Just a Childhood Friend — Are you really planning to spend your whole Saturday sorting out junk in the garage? All day? — Helen speared a bit of cheesecake with her fork, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the tall, ginger-haired man. John leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on a mug of cooling cappuccino. — Helen… It’s not junk, it’s the hidden treasures of my childhood. I’ve still got a ‘Love Hearts’ sweet wrapper collection stashed somewhere. Can you imagine the riches? — Oh please. You actually kept sweet wrappers? Since when? Helen snorted, her shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. This café, with its battered plum-coloured sofas and forever-misted windows, was long ago claimed as their spot. The waitress, Marina, didn’t even ask for their order anymore—she’d just set cappuccino down for him, latte for her, and the dessert of the day for them to share. Fifteen years of friendship had turned this into their own automatic ritual. — Alright, I’ll admit, — John saluted her with his mug, — the garage can wait. The treasures too. Harry’s invited us round for a barbecue on Sunday, just so you know. — I am aware. Yesterday, he spent three hours on Amazon picking out a new grill. Three hours. I thought I’d die of boredom. Their laughter mingled with the whirr of the coffee machine and the low hum of conversations at neighbouring tables… …There were never awkward silences or unfinished sentences between them—they understood each other as well as their own hands. Helen remembered when skinny year-seven John, shoelaces always untied, had been the first to talk to her in a new class. John remembered how, of all the kids, she was the only one who never laughed at his thick glasses. Harry had always accepted their friendship, right from day one. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with a calm understanding that only comes from people sure of themselves and those they love. On their Friday game nights with Monopoly and Uno, Harry laughed the loudest when John lost yet again to his wife at Scrabble, topping up their tea while the two of them bickered about the rules of Charades. — He cheats, that’s why he wins, — Helen had once declared, scattering playing cards at Harry. — It’s called strategy, darling, — Harry had replied with a straight face, collecting the cards. John watched them with a warm, fond smile. He liked Harry—solid, dependable, with a dry wit you barely noticed at first. Helen came alive around him, softer, happier, and John was glad for her in a way only a true friend could be. But their balance was upset the day Faith barged into their close-knit world… …Harry’s sister showed up at their flat a month ago, eyes red, determined to start over. Divorce had drained her, leaving only bitterness and a gaping emptiness where stability used to be. The first evening John popped by for a board game, Faith put down her phone and regarded him with keen interest. Something clicked in her, like an old mechanism springing back to life. Here stood a man—calm, kind-eyed, with that easy smile you couldn’t help but return. — This is John, my old friend from school, — Helen introduced. — And this is Faith, Harry’s sister. — Nice to meet you, — John offered his hand. Faith held on just a touch longer than politeness required. — Likewise. From that moment, Faith’s “coincidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at their favourite café right when Helen and John were there. She’d sweep into the lounge with a plate of biscuits whenever John visited. She’d sit so close at game nights their shoulders touched. — Could you hand me that card? — Faith would lean across John, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oops, sorry. John shifted away politely, muttering an apology. Helen would catch Harry’s eye—he just shrugged; Faith had always been a bit much. The flirting became more blatant. Faith’s gaze lingered, she complimented John often, inventing any excuse for physical contact. Her laughter at his jokes was so loud Helen’s ears rang. — You have such elegant hands, John, such long fingers, very aristocratic—are you a musician? — Um… programmer. — Still beautiful hands. John carefully withdrew his hand, suddenly absorbed