Born Four Times
In his strange, half-lit life of only eleven years, Stephen had already been betrayed three times. The first betrayal came before he ever saw sunlight when he was just ten or twelve weeks past creation, not even birth.
No one remembers themselves before birth. And yet, in the thick soup of memory inside cells, beneath the reach of words and images, something remains. Warm, rocking darkness, brine tasting of eternity. Voices low and muffled, like echoes through a bath. And sometimes a hand crossed the void: tender, heavy, careful a hand that said, Youre here. Youre wanted. You are loved.
Whenever Stephen wandered city streets and beheld pregnant women, their hands tucked against swelling bellies, smiling at secret thoughts, his childish heart tightened, as if bound with string. He didnt know why, exactly. He simply found himself on the verge of tears for reasons he couldnt shape. He wept for things hed never had: the caress that passed him by, the murmur he never heard.
He knew, somehow, how it should have been. How it was for others. At first, inside, you were only a fleck. Then a wriggler with a beating thread for a tail. Then a tadpole with a heart thrumming twice as quick as your mothers, and finally, a small alien person, but with fingers, tiny nails, a button of a nose. Always, a person; a whole world, for whom mother was everything. He yearned for that fond hand resting on the belly, the quiet, secret whisper: My little one. He longed for lullabies hummed so soft, only the vibration would pass through the waters. For fathers ear upon the pulse of navel, his half-whisper: How are you in there, then? Having a kick? And when you kicked back all your tiny might in the gesture they both laughed, and laughter shook your entire, safe universe. Already, you were loved. Already, they were waiting.
Stephen knew none of this. Not by heart; not for real. Only in the slender shadows that follow the living. Of course, his mother was glad, at first. Two rose-pink lines, vivid and certain, leaving little doubt. She rang his father at the office. He said, Really? An actual baby? Surprise, joy, and a tinge of something like fright flickered in his voice. Perhaps he was pleased. Something about an heir men liked to say things like that. And Stephen, a tiny point not yet knowing himself as Stephen, must have felt the joy, too, because he was already there, already sensing, sure he was needed needed by everyone.
Later, the grandparents would have visited, weighted with anticipation. His grandmother clucked and fluttered, fussing over a lone egg. She brought oranges and cottage cheese and walnuts: Eat, my dear, eat for brains, bones, good strong hair. So the baby comes out hardy and hale. His grandfather laid honey in the fridge, thick, dark, flecked with gold: For all ills, that is. And the lad will grow strong as a bear. Dreams spilled aloud: Stephen, every summer at their cottage, catching frogs by the pond, scoffing strawberries straight from the garden beds, racing barefoot through dew. Theyd wanted him all their lives. But the young ones lived for themselves: work, journeys, restaurants, schemes not much room for children. When Stephen arrived, almost by accident, they were happy. At long last.
But then, a routine check. Stephen, all nerves inside, knowing she would spot him for the first time. He made himself look as grand as possible. Mummy, darling, look its me! I have arms and legs, my hearts beating, and Im smiling, even if you cant see it yet. Im good. Im clever. I love you.
The doctor passed the scanner back and forth, frowning. Summoned another, grey-haired and stern. They talked in hushes, pointing at the screen, heads shaking. Stephen felt restless fear. Mothers heart raced. Her fists clenched.
Your baby has Downs syndrome, said the doctor, voice level, like discussing rain. Will you carry on, or terminate?
Stephen froze. He had no words for Downs syndrome, and terminate meant nothing; only cold seeped in, as if through walls and water, into the marrow. Mother said nothing.
Yes, Downs, he mused in his shadowy world. And so what? They all love me! Surely, Mum will tell her: ‘No termination, this is my child!”
Mother was silent.
Think about it, the doctor went on. Youre young, youll have others. Why chain yourself to this? Its not a child, you realise, its an invalid for life. No school, no job, no family. Youll destroy yourself and him.
He screamed, without voice, twisting his whole small body. Mum, dont be quiet! Please, I promise Ill be the very best boy in the whole world. Dont leave me Im yours, only yours!
