— Whose little girl are you, love? ..— Come on, let me carry you home, you’ll warm up. I lifted her in my arms and brought her to my cottage. Before I knew it, the neighbours gathered round—news travels fast in an English village. — Good grief, Anna, where did you find her? — And what are you going to do with her? — Anna, have you lost your senses? What will you feed the child with? The floorboard creaked underfoot—reminding me yet again to fix it, though I never got round to it. I sat at my kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tapped the window, as if asking to come in. — What’s all the commotion, then? — I said to it. — Patience, spring will come soon enough. It’s funny to talk to trees, but when you live alone, the world around you feels alive. After those awful times I was left a widow—my dear Stephen lost to war. I still keep his last letter, creased and faded from countless readings. He promised he’d return soon, said he loved me, that we’d be happy… But a week later, I learned the truth. We never had children, perhaps just as well—there was nothing to feed them with back then. The village head, Nicholas Evans, always comforted me: — Don’t fret, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again. — I won’t. — I replied firmly. — I loved once, that is enough. I worked at the farm from dawn till dusk. Foreman Peter would shout: — Anna Evans, off home with you! It’s late as it is! — I’ll manage, — I’d say. — As long as my hands still work, my spirit stays young. My little home was modest—a stubborn goat called Maggie, five hens to do a better job of waking me than any rooster. My neighbour Claudia would often joke: — Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your hens always start up before everyone else’s? I kept my garden—potatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything from the land itself. In autumn I’d preserve pickles, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar felt like bringing summer into the house. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was wet and cold. The drizzle lasted all morning, and by evening it froze. I went to the woods for firewood—needed fuel for the stove. After the storms, there was plenty of deadfall, just waiting to be gathered. Arms loaded, I headed home past the old bridge, when I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But no—it was a child, sobbing. I scrambled down beneath the bridge, and there she was—a little girl, muddy and soaked, dress torn, eyes full of fear. When she saw me she fell silent, shivering like a leaf. — Whose little girl are you? — I asked quietly, so as not to scare her more. She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, lips blue and hands swollen red from cold. — Frozen stiff, — I muttered. — Let’s get you home and warm you up. I scooped her up—lighter than a feather—wrapped her in my old scarf, held her close. And all the while, I wondered what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge. I couldn’t fathom it. The wood I’d gathered was abandoned—it didn’t matter now. All the way home, the girl stayed silent, clutching my neck with her icy fingers. I carried her inside, and the neighbours were there in a flash—news spreads like wildfire in our village. Claudia was the first to burst in: — Oh heavens, Anna, where did you find her? — Under the bridge, — I replied. — Clearly abandoned. — Dear God… — Claudia gasped. — What are you going to do? — What else? She’ll stay with me. — Anna, have you gone mad? — Old Maude croaked. — How will you provide for a child? — Whatever God gives, I’ll make do, — I said. First thing, I stoked the stove and set water to heat. The girl was covered in bruises, skin-and-bones, her ribs sticking out. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in my old jumper—no children’s clothes in my house. — Are you hungry? — I asked. She nodded shyly. I gave her leftover vegetable stew and thick slices of bread. She ate hungrily, yet her manners showed she wasn’t a stray, but rather raised in a home. — What’s your name? She stayed silent. Either afraid or unable to speak. I put her in my bed to sleep, curling up myself on the bench. I woke several times through the night to check on her. She slept, curled tight, whimpering in her dreams. At first light, I went to the parish hall—to report my find. The head, John Stephens, just spread his hands: — No word of any missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her… — What do we do now? — By law, she belongs in an orphanage. I’ll ring the council today. My heart ached: — Wait, John. Give me time—perhaps her parents will turn up. Meanwhile, let her stay here. — Anna Evans, think carefully… — There’s nothing more to think about. It’s decided. I named her Mary—after my mother. I hoped her real parents might turn up, but no one ever did. Perhaps that’s for the best—I grew to love her with all my heart. It was hard at first—she never spoke, only her eyes searching my home as if looking for something. She woke up screaming, trembling with fear. I held her close, stroked her head: — It’s alright, sweetheart. Everything will be alright now. I stitched clothes for her out of old dresses—dyed in all colours, blue, green, red. Not fancy, but cheerful. Claudia was amazed: — Anna, you’ve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a spade. — Life teaches you both sewing and mothering, — I replied, secretly glad for her praise. Not all in the village were understanding, especially old Maude—whenever she saw us, she’d cross herself: — No good can come of this, Anna. Bringing in a foundling—asking for trouble. No doubt her mother was bad—that’s why she abandoned the child. The apple never falls far from the tree… — Enough, Maude! — I snapped. — Other people’s sins aren’t for you to judge. That child is mine now, end of. Even the farm head frowned at first: — Think about it, Anna Evans, maybe she’d be better off in the orphanage? They’d feed and clothe her properly. — Who will love her, though? — I challenged. — There are enough orphans there already. He shrugged but soon helped—sometimes sent milk, sometimes grains. Bit by bit, Mary grew brighter. At first one word at a time, then sentences. I remember her first laugh—I was reaching up to hang curtains and toppled off my chair. Sitting there rubbing my back, she burst out laughing—clear and bright. My pain vanished instantly in her joy. She started helping in the garden. I’d give her a little hoe—she’d step beside me, copying everything, more stamping down weeds than pulling them. But I never scolded, just delighted to see her full of life. Then tragedy struck—Mary came down with a terrible fever. Burning up, raving. I ran to our local medic, Simon Peters: — For heaven’s sake, help! He only spread his hands: — Medicine? All I’ve got for the whole village are three aspirin. Wait—they may send more next week. — Next week? — I cried. — She might not last till morning! I ran to the town—nine miles of mud. Shoes ruined, feet sore, but I made it. The young doctor there, Michael