Dear Diary,
Today I finally got to hold my little miracle, Mabel, after a harrowing night in the maternity ward at StThomas Hospital in London. My husband Edward, a darkhaired man with a quick smile, and I had been married for two years when the labour began, and it turned out to be far more complicated than any of us had imagined. The baby tangled herself in the umbilical cord and couldnt be delivered right away, so the anaesthetist rushed her to an oxygenrich chamber while we waited in a dimly lit recovery room.
When they finally brought her to my sideten long hours laterI was stunned. The nurse gently laid the swaddled infant on the table, unwrapped her, and there she was: a tiny redhaired girl with a head full of bouncy, curly locks. My breath caught.
Are you sure this isnt a mixup? I whispered, my voice trembling.
The nurse gave me a confident smile. I guarantee shes yours. Mothers take their babies straight to the ward, and only yours spent time in the oxygen chamber. And, by the way, Edward must be a redhead too, she added with a chuckle before disappearing down the corridor.
Mabel stared up at me with wide, bewildered eyes, then suddenly made the most frantic little squeal, searching for my breast as if it were a beacon. I fumbled with the blanket, her cries growing louder, until I finally pressed her gently against my chest. The moment she felt my warmth, she fell silent.
When Edward arrived to collect his daughters, he stood there, bewildered as well, yet said nothing. Back home, we traced both our family trees, called relatives, and discovered that Edwards greatgreatgrandmother on his father’s side was a strikingly redhaired Polish woman. After her, the family had produced only darkhaired boys, which made Mabels fiery hair seem almost fated.
After the first bath, as I dried her with a soft towel, Edward gazed at her and exclaimed, She looks like a May dandelion. Though we had already settled on the name Mabel, the nickname Daisy stuck, and the whole family began calling her that affectionately.
Mabel grew into a cheerful little soul, her laughter echoing through the neighbourhood. She only shed tears when there was a clear reason. At four, a sprinkling of freckles appeared on her nose with the first signs of spring.
Mother, what are these? she asked innocently.
Theyre freckles, love, I replied, planting a kiss on her cheek. Angels get them, and the more you have, the more people youre meant to help. I never imagined she would take those words to heart, but she carried them with her for the rest of her life.
In the sandbox at the park, whenever another child began to sob, Mabel would abandon her sandcastle, dash over, and soothe the youngster with gentle strokes through their hair and soft words. The calming effect was immediate; the tears stopped, and the little one smiled again. She became convinced she was an angel sent to ease others pain.
When other children saw her beloved plush rabbit and begged their parents for one, Mabel would dash over and hand over her own toy. By the time she returned home, the rabbit was back in its rightful spot, as if by some unseen magic. I later learned that the other mothers had coaxed, bribed, and even bought ice cream to convince their children to return the borrowed rabbit, but to Mabel it simply seemed the natural order of things for an angel.
In Year5, on my way home from school, I saw an elderly gentleman on the pavement struggling with untied laces. He bent down slowly, trying to retie them, when a boy on the fifthfloor balcony leaned over, his elbow knocking a large pot of ficus onto the street. Before the pot could hit the old man, I sprinted forward, shoved him aside, and the pot smashed to pieces at his feet. The man stared, bewildered, then looked at me with tears of gratitude.
Youre an angel, my dear, he gasped. You saved me from a terrible injury. His words cemented my belief that I was indeed meant for something beyond the ordinary.
Each spring the freckles on my nose multiplied. One morning, I stood before the mirror, tracing the delicate curls, the bright blue eyes, the rosy lips, and the new freckles that seemed to bloom with the season. I asked myself, Mother, where will I find so many people who need my help?
My mother, eyes widening with astonishment, replied, Mabel, youre talking nonsense. I dont understand.
Im not nonsense, I insisted, pointing at my nose. Every freckle is a person I must aid.
She tried to soothe me, saying, Your freckles mean the sun loves you, each one a kiss from its warmth. I knew she meant well, but my mind clung to the earlier promise that each freckle signified a soul awaiting my assistance.
Later, as a teenager, I made it a habit to help elderly neighbours cross the street, carry their grocery bags homeeven if they lived on the opposite side of town. Once, while shopping for ice cream and chocolate, I spotted an elderly lady hesitating in front of the milk aisle, torn between butter and cream. I bought both for her, refusing any treat for myself.
One rainy afternoon, a strikingly elegant woman in a designer coat, trailing a faint scent of sandalwood, passed me on the pavement. She paused beside a sleek Lexus, and I felt a sudden urge to speak to her about her perfume. My courage faltered, but as the cars door beeped, I grabbed her sleeve.
What do you think youre doing, young lady? she snapped.
Pplease forgive me, I stammered, Im just fascinated by your perfume and wanted to
Before I could finish, the screech of brakes and a deafening crash filled the air. A speeding, reckless driver had slammed into the womans car, mangling the front door and sending the steering wheel flying. The woman clutched me, whispering, Youre an angel. My guardian angel.
As autumn settled in, I waited for the tube at a rainsoaked station, my pompom hat pulled low. A man approached, shivering, and asked politely, Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Bell Street? He was a striking fellow with ginger curls, freckles still bright as spring, and brown eyes that twinkled despite the drizzle. We burst into laughter, our cheeks flushed, and the world seemed lighter for a moment.
Two years later, that man became my husband, and we welcomed a curlyhaired, redboned boy named Oliverour new little dandelion. When he turned four, he asked, Mum, what are these on my nose?
I smiled, kneeling to his level, and said, Those are freckles, love. Angels get them, and the more you have, the more people youll help. And so the cycle continues, each freckle a promise, each smile a reminder that perhaps were all a little bit of an angels work.
