Through the wire fence, a small hand reaches out towards the ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice and keep weeding the onions.
“Hello, Aunt Alice,” calls a tiny voice.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile back. “Come over and help me pick some strawberries.”
The fence has sagged over time, so I lift the bottom easily, and in walks my little Angel—that’s what I’ve always called Alfie. Right behind him, huffing and puffing, squeezes his massive dog, Rex, nearly twice his size. I set a large bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch, and Alfie picks the biggest, ripest berries. He’s five years old with fair hair, blue eyes, and sharp little shoulder blades that jut out like wings—why I call him Angel. He’s curious, kind.
“Alfie, why was your mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, and I spilt the paint,” he says. “I was trying to paint Rex’s kennel and knocked the tin over.”
“Well, never mind. We’ll have some tea, then pop to the shop for more.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being told and settles at the table by the window. Of the treats laid out, he picks strawberries with milk and a still-warm scone dusted with sugar. A powdery moustache clings to his upper lip. On the rug by the door lies Rex, who knows the rules here and waits patiently for his share. He gets a cheese scone, stares mournfully at the single offering, then shoots us a look—*Is that it? I expected more!* We laugh, and I set down a bowl of stew for him. Rex forgives us and starts eating at his leisure.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with two tins of paint—white and green. The sky is blue, the sun high, the air warm. I slip home to change, pack the leftover strawberries and scones into a bag. On Alfie’s porch sits his grandmother, blind for two years now. The little Angel carefully adjusts her headscarf to sit just right, tucking away a stray curl. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap—her favourite.
On the veranda, Alfie and I paint the stools white, then Rex’s kennel green from the second tin. Alfie’s pleased; Rex couldn’t care less.
Emily, Alfie’s mum, returns from work and praises him for his efforts, inviting us all inside. Alfie takes his grandmother’s hand and leads her to the table, patiently feeding her rice pudding. She drinks her tea herself, a caramel melting on her tongue. She moves through the house alone, knowing every creaky floorboard. Emily works at a roadside café, two miles from home. If she’s on the late shift, she returns exhausted—Alfie is her rock.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him tuck into buttered porridge, washing it down with sweet tea before scampering off to watch cartoons. A child, yet already a man. Or perhaps a man who’s still a child?
He sweeps the floor, washes dishes, helps his grandmother dress, feeds her, carries in firewood (two logs at a time) and water (in a little pail). He adores his dog and sometimes cries bitterly when his mother scolds him unfairly. He laughs with pure joy when he splashes in the river, water droplets glittering like diamonds in the sun.
Emily walks me to the gate. I tell her not to shout at Alfie. He’s a man—don’t belittle him. Cherish him. Find reasons to praise him.
She sighs about her hard life—her blind mother, her meagre wages.
I say, “You have a home. Your mother’s alive and near. You have work, a son who helps, your health. Be grateful for what you have, and never measure yourself by others.”
Emily smiles and waves goodbye.
My lessons with Alfie aren’t wasted. At five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to his grandmother. On quiet, windless evenings, we take our fishing rods to the river. The sun, like a golden sunflower, sinks slowly behind the trees, casting its last warm rays. The clouds below glow like embers, and the world falls still, resting from noise and bustle. Our chatter doesn’t scare the fish—soon, two silvery trout splash in our bucket. Supper for my cat is sorted.
…Today, my Angel visited. He’s grown now—forty-two, a respected surgeon. A few times a year, he tends his mother’s and grandmother’s graves, then arrives at my door, arms laden with treats. The world knows him as Dr. Alfred Wright, but I know the truth—he’s still my Angel. Tall, broad-shouldered, and endlessly kind. Whatever the season, he brings a basket of strawberries, sits by the window in his favourite spot, and smiles. He drinks tea with warm scones, has a cigarette on the porch, and when he leaves, he hugs me with those great, warm wings of his.
*Some souls are born gentle, and no matter how the world tries to harden them, their kindness never fades.*
