Every Love Has Its Own Shape Ann walked outside and instantly shivered; the bitter wind crept right under her thin jumper. She’d gone out into the garden without a coat, stepped through the gate and simply stood there, glancing around, not even noticing the tears running down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” She jumped at the sound, seeing Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a little older than her, hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, I just…” Ann lied. Michael watched her for a moment, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, just don’t tell anyone or the others will be here in a second. Go inside,” he instructed. She obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But I’m not hungry… I just…” But Michael already knew, nodded, and walked on. In the village, everyone knew Ann’s dad, Andy, drank too much. He was always popping into the corner shop, the only one in the village, asking Val for a bit of credit until payday. She scolded him, but always gave in. “How’ve you not been sacked yet?” she’d mutter after him. “You owe me a fortune!” But Andy just hurried away, spending everything on drink. Ann went back inside. She’d just come home from school—she was nine. There was never really anything to eat at home, but she didn’t like to tell anyone she was hungry, or she’d be whisked off to a care home. And she’d heard they were dreadful. Plus, how would Dad cope without her? No, it was better to stay here, even if the fridge was empty. Today she got home early—teachers were off sick. It was late September and the wind chased yellow leaves down the road. This autumn had come in cold. Ann’s old coat and boots weren’t much good; if it rained, she ended up with wet feet. Dad was asleep. He’d crashed on the sofa, fully dressed and snoring, with two empty bottles on the kitchen table and another under it. She opened the cupboard—bare. Not even a crust of bread. She wolfed down the sweets Michael had given her and tried to start her homework. Perched on a stool, legs tucked under her, she stared at the maths sums. But counting seemed impossible. She gazed out the window: wind scuttled round the yard, leaves spinning everywhere. The view showed what used to be the garden—once lush and green, now dead. The raspberries shrivelled, strawberries vanished, weeds everywhere. Even the old apple tree had given up. Her mum had loved that garden, cared for every shoot, baked sweet apple pies from that very tree. But this past August, Dad had picked the apples early and flogged them at the market. “Need the cash,” he’d grumbled. Andy, her dad, hadn’t always been this way. He used to be jolly and kind, going for woodland walks with Mum and Ann, watching TV, drinking tea and eating the scrumptious pancakes Mum made for breakfast, or apple jam tarts. But one day, Mum got sick. She was taken to hospital and never came home. “Something with her heart,” Dad said, crying. Ann cried too and clung to him. “Now your mum’s watching over you from above.” After that, Dad spent hours staring at Mum’s photo until, finally, he turned to drink. Their home was invaded by rough strangers, loud and laughing. Ann would retreat quietly to her tiny bedroom or out to the bench behind the house. She sighed and forced herself to do her homework—she was a clever girl and finished quickly. She tucked her exercise books away, stretched out on her bed, and cuddled her old stuffed bunny—Timmy—Mum’s birthday gift years ago. He wasn’t white anymore, but he was still her Timmy. Ann hugged him. “Do you remember Mum, Timmy?” Timmy just sat there; Ann was sure he remembered too. She closed her eyes, letting the memories dance in: Mum in her apron, hair tied up, rolling dough for baking. “Let’s make magic buns, darling.” “How are buns magic, Mum?” asked Ann, wide-eyed. “Oh, they’re magic all right,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll shape them like little hearts, and if you eat one and make a wish, it’s bound to come true!” Ann loved baking heart-shaped buns with Mum even when they came out