The Unexpected Intruder

Author Cyrus HargraveReading 9 minViews 2

Dear Diary,

I trudged home after a marathon of meetings, clutching the grocery bags like a weary soldier. The day had been relentless, and all I dreamed of was a quiet evening in my flat in Camden. Id even thought of taking a stroll, not a drive, but the thought of walking all the way back now seemed absurd. Tomorrow Ill take a cabmy car is still parked at the office and I have no desire to lug it around any longer.

I fumbled with the key, turned it a few times, and the lock stayed stubbornly closed. I tugged at the handle; nothing moved.

Blimey! I muttered, hanging onto the knob. Did I get the right floor?

Had fatigue made me try the wrong door? I counted the stairwellsfirst, second third. Flat 17, my floor. It wasnt a case of absentmindedness; something was off. Perhaps my husband, John, had locked himself in?

John? Are you in there? I called, pressing my ear to the wood. Silence answered.

John should be at work till late. Thered been no arrangement for him to come home early. A flicker of worry crossed my mindhad something happened to him? But John always texts if his plans change. I tried calling, but his phone went straight to voicemail, so I went back to the stubborn door.

Come on, open up, I growled, then started knockingsoft at first, then louder. From behind the door I heard faint shuffling, as if someone were moving about, yet the door refused to budge.

This is getting ridiculous! I shouted. Whos there? Im calling the police! I suspect burglars!

My words seemed to fall on deaf ears; the muffled sounds persisted. I was about to dial 999 when, suddenly, the door swung wide.

A tiny figure stood in the doorwayalmost like an imp, with oversized animestyle eyes, hair the colour of fresh snow down to her waist, and a mouth that resembled the cute little lips from a nursery rhyme. She looked utterly fragile, and for a heartbeat I was speechless.

Then, with the haughty tone of a schoolgirl, she snapped, Woman, stop trying to break into someone elses flatyou dont live here any more. Take your bags and get out quickly!

What? I exhaled, bewildered.

Exactly! Move along! she retorted.

At work Ive always kept a rule: stay calm, no matter who youre dealing with. Yet this situation demanded something else. In a flash I grabbed her by the hair, ignoring her shrieks, and hauled her into the flat.

You! Let go of me! Im pregnant! she wailed, trying to break free.

I glanced around. A halfopened suitcase lay at the end of the hallway, its contents spilling out. She let go, then, with a spiteful hiss, tried to hurl a heavy bronze candlestick at me. I dodged in time.

Sit down! I barked, yanking her hair again and pulling her onto a kitchen chair. Now that we know whos boss here, youll answer my questions. Only when I say so. Youre in my house, and if I need to call the police for trespassing, youll be the one hauled off.

She continued to scream, but I waited for her fury to wane, then asked calmly, Who are you?

Emily! And Im going to be Evies wife! she spat, the words tumbling out like a broken record.

I realised the lock hadnt been forced; she wasnt a thief. Someone had let her in. By whom? The question lingered.

I see, I replied dryly, Evie is already my husband, John. Are you mixing things up?

She snapped back, Im not mixing up anything! John loves me, hes filing for divorce, and Im carrying his child! I want you out of his flat!

I leaned against the doorframe, letting her rant. Just yesterday everything with John seemed fine, and now this drama unfolded with a pregnant stranger clutching a suitcase.

So, what did John tell you about marrying me? I asked, my tone icy.

She didnt answer at once. He said it was a mistake! Youre cold, he needs someone who understands his soul! she declared.

I raised an eyebrow. And he swore eternal love to me nine years ago. When did you two meet?

Six months, she admitted, calming a little. He writes me poems, takes me to restaurantsno one has ever courted me like that! Stay out of our happiness.

I smirked. Your happiness, huh? It sounds oddly familiar. Poems, restaurants John? Hes not exactly a poet, more a dependable bloke. Could he have hidden a creative side?

God forbid, I said. Im not here to ruin your romance, but half the assets are mine, remember? I dont know what John told you, but he didnt hand you a key. He never gave anyone a sparehes not that foolish.

Emily looked taken aback. He just gave them to me! she declared.

