It was a late winter evening. My husband had gone to his night shift, leaving me alone at home with our two-year-old, Alfie. I’d been trying to put the little one to bed, but he was being stubborn. Exhausted from pleading, I decided to let him play a bit longer while I slipped out to the kitchen—just long enough to put the kettle on. I hadn’t even pulled a mug from the cupboard when I heard Alfie wailing from the other room.
He stood in the middle of the lounge, sobbing between ragged coughs. «What—where does it hurt?» I dropped to my knees, searching his face for clues. «Alfie, love, what’s wrong?» But he just cried harder, his coughing fits growing worse. Then it hit me—he must have swallowed something. I tried prying his mouth open, but Alfie clenched his jaw shut and wailed even louder.
I don’t know how long it went on. My coaxing turned to scolding, but all he did was scream and refuse to open his mouth. If I’d been more experienced, maybe I’d have known what to do, but I was only twenty myself—practically still a kid.
Then Alfie started gasping for air. Realising time was running out, I snatched up the phone, fingers trembling, and dialled 999. But—nothing. No ringtone, no dial tone—just silence, more terrifying than anything I’d ever known. I hung up and tried again, again, again. The phone might as well have been dead.
Mobiles were still a luxury back then, far beyond what our young family could afford on a tight budget.
Helpless, I clutched my wheezing boy to my chest and sobbed. Only one thought echoed in my mind: *God, please help.* I wasn’t an atheist—I’d even been baptised—but I’d only set foot in a church once as a child, with my grandmother, and didn’t know a single prayer. Yet there I was, talking to God like He was right there in the room, begging Him to save my son.
Then—the doorbell rang. Desperate, I sprinted to the door, half-expecting my husband. Instead, a stranger stood there—a man in his mid-thirties.
«Evening—» He broke off, taking in my tear-streaked face. «What’s wrong, love?»
For some reason, I spilled everything right there on the doorstep. He listened for barely a minute before gently moving past me, kicking off his shoes, and striding into the lounge.
I gaped, bewildered, but he seemed to know exactly what to do. Kneeling beside Alfie, he somehow calmed him in seconds. Moments later, Alfie’s coughing stopped, and the stranger turned to me, holding out a small, black bead in his palm.
«Found it.»
Of course—just the other day, while getting ready to visit friends, I’d accidentally snapped the string of my favourite necklace. I thought I’d picked up every bead, but clearly, Alfie had found one.
So who was the stranger? Did he vanish into thin air? Leap out the window? Turn into a creature and scuttle under the sofa? Nothing so exciting, I’m afraid. Daniel was as ordinary as they come—an A&E doctor, as it turned out. That evening, his car, which had given him no trouble before, stalled right outside our building. With no mobile and no luck restarting it, he’d decided to knock on the nearest door to borrow a phone. No intercoms back then, so he walked straight in—and ours was the first flat he saw.
He never did make that call. The landlines were down—mine, the neighbours’, the whole street, as we later learned. But when Daniel finally left, after I’d badgered him into staying for a cuppa, his car started on the first try.
Call it luck. Call it a miracle. Either way, I never miss Sunday service now—and I always light a candle for Daniel.