Alexander, looked at me—filthy and soaked: — Wait here. He brought out medicine, explained how to use it: — No pay needed, — he said. — Just get the girl better. For three days I never left her bedside, mumbling prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke and she quietly said: — Mum, I want water. Mum… She called me mum for the first time. I wept—joy, relief, everything at once. She wiped away my tears with her little hand: — Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt? — No, — I replied. — I’m just happy, sweetheart. After her illness, she was changed—loving, chatty. Soon she started school—the teacher couldn’t praise her enough: — Such a bright girl, picks up everything instantly! The villagers grew used to her; even old Maude thawed, dropping off pies for us. She grew fond of Mary after the child helped stoke her fire during a bitter cold snap. The old woman was laid up and hadn’t prepared wood. Mary volunteered: — Mum, let’s go to Maude’s? She must be so cold alone. They became friends—the old grump and my little girl. Maude shared stories, taught her knitting, never spoke again of foundlings or bad blood. Time passed. Mary was nine when she first mentioned the bridge. We sat together in the evening; I was darning socks, she rocking her homemade doll. — Mum, do you remember how you found me? My heart jumped, but I kept calm: — I remember, love. — I remember it a bit too. It was cold, and frightening. There was a woman crying, and then she left. My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she went on: — I don’t know her face, only her blue scarf. And she kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me…” — Mary… — Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t upset me now. I just recall sometimes. And you know what? — she suddenly smiled. — I’m so glad you found me that day. I hugged her tight as my throat tightened. How often I’d wondered—who was that woman in the blue scarf? What drove her to leave her child under a bridge? Hunger, a drunken husband? So many things can happen in life. It’s not mine to judge. That night I lay awake, thinking how fate turns. Used to be, I felt cheated by life, condemned to loneliness. Yet it was all preparing me for the greatest task—to shelter and warm an abandoned child. From then on, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, always trying to cushion the truth: — You know, child, people sometimes face choices with almost no way out. Maybe your mother suffered terribly deciding what she did. — Would you have ever done that? — she peered into my eyes. — Never, — I said firmly. — You are my joy, my blessing. Years flew by. Mary was top of her class, sometimes bursting home— — Mum, Mum! I read my poem in front of everyone today, and Miss Maria said I have a real gift! Her teacher, Maria Potter, often spoke to me: — Anna Evans, your girl must go on with her studies. Such a rare talent for words and language. You should see her work! — Where could she study? — I’d sigh. — We’ve no money… — I’ll help tutor for free; it would be a shame to waste such promise. So Maria tutored Mary—nights bent over books at our table. I’d bring them tea and homemade jam, listening as they discussed Shakespeare, Keats, Austen. My heart swelled—my girl soaked up everything. In her final year, Mary fell in love for the first time—with a new boy come to our village. She was heartbroken at times, scribbling poetry into a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, though my heart ached for her—all first loves are bittersweet. After graduation, Mary sent off papers to teacher training college. I gave her everything I had and sold our cow—dear Daisy, I hated to part with her, but what else could I do? — No, Mum, — Mary protested. — How can you get by without the cow? — I’ll manage, love. There’s still potatoes, and hens laying. You need to study. When the acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm head came to offer congratulations: — Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter and educated her. Now our village has its own scholar. I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting, arms around each other, tears streaming down her face. — I’ll write every week, Mum. And come home every break. — Of course, you will, — I said, heart breaking. The bus vanished over the hill, and I kept standing, unable to move. Claudia came and put her arm round me: — Come on, Anna, there’s plenty needing doing at home. — You know, Claudia, — I said, — I’m happy. Some have blood children, but mine was sent by God. She kept her promise—letters came often, each one a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every word by heart. She wrote of lectures, new friends, the city; between the lines, I read her longing for home. In her second year, she met her own James—a history student. She mentioned him in letters, shyly, but I sensed straight away—she was in love. That summer she brought him home, to meet me. He was serious and hard-working, helped me fix the roof and fence, made friends with neighbours. Evenings he sat on the porch, sharing stories from history that captivated us all. It was clear how deeply he cared for my Mary—never took his eyes off her. When she came for summer visits, everyone came to see what a beauty she’d grown into. Old Maude, now very frail, always crossed herself: — Lord, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, I was a foolish old woman. Just look at the happiness she’s grown to! Now Mary teaches in the city—her own pupils, as Miss Maria taught her. She married James; they live together in love and harmony. They gave me a granddaughter—Annie, named after me. Little Annie is the spit of Mary as a child, only bolder. When they visit, she fills the house with clamour—always exploring, touching, climbing. I delight in her energy—a home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells. So here I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls again. The floorboards still creak, the birch still taps the glass. But now, the quiet carries peace and gratitude—for every day lived, every smile of my Mary, for fate leading me to that old bridge. On my table stands a photo—Mary, James, and little Annie. Beside it, the old scarf I wrapped her in that day. I keep it to remember. Sometimes I stroke it—feeling the warmth of those days return. Yesterday Mary wrote again—she’s expecting another baby, a boy this time. James has already chosen a name—Stephen, for my late husband. So our family goes on; the memories will live. The old bridge is long gone—a sturdy new concrete one stands in its place. I rarely go by now, but each time I stop for a moment. Just thinking—how much life can change in a single day, a chance moment, a child’s cry on a damp March evening… They say fate tests us with loneliness so we learn to cherish those close. But I think otherwise—fate prepares us for the ones who need us most. It doesn’t matter if it’s blood—only that we heed the call of the heart. Mine, that day under the old bridge, did not lead me astray.