Mothers reply was only a whisper: Ill think about it.
His father was home that night cheerful, then anxious, then angry. Termination, he said, like a judge. Why bring trouble? What will we do? Live in and out of hospitals? Our own lives matter. She wept. Dont make such a fuss Hes only a bundle of cells. Not a person.
How can I not be a person? Stephen shouted in his silent world. Here I am I hear you, feel you, understand! Im your son. Your heir, remember!
Grandmother arrived an hour later, tutted, shook her head. Of course, terminate. Why should he suffer? Why should you? You know what these Downs are like. No sense, no feeling. Like animals.
Im not an animal, Stephen cried. Grandma! The river the strawberries? Didnt you promise?
He could smell the orange peel sharpness, though his mother no longer touched the fruits, nor cottage cheese, though before she ate it just for his sake. Grandmother hugged his mother: Dont upset yourself, love. Just an embryo. So what. Others will have healthy, pretty babies. She finished the last orange herself.
Im not an embryo, he whispered inside his salt-dark world. Im Stephen. You named me after Grandad. You said Id be as steadfast as stone. I remembered. Im Stephen.
The next day, his mother called the hospital: Ill have the termination.
Stephen folded in on himself, cold and terrified, smaller than ever before. Mummy he murmured. Mummy
He didnt know the termination wouldnt happen complications, rare blood, this and that. Too risky for her own life. She cried harder. Father raged. Grandmother sighed. But Stephen kept on, grew anyway against all sense, against cold words and emptiness. Youll see, Mum, you wont regret it. I will love you like no one before. Just let me live.
Mother no longer pressed her hand to her stomach, no more lullabies, no little one. She slept on her back to avoid his kicks. Vitamins left untouched. She moved as if hed already departed. Only Grandad, the one with the honey, sometimes sat with her and said, Love, youre carrying a child. Eat something he needs it, too.
Soon, his grandfather died the heart and with him vanished the last warm voice. Stephen was left without honey, without hope.
He was born in an ordinary hospital, on a drizzling October day. A midwife scooped him up, snipped the cord, gave him a gentle tap; he howled, huge and breathless, not in pain, but for joy, for terror, at last about to see his mother surely now it would be alright. Surely, her son! How could a mother not love her child? His eyes were blue as his fathers, ears big, hair ginger like her own as hed always sensed that flame, that sunlight, in her. She would see, weep for joy, and hold him tight. Forever.
Look whos here! the midwife called, bringing Stephen over.
Mother turned away to the wall. Dont show him to me, she said, her voice dull as stone. I dont want to see.
Were refusing him, his father snapped from the corridor. He didnt even enter the room, relaying the news through the nurse.
Stephen stared at his mother with wide blue, tilted eyes, desperate. Surely, this was not possible. Did she not hear his scream, feel his arms seeking her? Surely, she must sense her own child.
It was another woman, tired, grey strands escaping her cap, who lifted him and closed the lid of the incubator. He lay, staring at white ceiling banks, and cried until his voice vanished into sleep.
Why do you wail, poor lamb, sighed an ancient cleaner, crouched by the mattress, slotting her finger through a hole; he gripped it, faint but fierce. You know you’ve been left. Get used to it.
That was the second betrayal. Not the first not the last. The first had come in the shadowed womb, when his mother agreed to let him go. The second, here in daylight, when she refused him her arms.
After that, the hospital. Endless grey corridors, bleach and boiled nappies. Rows of tiny souls, all crying in the night. He learned to get by, quickly adapted to being unloved. He did not cry, so as not to bother. Even when his stomach twisted with pain, he clenched fists and waited someone would come, no doubt, if only he were good enough. Mother would appear, surely, just busy, that was all.
He learned to smile. At first, weak, crooked attempts muscles new to the job then, broad as he could, whenever anyone fed him, changed him, peered into the cot and said, Hello, little one. He smiled and smiled, hoping one day, instead of a stranger, his own mother would appear. She would weep for joy.
