Author's Note: Inspired by my Call the Midwife rewatch of Episode 1.1. Also, I don't speak Spanish and am relying solely on the Internet for translation, so apologies for anything I've gotten wrong.

1949

"You'll see to Mrs. Warren today," Sister Evangelina had told her. "She only speaks Spanish, but one of the daughters should be there to translate." She had not said how many daughters there were.

"I'm sure you'll do splendidly," Sister Julienne had said. "Mrs. Warren has been a patient of ours for many years." She had not said for how many years, nor for how many pregnancies.

"Warren?" Sister Monica Joan remarked. "I have always found her surname to be rather appropriate." Sister Bernadette had been in a hurry and had not thought twice about the Sister's mischievous grin.

But when she arrived at the flat, she saw exactly what the mercurial elder nun had been about. The Warren home was crowded and hot, and every corner, closet, bedroom and stairwell seemed to reveal yet another child, like a rabbit warren. The air was thick with the smells of wet laundry, sweat and something spicy and foreign. And the noise. She had to use her loudest, bossiest tone - twice - just to make herself heard over all the chatter in the kitchen.

"I'm looking for a Mrs. Conchita Warren?" she shouted a second time and one of the older girls stood.

"Mama?"

A petite, heavily pregnant woman came forward and greeted her in Spanish. Sister Bernadette looked to the older girl again for help.

"I'll need to examine her. Can you translate?"

The girl nodded. "Sure." She spoke to her mother again. The woman smiled, slow and perfectly at ease, then pointed her toward the bedroom.

Even with the language barrier, the examination was straightforward and went quickly. "How many out there are your brothers and sisters?" Sister Bernadette asked the girl once, as a way of making small talk.

The girl frowned. "All of them."

The young nun struggled to hide her shock. There had to be at least 20 children around that table. 20 children, and another on the way, crowded into a tiny flat in the middle of Poplar. She'd seen large families on farms in Scotland, but never one this large and in such a small space. All that noise, and all those people - how could one live in such chaos?

But then Mr. Warren came home and greeted his wife with a long kiss, oblivious to everyone else in the room. He invited Sister Bernadette to stay for lunch. She sat at a long trestle table with the 20 Warren children around large pots of spicy, delicious soup, scooped up mouthfuls of broth and bread, and listened to them talk in a strange mix of Spanish and Cockney. And when the meal was over and Mrs. Warren sent her back to the convent with a packet of some sort of Spanish sweet rolls, she felt warm, the way she always had after visiting her aunts and cousins for holidays. It was chaos, but it was beautiful. It was a family.

1959

Every Tuesday and Thursday when Shelagh helped set up the community center for clinic, she made sure the neat and orderly intake table faced the door. This was for two reasons: one, so she could greet every patient with a calm smile; and two, so she wouldn't have to gaze at the rows of mothers and babies, and be reminded of what she could not have.

This Thursday was particularly slow, and she found it harder and harder as the day dragged on to ignore the sounds of the mothers with their children. It had only been two weeks since her operation and the doctors' confirmation of her infertility. Shelagh tried not to think about Patrick's face that afternoon. She'd so wanted to see his face when- she took a deep breath and straightened the immaculate rows of patient files. It wasn't to be.

Patrick had insisted that she didn't have to come back to clinic yet if it was too hard for her, but Shelagh didn't know what else to do. Puttering around the flat didn't help, nor did organizing the files in the surgery. She wasn't sure what would.

A dark-haired young woman came through doors, carrying a toddler, followed by an older pregnant woman. Shelagh forced an efficient smile onto her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Warren, Maureen. It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Sis - I mean, Mrs. Turner." Maureen blushed slightly. "Sorry."

"It's perfectly all right. I have you just here. If you'll take a seat, Dr. Turner will be with you shortly."

Maureen helped her mother to a chair and Shelagh ticked Mrs. Warren off her list. After the scare with her 25th child - she'd hit her head and gone into premature labor - the doctor had insisted she at least come regularly to clinics. This must be her 27th baby.

Shelagh glanced back, just for a moment, at Maureen and Conchita. They were singing some sort of Spanish nursery rhyme and the baby giggled with each verse and silly face. Shelagh felt, not for the first time that day, the harsh sting of envy. All she'd wanted was one.

Conchita met her gaze for a moment, frowned and said something soft in Spanish.

"She asks if you're all right, Mrs. Turner?" Maureen translated.

Shelagh swallowed back her tears, ashamed at her covetousness. "Just busy, Maureen. I think the doctor's ready for you now."

1960

Shelagh sighed as her daughter's rag doll went flying over the side of the pram for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes.

Normally, Angela was so well-behaved at clinics, but today she did not want to share her mother with anyone. She'd cried, refused to nap and tossed her toys everywhere. Luckily, clinic was slower on Thursdays, so Shelagh could take a break from greeting patients to gently chastise her infant daughter.

"Now, young Miss," she said, setting aside her files and turning toward the pram. "If you keep insisting on tossing your things everywhere, I'll just not give them back to you. How's that?"

Angela reached for her mother, giggling in such a way that Shelagh couldn't help but laugh with her. Who could scold a grinning baby?

"Very well. You win." She lifted the baby out of her pram and onto her lap, which was precisely where Angela had wanted to be all day. Once Shelagh gave her the doll, she was content - for all of five minutes.

A young, dark-haired pregnant woman came through the doors, followed by older woman who looked to be her mother.

"Oh, hello Maureen," Shelagh said as she struggled to keep hold of her wriggling daughter. "Mrs. Warren, how are you both? Feeling all right? "

"Just lovely, Mrs. Turner," Maureen said, stroking her belly. "My mum came with me, is that all right?"

"Of course. If you'll take a seat, I'll call you when a midwife is free."

The two women moved toward the chairs, but Angela, not one to be ignored, threw her doll right at Conchita Warren's feet.

The woman smiled, slow and easy, then picked up the toy and waved it at the child, teasing her and pulling faces. Angela clapped her hands and laughed, glad to be center of attention for a few moments.

Shelagh thanked Mrs. Warren once she had returned the doll. The woman nodded in return and said something else in Spanish.

"She says is this your daughter?" Maureen translated.

Shelagh beamed. "Yes. This is Angela."

Conchita touched the baby's hair briefly. "Lo que es una hermosa nina. Una bendicion."

That gentle look needed no translation, but Maureen provided it anyway.

"She says what a beautiful baby girl. A blessing."

"Yes," Shelagh agreed.