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 1

Whose little girl are you? I asked Come on, Ill carry you home, warm you up. I lifted her into my arms and brought her home. The neighbours appeared almost immediatelynews travels fast in the village.

Good heavens, Hannah, where did you find her?
What on earth are you going to do with her?
Hannah, have you gone completely mad? How will you support a child?

The floor creaked under my footanother reminder I ought to mend it, but my hands have too many other jobs. I sat at the kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages were yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, snow blew against the window, and the birch tapped on the glass as if asking to come in.

Why all this fuss? I muttered to it. Wait a bitspring will be here soon.

Its funny, talking to a tree, but when you live on your own, everything seems alive. After those terrible years, I was left a widowmy Stephen was killed. I still keep his last letter, brittle and fadedI’ve read it so many times. He wrote that he’d be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy I found out the truth a week later.

I never had childrenperhaps for the best, in those hard times it was difficult enough to put food on the table. The farm manager, Mr. Nicholas Evans, used to comfort me:

Dont fret, Hannah. Youre still young, youll marry again.

I wont, I replied firmly. I loved once. Thats enough.

I worked on the farm from dawn to dusk. The foreman, Mr. Peters, would shout,

Hannah Smith, you ought to head home, its getting late!

Ill make it, Id say. As long as my hands work, my spirit stays young.

My animals were fewa goat named Maggie, as stubborn as I am. Five hens, who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour, Claudia, always joked,

Are you sure youre not a turkey? Your hens make more noise than anyone else!

I kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything homegrown. In autumn, I made picklescucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. Sometimes, in winter, you’d open a jar and it was like summer returned to the house.

I remember that day well. March was damp and cold. It drizzled in the morning and froze by evening. I walked out to the woods for kindlingthe fire needed feeding. Plenty of fallen branches after winter storms, easy pickings. I gathered a bundle and, on my way home past the old stone bridge, I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was just the wind, but no, it was a clear childs sobbing.

I climbed down beneath the bridge and saw hera small girl, covered in mud, her dress wet and torn, eyes wide and frightened. When she saw me, she hushed, trembling all over.

Who are you, little one? I asked softly so as not to scare her.

She didnt answer, just blinked. Her lips were blue with cold, hands swollen and red.

Frozen, bless you, I muttered. Come on, Ill carry you home, warm you up.

