Why Emma started knitting booties, she herself couldnt say.
Her daughter had just turned forty. Two years ago, shed been widowed without ever having children. Last year, shed remarried, but her new husband was much younger and insisted he wanted to live for himself, with no rush for a family.
Emmas son had long since moved to America with no plans to return. Her nieces and nephews had grown up, but none of them were anywhere near having children of their own. The house was empty of childrens laughter, of hopeful anticipation.
One day, in the shop, Emma saw skeins of yarn. The soft hues of British wool enchanted her. Shed meant to knit herself a cardiganbought fine needles and a crochet hookbut then, without thinking, she began knitting booties instead.
By evening, the first pair was done. There was still plenty of wool left. The next day, she stitched a bonnet, then a little jumper and matching trousers. When the set was finished, she dug out an old box of buttons and picked the prettiest onestiny suns, golden and bright.
She washed everything in a basin with gentle wool detergent, carefully laid them out to dry on a fluffy towel. Gazing at the delicate little set, Emma sighed.
“Ill die without ever holding a grandchild,” she murmured.
But then another thought came:
“Somewhere in the world, theres a baby who needs these.”
She opened her laptop and searched for childrens homes nearby. After reading a few articles, she gathered herself and went back to the shopthis time for skeins in shades of blue.
A few days later, shed finished a set for a baby boy. Then ten more pairs of booties and ten cosy bonnets, each a different colour. Packing them in a box, she set off for the childrens home.
“Without certificates, we cant accept handmade items,” the woman at the desk explained. “Nappies would be betterwe always need those.”
Emma stood there, clutching her knitted gifts, tears in her eyes.
“Alright, lets sort something out,” the woman finally said. “Come on, well try them on the little ones.”
Emma cradled the babies, stroked their soft cheeks, and slipped the booties onto tiny feet. For the older ones, she fitted the bonnets.
When she got home, she told her husband, “They said nappies would be more useful.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Well buy some tomorrow. For now, lets get the potatoes on.”
“Theyll never let us adoptwere too old. Im 61, youre 62,” Emma said sadly.
“Maybe not,” he said calmly, “but no ones shutting the door on us. We can arrange to visit, to help. Knit booties, sockstheyll be needed.”
“Theres a pairtwins, a boy and a girl. Fair-haired. Nearly two,” Emma mused. “I think theyd suit knitted outfits. Might be too big now, but children grow fast. The booties fit perfectlyI made them like little trainers.”
“Lets go together,” he offered. “Ill sort it. Well visit them.”
And he did. For four months, Emma and her husband volunteered at the home. She knitted new outfits and booties for the twins, whod started calling her “Mum.” But one day, when they arrived, the children were gone.
“Would you believe it? Theyve been adoptedboth at once,” the woman told them. “We took photos in your knitted outfits, and a couple rang that same day. Theyve been sorting paperwork for months, and this morning, they took them. We were afraid no one would want two at once.”
Tears welled in Emmas eyes.
“Now, now, love,” her husband said gently. “We should be happy.”
That evening, their daughter called.
“Mum, Dadcan you come over? I need help.”
“Something wrong with the taps?” Emma asked. “Or the neighbours flooded you again?”
“No,” her daughter replied. “Need help assembling a cot. Can you come? Better not ringjust let yourselves in.”
“Alright, were on our way,” Emma said.
They climbed into their Rover and drove over. The flat was spotless, the smell of something delicious wafting from the kitchen. They slipped off their shoes and pulled on slippers.
“Wash your hands and go through,” their daughter called from the kitchen. “Be right there.”
They settled on the sofa, idly watching the news. Suddenly, her husband nudged her.
She looked up. In the doorway stood their son-in-law, Tom.
In his arms were the twins, wearing Emmas knitted outfits and tiny trainer booties. The boy clutched a chunk of apple, the girlcheeks smearedgrinned mischievously, trying to bite into hers. Tom smiled.
“Dont quite know how to say this but youve got grandchildren now. We didnt say anything earlierwasnt sure itd work out. Hannahs just making their porridge.”
Hannah rushed in, flushed and beaming.
“Mum, Dadmeet Lily and Oliver. Saw their photo on the adoption page. Twins, just like me and my brother.”
“And their bootiesjust like the ones you knitted for us. Remember that photo, us at two? Showed Tom, and he said, Were taking them.”
Tom set the children down. They toddled to Emma, stretching out little hands, shouting,
“Mum! Mum!”
Emma gathered them close, kissed their heads, wiping tears as she murmured,
“Not Mum, darlings. Im your nanny. Nanny.”
And again, softly:
“Nan Nan Nan”
Her husband chuckled.
“Now whatre you crying for? Best get more wool. Socks nextbooties wont fit forever.”
Love finds its way, even through tiny stitches and patient hands. Some bonds are knit by fate, not just by thread.
