesdyed them blue, green, red. Simple, but cheerful. Margaret gasped when she saw.
“Hannah, youve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to wield a spade.”
“Life teaches you to be many things,” I said, smiling.
But not everyone was kind. Mrs. Wilkins would cross herself when she saw us.
“Bad luck, taking in a foundling. Mark my wordsher mother was no good. The apple doesnt fall”
“Enough, Martha!” I cut her off. “Dont judge what you dont know. Shes mine now.”
Even Thomas Whitmore frowned.
“Hannah, the orphanage would feed her, clothe her properly.”
“And who would love her?” I asked. “Theyve enough orphans already.”
He relented, even helpedsending milk, flour.
Slowly, Mary thawed. First words, then sentences. I remember her first laughId slipped while hanging curtains, groaning on the floor. She laughed like bells ringing. My pain vanished.
She tried to help in the garden, stomping more weeds than she pulled. But I didnt scoldjust glad to see her alive.
Then fever struck. She burned, delirious. The village medic, Samuel Carter, shook his head.
“What medicine, Hannah? Ive three aspirin for the whole village. Maybe next week”
“Next *week*?” I cried. “She might not last till morning!”
I ran to the townsix miles through mud. My shoes fell apart, my feet blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex Morgan, took one look at medrenched, filthyand said,
“Wait here.”
He gave me medicine, instructions.
“No charge. Just get her well.”
For three days, I didnt leave her side. 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. She wiped my tears with her small hand.
“Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt?”
“No,” I said. “These are happy tears, my girl.”
After that, she bloomedsweet, chatty. At school, her teacher praised her endlessly.
“Such a bright girl! She grasps everything.”
Even the villagers softened. Mrs. Wilkins brought us pies after Mary helped her light the stove in a freeze. The old womans joints had locked, and shed run out of wood. Mary had said,
“Mum, lets help Mrs. Wilkins. She must be cold.”
From then on, the old grump and my girl were friends. Martha taught her knitting, storiesand never spoke of “bad blood” again.
Years passed. Mary was nine when she first spoke of the bridge. Evening light, me darning socks, her rocking a cloth doll shed sewn.
“Mum do you remember finding me?”
My heart lurched, but I kept steady.
“I do, love.”
“I remember a little. It was cold. And scary. A woman was crying then she left.”
My needles clattered. She went on.
“I dont remember her face. Just a blue scarf. And she kept saying *Forgive me.*”
“Mary”
“Dont worry, Mum. I dont mind. Im glad *you* found me.”
I held her tight, throat aching. Who was the woman in blue? Star