She was light as a feather. I wrapped her in my scarf and pressed her close. I kept thinkingwhat kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge? I couldnt imagine it.

Had to leave the wood behind; it was too late to worry about it. The girl clung to my neck the whole way home, silent but holding tight with icy fingers.

As soon as I returned, the neighbours were there. Word travels as quick as lightning. Claudia was first to arrive.

Hannah, where did you find her?

Under the bridge. Abandoned, from the looks of it.

Oh, heavens What will you do with her?

Ill keep her.

Hannah, youve gone mad! What will you feed her on?

Whatever God provides, Ill manage, I answered.

First thing, I stoked up the fire, boiled some water. She was all bruised, thin as a rake, ribs sticking out. I washed her gently and wrapped her in my old jumperhad no childrens clothes in the house.

Are you hungry? I asked.

She nodded shyly.

I poured out yesterdays vegetable stew and sliced some bread. She ate hungrily but tidilyshe wasnt a wild child, you could tell shed known home life once.

Whats your name?

No answer. Whether she was scared or simply unable to speak, I couldnt tell.

I made her up a bed on mine; I slept on the sofa. I was up several times in the night to check on her. She slept curled up, sobbing in her dreams.

Next morning, I went straight to the parish council to report my find. The chairman, Mr. John Stephens, just raised his hands.

No ones reported any missing girls. Maybe someone from town left her

What should I do?

By law, she ought to go to the orphanage. Ill ring the county office today.

My heart squeezed.

Wait, John, give me timeher parents might come forward. Meanwhile, Ill look after her.

Hannah Smith, think carefully

No needIve made up my mind.

I gave her the name Maryafter my mother. I thought perhaps her parents would come, but they never did. And I thanked God for thatshe became dear to me as if she was my own.

At first, it was hardshe said nothing, just watched the house, searching for something. At night, she woke screaming, shaking all over. Id hold her, stroke her head,

There, sweetheart, there now. Everythings alright.

From old dresses, I sewed her clothesdyed them blue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. When Claudia saw, she clapped her hands,

Hannah, youve golden hands! I thought you could only wield a spade.

Life teaches you to be a seamstress and a nanny, I replied, quietly pleased by the praise.

But not everyone was supportive. Especially old Mrs. Matildashed cross herself when she saw us,

Its not good, Hannah. Taking a foundling in brings trouble. Her mother must have been wicked. Apple never falls far

Enough, Matilda! I interrupted. Its not for you to judge. The girls mine now, thats all.

The manager at the farm frowned too.

Think it over, Hannah Smithperhaps orphanage is better? Theyll feed and clothe her properly.

But who will love her? I asked. There are plenty of orphans without her.

Eventually, even he started helping outsent milk and bags of grain from the farm.

Mary slowly opened up. At first, the words came one at a time, then whole sentences. I remember her first laughId fallen off a chair hanging curtains. Sat on the floor, groaning, when she burst out laughing, clear as a bell. My aches vanished with that sound.

She started helping out in the garden. Id give her a little hoeshed walk beside me, proud. Mostly she trampled weeds into the beds rather than pulled them, but I didnt minda joy to see life kindling in her.

But then trouble cameMary fell ill with fever. Lay red and delirious. I ran to our medic, Mr. Simon Peters.

For pitys sake, help!

He just spread his hands,

What medicine, Hannah? Three aspirin left for the whole parish. Maybe next week some will arrive.

Next week? I yelled. She might not last till tomorrow!

I ran to the county hospital, nine miles through mud. My shoes were ruined, feet blistered, but I made it. A young doctor, Alex Mitchell, saw me muddy and wet,

Wait here, he said.

He brought medicine and explained the doses.

No charge, he said, Just nurse the girl well.

I didnt leave her side for three dayswhispering prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke, she looked up and whispered,

Mum, I want a drink.

Mum first time she called me that. I criedfrom happiness, from exhaustion, from everything. She wiped my tears with her little hand.

Mum, whats the matter? Does it hurt?

No, I said, its joy, sweetheart.

After that illness, she changedgentle, chatty. Soon she started schoolthe teacher couldnt praise her enough.

Such a clever girl, learns in a blink!

The villagers got used to us, stopped gossiping. Even Matilda softenedstarted bringing us pies, especially fond of Mary after she helped light her stove during the worst frost. The old woman had been laid up with back pain and had no wood chopped. Mary volunteered,

Mum, shall we visit Matilda? Must be cold alone.

So, they became friendsthe old grumbler and my girl. Matilda shared stories, taught her to knit, and never mentioned foundlings or bad blood again.

