He wasnt needed. I turned him away.
Emily sat on the edge of the cot, legs drawn up, muttering angrily:
Its just Andrew I want. He told me he doesnt want a child, so I dont either. Do what you will with him I dont care.
The matron of the ward, Mrs. Hawthorne, leaned in. Child, thats barbaric, refusing your own baby. Even beasts wouldnt do that.
Emily snapped back, Who cares what beasts do? Discharge me now, or Ill make a scene youll never forget.
Mrs. Hawthorne sighed, Youre a foolish, stubborn girl, dear God. Her experience told her there was little medicine could do.
A week earlier Emily had been moved from the maternity suite to the infant unit. She was a volatile, quarrelsome sort, refusing to breastfeed her newborn no matter how gently we pleaded. She agreed only to pump milk, but then she had nowhere else to go.
The infants attending, a young nurse named Sarah, tried in vain to calm Emily. She threw endless tantrums, and Sarah warned her that the babys health was at risk. Emily threatened to run away. Flustered, Sarah summoned Mrs. Hawthorne, who spent a good hour trying to persuade the irrational mother. Emily insisted she had to go to her boyfriend, claiming he would leave her if she didnt.
Mrs. Hawthorne refused to give up. After years of seeing mothers like this, she knew she could keep Emily in the ward for another three days enough time for her to think, perhaps to change her mind. The very mention of three days set Emily off.
What are you playing at? Andrews already angry about this damned baby, and now youre tossing me a curveball. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katya. She broke down, shouting that they were idiots and didnt realise Katya only wanted to snatch her boyfriend away. The child was useful to her only because she hoped it would lock Andrew down.
Mrs. Hawthorne gave a weary sigh, ordered a dose of valerian for Emily, and headed for the door. The resident, Dr. Patel, who had been silent, followed.
In the corridor she paused and whispered, Do you really think a child can thrive with a mother like that?
Darling, Mrs. Hawthorne replied, whats the alternative? Theyll send him to a baby home, then an orphanage. At least both families have decent means. Maybe a chat with the parents will help its their first grandchild, after all. Get their contact details; I need to speak with them.
Emily fled that very day. Mrs. Hawthorne phoned her parents, but the boys family refused any conversation.
Two days later Emilys father, a stern, unpleasant man named Victor, arrived to collect her belongings. Mrs. Hawthorne tried to discuss the baby with him, suggesting a lookover. Victor shrugged, saying he wasnt interested and would have his driver deliver the refusal paperwork. Mrs. Hawthorne insisted the mother must sign herself; otherwise protocol would be broken. Victor bristled, then promised to send his wife to handle it.
The next day a petite, pallid woman named Claire arrived, perched on a stool and began sobbing, muttering about a tragedy. Her sons parents had whisked him away abroad, a wealthy family with grand plans, and now this shameful episode unfolded. Claire wailed that her daughter was crying nonstop, hating the baby, and now claimed she would travel overseas to retrieve him. She swore shed be with Andrew even if the whole world fell apart.
Mrs. Hawthorne sighed, offered to let Claire hold the infant, hoping some maternal instinct might surface. Tears streamed down Claires face as she cradled the child, whispering how lovely he was, wishing she could keep him, but her husband forbade it and her daughter refused. She clutched a fresh handkerchief and wailed anew.
Mrs. Hawthorne muttered, Bah, and instructed a nurse to give Claire another dose of valerian, grumbling that such melodrama would soon deplete the wards calming stock.
She reported the whole mess to the chief consultant, Dr. Whitaker, who had once been a respected paediatrician. Upon seeing the baby a chubby little fellow she nicknamed Biscuit for his round cheeks he smiled and asked what the child was being fed. A proper biscuit, he joked, and the nickname stuck.
Biscuit remained in the ward for months. We kept trying to coax Emily back. She turned up occasionally, playing with him, claiming she was saving up for a ticket, supposedly having tracked down Andrews whereabouts. She seemed to grow attached, though she always left in tears, apologising for her daughters erratic behaviour, calling it lust rather than love.
Both mother and grandmother visited, never signing any relinquishment papers, yet never taking the child home. Mrs. Hawthorne finally sat them down, explaining the babys worsening condition. The staff, especially Sarah, hovered over him at every chance. Biscuit, once plump, began losing weight, his hair sticking damply to his scalp. Sarah carried him constantly, calling him a pancake now rather than a biscuit. He recovered, regained his rotund shape, and became the wards favorite, especially delighted by Sarahs coral beads, which he tried to bite at with glee.
