Early in the morning, Emily had a strange dream: her son, Alfie, was standing on the porch, knocking at the door…
She jolted awake, leapt out of bed, and dashed barefoot to the door, her heart pounding. Exhaustion hit her all at once, and she leaned against the doorframe, motionless. Silence. No one. These dreams came often, always tricking her, yet every time she raced to the door and flung it open. And now she did the same, peering into the empty night. The quiet darkness wrapped around her. Trying to steady her thudding heart, she sank onto the porch step.
Then, in the stillness, a faint sounda whimper, perhaps, or rustling. “That neighbours kitten must be tangled again,” Emily thought, rising to free the poor thing from the gooseberry bushes, as shed done before. But it wasnt a kitten. She knew the moment she tugged at the scrap of fabric poking from the leaves. It was an old, faded baby blanket. She pulled harderand froze.
There, curled on a corner of the blanket, lay a tiny, naked child. A boy, no older than a few days, his umbilical stump still fresh. He was too weak to cry, soaked and shivering, clearly starved. When Emily lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper. Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and ran inside. She swaddled him in a clean sheet, tucked him under a warm blanket, and heated milk. Rummaging, she found a bottle and an old teat from when shed nursed an orphaned lamb that spring.
The boy gulped greedily, then, warm and full, fell asleep. Dawn crept in, but Emily barely noticed. She was over forty, and the village called her “Auntie” now. Shed lost her husband and son in the war the same year, left utterly alone. The ache of solitude never faded, though shed learned to rely on no one. Now, cradling the sleeping baby, she hesitated. She needed advice.
Her neighbour, Grace, lived differentlyunburdened by loss, never married, no children. Graces lovers came and went, none ever staying long. Now, graceful and composed, she stood on her porch wrapped in a shawl, basking in the sunrise. Hearing Emilys story, she shrugged.
“Why would you bother with that?” And with that, she turned inside, leaving Emily stunned. “Why indeed?” she whispered.
Back home, she packed hastilyfood, dry clothesthen walked to the main road, hitchhiking to town. A lorry stopped within minutes.
“To the hospital?” the driver asked, eyeing the bundle.
“To the hospital,” Emily replied quietly.
At the orphanage, as papers were signed, unease gnawed at her. This felt wrong, hollowlike the day shed learned of her husbands death, then her sons.
“Whats his name?” the matron asked.
“Name?” Emily paused. “Alfie.”
“Lovely name,” the matron said. “Plenty of Alfies and Lucys after the war. Some lost families, others just abandoned. Shame, really.”
The words stung, though not meant for her. Returning home at dusk, Emily lit a lampand there was Alfies old blanket, still damp. She sat, absently folding it, then froze. Her fingers brushed a tiny knot. Inside, a scrap of paper and a simple pewter cross.
“Kind woman, forgive me. I cannot keep my son. By tomorrow, Ill be gone. Do for him what I cannot.” A birthdate followed.
Emily broke. Sobs wracked hertears she thought long spent. Memories flooded back: her wedding, Alfies birth, her husbands pride when their boy passed his driving test, promising to take her out in the new farm lorry. Then war. First her husbands death notice, then Alfies. The light in her vanished. Nights spent flinging the door open, hopingalways empty. Until now.
The next morning, she returned to the orphanage. The matron nodded, unsurprised. “Take him. Well sort the papers.”
Wrapped in his blanket, Alfie slept as Emily carried him home, her heart no longer hollow.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew tall, kindevery girls dream, though he chose only one: Lily. When he brought her home, Emily saw her boy had become a man. She blessed them, and after their wedding, grandchildren camethe youngest another Alfie.
One night, thunder rumbled. Emily opened the door out of habit, stepping into the storm.
“Thank you, my boy,” she whispered to the dark. “Now I have three Alfiesand I love them all.”
The old oak by the porch, planted when her Alfie was born, rustled. Lightning flashedbright as his smile.
