Emily lay curled on the hospital bed, legs tucked under her, and muttered irritably, I dont want him. Im rejecting him. All I care about is Andrew, and he said he doesnt want a child. So I dont want one either. Do whatever you like with him Im indifferent.
The little one! Abandoning your own child is barbaric. Even animals wouldnt do that, the ward matron, Margaret, warned.
Whatever the beasts think, I dont care. Discharge me this instant, or Ill make a scene you wont forget, the newlyborn mother shouted, her voice tremulous with fury.
Girl, youre a foolish, thickskulled fool, for heavens sake! Margaret sighed. Her experience told her there was little the doctors could do.
A week earlier Emily had been shuffled from the maternity unit into the neonatal ward. She was a shrill, scandalprone young woman who flatout refused to breastfeed her baby, no matter how gently she was coaxed. She would only agree to pump milk, but then had nowhere else to go.
Molly, the trainee paediatrician, battled hopelessly with Emily. The girl threw endless tantrums. Molly tried to explain the danger to the infant, and Emily replied that she would simply run away. Flustered, Molly summoned Margaret, who spent a long, weary hour trying to reason with the obstinate mum. Emily claimed she had to get to her boyfriend, that he wouldnt wait for her he would leave without her.
Margaret, however, was not about to throw in the towel. After years of seeing similar cases she knew she could keep the baby for another three days, just enough time for Emily to think twice. The very mention of three days sent Emily into a frenzy.
Youve lost your mind! Andrews already angry about this cursed baby, and now youre trying to push me around. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katie, she wailed, tears streaming, insisting that Katie only wanted the baby as an excuse to get married.
Margaret, exasperated, ordered a dose of valerian and headed for the ward door. The senior registrar, who had been silent all this while, followed her.
In the corridor Margaret paused and asked quietly, Do you really think a child will thrive with a mother like that, if you can even call her a mother?
My dear, Margaret replied, what else can we do? Otherwise theyll be sent to a baby home and then a childrens home. At least the families are respectable hers and the boys. Maybe a chat with the parents? After all, theyre adults and this would be their first grandchild. And the lad is a handsome one. Find out their details; I need to speak to them.
Emily fled that very day. Margaret phoned the parents, but the young mans family refused even to talk.
Two days later her father arrived a grim, unpleasant fellow. Margaret tried to discuss the child with him, suggesting he take a look. He shrugged, saying he wasnt interested, and announced he would have his daughter sign a refusal form and send it via his driver. Margaret insisted the discharge had to be done in person you cant just hand over paperwork. If we dont follow the rules, there will be trouble. The man snarled, his bureaucratic bravado cracking, and finally promised to send his wife to sort it all out.
The next day a tiny, paleskinned woman arrived, perched on the edge of a chair and immediately began sobbing, muttering about doom. She explained that the babys fathers wealthy family had whisked the child off to the continent for a grand future, leaving the mother to wail and curse the infant. She claimed she would follow the child abroad, that no one could stop her. Ill be with Andrew, even if the world bursts in anger, she shrieked, as Margaret watched.
Margaret sighed and offered the woman a look at the baby, hoping some grandmotherly affection might surface. It did, but only made things worse. The woman clutched a fresh handkerchief, wept louder, and declared the child absolutely adorable shed love to take him, if only her husband would allow it.
Margaret muttered, Well, isnt that convenient, and sent a nurse to give the woman a dose of valerian, cursing that such melodrama would soon empty the wards supply of calming tablets.
She then marched to the chief paediatrician, explained the whole mess, and announced she intended to keep the infant in the ward a while longer. The chief, once a beloved childrens doctor, beamed at the chubby little boy and asked what he was being fed. A proper little donut, he said, coining the nickname that would stick.
Biscuit, as they called him, lingered in the neonatal unit for months. Initially the staff coaxed his mother to visit. She came several times, even playing with him, claiming to be saving money for a ticket to find her boyfriend. With nothing else to do, she kept returning, seeming to grow fond of the plump infant.
He responded in kind, smiling at her, and his own mother also visited, doting on Biscuit, then leaving in tears, apologising for her daughters obsession with the boyfriend. Margaret dismissed it as lust, not love.
The mother and her grandmother kept turning up, never filing the refusal but also never taking the baby home. Margaret decided to have a serious talk with them, explaining how ill the child was getting. Everyone was on edge, while Molly, whenever she could, rushed to Biscuits side. He lay sweaty, his fine hair stuck to his damp forehead.
He began to lose weight, grew frail, and Molly cradled him nonstop, sighing, Hes no longer a donut, more a pancake. Yet a few weeks later he put on the pounds again and was back to being the wards favourite, especially Mollys she wore bright coral beads, and he would reach for them, bite them, and burst into delighted giggles. Both were clearly enjoying the game.
One day the idyll shattered. Emily discovered, to her horror, that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, shrieking that everyone was conspiring to keep them apart, that she hated everyone especially the baby. If he werent here, Id be with Andrew and wed be happy. Ill file the refusal and have him sent to a childrens home, then Ill go to Andrew and persuade him to dump this mess and marry me. She sincerely believed in her fantasy, and the very real consequence was the refusal form she handed to the chief, left it on his desk and fled.