He learnt to hold up his head, to roll onto his stomach, make burbling noises, mimicking sounds until he stopped. What use? No one replied, no one cheered, no one clapped hands and called him clever.
A dreadful realisation dawned: this was no error. No one was coming. He wasnt a cherub, only a Downs, an invalid, a poor thing nobodys priority. No use reaching out; there was no one to run to, no one to love.
He lay in his cot, gazing up at the blank white ceiling, sorrow wide and clinging in his big blue eyes. It became part of him, that sorrow; it followed into sleep, haunted his dreams.
Next came the childrens home. He lost count of the years. All beds alike, all ceilings, all caretakers, who changed with the seasons. He learnt not to ask, not to believe. Sat in corners, watching other children play and fight and make friends and hug he could not understand. How could they trust, how could they believe in love?
When he was four, a man and a woman visited the home, inspecting the children, conferring in low voices. Stephen watched from his corner on a sagging settee, eyes on the floor; he knew already: they always took the healthy ones. Whod want him, with his odd, slanted eyes and wrong face?
Hello, said the lady, kneeling level with him, the scent of expensive perfume hanging about her, sweet and unfamiliar. Whats your name?
Stephen didnt answer. Didnt talk at all, in truth no one listened anyway.
My names Anne, she went on. I will be your mummy. Say ‘mummy’.”
He looked up, seeing something he hadnt for so long hope, was it, or warmth? He wasnt sure. He was afraid to hope. But a small, frozen thing inside him thawed each time. He managed a sound not mummy, he couldn’t manage that, but, Ah, the first utterance in months.
Never mind, Anne smiled. Youll learn. Well teach you.
She lifted him into her arms. For the first time ever, a woman calling herself mother held him. He was terrified and elated; he clung to her cardigan with birdlike fingers and sobbed soundlessly. She held him and wept, too, while the man beside them wiped his eyes.
In the new house, Stephen tried desperately to be good. He didnt fuss, or act out, or demand. He tidied his new toys, proper ones, not the battered kind from before. He sought Annes glance, yearning for praise. But she was busy; a career in an important office, often away. His new father was busier still, only home late at night with his laptop for company.
How was your day? Anne asked each evening, kissing his forehead. Stephen tried to answer, still mute, only pointing to toys, books, to his pictures. Anne nodded, offered her tired smile, and left him with the nanny.
The nanny was strict: an older woman with glasses and a perpetual crease between the brows. She drilled Stephen with cards letters, numbers, pictures. He didnt care for such games; he wanted cars and building towers and cartoons. She forced him nevertheless. Pointed at cards, A. Say A.
He was mute.
A! she barked, louder. A! Repeat after me!
He wriggled, unable to comply tongue glued, throat tight. The letters stuck somewhere deep and would not rise. She grew cross, raised her hand and once struck him open palm on the cheek. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to hurt. He froze. Didnt cry. He knew, at four, you shouldnt hit children not because theyre small and fragile, but because theyre people. Still, she struck him, muttered wicked things: Good-for-nothing half-wit. Why did they choose you, God knows.
He longed to tell his mother. Sat by the door all afternoon, waiting for her. The lock clicked, her perfume drifted in; he grabbed her knees, pointed at the nanny, traced his hand along his own face. If only he could say: Mum, shes cruel, she hurts me dont let her stay. But Anne was distracted, scarcely noticed. Whats wrong? Glided a hand across his hair, drifted off to bags, telly, phone. She was worlds away, in meetings and crowds and important things. Stephen, small and silent, inconvenient, was only a burden.
That evening, she phoned her husband, Stephen listening half-hidden in the hallway her voice strange, anxious, nearly frightened.
Darling, Anne said, you wont believe it. Im pregnant.
Stephen stopped still. Pregnant which meant someone new was growing, waiting, hoping, trusting theyd be loved. He smiled. A brother or sister! He would love them, protect them, play together, shield them from harm, always.
Hooray, a baby! his father announced that evening, but something like worry laced his tone.
