A young woman hunched on a hospital bed, knees drawn up, muttered to herself in a jagged rhythm:
I dont need him. I reject him. All I want is Andrew, and hes said he doesnt want a child. Then Im useless too. Do what you will with him Im indifferent.
The matron, a stern woman named Margaret, entered the room.
My dear, abandoning your own child is barbaric. Even the beasts wouldnt do such a thing, she said.
The mother, a flamboyant and quarrelsome girl called Felicity, snapped back:
I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me at once, or Ill make a scene youll never forget.
Margaret sighed, as if apologising to God, and whispered, You foolish, misguided soul. Her experience told her that medicine could not mend this knot.
Just a week earlier, Felicity had been transferred from the maternity ward to the paediatric ward a stormy, scandalloving soul who refused to breastfeed her newborn, no matter how gently she was coaxed. She would only agree to express milk, but then she had nowhere else to go.
The babys attending doctor, the brighteyed Emma, tried in vain to calm the tempest. Felicity threw endless fits, each one louder than the last, pleading that it was dangerous for the child. When Emma suggested she might run away, Felicity threatened to flee. Emma called Margaret, who spent an hour bargaining with the irrational mother, who insisted she must see her boyfriend, convinced he would abandon her if she stayed.
Margaret, seasoned by years of similar confrontations, decided she could keep Felicity for three more days just enough for the woman to pause, think, perhaps come to her senses. The mere mention of three days drove Felicity into a frenzy.
Are you mad? Andrew is already angry with me because of this cursed baby, and youre tossing me another stone. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katya.
She burst into tears, shouting that everyone was dense and didnt realise Katya was only waiting to whisk her lover away. The child meant nothing to her except as a bargaining chip for a marriage.
Margaret, exhaling once more, ordered a dose of valerian and headed for the ward door. The senior registrar, Claire, who had been silent all this time, followed. In the corridor she paused and asked softly:
Do you truly believe a child will thrive with a mother like this, if we can even call her that?
My dear, she replied Margaret, what can we do? Otherwise theyll ship him off to a baby home, then an orphanage. At least both families have respectable names. Perhaps we should speak with the parents? Its their first grandchild, after all. And the boy is handsome. Find me their contact details; I need to talk.
Felicity vanished that very day. Margaret phoned the parents, but the young mans family refused any conversation. Two days later her father arrived a sour, unsmiling man. Margaret tried to discuss the child, offering a lookover.
He sneered, Im not interested. My daughter will write a refusal letter, and Ill have my driver deliver it. Margaret warned, That wont do. She must come herself we cant discharge her without her signature. Rules must be followed, or trouble follows. The man tensed, his bureaucratic fear surfacing, and retreated, promising his wife would handle it.
The next morning a pallid, trembling woman arrived. She perched on the edge of a chair and wept, whispering of tragedy. The boys parents had whisked him away overseas; they were wealthy, with grand plans, and now this sorrowful tale unfolded. The woman declared she would fly abroad to retrieve the child, shouting that she would be with Andrew even if the whole world collapsed.
Margaret, still sighing, suggested the woman look at the baby, hoping some grandmotherly affection might stir. The womans eyes softened, then hardened again; she clutched a fresh handkerchief and sobbed louder. Margaret muttered, Bah, and instructed a nurse to give the woman more valerian, cursing that such follies would soon drain the wards tranquiliser stock.
She reported the whole mess to the chief paediatrician, Dr. Harold, a oncerenowned doctor whose smile softened at the sight of the infant. He asked, Whats the lad being fed? The chubby, round baby was christened Biscuit by the staff, a name that stuck like a sticky toffee.
Biscuits stay stretched for months. The nurses coaxed his mother, Felicity, to visit. She drifted in, playing with him, claiming she was saving money for a ticket to locate her boyfriend. With nothing else to do, she lingered, seeming to grow attached.
His mothers own mother, a kindly older lady, also visited, doting on Biscuit yet always departing in tears, apologising for her daughters madness, calling it lust, not love. Margaret dismissed that as mere desire.
Despite the visits, no one signed any papers, and the child remained in the ward. Margaret finally sat the mother down, explaining that Biscuit was ill, his condition worsening, and that the whole staff was on edge. Emma hovered like a shadow, cradling the sweating infant whose damp hair clung to his tiny scalp.
Biscuit lost weight, grew frail, and Emma whispered that he was no longer a biscuit but a flapjack. Yet the boy rebounded, regaining his plumpness, becoming the wards favourite. He adored Emmas coralcoloured beads, reaching for them with chubby fingers and erupting in delighted giggles whenever he succeeded.
One day, Felicity discovered that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, screaming that the world conspired to keep them apart, that Biscuit was the obstacle to her happiness with Andrew. She vowed to write a refusal letter, to send the baby to an orphanage, and to chase Andrew anyway, believing that if the child vanished, she could finally be with him.
