The girl lay curled on the hospital bed, legs drawn up, muttering with a sharp edge:
I dont need him. I reject him. All I want is Andrew, and he said he doesnt want a child. Then Im useless too. Do whatever you like with him it makes no difference to me.
The matron of the ward, Sister Margaret, leaned over.
My dear, abandoning your own child is barbaric. Even beasts would not do such a thing.
The new mother, eyes wild, snapped back:
I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me at once, or Ill make you wish youd never seen me.
Sister Margaret sighed, muttering a prayer, and accepted that medicine could do nothing here.
A week earlier the frantic new mother had been transferred from the maternity suite to the childrens ward. She was a quarrelsome, flamboyant sort who refused to nurse her baby, no matter how many times she was begged. She would only agree to pump milk, and then she had nowhere else to go.
Dr. Sarah, a young resident, fought a losing battle with the woman. The mother threw endless fits, and Sarah tried to explain the danger to the infant. The woman threatened to run away. Flustered, Sarah called Sister Margaret, who spent a long, angry hour pleading with the irrational mother. The woman insisted she had to be with her boyfriend; he would leave without her.
Sister Margaret would not surrender. Years of experience had taught her that such mothers could be held for a few more days, enough to let the storm pass. Three days, she said, and perhaps shell think again. The words ignited the mothers fury.
Are you mad? Andrew is already angry about this cursed baby, and you keep tossing me stones. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katie away.
She broke down, screaming that everyone was dense and didnt understand that Katie only waited to whisk her lover off. The child existed for her only because she hoped it would force a marriage.
Sister Margaret gave a final sigh, ordered a dose of valerian, and headed for the door. The silent senior registrar followed, stopping in the corridor to ask in a low voice:
Do you truly believe a child can thrive with a mother like that, if one can even call her a mother?
My dear, what can we do? Otherwise theyll send him to the baby home and then an orphanage. At least both families have respectable lineages hers and the boyfriends. Perhaps a talk with the grandparents? Hes a handsome lad, after all. Find their contact details, I need to speak with them.
That very day the mother fled. Sister Margaret phoned the boys parents; they refused even a word with her.
Two days later the boys father arrived a grim, disagreeable man. Margaret tried to reason, offering to let him see the child. He scoffed, saying it didnt interest him, and promised to have his daughter sign a refusal form, delivering it through his driver. Margaret warned that the child could not be discharged without the mothers own request; everything must follow protocol, or trouble would follow. The man stiffened, his bureaucratic fear flashing, and retreated, promising his wife would handle it.
The next day a small, pallid woman appeared, perched on the edge of a chair, weeping into the silence. She whispered about a terrible fate, explaining that the boys wealthy family had whisked him abroad. His mother wept all day, shouting vile curses at the child, now planning to chase him overseas, vowing to join Andrew even if the world fell apart.
Margaret sighed, suggesting they stare at the infant, hoping some grandmotherly affection might stir. A flicker of feeling did appear, but only deepened the ache. The woman cradled the baby, sobbing that he was beautiful, that she would love to take him, yet her husband forbade it and the mother refused. She produced a fresh handkerchief and wailed louder.
Ugh, Margaret muttered, ordering a nurse to give the woman more valerian, grumbling that such foolishness would soon drain the wards calming supplies.
She reported everything to the chief consultant. He, once a beloved paediatrician, smiled at the little boy, asking what he was being fed. A sturdy little chap, he said, dubbing him Donut. The nickname stuck.
Don Donuts stay stretched into months. The staff coaxed his mother to visit; she came, played, claimed she was saving money for a ticket to find her boyfriend. With nothing else to do, she lingered, seeming to grow attached. He responded with shy smiles, learning her face. His grandmother also visited, doting on the baby, then leaving in tears, apologising for her daughters madness, calling it lust rather than love.
Both mother and grandmother never signed any papers, yet never reclaimed the child. Margaret decided to confront them seriously, warning that the boys health was failing. All eyes were on Donut, sweating, his tiny hair clinging to his damp forehead. He was losing weight, becoming frail. Sarah cradled him constantly, calling him no longer a donut but a crumpet. Yet each time he recovered, he returned to his place as the wards favourite, beaming at Sarahs coral beads, reaching for them with chubby fingers and bursting into delighted giggles.