Now what will we do? he asked over supper. You see, hell be like this his whole life. Cant talk properly, doesnt learn. Whats the use?
Stephen, playing with his car in the other room, heard every word. The car dropped from his fingers.
We waited so long for our real child, his father continued, and now? This one will just copy that that one and be an idiot too. I warned you.
Mrs Parsons said, Anne whispered, adopting sick or abandoned children sometimes helps you conceive. So perhaps…
Well, there you are, his fathers voice snapped. But thats enough charity. Weve all played at it. Like getting an exotic pet. We should take him back leave him at the home. Suits them better there.
Stephen couldnt breathe. Pet. Exotic. Sick. Fool. He didnt cry. He sat, small and bunched, listening for Annes defence: No, youre wrong. Hes our son; were keeping him. But she was quiet.
I suppose youre right, she said at last. Hes ungrateful. I thought Downs children were sunshine, but hes more like a wild thing. He pulled my hair last week.
Stephen remembered: hed tugged her hair because he hadnt wanted her to go; yearned for a cuddle; but shed prised his hands away, said, Oh, enough now, and left.
Ungrateful she repeated.
He understood. That made three betrayals. Not one, not two three. The worst number.
He didnt know how much time passed. Day, week, month nothing changed. For tedious bureaucracy, they didnt return him to the orphanage at once, but he no longer felt wanted. No goodnight kisses. No visits from his adoptive father. The nanny grew sharper, meaner. Stephen lost his appetite. He just lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, he didnt know. Death, maybe. Or merely an ending. He was a child, but already exhausted. Betrayal wore him down.
And then she arrived.
A volunteer. Her name was Mary. She came to the childrens home by then, they had finally returned him each Tuesday and Thursday, to play with the children. She was short, round-faced, with friendly eyes and lively freckles. She always smelt of lily-of-the-valley a scent Stephen first knew only because of her. The home had no flowers, but that perfume carved itself into him.
The first day, she came when he was hunched in a corner, staring at a tired old car. Why aren’t you playing? she asked.
He was silent. He didn’t speak anymore.
Come on, Mary coaxed, holding out a hand.
Stephen shrank away, unwilling to trust. Never, ever again.
All right, she shrugged. Ill see you tomorrow.
And she did. Again and again. Never forced him, never pressured, never carried him off. She just joined the other children, building block towers, reading picture books, laughing, sometimes glancing over with a nod, but waiting.
One day, Stephen edged closer, almost without knowing it, driven by the smallest, boldest, last hope in his battered little heart. He touched her knee with trembling fingers.
Mary looked at him. There was no pity, only quiet joy. Hello, she said. Ive been waiting for you.
She scooped him onto her lap. This time, he did not resist. He snuggled close, breathed the scent of lily-of-the-valley, and cried for the first time in months. She held him and wept also, whispering, Its all right now. Im here.
She was not his mother not yet, legally but Stephen knew it was her. The one hed been waiting for, his whole, broken life.
Are you my mummy? he asked, aloud at last, his first spoken words in almost two years.
Yes, Mary replied, I am your mummy.
It took years for her to adopt him forms, interviews, rejections, assessments, more forms. She never wavered. She braved councils, wrote letters, insisted he was hers that she would not abandon him, that she was capable.
And, at last, she succeeded.
I first met them by chance, on a dreary day at a small abbey near Oxford, admiring peeling frescos, when laughter rang out, clear and boundless, the laughter only found in children at peace. I turned.
On a bench sat a young woman with three children. Two girls close in age, freckles, plaits, and Marys very features. And a boy. Ginger, freckled, with large, satellite-dish ears and blue, slightly slanted eyes. On his hand perched a dove, utterly unafraid, pecking at seeds in his open palm. The boy laughed freely, deeply, his happiness echoing over the cloisters. His eyes never left Mary.
I approached, unable to resist. I asked their names. Mary, Stephen, Alice and Grace.
Are you his foster mum? I asked, as gently as I could.
No, Mary smiled. Just his mum.
