Emily Taylor

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Ann made her way outside and immediately shivered as the biting wind snuck beneath her thin cardigan—she hadn’t bothered with her coat. She stepped out into the garden, just standing there and glancing about, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?”—She jumped when she saw Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a little older with wild hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, it’s just…—” Ann lied. Michael looked at her, then fished three sweets from his pocket and handed them over. “Here, just don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all be after me. Go inside,” he ordered firmly, and she obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… just…” But Michael had already figured it out. He nodded and walked on. In the village, everyone knew Ann’s father, Andrew, drank. He often went to the only shop and asked for credit until payday. Val, the shopkeeper, would scold him but still give in. “How you haven’t been sacked yet, I don’t know—” she’d mutter after him, “—you already owe a fortune,” but Andrew would quickly leave and spend the money on drink. Ann went inside. She’d only just come home from school, she was nine. There was never much food at home, but she didn’t want to tell anyone she was hungry, or else she’d be taken from her father and put in care—and she’d heard terrible things about that. Besides, who would look after dad? He’d fall apart on his own. No, better things stay as they are, even if the fridge was empty. That day, Ann had finished school early—two teachers were off sick. It was late September, a cruel wind hurled yellow leaves from the trees and chased them down the road. This September was especially chilly. Ann had an old jacket and worn boots; if it rained, they’d soak right through. Her dad was sleeping—still in his clothes and shoes—snoring on the sofa. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table and more under it. She opened the cupboard, but it was bare—not even a bit of bread. Ann wolfed down the sweets Michael had given her, then sat down to do her homework, curling up on the wooden stool, but she couldn’t concentrate—numbers were the last thing on her mind. The wind outside bent the trees, swirling dead leaves everywhere. The garden outside, once lush and green, was now grey and dead. The raspberry canes had dried up, the strawberries gone, only weeds now grew on the old beds, even the apple tree was lifeless. Mum used to care for it all, nurture every sprout. The apples had been sweet, but this August, Dad had picked the lot early and sold them at the market, muttering, “I need the cash.” Ann’s father—Andrew—hadn’t always been like this. He used to be gentle and cheerful; they’d go mushrooming in the woods with Mum, watch movies together, have tea and pancakes in the morning—pancakes Mum made, with apple jam tarts on weekends. But one day, Mum got ill, and they took her to hospital. She never came home. “Something with her heart,” Dad said, and cried, and Ann cried too, cuddling close as he hugged her tightly, “Now your mum will be watching over you from above.” After that, Dad would just sit with her photo, staring into space, and then, in time, he started drinking. Unpleasant men started turning up at the house, talking loudly, laughing coarsely. Ann would retreat into her tiny room, or slip away to sit behind the house, out of sight. She sighed and finished her homework quickly—schoolwork was easy for her. After, she packed her books away into her schoolbag, and lay down on her bed. On her bed was her old rabbit, a soft toy Mum had given her when she was little—her favourite. She’d always called him Timmy. He’d faded from white to grey but she still loved him. Ann squeezed her battered rabbit tight. “Timmy,” she whispered, “do you remember our Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Ann didn’t doubt he remembered, just as she did. Sleepy memories came—blurry but bright. Mum, in her apron, hair tied back, kneading dough in the kitchen. Always baking something. “Come on, love, let’s make magic buns,” Mum would beam. “How are they magic?” Ann would wonder. “They just are, you’ll see!” Mum would laugh. “We’ll shape them like hearts, and when you eat a heart, if you make a wish, it comes true.” Ann would help Mum roll dough into little heart-shaped buns. They’d always come out wobbly, but Mum would only smile gently: “Every love has its own shape.” Ann would wait eagerly for the buns to bake, so she could eat one piping hot and make a wish. The whole house smelled of sweet pastry, and when Dad came home, the three of them would have tea with Mum’s magic buns. Ann wiped away fresh tears from these happy memories. That was then. Now the empty ticking of the clock echoed the emptiness inside her, the loneliness, the ache for Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, hugging Timmy close, “I miss you so much.” Over the weekend, when there was no school, Ann decided to go for a walk after lunch; Dad was lying comatose on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and headed out, towards the woods. Not far off was an old house—Mr. Edwards’ place, though he’d died two years back—but his apple and pear orchard was still there. She’d been before, climbing the fence to gather fallen apples and pears, telling herself: “I’m not really stealing… I just pick up the ones on the ground—no one else wants them.” She only vaguely remembered old Mr. Edwards—a kindly man with white hair and a cane—who used to give apples and pears to the local kids, sometimes even a sweet from his pocket. He was gone, but the orchard still fruited. Ann dropped over the fence and reached for an apple when— “Oi! Who are you?” She jumped, seeing a woman in a coat standing on the porch. In her surprise, Ann dropped the apples. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “I’m Ann… I’m not stealing…just picking up what’s on the ground… I thought…” “I’m Mr. Edwards’ granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I live here now. Have you been coming here long?” “Since Mum… since Mum died…,” Ann choked, tears brimming. The woman hugged her gently. “There, there, no more tears now. Come inside, I’m Anna—Anna Silver. When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna too.” Anna Silver quickly realised the girl was hungry, and that life hadn’t been easy for her. They went in. “Take your shoes off, I’ve cleaned up since yesterday, though I’ve barely unpacked. I just made some soup and a little something else. Looks like we’re neighbours now,” she said, eyeing Ann’s skinny frame, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is your soup… does it have meat?” “With chicken, darling,” Anna replied kindly. “Come, let’s eat.” Ann didn’t hesitate—she was starving. She sat at the table, checkered cloth beneath her elbows, the house warm and cosy. Anna Silver brought over a bowl of soup, with a plate of bread. “Eat as much as you’d like. If you want more, just ask. Don’t be shy, Ann.” And Ann wasn’t. She finished the bowl in minutes, bread and all. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full.” “Then, time for tea!” Anna brought out a low basket under a tea towel, and when she pulled it off, the scent of vanilla filled the room—inside lay heart-shaped buns. Ann picked one up, took a bite, and closed her eyes. “These… these are just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum made magic buns just like these.” After tea, flushed-cheeked and content, Ann sat back, and Anna Silver spoke gently: “So, Ann, tell me about your life—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you home after.” “That’s all right, it’s only a few houses away, no need—” Ann didn’t want Anna to see the mess at theirs. “I insist,” Anna replied. Their house was silent when they arrived; Dad still on the sofa, bottles and rubbish everywhere. Anna looked around, shaking her head. “Now I see…” Then she said briskly, “Come on, let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, put empty bottles in a bin bag, threw open the curtains, shook out the filthy mat. Ann blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone how we live. My dad’s a good man—just lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away, and I don’t want that. He really is good, just misses Mum so much…” Anna hugged her. “I promise, your secret’s safe with me.” Time passed. Ann ran off to school with neat plaits, a new coat, smart boots, backpack over her shoulder. “Annie! My mum says your dad married again—is it true?” her classmate Martha asked. “You look lovely—your hair’s so pretty now!” “It’s true—I have a new mum now, Auntie Anna!” Ann replied proudly, hurrying off to school. Andrew had long stopped drinking, helped by Anna Silver. Now they always walked together—Andrew tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna dignified, confident, and kind. They were always smiling—and Ann was adored. Years flew by. Ann was a university student. She returned home for the holidays and burst in through the door: “Mum, I’m home!” Anna rushed to meet her, wrapped her in a hug and laughed, “Oh, my clever girl, welcome home!” And in the evening, Andrew would come back from work, happy and proud. Every love, indeed, has its own shape.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and instantly shivereda biting wind wormed straight