The absurdity of it all left me oddly clearheaded. If John had handed out a spare key, why? Hed know it would only cause trouble. Yet here she was, inside my home, claiming a child.

Just then the lock clicked, and John stepped in, looking baffled.

Rose? Why are you up so early? he asked, spotting me at the door.

I forced a smile. I thought Id surprise youleft work early, bought groceries, planned dinner. Turns out we have guests, I replied, trying to keep the tone light.

He frowned, then spotted Emily perched on the kitchen chair, hair dishevelled, eyes glinting.

Whos that? he asked cautiously.

A dramatic entrance, isnt it? I said, waving my hand. Meet your new wife and the mother of your future child.

His face turned a shade of pale that could rival a London fog. What rubbish is this? Ive never seen her before.

I circled him, I expected you to deny it or claim it was a mistake, but honestly, youre very original, love.

He tried to speak, but I cut him off.

Its awful not to acknowledge your pregnant girlfriend. How will you look your child in the eye then? And why didnt you tell her the flat is shared? Trying to impress, I see.

Emily tried to protest, I I dont know him

I snapped, Enough theatre! Your lies wont help. You shouldnt have come here if you wanted to protect him. Now tell me everythinghow did you get the key? What did John promise?

She shook her head, He promised but not him. It was a different John. She stammered.

Formulate that! I demanded.

She finally sighed, I met a man at a pub who said his name was John. We dated normallyrestaurants, his car, the works. Then he lost interest, and I went to extremes.

So you barged into what you thought was his flat? I asked.

Yes, she whispered.

Did you intend to take over his flat? I pressed.

Yes I hoped it would force him to divorce and marry me. But this isnt his flat, is it?

What flat? I was losing track.

My Johns flat, she said, He drove me here.

And youve been here often?

Not a lot, but enough.

Im calling the police, I announced. A stranger, claiming to be John, brought a woman into our home using our keys. Either this is some twisted irony or you both are master liars.

Silence fell. John shifted uncomfortably.

Whats your side of the story, John? I asked, eyes narrowed.

He swallowed, Well I gave a spare set of keys to my brother, Fred, because I thought he might need the car or the flat if we were away. He asked for a weeks stay while we were supposed to be off to Greece.

My mind raced. So that explains why everything felt out of place when we returned. Did you think hed bring strangers?

He just asked, John muttered.

Fred, youre coming over, I said, as his phone buzzed. And you better have a good explanation.

Fred arrived, a broadshouldered man with a cheeky grin that faded when he saw Emily.

Good day, he said, attempting a joke. Just wanted a bit of fun, a little adrenaline rush. No harm meant.

Fun? I raised an eyebrow. I have my own joke for youshes pregnant with your child.

He gagged, I didnt Im not

Did you give her a key? I asked.

Emily, still on the chair, spoke up. I made a duplicate myself. I wanted to kick you out, youJohns wife.

The picture cleared: Fred pretended to be John, ferrying women in his car. Emily, falling for him and pregnant, tried to become his wife and push out the real wife. Shed duplicated the keys to lock me out.

Fred tried to make a run for it, but I blocked his path.

Stay or Ill call the police, I warned.

He slumped, defeated. I turned to John.

How could you hand a spare key to a brother you barely trust? I asked.

I just wanted to help, he said, eyes downcast. What should I have said?

You should have thought first! I shouted. You almost made me a widow.

He whispered, Im sorry.

Ill forgive you later. Right now Im famished.

Ill cook, he offered.

And so the absurd night finally settled into a strange calm. Ill write later about the next stepscourt, custody, and perhaps a proper dinner without unexpected guests.

