Why Edith began knitting booties, even she couldnt say.
Her daughter had just turned forty. Two years ago, shed been widowed, never having had children. Last year, she remarried, but her new husband was much younger and insisted they take their time, live for themselves first.
Ediths son had long since moved to America with no plans to return. Her nieces and nephews had grown, but none were anywhere near starting families of their own. The house was silentno childish laughter, no whispers of a new arrival.
One day, in the shop, Edith spotted some yarn. The soft hues of British wool enchanted her. Shed meant to knit herself a cardigan, bought fine needles and a hook. But without meaning to, she found herself making booties instead.
By evening, the first pair was done. There was still plenty of yarn left. The next day, she stitched a bonnet, then a jumper and tiny trousers with braces. When the set was complete, she dug out an old tin of buttons and picked the prettiestones shaped like little suns.
She washed them in a basin with gentle soap, laid them carefully on a towel to dry. Gazing at the tiny ensemble, Edith sighed.
“Ill die without ever holding a grandchild,” she murmured.
Then another thought came.
“Somewhere out there, a baby needs these.”
She opened her laptop, searching for orphanages in her town. After reading a few articles, she gathered herself and went back to the shopthis time for blue yarn.
A few days later, shed finished a whole set for a boy. Then ten more pairs of booties, ten more hats, each a different colour. Packing them into a box, Edith headed to the orphanage.
“Without certificates, we cant accept these,” the worker explained. “Nappies wouldve been betteralways in demand.”
Edith stood there, holding her knitted gifts, and wept.
“Fine,” the woman relented. “Lets sort something out. Come, well try the booties on the little ones.”
Edith cradled the babies, stroked their soft cheeks, slipped the booties onto tiny feet. For the older ones, she fitted the hats.
When she got home, she told her husband, “They said nappies wouldve been better.”
“Right,” he said. “Well buy some tomorrow. Now, lets make dinner.”
“Theyll never give us a child. Were too oldIm 61, youre 62,” Edith said sadly.
“Maybe not,” he replied calmly. “But nobodys boarding up the doors. We can visit, help out. Knit all the booties and socks they need.”
“Theres a pairtwins, a boy and a girl. Sweet little things, nearly two,” Edith mused. “I think theyd suit knitted suits. Theyll grow into them. The booties fit nowI made them like trainers.”
“Lets go together,” he offered. “Ill sort it. Well visit.”
And he did. For four months, Edith and her husband volunteered at the orphanage. She knitted new suits, new booties for growing feet, and the twins began calling her “Mum.” But one day, when they arrived, the children were gone.
“Imaginethey were adopted, both together,” the worker said. “We took photos in your knitted suits, and a couple rang that same day. Months of paperwork, and this morning, they were taken. We feared no one would take two at once.”
Tears welled in Ediths eyes.
“Dont cry, silly,” her husband murmured. “Be happy.”
That evening, their daughter called.
“Mum, Dadcan you come over? I need help.”
“Is it the tap again?” Edith asked. “Or the neighbours flooding you?”
“No,” she said. “Need help assembling a bed. Just comeuse your keys.”
They drove their Rover to her flat, pristine and smelling of supper. Edith and her husband slipped off their shoes.
“Wash up and wait in the lounge,” their daughter called from the kitchen.
They sat on the sofa, half-watching the telly. Then her husband nudged her gently.
She looked up. In the doorway stood her son-in-law, James.
In his arms were the twins, dressed in Ediths knitted suits and tiny trainer booties. The boy clutched a slice of apple; the girl, cheeks smeared, grinned and tried to steal a bite. James smiled.
“Dont quite know how to say it but youre grandparents now. We didnt tell you earlierwasnt sure itd work out. Janes just making their porridge.”
Jane rushed in, flushed and beaming.
“Mum, Dadmeet Lily and Oliver. Saw their photo on the waiting list. Twins, just like me and my brother. And their bootiesjust like the ones you knitted us. Remember that photo, us at two? I showed James, and he said, Were taking them.”
James set the children down. They toddled to Edith, stretched out their little hands, and shouted
“Mum! Mum!”
Edith pulled them close, kissed their heads, wiped her tears.
“Not Mum,” she whispered. “Granny. Granny.”
And again, dreamily, she murmured
“Granny Granny Granny”
Her husband chuckled.
“Now whatre you crying for? Time to buy more wool. Socks nextbooties wont fit forever.”
