Hanna Vasylivna, this girl must continue her studies. Bright minds like hers are rare—she has a true gift for languages and literature. You should see her work!

“Miss Hannah, you must let the girl continue her studies. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. She has a rare gift for languages and literature. You should see her writing!

My daughter was just three when I found her under the bridge, covered in mud. I raised her as my own, though folks whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, while I still live in my cottage, sifting through memories like precious beads.

The floor creaked under my feetIve been meaning to fix it for ages, but never find the time. I sat at the table and pulled out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and a birch branch tapped the window as if begging to come in.

Whats all this racket? I said to it. Wait a little longerspring will come.

Silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything feels alive. After those terrible times, I was left a widowmy Stephen was gone. I still keep his last letter, worn at the folds from how often Ive read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy A week later, I got the news.

God never gave us childrenperhaps for the best, in those years when there was barely enough to feed ourselves. The farm manager, Mr. Nichols, would console me:

Dont fret, Hannah. Youre still youngyoull marry again.

I wont, Id say firmly. I loved once. Thats enough.

I worked from dawn till dusk at the farm. The foreman, Mr. Peters, would shout:

Hannah, you should head homeits late!

Ill manage, Id reply. While my hands work, my soul stays young.

I kept a small homesteada stubborn goat named Nanny, five hens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbor, Clara, often teased:

Are you sure youre not a turkey? Why else would your hens crow before anyone elses?

I tended a gardenpotatoes, carrots, beets. All homegrown, from the earth. In autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. Opening a jar in winter was like bringing summer back inside.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. March was damp and cold. A drizzle had turned to ice by evening. Id gone to gather firewoodplenty of fallen branches after the winter storms. On my way back, near the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was the wind. But noclear as day, a childs whimper.

I climbed down and saw hera little girl, shivering in the mud, her dress soaked and torn, eyes wide with fear. When she spotted me, she fell silent, trembling like a leaf.

Whose child are you, little one? I asked softly, so as not to scare her more.

She just blinked. Her lips were blue from cold, her hands red and swollen.

Youre frozen through, I murmured. Lets get you home and warmed up.

I lifted herlight as a featherwrapped her in my shawl, and held her close. All the while, I wondered: what kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge?

I left the firewood behindit didnt matter now. The whole way home, she clung to my neck in silence.

The neighbors came runningnews travels fast in the village. Clara arrived first:

Good Lord, Hannah, whered you find her?

Under the bridge, I said. Abandoned, it seems.

Oh, what a shame Clara clucked. What will you do with her?

What do you think? Im keeping her.

Have you lost your mind, Hannah? Old Martha hobbled over. How will you feed a child?

With whatever God provides, I snapped.

I lit the stove, heated water. The girl was bruised and thin, ribs showing. I bathed her, dressed her in an old sweaterno childrens clothes in my house.

Hungry? I asked.

She nodded shyly.

I gave her yesterdays soup and bread. She ate hungrily but neatlyclearly not a street child.

Whats your name?

Silence. Too scared to speak, or perhaps she didnt know how.

I put her to bed and slept on the bench. That night, I woke often to check on her. She slept curled up, whimpering in her dreams.

At dawn, I went to the parish council to report the foundling. The chairman, Mr. Wilson, sighed:

No missing child reported. Probably from the city.

What now?

By law, she goes to the orphanage. Ill telephone the district today.

My chest tightened.

Wait, Mr. Wilson. Give me timemaybe her parents will come forward. For now, she stays with me.

Hannah, think carefully

Ive made up my mind.

I named her Mary, after my mother. No one ever came for her. And thank GodId grown to love her dearly.

At first, she barely spoke, just watched everything with wide eyes. Shed wake screaming at night, trembling. Id hold her close, stroke her hair:

Hush, my dear. Alls well now.

From old scraps, I sewed her clothesblue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. Clara gasped when she saw:

Hannah, youve got hands of gold! I thought you only knew how to wield a spade.

Life teaches many trades, I said, glowing at the praise.

Not all were kind. Old Martha would cross herself at the sight of us:

Bad luck, Hannah. A foundling brings sorrow. Her mother mustve been wicked

Quiet, Martha! I cut in. Judge not. Shes my girl now, and thats final.

Even Mr. Nichols frowned at first:

Hannah, why not the orphanage? Theyll feed and clothe her properly.

And wholl love her? I asked.

He relented, sending milk and grain when he could.

Mary slowly blossomed. First words, then sentences. Ill never forget her first laughId fallen off a chair hanging curtains, groaning, and she burst into giggles. The sound was sweeter than any medicine.

Shed help in the garden, toddling with a tiny spade, trampling more weeds than she pulled. But I never scoldedjust rejoiced to see her alive with joy.

Then fever struck. She burned, delirious. I ran to the village medic, Mr. Shaw:

Please, help!

He shook his head.

What medicine? Ive three aspirin tablets for the whole parish. Maybe next week

Next week? I cried. She might not last the night!

I trudged nine miles through mud to the town clinic. Shoes ruined, feet blistered. A young doctor, Dr. Allen, took one look at mefilthy, soakedand said:

Wait here.

He returned with medicine, instructions.

No charge, he said. Just get her well.

Three days I nursed her, whispering prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered:

Mum water?

Mum. The first time she called me that. I weptfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with tiny fingers:

Mum, why cry? Does it hurt?

No, I said. These are happy tears, my love.

After that, she flourishedsweet, chatty. At school, her teacher marveled:

Such a bright girl! She grasps everything.

Even the villagers warmed to her. Old Martha softened after Mary helped her light the stove in a bitter winter. The old woman fed her cakes, taught her to knit, and never spoke again of bad blood.

Years flew. One evening, Mary asked about the bridge as I darned socks.

Mum remember when you found me?

My heart skipped.

I do, love.

I remember too. It was cold. Scary. A woman was crying then she left.

My knitting needles clattered.

I dont remember her face. Just a blue shawl. And she kept saying, Forgive me

Mary

Dont worry, Mum. Im glad you found me.

I held her tight, throat aching. How often Id wondered about the woman in blue. Starvation? A drunkard husband? Life is cruel sometimes. Not for me to judge.

That night, I lay awake. Fates strange twistsId thought life had left me lonely. Now I saw: it was preparing me to love a child who needed me.

Mary grew curious about her past. I hid nothing but chose gentle words:

Sometimes, love, people face choices