My son was married not so long ago. Naturally, hed brought his fiancée along to meet us several times before the big day, and we quickly warmed to her. She was a gentle, unassuming girl, all grace and cleverness, with laughter that sounded like church bells in the wind. We were overjoyed for our son and threw ourselves into preparations for their wedding.
On the day of the ceremony, my daughter-in-law wore her hair in such a way that both her ears stood out clear as day. She looked radiant, and at the time I thought nothing of it. But just as she laughed with friends near the cake, my eyes caught a mole upon her right ear. My heart turned over it was identical to the one that had marked my missing daughter. A chill ran down my spine, and the scene seemed to blur as if I was wandering through some dream.
I leaned in, and in a tremulous voice, I asked, Darling, forgive the odd question, but were you, by any chance, adopted?
She paused, blinking, and simply replied, No, why do you ask? Then, without another word, she floated towards the dance floor as though the music simply carried her away.
But her mother, seated close by, had heard my question and nodded silently, as if confessing a secret to the rain outside. The time for hiding things had clearly passed. Soon, they explained: they had adopted her as a very small child.
It unravelled like a scene from a storybook: years ago, while motoring through the winding lanes of Dorset, they had spotted a girl sitting all alone beneath the hedgerow, quietly crying. Having longed for a child themselves for over fifteen years, with nothing but disappointment, they had brought her into their home hoping to fill up the aching space in their hearts, telling no one.
That same year, my own daughter vanished from my life. We had been walking through the bustling stalls of Covent Garden, and Id turned away for only a heartbeat. Amongst the crowds, she was lost a single raindrop in the River Thames. For years I searched and searched, until hope itself slipped silently away from me.
And now, remarkably, my son had married her. My very own child, so dearly missed. Imagine it! He found her his bride among millions tumbling across all of England.
Suddenly nothing seemed quite real. The girls parents were anxious, fearing this tangled web might curse the newlyweds. But I put my hand over theirs. After losing my daughter, I too had searched for a way to mend my heart. I went to an orphanage and brought home a boy. If Im honest, he chose me out of the crowd, not the other way round. By doing so, we both tried, in our drizzly English way, to bring a little more light into our lives.
That evening, two womens hidden sorrows were gently laid on the table like fine china.
All around, guests whispered at their tables, and the news drifted among them like London fog. A true miracle, many said, had occurred.
But was it only coincidence, or was there some greater design at play? Perhaps in dreams, Englands old magic stirs and every lost child finds their way home.
