The woman peered into the bag and recoiled in horror at what lay inside.
A young boy pressed his face against the window, tugging at his grandmothers sleeve.
“Nanny, when can we go outside?” he pleaded.
“Not today, loveits freezing,” she replied, her hands busy with knitting needles. “And Ive got this order to finish.”
Margaret Hayes knitted scarves and hats for extra money, and today, a full sethat, gloves, and scarfneeded completing. But her grandson was relentless.
“Alright, alright,” she sighed, surrendering. “Just a quick walk, mind you. Its bitter out, and Ive work to do.”
Outside, the playground was deserted, everyone driven indoors by the biting cold. The boy darted about, while Margaret shivered, wrapping her coat tighter.
“Right, Oliver, thats enough. Well catch our death out here!” she called.
But Oliver, ever restless, bolted toward the climbing frame and ducked inside, falling silent. Margaret called his name again, heart quickening when no answer cameuntil his voice piped up from within the structure.
“Nanny, theres a doll in here! Can we take it?”
She stepped insidethen froze. A handbag sat abandoned, a faint whimper rising from within. Her blood turned to ice. With trembling fingers, she unzipped itand there, wrapped in nothing but a thin blanket, lay a newborn. The babys lips were blue with cold.
Margaret snatched the child to her chest, shielding it from the chill as she dialled 999 with shaking hands. Paramedics and police arrived swiftly. The infant was rushed to hospital, while Margaret and Oliver gave statements.
“How did you find her?” an officer asked.
Margarets voice wavered. “If Oliver hadnt tugged me over, Id never have heard her. Shed have been lost.”
“Brave lad,” the officer said, ruffling Olivers hair.
Margarets mind reeled. “How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood?”
The officer sighed. “Youd be surprised. Some dump them in bins, others leave them on doorsteps. Nothing shocks us anymore.”
She begged for news. The baby, they told her, had mild hypothermia but would recoverthough another hour outside might have been fatal.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. By morning, Margaret phoned the hospital.
“Whos asking?” came the clipped reply.
“No onejust the woman who found her yesterday.”
Recognition softened the nurses tone. “Ah! Youre her guardian angel. Shes a little girl, and shes doing fine.”
“May I visit? Bring anything she needs?”
“Against protocol but for you? Tomorrow, after lunch. Nappies and formula, if you can.”
The next day, arms laden with supplies, Margaret and Oliver returned. The babytiny, perfectstirred something deep in Margarets chest. From her bag, she drew a soft grey scarf, edged with delicate patterns, knitted not for sale but on impulse. She draped it over the infant, whispering a blessing.
Weeks passed. The child, named Sophia, was adopted by a loving couple after her mothers rights were stripped.
Eighteen years later, Margaretolder now, but still sharpbustled in her kitchen, baking Olivers favourite pie. Hed been cryptic on the phone, promising a surprise.
The door creaked open. Oliver stepped inside, a young woman beside him.
“Nan, meet Sophie,” he said, beaming. “Were getting married. Feels like Ive known her forever.”
Margarets eyes shone. “Oh, Oliver! Welcome to the family, Sophie!”
Then she froze.
Sophie unwound a scarf from her coatgrey, edged with that same intricate pattern.
“Lovely stitching,” Margaret managed.
“Oh, this?” Sophie smiled. “Ive had it as long as I can remember. Could never part with it.”
Margarets breath caught. That scarfthe one shed knit for a baby girl years ago.
Fate, it seemed, had bound them long before they knew it.
