In that small town nestled at the edge of the map, like the last speck of dust forgotten by time, the days passed not by the clock but by the seasons. Winter froze everything solid, spring thawed it into muddy slush, summer drowsed in the heat, and autumn wept with damp, chilly rain. And in this slow, heavy rhythm, Lucys life seemed to sink without a trace.
Lucy was thirty, and her existence felt hopelessly trapped in the quicksand of her own body. She weighed over eighteen stone, and it wasnt just weightit was a fortress built between her and the world, made of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected some inner flawa sickness, perhaps, or a metabolism gone awrybut seeing a specialist in the city was unthinkable: too far, too humiliatingly expensive, and likely pointless.
She worked as a minder at the council-run nursery, *Bluebell Cottage*. Her days were filled with the scent of baby powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly gentle hands could soothe a crying toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, or wipe up a puddle without making a child feel ashamed. The little ones adored her, drawn to her softness and quiet warmth. But the awed gazes of three-year-olds were poor compensation for the loneliness that awaited her beyond the nursery gates.
Lucy lived in an old, crumbling block of flats, a relic from some long-gone era. The building groaned at night, its beams creaking as if afraid of strong winds. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman who had buried all her dreams within those same wallshad passed away. Lucy had no memory of her father; he had vanished long ago, leaving behind only dust and a faded photograph.
Her life was harsh. The cold water sputtered rustily from the tap, the shared outdoor toilet was an icy cave in winter, and the rooms sweltered in summer. But the true tyrant was the stove. In winter, it devoured two full lorry-loads of firewood, draining her meagre wages. Lucy would spend long evenings staring into the flames behind the cast-iron door, feeling as though the stove were consuming not just logs but her years, her strength, her futureturning it all to cold ash.
Then, one evening, as the deepening dusk filled her room with grey melancholy, a miracle happened. Not a grand or dramatic one, but quiet and shuffling, like the slippers of her neighbour, Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Margaret, the caretaker at the local hospital, her face lined with years of worry, held out two crisp banknotes.
“Here, love. Two hundred quid. Sorry it took so long.”
Lucy stared at the moneya debt she had written off in her mind years ago.
“Margaret, you didnt have to”
“I did,” Margaret cut in. “Ive come into a bit of luck. Listen…”
Leaning in as if sharing a state secret, Margaret spun an unbelievable tale. Pakistani men had arrived in town, offering quick cashfifteen hundred poundsfor a sham marriage to secure citizenship.
“Got mine done yesterday. They know people at the registry, grease a few palms, and its done quick. My bloke, Rashid, hes at mine now, keeping up appearances. My Jennys agreed tooshe needs a new coat with winter coming. What about you? Look, its a chance. You need money, dont you? And whos going to marry you proper?”
The words werent cruel, just brutally honest. The familiar ache twisted in Lucys chest, but she only hesitated a second. Margaret was right. Real marriage had never been in her future. No suitors, no prospects, no hope. Her world was the nursery, the shops, and this room with its greedy stove. And here was moneyfifteen hundred pounds. Enough for firewood, for fresh wallpaper to chase away the gloom of peeling walls.
“Alright,” she said softly. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucy gasped when she opened the door, instinctively stepping back to hide her bulk. Before her stood a young mantall, lean, with a face untouched by hardship and eyes dark with sorrow.
“Good Lord, hes just a boy!” she blurted.
The lad straightened.
“Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, his accent barely noticeable, just a soft lilt.
Margaret flapped her hands. “Mines fifteen years youngeryouve only got eight between you. Hes in his prime!”
At the registry office, they were told to wait a month”to think it over,” the clerk said pointedly.
The Pakistanis left to work, but before going, Rahmanthe young manasked for Lucys number.
“Its lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, Lucy saw a loneliness she knew too well.
He called. Every evening. At first, the conversations were awkward and brief, then longer, easier. Rahman was a storytellerhe spoke of his mountains, the fierce sun, his mother, whom he adored, and how hed come to England to help his family. He asked about her life, her work with children, and to her surprise, Lucy found herself talkingnot complaining, but sharing. She told him nursery mishaps, how the first spring earth smelled, and once, she even laughed down the linegirlish, carefree, forgetting her weight and years. In that month, they learned more about each other than some couples did in years.
When Rahman returned, Lucy dressed in her only nice dresssilver, straining at the seamsand felt an odd flutter, not fear but anticipation. The ceremony was brisk, impersonal. But for Lucy, it was a flash of rings, solemn words, and dizzying unreality.
Afterwards, Rahman walked her home. Inside, he handed her the promised money. Then, from his pocket, he drew a velvet box. Inside lay a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he said. “I wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I… dont want to leave. I want you to be my wifeproperly.”
Lucy froze.
“Ive heard your soul these past weeks,” he continued, eyes burning with sincerity. “Its kind, purelike my mothers. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her deeply. Ive come to love you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay.”
It wasnt a request for a sham. It was a proposal. And in his honest, solemn gaze, Lucy saw not pity, but something shed stopped dreaming ofrespect, gratitude, and the first flicker of tenderness.
Rahman left the next day, but now it was a separation with promise. He worked in London but visited every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, he sold his share in his cousins business, bought a second-hand van, and moved back for good. He started a delivery service, driving goods to the nearest town, and soon earned a reputation for honesty and hard work.
Then came their son. And three years later, another. Two dark-eyed boys with their fathers smile and their mothers gentle heart. The house filled with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the warmth of a real family.
Her husband didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itand he worked tirelessly, gazing at Lucy with such devotion the neighbours sneered. The eight-year gap between them melted away, invisible in the light of their love.
But the greatest wonder was Lucy herself. She bloomed from within. Pregnancy, happiness, the sheer motion of lifeit reshaped her. The extra weight slipped away, as if it had only ever been a shell, no longer needed. She grew lighter, brighter, her step sure.
Sometimes, watching her boys play by the stovenow tended carefully by RahmanLucy would catch her husbands adoring gaze and think of that strange evening, the two hundred quid, Margarets knock, and the man with sorrowful eyes who had offered not a sham, but a second life. A real one.
