Emily lay on the ward bed, knees drawn up, and snapped, I dont want him. Im rejecting him. All I want is Andrew, and he says he doesnt want a child. So I dont want one either. Do with him what you willit makes no difference to me.
The matron, Miss Clarke, leaned over the bedside rail. My dear, abandoning your own child is nothing short of barbarism. Even beasts would not do such a thing.
Emily snarled, I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me at once, or Ill make a mess of this place.
Miss Clarke sighed, Youre a foolish, stubborn girl, God forgive you. Her experience told her medicine could not fix this.
Just a week earlier Emily had been transferred from the maternity suite to the paediatric wardan obstinate, scandalprone young woman who refused to breastfeed her baby, no matter how gently the staff begged her. She would only agree to pump milk, and then she had nowhere else to go.
Dr. Megan Hart, the babys attending physician, fought a losing battle with Emily. The girl threw relentless tantrums, and Megan tried to explain the danger to the infant. When Emily threatened to flee, a flustered Megan summoned Miss Clarke, who spent a tense hour pleading with the irrational mother. Emily insisted she had to be with her boyfriend; she claimed he would leave her if she stayed, and that he would take Katie away.
Miss Clarke, seasoned by years of such cases, refused to give up. She could keep Emily for three more days, hoping the time would bring a change of heart. The very mention of three days sent Emily into a frenzy.
Are you mad? she wailed. Andrew is already angry with me over this cursed baby, and youre still tossing me more trouble. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katie anyway. She burst into tears, screaming that they were idiots who didnt realise Katie only wanted to whisk her lover away. The child existed for her alone, a desperate hope that she might someday marry.
Miss Clarke gave a weary sigh, ordered a dose of valerian, and headed for the door. The registrar, who had kept silent until now, followed. In the corridor she paused, voice barely a whisper, Do you really think a child can thrive with a mother like thisif you can even call her that?
The poor thing, Miss Clarke answered, what can we do? Otherwise theyll ship him to a baby home and then to an orphanage. At least the families on both sides are respectable. Perhaps a chat with the parents will help; after all, theyre adults and this is their first grandchild. The boys quite a looker, too. Find out the parents address, and Ill speak with them.
Emily vanished the same day. Miss Clarke phoned the boys parents, but the young mans family refused even to converse. Two days later the babys fatheran irritable, stern gentlemanarrived to collect his sons belongings. Miss Clarke tried to reason, suggesting he look at the child, but he replied, Im not interested. My daughter will write a refusal, and Ill send it through my driver. Miss Clarke insisted the mother must come in person; otherwise procedures would be broken and trouble would follow. The man stiffened, the bureaucratic fear evident in his eyes, and finally said hed send his wife to handle it.
The next morning a small, pallid woman slipped into the ward, perched on the edge of a chair, and began sobbing uncontrollably. She whispered that the boys parents had fled abroad, wealthy and with grand plans, leaving behind this miserable saga. Her own daughter wailed for days, shouting that she hated the child and would chase the boy overseas, even if the whole world burned. The woman kept repeating these cries, her voice cracking.
Miss Clarke, weary, suggested they let the grandmother see the baby, hoping some tenderness might surface. A flicker of feeling did appear, but it only made things worse. The woman clutched a fresh handkerchief, wept louder, and declared the child so beautiful. She would love to take him, but her husband forbade it and her daughter refused. She sobbed until the room seemed to fill with grief. Miss Clarke muttered, Mmm, and ordered a nurse to give the woman more valerian, grumbling that such melodrama would soon drain the wards supply of tranquilizers.
She then reported the whole mess to the chief paediatrician, Dr. Henry Whitfield. He had once been a beloved children’s doctor; upon seeing the infant, he broke into a grin and asked what the baby was being fed. The chubby little fellow, nicknamed Donut, had become a household name in the ward.
Donts stay stretched into months. Staff coaxed his mother back repeatedly; she would come, play, claim she was saving money for a ticket to find her boyfriend, and linger because she had nothing else to do. Slowly, she seemed to grow attached. Her own mother visited, doted on the child, and always left in tears, apologising for her daughters obsession with a lover she loved madly. Miss Clarke called it lust, not love.
Despite the visits, no one signed any papers to take Donut home. Miss Clarke finally confronted them sternly, explaining the babys worsening condition. Everyone fretted, and Dr. Megan rushed to him at every chance. Donut was sweating, his tiny hair clinging to his damp forehead. He began to lose weight, and Megan cradled him, muttering that he was no longer a donut but a crepe. Yet after a brief illness he regained strength, once again becoming the wards beloved mascot, delighting in the coralcoloured beads Megan wore, trying to bite them in his tiny hands, giggling with pure joy.
