Dont worry, love. Shes a preterm but tough little one. Everything will turn out finefor your daughter and your granddaughter.
God willing, the woman answered the doctor as she slipped away, then muttered to herself once the door closed, thats the real worry.
The trouble began for Barbaras family six months earlier, when a chatty neighbour, Mrs. Penelope, dropped by for a cuppa and a slice of apple jam. Sipping her tea, she asked casually,
When are you due? Already started stocking up on nappies?
What are you on about? Barbara snapped, bewildered.
What? I saw your daughter Clare at the farm two weeks ago, washing the feed trough twice. I even saw her run out of the calf shed with a kitchen towel over her mouth.
Maybe she ate something she shouldnt have, Barbara tried to keep her composure.
Sure, youve never been through a labour yourself, so you dont know whats what. Im not a midwife, Im just nosy.
That evening Aunt Barbara interrogated Clare, then wept for hours, cursing the unplanned birth of a suntanned, witchlike infant who never seemed to catch a breath, nor did any of the men in the household. The arrival of the small, hoarsevoiced Zoe brought no joy, only more chores, resentment and a burning shame. Clare showed neither hot affection nor tenderness toward the baby; she would pick her up only to feed or soothe, then set her down again. Aunt Barbara watched her granddaughter with indifference, offering no love either. It was already the fourth granddaughter, and there was little cause for celebration. Even Barbaras own daughter, who had given birth to a daughter herself, brought little good news. So Zoe came into the world unloved, stumbling on unsteady legs through a life that never welcomed her.
A year later Clare moved to a council estate near Manchester, seeking her own happiness. Zoe stayed with Aunt Barbara, who, despite being a blood relative, treated her like any other child. Zoe required no special care; she ate what was given, fell asleep at the proper hour and never fell ill. The doctor was rightZoe was sturdy, though still unloved.
Zoe lived with Barbara until she was seven. In those years Clare learned the trade of a house painter, married, and had a son named Colin. Then, finally, she remembered Zoe, thinking the girl might now help her mother. She returned to the village, but Zoe, who saw her mother only twice a year, offered no special welcome. Barbara looked at the girl with reproach,
Oh, Zoe, youre as cold as stone. A real child would have run to me, but you stand there like a stranger.
When Zoe left, Barbara shed a tear, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday her eldest son arrived with two beloved grandchildren, Lenora and Olivia. In the bustle of caring for them, Barbara quickly forgot Zoe. Unloved by Aunt Barbara, Zoe felt little pity for her, yet the separation from the newly hatched, brighteyed grandchildren drew tears from her.
Life in the council estate didnt suit Zoe at first, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, went to school, did her homework, ran errands for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes for her mothers return. As she grew older she escorted Colin to nursery and, imitating her mother, scolded a burly boy,
Watch your step, youll get a beating from me. Im not strong enough for you! Im pulling my last strings, and you give me no help!
She never heard words of love from Colins sister, nor did Zoe expect any; she had been unloved from the start. She barely suffered, unaware that a different life could exist.
Zoe did overhear the affectionate nicknames her friends mothers used, and even heard her own mother call Colin sunshine or little cat. Zoe, once called Zoe or Zoey, believed she could never be sunshine herself; she was older, unlike Colin.
At home she wasnt mistreated, nor was she denied a slice of bread. She didnt get fancy dresses or salty treats, but she wasnt left starving either. She simply remained unloved.
At fifteen Zoe fled the chilly house shed called home for eight years. She enrolled in a culinary college in Leeds, dreaming of eating pastries until she burst. In the dorm she shared a room with three other girls, becoming her own mistress after classes.
Then she met Victor, and life suddenly brightened. Though November was bleak, the sun seemed to shine just for Zoe. The other girls would step out for an hour to watch television in a small corner. Victor wasnt shy; he whispered beautiful words that made Zoes head spin and stole her breath.
Youre my darling, he whispered, and Zoe, accustomed to perpetual neglect, melted with happiness.
Soon nausea plagued her mornings. She should have rushed to a doctor, but she missed the appointment. At eighteen Zoe had no more time, so she forged medical certificates and, handinhand with a suddenly affectionate Victor, headed to the registry office.
Thus began Zoes married life, and at the same time her brief romance faded. The young couple moved into Victors parents house. Victors mother and aunt showed no special love for Zoe, but they gave her a modest room. She wasnt the first nor the last to make do; perhaps it was for the bestmaybe a child would be born, and Victor would settle down.
