On a damp October evening, Evensong drew to a close. The church was nearly empty—most parishioners had stayed home, deterred by the sleet and rain. The last of them shuffled out, leaving the heavy wooden door swinging in the wind. The candle flames shuddered, leaving thin trails of smoke. The scrape of shoes on flagstones faded, and soon only Natalie remained.
She stepped out from behind the church shop counter and moved quietly through the nave, snuffing candles and brushing wax from their holders with a soft bristle brush. The streetlights barely penetrated the leaded windows. The only illumination came from a single bulb above the shop, casting flickering gold on the icons.
Father James emerged from the side chapel, a black coat over his cassock.
“Has the caretaker arrived?” he asked.
“Not yet. Anything to pass on?” Natalie replied.
“No. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded and headed for the door.
Natalie fetched a mop and bucket, scrubbing the floor—she liked finding the church clean in the morning. A draft swept through, and the heavy door thudded shut. She turned. The caretaker crossed himself, nodded to her, and vanished into his small side room. She’d never heard him speak, though Father James swore he wasn’t mute.
When she finished, Natalie checked every candle again, murmuring prayers before each icon: *”Saint Nicholas, pray for us… Blessed Virgin, intercede for us…”*
“I’m leaving,” she called out. Her voice echoed.
She switched off the light and pushed open the door. Pausing on the porch, she heard the bolt slide home behind her—then a faint squeak.
She looked down, expecting a stray pup or kitten sheltering from the rain. Instead, a pale bundle lay in the shadows, whimpering.
“A baby? Who would leave you here?” She scooped up the light bundle, peeling back the blanket to reveal a tiny, wrinkled face.
“Lord, what mother could abandon a child in this weather? Wasn’t anyone watching?”
She hesitated—she *should* call the police, an ambulance. But something pushed her to take the baby home first, to call Father James from there, to think.
She hadn’t gone two steps when a woman lunged from the dark.
“Give her back!” The girl snatched the bundle. Her voice was young, tear-choked.
“Yours, is she? A sin, leaving a baby like that—what if she’d taken ill?” Natalie scolded.
“I only left her a minute,” the girl sobbed.
“Why not bring her inside?”
The girl didn’t answer, turning to leave.
“Have you somewhere to go?” Natalie called.
The girl slowed but didn’t stop.
“Nowhere at all, I reckon.” Natalie sighed. “Wait!” She hurried after her. “Come with me. I live close. The baby’s fussing—hungry, I’d wager. You’re soaked through. Warm up, and we’ll sort it out. Don’t be afraid.”
The girl followed.
At the flat, Natalie saw her lips blue with cold. “Take her, get changed. My slippers are there. Lay her on the sofa.”
Inside, the girl unwrapped her daughter, who squirmed hungrily. Natalie’s chest ached with tenderness.
“I’ll fetch nappies from my neighbor.”
“Found yourself a child?” the neighbor teased.
“A cousin’s girl—her bag was nicked at King’s Cross.”
She returned to find the girl breastfeeding. “Ah, good—no need for expensive formula. Tea’s on. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“Natalie. And hers?”
“Veronica.”
Natalie served chicken soup, listening as Lydia confessed: thrown out of student housing after birth, nearly jumping from a bridge—until her feet rooted outside the church.
“You’ll stay. I’ve no children of my own. God sent you both.”
Years passed. Veronica grew. Lydia helped in church, returned to university. By autumn, the toddler called Natalie “Gran.”
Fifteen years later, Veronica twirled before a mirror in her prom dress. “Mum, does the waist need taking in?”
Lydia hugged her. “Perfect. Gran would’ve loved it.”
Natalie had died a year prior—a quiet passing in the church shop. Lydia mourned like a daughter.
At university, Veronica grew quiet.
“Crush on a lecturer?” Lydia guessed.
“He’s *old*, Mum.”
“Name?”
“James Collinson.”
Lydia gripped the chair, gasping.
She confronted him later—the man who’d paid for an abortion, then vanished. He hadn’t recognized her.
“Veronica is your daughter.”
His shock was almost satisfying.
“I won’t keep her from you,” Lydia said. “But *I* never want to see you again.”
At home, she told Veronica the truth.
Her daughter, torn, still invited James to her wedding. Lydia endured his glances coldly.
Later, new love found her in church—but that’s another story.
