The Girl Sat on the Bed, Hugging Her Knees, Irritatedly Repeating:

I was sitting on the cot in the maternity ward, legs tucked under me, and I kept shouting, I dont want him. Im done with him. All I care about is Andrew, and he said he doesnt want a child, so I dont need one either. Do whatever you like with him it makes no difference to me.

The sisterincharge, Mrs. Harding, interrupted, Sweetheart, abandoning your own baby is sheer barbarism. Even beasts dont act like that.

I snorted, I dont care what beasts do. Get me discharged right now or Ill make a scene youll never forget.

Mrs. Harding sighed, Youre being foolish, love. God help us. Her experience told her there was little medicine could do. A week earlier theyd moved me from the delivery suite to the paediatric ward a drama queen who flatout refused to feed her child, no matter how we begged. I only agreed to pump milk, but then I had nowhere else to go.

Emily, the young paediatrician, tried in vain to reason with me. I threw endless tantrums, telling her it was dangerous for the baby, and then declared Id run away. A flustered Emily called Mrs. Harding, who spent an hour trying to persuade the irrational mum. I kept insisting I had to see my boyfriend; he wouldnt wait for me, so Id have to leave him behind.

Mrs. Harding wasnt about to give up. After years on the job shed seen countless mums like me and knew she could keep me here for a few more days just enough for me to think, maybe change my mind. When I heard three days, I erupted, Are you mad? Andrews already angry about this damned baby, and now youre trying to pull the rug from under me. If I dont go south with him, hell go after Katie. I broke down, shouting that they were all idiots who didnt get that Katie only wanted the child to give Andrew a reason to marry her.

Mrs. Harding gave a weary sigh, ordered a dose of valerian, and headed for the door. The registrar, Dr. Patel, whod been quiet all along, followed. In the corridor she paused and asked softly, Do you really think a child can thrive with a mother like that, if we can even call her a mother?

I muttered, What can we do? Otherwise theyll put him in a baby home and then an orphanage. Both families are decent mine and his so maybe we should talk to the grandparents? Its their first grandchild, after all, and the boys a lovely lad. Find out their details, will you?

I bolted that very day. Mrs. Harding rang the grandparents, but the boyfriends family wouldnt even speak to me. Two days later my father showed up a stern, unpleasant man. Mrs. Harding tried to talk, offered to look after the child. He scoffed, saying he wasnt interested and would have his driver deliver the refusal letter. Mrs. Harding insisted the mother had to come herself we cant discharge her without it. He got tense, his bureaucratic fear showing, and finally said his wife would handle it.

The next day a petite, pale woman arrived, perched on the edge of a chair, and broke down crying, whispering about unimaginable tragedy. Her sons parents had whisked him off to the States; they were wealthy and had big plans. Now this nightmare unfolded. Their daughter wept constantly, screaming she hated the baby, saying shed fly abroad to fetch him and that shed be with Andrew no matter what. The little woman kept sobbing, pleading with Mrs. Harding to let her see the child, hoping the grandmother might feel something. She did feel something, but it only made things worse. She clutched a new handkerchief and wailed louder.

Mrs. Harding just muttered oh dear and told a nurse to give the woman more valerian, grumbling that such dramas would soon drain the wards supply of sedatives. She marched to the consultant, Dr. Hughes, explained the mess and said she intended to keep the baby in the ward for now. Dr. Hughes, once a brilliant paediatrician, brightened at the sight of the little boy, asking what he was being fed. He called the infant Biscuit because the chubby cheeks reminded him of a doughnut.

Biscuits stay stretched over several months. The mother kept coming, playing with him, saying she was saving money for a ticket to find Andrew. She seemed to grow attached, but shed also burst into tears each time she left, apologising for her daughters madness she loves her boyfriend like a lunatic. Mrs. Harding called it lust, not love.

The grandparents visited too, never completing any paperwork, yet never taking the child away. Mrs. Harding finally sat them down, explained how sick Biscuit had become, and pressed them to find a permanent home. Everyone was on edge, and Emily, whenever she could, rushed to his cot. Biscuit was often sweaty, his fine hair stuck to his damp forehead. He lost weight, looked frail, and Emily would cradle him, calling him no longer a biscuit, more of a crumpet. Yet whenever he regained weight, he bounced back into the wards favourite little sprout, delighting in Emilys bright coral beads, trying to bite them, laughing happily. Both of them seemed content.

Then the drama peaked. I discovered my boyfriend had married someone else. I went into a blind fury, shouting that everyone was conspiring to keep us apart, that I hated everyone, especially the baby. If he werent there, Id be with Andrew and happy. I swore Id file a refusal form and have him sent to a childrens home, then rush off to Andrew, convince him to ditch the baby and marry me. I truly believed that fantasy, even though the fallout was real. I handed the form to the chief consultant, placed it on his desk, turned and left without a word.

