**Diary Entry**
The taxi hummed softly over the rain-slicked streets, tyres whispering against the wet tarmac. The elderly driver guided the car with practised ease, glancing occasionally in the rearview mirror at his passengers.
A young woman cradled a baby—perhaps six months old—in her arms. The address she’d given unsettled him slightly: a children’s home.
The parents looked happy—he was a tall, well-built air force lieutenant in uniform, and she… well, she was simply lovely, with wide blue eyes and golden hair spilling over her shoulders.
“James, the flowers!” she reminded him.
“I remember, Charlotte, I remember,” he replied, then leaned forward. “Sir, could you stop at the florist?”
The officer stepped out, unfazed by the autumn wind, and strode into the shop. The driver watched him go before asking, “Your husband?”
“My husband,” she answered with a smile, adjusting the little one’s knitted cap.
“Lovely child. You both seem well. Why the children’s home, then?” There was an edge of disapproval in his voice.
At first, she didn’t understand the implication—then her eyes widened in horror. “Goodness! What on earth—?”
“Just asking. These days, you never know.” His tone softened. “So, why the visit?”
“I grew up there. Seven years, before I was adopted. My husband—James—spent four years there too.”
“With Margaret Baker?” The driver broke into a grin. “Well, I’ll be! Straight from the train to see her? That’s wonderful!”
“You know her?” The woman studied him with interest.
“Who doesn’t?”
He would have launched into a story, but the taxi door swung open, and the officer returned with an armful of roses.
“Lottie, look at these!” He beamed. “Only in our city!”
“James!” she laughed. “You’ve never given *me* roses like these!”
“Don’t take it personally,” he chuckled. “They don’t grow these where we’re posted. When was the last time we visited together?”
“Eleven years ago…”
…Margaret Baker sat at her desk, wrapped in a thick woollen shawl. The building was warm, but the shawl was comforting—soft against her skin.
A rare quiet moment: older children at school, the little ones napping. Only the clatter of dishes from the kitchen broke the silence.
She leafed through an old photo album. Faces—so many faces. Boys and girls, now men and women. She still called them by their childhood names: little Tommy, sweet Emily…
There was Charlotte—adopted fifteen years ago by kind-hearted Robert Wilson. And James… where *was* he? Last she heard, he’d graduated from Sandhurst, gone into the RAF. Here he was in his cadet uniform—once dreaming of being a vet, like Dr. Andrew.
Footsteps in the hall. A knock.
“Come in!” And then—oh! An enormous bouquet of roses. And behind them—
“James! My boy! Where have you *been*?” The flowers tumbled to the floor.
“I’m right here, Margaret. Couldn’t write often, but—I’m not alone.” He nodded to his wife. “And this is our daughter. Grace.”
“Charlotte… is it really you? Here, James, take the baby—let me hug her properly!”
Once the excitement settled, coats were hung, and little Grace laid down to sleep. They gathered around the table.
“How did you two keep your bond all these years?” Margaret asked. “Robert spoke so fondly of you, James.”
“I gave Charlotte my word. And I keep my promises.”
“I’ve heard *that* before,” Margaret laughed. “Charlotte, how have you been?”
“Happy!” Her smile was genuine. “Studied medicine—same as my brothers, Edward and Henry. Protective lads, both of them. Now I’m a paediatrician, like Dad. And James—we were never *truly* apart. And this is Grace. We didn’t even argue over the name.”
Margaret bent over the sleeping child. “Hello, Gracie. May you have every blessing. Has Robert met her yet?”
“Not yet. We came straight here,” Charlotte admitted.
“Ring him from me—prepare him, or he’ll faint from joy!” Margaret turned to James, grinning. “Now, say hello to Mummy. She’s been waiting.”
James turned—and froze. On the floor, a tortoiseshell cat stared up at him unblinking. His chest tightened, just like that day in the derelict house where he’d first found her.
At last, she blinked slowly, then padded over. She leapt onto his lap, stood on her hind legs, and pressed her front paws against his lieutenant’s insignia, purring fiercely as she nuzzled his face.
“Mummy…” He buried his fingers in her fur. “I never forgot you. If not for you—”
“She’s mothered half the children here,” Margaret said. “When she fell ill last year, the whole home stood outside the clinic until Dr. Andrew operated. Thank God she pulled through.”
Grace stirred on the sofa. With an apologetic *mrrow*, the cat leapt down and curled beside her, soothing the baby back to sleep with a rumbling purr.
“Nearly time for us both to retire,” Margaret sighed. “Robert’s old tomcat, Biscuit, is already spoiled rotten. Soon it’ll be our turn.”
“Biscuit!” Charlotte laughed. “How I miss him!”
They stayed until evening, sharing supper with the children. The boys clustered around James, begging for flying stories. Most swore they’d join the RAF.
“Dream big—but more than anything, be *good* men,” James told them. “Make Margaret proud.”
Mummy the cat watched him, her green eyes half-lidded, purring approval.
At dusk, they left, promising to visit again before their train. And any time they returned.
“You have my word,” James said.
Margaret and Charlotte laughed—but Mummy just watched him go, as she had watched so many children depart, her quiet purr a lullaby against childhood’s heartaches.