in his cards. His ears tinged pink. After the third “coffee, just for a friendly chat” invitation, John gave in. Faith was attractive—vivid, energetic, full of life. Maybe, he thought, it would work between them. Maybe she’d stop watching him hungrily and things would go back to normal. The first weeks of dating were fine. Faith glowed, John relaxed, and family evenings became simply family evenings again. Until Faith noticed what she’d rather not see. She saw John light up when Helen arrived. How his face changed—open, warm. How they finished each other’s jokes and sentences, linked by a bond Faith couldn’t touch. Jealousy bloomed in her chest, poisonous and wild. — Why are you always seeing her? — Faith blocked John’s way at the door, arms crossed. — Because she’s my friend. Fifteen years, Faith, it’s— — I’m your girlfriend! I am! Not her! Arguments rolled in waves. Faith accused, demanded, sobbed. John explained, pleaded, apologised. — You think about her more than you think about me! — Faith, that’s absurd. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Every time John met Helen, his phone rang. — Where are you? When are you coming back? Why didn’t you answer? Is she with you again? He learned to silence the phone—so Faith started turning up at the café, the park, outside Helen’s house—breathless, teary with rage. — Please, Faith, — John rubbed his forehead, exhausted. — This isn’t normal. — What’s not normal is you spending more time with another man’s wife than with me! Helen was worn out too. Every childhood catch-up with John became a test—when would Faith show up, with what accusations, what scene next? — Maybe I should come round less… — Helen started one day, but John cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life because of her tantrums. None of us are. But Faith had already made up her mind. If she couldn’t win fair? Then she’d cheat. Harry was at the kitchen table when Faith drifted in. — Harry… I need to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you ought to know the truth… …She fed him lies in careful doses, sobbing at just the right moments. Secret meetings. Lingering glances. How John held Helen’s hand when nobody was looking. Harry listened in silence, face unreadable. When Helen and John walked into the flat an hour later, the living room felt thick as fog. Harry lounged in his chair, the expression of a man anticipating a show. — Sit down, — he said, gesturing to the sofa. — My sister has just regaled me with a fascinating story about your secret affair. Helen froze mid-step. John’s jaw tightened. — What the— — She says she’s seen some very compromising things. Faith ducked her head, not meeting anyone’s eye. John spun round to face her so sharply she flinched. — Enough, Faith. I’ve put up with your antics for too long! He was white with anger—the calm, patient John entirely vanished. — We’re finished. Right now. — You can’t… Real tears welled in her eyes this time. — It’s her! — Faith stabbed a finger at Helen. — You always choose her, always! Helen paused, letting Faith’s venom spill. — You know, Faith, — she said evenly, — if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t created drama from thin air, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were desperate to keep. Faith grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. And then Harry laughed—a deep, genuine laugh, head thrown back. — Good grief, finally. He got up and wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Helen buried her nose in his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like brother and sister squabbling over who ate the last biscuit. John let out a sigh—the tension finally leaving him. — Sorry I dragged you into this circus. — Don’t be. Faith’s an adult; her choices are her own. Now—let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold, and I’m not microwaving it for anyone’s drama. Helen laughed—quiet, relieved. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with John was safe. And her husband had proven, yet again, that his trust was stronger than any rumours. They headed to the kitchen, the golden crust of lasagne shining in the lamplight. Outside, the world settled back into its usual shape. Just a Childhood Friend

