A/N: This was written in a creative writing workshop and the last sentence was already given to me.

I meant to keep the blanket – something to remember you by. It isn’t anything special – just the regulation hospital blanket. White wool. I leave it in your pram. Perhaps they’ll let you keep it.

You won’t remember me when you grow up. You’re far too young. It won’t mean anything to you, the times I held you as you cried in the night, the anxious days I spent coaxing and pleading with you to take your milk. You were so small when you arrived here – almost two months premature. Such a thin wasted creature with a head far too large for it- although I had done it a thousand times before when I first held you I was afraid you’d break in two. At least I fed you up a little before you were taken. At least I did that.

Since you arrived here six months ago you have never left the cocoon of my arms, and now what will happen to you? How can such a little child protect herself from the hardness of this world? If only I could be sure they’d love you. If only I could know where you’re going. If only that blanket which comforted you in those first few hours could keep you warm and safe for the rest of your life.