One rainy October evening, Evensong had just ended. The church was nearly empty—most parishioners had stayed home, wary of the nasty weather, where drizzle had given way to sleet.
The sanctuary quieted as the last stragglers shuffled out, letting in gusts of wind that made the candle flames dance and sputter thin ribbons of smoke. Finally, the scrape of shoes on the stone floor faded. Only Emily remained.
She stepped out from behind the counter of the vestry shop and made her rounds, snuffing candles and brushing wax droplets off the brass holders. Then she doused the oil lamps flickering before the icons. The stained-glass windows barely let in the glow of the streetlamps outside. Only a single bulb above the candle counter still burned, its light catching the gilded frames of the nearest icons.
From the left chapel emerged Father Andrew, his cassock hidden under a black anorak.
“Has the caretaker arrived yet?” he asked, stopping beside Emily.
“Not yet. Need me to pass on a message?”
“No. See you tomorrow.” He nodded in farewell and headed for the door.
Emily fetched a mop and bucket, humming as she scrubbed the floor. She loved coming in to a clean church in the morning. Suddenly, a draft tugged at her again, and the heavy door swung shut with a soft thud. She turned. The caretaker crossed himself at the threshold, gave Emily a silent nod, and shuffled past to his little closet. In all her years there, she’d never heard him speak—though Father Andrew insisted he wasn’t mute.
Emily put away the cleaning supplies, bundled up, and gave the sanctuary one last glance, double-checking each icon. “St. Nicholas, pray for us,” she murmured. “Holy Mother, intercede for us. Lord Jesus, Son of God…”
“I’m off, then,” she called to the caretaker. Her voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling.
She flipped off the light and pushed open the door. On the steps, she paused, listening. No footsteps—just the clunk of the bolt as the caretaker locked up. Then, a tiny squeak.
Peering down, she expected a shivering puppy or kitten seeking shelter. Instead, a pale bundle squirmed at her feet.
“A baby? Who on earth would leave you here?” She scooped up the impossibly light bundle, peeling back the blanket to reveal a tiny, wrinkled face.
“Good Lord, what kind of mother abandons a child in this weather? How did no one notice?”
Common sense said she ought to knock for the caretaker or ring the police. But on impulse, she decided to take the baby home first, then call Father Andrew for advice.
She’d barely taken two steps when a woman lunged from the shadows.
“Give her back!” she shrieked, snatching the bundle.
Her voice was young—hardly more than a girl.
“Is this your child? It’s a sin, leaving her like this. She could’ve fallen ill!” Emily scolded.
“I didn’t abandon her, I just—I stepped away for a second,” the girl choked out.
“Then why not bring her inside?” Emily softened slightly.
The girl didn’t answer, turning to leave.
“Wait—you’ve nowhere to go, have you?” Emily called after her. The girl slowed but didn’t stop. “Come with me. I live just round the corner. The baby’s fussing—she’s likely wet or hungry. And you’re soaked through. No sense wandering in this mess.”
The girl hesitated but followed. Emily chattered the whole way—about her late husband, her childless years, how the flat was too quiet. “No belongings? No matter. My neighbour’s baby outgrew nappies last month—plenty to spare.” She kept talking, steering the girl away from despair.
“Here we are.” Emily held the door open. “Sixth floor.”
In the lift, she noticed the girl’s lips were blue with cold.
“Goodness—let me hold the baby while you get dry.” She bustled ahead, flicking on lights. “There’s soup on the stove. Chicken, homemade. And tea with milk—you’ll need your strength. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“Emily. And the baby?”
“Veronica.”
“Lovely name.” Emily sighed. “Eat first. Then you can tell me what happened. No judgements here. We’ve all our burdens.”
Warmed by the meal, Lydia confessed: discharged from hospital with nowhere to go, a dorm that turned her out post-birth, a bridge she’d nearly jumped from. “But outside the church… I couldn’t. I left her where she’d be found quickly.”
“Parents?” Emily asked.
“Divorced. Mum’s remarried. I’ve a little sister. And now me with a baby…” She dissolved into tears. “The father knew I was pregnant. Gave me money for… you know. I couldn’t do it. But then—no money, no home—”
“Hush, you’ll wake Veronica. Stay here. I’ve room. You’ll sort uni later. God never abandons His children—He sent you to me.”
Lydia glanced up, tearful. “I don’t believe in God.”
“Many don’t—till they’re desperate. But who saved you tonight? He gave you to me, and me to you. Now—rest.”
—
Fifteen years later…
“Mum, does this need taking in at the waist?” Veronica twirled in her prom dress.
“Don’t be daft—it’s perfect.” Lydia hugged her. “Wish Gran could’ve seen you.”
Emily had passed the year before, mid-service at her candle counter. Lydia mourned her like a mother. Now she volunteered in her place.
Veronica aced her A-levels and started med school that autumn, just as Lydia had. But by second year, she grew quiet.
“Crush on a lecturer?” Lydia teased.
“He’s too old for me,” Veronica muttered.
“Dr. Ian Collier,” she admitted later. “The way he looks at me…”
Lydia’s vision darkened. She gripped the table, gasping.
“Mum? Your pills—where—?”
“I’m fine,” Lydia managed. “You… know him?”
She had to be sure. Next day, she lurked outside his lecture hall. When the doors opened, there he was—older, but unmistakable.
“You’re… Veronica’s mother?” he asked after class.
“Yes. You don’t recognise me? Lydia Grant.” She steadied herself. “You told me to get rid of her.”
His face paled. “Daughter? I didn’t know—”
“You never tried to find out.” Her voice shook. “Stay away from her. Or don’t. She’s grown. But I won’t see you.”
At home, she told Veronica everything.
“So my dad’s not some hero who died saving lives?”
“No. But he’s yours. Forgive him if you can. I couldn’t.”
—
A year later, Veronica announced her engagement—and that she’d invited her father. Lydia said nothing. At the registry office, she acknowledged Ian with frosty courtesy. All evening, she felt his gaze.
After graduation, Veronica moved to London with her husband. Lydia guessed they kept in touch with Ian. She didn’t interfere. Some wounds never quite heal.
Soon after, she met a man at church. But that’s another story entirely.