wonky, and Mum always smiled: “Every love has its own shape.” Ann would wait for the buns to finish baking, hot and fragrant, the whole house filling up with the scent. Then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Ann wiped away new tears from those happy memories. That was then. The clock ticked in the corner, but all she felt was the ache of missing her mum. “Mummy,” she whispered, clutching Timmy, “I miss you so much.” It was the weekend—no school—so, after lunch, Ann decided to take a walk. Dad was still on the sofa. She put on a warm jumper and headed for the woods, past old Mr. Edgar’s cottage. He’d died two years ago, but his orchard remained—apples and pears. She’d been there before, climbing the fence for fruit that had dropped—telling herself it didn’t count as stealing. She remembered old Mr. Edgar, his cane, his white hair. He’d always handed out apples and pears—or a sweet if he had one. She climbed the fence and picked an apple, rubbing it on her coat and biting in— “Oi, who’s there?” She jumped. A woman in a smart coat stood on the porch. Ann dropped the apples in fright. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Ann… I’m not stealing, just picking up what’s fallen… I thought nobody lived here…” “I’m Edgar’s granddaughter. Arrived yesterday. I’ll be living here now. Have you been coming here long?” “Since… since my mum died,” Ann stammered, eyes filling. The woman hugged her. “There now, don’t cry. Come in for a visit. I’m Anne. Anne Carter, just like you. When you’re older, people will call you Anna, too.” Anne Carter immediately realised Ann was hungry and her life was a rough one. She invited her in, asked Ann to take off her shoes, and offered her homemade chicken soup and warm bread in her tidy kitchen. Ann’s stomach growled—she’d not eaten that morning. She ate eagerly at the checkered tablecloth, the warmth of the home enveloping her. Anne Carter smiled, fetched a basket covered with a towel, and revealed—heart-shaped buns, the scent of vanilla filling the kitchen. Ann took one, bit in, and squeezed her eyes shut. “They’re just like the buns my mum used to make,” she whispered. Afterwards, with rosy cheeks and a full belly, Anne Carter asked gently about Ann’s family. “I can walk back on my own—it’s only four houses down,” Ann tried, embarrassed about her own house. “No, I insist,” said Anne firmly. They arrived to find Andy still sleeping among the empty bottles, the house a shambles. Anne Carter looked around, nodded. “I see…” she said, then started clearing up—sweeping, binning bottles, airing the rooms. Ann pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone what it’s like here. Dad’s lost, but he’s not a bad person. He just misses Mum, that’s all. If people find out, they’ll take me away…” Anne hugged her. “I’ll never tell a soul—I promise.” Time went by. Ann rushed to school, her hair neatly braided, wearing a new coat and smart boots. “Annie, is it true what Mum said? That your dad got remarried?” asked Mary, her classmate. “You look so pretty these days!” “It’s true!” Ann replied proudly. “Now I have Auntie Anne for a Mum!” Andy had stopped drinking, with Anne Carter’s support. Now they walked arm in arm—tall, handsome Andy, smartly dressed, and Anne, elegant and confident, always smiling. They doted on Ann. Years rushed by. Ann became a university student, returning on holidays, bursting through the front door— “Mum, I’m back!” Anne would run to greet her, hugging tightly: “Hello, my little professor, hello!” And they would both laugh happily. Later, Andy would come in from work, content and proud. Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Emily steps outside and immediately shivers, a biting wind slipping underneath her thin jumper. Shes ventured into the garden without grabbing her coat. Standing just beyond the gate, she gazes around aimlessly, hardly noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Emmie, whats wrong?” She jumps at the voice and meets the eyes of Ben, the boy from next door, a little older than her, his hair always sticking up at the back.

