The Fiery-haired Enigma

Emma Barker was a blonde, and her husband James was a darkhaired, charismatic man. They adored each other, and two years after their wedding a daughter was due.

The labour was difficult; the babys umbilical cord had become tangled, so she could not be born straight away. Immediately after the birth an anaesthetist was called to give the newborn a burst of extra oxygen. Emma was moved to a recovery ward and did not see her child until ten hours later. When the nurse finally brought the bundle, she laid the little one on a table, unwrapped her, and revealed a tiny, redhaired girl with long, bouncy curls.

Are you sure this isnt the wrong baby? Emma asked timidly.

The baby is yours, no doubt about it, the nurse replied. Mothers take their children straight to the bedside, and yours was the only one who spent time in the oxygen chamber. By the way, your husband must be a redhead too, she added with a smile before disappearing down the corridor.

Emma stared at the infant, hardly believing her eyes. The baby scrunched her face, wailing for her mothers breast, and only calmed when Emma pressed her close. When James arrived to take his girls home, he glanced at the newborn, looked puzzled, but said nothing.

Back at their flat in London they traced their families, called relatives, and discovered that Jamess greatgrandmother on his fathers side had been a fieryhaired Irishwoman. All the children after her were darkhaired, like James himself.

After the first wash, when Emma wrapped the girl in a towel, James looked at her and exclaimed, She looks like a Maytime dandelion. Though the baby had already been christened Ethel, the nickname Dandelion stuck, and the parents called her nothing else.

Ethel grew into a cheerful child; neighbours nicknamed her Giggle because she laughed often and only cried when there was a clear reason. At four, a sprinkle of freckles appeared on the tip of her nose.

Mother, what are those? she asked innocently.

Theyre freckles, Emma said, kissing her cheek, and angels are said to have them. The more freckles you have, the more people youre meant to help. Ethel took the words to heart and carried them with her for the rest of her life.

In the playground, whenever another child began to sob, Ethel would abandon her sandcastles, dash over, smooth the crying childs hair and whisper soothing words. The tears stopped instantly, and Ethel became convinced she truly was an angel. When a toddler spotted her favourite doll and began wailing for the same toy, Ethel would hand over her beloved doll. Somehow the doll always reappeared on her shelf, thanks to the sacrifices of other mothers who bought icecream or sweets to coax it back. Ethel never questioned why it happened; she simply believed it was how an angel behaved.

In Year Five, on her way home from school, she saw an elderly man stumbling over his untied shoes on the pavement. He bent down to retie them, while a boy on the floor above leaned out to watch the street. The boys elbow knocked a large pot containing a ficus, sending it crashing down. Before the pot could hit the old man, Ethel lunged forward and shoved him aside. The pot smashed where he had been standing, shattering into splinters.

The man, stunned, looked up at Ethel and said, Little one, youre an angel. You saved me from a terrible accident. The gratitude in his voice cemented Ethels belief that she had been born to help.

Each spring the number of freckles on her nose grew. One morning she examined herself in the mirrorcurly red hair, bright blue eyes, rosy lips, and a fresh constellation of freckles.

Mother, she asked seriously, where will I find all the people who need my help?

Emma, surprised, replied, Darling, I dont understand what you mean.

Ethel gestured to her nose. Look at the freckles. Every spring they increase, and that means more people appear who need assistance.

My dear, Emma tried, your freckles are just the suns kisses. Each new spot is a little kiss from the sunshine.

Ethel shook her head. You told me Im an angel, and that every freckle marks a person I must help.

Recalling her own words from years before, Emma hugged her daughter tightly, whispered, My little Dandelion, you truly are an angel, and kissed the crown of her head.

As a teenager, Ethel routinely helped elderly neighbours cross the road, carried their shopping bags even when they lived on the other side of town, and often bought icecream or a tin of biscuits for a shopper who seemed undecided in a supermarket, giving the treat to the senior herself.

One afternoon, while strolling down the high street, a sleek woman in a designer coat passed by, trailing a faint, exotic perfume. The woman turned toward a gleaming Lexus parked nearby. Ethel, shy but curious, hesitated to ask about the scent. Gathering unexpected courage, she seized the womans sleeve as the cars doors closed with a soft chime.

Excuse me, miss! Ethel blurted, Im sorry for the intrusion, but your perfume is extraordinary. May I ask what it is?

Before the woman could answer, screeching brakes shattered the streets calm. A car, clearly driven recklessly, smashed into the womans vehicle. Metal crumpled, the drivers door twisted, and the passenger seat flew forward. The woman, trembling, clutched Ethels arm.

Youre my guardian angel, she whispered, tears mixing with the rain.

In her early twenties, Ethel met a young man on a drizzly evening as they both waited for the underground. He asked politely for directions to Bellfield Road. When she turned, she saw a handsome stranger with damp, red curls and freckles that seemed to glow despite the grey sky. Their eyes met, and they burst into laughter, the sound echoing over the patter of rain and occasional snowflakes. She slipped off her knitted hat, still chuckling; he laughed too.

Two years later they welcomed a curlyhaired, redcapped baby boyanother little dandelion. When he turned four, a fresh splash of freckles blossomed on his nose.

Mum, what are these? he asked.

Ethel smiled and said, Those are freckles, just like the angels have. The more you have, the more people youre meant to help.

And so the cycle continued, each freckle a reminder that a simple act of kindness can light up anothers world. The true lesson is that caring for others need not be a grand crusade; it is the small, everyday gesturesan extra hug, a shared treat, a steady handthat turn ordinary lives into something extraordinary.