**Diary Entry 15th June**
The moment I tugged on that scrap of fabric poking from the bush, I knewit wasnt just rubbish. The cloth was an old, faded baby blanket, and when I pulled harder, my breath caught. There, curled in the corner, lay a tiny child.
At dawn, I woke from a strange dreammy son, Alex, standing on the porch, knocking. I jolted upright, bare feet slapping the cold floor as I rushed to the door. Silence. No one. These dreams taunted me often, yet every time, I flung the door wide open, staring into the empty night. This time was no different.
The quiet pressed around me as I sat on the step, trying to calm my racing heart. Thena rustle. A whimper. “That blasted neighbours kitten again,” I muttered, trudging toward the gooseberry bushes to untangle it, like Id done a dozen times before.
But it wasnt a kitten. The blanket was damp, the baby naked, writhing weaklya boy, his umbilical stump still fresh. He was too exhausted to cry. Without thinking, I bundled him against my chest and ran inside. Wrapped him in clean linen, warmed milk in a bottle (the one Id used for an orphaned lamb last spring). He gulped greedily, then slept.
Morning came, but I barely noticed. At forty-odd, I was “Auntie” to the village youth. My husband and son were lost to war in the same year, leaving me achingly alone. Id learned to rely on no one but myselfuntil now.
I needed advice. My neighbour Margaret had always lived lightlyno husband, no children, no grief. She stood on her porch now, draped in a shawl, basking in the sun. When I told her, she barely blinked. “Why bother?” Then she turned inside, where I caught the flicker of a curtainanother fleeting lover.
*Why indeed?* I thought.
I packed nappies, food, and hailed a lorry to the city. “Hospital?” the driver asked, nodding at my bundle. “Hospital,” I replied.
At the orphanage, paperwork in hand, guilt gnawed at me. The matron asked, “Whats his name?”
“Alex,” I saidsoftly, surprising myself.
“Fine name. Plenty of Alexanders and Kates herewar orphans. But this one? Some heartless cuckoo of a mother.” Her words werent meant for me, yet they stung.
Home by dusk, I lit the lamp. The blanket lay where Id tossed it. Thena knot in the fabric. Inside, a slip of paper and a tin cross on a string.
*”Kind woman, forgive me. This child is unwanted. By dawn, Ill be gone. Love him, for I cannot.”* A birthdate followed.
The dam broke. I wept as I hadnt in yearsfor my husband, for my Alex, for the life that had once glowed so bright. Before the war, my son had just earned his driving license, promised to take me out in the new tractor. Thentwo telegrams. August 42. October 42. The light went out.
That night, I paced, listening to the dark. By morning, I was back at the orphanage. The matron barely raised a brow when I said, “Im taking him. My son wouldve wanted it.”
Wrapped in a quilt, little Alex weighed nothing, yet my heart felt lighter than it had in years.
At home, the photos of my husband and son on the wall seemed differentsofter, approving. “Youll help me, wont you?” I whispered.
Twenty years passed. Alex grew tall, kindevery girls dream. He chose sweet Lucy, brought her home to meet me. When they married, built a nest, had childrenthe youngest another AlexI knew: life had circled back.
One night, thunder rumbling, I woke and stepped outside. The old oak my husband planted when Alex was born swayed. Lightning flickeredlike a smile.
“Thank you, son,” I murmured to the dark. “Three Alexes now. And I love them all.”