Time passed. Mary was nine when she first asked about the bridge. It was eveningI was darning socks, she was rocking her homemade doll.

Mum, do you remember when you found me?

My heart skipped, but I showed nothing.

I remember, love.

I remember a bit too. It was cold. I was scared. There was a woman crying, then she left.

My knitting needles slipped from my hands. She went on,

I cant remember her face. Just a blue scarf. And she kept saying, Forgive me, forgive me

Mary

Dont worry, Mum, Im not sad. Sometimes I think about it. You know what? She smiled. Im glad you found me.

I hugged her tightly, my throat thick. How many times had I wonderedwho was she, the woman in the blue scarf? What made her abandon her child under a bridge? Perhaps she was starving herself, perhaps her husband drank Life happens. Not mine to judge.

That night, I lay awake, thinking about fate. Id thought Id been punished with lonelinesswhen really, it was preparing me for the most important thing: to be there for a lost child.

After that, Mary asked more about her past. I never hid things, only tried to explain gently.

You know, some people end up in awful situations, with hardly any choice. Perhaps your mother suffered terribly making that decision.

But youd never do that, would you, Mum? shed ask, peering at me.

Never, I replied firmly. Youre my joy, my happiness.

Years slipped by. Mary was top of her class in school. Shed run home,

Mum! I recited a poem at the boardMrs. Parsons said Ive got real talent!

Her teacher, Mrs. Parsons, often talked to me,

She ought to study further, Hannah. Such a bright mind. Shes got a gift for language, for literature. You should see her essays!

But where would we find the money? Id sigh.

Ill help her preparefor free! Talent like this shouldnt be wasted.

Mrs. Parsons tutored Mary in the evenings, over tea and raspberry jam, talking about Shakespeare and Austen. My heart swelled with pridemy girl absorbed everything.

In her final school year, Mary fell in love with a new classmate, a boy named Tom whod moved to the village with his family. She was full of emotion, wrote poems in a notebook tucked under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, remembering my own first heartbreak.

After graduation, Mary applied to teacher training college. I gave her all the money I had, even sold my old cowhard to part with Daisy, but needs must.

Dont, Mum, Mary protested. How will you manage without a cow?

Ill survive, love. Theres potatoes, and eggs from the hens. You need to study.

When the acceptance letter arrived, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm manager visited,

Well done, Hannah! You raised a daughter and sent her off to college. Now well have our own student in the village!

I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting. She hugged me, tears running down her face.

Ill write every week, Mum. And come home every holiday.

Of course, darling, I said, though my heart was breaking.

The bus disappeared round the bend, but I stood there still. Claudia came, put her arm round my shoulder.

Come on, Hannah. Plenty to do at home.

You know, Claudia, I said, Im happy. Others have children by birth, mine was sent by God.

Mary kept her wordshe wrote often. Every letter was a celebration. Id read and reread them till I knew each line by heart. She wrote about her studies, her new friends, the town. Between the lines, I could tell she missed home.

In her second year, Mary met her own Sama history student. She mentioned him casually, but a mother always knowsshed fallen in love. She brought him home to meet me over the summer.

He was a good boysolid and hard-working. Helped me fix the roof, mend the garden fence. The neighbours warmed to him. In the evenings, we sat on the porch, listening to his stories of history. It was clear he loved Marynever took his eyes off her.

When Mary visited, the village folk crowded round to see what a beauty shed grown into. Even Matilda, now very old, crossed herself,

Heavens, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, old fool. Just look what happiness you raised!

Now Mary teaches at a city school, just as Mrs. Parsons once taught her. She married Sam, and theyre happy. Theyve given me a granddaughterAnnabelle, named after me.

Annabelles the likeness of Mary as a child, but bolder. When they visit, the house is full of mischiefshe wants to touch everything, explore everywhere. Im gladits what homes need; childrens laughter is like bells in a church.

Now, I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls once more. The floor still creaks, the birch still taps the window, but the quiet here is no longer heavyits peaceful and full of gratitude. For every day lived, for Marys smile, for the fate that led me to that old bridge.

The family photo sits on my tableMary, Sam, and little Annabelle. Nearby, the battered blue scarf I wrapped Mary in that day. I keep it as memory. Sometimes I unfold it, trace its threadsits as if the warmth of those old days returns.

Yesterday, another letter arrivedMarys expecting again. A boy this time. Sams picked the nameStephen, after my husband. The family will carry on, and so will our memories.

