I Don’t Need Him: I’m Turning My Back on Him.

I remember it as if it were a foggy tale from the old days of the county infirmary, when the wards still smelled of boiled linseed oil and the night shift was a chorus of rusted wheels. Emily stood on the narrow bed, knees drawn up, and repeated with a sharp edge, I dont need him. Im turning him away. All I want is Andrew, and he says a child isnt for him. Then Im not for him either. Do whatever you like with him it makes no difference to me.

The little one is yours! To refuse your own child is barbaric. Even beasts would not act so, the matron, Margaret Whitfield, said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Beasts may keep their cubs, but I care not, Emily snapped. Discharge me at once, or Ill make you wish youd never set foot in this ward. Her eyes flashed with a wild, desperate light.

Child, youre a foolish lass, Margaret sighed, a soft prayer slipping from her lips. Her experience told her medicine could not cure this obstinacy.

Only a week earlier, they had moved Emily from the maternity block into the childrens ward. She was a quarrelsome, scandalprone young woman who refused, outright, to breastfeed her baby, no matter how gently they coaxed her. She would only agree to pump, but then she found no excuse to stay.

Dr. Mary Hargreaves, the junior paediatrician, fought a losing battle with Emily. The girl threw endless tantrums, and Mary tried in vain to explain how dangerous the neglect was. When Emily announced she would run away, a flustered Mary summoned Margaret, who spent a tired hour pleading with the unreasonable mother. Emily insisted she must be with her boyfriend, though he would soon leave her behind.

Margaret, however, would not surrender. Years of work had taught her that such mothers eventually softened. I can keep her here a few more days. Let her think, perhaps shell see sense, she whispered. Hearing that, Emily erupted.

Youre mad! Andrews already furious about this cursed child, and now youre tossing me another stone. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katya, she wailed, tears streaming, insisting the baby was only a pawn in her hope of marriage.

Margaret gave a weary sigh, ordered a dose of valerian, and made for the doorway. The resident registrar, Miss Helen Clarke, followed her silently.

In the corridor, Margaret paused and asked in a low voice, Do you truly believe a child can thrive with a mother like this, if we may call her that?

My dear, Margaret answered, what else shall we do? If we send him to the baby home, hell end up in an orphanage. Their families are respectablehers and his. Perhaps a talk with the parents will help; after all, theyre adults and this is their first grandchild. And the boy is a fine lad. Find out the parents address; I need to speak with them.

Emily fled that very day. Margaret rang the boys parents, but the young mans family would not even converse with her. Two days later, the boys father arriveda sourtempered, unpleasant fellow. Margaret tried to negotiate, offering to let him see his child. He shrugged, saying he cared not, and that his daughter would simply send a written refusal via his driver. Margaret insisted the mother must come herself; otherwise the discharge could not proceed. The man bristled, then, fearing bureaucratic trouble, promised to send his wife to handle matters.

The next morning, a petite, colourless woman entered, perched on the edge of a chair, and burst into sobs. She whispered of grief, of the boys wealthy family whisking him away abroad, of her own daughters endless wailing and hateful cries, and of a desperate promise to follow the child overseas. Shell be with Andrew, even if the whole world burns, the woman kept shrieking, her voice cracking.

Margaret sighed, offering the woman a glimpse of the infant, hoping some grandmotherly affection might awaken. The woman cooed, What a pretty little thing, and clutched a fresh handkerchief, wailing even more. Margaret merely muttered, Mmm, and sent a nurse to give the woman another dose of valerian, grumbling that such theatrics would soon drain the wards calming supplies.

She then ran to the chief consultant, Dr. Edward Langley, recounting the whole mess and stating she intended to keep the child in the ward a while longer. Dr. Langley, once a beloved paediatrician, softened at the sight of the tiny boyso plump he resembled a doughnut, and the staff began calling him Biscuit.

Biscuits stay stretched over several months. The mother, Emily, returned now and then, playing with him, claiming she was saving money for a ticket to find her boyfriend. She seemed to grow accustomed to the child, and he, in turn, smiled at her visits. The boys grandmother also came, doting on him, yet each departure was accompanied by tears and apologies for the erratic daughter, whom Margaret dismissed as driven by lust rather than love.

Despite the visits, no one signed any papers, and the child remained unclaimed. Margaret decided to confront them seriously, warning that the boys health was failing. The wards atmosphere grew tense; Dr. Mary, whenever she could, rushed to hold him. Biscuit, sweaty and with damp hair clinging to his forehead, began to lose weight and grew feeble. Mary cradled him, calling him not a biscuit any more, but a little pancake. Yet, after a brief illness, he regained strength and returned to his cheerful self, delighting in the bright coral beads Mary wore, trying to bite them as they dangled above his head.

One day, the calm shattered. Emily learned, in a sudden, cruel revelation, that her boyfriend had married another. She erupted, screaming that the world conspired to keep them apart, that she despised everyone, especially the child. If this baby were gone, Id be with Andrew now, happy, she sobbed, vowing to submit a refusal and have him sent to the orphanage, then to chase Andrew and force him to drop the child and marry her. She handed the refusal letter to the chief, placed it on his desk, turned, and left without a word.

The chief called Margaret in. She returned, her face dark, and announced, Its done. The letters filed. The baby will be transferred to the baby home. A young registrar wept quietly. Margaret sat down, removed her spectacles, and began to rub them thoughtfullya habit that meant she was nervous. Those who knew her understood that when the stern matron polished her glasses, she was battling hidden tears.