One day Emilys world shattered. She learned, by chance, that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, screaming that everyone conspired to keep them apart, that she hated everyone, especially the baby. If he werent here, Id be with Andrew now, happy, she wailed, vowing to file a refusal and send Donut to an orphanage, then jet off to Andrew, hoping hed abandon this trouble and marry her. She drafted the refusal, placed it on the chiefs desk, turned and walked out without a word.
The chief summoned Miss Clarke, whose face turned hard and angry. Its done then, he said. Well process the paperwork for the baby home. What else can we do?
Megan burst into tears. Miss Clarke sat down, removed her spectacles, and began polishing them absentmindedly, muttering under her breath. Everyone knew that when the matron polished her glasses, she was on edge. She occasionally rubbed her hollow coat to hide the tremor of her own hidden tears, though she rarely let anyone see her soften.
In that moment Donut squealed happily in his cot. A nurse entered, greeted him with the usual cheer, and he responded with a delighted chirp, kicking his limbs. Suddenly he froze, eyes widening as if listening for something. The nurse, startled, crouched beside him, feeling a strange ache in her chest, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldnt explain the sudden rush of emotion, but she sensed it was linked to the mothers refusal. She whispered, Its all nonsense, superstition, nothing the baby understands.
Abandoned children always sense rejection, whether from the world or some unseen whisper. They try to become invisible, to stop troubling anyone, as if the world would simply forget them. No one will read them a bedtime story, no one will pull a blanket over their shivering frames. The cruel world hands out gifts to some and strips them from others, leaving a child to wonder why they were cast aside, what they did wrong. No answer ever comes; the indifferent world discards them without thought. Yet there remains a flicker of hopeperhaps kindness will appear, perhaps a miracle will turn the tide.
From that day Donut lay quiet in his cot, no longer playing, his smile gone, his eyes staring with a weight beyond his years. Megan tried in vain to coax him: Donut, want a hand? Look, I have beads, lets play! She reached out, smiling, hoping hed grasp her fingers as he always did. He stared back, untouched, distant.
Then, in a burst of desperation, Megan shouted, Were betraying him! First those bastards, now us! He didnt ask to be born into this mess! She sank onto a sofa, head in her hands, a raw, plaintive whine escaping her. Miss Clarke rose from her desk, sat beside her, and rested a hand on her shoulder.
Child, I dont know what to do, she said softly. I feel for Donut more than words can say. Lord, what a cruel job this is.
Megan answered, I wont just sit and wait; Ill act.
Then stop sitting, the matron snapped. Your sighs are soaking my coat. If youre going to act, act now. Dont ask me to adopt himyoull never get him. Youre living in a hostel, no husband, nothing. Ive seen dozens of Donuts in my career; I cant count them. Well give you time to find good parents, proper ones. No more whining, go hunt.
Megan threw herself into the search for Donuts new family, pouring heart and soul into the task. Her determination moved even the other ward staff. Finally, a couple emerged: Lana and Leo, both in their thirties, childless after years of longing. Lana was a graceful woman with a soft smile and a melodic voice; Leo was solid, reminiscent of a soldier, clearly devoted to his wife. Their home was warm and welcoming.
When they visited the ward, Miss Clarke, unable to hide a grin, exclaimed, My, what a gentleman! then, embarrassed, added, Sorry, that was admiration. Not every day you see a man like that. She asked, What was his birth weight, love?
Leo stammered, Im not sure Ill ask the nurse.
Lana laughed, He wont remember his birthday, but well sort it out. Miss Clarke replied, It doesnt matter for adoption; he just looks like a little Donut.
Lana stepped into the room, the door swinging open with purpose. Donut, asleep, flushed pink, tiny hands and feet splayed. A single tear lingered in his eye. He stirred, opened his eyes, and scanned the room. When his gaze landed on Lana, he froze, then widened them. Lana stared back, studying every feature. He reached out, clasped her thumb with surprising strength. Both burst into delighted laughter, marveling at the tiny boys vigor.
Donut offered a faint, trembling smile; Lana returned it, nodding gently, and he let out a soft squeak. The ward fell into a hush, the moment feeling both fragile and profound. Miss Clarke cleared her throat, Lets call this first meeting a success. Youll go home, think it over.
Lana, without turning, said, Weve already decided.
Miss Clarke raised an eyebrow, looking at Leo, who shrugged. Well then, she murmured.
Lana smiled at Donut, extended her hand. He clenched her finger tightly, refusing to let go. She tried again, but his tiny grip held firm. The silence stretched.
Fine, Miss Clarke said, pull harder; they have a strong grasp reflex at this age.
Lana replied calmly, Hes just scared Ill leave. She leaned close, whispering, Please let me go now, Ill be back. You have to trust me. Donut listened, then released her finger, his face breaking into a toothless grin and a delighted chirp.
Miss Clarke chuckled, I told you it was just a reflex. She snapped her glasses back on, muttering, Lord, how many Donuts have I seen in my life?
And so the wards drama settled into a quiet hope, the infants future finally taking shape amid the storm of human frailty.
