Okay, so it happens… Nobody was expecting little Timothy in this world. But he arrived. Announced himself with a loud cry, demanding food, attention, care. And his mum… Mum scarpered, swaying from weakness, only two days after giving birth. Disappeared, nobody knew where, feeling not a shred of attachment to the tiny bundle and dead set against taking responsibility for his life. She’s just nineteen; her only family, her nan, passed away a year back. There was a bloke too, full of big promises, but he dumped her. Everyone dumped her! Her mum and dad died in a car crash when she was little, and her nan, who absolutely adored her girl, well, she just upped and left recently too… Dad was from foster care, and Mum had sisters, but they’ve lived in Italy ages with their dad – her grandad – but there was never any bond there. Proper messy business, loads of bad blood and arguments. At first, she couldn’t be bothered with any of it, and then when Nan got really poorly, ended up in hospital, she just couldn’t cope with family dramas on top.
This year she was meant to finish college; her mates are all working on their dissertations now, while she… Well, never mind. She’d manage on her own somehow, but *alone*! A baby? Too much. Way too much. Nearly impossible. And she’s struggling enough herself, can’t they see that? So she left her little one behind, maybe someone else would help him. Like they helped his dad once. And these people keep turning up, saying things, but who are they? What do they want? Sod them… When she felt a bit stronger, she’d figure something out…
But Timothy didn’t need his mum later. He needed her *now*, this very second! To nuzzle his cheek against her, have her milk, feel her heartbeat… But there was no cosy warmth, so he felt scared and lonely. He cried his little eyes out, wanting his mum. And he was always getting picked up by different hands, strange hands. They gave him milk formula, but it wasn’t Mum’s milk, so his tiny tummy always hurt and cramped. He slept fitfully, waiting… Even in his restless sleep, he’d know his mum’s voice. But all the voices were wrong.
Little Tim knew how to wait, bless him. He waited for his mum’s touch, the warmth of her, the taste of her milk, and probably prayed to his baby gods with every bit of feeling he had, right down to the sniffles from his tiny button nose. button nose.
And the gods heard him. The head matron at the hospital, a lovely woman with a heart of gold, didn’t judge the young mum, but she also couldn’t stomach the thought of such a sweet little angel being left without her. She pulled in every favour she had, found out everything about Tim’s mum, tracked down her grandad’s address (Tim’s great-grandad) way over in Italy, rang him up on video call, and talked for ages. She told him about his unlucky, lonely young granddaughter, who had no one in the world to help her, and about this tiny boy, barely started in life, already feeling like nobody wanted him. The grandad was too old to travel that far, but both aunts, mum’s sisters, hopped on a plane. They found Tim’s mum, seriously ill, flat out at her place. Her chest was burning agony; she could barely express any milk, her temperature was through the roof. For ages she just didn’t get what was happening, who these women were or what they wanted. The paramedics brought the young mum back to hospital, where the nurses gently but firmly – ignoring her tears and protests – expressed the rest of the milk from her breasts, got her fever down, and finally brought Timothy in. He looked at her intently with his little eyes, wrinkling his nose and pulling faces. Did she recognise her son? ‘Course she did. She took him in her arms. Which meant she wasn’t letting go again.
Later, when she got discharged, those two loud, chattering aunts drove her and Tim home. Back there, somehow a cot just appeared, a chest of drawers was filled with nappies and tiny babygros… The aunts talked with her, fed her proper comfort food like cheesy pasta – ‘mac and cheese’ to them. Doesn’t matter what they call it, what matters is she wasn’t alone anymore. What matters is having someone asking: “Feeling alright? Had any food? Had a drink? Get more tea with milk down you, love, that’ll help your own milk come in. Maybe grab a kip? You were up ages with Timothy last night, you look knackered.”
You reckon this is a story about the boy Tim, or his young, bewildered mum? Nah, not really. It’s about that head matron and all the decent folk who don’t just do their job, but go that little bit extra. And that ‘little bit extra’? It saves lives, mends broken families, brings people happiness. That ‘little bit extra’ became happiness for a little lad and his young mum. Just think – if we all did just that ‘little bit extra’ in our own jobs, weren’t so quick to walk past someone else’s hard time… imagine how much nicer the world could actually be.