Meanwhile, Biscuit played happily in his cot. A nurse entered, smiling as always, and he squealed with delight, flailing his arms and legs. Suddenly he froze, his bright eyes fixed on something unseen, then fell silent.

The nurse, bewildered, leaned close and felt a strange pain in her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. She later learned that this moment coincided with the mothers submission of the refusal. She recounted it through sobs, while Margaret growled that there was no point in the endless fuss, that people would fabricate nonsense and drown in it.

All these childish tales were superstitions, mere coincidences. Abandoned children always seem to sense the rejection, whether by their own feeling or by some unseen whisper in the night, and they try to become invisible, to trouble no one. It is as if they know the world will soon try to hide them away in a grey, dismal institution, thinking they are useless.

It matters not whether you are hungry or your forehead burns; no one will read you a bedtime story, no one will tuck you in. The world is indifferent, and the wise abandoned child knows this, his puppylike gaze filled with hopelessness. The merciless world bestows gifts on some and strips everything from others. The poor child will spend years trying to understand why he was rejected, what he did wrong, what he could have changed. Yet no answer comes. Indifference has cast him aside without reason. You are not at fault, but you will suffer, my innocent child, suffering for the sins of others, paying for the coldness and greed of those around you.

But there is still hopea hope that fortune may smile, that some kindness will break through this cold world. Believe, my child, wait and trust.

From that day onward, the boy lay silent in his cot, no longer playing, no longer smiling, his eyes fixed on anyone who looked his way with an unbearable seriousness. Dr. Mary tried in vain to lift his spirits:

Biscuit, would you like a cuddle? Come on, lets play. Look, I have beads, shall we? She reached out, smiling, hoping he would take her hand as he usually did. He stared at her, detached, and did not move. She returned to the bedside, tears welling.

At last, she could contain herself no longer and shouted, Were betraying him, you understand? First the cruel men, now us! Hes not to blame for being born into this mess! I despise it all! She sat on the sofa, head tucked between her knees, a low whine escaping her. Margaret rose from her desk, sat beside her, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Child, I truly do not know what to do. I feel sorry for BiscuitGod, how sorry we are. What a dreadful job this is, she murmured.

I wont just sit and wait; Ill act, the young woman declared.

Then stop sitting, Margaret snapped. If you keep wailing, youll soak my coat. Acting means you must act. Dont tell me you intend to adopt him; theyll never let you. You live in a hostelonce. No husbandtwice. So I wont listen any more. This is just an emotional outburst. Do you know how many Biscuits Ive seen in my life? Too many to count, God forgive me. Lets make a deal: well give you time, and you must find him a family.

Good families, she said, thats what you need, child. Stop the lament and go looking.

Thus Mary set out to find the best possible parents for Biscuit, pouring her heart into the search. The little boy, though ill with a common cold, could not be discharged. Margaret noted, For the first time in my life Im almost glad a child fell ill. God forgive me!

At last she found a coupleLydia and Leonard. Both in their thirties, childless, they had long dreamed of a baby and now turned to adoption. Lydia was a gentle, elegant woman with a soft smile and a lilting voice; Leonard was a sturdy, broadshouldered man, reminiscent of a former army officer, clearly devoted to his wife. Their home was bright and welcoming. Mary breathed a sigh of relief; they seemed perfect.

When Margaret met Leonard, she couldnt help but let out a small whistling laugh, then quickly blushed, Pardon me, just admiration. One doesnt see such a big lad every day. She asked, halfjoking, What was his birth weight, child?

Leonard, a little flustered, replied, Im not sure Ill ask his mother. Lydia giggled, Hell soon tire the mother with his questions.

Its not needed for the adoption, Margaret explained. He just looks like Biscuit.

Lydia opened the door, stepped in, and the cots soft blankets cradled Biscuit. He turned pink in his sleep, his tiny hands and feet fluttering. A single tear glistened in the corner of his eye. He woke, blinking at the ceiling, then fixed his gaze on Lydia. He stared at her, then, as if recognizing something, his eyebrows lifted, and his eyes widened.

Lydia did not look away. She studied his small features, and Biscuit, cautious yet curious, reached out and clasped her thumb with a firm little grip. A soft laugh rippled through the room. Lydia and the infant stared at each other, a tender silence settling.

Then Biscuit offered a faint, shy smile. Lydia returned it, nodding gently, and he let out a tiny squeak. The room held its breath, sensing something profound. Margaret cleared her throat and said, Let us finish this first meeting. Youll go home, discuss, and decide

Weve already decided, Lydia answered calmly, not turning to Margaret. We want him.

Margaret raised an eyebrow, glanced at Leonard, who nodded. Weve spoken, and we want this child.

Lydia smiled at Biscuit, extending her hand. He tightened his grip, refusing to let go. She tried again, and he held on with all the strength of his tiny fingers. A tense silence fell.

Hmm, Margaret muttered, youll have to pull harder; their grasp reflex at this age is strong.

Reflexes? Lydia asked, still not breaking eye contact.

Its simply that hes afraid I wont return, Margaret replied softly. You must let me go now, but Ill be back, I promise. He must believe you.

Biscuit listened, then released her thumb, breaking into a wide, toothless grin and a delighted squeal.

I explained its just reflexes, Margaret said, removing her spectacles and rubbing her coat impatiently, muttering to herself as the wards old clock ticked on.