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Do I Remember? Impossible to Forget! “Polly, we need to talk… So, do you remember my illegitimate daughter, Annie?” My husband spoke in riddles—always a bad sign. “Hmm… Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for trouble. “I hardly know how to tell you… Annie is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “Oh, and why exactly, Alex? Where’s Annie’s husband? Run off, has he?” I was intrigued in spite of myself. “You see, Annie doesn’t have long to live. There’s never been a husband. Her mother moved abroad ages ago—remarried to an American. They haven’t spoken in years. Annie’s alone. That’s why she’s turning to us,” Alex shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed. “So? What do you plan to do?” I’d already made up my own mind. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what I’ll do,” Alex finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made your mistakes, Alex, and now you want me to take responsibility for someone else’s child?” My husband’s helplessness infuriated me. “Polly, we’re a family. We have to decide together,” Alex tried to plead his case. “Oh, now you remember I’m your wife! Where was this ‘togetherness’ when you were sleeping with that girl?” Tears welled up and I fled the room. …Back at school, I was seeing my classmate Victor when Alex transferred in. I was smitten from the start. I quickly broke it off with Victor. When Alex noticed me, he started walking me home, giving me stolen flowers, and soon enough—we ended up in bed. I was completely in love. We finished school, and Alex was called up for military service in another city. We exchanged letters for a year before he came home on leave. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. Alex swore up and down that he’d marry me as soon as he returned for good. After those words, I melted every time he looked at me—it was true love. But six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had met “his true love” at the army base and wouldn’t be coming back. And there I was—pregnant, alone, abandoned at the altar. As my grandmother used to say: “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” …When my son, John, was born, Victor, my old classmate, came back into my life and offered to help. Out of desperation, I accepted. Our relationship turned romantic, but I never forgot Alex. Then, suddenly, he reappeared. Victor answered the door. Alex looked surprised to see him but wanted to come in. Victor reluctantly agreed. John, sensing something was up, clung to Victor for dear life, but I sent them out for a walk. “Were you married to him?” Alex asked jealously. “Why do you care? What do you want?” I snapped. “I missed you. But I see you have a family now. I’ll go,” Alex started to leave. “Wait, Alex. Tell me honestly—why are you here?” I tried to hold him back. My feelings were still there. “I came back for you, Polly. Will you take me back?” Alex looked hopeful. “Come on in—we’re about to eat,” I replied, my heart pounding. He was back. And that was all that mattered. Victor was sent packing once and for all. My John would have his real father, not a stepdad. Later, Victor married a lovely woman with two children of her own. …Over the years, Alex never really took to John—he assumed he wasn’t his own. Alex’s heart never warmed to him. To tell the truth, Alex was a hopeless philanderer, always swept up in new affairs. He cheated on me left and right—with friends, acquaintances, anyone. I wept, but I never stopped loving him. Oddly, loving him made life easier for me. The one who loves is always the happiest. I never had to lie or pretend, I just loved. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but each night I told myself: Where would I go? No one would ever replace him, and Alex would be lost without me. I was his lover, wife, and mother rolled into one. …Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he searched for affection elsewhere. I forgave everything, always. Once, our rows were so fierce that I kicked him out. He left to stay with family. A month later, long after I’d forgotten the argument, Alex still hadn’t returned. I had no choice but to visit his aunt. “Polly, why do you want him back? He said you’d divorced, he’s got a new girlfriend now,” she told me. From Alex’s aunt, I got the address, and went to see the new woman. “Good afternoon! Is Alex in?” I smiled as politely as I could. She gave me a smug look and slammed the door in my face. I walked away in silence. …A year later, Alex came back. The “new woman” had had a daughter, Annie. I’ve always blamed myself for kicking him out—all that followed would never have happened otherwise. From that moment on, I loved Alex even more fiercely, hoping to keep our family together. Alex and I never spoke of his illegitimate daughter, Annie. The very thought threatened to topple our fragile peace. Safer to keep the lid on. A child with some other woman? Stranger things have happened. But why do women always prey on other people’s husbands? That’s how life went on. Over the years, Alex settled down. The flings stopped. He spent his evenings at home, watching TV. Our son John married young and gave us three beautiful grandchildren. And now? All these years later, Annie has reappeared, asking us to take in her little girl. You have to wonder—how do you explain to John the arrival of a half-sister’s daughter? He knows nothing of his father’s wild youth. …Of course, we became legal guardians to five-year-old Alice. Annie died at thirty, her time cut short. Life goes on anyway. Alex sat John down “man to man” and confessed. Our son listened and concluded: “Whatever happened is in the past. I’m not here to judge. We have to take in the girl. She’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We raised a good boy, one with a heart. …Now Alice is sixteen. She adores Grandpa Alex, shares all her secrets with him, calls me “Nan” and swears she looks just like I did at her age. I agree wholeheartedly…

