It was a cold, crisp morning the day we discovered you. We were rugged up in our dingy little flat, huddled together, mourning the news. The doctor had confirmed our worst fears: I was infertile, and we would never have a child together.
We were so lost in our sadness we almost didn't hear you cry.
It was a howl of sorts, one that bawled with rising sobs and screeched of loneliness. It tugged at our hearts, and instantly we were on our feet, searching for the source.
Your cry led us outside. Our backyard was a hyena's home: trash and forgotten things lay sprinkling the ground. We were both hoarders, and couldn't face the prospect of throwing things out. Old tyres, broken bikes, smashed mirrors, cardboard packaging… in short, they were hazards for a naive newborn.
The panic inside us peaked: if you were out here, you were in danger.
We searched, speeding across the junk, shifting and lifting things to find you. And there you were, lying in a cardboard box. You were wrapped in cotton blankets, and slightly red in the face from the exertion of crying. Who would leave a baby in a mess like this is anybody's clue.
You were beautiful. So beautiful. Your eyes like a golden sunset, your mouse-blonde hair already luscious, rippling like waves.
While we took in turns handling you, giving you comfort and support, we discovered a note nestled between your blankets. We removed the envelope encasing it and read it.
Kayla and Peter,
Take good care of her. She's all yours. I'm not a good mother: I'm hopeless. I keep dragging her into my dealings, and my clientele don't like her. She's always crying and demanding my attention, when it's them that paid for my attention. It's definitely not a place for a baby, anyway.
Social services wanted her, but I'd rather die then see her in the hands of somebody I did not trust. And besides, I heard on the grapevine that you really wanted one of your own, so here she is. I know you'll be terrific parents.
Hugs and kisses,
-Nessie.
P.S I named her Opal.
P.P.S I hid her there so the passers by wouldn't notice her. Hopefully.
P.P.P.S I might come visit her when she's settled. Maybe. I don't know. Give me a call, won't you?
So that solved our little mystery. Nessie, the high-school rebel, the girl who lived on the fringes of the law: our bridesmaid to our wedding, and one of our few closest friends. We'd lost touch for a few months, but this wasn't unusual for your mother. She was always a floater.
It was then that our hearts danced with the revelation: our deepest wish had come true. Opal, our little miracle.
Our nights became long with straining to comfort your cries, our days dragged with trying to fulfil every childish whelm you desired, and fatigue held dominance over our slave-driven bodies, but none of it was wasted. You grew into a delightful, bubbly child who knew how much her parents cared for her.
Nessie wrote every week, looking for reassurance of your wellbeing. But once she realised how fine you were doing, the letters became less frequent: one a week, to once a month, to once a year. She never visited. She became too lost in her dealings to remember you. Her mechanism of coping without you became apparent: the less contact she had with you, the more comfortable she would be with the fact she could never have you, or tend to you.
We grew to love you.
We can recall one evening when we took you to a park fair. You loved the atmosphere. You were captivated by the sidewalk magicians, the bobbing clowns, the colourful displays and the rides. You carried with you your favourite doll: a cream pony with stars bracing its ankles, and silky, purple mane hair. That pony meant everything to you.
We were in the process of paying a ride owner money when we heard you cry. We turned and knelt down to you, and asked you what was wrong.
You just held out your hand and showed us a few strands of the pony's mane.
Luckily for us, after retracing your steps back through the fair, we discovered your discarded pony in the grass beside the clown stand.
The happiness and relief that emerged once that pony was back safely in the grasp of your hands was tremendous. We'd never seen anything like it. The whole world seemed to brighten knowing its little princess was joyful. There was new skip in your step, a new cheek in your cheekiness.
We remember one morning, when we took you to your first day of grade school. We braided your long, flowing hair back and placed a bow at the end. We dressed you in your favourite pleated blue dress. You looked like you were out of a fairytale.
Buckled in the backseat in the car, you turned to us and spoke one sentence that sent us reeling:
"Mummy, Daddy... I don't want to go to school. What if they don't like me here?"
We rushed to your rescue: spluttering words of encouragement, unable to grasp that our baby had doubts about herself.
There was nothing for you to fret about, however, because everyone at your school loved you: your teachers, your classmates, and your friends.
We had always known you were the angel, and now we knew others believed it too.
But angels belong in heaven.
We were in the kitchen, prepping for dinner: slicing vegetables and boiling water. We weren't sure where you were, but we thought you'd be in your room, playing with Barbies and ponies and your brilliant imagination, like always.
A distant scuttle made us confused: it sounded as if glass was shattering in the backyard. It was probably just a bird scavenging through the rubbish. We'd never gotten around to cleaning out the backyard. It was the biggest mistake of our lives.
The scream is what got us: something so ear-piercing, so heart-tearing that in an instant the stuff in our hands was sent clattering and smashing to the floor. Water and food spilled everywhere. We were out the door, screaming with you.
The screaming stopped. Our screams continued.
"Opal! OPAL!" We scrambled over the trash. The junk was poison: it seemed painful to touch, knowing you were lost somewhere in it, helpless and scared, and the junk was unwilling to hand you over.
Swears intermingled with the sweat and screams; time froze. The sun hung suspended on the edge of the horizon, leaving just enough light for us to find you.
We screamed until our voices broke. Tears blinded us, pouring oceans down our faces.
You lay sprawled in a cardboard box. Crimson blood bloomed around your chest, and stained the glass that protruded from it.
Your skin white as a ghost, and your eyes forevermore etched in our minds as the devil's final punishment. There was no golden sunset contained in them: just a yellow void with no beginning or ending.
The bitter irony of the cardboard box crawled into our brains in that very moment: you were given to us in one, and taken from us in one.
We will place this letter in your coffin, in the hope that maybe one day, in heaven, you'll read it and understand there are not enough words to say how sorry we really feel about losing you.
I no longer believe in miracles.
