*From my journal, dated 15th October—*
A cold, rainy evening in October. The last service had ended, and the church was nearly empty. Most of the congregation had stayed home, unwilling to brave the downpour that now mingled with sleet. The scrape of footsteps on the stone floor faded as the last few parishioners left, their coats swishing against the heavy oak doors. The drafts made the candle flames shudder, sending thin ribbons of smoke curling upwards. Soon, only Emily remained.
She stepped out from behind the counter of the church shop and moved quietly through the nave, snuffing out candles and brushing wax droplets from the stands. Next, she extinguished the oil lamps burning before the icons. The stained-glass windows barely let in the dim glow of streetlamps outside, leaving the church lit only by a single bulb above the shop counter, its light glinting off the gilded frames.
Father Edward emerged from the side chapel, a black coat draped over his cassock.
“Has the caretaker arrived yet?” he asked as he reached her.
“Not yet. Anything to pass on?”
“No. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded farewell and headed for the door.
Emily fetched a bucket of water and a mop, humming as she cleaned the stone floor. She liked starting the day with a tidy church. Just then, a gust of wind rattled the heavy door, and it clicked shut behind someone. She turned. The caretaker—silent as always—crossed himself at the threshold, gave her a brief nod, and trudged past to his small room. She’d never heard him speak, though Father Edward swore he wasn’t mute.
Once finished, Emily put away the cleaning supplies, pulled on her coat, and took one last glance around. Every lamp was out. She paused before each icon, murmuring prayers under her breath: *St. Nicholas, pray for us… Holy Mother, intercede for us… Lord Jesus, Son of God…*
“I’m leaving!” she called to the caretaker. Her voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling.
She flicked off the lights and pushed open the door. Standing on the steps, she listened—no footsteps, just the metallic clank of the bolt sliding into place. Then, a faint whimper.
She looked down, expecting a stray pup or kitten sheltering from the rain. Instead, a small, pale bundle lay on the stone, mewling softly.
“A baby? Who’d leave you out here?” She scooped up the light weight and peeled back the blanket. A tiny, wrinkled face peered up at her.
“Good Lord, what sort of heartless woman would abandon you in this weather?” She glanced around. “How has no one seen you? Or were you just left here?”
Her first thought was to knock on the church door, call the police, or an ambulance—but something in her hesitated. Instead, she decided to take the child home and ring Father Edward for advice.
She hadn’t gone more than two steps when a woman lunged from the shadows.
“Give her back!” she shrieked, snatching the bundle from Emily’s arms.
From her voice, the girl couldn’t have been older than twenty.
“Is she yours? It’s a sin to abandon a child—she could’ve frozen!” Emily scolded.
“I didn’t abandon her, I just—I left her for a moment,” the girl choked out.
“Why not bring her inside the church?” Emily softened slightly.
No answer. The young mother turned to leave.
“Have you somewhere to go?” Emily called after her.
The girl slowed but didn’t turn.
Emily sighed. “You’ve nowhere, have you? Wait—” She hurried after her. “Come with me. My flat’s not far. The baby’s hungry, and you’re soaked through. You’ll both catch your death.”
The girl hesitated but followed. She had no other choice.
Emily chattered the whole way, filling the silence. How her husband had died years ago, how she’d never had children of her own, how there was plenty of space. No belongings? No matter—her neighbour’s daughter had a baby last winter. She could borrow nappies and blankets.
The flat was warm. Emily handed the child back and fetched towels. “Get changed. I’ll pop next door.”
When she returned with supplies, the young mother—*Charlotte*, she’d said—was nursing the baby.
“You’ve milk—that’s a mercy. Formula’s dear these days.” Emily put the kettle on, watching them. *God must’ve led them here for a reason.*
The baby—Sophie—soon fell asleep. Over chicken soup and tea, Charlotte’s story spilled out.
“I didn’t want to leave her. The hostel kicked me out after the birth. I walked to the bridge, thought I’d jump with her, but… my feet wouldn’t move near the church.” She shuddered. “I left her by the door, hoping someone would find her quick. Then I ran.”
Emily listened. No family to turn to. A student, unmarried, the father long gone—gave her money for an abortion, then vanished.
“You’ll stay with me,” Emily said firmly. “I’ve prayed for children. Maybe this was His answer.”
——
Fifteen years later, Sophie stood before the mirror in her prom dress.
“Mum, d’you think it needs taking in at the waist?”
“Not a bit. You look lovely.” Lydia (no longer Charlotte) smiled sadly. “Wish Gran could’ve seen you.”
Emily had passed last year—quietly, in her sleep, after evening prayers. Lydia had mourned like a daughter. Now, she tended the church shop in her stead.
Sophie aced her A-levels, enrolled in med school—just like her mother. But one day, she grew quiet.
“You’ve not fallen for a lecturer, have you?” Lydia teased.
“Mum! He’s *old*,” Sophie huffed.
“Dr. Ian Collier,” she admitted later. “The way he looks at me—”
Lydia’s chest tightened. *No. Not him.*
She waited outside his lecture hall. When he emerged, she knew—same sharp features, same confident stride.
“You wanted to speak?” he asked, barely glancing at her.
“Yes. Sophie Grafton—she’s yours.”
The colour drained from his face. “*Sophie?*”
“You told me to abort her. Then forgot we existed.” Her voice shook. “Now she’s in your classroom, and you—what? Fancy her?”
“Lydia, I didn’t know—”
“*Exactly.* You never tried to find out.” She stood. “Stay away from her. Or don’t. But *I* never want to see you again.”
At home, she told Sophie everything.
“So my dad’s not some war hero?”
“No. Just a coward.”
——
A year later, Sophie announced her engagement to a classmate.
“Mum… I’ve invited Dad to the wedding.”
Lydia said nothing. At the registry office, she nodded coldly at Ian. All evening, she felt his gaze on her.
After graduation, Sophie moved to London with her husband. Lydia knew they spoke occasionally. She never asked.
Perhaps she’d forgiven. But she’d never forget standing on that bridge, ready to jump—and the hand (divine or human) that pulled her back.
*We are never as alone as we think.*