Theyve replaced the old stone bridge with a new concrete onestrong and safe. I dont go there often, but when I do, I pause. And thinkhow much can one day, one event, one childs cry on a wet March night change the course of a life?

People say that fate tests us with loneliness, so we’ll better appreciate companionship. I think its moreit prepares us for those we’re meant to find. It doesnt matter if its your own bloodwhat matters is following your heart. And that day, under the old bridge, mine led me true.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Natalia Mitchell anxiously kept calling her son, who was away on another long haul at sea, but the signal remained stubbornly silent. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made, my boy!” she sighed fretfully, dialling his number again. No matter how many times she called, she knew she wouldn’t reach him until he docked at the nearest port—which might not happen for ages. And now, of all times! For a second sleepless night, Natalia Mitchell lay awake—her son’s actions playing over and over in her mind! * * * This whole story began years ago, back when Michael hadn’t even dreamt of a life at sea. Already a grown man, with nothing long-term ever sticking with any woman—none of them, apparently, ever quite measured up! With a heavy heart, Natalia watched one relationship after another fall apart, each time thinking the girls perfectly decent—if only her son could see it. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she’d scold. “Nobody’s ever good enough! Who’ll ever be able to meet all your impossible standards?” “Don’t understand what you’re complaining about, mum. You want a daughter-in-law—doesn’t matter to you what she’s like?” “Of course it matters! I just want her to love you, and be a decent person, that’s all!” He’d just fall silent at that, which maddened Natalia. How could the son she’d raised, the boy who once wept on her lap, now act as if he knew better than she did? Who was the grown-up here, after all? “What was wrong with Natalie?!” she’d blurt, frustrated. “I told you already.” “Well… perhaps Natalie wasn’t the best example,” Natalia would admit, but she wasn’t prepared to back down. “Maybe she wasn’t honest, as you say, but I still don’t quite see…” “Mum! I really don’t think it’s worth discussing the details. She just wasn’t the one.” “What about Katie?” “No, not Katie either,” her son would reply calmly. “And Jenna? She was a wonderful girl. Sweet, homely, a little shy—always offered to help around the house. You have to admit, she was good.” “You’re not wrong, mum. She was very kind. But in the end, it turned out she never loved me.” “And did you love her?” “I suppose not.” “And Daria?” “Mum!” “What, ‘Mum’? Honestly, you’re impossible to please! Just a ladies’ man, you! You could settle down, start a family, have kids, for goodness’ sake!” “Let’s just drop this pointless conversation!” Michael would snap, finally storming off. “Just like his father—so fussy and stubborn!” Natalia thought, exasperated. Time passed, and the women changed, but her cherished dream of celebrating her son’s happiness—and looking after grandchildren—never came true. Then Michael changed careers altogether. An old friend convinced him to work on ships, and Michael accepted. Natalia tried in vain to dissuade him. “Mum, what’s the problem? It’s a fantastic offer! Do you know how much the guys earn? We’ll both have everything we need!” “What good is money if you’re never here? I’d rather you started a family!” “But you have to support a family! And if there are kids, I won’t be able to go to sea anyway—I’ll need to be raising them, right? So I’ll work hard while I still can.” Michael really did earn well. After his first trip, he refurbished the flat. After the next, he opened a current account—and handed his mother a card. “This is so you never go without!” “I’m perfectly fine as is! I just don’t have grandchildren, and time’s getting on. I’m old!” “You’re not old! Don’t be silly. You’ve got years to go before retirement!” Michael teased. Natalia never touched the card, her own modest income from the local pharmacy being quite enough for her simple needs. “Let it sit there, as it should. Michael never checks it. Maybe he’ll notice one day what a thrifty mother he’s got!” she’d chuckle to herself. That’s how things went for years. When Michael returned from sea for short stays, he seemed to make up for lost time—meeting friends, going out, seeing women he no longer introduced. Once, when Natalia reproached him, she got the terse reply: “It’s so you don’t worry if I don’t marry them. I have no intention of marrying girls like that, mum!” It hurt, especially when he called her too trusting. “You’re too kind, mum! You hardly knew any of them. They all wanted to seem perfect to you—but really, they weren’t.” That comment stuck with Natalia for ages, for in a single stroke, her son had cast what she saw as a virtue—trust—as stupidity. He called her stupid, essentially! Yet, when she saw him with a pretty girl one evening, Natalia’s fierce desire to see her son settled flared up again. She marched over—Michael, a grown man, went bright red. But a mum’s a mum—he had to make introductions. Milena made a great impression: tall, slim, curly-haired, pleasant. Seeing her and Michael together, Natalia forgot all previous grievances. “Perhaps luck just hadn’t been on Michael’s side. Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t settle before—otherwise he’d have missed out on such a lovely girl!” she thought, hopeful. Michael’s romance with Milena lasted his whole shore leave. At Natalia’s urging, Milena visited several times, and Natalia was delighted—charming, intelligent, witty. But as Michael prepared for another stint at sea, Milena disappeared. “We’re not in touch anymore, and you shouldn’t be either,” Michael said bluntly, and left. Natalia puzzled over what had happened, but no answers were forthcoming. * * * A year passed. Her son came home between trips but, questioned about Milena, would only answer curtly and coldly. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! What was her flaw, then? What was wrong with her?” Natalia asked at last. “Mum, that’s my business. If I ended things, there’s a reason. Please, stay out of it.” Natalia nearly burst into tears. “Oh Michael, I only worry about you!” “Don’t! I told you—don’t talk to Milena, and stop pestering me!” Soon, Michael was off to sea again, and Natalia, heartbroken, got on as usual. Then, one day while at the pharmacy, a young woman came in for baby food. It was Milena, looking bashful and adjusting the hat of a little girl in a stroller. “Milena, darling! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you! Michael explained nothing—just left and told me not to ask about you!” Natalia blurted in relief. “Is that so?” Milena looked down sadly. “Well. So be it.” Natalia grew anxious. “Tell me, love, what happened? I know my son—he’s difficult. Did he hurt you?” “It’s all right… I’m not angry. But we’d best get going—more shopping to do.” “Do come see me! At least pop by the pharmacy. We could have a chat.” And Milena did, during Natalia’s next shift—for more baby food. Gradually, Natalia got her to open up. It turned out Milena had become pregnant with Michael’s child, but upon telling him, he’d said he wanted no part in raising a child. He went away and never returned. “He probably just went to sea,” Milena shrugged. “No matter—my daughter and I will manage fine!” Natalia nearly fell to her knees at the stroller, gazing at the child: “You mean—she’s my granddaughter?” “That’s right,” Milena replied softly. “Her name is Anna.” “Anya…” *** Natalia soon learned that Milena’s living situation was shaky—she had recently arrived in the city and rented a flat, but with a baby and no income, it was barely manageable. She was considering returning to her parents. Natalia’s heart ached at the thought of never seeing her granddaughter again. “Come and live with me, Milena. With Anya! She’s my granddaughter! I’ll help you both, and you’ll find yourself a steady job. And Michael sends so much money now—I barely spend any! Anna will be well cared for.” “What will Michael say?” “Does it matter? He made this mess! Walked out on his child and kept it from his own mother! I’ll make up for him, whatever it takes! And when he’s back, I’ll tell him everything—believe me, I’ll have words with him!” Natalia shook her fist. So they began living together. Natalia spared neither time nor money for her granddaughter. She reduced her work shifts to spend more time with Anna, and Milena, having found a job, left her daughter in Natalia’s care. As Michael’s next return drew closer, Natalia imagined confronting her son and making him apologise to Milena. Milena, meanwhile, grew increasingly anxious. But for Natalia, this only awakened a protective urge. “Michael will come back and throw Anna and me out! I shouldn’t have moved in—I’ll start looking for a new flat tomorrow,” Milena lamented. “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s throwing you out! When Michael returns, I’ll handle him. You hear me?” “Oh, he’ll kick us out for sure! I shouldn’t have relied on your kindness—I want nothing from you. You’re wonderful, and you’ve done so much for Anna and me, but I ought to just go home to my parents. We’ll stay in touch, though!” “You’ll do no such thing! I’m the head of this house, and I decide who lives here—Michael can just try to challenge me!” No matter how much Milena objected, Natalia didn’t budge. She kept them both. “You know, I’m thinking,” Natalia said over dinner one night, “we ought to transfer the flat into Anna’s name. Just so there’s no question later. Michael might never marry, but my granddaughter should have something. Besides, Michael isn’t on the birth certificate,” Natalia glanced at Milena, who looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry—I thought…” “I understand. But if anything were to happen, it’d be difficult to prove he’s her dad, so tomorrow, we’ll make everything official.” “Please don’t, Natalia. My parents have their own flat—” “Don’t try to talk me out of it!” Natalia interrupted. “My mind’s made up!” But the solicitor refused: “Your son must first be formally taken off the deeds.” Natalia was annoyed, but with Michael returning soon, she hoped to settle things then. Meanwhile, Milena began disappearing, and