“Im not crying, really” Emily fibs.

Ben studies her for a moment then pulls out three sweets from his pocket, handing them to her.

“Herejust dont tell anyone, otherwise the rest will swarm you. Go inside, yeah?” he tells her firmly. She nods and obeys.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “but Im not hungry its just”

But Ben already understands. He nods and walks off. Everyone in the small village already knows that Emilys father, David, drinks. Hes often seen in the lone village shop, asking Val for credit until payday. She scolds him, but always gives in.

“How havent you lost your job yet?” she calls after him. “You owe a small fortune.” But David hurries off, drinking away what little money he collects.

Emily returns to the house. Shes just come home from school; shes nine. Theres rarely food in the house, but she wont admit shes hungry to anyoneotherwise, they might take her away to the care home, and everyone says its dreadful there. Besides, what would become of her dad alone? Hed completely fall apart. Better to stay, even if the fridge is empty.

Emily is home earlier today; two teachers were off sick. Its late September, the wind howls and rips golden leaves from the village trees, swirling them around. This autumn is colder than most. Emily owns an old, fraying coat and leaky boots; whenever it rains, her socks end up soaked.

Her father is asleep, sprawled on the sofa still fully dressed, snoring. There are two empty bottles on the kitchen table, and more under it. She rummages in the cupboard, but there isnt even a crust of bread.

Emily quickly eats the sweets Ben gave her, and decides to tackle her homework. Sitting cross-legged on a wobbly stool, she opens her maths book and stares at the sums. For some reason, she cant bring herself to start. She glances outside: the wind shakes the trees, chasing leaves around the yard.

From the window, she can see the old vegetable garden. It used to be lush and green, but now it looks deadraspberry canes dry and brittle, strawberries vanished, only weeds remain on the beds. Even the old apple tree is dying. Mum had tended every inch, cared for every sprouting leaf. The apples were sweet. But this August, Dad picked them all early and sold them off at the market. “We need the money,” he grumbled.

DavidEmilys fatherwasnt always like this. He used to be cheerful, kind, joining Mum for walks in the woods, watching TV together, sharing cups of tea and Mums delicious homemade scones for breakfast, or her warm jam tarts.

But one day, Mum fell ill. She was taken to hospital and never came home.

“Her heart,” Dad mumbled, then wept. Emily clung to him and sobbed too, while he hugged her tight and whispered, “Mum will watch over you now, from above.”

Then Dad spent hours sitting with Mums photo, staring into space, and eventually, he turned to drink. Unfamiliar, noisy men began to show up, laughing and shouting. Emily would hide in her tiny room, or sometimes escape outside to the bench behind the house.

Emily sighs and returns to her sums. Shes a bright girl, clever with her work, and quickly finishes her homework. She packs away her books and settles onto her bed.

Lying beside her is her old cuddly rabbit, a gift from years ago when Mum was still here. Its her favourite toy. Shes always called him Oliver. Once crisp white, hes gone grey with agebut still her beloved Oliver. Emily cuddles him close.

“Oliver,” she whispers, “do you remember our mum?”

Oliver is silent, but shes sure he remembers too, just like her. She closes her eyes, and fragments of memory slip in: Mum in her apron, hair pinned up, busy with baking. She always seemed to be making something.

“Lets make magic buns, love,” Mum would beckon.

“Magic? Really, Mum?” Emily would gasp.

“Oh, yes,” Mum would laugh, “well shape them like hearts, and if you eat one, you have to make a wish. Itll come true, promise.”

Emily would help, her wonky dough hearts always making Mum smile. “Every love has its own shape,” Mum would say, eyes kind.

Emily would wait, barely sitting still, for the buns to bake, so she could eat them hot and make a wish. The house always smelled sweet and welcoming. Dad used to come home from work and all three of them would share tea and those heart buns.

Emily wipes away fresh tears at these happy memories. That was then. Now, only the clock ticks in the corner; she is left aching and lonely, missing her mummissing her so much.

“Mummy,” she breathes, holding Oliver tight, “I miss you so much.”

On Saturday, with no school, Emily heads out after lunch; her father is still out cold on the sofa. She layers her jumper under her faded coat and slips out. Near the wood stands an old cottage, where old Mr Ellis used to live before he passed two years ago. The small orchard there still grows apples and pears.

Emilys been nicking windfalls there for a while, clambering over the fence to collect fallen fruit. “Im not stealingonly taking whats already dropped. No one else wants them,” she reassures herself.

She remembers Mr Ellis vaguelyold, grey, moving slowly with his walking stick. He was kind, handing out fruit to the children, or the odd sweet from his pocket. Now hes gone, but the trees are still there, uncared for and heavy with fruit.

