As she stepped out of the hospital, Emily collided with a man in the doorway.
“Sorry,” he said, pausing to glance at her before his expression turned dismissive. He looked away immediately, as if she were invisible.
She was used to those looks. Slender, leggy women got admiring stares—eyes lingering, eager. But for Emily, it was always indifference or worse. It wasn’t fair. Was it her fault she’d been born this way?
When she was little, people cooed over her chubby cheeks and round figure. But in school, lining up for P.E., she was always first among the girls. They called her names—BBW, Porky, even worse things she didn’t want to remember. Kids could be cruel. The teachers noticed but never interfered.
She tried diets, but the hunger gnawed at her until she gave up. Lost weight always came back. She had a pretty face, but her curves overshadowed it.
Emily once dreamed of teaching but gave it up, afraid kids would mock her behind her back. Instead, she trained as a nurse. When people were in pain, they didn’t care who helped them—just that someone did.
Her class had no boys, and the girls were too busy with their own romances to notice her. They’d slip behind Emily in lectures, hiding from the tutor’s gaze.
She sighed at the elegant dresses in shop windows, knowing they weren’t made for her. She dressed in loose tops and flowing skirts, hiding what she could. But she was good at her job—steady hands, gentle with injections. The elderly patients adored her.
One day, she went ice-skating with friends. Teenagers sneered. “Blimey, look at her—built like a rugby player,” one laughed. Their cruel sniggers made her eyes sting.
Her mum tried setting her up with friends’ sons. One bloke took one look at her and pretended he wasn’t waiting for anyone. Another groped her before they’d even spoken. She shoved him, sending him splashing into a puddle. “Who’d want you anyway?” he shouted after her. After that, she stopped dating. Better to be alone.
Online, she used Fiona from *Shrek* as her profile picture. When a guy asked what she *really* looked like, she joked, “Like this, just not green.” He thought she was being modest. “Bet you’re stunning and just hiding from creeps,” he replied, asking to meet. She blocked him.
Then, one day at work, a little boy crashed into her in the corridor.
“Where’re you off to? People are resting here,” she said, catching his arm.
“I wanted to slide on the lino,” he admitted.
“Who’re you here with?”
“My dad. Visiting Gran. Where’s the loo?”
She showed him, and when he returned, she asked, “Which room’s your gran in?”
He pointed vaguely. “That one, I think.”
Emily raised a brow. “You *think*? Or d’you not know your numbers yet?”
“I know ’em!” he huffed, finally leading her to the right door. “You’re cheeky.” He giggled. “What’s your name?”
“Oliver,” he said—just as the door opened, revealing a tall, handsome man.
“Oliver, what took so—” The man’s gaze flicked to Emily. One glance, then disinterest. “He bothering you?”
She’d seen that look a thousand times. “He wasn’t. Don’t scold him,” she said coolly, walking off.
The next day, Oliver and his dad returned. The man ignored her entirely. She stuck her tongue out at his back—only for Oliver to turn, grin, and give her a thumbs-up. She waved, smiling.
Later, she checked on his gran, Mrs. Whitmore. “You look well today. Oliver visit again?”
“Did you see him? Bright lad. I’d love to see him grow up.”
“You will. You’ll bounce grandkids on your knee yet.”
“God willing. Breaks my heart, him growing up without a mum.”
“She’s… gone?”
“Left. Ran off when he was small. My son married a looker—didn’t know she had a kid till after the wedding.” Mrs. Whitmore sighed. “Then two years ago, she got some fancy offer abroad—modeling. Said Oliver ‘held her back.’ Now my son dates more of the same: pretty, selfish. Oliver can’t stand ’em.”
The story stayed with Emily. Later, Mrs. Whitmore handed her a drawing—Oliver holding hands with a mum and dad.
“He’s looking for a mother. Think he drew you, love.”
Emily frowned. The mum in the picture was rounder than the dad. *Even kids see me as the ‘big one.’ A bloke like his dad would never want me.*
But Oliver kept seeking her out. One day, he marched up. “You’ve got steady hands, yeah?”
“…I suppose?”
“Gran said I’m safe with you. She’s coming home soon, right? And—my birthday’s next week!”
She laughed. “How old?”
“Six! You’re invited. But I gotta ask Dad.” He dashed off.
The next day, his dad—James—waited at the nurses’ station. “Oliver’s insisting. We’d like you to come. Saturday, one o’clock.” He handed her an address.
*A whole week! Maybe I can drop half a stone by then,* she thought desperately.
At home, her mum urged, “Go. Boys see what men miss. Maybe things’ll spark with his dad.”
Emily scoffed. “He doesn’t even *look* at me.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for the right one—someone who loves his boy as much as he does.”
On the day, Emily fussed with her hair, her dress, her makeup. No matter what she did, the mirror didn’t lie. She sighed and grabbed the train set she’d bought Oliver.
The moment she rang the bell, the door flew open.
“Emily’s here!” Oliver barreled into her, hugging her waist. She ruffled his hair and handed over the gift. His eyes lit up.
Inside, James sat at the table beside a sleek blonde—*another model type*, Emily guessed. Mrs. Whitmore introduced her warmly, but when wine “accidentally” spilled on the blonde’s lap, the woman stormed out. Emily tried to leave too.
“Stay,” James said. “Mum made her famous cake.”
Later, driving her home, he was quiet until—
“You keep turning up. Reckon Mum’s playing matchmaker.”
“I don’t *want* you to feel obligated,” Emily snapped.
“I don’t. But—” He kissed her. She shoved him away.
“Had your fill of blondes? Fancy slumming it with a fat girl?” Her voice shook.
“You’re *gorgeous*,” he blurted. “When you’re angry, you’re—alive. Those other women? Ice. Oliver *adores* you. So do I.”
Three weeks passed without seeing him—until her mum said a man had come by, worried. Emily called immediately.
“It’s Oliver. He’s ill. Could you—?”
“I’m coming.”
Oliver beamed when she arrived, despite his fever. “You’ve got steady hands, yeah?” he whispered before his injection.
James watched her the whole time—softly, *warmly*. Like no one ever had.
Driving her back, he said, “Fancy coffee sometime? Proper chat?”
“You’re only doing this for Oliver.”
“No. He loves you. So do I. His mum’s signed away her rights. She’s moved on. We could too—together.”
She studied him. “…Alright.”
For everyone, there’s someone. Not always who you’d expect. But if you’re lucky—*really* lucky—you spot the soul meant for yours, no matter how they’re wrapped.
