“Stop playing the fool. Where did my mother hide the ring? Or did you take it? Speak!” Paul’s grip tightened painfully around Emily’s shoulders.
Emily had always been plain. When her grandmother first saw the newborn at the hospital, she asked her daughter what she planned to name the child.
“Charlotte,” her mother replied tenderly.
“Charlottes are beautiful. But your daughter, forgive me, won’t be. Call her Emily. That was my grandmother’s name,” sighed the older woman.
In nursery school, the other girls were sweet, doe-eyed, with rosy cheeks and cupid’s-bow lips framed by golden curls. Emily, meanwhile, was awkward, mousy-haired, her limp strands frizzing at the slightest friction.
“She’ll struggle with looks like these. Doubt she’ll ever marry. I told you to choose a man with some sense, but did you listen?” Granny muttered as she braided Emily’s thin hair, the ribbons barely clinging to the wispy plaits.
“Mum, stop! She’ll grow into herself,” Emily’s mother insisted.
By twelve, Emily hadn’t improved. Gawkily tall, with a blunt haircut, she towered over her classmates, earning the nickname “Beanpole.” She withdrew, buried herself in books, and avoided everyone.
At sixteen, she skipped the Christmas dance. The dress bought months earlier no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” her mother asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? Just so I could suffer? The boys call me ‘Beanpole,’ no one asks me to dance. I’m hideous!” Emily sobbed.
“Sweetheart, beautiful people don ’t always have happy lives. What can we do if nature decides? Looks aren’t everything,” her mother soothed.
“Then what is? Money? You can buy anything—even beauty—with money. But we don’t have that either. I’ll never marry or have children. I won’t curse a daughter with this face!” Emily snapped.
“People fall for looks, but they stay for heart and character,” her mother sighed.
“Even my personality’s rotten—you’ve said so yourself. How can it be good when no one likes you? Everyone avoids me like I’m contagious.” Emily’s tears spilled over. “Why didn’t you pick a better-looking father?”
After school, Emily could have gone to university but chose nursing college instead. Hospital nurses had seemed angelic in their crisp caps and uniforms—no messy hair in sight. Fewer men, fewer taunts.
She graduated top of her class. Patients adored her gentle hands and listening ear, especially the elderly. But occasionally, younger patients lingered.
One, a thirty-year-old named James, hovered near the nurses’ station, flirting. He kissed her in the treatment room, asked her to the cinema after discharge. Weeks passed, no call. Emily nearly visited his home.
“Naive girl. He’s married,” the head nurse said.
“You’re just jealous,” Emily snapped.
“Check his chart—it lists his wife’s contact. She never visited because she’s home with their newborn.”
Emily’s breath hitched. “Children too?”
“I live next door. If it had been serious, I’d have told you sooner.” The head nurse hugged her. “Men adore nurses—we care, we comfort. Your turn will come.”
One patient, an elderly widow named Margaret, had no visitors, no fruit baskets, no homemade treats.
“Why does no one come?” Emily once asked.
“My husband died years ago. My son lives abroad—work, family. No need to fuss over me,” Margaret replied.
“But nothing’s more important than your health! You can’t manage alone.”
“I’ll manage, dear,” Margaret smiled.
“Let me help. I can check your blood pressure, give injections. I don’t mind.”
After discharge, Emily kept her promise—cooking, shopping, cleaning. She loved the spacious flat.
“My husband was a general,” Margaret said over tea. “We moved endlessly. Finally got this place, but he barely enjoyed it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here?”
“His wife wanted to split it. I refused. We argued. The stress killed my husband—partly. Before he died, an old army friend gave him a rare diamond ring. My son demanded it afterward. I refused. My husband meant to donate it…”
She fetched a velvet pouch. “See for yourself.”
Emily gasped at the weighty gold band. “It’s massive!”
“Men’s sizing. He never had it appraised—didn’t want to know if it was fake. But collectors would covet it. It should be in a museum.”
Emily visited daily, working around her shifts. Once, Margaret showed her a bundle—her burial clothes.
“Your son’s contact?” Emily asked.
“Gone. My husband destroyed it.”
Then Margaret had a stroke. Emily found her too late. With no way to reach her son, she arranged the funeral herself, using money tucked in the clothing bundle.
Weeks later, Margaret’s neighbor called—her son had returned. Emily rushed over.
Paul, a pleasant forty-five-year-old, answered. “Why didn’t you contact me?”
“We always fought. She disliked my wife… who was right to leave me. Now it’s too late.” He wept. “You buried her. Thank you.”
As Emily turned to leave, Paul grabbed her hand. “Stay.”
She did. Over tea, he confessed his regrets, his grief. Emily pitied him.
She fell in love. She raced to his flat after shifts, ignoring rearranged furniture, rumpled drawers. He kissed her, drew her to bed. Love softened her features, brightened her eyes.
Paul promised marriage after renovating the flat. Emily, starved for love, believed him. Her mother warned her—she didn’t listen.
One evening, bathing, Emily realized she’d forgotten a towel. Wrapping her robe, she stepped out. Paul stood by the kitchen window, phone pressed to his ear.
“—Just wait. She needs to trust me… Don’t be jealous. There’s nothing between us. You should see her—scrawny, plain… In six months, the flat’s mine, and we’ll—”
Emily fled to the bathroom, scrubbed hastily. At the kitchen table, Paul smiled.
“Who called?” she asked.
“Just the builder.”
She knew then—he wanted the ring. Margaret hadn’t donated it. It was still here.
“I’m unwell. I’ll rest at home,” she lied, coughing for effect.
“Get better soon,” he said, making no effort to stop her.
Two days passed in a daze. She had to retrieve the ring before Paul did. Returning after work, she unlocked the door—and froze.
Drawers upended, cupboards ransacked, Paul tearing through books.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He spun. “You said you weren’t coming! Feeling better?” His voice hardened. “Good. You know where Mum hid that ring.”
“What ring?” she feigned ignorance.
His grip seized her shoulders, fingers digging. “Don’t play dumb. Where is it?”
“She never told me! Just showed me her burial things—”
Paul released her with a shove. “I’ll find it. Leave the keys and go.”
As his phone rang again, Emily eyed the general’s portrait—hanging crooked. She darted forward, lifted the frame, and peeled a small bundle taped inside.
Keys dropped, she fled.
At the museum, the director examined the stone. “This cut is extraordinary. It needs proper authentication—in London.”
“Take it. It belongs here,” Emily said, repeating Margaret’s wish.
On her way to work, Emily resolved: no more trusting men. Adoption was an option—no passing on her looks or misfortunes. There was time. She was only twenty-eight.
And at the hospital, patients waited—ready to share their joys and sorrows with the nurse who gave painless injections….
**Lesson:** True worth isn’t in beauty or possessions, but in kindness and purpose. Deceit crumbles; integrity endures.
