A small, grubby hand reaches through the wire fence, grasping for ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice, tending to the onions instead.
“Hello, Aunt Grace,” comes the high-pitched voice of little Alfie.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile. “Come on in, help me pick some strawberries.”
The fence sags; I lift the bottom easily, and in steps my Angel—that’s what I call Alfie. Behind him, panting and huffing, squeezes Buster, his enormous shaggy dog, nearly twice his size. I place a bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch, and Alfie plucks the plumpest, reddest fruit. His fair hair catches the sun, blue eyes bright, his small shoulder blades sharp like wings beneath his T-shirt. That’s why I call him Angel. He’s five—curious, kind.
“Alfie, why was Mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, and I spilled the paint,” he says. “Was gonna do Buster’s kennel and dropped the tin.”
“No matter,” I say. “We’ll have tea, then fetch more paint.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being asked and settles at the table—his favourite spot by the window. From the treats laid out, he chooses strawberries with cream and a still-warm scone dusted with sugar. A white powdered moustache clings to his top lip. Buster sprawls on the rug by the door, knowing the rules, waiting patiently for his share. I toss him a crumpet. He eyes it mournfully—then us—as if to say, *Is that all?* We laugh, and I slide him a bowl of stew. He forgives us at once, tucking in slowly.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shops with two tins of paint—white and green. The sky is clear, the sun high and hot. I pop home to change, grabbing the leftover strawberries and scones in a bag.
On Alfie’s porch sits his gran, blind these past two years. My Angel carefully straightens her scarf, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear—neat, proper. I set a bowl of strawberries in her lap; I know they’re her favourite.
On the terrace, Alfie and I paint the stools white, then Buster’s kennel green. Alfie beams; Buster couldn’t care less.
Emma, Alfie’s mum, returns from work. She praises his handiwork, calls us to the table. Alfie takes Gran’s hand, leads her inside, then feeds her rice pudding—slow, patient. She sips her tea alone, a butterscotch sweet between her lips. She navigates the house by memory, knows which floorboards creak.
Emma works at the motorway café, two miles away. If it’s a late shift, Alfie’s the one who steps up.
I watch him shovel in his porridge, butter melting on top. After sweet milky tea, he runs off to watch cartoons. A child—yet already a man. Or is he a man, still a child?
He sweeps floors, washes dishes, helps Gran dress, feeds her, splits logs (two at a time), fetches water in a little pail. He loves his dog fiercely and sometimes weeps when Mum snaps unfairly. But he laughs, bright and loud, when he splashes in the river, droplets sparkling under the sun.
Emma walks me to the gate. *Don’t shout at him*, I say. *He’s a man—don’t shame him. Cherish him. Find reasons to praise.*
She sighs—the grind, the wages, her blind mother.
I cut in: *Your own home, your mother alive, a job, a son who helps, your health. Be grateful for what you have—don’t measure against others.*
She smiles, waves me off.
My lessons with Alfie stick—by five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to Gran. On still evenings, we tramp to the river with fishing rods. The sun, fat as a sunflower, sinks slow into the trees, gilding the clouds below. The world hushes, resting. The fish, unbothered by us, soon flicker in our jar—supper for my tabby.
…Today, my Angel visited. Grown now—forty-two, a respected surgeon, Dr. Alfie Moore. A few times a year, he tends his mother’s and Gran’s graves, then arrives at mine, arms laden. The world calls him Alexander—but I know he’s an Angel. Broad-shouldered, gentle.
No matter the season, he sets strawberries on the table, sits by the window—still *his* spot—and smiles. He sips tea with warm scones, smokes a fag on the step, and when he leaves, wraps me in wings grown tall and strong.