One day the mother learned, in a cruel twist, that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, screaming that the world conspired to separate them, that she despised everyone, especially the baby. If the child vanished, she would be with Andrew, happy. She swore to file a refusal, sending him to an orphanage, then persuade Andrew to abandon the child and marry her. She placed the signed form on the chiefs desk and fled.
The chief called Margaret in. She returned, darkeyed and cold, stating:
Its done. The form is filed. Well process the paperwork for the baby home. What else can we do?
Sarah burst into tears. Margaret removed her glasses, rubbing them slowly, murmuring to herself. Everyone knew that when Margaret polished her lenses, she was nervous; sometimes she would rub the inside of her coat to hide tears, though she rarely let her stern façade crack.
Meanwhile, Donut laughed in his cot. A nurse entered, greeting him, and he squealed, waving his tiny arms. Suddenly he froze, his bright eyes searching. The nurse knelt, feeling a strange tremor in her chest, tears spilling unbidden. She later learned that his mothers refusal had triggered this silent grief. Margaret snapped, chiding the nurse for spouting nonsense.
Abandoned children, she thought, always sense the rejection, whether by angels whispering or by their own hearts, and they shrink into the shadows, trying not to disturb anyone. The world, indifferent, swallows them into grey institutions, as if they were never needed.
No matter how hungry or feverish they are, no one will read them a bedtime story or tuck them in. The cold world gives to some and takes from others, leaving the little ones to wonder why they were spurned, what they did wrong. No answers come; the universe remains apathetic. Yet a thin thread of hope persists: perhaps kindness will surface, however scarce, and a gentle hand will lift them from the gloom.
From that night onward, Donut lay quietly, no longer chasing smiles, his gaze solemn. Sarah tried in vain:
Donut, want a cuddle? Look, I have beads, lets play!
She extended her hand, hoping hed grasp it, but he stared at her, detached, unmoving. She retreated, weeping.
At last she shouted,
Were betraying him! First the monsters, now us! He didnt choose to be born into this hell!
She collapsed onto the sofa, head in her knees, a low whimper escaping her. Margaret rose, sat beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
My dear, Im at a loss. I feel for Donut, more than words can say.
Sarah answered, fierce:
I wont just wait, Ill act.
Margaret snapped back,
Then stop sitting! Your coat is soaked. Act means act, not promise adoption. You have no husband, no flat, so stop the drama. How many Donuts have I seen? Too many to count, dear God. Well give you time to find good parents for him. No more whining.
Sarah set out to find the perfect family for Donut, pouring her heart into the search. The angels, it seemed, had a hand in this too. Donut fell ill with a common cold, but the paperwork could not be halted. Margaret muttered, For once Im almost glad a child is sick.
At last she found a couple: Laura and Leonard, both in their thirties, childless, longdreaming of a baby. Lauras soft smile and lilting voice, Leonards sturdy, soldierlike bearing, made the ward glow. They visited, and Margaret, amused, whispered to Leonard, What a big lad you are!
Laura pushed open the door, stepping into Donuts room. He turned pink in his sleep, tiny fingers wiggling, a single tear glinting in the corner of his eye. He stirred, eyes flickering from face to face, then fixed on Laura. He furrowed his brow, then opened his eyes wide.
Laura stared, taking in every line of his tiny face. He reached out, clutching her thumb with a surprising grip. Laughter rippled through the ward. Laura smiled, whispering, Youre a cheeky little one.
The silence settled as Margaret cleared her throat, Shall we end our first meeting?
Laura, unchanged, answered, Weve decided.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, looking to Leonard, who nodded. Laura turned to Donut, Hold my hand, love. He clenched her finger tighter, refusing to let go. The room held its breath.
Fine, Margaret said, Just remember the grasp reflex at this age is strong.
Laura replied calmly, Hes just scared I wont come back. She coaxed, Please let me go now, Ill return, I promise you must believe me.
Donut listened, then released her finger, breaking into a grin, a squeak of delight escaping his mouth.
Reflexes, theyre just reflexes, Margaret murmured, pulling off her glasses, rubbing her coat in a frantic rhythm, mumbling to herself.
