“She dumped the kid on me and ran off. Bloody hell… I must’ve dozed off, stupid old woman…” Maria groaned, shaking her head side to side.
The old, rickety bus was stifling. Through the open windows blew air heated to thirty degrees, but instead of relief, it carried in road dust. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the heat.
Up ahead gleamed the gilded domes of a small church, flanked by wooden houses, with the roofs of red-brick flats rising just beyond. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones were already at the doors, eager to escape the sweltering bus.
Only one woman remained motionless, staring blankly out the window. Her hands, veined with blue, rested on her knees. Her hair, bleached with dark roots growing in, hung in uneven strands around her thin face, making her pallor even more striking. Her lips were downturned, her eyelids thin and lined with wrinkles. She looked like someone life had beaten down—someone who expected nothing good ahead.
The bus lurched one last time and shuddered to a stop in the little square before the church. The crowd jostled impatiently at the open doors, desperate to get out.
“Miss, this is the end of the line,” called the balding, heavyset driver, peering over the divider.
The woman glanced around. Apart from the driver, she was alone.
“Last stop, time to go,” he repeated.
She grabbed the small bag at her feet, stood, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured at the open door, not turning back.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, the doors hissed shut behind her. Slowly, she moved toward the row of cottages. Then—suddenly—a single bell tolled from the church. Before the sound faded, a cascade of chimes followed. The woman stopped. Stilled. Tilted her face to the sky. Then she turned and walked toward the church.
She followed a narrow path lined with wildflowers and stepped inside. The cool air carried the scent of incense. A shaft of evening sunlight, dust motes swirling in its beam, cut across the wooden floor.
Her heels clicked against the stone, shattering the silence. She sat on a bench near the door.
“Are you all right? Do you need water?”
A young woman appeared, a scarf wrapped around her neck despite the heat. Her blue eyes brimmed with concern.
“Wait here,” she said, vanishing before returning with a glass of water.
“Here. It’s from the spring nearby. Stays cold even in summer.”
Anastasia took the glass. The water was icy, sharp enough to make her teeth ache.
“If you need anything, just ask,” the girl murmured, her long dark skirt whispering as she retreated to a little stall in the corner, where church trinkets were laid out.
Anastasia finished the water and approached. “Thank you,” she said, setting the glass down. “Are you from here? Do you know everyone?”
“Our village is small. Who are you looking for?”
“Maria… Knowles. Do you know her?”
The girl went very still. “She was my grandmother. She passed last year.” She stepped out from behind the stall. “Who are you?”
A pause. Then, softly: “You’re Anastasia, aren’t you?” Her voice trembled. “I’m Polly.”
***
Eighteen years earlier
Maria sat on the bench by the front door, squinting in the sunset.
“Mum.”
Maria turned, shading her eyes. Before her stood her daughter, Anastasia, who’d vanished over a year ago. In one arm, she cradled a baby swaddled in a thin blanket; in the other, she clutched a black sports bag.
“Back, then.” Maria’s voice was flat. “Knew it’d end like this. Here for good, or just passing through?”
Behind the neighbor’s window, a curtain twitched. Maria heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to give the village something to gossip about.”
Anastasia hesitated, then followed. She left her bag by the door, crossed to the iron bedstead, and carefully laid the sleeping baby down. Straightening, she exhaled sharply.
“Boy or girl?” Maria asked, indifferent.
“Girl. Polly.”
Maria sighed. “Figured. Must’ve been rough out there if you’re crawling back.” Her gaze flicked to Anastasia’s hollowed frame. “No milk, I see. Just wait—I’ll get some from Nina down the lane, she’s got goats.”
“I brought formula,” Anastasia said quickly, relieved the worst was over.
“Don’t poison the child with that rubbish.” Maria waved her off and disappeared into the kitchen.
She returned with a large jar, ignoring Anastasia as she left. When she came back, Anastasia was asleep beside the baby, who was fussing, her little cheeks puffing as she squirmed. Maria watched them silently—the foolish daughter, the helpless child. Only when the baby wailed did she scoop her up.
“Hush now. Your mum’s right here—though you’d never know it, the way she’s sleeping.”
She changed the nappy, warmed the milk, fed the child.
That night, whispers turned to shouts. Anastasia wept, begging for understanding; Maria spat years of stored bitterness. They slept at dawn.
Maria woke to a sharp cry. She bolted up.
“Nastya! She’s soaked, and starving—Nastya!” Silence. The baby screamed louder.
Then she saw it—the empty space where Anastasia had slept.
Her hands flew to her chest. “God above,” she whispered. “She’s gone. Left the kid and bolted. You stupid old cow—you slept right through it!” She rocked back and forth, clutching herself.
“Gone. Just like that. You rotten little—” The baby’s cries drowned out the rest.
“Quiet!” Maria snapped. The child fell silent.
“That’s better. Crying won’t bring her back.”
She changed the nappy, fed the baby.
“Like that, do you? Proper milk, none of that muck.” Her voice cracked. “What am I meant to do with you? God’s punishment, this is. Dying soon, and she dumps a baby on me. The shame…”
Anastasia never returned. Polly grew up with Maria—fed, clothed, but never coddled. Maria’s love was rough: sharp words, sharper discipline.
When Polly asked about her mother, Maria said, “Dead. You’ve no one but me.” And she’d talk of her own looming death until Polly clung to her, begging her not to leave.
“Then pray I live, girl.”
One day, Maria caught Polly staring at an old photo. She snatched it, tossed it in the stove.
“You’ve no mother. No father. You’re alone.”
But one photo remained—faded, hidden. Polly looked at it sometimes.
At sixteen, Polly finished school.
“College,” Maria grumbled. “Your mother had fancy schooling, and look where it got her.”
For once, Polly stood her ground. She stayed.
That winter, Maria fell ill—coughing so hard she soiled herself. Polly washed the sheets without complaint, woke nights to warm milk with honey. By spring, Maria recovered.
By autumn, her legs gave out. She refused the hospital. A month later, she was gone.
Polly was alone.
Father Paul visited, crossing himself before the icon. “Help me at the church. Old Annie’s blind now.”
Polly agreed. Weekdays, school; weekends, lighting candles, singing hymns, scrubbing floors.
The village boys mocked her—”Little nun!”—but none dared cross her.
She finished school, trained as a nurse.
Once, she asked Father Paul: “Should I pray for my mother’s soul… or her health?”
He considered. “Maria said she was dead. To her, maybe she was. But I think your mother’s alive—just too lost to come home. Pray for her.”
So Polly lit candles, whispered prayers, and waited.
***
“Wait—just a moment!” Polly darted through the church, snuffing candles, locking doors.
They walked home in silence.
“Visitors, Polly?” a neighbor called.
Polly nodded, eyes down.
Their whispers followed: “That’s not—? But Maria said she died!”
At the cottage, Polly unlocked the door.
“Come in. I’ll fry up some potatoes, fetch milk—”
“Wait.” Anastasia caught her arm. “Let me look at you. You don’t take after me.” A pause. “Do you always wear that scarf?”
“Only at church.” Polly untied it, shook out her hair.
“Don’t hide it. It’s beautiful.”
“How long are you staying?”
Anastasia’s eyes glistened. “Nowhere else to go. Will you turn me away?”
Polly’s voice was fierce. “No. This is your home too.”
Anastasia sank to her knees. “I don’t deserve to be called ‘Mum.’ I left you. I meant toAnd as the church bells rang in the distance, Polly reached down, took her mother’s trembling hands, and pulled her close, finally letting the past rest.