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Saturday, 22nd April

Am I really going to spend all of Saturday sorting out the junk in my mum’s old garage? The entire Saturday? I watched as Emma eyed me over the rim of her fork, having just nicked a cheeky bit of cheesecake, her eyebrow arching in pure disbelief.

I cant believe youre being serious, Oliver, she said.

I leaned back in my chair, cradling my hands around the mug of lukewarm cappuccino.

Em, honestly, its not junk. Theyre childhood treasures. Im pretty sure the old Playground Swap sticker collection is in there somewhere. Just imagine actual riches!

Oh my days. You kept those? How old are they?

Emma snorted, shoulders shaking with laughter she fought to stifle. We’ve been coming to this café with its battered aubergine sofas and perpetually misty windows since sixth form, and now it was practically our living room. Molly, the waitress, never even asked for our order: cappuccino for me, latte for her, and whatever pudding was on special, to share. Fifteen years of friendship had made habit out of ritual.

Alright, fair enough, I saluted her with my mug, the garage and its treasures can wait. Toms got that barbecue lined up for Sunday anyway.

I know, Emma groaned. He spent three hours yesterday deciding between barbecues online. Three! I thought Id go cross-eyed from boredom.

Our laughter was swallowed by the gentle whir of the coffee machine and the low hum of other peoples conversations…

There was never any awkwardness between us, never unsaid things we were as familiar as each others palms. Emma remembered when I, gangly and with perpetually undone laces, was the first to say hi when she joined our class. I remembered how she was the only one who never teased me about my chunky plastic glasses.

Tom, her husband, had taken my friendship with Emma in stride from day one. He watched us with the calm confidence of someone utterly sure of himself and of those he loved. At our Friday nights playing Monopoly and Uno, Tom would always laugh loudest when I inevitably lost to Emma at Scrabble, pouring us all an extra mug of tea as the two of us bickered about the rules of charades.

He cheats, thats the only reason he wins, Emma once grumbled, tossing playing cards at Tom.

Its called strategy, darling, Tom replied, ever unflappable, retrieving the scattered cards.

I liked Tom, truly. He was solid, reliable, and his dry jokes sometimes took a few beats to land. Around him, Emma seemed to soften and glow, and it made me glad in a way only a real mate could understand.

Then all the balance shifted, and it started with Sophie…

Sophie, Toms sister, turned up on their doorstep a month ago looking like shed not slept in weeks. Her marriage had just crumbled, leaving her utterly rung out nothing but bitterness and that gaping emptiness where certainty used to be.

The first night I popped by for our usual games, Sophie glanced up from her phone and appraised me with a look that felt almost clinical. Something in her seemed to flick back on, some rusty old switch. This was a woman staring at a man not a mate, not a friend from school, but a man.

This is Oliver, school friend, Emma said. Sophies Toms sister.

Sophie held my hand a bit longer than was strictly necessary.

Lovely to meet you, she said.

From then on, Sophies accidental appearances became completely predictable. Shed appear in our café right as we were sitting down. Shed float into the room with a plate of home-baked biscuits just as I arrived. At game night, shed sit close enough that our shoulders touched.

Could you pass me that card? Sophie leant over, her hair whether by accident or design brushing my neck. Oops, sorry.

I edged away, mumbling something polite about the game. I caught Emma glancing at Tom, who only shrugged his sister had always been a bit much.

Her flirting became more blatant by the week. Shed compliment my hands, make a joke of how I might be a secret concert pianist, then grin when I confessed I was a programmer.

After the third, lets get a coffee, just a friendly chat, I gave in. The truth was, I did like Sophie: she was bright, lively, dramatic. I thought, maybe, if things worked, shed stop staring at me like a hungry cat and peace would return.

At first, it worked out. Sophie gleamed with happiness, I relaxed, and our gatherings felt normal again. But it didnt last.

Before long, she noticed things shed rather not. She saw the easy way I lit up around Emma. The way my face opened up, warmer, softer. Our running jokes, the way we finished each others sentences, the unspoken thread stitching years across the table.

Thats when jealousy flowered, bitter and relentless, inside Sophie.

Why do you always have to see her? Sophie blocked the front door, arms crossed.

Because shes my friend. Fifteen years, Soph. Thats

But Im your girlfriend! Me! Not her!

The arguments came in waves. Sophie shouted, wept, accused. I explained, pleaded, tried to reassure.

You think about her more than me!

Thats nonsense. Were just friends.

Just friends dont look at each other the way you do!

My phone rang every time I saw Emma.

Where are you? When will you be back? Why arent you answering? With her again?

I learned to keep my phone on silent, but Sophie began to track me down. Shed pop up at the café, in the park, outside Emmas house flushed, breathless, eyes wild with angry tears.

Sophie, please, I rubbed my temples, weary beyond words. This isnt normal.

No, whats not normal is you spending more time with someone elses wife than with your girlfriend!

Emma was tired too. Every coffee or walk turned into a guessing game: would Sophie burst in, and what drama would unfold today?

Maybe I ought to back off a bit Emma started, but I cut her off.

No. I wont have you changing your life over her outbursts. None of us should.

But Sophie had already made her decision. If she couldnt win fairly, shed do it otherwise.

Tom was in the kitchen when Sophie breezed in.

TomI need to tell you something. I really didnt want to, butyou deserve the truth

She spoon-fed him a story tears on cue about secret meetings, too-long glances, and the way Id supposedly held Emmas hand when we thought no one was watching.

