Morning, 3May1946
I awoke with a strange dream that has clung to me all night: I saw my little boy, Jack, standing on the step and knocking at the door. I sat up boltupright, slipped on my bare feet and rushed to the front door.
I was halfdrained before I even reached the threshold, so I leaned against the jamb and let the silence settle around me. Those dreams have visited me often, each one a false alarm, yet I always fling the door wide open and stare into the darkness. Tonight was no different. I pushed the door ajar and peered into the blackness, the stillness of the night pressing in. My heart pounded, and I sank onto the low step, trying to calm its thudding rhythm.
A faint rustle broke the husha soft squeak, perhaps a rustle of leaves.
Perhaps the neighbours kitten is tangled again, I thought, and went to rescue the little creature from the gooseberry bush, as I have done many times. But the thing I pulled out was not a kitten. A faded, pastel swaddle dangled from the branches, and when I tugged a little harder a tiny, naked infant fell onto my hands. He was a boy, completely unclothed, apparently having rolled himself out of the blanket while he lay there.
His umbilical stump had not yet fallen, so he could not have been more than a few days old. He was cold, weak, and clearly starving. When I lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper. Instinctively, I pressed him close to my chest and bolted back into the house. I fetched a clean sheet, wrapped him snugly, draped a warm blanket over his back and set about heating some milk. I found an old bottle and a nipple that had survived from the spring I once used to nurse a little goat.
The baby sucked greedily, choked a little, then, once his belly was full and his body warmed, he fell asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in a sweet rhythm. Dawn was just beginning to blush the sky, but I remained still, my thoughts turning over the unexpected discovery. I am already over forty, and the village folk now call me Aunt Margaret. I lost my husband and my son in the war within a single year, and have lived alone ever since. The emptiness of my solitude has become a familiar companion, yet it never ceases to sting.
I stared at the sleeping child, his soft breaths reminding me of all the infants I have known, and thought of asking my neighbour, Helen, for advice. Helens life, by contrast, has been smooth: she never married, never lost anyone to the war, and lives for herself alone, her many fleeting romances never lingering long. She was standing on her own step this morning, a shawl draped over her shoulders, stretching beneath the warm sunrise. When I told her what had happened, she shrugged and said, Well, what will you do with him? and slipped back into her house. As she walked away, the curtain at her window fluttereda suitor must have been staying over. I whispered to myself, Why, truly why?
I hurried home, fed the baby, wrapped him in dry cloth, gathered a few provisions, and set off for the coach to the city. It didnt take long; a lorry pulling up beside me after five minutes offered a lift.
To the hospital? the driver asked, nodding toward the bundle in my arms.
To the hospital, I replied, keeping my voice steady.
At the childrens home, while the officials processed the paperwork for the foundling, a gnawing sense of guilt pressed at me, as if I were doing something wrong. The same hollow feeling that had surged when I first learned of my husbands death, then my sons, resurfaced.
What shall we call the boy? the matron asked.
Name? I echoed, pausing a heartbeat before answering, oddly to myself, Jack.
A fine name, the matron said, We have many Jacks and Kittys after the war. Its clear who loses a family, but who abandons a child like yours? There are no fathers here now; we should be grateful for the child youve brought.
Her words, though not directed at me, cut deep. I returned home that evening, entered my empty house and lit the lamp. On the table lay Jacks old swaddle, the one I had set aside instead of discarding. I unfolded it and, absentmindedly, ran my fingers over the damp cloth. In the corner of the blanket I felt a small knot. Inside were a folded scrap of gray paper and a simple tin cross on a string. I unfolded the note and read:
Dear kind woman, forgive me. I cannot keep this child; I am lost in my life, and tomorrow I will be gone. Please dont abandon my sondo for him what I cannot.
Below was the date of his birth.
Tears burst from my eyes; I wept as if for a dead loved one, a river of sorrow spilling over. I thought of the wedding day, of how happy my husband and I had been, of Jacks birthour second joy, the pride of the village. Men adored me, I was cherished. Before the war, my son had completed a driving course and promised to give me a lift in a new truck promised by the collective farm. Then the war came.
In August 42 I received the telegram announcing my husbands death; in October the same year, the one for my son. Happiness slipped away forever, the light dimmed, and I became like the other widows in the villagerunning to the door each night, flinging it open, looking into the darkness where only the rustle of a neighbours stray cat could be heard. That night I, too, could not find sleep, wandering outside, listening to the night, waiting for somethinganythingto happen.
Morning found me back on the road to the city. The matron at the home recognized me at once and, when I declared that I wanted to take Jack back, said, Very well, well help with the papers.
Wrapping Jack in a fresh blanket, I left the home with a lighter heart; the crushing emptiness that had lived in me for years was gone, replaced by a budding sense of hope and love. If a person is meant to be happy, fate will find a wayso it seemed for me. The walls of my empty house now displayed only photographs of my husband and my son, but this time their faces looked differentsoftened, serene, almost smiling, as though they were offering quiet encouragement. I held Jack close, feeling a strength I had not known since before the war.
Will you help me? I whispered to the pictures.
Twenty years have passed. Jack grew into a fine young man, admired by many, yet he chose the girl whose heart beat in time with hisEmily, the one who, after my own mother, became the most beloved in his life. He introduced Emily to me, and I realized fully that my son had become a man. I blessed their union, and their wedding was a joyous celebration. Their children arrived in turn, and we named the youngest boy Jack, continuing the family line. My house, once barren, is now full of laughter and grandchildren.
One night, stirred by a sudden clatter outside, I climbed to the front door as habit dictated, flung it open and stepped into the courtyard. A storm was gathering, lightning flashing in the distance.
Thank you, my son, I murmured into the dark, now I have three Jacks, and I love each of you.
The ancient oak by the porchplanted by my husband when the first Jack was bornshivered in the wind, its branches crackling like the echo of his smile. The lightning illuminated the yard, a brief, bright flash that reminded me of Jacks own radiant grin.