She told her story, and I listened. The heartbreak of those early years. How Stephen feared being left alone, waking at night, creeping to her bedroom just to check she was still there. How he needed so long to believe he could be loved for himself. The slow, patient fight to coax words from him again; his first, clear sentences, most without a stammer. His first day at the special school, new friends, reading, drawing, the swimming pool, hockey, and his yearly letter to Father Christmas for a laptop.
But most important, Mary nodded, glancing as Stephen and the girls fed doves, is that he is happy. He remembers little of the past or almost nothing. And if he remembers, hes not scared. Because now he has us. And well not let him go.
Stephen scampered over, breathless, clutching a handful of seeds. Mum! Look, a white dove! The prettiest! Im naming him Bert after the dog!
Weve already got Bert, darling, Mary replied, laughing. A great big Newfoundland.
Thisll be Little Bert! Bert the Dove!
He rushed off to join his sisters and the birds. I watched his joy, the radiance in him burning all the light and warmth of his strange, precious life. Betrayed three times before birth, at the first daylight, and at four, when they called him a pet. He should have broken. Should have faded; inside, if not outright. But he survived because somewhere, someone said, I am your mummy. She believed it so hard that he, in turn, believed.
You know, Mary said, walking me to the old abbey gates, he still checks some nights. Pops his head round the door, just to be sure were really there. And then back to bed He needs to know we wont just vanish.
Youre not going anywhere, are you? I said.
She shook her head. Were not going anywhere. Not ever.
I said my goodbye, turning to glimpse Steven with arms thrown wide, doves circling and settling on shoulders and fingers, the girls shrieking with delight, Marys laughter rippling as she recorded it all on her phone.
And I thought: Downs syndrome is just a pattern of letters, a label. The real question: How do we see another person? Fearful, or open-armed? Do we turn away, or reach out? Do we say, Youre a burden, or say, Youre my sunshine?
Stephen isnt sunshine. Hes a person. Just a person: capable of loving, fearing, hoping, hurting. Wanting only to belong. Capable of forgiveness limitless, childlike forgiveness. Alive because one person believed in him. Because someone stopped and said, I will not leave you.
Stephen came into this world to teach us: love isnt a prescription, bought, or stamped on a form. Love is seeing a person not a syndrome, not a nuisance and simply saying, Im here. Im staying.
He knows, now. He will not be betrayed a fourth time. Because four does not exist. There is only life. Messy, difficult, shining life. With his mum, his dad, his sisters, Bert the Newfoundland, the doves, the scent of lily-of-the-valley every spring reminding him of the day he trusted, at last, to believe.
***
It is impossible to read this tale without pain not because its too terrible, but because its true. There are Stephens in every childrens ward, in every dull lantern-lit home, in every forgotten street. Betrayed over and over before birth, in the maternity wing, by foster families that shouldve been forever. They are called burdens, curses, pets. Returned like outgrown toys. Little by little, they die inside, lose faith, hope, the habit of smiling. Because without love, there is no life.
And still, others do exist. Those who do not step over the fallen, who say, I am your mother, and prove it not with speeches but with sleepless years, dogged resilience, battles through council hallways. Who are not afraid of what the files say. Who look in a childs face and see a person.
Mary was no saint. She was simply a woman who happened to walk by a childrens home and could not go by. She chose Stephen, not for his beauty or his health, but because she saw him; saw him, properly.
Such stories do happen. Rare grains of gold. But each one shifts the world, child by child, dropping by drop. Stephen will never be a famous inventor or an Olympic athlete. He may always live with Mary, paint pictures in a warm studio, skate on the pond, help rescue birds. But he will be happy. Because he is loved. And he has learned, himself, to love in turn with perfect, indiscriminate faith.
Thats everything. It outweighs every diagnosis and every ugly word. Because love alone escapes the statistics. It is the one thing worth living for. Even if youve been betrayed three times. Even if you almost stopped believing. Even if youre certain there are no more miracles. Sometimes, they arrive smelling of lily-of-the-valley.
