11/21/2025
When I was a boy, I watched Lucy with a fierce envy. She was being taken from the orphanage; a new mother and father were already signing the papers, and at last she would have a family. Lucy would tell me about her days with her new parents – about a zoo she had visited, a puppet theatre where she had seen a real witch, and the apricot jam with the little stones still inside.
I was five then, and for as long as I could remember I had lived in the orphanage. Children would appear and disappear like the tide. When Andrew vanished, I asked Mrs. Mary Whitfield, “Mrs. Whitfield, where has Andrew gone?” She sighed, “He’s gone home, to a family.” “What is a family?” I pressed. “A family is a place where you are always awaited and loved,” she answered. “And where is mine?” I asked. She only looked at me sadly and said nothing more.
From that day I stopped asking anyone about families; I understood that a family was something precious and necessary. Then one winter Lucy disappeared for two days, returning in a beautiful dress, her hair coiled, clutching a new doll. I sobbed. No one had ever taken me, and I felt I was unwanted.
Mrs. Whitfield entered with a sweater and trousers, saying, “Sammy, change your clothes; guests will be arriving soon.” “Guests?” I asked, bewildered. “People who wish to meet you.” I dressed, sat on the bench and waited. Mrs. Whitfield took my hand and led me to a waiting room where a tall, bearded uncle and a small, slender aunt were seated. The aunt’s scent reminded me of fresh roses, and her large eyes and thick lashes seemed to sparkle.
“Good day,” she said, “I’m Alice. And you are?”
“I’m Sam,” I answered. “And who are you?”
“We would like to be your friends, but we also need your help,” she continued.
“What kind of help?” I asked, glancing at the uncle.
The uncle crouched down, his voice gentle. “Hello, I’m David. We’ve heard you draw wonderfully. Could you sketch a robot for us?”
“Yes,” I replied earnestly. “What sort of robot? I can draw many.”
David fetched a bright, newly packed robot from a box, its metallic parts glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the window. When I lifted the box, my breath caught – it was a huge, colourful figure, more splendid than any I had ever seen.
“By Jove,” I exclaimed, “that’s Optimus Prime! You know he’s the leader of the Transformers?”
“Do you like him?” David asked.
“Very much,” I said, eyes shining.
“Take the robot, the pencils, and draw it for us. Afterwards we’d love to chat as friends.”
I spent an hour with David and Alice, telling them of my toys, my little bed, and the boots that left my feet freezing in the street. Alice constantly held my hand; David stroked my head.
Soon Mrs. Whitfield called, “Sammy, it’s time for supper.”
David shook my hand and said, “We’ll be back in a week; will you finish the picture?”
“Yes, will you really come?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Alice replied, hugging me tightly until my ribs ached, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” I whispered.
“Oh, it’s just a speck of dust,” she whispered back.
Mrs. Whitfield led me to the dining room. I ate quickly, then raced to the room where the robot lay in its box. Its arms and legs moved, its head turned in every direction. I opened my sketchbook and began to draw. Suddenly, older boys from the next ward burst in.
“Whoa,” said Tom, a lanky lad, “hand it over.”
He seized the robot, tossing it high.
“Give it back! It’s not mine!” I shouted.
“It isn’t yours,” Tom laughed, “it belongs to all of us.”
I lunged, trying to wrest the robot from his grasp. We tugged, and the robot cracked; only a single leg remained in my hands. Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the broken piece. Tom threw the remaining fragment at me, striking my nose, and blood welled up. Mrs. Whitfield rushed in, took me to the lavatory, rinsed my face and pressed cotton to my nose.
“Sammy,” she said softly, “you should not be ashamed. The toys are shared here. Now the robot is broken.”
“It wasn’t my robot,” I sobbed, “they only lent it to me so I could draw it.”
Mrs. Whitfield smiled and said, “Then draw it, my dear.”
“How can I draw a broken robot?” I wondered. I propped the leg against the wall, secured it with a cardboard box and began to sketch.
When everyone was called to bed, I had completed one picture. The next morning I drew two more, then another, until the whole sketchbook was filled with robots.
I approached Mrs. Whitfield and asked, “Will a week pass before Alice and David return?”
She looked at me sadly, “Sammy, the week has already slipped by, and they may never come.”
I wept, believing the broken robot had ruined my chances. I stayed awake most of the night, thinking of the robot, of David, of Alice, until dawn finally stole my rest.
The following day Mrs. Whitfield entered, beaming. “Sammy, dress yourself; they’re here.”
“Who?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
I opened the door and there stood David and Alice.
“Hello,” Alice said, “we’ve come for you.”
“For what?” I stammered.
“You spoke of the zoo. Shall we go?”
“I’d love to, only—” I began, tears choking my words.
David and Alice knelt beside me.
“What’s wrong?” David asked, concern in his voice.
“I’ll be right there,” I whispered, retrieving my sketchbook and the broken leg of the robot.
“Here,” I said, handing them the scrap, “I’m sorry.”
“Sammy,” David laughed, “this is yours. We’ll give it back to you.”
I handed David my sketchbook. “Look what I’ve drawn.”
“Brilliant,” he said, studying the pages, “exactly what we needed. You truly have a gift. And fear not about the robot; I’ll mend it.”
“Now let’s away to the zoo,” Alice declared, helping me into my coat.
At the zoo the wonders were countless; the birds, the lions, the giraffes. I was most delighted by the mischievous monkeys, swinging on branches and munching bananas, which made me laugh aloud.
“Alice, would you like to have me stay at your home?” David asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
When they arrived at their house, I entered cautiously.
“Don’t be…
St🅾️ry c🅾️ntinues in 💭c🅾️mments -
