The Fault of Italian Air
Lydia was a plain and unremarkable woman. Even her mother admitted that nature had been unkind, leaving her without beauty. “With looks like that, it’ll be hard to find a husband,” her father often sighed.
Thin hair, a prominent nose, large teeth, a small chin, and troubled skin prone to breakouts—none of it made her stand out. Yet, despite her appearance, Lydia had a kind, gentle, and patient nature.
It might have seemed she didn’t care about her looks. But she did. She knew she wasn’t pretty. What could she do?
“Don’t worry, love—happiness isn’t in beauty. God made a match for everyone. You’ll find love and family one day. It’s the soul that matters, and yours is good. Whoever sees it will love you,” her mother reassured her.
But seeing the soul takes time, and no one paid Lydia any attention. Men glanced her way and moved on, preferring pretty faces with doll-like features.
Lydia chose psychology as her profession. Beauty wasn’t required—if anything, its absence made clients feel at ease. She had a gift for listening, for genuine empathy, and soon became a sought-after therapist. Her parents helped her buy a flat. Life was good—except for one thing: love never came.
One day, a man brought his grown daughter to her sessions. The girl was struggling after a divorce and needed help. At first, she acted as if she was doing her father a favour by attending. But after two sessions, she was eager to return. Her father came to thank Lydia.
“You’ve changed her, made her believe in herself again. I haven’t seen her like this in years. All thanks to you. You’re a miracle-worker,” he praised. “Join me for dinner?”
He told her his story over the meal. “I raised Emma alone. Her mother left us for another man and moved to America. I never remarried—didn’t want Emma to suffer. Spoilt her rotten, I admit. Now she’s grown, and I’m left alone. I hope she marries again, gives me grandchildren.”
Lydia reassured him, “You’re still young. You’ll meet someone kind.”
He surprised her then. “What about you? Could I interest you?”
She was stunned. He took her silence as hesitation.
“I’m serious. At my age, there’s no time for games. I like you. I can provide. Just think it over.”
She told her mother later.
“Don’t hesitate,” her mother urged.
“But I don’t love him,” Lydia protested.
“Love fades. Your father and I barely tolerate each other now, but we stayed. Life’s easier with someone.”
Lydia considered it. Would she grow old alone? Handsome young men weren’t for her. Divorced, desperate men—that was her lot. And Thomas Whitmore was decent, despite being much older. She agreed.
Makeup artists worked magic, and at the wedding, Lydia looked radiant. Her groom beamed with pride.
He was a good husband—tender, attentive. He called her “my Lydia” and nothing else. Their life was steady. She’d come home tired, and he’d bring her warm milk, tuck her in, care for her. What more could she want?
Then an old classmate visited her practice. Once the beauty of their school, now stuck in a miserable marriage. “He resents my past, hates my children, lives off me. If I leave, who’d want me with two kids—and another on the way?”
So beauty wasn’t happiness. Lydia had no complaints. Her husband adored her. Only one thing was missing—children. She wanted them but feared they’d inherit her looks.
Then, three years later, Thomas fell ill. Heart troubles turned to cancer. Lydia nursed him patiently, but he grew irritable, bitter in his despair.
Emma visited occasionally, blaming Lydia. “If Dad hadn’t married you, he wouldn’t be sick. You brought this on him.”
Thomas defended her. “Leave her be. She cares for me better than you ever could.”
Emma stormed out.
One day, Thomas insisted Lydia take a break. “Go to Italy. Rest. Emma will step in.”
She refused—how could she leave him?
“Go,” he insisted. “I’ve arranged everything.”
Reluctantly, she went.
Italy was a dream. The sea air, the food—she felt alive. One evening, a handsome local struck up a conversation. Charming at first, then too bold. She escaped, fled through a back alley. A cab driver, an expat, rescued her.
“British?” he asked.
Relieved to speak her language, she relaxed. He drove her back and offered to show her the city.
The next day, they toured vineyards, sipped wine. By nightfall, she stayed in his tiny flat. For the first time, she felt love.
When her holiday ended, he begged her to stay. She refused—it would kill Thomas. He scribbled his address, just in case.
On the plane, she tore it up. No temptations. No regrets.
Back home, Thomas was worse. Emma had hired a nurse, then vanished.
Then Lydia fell ill. She assumed food poisoning. Thomas panicked, sent her to a doctor.
She returned glowing. He understood before she spoke.
“I don’t blame you. I’m glad. I only wish I could help raise him.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“Emma made her mother miserable. You’re radiant.”
She wept. In that moment, she loved him truly.
But he faded fast. Lydia, despite her pregnancy, barely left his side.
Then, one day, she came home to an ambulance.
He was gone before she reached him. Under his pillow, a letter: “My Lydia…” She couldn’t read past the tears.
Emma screamed at the funeral. “You killed him! That child isn’t his!”
Three months later, Lydia gave birth to a son. To her relief, he was beautiful—unlike her.
“Must be the Italian air,” she’d say with a smile.
Perhaps it was the air. Or fleeting love. Or simply a heart free of envy.
Age softened her features. Her son became her joy. And joy, as they say, makes any woman beautiful.