To Stay Human It was a bleak and blustery mid-December afternoon in the town of Newbridge. The snow barely covered the ground, and the local bus station, with its ceaseless draughts, felt like the last stronghold of frozen time. Scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and fading hopes lingered in the air. The glass doors banged in the wind, ushering in another wave of shivering faces flushed from the cold. Margaret hurried through the waiting hall, double-checking the time on the station clock. She was only here in passing—a quick business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she had to reach home, two connections ahead. This bus terminal was the first and dreariest stop. Her tickets were for the evening coach. With three hours to kill, she felt the damp boredom of the place seep into the lining of her expensive coat. It had been a decade since she’d last seen these parts; everything appeared shrunken, faded, slowed down, and impossibly distant from her current life. Her heels tapped sharply on the tiled floor: an out-of-place figure—expensive sand-coloured wool coat, flawless hairstyle intact despite the journey, leather crossbody bag. Her analytic gaze swept the room: a kiosk attendant bored over her phone, an old couple quietly sharing a bun, a man in a battered parka staring into space. She felt the nearby eyes—not hostile, just registering: stranger. And she silently agreed. She only needed to endure this, to push through space and time like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, she’d be back in her cosy city flat, warm and far away from the bone-chilling gloom of the provinces. Just as she was deciding where to sit, her path was blocked. A man. Sixty-something, maybe older. Weathered face, ordinary, the kind of face you don’t remember. His coat was patched but clean, and his ushanka hat dangled from his fingers. He hadn’t stepped in front of her; he just seemed to materialise from the grey air. He spoke in a soft, oddly flat voice. “Excuse me… miss… could you tell me where to get a drink of water?” The question hung awkwardly in the air, odd as the scene itself. Automatically, barely glancing at him, Margaret gestured towards the kiosk with its weary vendor and rows of gleaming bottles. “Over there. At the kiosk,” she said, starting to move past. Annoyance, sharp and petty, pricked at her. “To get a drink.” And “miss.” Archaic, out of place—couldn’t he see for himself? He nodded, murmured thanks—yet didn’t move. He stood, head bowed, as though gathering the strength for a few paces. His hesitation, his helplessness before a trivial task made Margaret, almost past him now, pause. She saw—not his clothes, not his age. She saw beads of sweat rolling down his temples, even in the chill hall. Fingers kneading the old hat in spasms. Lips pale, his glassy gaze lost somewhere near his shoes, unseeing. Something shifted inside her. Her haste, her irritation, her sense of superiority—all crumpled in an instant. No time for thought; something primal took over. “Are you all right?” Her own voice surprised her, gentler, without its usual metallic ring. She didn’t dodge him now, but stepped in. He lifted his eyes. Not pleading—just confusion and defeat. “Just—dizzy… Blood pressure, maybe,” he whispered, eyelids fluttering as if remaining upright cost him all his strength. Margaret acted on instinct. She took his arm—a steady, but careful grip. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit, here…” Her voice was quiet but commanding, guiding him to a nearby bench. She crouched down before him, forgetting her appearance. “Sit back, breathe. Steady now. Don’t rush.” She hurried to the kiosk, returned with a water bottle and plastic cup. “Here, sip this.” From her coat pocket she produced a paper tissue, gently dabbing his brow. Her entire being was focused on this man: his ragged breaths, the stuttering pulse beneath her fingers. “Help, please!” Her strong, clear call sliced through the station’s stupor. Not panic, but command. “He needs an ambulance!” Suddenly, the station came alive. The old couple were first to react, a woman bringing tablets. The man who’d been dozing dialled emergency services. The kiosk attendant emerged. Others, previously invisible, gathered round. They became a community, united by a sudden crisis. Margaret, beside him, kept murmuring reassurance, hands clasping his cold fingers. For that moment, she was neither a high-powered businesswoman nor an outsider. She was simply a fellow human being. And it was enough—more than enough. Then, in a breath of cold December air and the burst of a siren, two paramedics hurried in, blue jackets streaked with red crosses. Their arrival reset the room. People parted to make way, silence fell. Margaret met the paramedic’s professional, weary eyes. “What happened?” asked the woman, kneeling by the man, her moves swift and precise. Margaret reported clearly, no longer metallic but drained with relief. “He felt faint, dizzy, sweating a lot. Said it was his blood pressure. He’s had water and a tablet. Seems stable.” As she spoke, the other medic took his vitals. The man could now answer softly: name, age, medications. The paramedic nodded to Margaret. “You did the right thing with the water. We’ll take him to the hospital for a check and a drip.” Helping him up, the man turned, searching for Margaret. Their eyes met. “Thank you, love,” he rasped, gratitude shining through. “You… might have saved my life.” Margaret said nothing, only nodded, empty now where adrenaline had burned. She watched them leave, the white ambulance looming through the doors as the cold whistled in. Someone grumbled, “Close the door, it’s freezing!” The door slammed. The siren faded, and the lounge eased back into sluggish waiting. People dispersed, their slow movements resuming. Margaret remained standing. On her hand, red lines—the pressure from her bag. Her hair undone, coat rumpled and stained from kneeling. She wandered to the cramped bathroom, bracing herself with cold water. The cracked mirror reflected smudged makeup, tired eyes, dishevelled hair, a face she’d not recognised in years. Not polished by success, but alive—with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried off and returned to the bench, still with an hour to wait. From the same kiosk, Margaret bought a water bottle—this time for herself. The water was cool, unremarkable, but now seemed the most important thing in the world. Not just a drink, but a connection. A simple, human connection, born at the very moment someone stops seeing another as background or nuisance—just as a person. She noticed details now: the kiosk attendant bringing tea to an old lady; a man helping a mother with a pram. These small kindnesses built a picture—not bleak, but gentle and vital. Margaret checked her phone. A work group chat pinged—some issue with reports. Two hours ago it would have mattered. Now she typed: “Postpone till tomorrow. It’ll be fine.” And switched off notifications. Today she remembered an old truth. The world needs masks: professional, prosperous, impassive—they’re costumes for each scene. But it’s dangerous if, underneath, your skin forgets how to breathe. If you start believing you’re just the mask. Today, that mask cracked, and something real escaped—a breathless fear for another. The readiness to kneel on a dirty floor, unabashed. To be just “the young woman” who helped, not Ms Parker, Head of Department. To stay human doesn’t mean shedding all masks. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And, sometimes, as today, letting the real, vulnerable self come into the light—just to reach out a hand.