One dreadful day Emily learned Andrew had married someone else. She erupted, screaming that everyone conspired to keep them apart, that the baby was the obstacle to her happiness with Andrew. She resolved to file a refusal form, send him to an orphanage, and then persuade Andrew to dump the child and marry her. She handed the paper to Dr. Whitaker, placed it on his desk, and walked away without a word.
Dr. Whitaker called Mrs. Hawthorne in. She returned, looking grim, and said, Its done. The paperworks in. Theyll process it through the baby home. What else can we do? Sarah burst into tears. Mrs. Hawthorne removed her glasses, rubbed them methodically, a habit of hers when she was nervous. Everyone knew when she did that she was on edge.
Biscuit, meanwhile, was squealing happily in his cot. A nurse entered, and he squealed back, waving his tiny arms. Suddenly he froze, his eyes fixed on something, then fell silent. The nurse, puzzled, knelt beside him. She felt an inexplicable ache in her chest and tears rolled down her cheeks. She later learned that his mother had just submitted the refusal form, and the wards sorrow had seeped into her.
Superstitions, she thought, were just coincidences. Abandoned children always sense rejection, whether by angels whispering or by their own intuition. They try to become invisible, not to trouble anyone, as if the world has already decided theyre unwanted.
No matter how hungry or feverish you are, no one will read you a bedtime story or pull a blanket over you. The world is indifferent, and the wise abandoned child knows that. Yet hope remains that some kindness will surface, that fate will turn, that a sliver of good will find its way to you.
From that day on, Biscuit lay quietly, no longer laughing, his gaze solemn. Sarah kept trying: Biscuit, want a cuddle? Look, I have beads, shall we play? She reached out, hoping for a grasp, but he stared coldly, unmoving. She returned to the cot, tears streaming.
At last, she shouted, Were betraying him, you hear? First the bastards, now us! He didnt ask to be born into this mess! I hate it! She sat on the sofa, head in her hands, a whimpering sob. Mrs. Hawthorne rose, sat beside her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Girl, I dont know what to do. I feel for Biscuit, you have no idea. Good heavens!
Sarah declared, I wont just sit and wait; Ill act.
Mrs. Hawthorne snapped, Then stop sitting and start moving. Dont tell me you plan to adopt him theyll never let you. Youve got a flat, no husband; youre not in a position to take him. Its an emotional outburst. How many Biscuits have I seen in my career? Too many to count. So lets make a deal: Ill give you time, you find him a proper family.
And so Sarah scoured for the perfect adoptive parents. Her sincerity moved the whole ward. Eventually she found a couple, Laura and Leo, both in their midthirties, childless and eager to adopt. Laura was a gentle, elegant woman with a soft smile; Leo was a sturdy, militarytype fellow who adored his wife. Their home was bright and welcoming.
When they arrived, Mrs. Hawthorne greeted them warmly, even whistling at Leos imposing figure before apologising for her excitement. What was his birth weight, dear? she asked, halfjoking. Leo blushed, Im not sure Ill ask the notes. Laura laughed, Hell keep mum on his birthday, wont he?
The matron explained, Weight isnt crucial for adoption. You just look like his kindred spirits.
Laura entered the ward, opened the door, and stepped in. Biscuit, asleep, turned a rosy shade, his tiny fingers twitching. A single tear glistened in his eye. He stirred, blinked at Laura, and then, as if sensing something, reached out and clutched her thumb with surprising strength. Everyone chuckled at his tenacity. Laura smiled, and Biscuit let out a faint squeak, his eyes never leaving hers.
Mrs. Hawthorne cleared her throat, Lets call it a first date. You can think it over at home.
Laura, without looking back, replied, Weve already decided.
Mrs. Hawthorne raised an eyebrow. Leo, catching the cue, said, Yes, weve spoken, we want this boy.
Laura whispered to Biscuit, Youll stay with us, love. She held out her hand; he clutched it tighter, refusing to let go. A heavy silence fell.
Mrs. Hawthorne muttered, Well, bless my soul. Their grip reflexes are strong at this age.
Laura replied calmly, He just worries Ill leave. She looked at the child, softening, Please let me go now, Ill be back, I promise.
Biscuit hesitated, then released her thumb, beamed a bright grin, and let out a delighted chirp.
Just reflexes, the matron said, pulling off her glasses and rubbing her coat, mumbling to herself.
