The Girl Sat on the Bed, Legs Tucked Under, Irritatedly Repeating:

28October2025

Tonight I sit at my desk, the hospital lights humming low, and I try to make sense of the chaos that has unfolded on the maternity and neonatal wards over the past few weeks. The events have left a bitter taste, and I feel compelled to write them down, lest they dissolve into the night.

The young woman lay on the hospital bed, knees drawn up, muttering angrily to herself: I dont want him. Ill have nothing to do with Andrew. He said he doesnt want a child, so I dont need one either. Do what you like with him Im indifferent.

The matron, Mrs. Hughes, tried to reason: Child, abandoning your own baby is nothing short of barbarism. Even beasts would not do such a thing.

The mother snapped back, I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me right now, or Ill make a scene youll never forget.

Mrs. Hughes sighed, You, my dear, are being foolish, God help you! Her experience told her that medicine alone could not cure this obstinacy.

A week earlier the womanMabel Whitakerhad been moved from the delivery suite to the neonatal bay. She was volatile, scandalous, and refused outright to breastfeed her newborn, no matter how gently we coaxed her. She grudgingly agreed to express milk, but then had nowhere else to go.

Dr. Emily Clarke, the junior paediatrician assigned to the infant, fought a losing battle. Mabel threw endless hysterics, insisting that the baby was unsafe. When Emily warned her of the danger, Mabel declared she would run away. A flustered Emily summoned Mrs. Hughes, who spent a frantic hour trying to sway the irrational mother. Mabel insisted she had to be with her boyfriend, claiming he would leave her if she did not travel south with him.

Mrs. Hughes would not concede. After many years of seeing similar cases, she knew she could keep Mabel under watch for a few more days, hoping the time would bring some sense to her. When Mabel learned of the threeday limit, she erupted: Are you mad? Andrew is already angry about this cursed child, and now youre tossing me a further blow. If I dont go south with him, hell take Katya instead. She fell into tears, screaming that everyone was blind to the fact that Katya only waited for a chance to snatch Andrew away. Mabels only hope of marriage rested on the babys existence.

Mrs. Hughes, exasperated, ordered a dose of valerian and headed for the ward door. The resident, Dr. Clarke, followed quietly. In the corridor, Mrs. Hughes whispered, Do you truly believe a child will thrive with a mother like that?

The little thing, she replied, what else can we do? If we send him to the baby home and later to an orphanage, at least the families have decent standinghers and his. Perhaps a talk with the grandparents would help. After all, theyre adults, and this would be their first grandchild. The boy is a handsome lad, after all. Find the parents details; I need to speak with them.

Mabel fled that very day. Mrs. Hughes called the boys parents, but the young mans family refused even to speak. Two days later Mabels father, a sour, intimidating man, arrived to collect his daughters belongings. Mrs. Hughes tried to persuade him to look at the child. He brushed her off, saying he would have his daughter sign a refusal letter and send it via his driver. Mrs. Hughes insisted the paperwork could not be handled that way; the mother must sign herself, otherwise the rules would be broken. The man, clearly bruised by bureaucracy, relented and said his wife would sort it out.

The next morning a frail, pallid woman entered, perched on the edge of a stool, and burst into sobs, muttering about a great tragedy. She explained that the boys wealthy parents had whisked him abroad, leaving their son behind. Mabel, meanwhile, wailed day after day, screaming that she hated the infant and would travel overseas to retrieve him, no matter how the world might crumble.

Mrs. Hughes, hoping perhaps a grandmothers tenderness might awaken some feeling, offered the woman a look at the baby. The womans eyes softened, only to become more anguished. She clutched a fresh handkerchief and wailed louder, calling the child so lovely and saying she would love to take him, if only her husband would allow it.

Mrs. Hughes muttered, Ugh, and ordered a nurse to give the woman more valerian, cursing that such melodrama would soon drain the wards stock of calmatives.

Later she reported the whole affair to the chief consultant, Dr. Harold Bennett. Upon seeing the infant, Dr. Bennett beamed, asked what the child was being fed, and declared, Hes a little bundle of joylike a doughnut! The nickname Doughnut stuck.

Doughnuts stay stretched into months. The staff kept urging his mother to visit. She came occasionally, playing with him, claiming she was saving money for a ticket to reunite with Andrew. As time passed, she seemed to grow accustomed to his presence. The babys own mother visited too, doting on him, then weeping as she left, apologising for her daughters twisted love, calling it lust rather than affection.

Both women came and went, never signing any formal relinquishment, yet never taking the child home. Mrs. Hughes finally sat the mothers down, explaining the babys worsening health. The infant developed a cold, lost weight, and grew feeble. Emily cradled him constantly, joking that he was no longer a doughnut but a pancake, yet his condition improved whenever he regained weight, and he once again became the wards favourite, delighting in the coral beads Emily wore.

One day Mabel learned, to her horror, that Andrew had married someone else. She exploded, accusing the universe of conspiring against her, vowing that without the child she would be with Andrew and they would be happy. She filed a refusal form, left it on the chiefs desk, and stormed out.

The chief called Mrs. Hughes in. She returned, eyes narrowed, and said, Its done. Shes signed off. Well have to send the boy to the baby home. Emily wept, and Mrs. Hughes, removing her glasses, began polishing them obsessivelya habit that always signalled she was on edge. The wards atmosphere grew heavy, but Doughnut, oblivious, laughed and squealed as a nurse entered his cot, his tiny hands flailing.

Then, as if sensing the tension, he fell silent, his bright eyes widening. The nurse, kneeling beside him, felt an unexpected lump in her throat, tears spilling down her cheeks. She later learned that his mother had just signed the refusal letter, and she whispered that such fairytale superstitions had nothing to do with the infants reality.

Abandoned children, it seems, always feel the sting of rejection, whether by angels or by the cold world itself. They shrink into shadows, hoping not to disturb anyone, as if the world will simply sweep them away into a grey, indifferent institution. No one will read them a bedtime story, no one will pull a blanket over them; the world turns a blind eye. Yet, somewhere in that indifference, a sliver of kindness persists.

From this experience I have learned a hard truth: it is not enough to follow protocols or to sigh at a crying baby. Compassion must be active, even when the system feels stacked against us. We must fight for those who cannot speak for themselves, lest we become the very strangers we condemn.

End of entry.