*Are you doing this for your son? Don’t. I’ll start hoping, and you won’t be able to love me.*
Leaving the hospital, Helena collided with a man in the doorway.
“Sorry,” he said, his gaze lingering on her for a second before turning disdainful. He looked away, as if she’d already vanished from his mind.
She’d seen that look too many times. Slender, long-legged women got sticky, hungry stares—not indifferent, hollow ones like hers. The unfairness of it burned. Was it her fault she’d been born this way?
As a child, everyone had cooed over her chubby cheeks, round legs, and plump little bottom. In school, during gym class lineup, she was always first among the girls—”Fatty,” “Piggy,” “Pumpkin,” they’d jeer. The worst names she refused to remember. Children could be cruel. Teachers saw but did nothing.
She’d tried every diet, but hunger gnawed at her constantly, and the pounds always returned. Pretty features couldn’t outshine her size.
She once dreamed of teaching but gave it up, fearing the children’s whispers behind her back. Instead, she studied nursing—when people were in pain, they didn’t care what their helper looked like.
Her class had no boys, and the girls were too busy falling in love or marrying. Helena was always alone. During lectures, they’d beg her to sit in front, hiding behind her broad back to avoid the tutor’s notice.
Shop windows taunted her with beautiful dresses she’d never wear. She drowned herself in loose jumpers and wide skirts, masking her shape. But she was good at her job—gentle with needles, loved by elderly patients.
One winter, she went ice-skating with the girls. Teenagers snickered as she passed. *”Look, the butcher’s shop just walked by,”* one boy cackled. Their laughter echoed in her ears long after.
Her mother set her up with friends’ sons—disasters, every one. The first took one look at her and pretended he wasn’t waiting for anyone. The second groped her before introductions were over. She shoved him into a puddle. *”Who’d want you anyway?”* he’d shouted after her. She never dated again.
Online, she set her profile picture to Fiona from *Shrek*. When a man asked what she really looked like, she joked, *”Exactly like this, just not green.”* He laughed. *”Tired of admirers, eh?”* and asked to meet. She blocked him.
One day, a six-year-old boy barreled into her in the ward hallway.
“Where are you running? People are sick here,” she said, catching his arm.
“I wanted to slide on the lino,” he admitted.
“Who’re you with?”
“My dad. Visiting Gran. Where’s the loo?”
She led him, waited outside, then asked, “Now, which room’s your gran in?”
He pointed, dead serious, to the men’s ward.
“You little terror,” she teased. “What’s your name?”
“Ethan,” he said, just as the door swung open. A tall, handsome man frowned down at him.
“Taking forever, Ethan?” Then he noticed Helena. One glance, and his interest evaporated. “Was he bothering you?”
She bristled. “He wasn’t. Don’t scold him.” She walked away, cheeks hot.
The next day, Ethan and his father passed by again. The man ignored her completely. She stuck her tongue out at his back—only for Ethan to spin around, grinning, and flash her a thumbs-up.
Later, she visited Ethan’s gran in Ward Five.
“You look well today, Margaret. Did your grandson visit?”
“You’ve seen him? Lovely boy. I only hope I live long enough to see him grow.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll be spoiling his kids one day.”
Margaret sighed. “His mum left him. My son married a beauty—turns out she had a child she never mentioned. Two years ago, some fancy modelling offer took her abroad. The boy’s better off without her, but my son—he only dates those same cold, pretty types. Ethan hates them.”
As Helena left, Margaret pressed a drawing into her hand—a boy holding hands with parents. The mother was drawn larger than the father.
“He wants a mum. Think he’s chosen you,” Margaret sniffed.
Helena’s stomach dropped. *Even a child sees how big I am. A man like that would never want me.*
Yet the next time Ethan visited, he marched straight to her.
“Are your hands reliable?” he asked.
“Uh… maybe?”
“Gran says she’s in reliable hands with you.” He grinned. “She’s coming home soon, yeah? And my birthday’s next week. You’re invited.”
She blinked. “I—I’d need your dad’s permission.”
Ethan bolted off, returning the next day with his father waiting at the nurse’s station.
“You’re invited,” the man said stiffly. Address, time, phone number—all recited like a duty. *”If you’re free,”* he added, as if hoping she wasn’t.
Her heart raced all week. *Maybe I can lose a bit more weight.*
On the day, she curled her hair, dabbed on mascara, and scowled at the mirror. No amount of prettifying hid the truth.
Ethan flung the door open before she’d finished ringing. “Helena’s here!” He hugged her legs.
Inside, she froze—the table was set, Margaret beaming, Ethan’s grandfather… and beside the father, a stunning blonde.
Margaret introduced them all, pointedly calling the woman *”just a friend.”*
Then, “accidentally,” Margaret knocked red wine onto the blonde’s lap. The woman stormed out. Helena tried to follow.
“I’ll drive you home,” the man—James—said later in his car.
“You don’t have to.”
“Mum would kill me if I didn’t.” Silence. Then: “You keep turning up. Reckon she’s matchmaking.”
Her throat tightened. “Don’t worry. I don’t love you, and you don’t love me. I’ll stay out of your way.”
When they stopped, the door wouldn’t open.
*”Let me out,”* she snapped.
Suddenly, he kissed her. She shoved him back.
“What, tired of blondes? Fancied a *change*? Should I *thank you*?”
In that moment—flushed, furious—she was radiant. Not like those ice-queen beauties.
He stammered an apology. She fled.
Three rainy weeks passed. Then, one evening, her mother said, *”A man came for you. Looked worried.”*
Helena called immediately.
“It’s James. Ethan’s ill. Can you come?”
She ran, bought supplies, and found Ethan feverish but smiling. As she prepped the injection, he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Reliable hands, remember?” she whispered.
He giggled after. “Only hurt a bit!”
James watched her the whole time—really *looked*. Her heart fluttered.
In the car, he finally spoke. “Helena… let’s get coffee. Properly.”
*”Are you doing this for Ethan? Don’t. I’ll hope, and you’ll never love me. I’m—”*
“You’re *not fat*,” he cut in. “You’re warm. Kind. Ethan adores you. And I… I think we could be happy.”
“What if his mother comes back?”
“She won’t. She signed away her rights. He’s mine. So… coffee?”
Helena exhaled. “Yes.”
Somewhere, there’s a person made just for you. Not always where you expect—not always *who* you expect. Love has a way of seeing past the surface, finding the soul beneath. Even in what others dismiss.
Especially then.
