28April2025
Today I finally put the pieces of my childhood together, and it feels like closing a longforgotten chapter. I grew up in a modest council estate on the outskirts of Birmingham, where the local nursery was called Willow Grove. When I was five, I remembered a ginger kitten darting through the hedges behind the play pavilion. I called him Lenny, after the stray that used to haunt the back garden of my neighbours house. The little beast had a tuft of fur the colour of sunrise and, oddly enough, what seemed like tiny lashes on its eyesthough I never learned if kittens really have them.
My mother, Margaret Clarke, used to say the sun had kissed Lennys whiskers that morning, and shed give the kitten a gentle kiss herself. Not long after, Margaret fell ill and passed away. From that day on, no one ever kissed me again. Father, Simon Clarke, was always too busy with his shift at the factory, and Grandmother May, who lived a few doors down, never showed any warmth toward me. I often wondered: if the sun could kiss a kitten, could it have kissed a child too? And did kittens really have lashes? Those questions swirled in my mind during the quiet hour after nap time.
One evening, as I lay restless on my cot, Mrs. Nancy Clarke, the nurserys deputy manager, nudged my blanket and whispered, Leonard, why are you still awake? Close your eyes. I obeyed, but sleep eluded me. From the changing room I could hear her talking to someone about staffing: How long can we keep this up? One assistant for two groups is absurd. Who will work for that wage? Another voice muttered, Good thing Anna left. She was terrible with the children. Anna Valeryevna was the old nursery nursestern, quick to shove spoons into a child’s mouth if they refused the lumpy porridge. Once she slammed a spoon onto my tongue, and the taste of it went straight onto the table. Mrs. Clarke hurried to wash my face and change my bib, and Anna was dismissed after complaints piled up. From then on the nursery felt a little softer.
During the evening walk after school, I tried to catch a glimpse of Lenny again, but only a flash of orange tail disappeared among the shrubs. Father arrived home, barely acknowledging me, and sent me off to my room to play. Since Mothers death, Father hardly spoke to me, and his attention drifted elsewhere. I once overheard Grandmother snapping at Father, Simon, Im telling you again, youre raising a child that isnt yours. He doesnt look like you! I tried to defend him, He looks like Nadine, I said, referring to a girl from the nursery. She retorted, He doesnt even resemble her. Get a proper test, then stop wasting your time on a strangers boy. I never understood those angry tones; they became background noise.
A new nursery assistant, Irene Harper, started the following week. She was nothing like Annasoftspoken, patient, and never raised her voice. One day she knelt beside me during snack time and asked, Whats your name, love? Im Irene. Why arent you eating? I replied, I dont like the lumps. She smiled, Ill tell you a secret: I dont like them either. You can leave the lumps on your plate; well see who collects the most. The game sparked something in me. I stared at my bowl, searching for the dreaded clumps, but they were almost nonexistent. In the process Id accidentally eaten most of the porridge, and Irene praised me, Well done, Leo! Youre a star. No one had ever praised me before, and the warmth in her words brightened a corner of my heart that had been cold for years.
From then on, Willow Grove became a place I actually looked forward to. Irene helped the lead teacher wherever she could, and the children grew attached to her gentle manner. One quiet afternoon, Mrs. Clarke asked Irene to stay with the kids during nap time while she dealt with paperwork. The little ones burped and snuffled, but I still couldnt settle. Irene brushed my hair and asked, Why cant you sleep, love? I whispered, Do you know my mum is in heaven? Her throat caught for a moment; shed never heard a child speak of a mother so plainly. I didnt know, she said softly. The sun kissed me once too, she added with a faint smile. Do kittens have lashes? I asked. I suppose they might, she replied, amused. I told her everythingthe orange kitten in the hedges, the suns kiss, my yearning for a brother, even if only a feline one, because no one else ever kissed me.
Irenes eyes softened, and she whispered, Little one, kittens can indeed give kisses, though their tongues are a bit rough. She patted my unruly ginger hair and said, Rest now. The thought of a roughtongued kiss made me laugh, and I finally drifted off.
Later, the head teacher confided in Irene that my mother had been a foster child from a home in Manchester, and that shed died not long ago. My stepgrandmother had never accepted my mothers partner, insisting the child wasnt her own. The whole story left me feeling a strange mix of emptiness and a flicker of hope, because for the first time I felt someone truly see me.
When I fell ill the following springamid a nasty flu that swept the cityI missed several weeks of nursery. The illness lingered, and Mrs. Clarke announced, Leo wont be returning. Father, now officially listed as my guardian, had been trying to place me in a childrens home. DNA tests had shown he wasnt my biological father, and Grandmother had insisted on the paperwork. The whole situation felt like a nightmare.
One foggy morning, as I walked home from the clinic, a bright orange ball rolled out from behind the nursery fence and landed at my feet. I scooped it up, and it was a ginger kittenscruffy, a bit older than the one Id imagined, but unmistakably the one Id spoken about for years. Its eyes were wide, its ears perked, and, as Irene later reminded me, kittens truly have no lashes. I cradled it, feeling a surge of protectiveness I hadnt known I possessed.
When my stepfather, Luke, returned late from his shift, the kitten darted to greet him, tail puffed high. Looks like weve got a new family member, he chuckled, eyeing Irene skeptically. Will it chew the furniture? he asked. Irene laughed, If it does, itll be worth the trouble.
That night we sat around the kitchen table, sorting through endless forms, adoption papers, and counseling appointments. We were grateful that my fathers job paid a decent wage, that we had a spacious council flat, and that the nurserys headmistress had pulled some strings to keep me out of care. My grandparents on my fathers side phoned from Yorkshire, shouting over the line to welcome the new grandson theyd never met.
Now, two years later, Im about to start Year1 at a primary school just down the road. My mothers memory, my fathers steady presence, Grandmother Mays occasional visits, and my little ginger companion, now named Bramble, all blend into a picture I finally understand. The lesson Ive learned, and one I hope to pass on, is that love can arrive in the most unexpected formsa sunkissed kitten, a whispered promise, or a quiet act of kindness. It taught me that even when the world seems cold, theres always room for warmth if youre willing to look for it.
