The Son Was Not Ready to Be a Father…
Shameless girl! Ungrateful pig! my mother would screech at me, Mary, at the top of her lungs, whenever the mood struck her. The sight of my rounded belly only stoked the fire of her anger rather than softening it. Get out of my house and dont come back! I never want to see you again!
And so, she did throw me out, truly. It hadnt been the first time shed sent me packing for some minor misstep, but this timeafter finding out I was expectingshe told me not to set foot in her home again, not until all of it was over, whatever that meant.
Tears streaming down my face, clutching a battered little suitcase, I dragged myself to the home of my beloved, Williama bewildered boy, young and unsure. It turned out William hadnt said a word to his family about my condition. His mother eyed my figure and immediately asked if anything could still be done about it. But it was far too latethe baby bump was impossible to hide.
In those moments, I was desperate, willing to do anything for a little kindness. Just a month before, I had vehemently refused to consider the suggestions my own mother had made. Now, though, I was at the mercy of fear and uncertainty for the future.
My son isnt ready to be a father, Williams mother said with finality. Hes too young. Youll ruin his life. Well help however we can, of course. For now, Ive arranged, through an acquaintance, to get you a place at a refuge for girls like yougirls with nowhere to go.
At the refuge, I was given a tiny room of my own and, for the first time in ages, I could breathe. No one scolded me here. I was gently prepared for motherhood; a kind counsellor helped me brace myself for what was to come. And when the moment arrived, and a midwife placed a small, wriggling bundle in my arms, panic overwhelmed me. I started to tremble. But then, as I calmed, gazing at this bewildering, miraculous beingmy little daughterI was filled with awe.
Christmas was nearing, but instead of joy, I was met with warningmy time at the refuge was running out; my room needed to be made ready for another. With little Eva, barely a month old, in my arms, I sat in that cold, borrowed room, heart heavy with uncertainty. What would become of us? How would I earn a living, or find shelter each night? My own mothers heart had not softened; she never came to see Eva, nor did she want to know of her. It was as if wed both been struck from her memory.
What a bleak Christmas Eve were having, my darling girl, I whispered to Eva, remembering how much the season had meant to me as a child. How I had loved going out carolling around the villages, singing and collecting coins and treats from door to door. Back then, I knew every carol by heart, and I would dart through the lanes with the other children, coming home with my pockets full. I longed to reclaim that feelingto sing from doorstep to doorstep, soak in the atmosphere, and feel alive once more. Why not? I thought, hope flickering to life. My babys quiet and calm. Ill wrap her up warm and take her with me. If people turn us away, so be it.
The next evening, I picked a quiet row of cottages for our carolling. As Id guessed, most were hesitant to open the door to a lone young mother carrying her baby; after all, tradition had people expecting jovial men to come singing. Still, in some homes, I was let inside, and sang with such feeling that folks rewarded us handsomelynot just with coins, but with sweets and cakes. They seemed genuinely moved by the sight of a mother and child, understanding that only desperation would lead me to such a thing.
Dragging ourselves from one house to the next was no easy task. Just that grand one on the corner, I thought, glancing at the heavy front door. The people there must be well-off; perhaps theyll be generous. My pockets were already growing heavy with the kindness of strangers, and I felt, for the first time in a long while, a small sliver of hope.
May I sing you a carol? I asked as the gentleman of the house opened the door and politely showed us inside. Yet something in his manner unnerved mehe stared at my face, then at the child in my arms, his expression turning chalky, his knees trembling as he sat himself down shakily.
Margaret? he whispered.
Pardon? No, Im Mary You must be thinking of someone else, I replied.
Mary? Goodness, you look so terribly like my late wife, he murmured. And that childshes a girl?
Yes.
I once had a daughter just like her but they both passed away, my wife and little girl It was a dreadful accident. Only recently I dreamt they came back to me and now here you are. Is such a thing possible?
I I hardly know what to say
Please, come in, dont stand on ceremony. Tell me your story, wont you?
At first, I was waryhe was a stranger, and his manner was odd, raw with emotion. Yet I realised I had nowhere to go. I entered the quiet, well-kept sitting room and saw on the mantel a photograph of his lost wife and daughter, the likeness to myself uncanny.
And so I began to talkpouring out the story of my life, every detail tumbling out of me. At last, here was someone who wanted to listen, someone who cared. The gentleman listened silently, every so often gazing at little Eva, blissfully sleeping, a smile upon her dreaming face. Somehow, it felt as if she had truly come homea home that, before long, might become a haven for us both.
