Anna, Your Daughter Should Keep Studying – She Has a Rare Gift for Languages and Literature. You Should See Her Work!

Oh, Annie love, you really must let that girl keep studying. Bright minds like hers dont come along often. Ive never seen such a gift for language and literatureyou should read her essays!

My daughter was just three when I found her in the mud under the bridge. Raised her as my own, though people whispered behind my back. Now shes a teacher in the city, and here I still am in my little cottage, turning memories over like precious beads.

The floor creaked under my feetI kept meaning to fix it, but never got round to it. Sat down at the table, pulled out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tree tapped its branch against the window as if asking to come in.

Whats all this fuss? I said to it. Hold on, springs coming.

Silly, talking to a tree, but when you live alone, everything starts to feel alive. After those terrible times, I was left a widowmy Stephen was gone. I still kept his last letter, faded and worn at the folds from how often Id read it. He wrote that hed be home soon, that he loved me, that wed be happy A week later, I got the news.

No childrenmaybe it was for the best. In those years, there was barely enough to feed yourself. The head of the village council, Nicholas, would try to comfort me:

Dont fret, Annie. Youre still young, youll marry again.

No, Id say firmly. Loved once, thats enough.

Worked dawn till dusk on the farm. The foreman, George, used to shout:

Annie, time to go home, its late!

Ill manage, Id say. As long as my hands work, my soul wont age.

Didnt have muchjust a stubborn goat named Daisy, and five chickens who woke me better than any rooster. My neighbor, Clara, used to tease:

You sure youre not a turkey? Why do your hens crow before anyone elses?

Kept a gardenpotatoes, carrots, turnips. Everything from the earth. Come autumn, Id pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, mushrooms. Open a jar in winter, and it was like summer came back inside.

Remember that day like it was yesterday. March was wet, miserable. Drenched by morning, frozen by evening. Went to the woods for firewoodplenty of fallen branches after winter storms. Gathered an armful and was heading home past the old bridge when I heard crying. Thought it was the wind at first, but noclear as day, a childs whimper.

Went under the bridge, and there she wasa little girl, covered in mud, dress soaked and torn, eyes wide with fright. She went quiet when she saw me, just trembling like an aspen leaf.

Who do you belong to, love? I asked softly, not to scare her more.

No answer, just blinking those big eyes. Lips blue with cold, hands red and swollen.

Frozen through, I muttered. Lets get you home, warm you up.

Picked her uplight as a feather. Wrapped her in my shawl, held her close. Kept thinkingwhat kind of mother leaves her child under a bridge? Couldnt make sense of it.

Had to leave the firewoodno time for it now. She stayed silent all the way home, just clinging to my neck with those icy little fingers.

Neighbors came running fast as gossip travels. Clara first:

Lord, Annie, whered you find her?

Under the bridge, I said. Abandoned, seems.

Oh, what a shame Whatll you do with her?

Do? Keep her.

Lost your mind? Old Martha chimed in. Whered you get the means to feed a child?

God provides, I snapped.

Got the stove roaring, heated water. She was covered in bruises, skin and bones. Bathed her, wrapped her in an old jumperno childrens clothes in the house.

Hungry?

A shy nod.

Gave her yesterdays soup, a slice of bread. She ate hungrily but neatlynot a street child, then.

Whats your name?

Silence. Too scared, or maybe couldnt speak.

Put her to sleep in my bed, took the bench myself. Woke up twice in the night to check on her. Curled up like a kitten, whimpering in her sleep.

Next morning, straight to the council. The head, John, just shrugged:

No missing child reported. Maybe someone from the city left her

What now?

By law, she goes to the childrens home. Ill ring the district today.

My chest tightened:

Wait, John. Give it timemaybe her parents will turn up. Till then, she stays with me.

Annie, think this through

Nothing to think about. Its done.

Named her Mary, after my mother. Waitedno one ever came. And thank GodId already grown to love her.

At first, it was hard. She didnt speak, just stared around the house like she was searching for something. Woke up screaming at night, shaking. Id hold her, stroke her hair:

Hush now, love. Its alright.

Made her clothes from old fabricdyed them blue, green, red. Simple, but cheerful. Clara gasped when she saw:

Annie, youve got golden hands! I thought you only knew a shovel.

Life teaches, I said, glowing at the praise.

But not everyone was kind. Old Martha especiallycrossed herself whenever she saw us:

Bad luck, Annie. A foundling brings sorrow. Apple doesnt fall far

Enough, Martha! I cut in. Who are you to judge? Shes mine now.

Even the councilman frowned at first:

Annie, maybe the childrens home? Theyll feed her proper, clothe her.

And wholl love her? I asked. That place has enough orphans.

He shrugged but started helpingsent milk, flour.

Mary slowly thawed. First words, then sentences. Remembered her first laughId slipped hanging curtains, groaned, and she burst out giggling, clear as a bell. I forgot the pain instantly.

Tried to help in the gardengave her a tiny spade. She marched about importantly, mostly trampling weeds into the soil. Didnt scold herjust glad to see life in her.

Then came the fever. She burned for days. Our local medic, Sam, just shook his head:

What medicine, Annie? Three aspirin for the whole village. Maybe theyll bring more next week.

Next week? I shouted. She might not last till morning!

I ran to the townnine miles through mud. Shoes ruined, legs blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex, took one look at medirty, soakedand said:

Wait here.

Brought back medicine, showed me how to dose it.

No charge, he said. Just get her out of there.

Three days by her bed. Whispered prayers, changed compresses. On the fourth day, the fever broke. She opened her eyes and whispered:

Mum Water.

Mum. First time shed called me that. I criedfrom joy, exhaustion, everything. She wiped my tears with her small hand:

Mum, why you crying? It hurt?

No, I said. Happy tears, love.

After that, she bloomedchatty, affectionate. Started school, and her teacher couldnt praise her enough:

Such a bright girl! Picks up everything so quick.

The village warmed to her. Even Martha softenedstarted bringing pies. Especially after Mary helped her light the stove in freezing weather. The old woman had a bad back, no firewood. Mary insisted:

Mum, lets help Granny Martha. Shes cold all alone.

They became unlikely friendsthe grumpy old woman and my girl. Martha told her stories, taught her to knit, and never mentioned bad blood again.

Years passed. Mary was nine when she first spoke of the bridge. Evening, me darning socks, her rocking a cloth doll.

Mum remember when you found me?

My heart lurched, but I kept steady:

I do, love.

I remember a bit. It was cold. Scared. A woman was crying then she left.

My needles clattered. She went on:

Dont remember her face. Just a blue scarf. And she kept saying, Forgive me

Mary

Dont worry, Mum. Im not sad. Just remembering. She suddenly smiled. Im glad you found me.

Held her tight, throat aching. How often I