On a rainy October evening…
The evening service draws to a close. Only a handful of worshippers remain in the church. Drizzle turns to sleet outside, and most parishioners have stayed home rather than brave the foul weather.
The church slowly empties as people shuffle out, the heavy oak door creaking open again and again. Drafts make the candle flames flicker and dance, thin trails of smoke curling upwards. Finally, the last footsteps fade across the flagstone floor. Only Natalie remains.
She steps out from behind the church shop counter and begins making her rounds, extinguishing candles and wiping wax drips from the brass stands. Next, she puts out the oil lamps before the icons. The narrow, leaded windows let in little light from the streetlamps outside. Only a single bulb above the candle counter still glows, its light catching the gilded edges of the nearest holy images.
From the left aisle steps Father William, his cassock topped with a black coat.
“Has the caretaker arrived yet?” he asks as he approaches Natalie.
“Not yet. Anything to pass on?” she replies.
“No. See you tomorrow.” He nods farewell and moves toward the door.
Natalie fetches a mop and bucket and begins washing the floor. She loves coming into a clean church in the mornings. Suddenly, another gust of wind sends the heavy door slamming shut. She turns and sees the caretaker crossing himself by the entrance before nodding at her and heading to his small room nearby. Though Father William insists the man isn’t mute, Natalie has never heard him speak.
After putting away the cleaning supplies, Natalie gets ready to leave, scanning the church one last time to ensure all the lamps are out. She murmurs prayers as she glances at each icon: “Saint Nicholas, pray for us… Holy Mother of God, intercede for us…”
“I’m off,” she calls toward the caretaker’s room. Her voice echoes under the vaulted ceilings.
She switches off the light and pushes open the heavy door. Pausing on the porch, she listens but hears nothing—only the clank of the bolt as the caretaker locks up inside. Then, a faint whimper.
She looks down, expecting a stray puppy or kitten sheltering from the rain, but instead sees a pale bundle half-hidden in the shadows.
“A baby? Who would leave you here?” She scoops up the tiny weight, pulling back the blanket corner to reveal a tiny, wrinkled face.
“Lord, what kind of mother abandons a child in this weather? How did no one see you?”
She hesitates. Should she knock on the church door? Call the police and an ambulance? That would be the right thing—but something inside her pushes her to take the baby home first, then call Father William for advice.
She barely takes two steps down the path before a figure lunges from the shadows.
“Give her back!” a young woman cries, snatching the bundle away.
Natalie’s voice hardens. “Your child? What kind of mother leaves a baby to freeze?”
“I-I just stepped away for a moment!” The girl chokes back tears.
“Why not bring her inside?” Natalie softens slightly.
The girl doesn’t answer, clutching the baby and turning to leave.
“Have you got anywhere to go?” Natalie calls after her.
The girl slows, glancing back.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Natalie mutters. “Wait!” She hurriedly catches up. “You’ve nowhere to go, have you? Come with me. I live nearby. The baby’s fussing—must be wet or hungry. And you’re soaked to the bone. Let’s warm up and figure things out.” She keeps talking, filling the silence as the girl hesitates. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got room.”
In the end, the girl follows.
Natalie doesn’t stop chatting the whole way, filling the quiet with stories—her late husband, how she’d always wanted children but never had any. No belongings? No matter, her neighbor’s grandchild recently outgrew baby clothes. She distracts the girl from any thoughts of running.
“Here we are.” Natalie unlocks the front door of her building, ushering the girl inside. “Sixth floor.”
In the lift, she notices the girl’s lips are blue with cold, her clothes drenched. Natalie hurries ahead, flicking on the lights.
“Here, let me hold her while you change. My slippers are by the door.”
Once inside, the girl unwraps the baby—a little girl, squirming and hungry. Natalie’s heart swells.
“She needs feeding. I’ll pop next door for nappies.”
Her neighbor, Lucy, raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you have a baby?”
“Visiting relatives. Their luggage got stolen at the station.”
Lucy hands over a full bag. “Nappies, clothes—all outgrown. Keep it.”
Natalie thanks her and rushes back. The girl is nursing the baby.
“Milk’s come in? That’s good. Formula’s so dear these days.” She fusses with tea while pondering that perhaps this meeting wasn’t chance at all.
Later, with the baby—Veronica—asleep, Natalie serves chicken soup.
“Eat. You need your strength now, for her. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“I’m Natalie. And her?”
“Veronica.”
“Lovely name.” Natalie sighs. “You eat, then tell me your troubles. I won’t judge. We’ve all made mistakes. I came to that church to atone for mine.”
Warmed by food, Lydia unspools her story—how she left the hospital with nowhere to go.
“I never wanted to abandon her. But the dorm kicked me out after the birth. I walked to the bridge, thought we’d jump together…” Her voice cracks. “Then my feet just… stopped by the church.”
“Parents?” Natalie asks gently.
“Divorced. Mum remarried. I’ve a younger sister—how could I burden her too?”
“The father?”
“He knew I was pregnant. Gave me money… for an abortion.” Lydia’s voice rises. “We’re no one to anyone!”
“Hush, you’ll wake her. Stay here. I’ve room. It’s what God wants.”
Lydia calms under Natalie’s steady words.
Time passes. Veronica grows. Lydia helps at home, sometimes visits the church, learns faith’s first steps. By next autumn, Veronica toddles, calling Natalie “Gran.” Lydia returns to her studies.
Fifteen years later…
“Mum, does this dress need taking in at the waist?” Veronica twirls before the mirror in her prom gown.
“Fits perfectly. Shame Gran’s not here to see you.” Lydia hugs her.
Natalie had passed the year before, sitting quietly in her candle booth after evening service. Lydia mourned her like a mother. Now she tends the booth in her stead.
Veronica aces her A-levels, starts medical school—just like Lydia—and thrives. But one evening, she grows quiet.
“Fancying someone?” Lydia teases.
“Don’t be daft. He’s too old for me.”
“A professor? We all fancied ours. What’s his name?”
“Gregory Wilson.” Veronica’s voice trembles. “The way he looks at me…”
Lydia’s vision darkens. She clutches her chest, gasping.
“Mum! Your pills—where—?”
“Fine… fine now,” Lydia pants.
“You scared me! You know him?”
Lydia doesn’t answer.
She tells herself: just a coincidence. Her Gregory was a junior doctor, not a professor. But she must know.
At his department, she waits by a lecture hall. Students flood out. Then… Gregory. Older, but unmistakable.
“Can I help you?”
Her fingers whiten around her handbag straps. “Veronica Wilson studies here.”
“Bright girl. Top of her class.”
Lydia exhales sharply. “Do you recognize me?”
His gaze wavers—just a flash—before settling. “Should I?”
“I’m Lydia Wilson. You sent me for an abortion.”
His face drains of color. “Lydia? I—I didn’t know you kept—”
“Veronica’s yours.”
He staggers back. “My… daughter?”
“Yes. The child you wanted dead.”
He paces, shattered. “I never knew—”
“Because you never looked.”
Later, Lydia tells Veronica the truth.
“My father’s not some hero who died saving lives?”
“He’s alive.” Lydia’s voice is steel. “He wanted you gone. If you forgive him, that’s your choice. I can’t.”
Time moves on. Veronica makes peace with Gregory. Lydia does not.
When Veronica marries, she invites him. Lydia greets him with ice.
Later, after Veronica moves to London with her husband, Lydia meets another man—at church, of course.
But that’s another story.
