Walton Merritt

We meet the wrong ones, and marry the wrong ones Getting through life isn’t simple, and you can’

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30th December I suppose I should have seen it coming, but somehow it still caught me off guard.

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I Stopped Speaking to My Husband After His Birthday Outburst, and for the First Time He Was Truly Frightened

I stopped speaking to my husband after his antics at my birthday party, and for the first time he was

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The Mystery of the Old Postcard Three days before a faded envelope changed her world, Natasha Sokolova stood on the balcony of her London flat, gazing out over the glowing city lights, exhausted not by her work, but by the suffocating predictability of her life. Inside, Mark discussed the details of a business deal over speakerphone. She longed for a miracle—something simple, tactile, and real, like the scent of fresh rain or an old-fashioned piece of post. Days later, sorting through her mail, Natasha discovered a thick, parchment-coloured envelope stamped with a sprig of pine and addressed to her. Inside was a vintage Christmas card, embossed with gold glitter and dated 1999, in handwriting hauntingly familiar: it belonged to Sasha, the childhood sweetheart she had spent summers with in a sleepy country village. How had a 25-year-old card, from a childhood lost to time, arrived at her door? Driven by a longing she couldn’t fully understand, Natasha set off for the village where it all began, searching for answers in a world of woodsmoke, old printing presses, and memories that shimmered like frost in the winter air. At the heart of ‘The Mystery of the Old Postcard’ stands a choice between the relentless pace of city success and the quiet magic of authenticity; a journey through nostalgia, lost love, bittersweet revelations, and—perhaps—the courage to begin again.

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before the faded envelope appeared in her life, Natalie Collins

