A tiny hand wriggles through the gap in the garden fence, reaching for ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice, weeding the onion bed.
“Hello, Aunt Maggie,” calls a small voice. Alex.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile. “Come here, help me pick some strawberries.”
The wire fence sags easily as I lift it, and in walks my Angel—that’s what I call Alex. Behind him, huffing and puffing, squeezes Brutus, his enormous dog, nearly twice his size. I set a bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch, and Alex plucks the biggest, juiciest berries. He’s five, with blond hair, blue eyes, and sharp, wing-like shoulder blades—that’s why I call him Angel. Bright, kind.
“Alex, why was Mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, and I spilled the paint,” he says. “Meant to do Brutus’s kettle but knocked the tin over.”
“No harm done. We’ll have tea, then buy a new tin.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being told and sits by the window. He chooses strawberries with cream and a still-warm scone, dusted with icing sugar. Soon, his top lip wears a white moustache. Brutus lies on the doormat—he knows the rules here—patiently waiting for his treat: a pancake. He eyes the lonely thing, then looks at us, deeply unimpressed. *Is this it?* We laugh, and I give him a bowl of stew instead. Brutus forgives us and eats at his leisure.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with two tins of paint—white and green. The sky’s blue, the sun high and hot. I pop home to change, pack the last strawberries and scones in a bag. On Alex’s porch sits his gran, blind these past two years. My Angel carefully adjusts her headscarf, tucks a stray curl. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap—her favourite.
On the back patio, Alex and I paint the stools white, then Brutus’s kennel green. Alex is thrilled. Brutus, indifferent.
Emily, his mum, returns from work. She praises our handiwork and calls everyone to tea. Alex takes Gran’s hand, leads her inside, and feeds her rice pudding patiently. She drinks tea alone, with a caramel. She moves through the house unaided, knowing every creaky floorboard. Emily works at a roadside café, two miles away. Late shifts mean Alex is her rock.
I watch him shovel down buttered porridge, gulp sweet tea, then dash off to watch cartoons. A boy, yet already a man. Or a man still half a boy?
He sweeps floors, washes up, helps Gran dress, carries firewood (two logs at a time), fetches water (in a small pail). He adores Brutus, but sometimes cries bitterly when Emily shouts unfairly. Other times, he laughs wildly, splashing in the river, droplets glittering in the sun.
At the gate, I tell Emily not to scold him. “He’s a man. Don’t shame him. Treasure him. Find reasons to praise.”
She sighs about her lot—her blind mother, her meagre wages.
I say, “You’ve a home, a living mother, work, a son who helps, your health. Cherish what you have.”
She smiles and waves me off.
My time with Alex isn’t wasted. At five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to Gran. On still evenings, we take our rods to the river. The sun, like a ripe sunflower, sinks behind the trees, painting the clouds gold. The world hushes. Our chatter doesn’t scare the fish—soon, two gleam in the bucket. Supper for my cat.
Today, my Angel visited. He’s forty-two now—Dr. Alex Newman, a respected surgeon. He visits his mother’s and Gran’s graves yearly, then comes to me, arms laden. The world calls him Alex, but I know the truth.
An Angel. Broad-shouldered, kind.
He sets a punnet of strawberries on the table, takes his seat by the window, sips tea with warm scones. Later, he smokes on the step, hugs me goodbye with great, warm wings.
Some souls are just born brighter.
[End of entry.]
