**A Twist of English Air**
Lydia was a quiet and plain woman. Even her mother admitted that nature had not been kind—her thin hair, prominent nose, uneven teeth, weak chin, and troubled skin made it hard to turn heads. “With looks like that, finding a husband won’t be easy,” her father sighed.
Yet Lydia had a gentle, kind heart. She didn’t seem bothered by her appearance—or so it appeared. In truth, she knew she wasn’t pretty. But what could she do?
“It’s all right, darling,” her mother would say. “Beauty isn’t happiness. God pairs everyone, and you’ll find love. It’s the soul that matters—and yours is good. The right man will see it.”
But souls must be noticed first, and Lydia went overlooked. Men preferred doll-faced girls. She chose psychology—a field where beauty didn’t matter, perhaps even helped. Her sincerity and warmth drew clients, and soon she was in demand. Her parents helped her buy a flat. Life was good—except for love.
One day, a man brought his daughter to her—a pretty thing, sulking over a divorce. After two sessions, she brightened. The father returned, effusive. “You’ve worked miracles. Please—let me thank you over dinner.”
Over wine, he confessed: “I raised Svetlana alone. My wife left us for America. I never remarried—fearful for her. Spoiled her rotten, I admit. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone. Perhaps she’ll marry again, give me grandchildren.”
“You’re kind,” Lydia said. “You’ll find someone.”
“And you? Could I interest you?” he asked suddenly.
Lydia faltered. Michael—that was his name—took her silence thoughtfully. “I’m serious. At my age, there’s no time for games. You’d want for nothing. Think it over.”
She told her mother, who snorted, “Don’t overthink it.”
“But I don’t love him.”
“Love fades. Your father and I? We’ve stayed together—not always happily. But it’s easier than being alone.”
Lydia considered. A lonely future? Michael was older but decent. She agreed.
Makeup artists did wonders for the wedding. Michael beamed, proud of his accomplished bride. He proved a good husband—tender, doting, always calling her “Lydushka.” If she came home tired, he’d bring warm milk, tuck a blanket round her. What more could she want?
A schoolmate visited once—once the prettiest girl, now with three children by different men, trapped with a jealous husband. Beauty, it seemed, didn’t guarantee happiness. Lydia had nothing to complain about.
Except children. She longed for them but feared they’d inherit her looks—and none came. Then, three years in, Michael fell ill—first his heart, then cancer. Lydia cared for him tirelessly, but he grew bitter. His daughter, Svetlana, visited only to accuse her: “You’re killing him.”
One day, Michael insisted she take a holiday. “Ten days in Italy. You’re exhausted. Svetlana will manage.”
Lydia resisted but finally went. She called daily, listening for strain in his voice. But he sounded cheerful.
In Italy, she breathed deep. A handsome local named Anthony flirted, offering to show her the city. She dismissed him—until a friendly cabbie, another expat, charmed her. They spent a day together, and Lydia—ashamed to admit it—fell in love.
The days vanished. At the airport, Anthony begged her to stay. She refused but took his details—then tossed them on the plane. Temptation had no place in her life.
Back home, Michael wasted away. One check-up revealed shocking news: she was pregnant.
“It’s all right,” Michael said. “Register him as mine. My son.”
Lydia wept, convinced in that moment she truly loved him. But his decline was swift. One day, returning from work, she found an ambulance outside. He was gone.
Under his pillow, a letter: “Lydushka… You’ve done no wrong. The flat, the savings—they’re yours.”
Svetlana exploded at the funeral. “You killed him!” she shrieked. “That child isn’t his!”
Three months later, Lydia bore a son—miraculously handsome, as if nature had repaid her.
“Must be the English air,” she’d joke.
Perhaps it was the air, or fleeting love—or simply that Lydia’s heart held no spite. With time, even her face softened.
Her son became her joy. And joy, as they say, beautifies any woman.
**Lesson learned**: Life rarely follows the script we imagine—but sometimes, it gifts us a better story.
