One Tiny Miracle... by Carol Marinelli

still a patient and occasionally he saw her in the canteen and stopped for a chat and got an update as to how well Willow was doing.
    She was doing so well.
    Every day Celeste saw progress.
    And not just with Willow. The ice was thawing with her mother too. She made the journey every other day, initially to see her granddaughter, but bringing in vital supplies for Celeste, then not so vital supplies and sometimes the occasional treat.
    It was also Rita who provided an unlikely source of comfort as her milk supply steadily dwindled.
    ‘The more you stress about it, the worse it will be,’ Rita said firmly as Celeste sat in tears on the breast pump she hated so much, but at three weeks of age, Willow was only taking the tiniest of feeds from her mother before she became exhausted, and had to be gavage fed through a little tube that ran from her mouth to her stomach. Celeste was struggling to produce enough milk andhated the bland room where she would sit for ages, only to produce a paltry couple of millilitres.
    ‘It’s important that she gets my milk.’ Celeste gritted her teeth. The lactation consultant had said so.
    ‘It’s more important that she gets fed.’ Rita refused to back down—she was tired of the pressures that were being placed on her daughter and frustrated on her behalf. ‘I couldn’t feed you either, Celeste. I had to put you on the bottle when you were four days old.’
    ‘And look how I turned out.’
    The weight had fallen off her, sitting there, often teary, jangling with nerves, huge black rings under her eyes thanks to endless two-hourly feeds, broke and a single mum to boot. It was actually her first vague attempt at a joke with her mother in ages and for a moment Rita didn’t get it. Then, as she opened her mouth to carry on with her lecture, she did, catching her daughter’s eyes and starting to giggle, as did Celeste.
    ‘You turned out just fine,’ Rita said when the giggles had faded and the tears that were never very far away these days filled Celeste’s eyes. It was the nicest thing her mother had said to her in a very long time. ‘Go and get some lunch.’ Her mum took the feeble offerings of milk, stuck one of Willow’s ID labels on the bottle and popped it in the fridge. ‘I’ll finish up in here. You go and have a little break.’
    Except it didn’t feel like a break.
    Celeste far preferred the safe routine she had established. Living in the small mothers’ area, she was happy with her spartan room and evenings spent chatting with other anxious mothers. Her days were filled withfeeding Willow or expressing her milk, gaining confidence with Willow under the nurse’s watchful eye and taking for ever to choose what to order from the parents’ menu cards that came round once a day. Only every now and then her mother insisted that she ‘take a break’. And Celeste loathed it.
    There really wasn’t much to do.
    The hospital gardens were a misnomer, the gift shop had long since sold out of her favourite toffees and she’d read each and every magazine at least twice. She’d popped into Emergency a couple of times, but it had always been at the wrong time, the department full and busy, and she’d sat awkward and alone in the staffroom. But mostly she loathed the canteen, where the best way she could describe herself was an ‘almost but not quite’.
    Almost a member of staff.
    Almost a patient.
    Almost a mother.
    Except she had no uniform.
    No ID tag on her wrist.
    And no baby beside her.
    Worse, her colleagues, if they were there, waved her over and after a couple of moments updating them on Willow’s progress, Celeste sat toying with her yoghurt, listening as Deb raved about the wild weekend she’d had and Meg moaned at length about her stint on nights that was coming up.
    And then she saw him.
    Pushing his tray along as he chose his lunch, Belinda was by his side, dressed in a tight black skirt and red stilettos, her raven curls tumbling down her back as shelaughed at