A friend from the estate envied her,
Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a city girl.
Zoe didnt argue. She didnt need to proclaim that city life was a single word. Her home was in a suburban culdesac, amenities like a village, water from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Yet Zoe didnt complain; she was accustomed. She carried buckets of water, feeling the chill on her feet, and one day, while splashing water, she also spilled the future of a baby shed yet to bear. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but Zoe didnt think it was deliberate.
Victor seemed to pity her at first, but only for a day or two. He soon drifted off with friends, leaving Zoe to help around the house. Perhaps something might work out, but it didnt. After a while Victor brought another woman home, declaring he never loved Zoe and never had.
Zoe confided in her friends, shed a few tears, but remained the sameunloved all her life. She packed a few belongings, listened silently as her motherinlaw urged her to leave in every direction, and closed the door on the foreign house.
She moved to a factory dormitory, where a mess hall, a nearby club and a canteen served as her world. Live and be merry, they said. Zoe laughed, not cursing, not whining; she was fine. She walked to work with her mates, went to the club, watched films together.
She rarely visited her mother, stepfather or brother; they didnt expect her, and she didnt impose. Grandma Barbara died when Zoe was twentyone. Zoe attended the funeral, looked at the old garden, and saw the places that once held her.
Grandma Barbara left her cottage to beloved grandchildren Lenora and Olivia. Zoe felt no resentment; they were the cherished berries of their grandma, while she was the cut piece, the unloved grandchild.
If Zoe had claimed any inheritance, the family would have quarried over Barbaras modest fivehundredpound estate. The loudest complaints came from Zoes mother, Clare, who wailed that her dear Colin had been left a bent spoon by a stingy grandma. Isnt he a grandson? she sobbed, why is he treated worse than Lenora and Olivia? Yet she never remembered her older daughter. Zoe never received that bent spoon.
Zoe tried twice to settle her life, seeing men, but both relationships failed. No suitor ever took her to the registry office, so she never rushed there. One man drank and kept a mistress; another drank and beat. Decide yourself which was worse. Zoe was glad she never tangled with the registry office; otherwise there would have been more trouble. She tossed her few possessions into a leather suitcase and returned to the cheap bed shared with her friends.
For over ten years she roamed from dorm to dorm, tired of foreign bunk beds. At almost thirty, she longed for a corner of her own, a pot on her own shelf. Single women rarely got flats first; families did. Occasionally she visited Aunt Alice, who cleaned the factory floors in the evenings, just to talk. After three or four months, Alice suggested,
Zoe, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a baby and a widower. Ive been watching you; youre capable, hardworking. Her husband, Matthew, is a decent manno beating, only drinks on holidays, modest. He may not be eloquent, but hes kind. Think about it. The baby will call you Mum.
Zoe thought it over and moved in with Matthew. She painted his modest room for May Day, bought curtains of green blossoms, sewed little dresses from yellow and blue fabric for the tiny girl, Sonya, who soon began to babble and called Zoe Mum.
Matthew was gentle, never harsh, paid his wages, and never uttered loving wordsZoe wasnt used to them, having never had love from birth. She had already resigned herself to a life without affection.
Three years into the marriage, Sonya burst into the yard clutching bright dandelions, hopped into Zoes arms, pecked her cheek with candysweet lips and whispered,
Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Alice, more than my doll.
Zoe embraced her, laughing and crying at once; at last she felt loved. A year later she gave birth to a boy, Ilya. Matthew cared for the infant, waking at night to change nappies and help push the pram up the stairs. Soon the factory granted them a spacious, sunlit flat. Live and be happy, they said, and Zoe finally had something to be happy about.
They raised their children, welcomed grandchildren. In their countryside cottage, silverhaired Zoe boiled jam, while the grandchildren ran about.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
Grandma, I love you too, echoed Dennis.
Granny, I love you, babbled little Martha.
We all love Grandma, hiding smiles in our grey whiskers, said Grandpa Matthew.
Zoe brushed away a stray tear. Years earlier she never imagined that a girl born unloved could be surrounded by so much love. She realised that love is not a birthright but a garden you tend, and that kindness, even when given late, can bloom brighter than any sunrise. The true lesson is that the heart can heal, and that giving love freely creates a legacy that outlasts any hardship.
