Emma curled up on the hospital bed, knees tucked under her chin, and muttered in an irritated loop:
I dont want him. Im done with him. All I need is Andrew, and he told me he doesnt want a baby. So I dont want one either. Do what you like with him I couldnt care less.
Sweetheart, thats downright barbaric, abandoning your own child. Even a dog wouldnt do that, said the ward sister, Mrs. Thompson.
I dont care what the beasts do. Discharge me now, or youll see me raise a proper scene, Emma shrieked, her voice trembling with freshborn fury.
Oh, you daft little thing, may God have mercy on you! sighed Mrs. Thompson. Her experience told her that medicine alone could not fix this mess.
A week earlier Emma had been shuffled from the maternity suite to the paediatric ward a dramatic, scandalloving sort of girl. She flatout refused to breastfeed, no matter how gently the nurses coaxed her. She would only agree to pump milk, but even that she abandoned once she had nowhere else to be.
The babys junior doctor, Nurse Mary, was a brighteyed twentysomething who spent endless hours trying to reason with Emma. The girl threw temper tantrums fit for a hurricane. Mary explained that the infants health was at risk, but Emma replied that if things stayed that way shed run away. Flustered, Mary called in Mrs. Thompson, who spent a solid hour trying to persuade the irrational mother. Emma kept insisting she had to be with her boyfriend, that he would leave her if she didnt.
Mrs. Thompson wasnt about to give up. After years of shepherding troubled mums, she knew she could keep Emma in the ward for a few more days just enough time for her to think, maybe come to her senses. When Emma heard three days, she exploded.
Are you mad? Andrew is already furious about this blasted baby, and now youre trying to push me over the edge! If I dont head south with him, hell take Katya away.
She broke down, shouting that everyone was dense and didnt realise Katya only wanted the child to force a marriage.
Mrs. Thompson sighed again, ordered a cup of valerian tea for Emma, and headed for the door. The resident registrar, who had been silent all this time, followed her. In the corridor she paused and asked quietly:
Do you really think a child can thrive with a mother like that?
Darling, what can we do? Otherwise theyll send him to a baby home and then an orphanage. At least the families are respectable hers and the mans. Maybe we should talk to the grandparents? Hes their first grandchild, after all, and the lads a handsome one. Find their details, and Ill have a word.
That very day Emma bolted. Mrs. Thompson rang the grandparents, but the young mans family refused to speak. Two days later Emmas father turned up a sour, unpleasant bloke. Mrs. Thompson tried to engage him, offering a look at the baby.
He scoffed, saying he didnt care, and that his daughter would send a refusal letter via his driver. Mrs. Thompson warned that the paperwork had to be signed in person; otherwise the rules would be broken and trouble would follow. The father, suddenly wary, backed off and promised to send his wife to sort things out.
The next day a small, colourless woman arrived, perched on the edge of a chair, and began sobbing. She whispered about a great tragedy: the boys parents had whisked him off to the continent, wealthy and full of plans, leaving her to mourn. She declared she would chase him abroad, tear the world apart with Andrew, and that she would never stop wailing.
Mrs. Thompson, hoping the grandmother might feel something, invited her to hold the infant. The woman clutched the baby, cried what a lovely little thing, and said shed love to take him home if only her husband didnt forbid it and the girl didnt object. Tears turned into a fierce wail, and Mrs. Thompson muttered, Well, thats just lovely, and ordered a nurse to give the woman another dose of valerian.
She then reported the whole affair to the chief paediatrician, Dr. Hughes. He, once a brilliant childrens doctor, brightened at the sight of the squirming infant and asked what the lad was being fed. A proper little dumpling, he chuckled, coining the nickname Biscuit for the chubby newborn.
Biscuits stay stretched into months. The staff tried repeatedly to coax Emma back she would pop in, play with him, claim she was saving money for a ticket to find her boyfriend, then drift away. It seemed she was getting used to the baby.
His mother, when she did appear, would fuss over him, then sob as she left, apologising for her daughters madness and calling it love gone wrong. Mrs. Thompson labelled it not love but sheer lust.
Despite the mother and grandmothers occasional visits, no one wanted to sign the discharge papers. Mrs. Thompson decided to have a serious talk, explaining that the boy was now ill and needed proper care. Everyone fretted, and Mary raced to his bedside whenever she could. Biscuit, sweaty and with damp hair clinging to his forehead, was losing weight. Mary held him, muttering that he was no longer a biscuit but more like a scone. Yet after a few days he bulked up again, his cheeks puffing with the same cheeky grin, and became the wards beloved mascot. He especially adored Marys bright coral beads, reaching for them and laughing with a highpitched squeal.