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, sounding like a stranger. “We need to get rid of them, Dave. They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for our winter duvets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere.” Olga continued, practically, pulling modest jumpers, skirts, and summer dresses belonging to her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Margaret Ferguson had always hung up her clothes with care to keep them neat—something she’d taught her only son. Olga, on the other hand, forever had chaos in her wardrobes, diving in each morning to hunt for the right blouse, always complaining she had nothing to wear, then furiously attacking the crumpled clothes with her steamer; everything looked like it had been chewed up and spat out. It had only been three weeks since Dave said his final goodbye to his mum. Margaret had needed care—mostly palliative by that point—and peace and quiet. Stage four cancer had taken her in just a month after Dave brought her home. That evening, coming back from work, he found her things strewn in the hallway like unwanted junk, and he froze. Was that it? Was this how his mother’s memory would be treated? Dumped and instantly forgotten? “Why are you staring at me like I’m the enemy, Dave?” Olga shot back. “Don’t touch these things,” Dave hissed through gritted teeth, so furious he lost feeling in his hands for a moment. “What do we want with all this old rubbish?” Olga snapped, growing aggravated. “Want to turn the house into a museum or something? Your mother’s gone, accept it! You should’ve looked after her like this when she was alive—maybe visited more, actually known how ill she was!” Her words hit Dave like a whip. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice trembling. Olga scoffed, “Yeah right. Madman…” Everyone who disagreed with Olga was automatically ‘mental’. Still in his coat, Dave marched to the corridor cupboard, pushed open the top doors, climbed onto a stool, and fetched one of their checkered moving bags—there were about seven from their last move. Carefully, he folded and packed all his mum’s belongings: her jacket, her shoes, each piece handled with care, placed just so. His three-year-old son toddled alongside, dropping his toy tractor into the bag for good measure. Finally, Dave rummaged in the hall drawer, found a key, and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” Dave smiled sadly, gripping the front door handle. “I’ll be back soon, mate, go to mummy.” “Wait!” Olga called, suddenly anxious. “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, but I’m full up on your attitude towards my mum,” he shot back. “Oh come off it, Dave,” Olga grumbled. “Where are you off to at this hour?” Without responding, Dave left, bag in hand. He started the car, leaving the drive, heading towards the motorway. The stream of cars drowned out every other thought: work stress, holiday plans, the silly Facebook pages he liked to read to unwind. Everything shrank before the heavy, slow-moving thought sludging through his head like a tortoise: only a few things really mattered—his kids, his wife, and his mum. He blamed himself for her death—always busy, always something getting in the way. She’d never wanted to trouble him, so he’d postponed visits, called less, listened less and less. Three-quarters of the way there, he stopped at a roadside diner for a bite, then drove the next three hours straight. Once, he noticed the sunset—a blood-red split in the western sky, like the sun fighting not to slip off the edge of the world. In darkness, he reached the quiet village, dented lanes, and eventually pulled up outside his childhood home. In the dark, everything was unfamiliar. Dave fiddled with the gate, lighting the way with his phone; five missed calls from his wife. Not tonight. Let the mobile stay on silent. Blossoms from the dying cherry tree gave off a sweet, heavy smell, night moths flitting through its ghostly pale petals. Cloudy windows reflected the night sky. Dave unlocked the first door, groped for a switch, and a dusty bulb flickered on. By the door, his mum’s old garden slippers waited. By the next door, leading into the house, her battered blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—the ones he’d bought her for Christmas eight years ago. He paused, staring at them, then shook himself, opened the door, and stepped inside. Hi Mum, were you waiting for me? No—no one in this house waited for him any more. The air held the smell of old pine furniture and a trace of damp. The house was quick to get musty; you had to light the fire constantly, or mould crept in. On the dressing table: her hairbrush, a plain set of cosmetics, a bag of value pasta. In the lounge, the only new thing stood out—a sofa Dave had bought with the telly for his mum. The kitchen fridge, wide open, was empty—no one left to live here now. Mum’s old bedroom opposite—her bed piled with pillows, covered with a crocheted throw. Dave sat on the edge. Once, that had been his room. Mum and Dad used the bigger room down the hall. His brother’s bed had been tucked against the wall, with a desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine occupied that space—Mum adored sewing. She’d swapped the spare bed for a wardrobe, her wardrobe. Dave sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe like a ghost. His eyes glazed over. He put his head in his hands, hunched over, face on his knees, and began to sob—huge, choking, hidden sobs. He sobbed for all the words he’d never said as he sat beside her, holding her hand on her last day. He’d been struck dumb, a statue, watching her fade, a thousand unspoken words stranded in his throat. Mum had whispered, “Don’t look at me like that, Dave… I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her—for his carefree childhood, for her kindness, for sacrifices and love, for always being there, for that feeling of being safe, always welcome, no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he’d just sat, stone-faced, unable to find the words. Sometimes it’s impossible—everything sounds dated, overblown, clumsy to a modern ear. Our times have lost the language for real emotion; it’s all cynicism and sarcasm these days. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep on her bed without undressing, careful not to disturb the neatly made sheets. He found a blanket on the chair. He hadn’t expected sleep to be so easy. In the morning, as always, he woke at seven on the dot—no matter how late he’d stayed awake. Dave collected the bag from the car. Birches lined the lane, dressed in new green leaves, standing like young debutantes of spring. Their branches soaked up the sun, ready to warm the earth. He breathed in the birdsong, the fresh air—so lucky to have grown up here, not in the city. He stretched, loosened up, and hauled the bag to his mum’s wardrobe. One by one, Dave unpacked his mother’s clothes, carefully laying them on the shelves. Hung the dresses and blouses, her shoes lined up below. When he finished, he stepped back. For a moment, he saw her right there, beaming at him, dressed in one of those blouses. She always smiled with that mum’s smile, saying “I love you” without words. He ran a hand over the hanging row of clothes, then hugged the whole lot, breathing in that familiar scent… Stood there, lost. He had no idea what would happen to these things—just that for now, they stayed. Eventually, he remembered the present and rang work. “Hi, Tony, I can’t make it today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home this evening. Love you.” Flowers edged the garden path; daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, lilies of the valley near the gooseberry bushes. He gathered a bunch of each, splitting them into three bouquets—there were three waiting for him at the churchyard. Popping by the village shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Grabbed some milk, a roll, and a chocolate bar. “Oh, morning, Dave! Back again already?” said the shop lady. “Yeah…just visiting Mum,” he said, looking away. “Right. Want any crumbly cheese? Fresh in from the farmer. Your mum always had some.” He looked at her. Was she having a go? No, just a kind-hearted soul. “Erm, go on then. And you—how are you, Irene?” She waved it off. She’d been Margaret’s mate. “Don’t ask, love. My Terry’s a lost cause—he drinks and drinks.” He ate his breakfast at the graveyard, dividing the bouquets over three gravestones: daffodils, lilies, tulips; brother, father, mother. Brother went first—a fall from a roof, just twenty years old. Dad, five years ago. Now Mum. He left them chocolate, broke off some cheese for Mum. Their faces smiled at him from the photographs on the headstones. He talked to them in his mind. Remembered the mischief with his brother. Remembered going fishing at dawn with Dad, expertly casting the line. Remembered Mum yelling across the lane, “Daaave! Dinner!” in a voice that carried for miles—how he used to cringe in front of his mates. How he wished she’d call him like that now. Dave stood, stroked the wooden cross on his mother’s grave, the earth still fresh and new. “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t look after you well enough. We were living our own lives, but without you, it’s just empty. There’s so much I want to say to you, and to you too, Dad. You were the best parents in the world—I’m so grateful… How did you do it? Me and Olga, we’re just selfish. Me, me, me, mine, I want… Thank you for everything. And you too, Charlie, mate, thank you.” Time to go. Dave walked down the path, picking wild grass and chewing the soft stalks. On the first street, he ran into Terry, Irene’s son. Already drunk and down on his luck. “Oi, Dave! Back again?” Terry slurred. “Yeah… Came to see the folks. You still drinking?” “’Course, it’s a holiday.” “What holiday?” Unexpectedly, Terry pulled a tiny page-a-day calendar from his shorts, torn to yesterday’s date. He flipped it. “World Turtle Day! See?” he said proudly. Dave smirked, “Right. Listen, Terry… Look after your mum, she’s a diamond. And she won’t be here forever. Remember that.” He walked on, leaving Terry looking confused. After a moment, Terry called out, “Yeah, alright, mate. Take care, Dave!” “Yeah, goodbye,” Dave replied, not looking back.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, reviews, subscriptions, and a HUGE thanks for all your generous donations from me and my five feline companions. Please feel free to share any stories you enjoy on social media—every little bit brings joy to this author! My daughter came home late from her shift at the hospital, where she works as a nurse in trauma care. She spent ages in the shower, then wandered into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are some meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” I offered, trying to read her face for clues, “Long day, Lucy? You look shattered. Is everything alright?” “I’m not hungry. I’m already hideous as it is, and if I eat now, no one will ever look at me,” Lucy muttered darkly, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Don’t talk nonsense,” I protested, “There’s nothing wrong with you, love. You’ve got lovely eyes, and your nose and lips are perfectly fine. Stop being so hard on yourself!” “It’s just… all my friends are married already, and I’m not. The only men interested in me are the awful ones. The ones I like don’t even notice I exist. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she frowned, looking to me for answers. “You just haven’t met your person yet, that’s all! Your time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy just grew more upset. “My eyes are small, my lips are thin, and just look at my nose! If we had money, I’d get plastic surgery. But we’re poor, so I’ve decided I’ll marry some guy with a disability. There are men at the hospital who’ve lost limbs after car accidents—most of their girlfriends leave them. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait around forever!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that,” I blurted out in distress, “Look at your father—his legs aren’t the best, either. I was hoping at least my son-in-law would be able to help in the garden at the allotment. It really would make a difference. How are we supposed to manage otherwise?” Then I caught myself and rushed to explain, “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but why tie yourself to someone with a disability? What about Alex from next door? He’s a good lad, has had his eye on you for ages. He’s strong, your babies would be healthy, and you know—” “Mum, please!” Lucy protested. “Your Alex can’t hold down a job, he loves a drink, and what would I even talk to him about?” “You don’t have to chat much! I’ll tell him to go dig over the garden and then come in for tea. Or I’ll send him to the shop. He’s a good sort, really. Maybe you two would get on?” I suggested hopefully, but Lucy just pushed her tea away and stood up. “I’m off to bed, Mum. Honestly! I thought you at least believed there was nothing wrong with me, but you’re just like everyone else—you think I’m an ugly duckling, too.” “Lucy, darling, don’t be silly,” I called after her, but Lucy just waved her hand. “I’m done, Mum!” And she shut her bedroom door right in my face. She lay awake for hours, thinking about the young man who’d arrived at the hospital recently. He’d lost his leg below the knee—a slab had crushed him in a derelict building due for demolition. Nobody came to visit this young fellow, not even thirty, and at first, after surgery, he’d look at Lucy with pleading eyes, clutch her hand. But then, once the shock wore off, he just stared at the ceiling, silent and withdrawn. For some reason, Lucy felt sorrier for him than for the others—maybe because no one ever came to see him. “Do you think I’ll walk again?” he asked, not looking at her. “Of course you will, you’ll heal—you’re young,” Lucy said, trying to sound certain. “They all say that. Try living without a leg—see how it feels,” he snapped, turning his face to the wall like it was her fault. “Well, why did you go in there, anyway?” she fired back. “Thought I saw something,” he muttered, and now whenever she entered his room, he’d turn to face the wall. Lucy couldn’t help but notice his eyes—icy blue and cold, but his face was handsome. It seemed so unfair, what had happened to him… “You pity me, don’t you? I can see it,” he said, catching her gaze. “That’s all anyone can do now—pity me. No one could ever love me like this.” “No one loves girls like me, either, even with both arms and legs, because I’m just not right. No one even pities me—maybe I’d be better off missing a leg, at least then someone would feel sorry for me,” Lucy shot back, eyes burning with self-pity. But then, for the first time, Michael (that was his name) smiled at her. “You’re mad—you think you’re not attractive? I’d give anything to be with someone like you, honestly,” he said quietly. Lucy looked at him, bright-eyed, and for some reason, she believed him. So she blurted out, “Well, what if I chose you? Would you marry me?” Then, when he just stared at her, speechless, she added, “If you don’t answer, I’ll take that as a no!” She stood, headed for the door, her feelings hurt. Michael struggled up on his elbows, trying to sit up as if to chase after her, then, remembering the leg, he called out, “Lucy, marry me! I promise, soon no one will even guess about my leg. I’ll recover. Please, don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears—but somehow, she knew this was it. The One. It didn’t matter about noses or eyes or missing legs—they’d found each other. Her time had come, just like her mother had said… Michael threw himself into rehabilitation with determination. He wanted to marry this wonderful girl, to be strong for their future together. He longed for Lucy to feel needed and cherished. He needed her—he wanted nothing more than to live by her side. “Are you in love at last, sweetheart?” I asked her quietly one day, “Look at you, all glowing—didn’t you say you weren’t pretty?” Lucy didn’t try to deny it. She walked on air, her biggest wish now that Michael would manage with his prosthesis. They walked together more and more, starting in the hospital courtyard, then through the snow-covered, twinkling pre-Christmas streets… “That’s where the building collapsed on me,” Michael showed her one day. “Why did you go in there, anyway?” Lucy asked. “You’ll laugh—I saw a puppy in there, a black and white stray. I thought he’d freeze to death. I wanted to take him home—didn’t want to be alone anymore.” They saw a skinny dog nearby, watching them warily. “That’s probably him!” Michael grinned, and the dog trailed them all the way home. “At least Lucy’s found herself a lovely husband—good looking, younger than her, with his own flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends teased at the wedding. Lucy’s mother shed a tear when Michael called her “Mum.” Michael was raised in care and had no family of his own. He was kind, thoughtful—and most importantly, they truly loved each other. Allotment gardening didn’t matter anymore—though Michael took on every task happily and made a success of them all. Now Lucy, Michael, and their dog Kuzma live together. Soon, they’ll be four—their daughter is on the way! Never give in to despair. If you do, you might miss your chance at happiness. After all, life’s greatest beauty is its unpredictability…