Natalia grew suspicious. “Why are you always staying late at work?” Natalia demanded one evening. Milena hesitated. “I’m trying to get an advance on my wages, but my boss says until I finish a task, I can’t get it.” “Why do you need an advance? Are you short of money?” Milena quietly changed into her home clothes. Natalia followed, and spotted a large bag, half-packed, hidden behind the bed. “Where are you going?” Milena stayed silent. “You’re not seriously moving out?” “Natalia, I have to go! Michael’s coming back…” “I won’t let you and my granddaughter leave!” Natalia put her foot down. Then added, thinking it over, “And you know where I keep the card. The pin’s written nearby. You can use it for whatever you need, rather than working all hours. Anna will soon forget what her mum looks like at this rate! If you want Michael to accept you, you need to get used to running a household.” Milena said nothing. Michael was due to arrive in two days. * * * Early on the morning of Michael’s return, Natalia peeked into Milena and Anna’s room. Only Anna slept soundly—Milena was gone. “That’s odd! Where has she gone? It’s only six o’clock—she’s never left so early before!” Natalia returned to the kitchen to prepare Michael’s favourite dishes. She pictured herself greeting her son with Anna in her arms, and imagined making him apologise to Milena on her return. At last, the doorbell rang. Michael stood motionless in the doorway, staring at his mother cradling a child. “Hi, mum. Whose child is that? What did I miss while I was away?” “You should know the answer to that!” “I don’t have a clue,” Michael replied, taking off his shoes. “Go on, tell me your adventures while I was gone.” “Adventures? Well, I found my granddaughter, Anna! That’s what happened!” Natalia replied, resolutely staring her son down. “What granddaughter? I don’t have a brother or sister I don’t know about, do I?” Michael joked. “Stop pretending, Michael! Milena’s told me everything! I didn’t raise you for this! I’m ashamed of your behaviour!” “Milena? I don’t understand. First, I asked you not to speak with her. Second, what has Milena to do with this child?” There and then, Natalia let out the whole story, complete with reproaches. Michael, hearing it all, groaned and held his head. “Oh, mum! Really!” “What, are you going to call me an idiot again? Well, go ahead—but I—” Natalia braced herself. “She’s not my child, mum! Milena’s deceived you. Honestly, you’re too gullible! Wait—she’s only after the money. What did she take?” “Nothing! You—” “Mum! Check your savings! Milena’s probably long gone with them by now!” “She just went to work!” insisted Natalia. They argued for ages, Michael eventually agreeing to wait for Milena to return before jumping to conclusions. They waited, but Milena didn’t come home that evening, nor the next day. Her phone went unanswered. Natalia, taking Anna, went to where Milena claimed to work—only to learn Milena had never been employed there. Showing photos made no difference. Returning home to check her hidden savings, Natalia found the money and card missing—only Anna’s things remained. “How could this happen? I can’t believe she’d abandon Anna and just disappear?” “She could do worse,” Michael said grimly. “Everyone warned me she was trouble… Then a friend told me she’d robbed him, but I ignored it. Later, she announced she was pregnant—goodness knows by whom. She claimed it was mine. But word got back: she’d been with half the neighbourhood.” “Foolish, naïve me!” wept Natalia. “Why didn’t you warn me?” “I didn’t want to upset you. You care so deeply about everyone.” “So what now?” “We go to the police! Good thing you didn’t manage to give the flat to ‘Anna.’ You’d be homeless now.” They filed a police report, but Milena was never found. She vanished completely. Meanwhile, Michael quickly blocked the stolen bank card, which turned up later at a station outside town. At least, while the search went on, Natalia was allowed to care for Anna—she even left her job to do so, Michael’s earnings covering expenses. A DNA test confirmed Michael wasn’t Anna’s father—but by then, Natalia couldn’t bear to part with the little girl. After discussing it, she and Michael decided to raise Anna as their own. Milena was stripped of her parental rights in absentia. It took months of paperwork, but eventually Natalia became Anna’s official guardian. A year later, Michael came home from sea—with a wife: “Meet Sonia, mum. We’re going to live together now.” “But what about—?” Natalia stammered, glancing towards the nursery, unsure if Michael had told his new wife. Sonia smiled warmly: “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell! Michael told me everything, and honestly, I admire you so much! If you’ll let me, I’d love to help raise Anna—” she looked at her husband. “I’ve decided to leave the sea for good, and Sonia and I will formally adopt Anna. This time, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” Natalia beamed with joy: “Oh, what happiness! Come in, both of you! I’ve been waiting, made plenty of food! Now we’ll get to know each other properly! I’m so happy!” she said, brushing away a tear.

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…