The Girl Sat on the Bed, Knees Drawn Up, Irritably Repeating:

28October2025

Ive been sitting on the edge of the nurses station in StMarys Hospital, London, replaying todays events over and over. The ward feels colder than usual, perhaps because the autumn wind has found its way through the old stone walls, or perhaps because of the heaviness that settled on us this morning.

Emily Hartley was curled up on one of the cot beds, legs drawn up, muttering to herself with a tone that bordered on hysterical. I dont want him. Im done with him. All I ever wanted was Charlie, but he told me he doesnt want a child, so I dont need one either. Do whatever you like with himI dont care. Her voice cracked, and she clutched a thin blanket as if it might protect her from the world.

The senior sister, Matron Margaret Whitfield, tried to intervene. Love, abandoning your own child is barbaric. Even beasts would not act so, she said, her voice weary but firm.

Emily snapped back, I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me now, or Ill make a scene you wont forget. Her eyes flashed with desperation, and she seemed ready to throw a fit that could shatter the thin glass windows.

Matron Margaret sighed, Oh, child, youre being foolish. God help you. She knew from years of experience that medicine alone could not cure this obstinacy.

Emily had been transferred a week ago from the maternity unit to our paediatric ward. She was a storm of protest, refusing to breastfeed her newborn no matter how gently we coaxed her. She would only agree to express milk, but even that she could not manage without a place of her own. The attending paediatrician, DrAmelia Jones, a brighteyed twentysomething, found herself at a loss. Emilys tantrums were endless, and each attempt to explain the danger to the infant only seemed to fuel her anger.

When DrAmelia suggested that Emily might run away, Emily shouted, Fine, Ill run. The junior doctor, panicked, called for Matron Whitfield, who spent a harrowing hour trying to reason with the irrational mother. Emily insisted she had to be with her boyfriend, who, she claimed, would leave her if she didnt travel south with him.

Matron Whitfield, though exhausted, refused to give up. After decades on the ward she had seen countless mothers like Emily, and she knew she could keep her here for a few more daysperhaps threejust enough time for the woman to cool her head. The very mention of three days set Emily off like a powder keg.

Are you mad? she screamed. Charlies already angry with me because of this blasted baby, and now youre throwing me another curveball. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katya. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ranted about how everyone was blind to the fact that Katya only wanted the baby so that Charlie would finally marry her.

Matron Whitfield gave a resigned sigh and ordered a dose of valerian, then headed for the door. The resident registrar, who had been silent until now, followed.

In the corridor she paused, lowering her voice. Do you truly believe this child will fare well with a mother like that?

Emily, sniffling, replied, Whats to be done? Otherwise theyll send him to the baby home, then an orphanage. Both families are respectablehers and the boyfriends. Perhaps a talk with the parents could help? After all, its his first grandchild, and the lad is a goodlooking one. Find their details; I need to speak with them.

Later that day Emily vanished. Matron Whitfield called the boys parents, only to learn that they had refused even to speak with her. Two days later, a grimlooking manEmilys fatherarrived, his face set in a permanent scowl. He brushed off the suggestion to look at his grandson, declaring he would have his daughter sign a refusal form and send it via his driver. Matron Whitfield insisted the mother herself must sign; otherwise the paperwork would be invalid. The man bristled, his bureaucratic nerves already frayed, and promised to send his wife to handle it.

The next morning a petite, sallowskinned woman entered, perched on the edge of a chair, and began to sob uncontrollably. She whispered that this tragedy had stemmed from the boys wealthy family whisking him away abroad. My daughter cries day and night, swearing she hates the child, she wailed. She said shed chase him overseas if she could, even if the whole world burst in fury.

Matron Whitfield, trying to kindle any maternal feeling, offered the woman a look at the baby. The womans eyes softened, then hardened again as she clutched a fresh handkerchief and wept louder.

I asked a nurse to give the woman another dose of valerian, muttering that such dramas would soon deplete our stock of calming medicines.

I then reported the whole affair to the head of paediatrics, DrEdward Clarke. He had once been a beloved consultant; seeing the infant, he brightened, asked what the child was being fed, and chuckled that the little one was a proper little doughnut. Hence the nickname Doughnut stuck.

Doughnuts stay stretched into months. We tried repeatedly to coax his mother back. She visited, sometimes playing with him, claiming she was saving money for a ticket to reunite with her boyfriend. She seemed to grow attached, but her affection was always tinged with selfish hopes. The boys grandmother also visited, playing with him but always leaving in tears, apologising for her daughters madness. I could see the pain in their eyes, yet they never signed the relinquishment papers.

One day, Emily discovered that her boyfriend had married someone else. She erupted, shouting that the world was conspiring to keep them apart, that she hated everyone, especially the child. She believed that if the baby were gone, she could be with Charlie and live happily. In a fit of desperation she drafted a refusal form, handed it to DrClarke, and fled the ward without a word.

The next morning, Matron Whitfield called me into her office. She returned, face hard as granite, and said, Its done. Shes signed the form. The chief wants us to process the paperwork for the baby home.

I watched her remove her glasses, rub them methodicallya telltale sign of nerves. The whole ward seemed to hold its breath. Meanwhile, Doughnut, oblivious to the adult turmoil, giggled in his cot, his tiny hands waving at a passing nurse. Suddenly his babble stopped; he stared intently at the nurse, his bright eyes filling with something unnameable. She felt a pang in her chest, tears welling up for reasons she could not articulate, and the infants mournful gaze seemed to echo the sorrow of all abandoned children.

It struck me then how these tiny lives, unaware of the worlds cruelty, still feel the sting of rejection. They become quiet, trying not to draw attention, as if the universe might finally notice them. The world can be merciless, bestowing blessings on some while stripping others of everything. Yet somewhere, a glimmer of hope persists: that a kind soul might see a childs worth and act.

Later, I lingered by Doughnuts cot, watching him as he tried to grasp at the coralcoloured beads I dangled. He clutched at them with a desperate grip, his chubby fingers refusing to let go. I whispered, Youre not a doughnut, youre a little lad, and well find you a proper home. The staff rallied, searching for a family who could love him. We eventually identified a couple, Laura and Leonard, in their midthirties, childless and yearning for a baby. Their home was warm, their smiles genuine, and they seemed the perfect fit.

When Laura entered the ward, her eyes widened at the sight of Doughnut. He peered up at her, then, as if sensing her kindness, reached out and clutched her thumb with a firm little grasp. The room filled with soft laughter. Lauras voice trembled with joy as she whispered, Youre ours now, love. The moment was tender, the kind that restores faith in humanity.

Matron Whitfield, satisfied that the boy would finally have a loving family, sighed, Well, well see what the future holds, and left the room, her steps echoing down the corridor.

As I write this, the ward is quieter. The autumn rain taps against the windows, and I think of all the little souls who have passed through these wallssome lost, some saved. I hope that, like Doughnut, they find a place where they are cherished, and that the world, however harsh, can still offer a sliver of compassion.

Matron Margaret Whitfield, StMarys Hospital.