The consultant called Mrs. Harding in. When she returned, looking grim, she said, Its done. Shes filed the form. Ive been told to process the paperwork for the baby home. What can we do now? Well have to go through with it. Emily burst into tears. Mrs. Harding sat down, took off her glasses, and rubbed them absentmindedly, muttering to herself a sure sign she was nervous. When her feelings overwhelmed her, shed even rub her coat as if to squeeze out the tears. Rarely, but it showed she wasnt as stonecold as she seemed.

Meanwhile, Biscuit was gleefully wriggling in his cot. A nurse popped in, and he always squealed with joy whenever someone entered. Suddenly he froze, as if listening intently, then fell silent. The nurse, puzzled, checked on him and saw his bright little eyes. She couldnt explain what she saw, but a lump rose in her throat and tears rolled down her cheeks. She later learned it happened the moment his mother signed the refusal. She told the story between sobs, and Mrs. Harding snapped, Enough of this nonsense.

Its all superstition, she said, just a coincidence. Yet abandoned children always sense that theyve been rejected, whether by angels whispering grief or by their own intuition. They try to become invisible, not to trouble anyone, as if the world will shove them into a grey, dull institution. They feel theyre no ones priority, no one in the vast world cares whether theyre hungry or cold. Wise, forgotten children know this, their puppylike gaze full of hopelessness. The world is merciless, rewarding some and taking everything from others, leaving the little one to wonder why they were spurned, what they did wrong, why theyre hurt. No answers come. Indifference has dismissed them without reason, and they suffer for others cruelty, paying for strangers selfishness.

But theres a sliver of hope. A hope that fate will turn, that someone will notice them, that kindness still exists, even if its scarce. Hold on, little one, keep believing.

From then on, the boy lay quietly in his cot, no longer playing, his smile gone, his gaze deadserious whenever anyone tried to cheer him up. Emily kept trying, Biscuit, want a cuddle? Look, Ive got beads, lets play. She reached out, smiling, hoping hed take her hand, but he stared back, detached. She went back to her duties, tears welling.

One day she snapped, Were betraying him, you know? Its us now, not those bastards. He didnt ask to be born into this mess! I hate it! She slumped on the sofa, head in her hands, whimpering. Mrs. Harding rose from her desk, sat beside her, gently rubbing her shoulder.

Love, Im at a loss too. My heart breaks for Biscuit you cant imagine. Oh, Lord, what a job, she sighed.

Emily shot back, Im not going to just sit here.

Mrs. Harding snapped, Then stop sitting! Youve been wailing here, soaking my coat. If you want to act, act. Dont tell me youll adopt him theyll never let you. Youre in a flat, no husband, thats two reasons not to listen to you. This is just an emotional outburst. Do you know how many Biscuits Ive dealt with? Too many to count, thank God. So lets agree: well give you time, and you find him a proper family.

Emily threw herself into the search for the perfect adoptive parents, pouring her heart into it. The staff even felt the tug of the story. Eventually a couple Laura and Leo came up. In their early thirties, childless, theyd longed for a baby and decided it was time to adopt. Laura was a gentle, elegant woman with a soft smile and a lilting voice; Leo was a sturdy, militarytype bloke who adored his wife. Their home was bright and welcoming. Emily breathed a sigh of relief; now they just needed to meet the boy.

Mrs. Harding greeted Leo with a playful whistle, then blushed, Sorry, thats excitement. Not every day you see a bloke like that, she added, What was his birth weight, love?

Leo fumbled, Uh, Im not sure Ill ask the mum.

Laura laughed, Hell keep mum busy with questions, wont he?

Mrs. Harding replied, We dont need that for the adoption. Youre just a spitting image of Biscuit.

Laura stepped into the ward, resolute. Biscuit slept, his tiny hands and feet curled, a single droplet of tears lingering on his cheek. He stirred, opened his eyes, scanned the room, then froze on Lauras face. Her gaze never wavered; she studied every little line on his head. She reached out, and he, almost reflexively, clutched her thumb with his tiny fist. Everyone chuckled at the cheeky grip. Laura smiled, and Biscuit gave a faint, tentative grin, a soft squeak escaping his lips. A hush fell as they all sensed something precious happening.

Mrs. Harding cleared her throat, Lets call this first meeting a success. Youll go home, think it over, decide.

Laura, without turning, said calmly, We dont need to think. Weve already decided.

Mrs. Harding raised an eyebrow, looked at Leo, who nodded. Well, well see, she murmured.

Laura smiled at Biscuit, extended her hand. He tightened his grip, his small fingers refusing to let go. The room held its breath.

Mrs. Harding sighed, Right, its just a strong grasp reflex at this age.

Laura replied coolly, Hes just scared Ill leave. She leaned close, her voice gentle, Please let me go now, Ill be back, I promise. You have to believe me.

Biscuit listened, then eased his hold, his little mouth forming a wider grin, a bright, triumphant chirp.

Mrs. Harding chuckled, I told you it was reflexes, dear. She rummaged for her glasses, rubbed her coat, muttering under her breath as she prepared the next steps.