Tom listened in silence, face unreadable.

When Emma and I walked in an hour later, the air in the living room was heavy as treacle. Tom was sunk into his armchair, the look on his face almost amused.

Sit down, he said, gesturing at the sofa. My sisters shared an interesting tale about your clandestine romance.

Emma froze mid-step. My jaw clenched.

What

She claims she saw some fairly damning things.

Sophie hunched her shoulders, unable to meet anyones gaze.

I snapped, finally, turning to her so sharply she recoiled.

Enough, Sophie! Ive had it with your drama.

For the first time, I really lost my cool. Calm, patient Oliver was gone; what was left was a man at the end of his tether.

Were over. Now.

You cant Her eyes filled with tears, real this time.

Its her! Its always her! Youre choosing her, every time!

Emma gave it a moment, letting Sophie spew the last of her venom.

You know, Sophie, she said, voice steady, if youd stopped trying to control every minute of his life, stopped making scenes out of nothing, maybe this wouldnt have happened. You broke what you were desperate to save.

Sophie grabbed her handbag and stormed out, the front door slamming behind her.

Tom, after a beat, burst out laughing from deep in his chest, head fallen back against the chair.

Good Lord, finally.

He got up and wrapped Emma in a hug.

You didnt believe her, did you? Emma mumbled, face buried in his neck.

Not for a second. Ive watched you two for years its like brother and sister arguing over who nicked the last Malteser.

Tension drained out of me in relief.

Sorry for dragging you into this circus.

Oh please. Sophies a grown woman; her choices are her own. Right, now supper. The lasagnes going cold and Im not heating it up just because someone else is having a moment.

Emma laughed, soft and grateful, and I joined in. Our little family remained whole. My friendship with Emma, rock-solid. And Tom, once more, proved his trust could weather any storm.

We headed for the kitchen, lasagne gleaming golden in the glow of the evening lights, and just like that, the world felt right again.