The chief called Margaret in. She returned, darkeyed and angry, and declared, Its done. The forms filed. The chief wants us to process the paperwork for the baby home. What else can we do?
Molly burst into tears. Margaret sat down, removed her glasses and began rubbing them thoughtfully a telltale sign that she was nervous. Everyone knew when Margaret polished her lenses, she was on edge. She rarely let her emotions show, but today the sight of her wiping away a tear from her coat was unmistakable.
Meanwhile Biscuit was happily wriggling in his cot. A nurse entered, greeted him, and he squealed with delight, flailing his tiny arms and legs. Suddenly he froze, as if listening to something unheard, then fell silent.
The nurse, puzzled, leaned over. She couldnt explain the sudden stillness in his bright eyes, but felt a strange tug at her own heart and tears welled up. She later learned it coincided with the moment his mother signed the refusal. She recounted the episode, sobbing, while Margaret grumbled about the endless nonsense people spun.
It all sounded like a fairytale, but the babies knew nothing of it. Abandoned children feel the sting of rejection, whether whispered by angels or sensed by themselves. They try to become invisible, not to bother anyone, as if the world will soon shove them into a bleak, grey institution. Youre useless, the world seems to say. It doesnt matter if youre hungry or have a fever; nobody will read you a bedtime story or pull a blanket over you. The wise, discarded children understand this, their puppylike eyes full of resignation. The world is merciless, gifting some and taking away from others. The poor little one will spend years trying to figure out why he was turned away, what he did wrong, what he could have changed.
There are no answers. An indifferent world rejected you without thought. It just happened. Youre not to blame, but youll suffer for a long time, innocent child, paying for others cruelty and selfishness. Yet hope remains that luck will shine, that a kind soul will notice you in this cold world. Believe, dear child, and wait.
From that day on Biscuit lay quietly in his cot, no longer playing, never smiling back. Every attempt to cheer him up met only a solemn stare.
Molly tried in vain, Biscuit, want a cuddle? Look, Ive got beads, lets play. She reached out, smiling, hoping hed grab her hand, but he stared blankly, unmoving, and she left, sobbing.
At last she snapped, Were betraying him, you know that? First the crooks, now us! He didnt ask to be born to these wretches! I hate it! She slumped on the sofa, head tucked in her knees, whimpering. Margaret rose from her desk, sat beside her, and gently patted her shoulder.
Sweetheart, I dont know what to do either. I feel sorry for Biscuit you cant imagine how sorry I am. Oh Lord, what a job! she sighed. I wont just sit and wait, Ill act.
Then dont just sit, Margaret snapped. Stop wailing. My coat is soaked with your tears. Acting means acting. Dont tell me you plan to adopt him they wont let you. Youre a student, no husband, so Im not listening to that. How many Biscuits have I dealt with? Too many to count, thank God. Lets make a deal: well give you time, and you find him a proper family.
And so Molly began the hunt for the perfect adoptive parents. She threw herself into the task, and even the wards cleaners felt the pull of her determination. By some miracle, an angelic couple appeared: Linda and Leonard, both in their thirties, childless after years of trying. Linda was a gentle, elegant woman with a soft smile and melodic voice; Leonard was a sturdy, exarmy type who adored his wife. Their home was warm and welcoming.
Margaret liked them instantly. When she saw Leonard, she whistled, then blushed, Excuse me, thats admiration. Not every day you meet a bloke like you. She asked, What was his birth weight, love?
Sorry, Leonard stammered, I didnt catch that Do you need it for the adoption? Linda laughed, Hell tire Mum with his questions soon enough.
Not needed for adoption, Margaret assured. You just look like Biscuits family.
Linda stepped forward, opened the door, and entered the ward. Biscuit, asleep, flushed pink, his tiny fingers and toes twitching, a single teardrop perched in the corner of his eye.
He stirred, opened his eyes, and scanned the room. When his gaze fell on Linda, he froze, then widened them. Linda held his gaze, studying every feature. Biscuit, wary, reached out and grasped her thumb with surprising strength. Everyone chuckled at the little grab, but Linda and the baby locked eyes.
A faint smile curved Biscuits mouth. Linda mirrored it, nodding gently, and he let out a soft squeak. The room fell silent, sensing something tender. Margaret cleared her throat and said, Lets call this first meeting a success. Youll go home, think it over, and decide.
We dont need to think, Linda replied without turning, weve already decided.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, looked at Leonard, who gave a quick, surprised glance before replying, Yes, weve discussed it. We want this child.
Linda smiled at Biscuit, extended her hand. He tightened his grip, refusing to let go. The silence stretched.
Mhmm, thank God, Margaret murmured. Give him a bit more of a pull at that age the grasp reflex is strong.
What does the grasp reflex have to do with anything? Linda asked, still not turning.
Its just a reflex, Margaret said, wiping her glasses, hes scared Ill leave.
She looked at Biscuit, softly, Please let me go now, I have to leave, but Ill be back, promise you that. Trust me.
Biscuit listened, then loosened his grip just a touch, before beaming again with a gummy smile and a delighted squeal.
Reflexes, thats it, Margaret concluded, rubbing her coat and muttering under her breath.
