“Stop playing the fool. Where did your mother hide the ring? Or did you take it? Speak!” Paul tightened his grip on Emily’s shoulders.
Emily had always been plain. When her grandmother first saw her newborn granddaughter in the hospital, she asked her daughter what she planned to name her.
“Lucy,” the new mother answered tenderly.
“Lucys are pretty. Your daughter—forgive me—won’t be a beauty. Name her Emily. That was your grandmother’s name,” the old woman sighed.
In nursery, the other girls were darling—rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, with golden curls and plump lips. Emily, on the other hand, was awkward and unremarkable, her mousy-brown hair thin and prone to static, standing on end no matter how she tried to smooth it.
“She’ll struggle in life with that face. Doubt she’ll marry. I told you to pick a man with sense. But you?” Grandma muttered, braiding Emily’s sparse hair into thin plaits, the ribbons barely clinging to them.
“Mum, stop! She’ll grow into her looks,” Emily’s mother insisted.
By twelve, Emily hadn’t improved. Gangly, with a boyish haircut, she towered over her classmates. The boys called her “Beanpole.” She withdrew, keeping to herself, lost in books.
At sixteen, she skipped the Christmas dance—the dress she’d bought in summer no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” her mother asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? Just to suffer? The boys call me names. No one asks me to dance. I’m hideous!” Emily sobbed.
“Darling, even beautiful people don’t always have charmed lives. What can we do? Looks aren’t everything,” her mother soothed.
“What *is* then? Money? You can buy anything—even beauty. But we don’t have that either. I’ll never marry, never have kids. I won’t curse a daughter with this face!” Emily lashed out.
“People fall for looks, but they stay for heart and character,” her mother said sadly.
“And you said *my* temper was awful. How could it be good when no one likes me? They avoid me like I’m diseased!” Emily’s eyes brimmed. “Why couldn’t you pick a better-looking man for a father?”
After school, Emily could’ve gone to university but chose nursing college instead. As a child, hospitalized with pneumonia, the nurses had seemed like angels to her—white caps hiding their hair, no one to mock her.
She graduated top of her class. Patients adored her. She gave painless injections, lingered to listen to their aches and lonely woes. Most were elderly, but occasionally younger patients came through. One, a thirty-year-old named Daniel, hovered near the nurses’ station, flirting. Once, he kissed her in the treatment room, invited her to the cinema after discharge. But days passed—no call. She nearly went to his flat.
“Naïve girl. He’s married,” the head nurse warned.
“You’re just jealous,” Emily snapped.
“Check his file yourself—wife’s contact right there.”
“But she never visited!”
“Exactly. You bought him oranges, brought home-cooked meals. His wife’s got two kids—newborn barely a month old. He was bored.”
“It says that in his file too?” Emily’s voice wavered.
“I live next door. Know his wife well. If it’d been serious, I’d have spoken up sooner. Be careful with men like him.” The head nurse hugged her. “Don’t cry. Your time’ll come. Men love nurses—we care, we comfort, we know how to give a shot.”
An elegant older woman, Margaret, lay alone in one bed—no visitors, no oranges, no lovingly prepared juice.
“No one comes. Why?” Emily asked once.
“Husband died ten years ago. Son lives abroad—family, job. No need to fuss,” Margaret said.
“But what’s more important than your mother’s health? You’re being discharged—how will you manage alone?”
“I’ll manage, dear.”
“Let me help. I’ll check your blood pressure, give injections. I’ve got time.”
“That’s too kind—”
“We’ll talk later,” Emily cut in, smiling, touching Margaret’s hand before leaving.
True to her word, Emily visited often after discharge—cooking, shopping, cleaning. She loved the spacious flat.
“My husband was military—a general,” Margaret shared over tea. “We moved from base to base. Finally got this flat… but he barely lived to enjoy it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here? There’s plenty of room.”
“His wife wanted to split it into two flats. I refused—done with cramped living. We argued. My husband took it hard… his heart gave out.”
She paused. “Before he died, a high-ranking official—name’s unimportant—gifted him a ring. A rare diamond. My son demanded it after the funeral. I refused. My husband wanted it in a museum. The cut was… extraordinary.” Margaret left, returning moments later with a heavy gold band. “Look. You can hold it.”
“It’s so heavy,” Emily murmured, sliding it onto her finger.
“He never had it appraised. Said if it was fake, he’d be heartbroken; if real, collectors might come for it. It belongs in a museum. I don’t want it cursing my son.”
Emily came daily, juggling shifts. Once, Margaret showed her a bundle—clothes for her burial.
“Your son’s address? Phone?” Emily asked.
“Gone. My husband tore them up after our fight.”
Then, the feared happened—a stroke. Emily found her too late. With no way to contact the son, she arranged the funeral herself, using money tucked in the burial clothes.
Two weeks later, a neighbor called—the son had arrived. Emily rushed over, ringing the bell instead of using her key. A handsome forty-five-year-old man answered.
“Why didn’t you visit? Call? I didn’t know how to reach you!”
“We fought last time. Always did. Mum hated my wife. She was right—I divorced her, but too late.” He choked. “You buried her. Thank you.”
“I should go,” Emily said.
“Stay. Please.” He gripped her hand.
She stayed. Over tea, Paul (for that was his name) poured out regrets—how he’d failed to apologize, to say he loved her. Emily pitied him.
She fell in love. Rushed from the hospital to him. Noticed moved furniture, rumpled linens—but ignored it. His flat, his rules. He brightened at her arrival, kissed her, pulled her to bed.
Love transforms. Emily’s sharp features softened; her eyes shone.
Paul promised: first renovations, then a job. They’d marry, live here.
Blinded, Emily believed him. Her mother warned her—she didn’t listen. After years of loneliness, she wouldn’t abandon happiness.
One evening, stepping out of the shower, she overheard Paul on the phone:
“Be patient. She needs to trust me… Don’t be ridiculous—there’s nothing between us. You should see her. Scrawny, plain… Six more months, the flat’s mine, and we’ll be set.”
Emily’s skin burned. She crept back, washed hastily.
“Who called?” she asked later.
“The builders,” Paul lied smoothly.
She knew then—he didn’t love her. He wanted the ring. Margaret hadn’t donated it yet. It was still here.
“I should go. Feeling ill.” She forced a cough.
“Get well,” he said, barely glancing up.
For two days, she agonized. Paul wasn’t divorced—he’d schemed to find the ring. It gnawed at her. Margaret had hidden it well, but he might stumble upon it. After work, she returned.
Her key let her in. The flat was ransacked—drawers spilled, cupboards emptied. Paul was rifling through books.
“What are you doing?”
He spun. “You said you weren’t coming. Feeling better?” His voice hardened. “Good. You know where Mum hid it.”
“I don’t—what ring?” she feigned ignorance.
He advanced. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by cold threat. She backed toward the door.
“Stop pretending. You know. Did she tell you? Or did you take it?” He seized her shoulders.
“She only showed me her burial clothes,” Emily gasped, wincing.
Paul searched her face, then released her. “I’ll find it. Leave the keys. Go.”
The phone rang. He turned away. Emily glanced at the general’s portrait—hanging crookedly. Now or never.
Amid the clutter, her steps were silent. She lifted the frame, peeled a small bundle taped behind it, and clutched it tight.
Paul still had his back turned. She dropped the keys, fled.
Tears blurred her vision as she hurried to the bus stop, glancing back for pursuit. Twice, she stumbled.
Home, sheAt the museum, as the director examined the ring with awe, Emily realized that true worth was never in the eyes of others, but in the quiet strength of a heart that had finally learned to trust itself.
