Lydia was a quiet, plain girl. Even her mother admitted that nature hadn’t been kind—her thin hair, strong nose, uneven teeth, weak chin, and troublesome skin made it hard to turn heads. “With looks like that, she’ll struggle to find a husband,” her father would sigh.
Yet Lydia had a gentle, kind heart. She pretended not to care about her appearance, but of course, she knew. “Don’t worry, love,” her mother would say. “Happiness isn’t in beauty. God made a match for everyone. You’ll find love—it’s your soul that matters, and yours is good.”
But souls must be seen first, and no one looked Lydia’s way. Men preferred pretty girls with doll-like faces.
She chose psychology as her career—a field where beauty didn’t matter. Her sincerity and empathy drew clients in, and soon, she was in demand. Her parents helped her buy a flat. Life was comfortable—except for her empty love life.
One day, a man brought his daughter to her sessions. The girl, resentful at first, soon warmed to Lydia. After two visits, she was eager to return. Her father, deeply grateful, invited Lydia to dinner.
“I raised Sophie alone,” he confessed over wine. “My wife left us for another man, moved to America. I never remarried—didn’t want to upset Sophie. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone. Maybe she’ll marry again, give me grandchildren.”
“You’re kind—you’ll find someone,” Lydia said.
“And you?” he asked suddenly. “Could I interest you?”
She hesitated. He was much older, but decent, stable. Her mother urged her: “Love fades. Living together is easier than alone.”
So she agreed.
On their wedding day, makeup artists worked miracles. Michael, her husband, was proud of his accomplished bride.
He was a good man—tender, attentive. When she came home tired, he’d bring her warm milk, tuck a blanket around her. What more could she want?
Then an old classmate, once the prettiest girl, came for therapy. Two children by two men, now married to a third who scorned her past. Beauty hadn’t brought her happiness.
Lydia had no complaints. Her husband adored her. Children? She longed for them but feared they’d inherit her looks. It never happened.
Three years in, Michael fell ill—heart troubles, then cancer. Lydia cared for him tirelessly. His daughter, Sophie, blamed her: “If he hadn’t married you, he’d be healthy.”
One day, Michael insisted Lydia take a break. “Go to Italy. Ten days. Sophie will stay with me.”
She refused, but he wore her down.
In Italy, she breathed deeply, ate pasta, wandered. A handsome local, Antonio, flirted with her. She fled once, but when he offered a tour the next day, she went.
For the first time, she fell in love.
The days flew. At the airport, he begged her to stay. She refused—it would kill Michael.
Back home, she threw away his address. No temptings.
Then she felt ill—not sick, but pregnant. Michael, though weak, was the first to say: “I’m glad. Raise him as mine.”
She glowed. He faded.
One evening, she hurried home to find an ambulance. Too late.
Under his pillow, a letter: “You’re not at fault. The boy is mine.”
At the funeral, Sophie screamed: “You killed him!”
Three months later, Lydia’s son was born—beautiful, unlike her. Maybe Italian air had blessed him.
She changed as she aged, her harsh features softening. Her son was her joy.
And joy, as they say, makes any woman lovely.