She handed the letter to Dr. Harold, placed it on his desk, turned and left without a word. The chief called Margaret, who returned, eyes dark as storm clouds, and said,
Its done. The letters here. Well process the paperwork for the baby home. What else can we do?
Emma wept, and Margaret sat down, removed her glasses, and began polishing them while muttering to herself. Everyone knew that when the head nurse polished her lenses, she was nervous; sometimes she even rubbed her hollow coat in a futile attempt to hide tears.
In that moment, Biscuit cheered in his cot. A nurse entered, humming a tune, and Biscuit squealed, flailing his arms and legs. Suddenly he froze, as if listening to a distant echo, then fell silent. The nurse, startled, knelt beside him, feeling an inexplicable ache in her chest as tears rolled down her cheeks.
She could not explain the sorrow in his bright eyes, only that it matched the moment Felicity had penned her refusal. She whispered that such superstitions were nothing but coincidence.
Abandoned children, she thought, always sense the rejection. Whether whispered by angels or felt in the marrow, they become invisible, trying not to disturb anyone, as if the world were shoving them into a grey, unnoticed corner.
The world, indifferent, offers no bedtime story, no blanket, no gentle gaze. Yet the wise orphan knows this, his puppylike stare full of hopelessness, while a merciless world bestows gifts on some and snatches them from others.
But hope flickers: somewhere, kindness still exists, though scarce. Believe, my child, the nurse urged, wait, and trust that one day the universe will notice you.
From that day onward, Biscuit lay quietly in his cot, his smile vanished, his eyes solemn. Emma tried everything:
Biscuit, would you like a hug? Look, I have beads, lets play!
She reached out, smiling encouragingly, but Biscuit stared back, motionless, his gaze unbearably serious.
Eventually, Emmas frustration boiled over:
Were betraying him! Those bastards first, then us! He didnt choose to be born into this mess!
She collapsed onto a sofa, head in her hands, whimpering. Margaret rose from her desk, sat beside her, and gently rubbed Emmas shoulder.
Darling, I have no idea what to do. I feel sorry for Biscuit, God, what a cruel job.
Emma snapped,
I wont just sit here! Ill act.
Margaret retorted,
Then dont sit. Stop wailing, youve soaked my coat. Acting means it will be so. Dont tell me you intend to adopt him; they wont let you. You live in a flat, no husband, youre a single woman. Ive seen countless biscuits in my life; I cant count them. Well give you time to find good parents for him. No more drivel, go find them!
Emma threw herself into the search, speaking with such sincerity that even the wards other staff felt a stir. Angels, she thought, might be watching, for Biscuit seemed to help her in his own tiny way.
He caught a common cold, but the paperwork could not proceed. Margaret, halfamused, remarked, For once in my life Im almost glad the child is ill. Forgive me, Lord!
Finally, a couple emerged: Laura and Leo, both in their thirties, childless, longstanding dreamers of parenthood. Laura, a gentle, elegant woman with a melodic voice, and Leo, a broadshouldered, disciplined man with a soldiers bearing, lived in a cosy cottage lit by warm lamplight.
When they met Margaret, she whistled softly at Leos stature, then, blushing, asked,
What was his birth weight, dear?
Leo stammered, I dont know Ill ask his mother.
Laura laughed, Hell keep us busy with questions.
Margaret replied, No need for that now. He looks just like a biscuit.
Laura opened the ward doors with a decisive step. Biscuit, asleep, reddened in his dreams, tiny hands and feet curled. A single teardrop lingered in his eye.
He stirred, opened his eyes, and gazed from one adult to another, finally fixing on Laura. He frowned, then widened his eyes. Laura watched him intently, tracing every line of his face. Biscuit, cautious yet curious, reached out and clutched Lauras thumb with surprising strength. Laughter bubbled around the room, marveling at his vigor. Laura and the infant locked eyes, a silent exchange passing between them.
Biscuit offered a faint, hesitant smile; Laura returned it, nodding softly, and the baby let out a tiny squeak. The room fell hushed, aware of something profound yet inexplicable.
Margaret cleared her throat and said,
Lets end this first meeting here. Youll go home, discuss, decide
Laura, unfazed, replied,
Weve already decided.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, looking at Leo, who simply nodded.
Laura turned to Biscuit, saying,
Hold my hand, love.
He clutched tighter, refusing to release. The silence stretched.
Margaret, with a sigh, muttered, God, forgive us, and suggested they give the baby a stronger grip, noting that infants at this age have a powerful grasp reflex.
Laura responded calmly, Its just fear hell be left behind.
She whispered gently,
Please let me go now. I must leave, but Ill return. You must trust me.
Biscuit listened, his tiny fingers finally loosening, then a grin spread across his face, and he emitted a bright, delighted squeal.
Margaret declared, Its just reflexes, thats all, while frantically polishing her glasses, mumbling under her breath.
