Wiping her wet hands with a groan of pain, she hurried to answer the door.

Wiping her damp hands with a wince, she hurried to answer the door. Margaret Whitmore dried her sore fingers, groaned at the ache in her back, and shuffled toward the entrance. The bell had rung softly, but this was the third time. Shed been washing the windows and hadnt made it to the hallway straight away. Outside stood a young womanlovely but pale, exhaustion etched into her face.

“Mrs. Whitmore, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those neighboursalways sending people my way! I dont let rooms. Never have.”
“They said youve got three bedrooms.”
“And what of it? Why would I rent one out? Im used to living alone.”
“Im sorry. They told me you were a woman of faith, so I thought”

The girl, fighting back tears, turned and started down the stairs, her shoulders trembling.

“Come back, child! I didnt turn you away! Goodness, young people these daysso sensitive, tears at the drop of a hat. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we skip the formalities?”
“Emily.”
“Emily Bright, isnt it? Father a sailor?”
“I never had a father. I grew up in care. No mother either. Good folks found me on a stairwell and took me to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Dont fret. Come, well talk over tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought myself a doughnut.”
“A doughnut! Oh, youthnever thinking ahead, and by thirty, its ulcers. Sit down, Ive got pea soup still warm. And well heat the tea. Plenty of jam, too. My husband passed five years ago, and old habits die hardI still cook for two. Well eat, then you can help me finish the windows.”
“Mrs. Whitmore, could I do something else? I get dizzyIm afraid Ill fall off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Even better! Just what I needed. Im a woman of principles. Is the child legitimate?”
“Why assume its not? Im married. Tomfrom the same childrens home. Hes been conscripted, came home on leave recently. When my landlady found out, she gave me a week to leave. We lived nearby. But you see how it is.”
“Right Well, what am I to do with you? Move your things into Simons old room. Fine, youll stay with me. And dont you dare offer rent. Go fetch your things.”
“Its not far. Everything Tom and I own is in this bag by the door. The weeks up, so Ive been knocking on doors.”

And so, the two became a pair Emily was finishing school, training as a dressmaker. Margaret had been on disability since a terrible rail crash years prior, so she stayed home knitting lace doilies, collars, and baby booties, selling them at the local market. Her work was cleverdelicate as sea foam, always in demand. Money wasnt tight. Some came from selling garden produce. Saturdays, they worked the plot together. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Emily stayed home, poring over letters from Tom and replying. She rarely attendedunused to itcomplaining of back pain and dizzy spells.

One Saturday, they prepped the garden for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Aunt Margaret sent her inside to rest, listening to old records she and her husband had collected. That evening, after raking, the expectant mother dozed off. Margaret tossed dry branches into the fire, lost in thought, when Emilys scream pierced the air: “Mum! Mummy, come quick!” Heart pounding, forgetting her own aches, Margaret bolted inside. Emily clutched her belly, crying out. A neighbour helped bundle her into his old Rover, and they sped to hospital. Emily sobbed, “Its too early! Im not due till mid-January! Mummy, pray for meyou know how!” Margaret wept, whispering prayers through tears.

After admissions took Emily away, the neighbour drove Margaret home. She prayed all night to the Virgin for the childs safety. At dawn, she rang the hospital.

“Your daughters fine. Called for you and Tom at first, then settled and slept. Doctor says the risks passed, but shell stay a while. Her irons lowsee she eats well and rests.”

When Emily returned, they talked past midnight. She spoke endlessly of Tom.

“Hes not a boy like me. An orphan. We grew up together. Friends at school, then more. He looks after me. Its deeper than love. See how often he writes? Want his photo? Heresecond from the right. Smiling”

“Handsome” Margaret lied. Her glasses needed updating. The tiny, blurred image showed rows of soldiers. She couldnt make out faces.

“Aunt Margaret, whyd you call me Mum in the garden?”

“It just slipped out. Fear, maybe. In care, every adult was Mum or Dad. I unlearned it. But when Im scared, it comes back. Sorry.”

“I see” Margaret sighed, disappointment plain.

“Aunt Margaret, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband or kids? Didnt you have any?”

“No. Had a son, but he died before his first birthday. After the crash, I couldnt have more. My husband was like a child to meI spoiled him rotten. He was my world, like Tom is yours. When I buried him, I put all photos away. Im a woman of faith, but it hurt too much. Looking made me cry, so I hid them. Now he needs prayers, not tears. Emily, show me Toms picture again. Lets frame it properly. Ive got spares somewhere.”

At Christmas, they decorated, spoke of the Christ Child, and waited for the first star. Emily fidgeted, rubbing her lower back.

“Youre restless, dear. Not listening. Why fuss like a child?”

“Aunt Margaret, call an ambulance. I think Im in labour.”

“Nonsense! Youre due next week.”

“Mustve miscalculated. PleaseI cant bear it.”

Within half an hour, the ambulance raced off. On January 7thChristmas Day by the old calendarEmily had a girl. That same day, Margaret wired the new father.

January was a whirlwind. Little Renee brought joy and sleepless nights. With Toms blessing, Emily named her so. Margaret wept at the honour. The baby kept them busycolic, thrush, endless crying. But it was happy chaos. Margarets own pains eased.

One unseasonably warm day, Margaret shopped while Emily took Renee for a stroll.

“Well walk a bit longer, alright?”

“Go on, love. Ill start supper.”

Back home, Margaret glanced at the tableand froze. Her husbands photo sat framed there. She smiled. “Found them at last. Picked his youth, though. Young folks dont care for old faces.”

Soup simmered when Emily returned. A neighbour carried the pram inside. They unwrapped the baby, her tiny nose twitching sweetly. Tiptoeing out, Emily hesitated.

“Margaret howd you know where the photos were?”

“Know what?”

“That.” Margaret pointed.

“That? You asked for Toms picture enlarged. He went to a studio. The frame was on the bookshelf.”

Margarets hands shook as she lifted it. Only then did she seeit wasnt her husband. A young sergeant beamed at the camera. She sank onto the sofa, pale, staring vacantly. Emily wept, clutching an ammonia-soaked cloth.

“Mum, look at me! Look in my eyes! Whats wrong?”

“Emily, open the wardrobetop shelf. Bring every photo.”

Emily returned with albums. From the top stared Tom?

“My God! Who is this? Is it Tom? Nothis is old. Who is he, Mum?”

“My husband, Simon. Emily, love, where was Tom born?”

“I dont know. He came to our home from London after a train crash. They told him his parents died.”

“Oh God, what a horrible mistake! Michael, my boythey showed me a body, I identified it! He was wearing a shirt like Toms. But the face unrecognisable. No birthmarks. Michael, darlingyoure alive! Your wife and child are here, and I didnt know! Lord, You brought Emily to me. Dear girl, give me that picture.”

Bewildered, Emily handed it over. Margaret kissed it, sobbing. “Michael, my sunshine, my baby!”

“Tom,” Emily corrected softly.

“Call him Tom, but hes my son, Emily. Look at his fathers faceits the same!”

Emily still doubted.

“Emilythe birthmark. Above his right elbow, star-shaped.