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No Magic at All New Year Was Hurtling Towards Lena Like a Runaway Train—and She Didn’t Even Have a Ticket Lena felt breathless at the speed of it all. She stood, figuratively, on the station platform, knowing she had no ticket, no luck, no New Year cheer, and probably never would. Why had she invited guests, anyway? Who wants to ring in the New Year with a failure? *** December 31st started with a mini disaster: after ten loyal years, Lena’s washing machine decided it was time for retirement—by flooding the bathroom. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve? A real quest. After spending hours and nerves, Lena succeeded and hoped her bad luck was over. But… That afternoon, her ginger cat, Basil (self-proclaimed foodie), ate all the sausage set aside for the potato salad, leaving Lena only sad peas and pickled cucumbers. But Basil wasn’t done yet. He decided to pursue a blue tit that landed on the open window… A huge potted plant crashed from the windowsill, taking the Christmas tree with it, snuffing out the string of fairy lights Lena loved so much. Pot shards and the baubles she’d kept since childhood mixed with soil. Lena nearly cried as she cleaned up the mess. Next came a shattered decanter, burnt chicken, and, finally, the last straw: just as her guests were about to arrive, Lena realised she’d forgotten to buy a cake. Panicked, she rang her sister. “Kate, disaster! I haven’t got a cake!” “Calm down!” Kate replied cheerfully. “I’m downstairs. Come out—we’ll sort it.” “You’re here already?” “Yes—outside.” Stepping out, Lena was greeted with a sight: next to Kate’s car stood her best friend, Mary, clutching a massive bag, and Aunt Gail with an enormous bowl of jelly. “Why such a massive trifle?” Lena gasped. “Just in case!” Aunt Gail declared, queen of unsolicited advice. “I know how you cook! We’ve got a whole night ahead! I trust you made the potato salad?” Lena shrugged uncertainly… While the girls dashed for a cake, Mary strung up streamers—quickly becoming Basil’s latest victim as he transformed himself into an alien creature. Kate’s husband, Ian, arrived straight from work and rescued Basil, who didn’t put up a fight until he saw Lena, charging toward her and leaving Ian’s hand scratched and bleeding. The ladies patched up Ian, who gallantly volunteered to “help” in the kitchen, mostly waxing lyrical about how “salad is a state of soul, not just a bunch of ingredients.” Which Kate and Lena found just fine. “Len, what’s this box?” Mary called. “It says ‘Happy New Year!’ And there’s a note: ‘To be opened tonight. Gran Val.’” Lena ran in. “Oh! I forgot! Kate! Gran left it before she went away, said we’re to open it on New Year’s, at about two in the morning. Promised a surprise!” “What could it be?” Kate examined it curiously. “Let’s check now!” Lena shook her head. “She’ll know somehow! What if there’s a lock or a trick? We have to do as Gran said. Wait.” The intrigue had everyone hooked—even Aunt Gail edged closer, eyeing the box. *** Later, they listened to the Prime Minister’s speech, popped champagne, ate cat-nibbled potato salad, laughed, debated—and finally… “Is it two o’clock?” Lena asked. “Perfect timing.” She raised the box. “A surprise from Gran Val!” The only man present was trusted with the unboxing. Ian did the honours and opened the lid. Inside, among cotton wool, lay not money, nor old photos, but dozens of tiny, neatly rolled notes, each tied with coloured ribbon and with a name sticker. “What’s this?” Ian asked, baffled. Lena picked out the first note with her name and read aloud: “Lena, darling granddaughter. Has something gone wrong again today? Washing machine broken? Cat ate your salad? Never mind! Any problem is just an excuse to order pizza and binge your favourite show. You can buy a cake in the morning. What matters is having people nearby to help eat the pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Gran Val.” For a moment, silence hung in the air—then laughter exploded. Lena laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. “How… how did she know?!” “That’s magic,” Aunt Gail whispered. “Me! My turn!” Kate reached for hers. She opened her note: “Kate, darling. Stop arguing with Ian over every little thing. Give him a cuddle—he’s a good one, even if he’s a bit of a philosopher. And if he starts again, just kiss him. It’s the best weapon against male logic. Love you both.” Ian blushed and kissed Kate to cheers from the crowd. Mary giggled as she opened hers: “Mary dear, look for love in the library or local supermarket, not in pubs. There are real people there, just like you—though they don’t wear trendy skinny jeans. And stop dying your hair purple. Natural suits you best!” “How does she know about my hair?” Mary gasped. “I only changed it two days ago!” Now Aunt Gail’s turn. She unfolded her note, as if uncovering a great secret. “Gail, my dear. You’re the wisest, always in the know. But here’s a secret even you don’t know: kindness and wise advice are good, but sometimes it’s best to stay quiet and just eat some cake. Hugs, my dear.” Aunt Gail sat red-faced, mumbled something, grabbed a slice of cake, and fell silent—the first time she’d gone an evening without giving any advice. The laughter and chatter lasted till dawn. The girls video-called Gran Val, who sat smiling in her armchair miles away. “My dears! I’m so glad the surprise worked. There’s no magic. I just know you well. And I love you all so much!” Next morning, cleaning up, Lena gathered the notes into a lovely jar and put it in pride of place. They weren’t just wishes, they were Gran’s recipe for happiness: don’t fear chaos, laugh off failures, value those around you, eat what you want (within reason), and remember the real gift is knowing someone out there loves and understands you—always.

No Magic at All The New Year once hurried toward us, relentless as an express train thundering down the tracks.

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Echo in the Night: How Spending New Year’s Eve Alone in a London Rehabilitation Centre Helped Alexandra Find Unexpected Connection and Hope

Echo in the Night Two weeks before Christmas, I was admitted to the rehabilitation unit at St.