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

To See With Her Own Eyes After a devastating tragedy in which she lost her husband and six-year-old daughter in a car accident, Catherine struggled for months to recover. She spent almost half a year in a clinic, refusing visitors, with only her mother patiently at her side. One day, her mother gently said: “Kitty, your husband’s business is on the verge of collapse. It’s only barely holding on, and Edward is struggling. He called me, asked me to let you know. It’s good he’s an honest man, but still…” Those words seemed to bring Catherine out of her shell. “Yes, Mum, I need to get back to life. I think my Denis would be glad to know I’m continuing what he started. At least I understand something about the business—he must have sensed this, he was teaching me at his office.” Catherine returned to work and managed to save the shaky family business. Yet no matter how successful she was with work, she missed her little girl unbearably. “Darling, I want to suggest you consider adopting a girl from the children’s home—someone who’s having an even harder time than you. You’ll be saving her life, and I promise you’ll see that in helping her, you’ll be saving yourself, too.” After thinking long and hard about her mother’s words, Catherine realised she was right. Soon, she found herself visiting the local children’s home, fully aware that nothing could ever replace her own daughter. Ariana had been born with almost no sight. Her parents, both well-educated and from respectable backgrounds, abandoned her as soon as they learned about her diagnosis. Fear and cowardice apparently spare no one. And so, Ariana ended up at the children’s home, where they named her and raised her. She grew up mostly in darkness, recognising only faint shadows, but she learned to read and adored fairy tales—always believing one day her own fairy godmother would come. When Ariana was nearly seven, her fairy arrived: radiant, wealthy, beautiful, and deeply sad. Ariana couldn’t see her properly, but she sensed kindness. The director was curious why Catherine wanted a disabled child, but Catherine gave only polite, evasive answers. A carer led Ariana over by the hand. The moment Catherine saw her—angelic, with golden curls and large, deep, blind blue eyes—she knew: she was meant to be hers. “Who is this?” Catherine asked, unable to look away. “That’s our Ariana—she’s wonderful, gentle and sweet,” replied the carer. “She’s mine, Ariana is mine,” Catherine decided on the spot. The bond between Catherine and Ariana grew quickly and deeply, transforming both their lives. Under medical advice, Catherine learned that Ariana might regain her sight with surgery, though she’d need glasses. Before Ariana started school, they went through with the operation, but the results were limited. There might be another chance, but patience was needed. Meanwhile, Catherine devoted herself to her daughter, letting business thrive but keeping her personal life on hold. Ariana blossomed into a stunning young woman and graduated from university. She was grateful, unspoiled, and began working for Catherine’s company. Catherine guarded her closely, wary of opportunists who might take advantage of Ariana’s innocence and future inheritance. Then, Ariana fell in love. Catherine met Anthony and approved of him. Soon, Anthony proposed, and wedding preparations began. Half a year after the wedding, Ariana was due for her final eye operation. Anthony was loving and attentive, but Catherine sometimes felt there was something artificial about him—though she quickly dismissed the thought. One day, the couple visited a countryside restaurant to arrange wedding decorations. When Anthony’s car alarm went off, he left Ariana at the table. His phone, left on the table, rang persistently. Hesitant, Ariana finally answered—just in time to hear her future mother-in-law, Mrs. Ingrid Sutton, say: “Son, I’ve got an idea how we can be rid of that blind Ariana quickly. My friend at the travel agency set aside two tickets. After the wedding, take your little hen to the mountains, say you’re dying to enjoy the scenery. Make sure you’re alone—get her to trip and fall. Then come back and tell the police she disappeared after you argued; act devastated but stay calm. Once they find her, it’ll just look like a tragic accident. Don’t miss this chance, son—once she gets her surgery, it’ll be too late. We can’t let that money slip away. Think about it, I’m hanging up.” Ariana dropped the phone as if it had burned her. So, his mother wants to kill me—and Anthony, too? Her thoughts raced in horror. Just moments earlier, Ariana had been a blissful bride-to-be. Now, she realised those she thought of as family were plotting against her. Anthony never heard the call. She tried to steady herself as he returned and nonchalantly explained about the car alarm and an urgent call from work. “Go,” Ariana replied softly, “I’ll wait for Mum—she’ll help me with the plans.” Left alone, Ariana called Catherine. “Mum, come to the restaurant now,” she managed through tears. When Catherine arrived, Ariana told her everything she’d heard—the mountain plot, Ingrid’s voice, and how she’d quickly hung up before they realised it was her. Catherine was stunned. Could they really have been deceived by Anthony? They sat together, strategising their next steps, until Anthony called: “So, Ariana—did you and your mum decide about the decorations?” Taking the phone, Catherine responded: “Hello, Anthony. Good thing we found out about your plans with your mother just in time. Listen closely about your little mountain getaway…” Anthony either didn’t understand or was a brilliant actor: “What trip? What plans?” “You know—the trip where Ariana was supposed to have a tragic accident, and you’d come back a rich widower. You should also know that even deleted call recordings can be recovered by the police.” After a pause, Anthony replied, “It wasn’t me, it was my mother…” “You’re a coward and a disgrace, hiding behind your mother. Goodbye, Anthony.” The very next day, Anthony fled town with money taken from his mother. Mrs. Sutton also left for another city. She Experienced the Miracle: Seeing the World for Herself At the eye clinic, Ariana underwent her final operation. With her bandages still on, she and Catherine would sit on a bench outside, watched over by the kind young doctor, Dr. Derek Palmer, under the supervision of an experienced surgeon. Derek was clearly smitten, making Catherine nervous but warming Ariana’s heart. When the day came to remove the bandages, Derek brought Ariana a huge bouquet of roses. She was overwhelmed—she could see, truly see, for the first time. The flowers, the handsome young doctor with the gentle grey eyes—it was a dream fulfilled. “I’m so happy—I can see everything!” Ariana wept, and Derek gently calmed her. Glasses would always be a part of Ariana’s life, but that was a small price compared to what she’d gained. Time passed, and Ariana and Derek had a beautiful wedding. A year later, they welcomed a lovely baby daughter with her father’s grey eyes. Surrounded by love and protection, Ariana finally had her happy ending. Thank you for reading, for subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!