At the fence, Emily climbs over, picks up two apples, rubs one on her coat, and takes a bite.

“Oi, whos there?” A voice startles her. She drops the apples. On the porch stands a woman in a long coat.

“Who are you?” the woman asks again.

“Emily Im not stealing just picking up whats on the ground,” Emily stammers. “I thought no one lived here, there never used to be”

“Im Mr Elliss granddaughter. Got here yesterday, Im moving in now. Have you been coming here long?”

“Since Mum died,” Emilys voice falters as tears start to fall.

The woman enfolds Emily in a warm hug.

“There, there, dont cry. Come inside with me for a bit. My names Annabelle, just like youll be when youre older. When grown-ups call you Anna, youll know youre grown up too.”

Annabelle immediately sees the child is hungry and that life hasnt been kind to her. She brings Emily into the house.

“Take off your shoessorry its a bit of a mess, I only arrived yesterday and Ive still got bags everywhere. Let me fix you something to eatI made some soup this morning. Looks like well be neighbours.”

Annabelle studies Emilys thin shoulders, the old, ill-fitting coat with sleeves that barely reach her wrists.

“Does your soup have chicken in it?” Emily asks quietly.

“Of course, love, proper English chicken soup, Annabelle reassures her. Come, sit at the table.”

Emily isnt shyshes far too hungry. Her stomach rumbles as she sits at the table, the chequered cloth neat and clean, the house warm and homey. Annabelle ladles out a bowl of soup, sets a fresh slice of bread beside it.

“Eat as much as you like, Emily. Theres plenty more,” Annabelle smiles.

In minutes, Emily licks the bowl clean, bread gone.

“Want a bit more?” Annabelle offers.

“No, thank you, Im full.”

“Right, lets have some tea, then,” Annabelle says, setting a small basket on the table. Taking off the towel, she reveals a batch of freshly baked heart-shaped buns. The scent of vanilla instantly fills the room. Emily takes one, closes her eyes after the first bite.

“Buns, just like Mums,” she murmurs, “she made them just the same.”

After a cup of tea and a bun, Emily relaxes, cheeks pink, while Annabelle says gently, “So, Emily, tell me about your lifewhere you live, who with. Ill walk you home after.”

“I can go myself, its only a few doors down,” Emily replies, not wanting Annabelle to see the mess at home.

“I insist,” Annabelle says gently but firmly.

Emilys house is silent. Her dad is still asleep on the sofa. Empty bottles, cigarette ends, and rubbish are scattered everywhere.

Annabelle looks around solemnly.

“I see” she murmurs. “Why dont we tidy up a bit together?”

She quickly wipes the table, clears away empty bottles, draws the curtains wide, and shakes out the grubby mat. Emily blurts out,

“Please dont tell anyone how our house looks. My dadhes a good person, just all lost and muddled. If the authorities find out, theyll take me away. I dont want to go. Dads just sad about Mum, thats all Hes not bad, really. He just misses her so much.”

Annabelle hugs her tight.

“I wont tell a soul. I promise.”

Time passes. Emily now rushes to school with her hair beautifully plaited, in a smart new coat and sturdy wellies, her rucksack bouncing behind her.

“Emmie, is it true your dad got remarried?” asks Molly, her classmate. “You look so differentso pretty! And your hair is perfect!”

“Its truemy new mum is Auntie Anna,” Emily answers proudly and hurries ahead to school.

David has long since given up drinking, with Annabelles help. Now they walk together: David, tall and smartly dressed, Annabelle, poised and gentle, both smiling, both devoted to Emily.

Years pass quickly. Emily is now at university. She arrives home for the holidays, shouting as she steps through the door.

“Mum, Im home!”

Annabelle runs out to meet her, embracing her.

“Hello, my clever girl, my professor! Welcome back!” They both laugh joyfully. Later that evening, David comes home from work, grinning and content, his little family whole and happy at last.