One day, the idyll shattered. Emma discovered, to her horror, that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, shouting that the whole world was conspiring to keep them apart and that she loathed everyone especially Biscuit. If the baby vanished, shed be with Andrew and theyd be happy. She stormed out, handed a refusal form to the chief, placed it on his desk, and left without a word.
The chief called Mrs. Thompson in. She returned, face dark as a storm cloud, and declared:
Its done. Shes signed the form. Well have to send the child to the baby home. What else can we do?
Mary burst into tears. Mrs. Thompson sat down, removed her spectacles, and began polishing them while muttering to herself a habit shed developed whenever nerves got the best of her. The ward knew that when the stern matron polished her glasses, it meant she was on the brink of a breakdown.
Meanwhile, Biscuit was giggling in his cot. A nurse entered, humming a tune, and Biscuits eyes lit up. He squealed, waving his tiny arms, until suddenly he froze, as if listening to an invisible whisper. The nurse checked him, feeling a strange chill, and looked into his bright eyes. Something unexplainable tugged at her heart, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
She didnt know why she was sobbing, but later learned it had happened the moment Emmas refusal letter was dropped on the desk. She whispered that it was all a load of superstitious nonsense, that babies didnt understand such drama. Yet the little one seemed to sense the tension.
Abandoned children always feel the sting of rejection, whether they sense it themselves or angels whisper the news in their ears. They try to become invisible, not to bother anyone. Its as if they know the world will try to tuck them away in grey, dreary institutions, making them think theyre nobodys business.
No matter if youre hungry or have a fever, the world wont read you a bedtime story or pull a blanket over you. Yet there is a sliver of hope: somewhere, kindness still exists, even if its scarce. Believe in it, little one, and wait for it to find you.
Since that day Biscuit lay quietly in his cot, no longer babbling, his eyes solemn. Mary tried to cheer him up:
Biscuit, want a cuddle? Look, Ive got beads! Want to play?
She stretched out her hand, smiling warmly, hoping hed reach back. He stared at her, unmoving, his little face as serious as a magistrates.
Then, one afternoon, Mary snapped, shouting:
Were betraying him, you hear me? First the idiots, now us! Hes not to blame for being born into this mess! I hate it!
She collapsed onto a sofa, head resting on her knees, whimpering. Mrs. Thompson rose from her desk, sat beside Mary, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Darling, I have no idea what to do. I feel sorry for Biscuit, more than words can say. Goodness! What a job.
I wont just sit here, Ill act,
Then dont just sit, girl, she snapped back, annoyed. Dont expect them to hand you the baby on a silver platter. You live in a flat, no husband, thats two reasons enough why I wont listen to your melodrama. How many biscuits have I dealt with in my career? Too many to count, thank God. So lets make a deal: well give you time, and you find him a proper home.
And so Mary set out to find Biscuit the perfect parents. She threw herself into the search with such earnestness that even the other nurses in the district felt the tug of her mission. Eventually, the angels seemed to answer.
She found a couple, Laura and Leo, both in their midthirties, childless for years and eager to adopt. Laura was a gentle, graceful woman with a soft smile and a lilting voice; Leo was a sturdy, soldiertype gentleman who adored his wife. Their home was bright and welcoming.
When they first met the staff, Mrs. Thompson couldnt help but whistle, then quickly blushed:
Excuse me, thats just admiration. You dont see a big lad like you every day.
She hurried on, asking about the babys birth weight, which the couple laughed off, saying they didnt need such details for adoption.
Laura opened the ward door, stepped in, and whispered to Biscuit, who, halfasleep, turned his tiny face toward her. He opened his eyes, stared at her, then, as if deciding, reached out and clutched her thumb with a surprisingly strong grip. The room burst into soft chuckles, calling him a sprightly little chap. Laura smiled, and Biscuit gave a faint, contented squeak.
Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat and said:
Lets wrap up this first meeting. Youll go home, think it over, and decide.
No need to think, were already decided, Laura replied, not looking at anyone.
Mrs. Thompson raised an eyebrow, and Leo, the gentle giant, nodded.
Laura turned back to Biscuit, still holding his thumb. He didnt let go, his gaze fixed on her. A hush fell over the room.
Its just a reflex, hes holding on, Mrs. Thompson explained, wiping her glasses with a sigh.
Hes scared Ill leave, Laura said calmly, not turning away.
She coaxed the baby gently:
Please let me go now, I have to leave, but Ill be back, I promise.
Biscuit paused, listened to her melodic tone, and then, as if reassured, released her finger, broke into a widegrinned, toothless grin, and let out a bright little chirp.
Mrs. Thompson chuckled, Its all reflexes, Im sure, and shook her head, still polishing her spectacles as if they were a talisman against the wards chaos.
And so Biscuits story turned a corner, finding a home where he could finally be more than just a biscuit in a hospital ward.
