Early in the morning, Emily had a strange dream: her son, Alfie, stood on the porch, knocking at the door…
She jolted awake, scrambled out of bed, and ran barefoot to the door. Weak all of a sudden, she leaned against the doorframe and froze. Silence. No one there. These dreams haunted her often, always tricking her, yet every time shed fling the door wide open. This time was no differentshe swung it open and peered into the empty night. Darkness and quiet surrounded her. Trying to steady her pounding heart, she sat on the porch step. Then, in the stillness, she heard somethinga faint noise, maybe a rustle or a squeak.
“Neighbours kittens tangled up again,” she thought, heading to free the little thing from the gooseberry bushes, like shed done before. But it wasnt a kitten. The moment she tugged at the scrap of cloth poking out from the bush, she knew. The scrap turned out to be an old, faded baby blanket. She pulled harderthen froze. In the corner of the blanket lay a tiny child. The baby was naked, clearly having wriggled free while lying therea little boy. His umbilical stump still hadnt fallen off, so he couldnt have been more than a few days old.
Too weak to cry, he was drenched, exhausted, and clearly starving. When Emily lifted him, he whimpered faintly. Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and dashed inside. Wrapping him in a clean sheet, tucking him under a warm blanket, she warmed some milk. She scrubbed an old bottle, found a teat left over from when shed nursed a sick lamb that spring.
The boy gulped greedily, then, warm and full, fell asleep. Dawn was breaking, but Emily barely noticedall she could think about was this tiny miracle. She was in her forties, and the village kids already called her “Auntie Em.” Shed lost her husband and son in the war the same year, leaving her utterly alone. Shed never grown used to the loneliness, but life had forced her to rely only on herself. Now, though, she was lost. What was she supposed to do? She glanced at the sleeping boy, his little breaths soft like any newborns.
Then it struck hershed ask her neighbour, Margaret. Giving the baby one last look, she hurried next door.
Margarets life was smooth as butterno husband, no children, no war losses, no telegrams of death. She lived for herself. Men came and went, none ever sticking around if they didnt suit her. Now, tall and striking, Margaret stood on her porch in a shawl, stretching under the morning sun. Listening to Emilys story, she only shrugged.
“Whyd you want that trouble?” Then she went inside. As Emily turned away, she caught the curtain twitchanother overnight guest, no doubt.
“Why? Honestly, why?” Emily whispered to herself. Back home, she packed quicklyfed the baby, wrapped him snug, gathered food, and headed for the main road to hitch a ride into town. A lorry stopped within minutes.
“Hospital?” the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.
“Hospital,” she replied quietly.
At the orphanage, filling out paperwork, she couldnt shake the feeling she was doing wrong. A gnawing guilt ate at her. The same hollowness shed felt when the news came about her husband, then her son.
“Whatll we name him?” the matron asked.
“His name?” Emily paused, then surprised herself. “Alfie.”
“Lovely name,” the matron said. “Plenty of Alfies and Ellies after the war. Some kids have nobody left. Others? Lord knows who leaves em. Ought to be grateful for a baby, but nosome mothers just abandon em. Heartless.”
The words werent aimed at her, yet Emilys chest tightened.
Home by evening, she lit the lampthen spotted Alfies old blanket, still damp, tossed aside earlier. She picked it up, sat on the bed, fingers absently tracing the fabric. Thena knot in the corner. Inside, a scrap of paper and a simple tin cross on a string. Unfolding the note, she read:
“Kind woman, forgive me. I dont need this child. Im lost. By tomorrow, Ill be gone. Dont leave my son. Do for him what I couldnt.” A birthdate followed.
Then Emily broke. She sobbed like at a funeral, tears she thought long dried pouring out. Memories flooded backher wedding, her husbands smile, Alfies birth. The village women had envied her glow. Why wouldnt she shine? Beloved husband, beloved son. Even the war hadnt dimmed itnot until the telegrams came. First her husband, August 42. Then Alfie, that October.
Just like that, her light snuffed out. Nights became a ritualbolting awake, flinging the door open, staring into the dark. Only stillness answered.
Now, dawn found her back in town. The matron recognised her, unsurprised when Emily said shed take the boy. “My Alfie wouldve wanted it.”
“Good,” the matron said. “Well sort the papers.”
Wrapped in a blanket, little Alfie left with herand for the first time in years, Emilys heart wasnt hollow. New feelings took root: joy, love. If happiness was meant for her, it would come.
Home again, only photos of her husband and son greeted her. But this time, their faces werent sombrethey seemed soft, approving.
“Youll help me,” she told them, cradling Alfie.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine young man. Every girl fancied him, but he chose the one his heart settled onLily, his second love after his mum. Bringing her home, Emily knewher boy was a man now. She blessed them.
The wedding bells rang, the couple built their nest. Children came. The youngest? Alfie, of course.
One night, Emily woke to noise outside. Habit sent her to the door. Swinging it open, she stepped into the yard. A storm brewed, lightning flickering.
“Thank you, son,” she whispered into the dark. “Now Ive three Alfies to love.”
The old oak by the porchplanted by her husband when Alfie was bornrustled. A lightning bolt flashed, bright as Alfies smile.
