The woman peered into the bag and gasped in horror at what lay inside.
The boy stared out the window, tugging at his grandmothers sleeve.
“Nanny, when can we go outside?” he whined.
“Not today, love. Its freezing,” she sighed. “And Ive got orders to finishno time for walks.”
Margaret Whitmore knitted hats and scarves from home, and today, a sethat, gloves, and scarfwas due. But her grandson wouldnt relent.
“Fine, fine,” she conceded, wrapping a thick shawl around her shoulders. “But just for a bit. Its bitter out, and Ive work to do.”
Outside, the park was deserted. Most had retreated indoors from the biting cold. Her grandson, Oliver, darted about, while Margaret shivered, her fingers numb.
“Right, Ollie, thats enough. Well catch our death out here,” she called.
But Oliver was already scrambling into the play maze, vanishing into its twists. She called his name, her voice tight with worryuntil he finally answered.
“Nanny! Theres a doll in here. Can we take it?”
Margaret hurried inside, her breath clouding in the air. Then she saw ita handbag, left abandoned. A faint whimper escaped from within. Her blood turned to ice.
She wrenched it open.
A baby.
Swaddled in a threadbare blanket, its tiny face tinged blue from the cold. Margaret snatched the child to her chest, cradling it fiercely as she dialled emergency services with trembling hands.
Paramedics and police arrived in minutes. The infant was rushed to hospital, while Margaret and Oliver gave their statements.
“Hes the one who found her,” Margaret said, gripping Olivers shoulder. “If he hadnt called me, Id never have heard her.”
The officer ruffled Olivers hair. “Brave lad. Well done.”
Margarets voice shook. “How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood?”
The officer only shrugged. “Seen it allbabies left in bins, on doorsteps. Nothing shocks us anymore.”
Before leaving, Margaret begged for news. The babya girlhad mild hypothermia but would recover. “Another hour out there, though…” The officer trailed off grimly.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. By morning, Margaret phoned the hospital.
“Relationship to the child?” the receptionist asked briskly.
“None. But were the ones who found her,” Margaret said.
Recognition softened the womans tone. “Ah, the little angels saviours! Shes doing wellthanks to you.”
“May we visit? Bring anything she needs?”
Against protocol, they were allowed. “Nappies and formula,” the nurse said.
The next afternoon, laden with supplies, Margaret and Oliver arrived. The babytiny, perfectlay sleeping. Margarets eyes welled. From her bag, she pulled a soft grey scarf, edged with delicate patterns. Shed knitted it on a whim, not for sale, as if some instinct had guided her. She draped it gently over the crib. “For luck,” she whispered, blinking back tears.
They kept track of the girl over the years. Shed been named Sophia. Her birth mother, tracked down, lost custody. A childless couple adopted her, smitten at first sight.
Eighteen years passed. Margaret, older now but still sharp, bustled in her kitchen, baking Olivers favourite pie. Hed been cryptic on the phonehinting at a surprise.
The door creaked open. Oliver entered, a young woman beside him.
“Nanny, meet my fiancée, Sophia,” he said, beaming. “Feels like Ive known her forever.”
Margarets heart leapt. “Oh, Ollie! Welcome to the family, love!” She ushered them in. “Dont hovercome eat!”
Sophia smiled shyly, unwinding her scarf. Margaret froze.
“Thats a lovely pattern,” she managed.
Sophia touched it fondly. “Ive had it as long as I can remember. Never part with it.”
Margaret knew.
The very scarf shed knitted, years ago, for a foundling in a park.
Fate had brought them full circleOliver saving the girl whod one day steal his heart. Some things, it seemed, were always meant to be.