DO I REMEMBER? HOW COULD I FORGET? Polly, theres something I need to talk to you about My husband, Alex

Winter Had Draped Andrew’s Garden in a Soft Blanket of Snow—But His Loyal German Shepherd, Duke, Was Acting Strangely Instead of Curling Up in the Large Kennel Andrew Had Built with Love Last Summer, Duke Insisted on Sleeping Outside, Right in the Snow. Andrew Watched from the Window with a Tightness in His Chest—Duke Had Never Behaved Like This Before. Every Morning, When Andrew Came Outside, He Saw Duke Watching Him Tense. Whenever He Got Near the Kennel, Duke Planted Himself Between Andrew and the Entrance, Growling Softly and Looking Up at Him as if to Say, “Please, Don’t Go In There.” This Behaviour, So Unusual Given Their Years of Friendship, Made Andrew Wonder—What Was His Best Friend Hiding? Determined to Find Out, Andrew Came Up with a Plan—He Enticed Duke into the Kitchen with a Tempting Piece of Steak. While the Dog, Locked Inside, Barked with All His Might at the Window, Andrew Approached the Kennel and Sat Down to Peer Inside. His Heart Stopped as His Eyes Adjusted to the Darkness and He Saw Something That Froze Him in Place… …Inside, Tucked in a Blanket, Was a Tiny Kitten—Filthy, Frozen, and Barely Breathing. Its Eyes Opened Only a Little, and Its Body Trembled with Cold. Duke Had Found It Somewhere and, Instead of Chasing It Away or Leaving It to Freeze, He Gave It Shelter. He Slept Outside So He Wouldn’t Scare the Kitten, Guarding the Entrance Like There Was Treasure Inside. Andrew Held His Breath. He Reached In and Carefully Lifted the Tiny Creature to His Chest. At That Moment, Duke Rushed Over and Sat Close Beside Him—No Longer Growling, But Gentle and Ready to Help. “You’re a Good Dog, Duke…” Whispered Andrew, Holding the Kitten Tight. “Better Than Many People.” From That Day On, Not Just Two Friends But Three Lived in the Garden. And the Kennel, Built with Love, Found Its True Purpose Again—as a Little Home for Rescued Souls.

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