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You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious? The Savoy? That’s at least five hundred pounds for dinner! Per person.” Igor threw his keys onto the sideboard so they rattled against the wall. Olga turned from the hob, where she was stirring the sauce, and instantly noticed her husband’s whitened knuckles gripping his phone. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore and abruptly hung up. “What happened?” Instead of answering, Igor slumped into a kitchen chair and stared at his plate of potatoes. Olga switched off the burner, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat opposite. “Igor…” “She’s gone absolutely mad. Lost it, completely.” He looked up; Olga saw such a mixture of anger and helplessness in his eyes that her heart clenched. “Remember I told you about that… Victor? From the dance class?” Olga nodded. His mum had mentioned her new companion about a month ago—shyly, fidgeting with the corner of the tablecloth. It had seemed quite sweet: a 58-year-old widow, five years alone, and now—a ballroom dancing club at the community centre, a charming gent who could twirl her in a waltz. “Well.” Igor pushed his plate aside. “She’s taken him to the Savoy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit for four grand. Last weekend they took a trip to Bath—guess who paid for the hotel and tours?” “Mrs Taylor.” “Bingo.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “Mum saved that money for years. For a new boiler. For a rainy day. Now she’s blowing it all on a man she’s known for six weeks. Unreal…” Olga fell silent, choosing her words. She knew her mother-in-law well—romantic, open, almost guilelessly trusting. The sort of woman who believes in true love even after half a century on earth. “Listen, Igor…” She covered his hand with hers. “Your mum’s an adult. Her money, her choices. Don’t interfere. She won’t hear anyone right now.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Yes. And she has a right to. And frankly, you’re exaggerating.” Igor shrugged, but didn’t pull away. “I just can’t watch her—” “I know, love. But you can’t live her life for her.” Olga stroked his wrist. “She has to take responsibility—even if we don’t like it. She’s perfectly capable.” Igor nodded morosely. …Two months passed in a flash. Talk of Victor faded—his mum phoned less and seemed evasive, as if she were hiding something. Olga decided the romance had fizzled and stopped worrying. So when the doorbell rang on Sunday evening and Mrs Taylor was on the doorstep, Olga didn’t know what to think. “Darlings! My dear darlings!” She swept into the flat, trailing clouds of sweet perfume. “He proposed! Look! Look!” A ring with a tiny stone sparkled on her finger. Cheap, but Mrs Taylor looked at it as if it was a great diamond. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s so, so…” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and laughed—a bright, girlish sound. “I never thought, at my age… That I’d ever feel this again…” Igor hugged his mum, and Olga saw his shoulders relax. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe Victor really did love her, and they’d only been worrying for nothing. “We’re happy for you, mum.” Igor let go and smiled. “You deserve to be happy.” “And I’ve already signed the flat over to him! Now we’re a proper family!” Mrs Taylor announced, and time seemed to freeze. Olga stopped breathing. Igor jerked, as if he’d walked into a glass wall. “What… what did you say?” “The flat.” She waved her hand, oblivious to their faces. “So he knows I trust him. It’s love, darlings, real love! And love is built on trust.” A silence thick enough to hear the clock ticking in the sitting room. “Mrs Taylor.” Olga spoke first, slowly, carefully. “You’ve signed your flat over to a man you’ve known three months? Before the wedding?” “And?” Mrs Taylor tilted her chin. “I trust him. He’s a good, decent man. Not what you imagine. You think badly of him, I know you do.” “We don’t think anything,” Olga stepped forward. “But maybe you could’ve waited until after the ceremony. Why rush?” “You don’t understand. This… This is proof of my love.” Mrs Taylor folded her arms. “What do you know about real feelings? About trust?” Igor finally unclenched his jaw: “Mum—” “No!” She stamped her foot, suddenly more stubborn teenager than grown woman. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it for me!” She spun and rushed out, banging the door so hard the glass rattled in the cabinet. The wedding was small—a registry office in Enfield, charity shop dress, and a three-rose bouquet. But Mrs Taylor glowed as if she was marrying in Westminster Abbey. Victor—a portly man with a receding hairline and oily smile—played the perfect gentleman. Kissing her hand, pulling out her chair, topping up her prosecco. The ideal groom. Olga watched him over her glass. Something wasn’t right. His eyes—when he looked at Mrs Taylor, the pupils stayed cold, calculating. Practised affection. Rehearsed care. She kept her thoughts to herself. What was the point of talking when no one listened? The first months, Mrs Taylor called every week—bubbling with excitement, listing restaurants and theatres he took her to. “He’s so thoughtful! Yesterday he brought me roses—just because!” Igor nodded along, then hung up and sat in silence, staring into space. Olga said nothing. She waited. A year passed in a blur. Then—the doorbell… Olga opened the door to a woman she barely recognised. Mrs Taylor looked ten years older—deeper wrinkles, hollow eyes, hunched shoulders. One hand gripped her battered suitcase, the very one that once went to Bath. “He threw me out.” Mrs Taylor sobbed. “Filed for divorce and threw me out. The flat… it’s his now. Legally.” In silence, Olga let her in. The kettle boiled quickly. Mrs Taylor sat clutching her cup with both hands, crying quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so. I did everything for him. And he just…” Olga didn’t interrupt. Just rubbed her back as the tears ran dry. Igor returned an hour later, paused in the doorway, and his face went hard. “Son.” Mrs Taylor rose, held her hands out. “Son, I’ve nowhere to go… You wouldn’t turn your mum out, would you? Give me a room—I won’t take up much. Children are meant to care for their parents, that’s—” “Stop.” Igor raised his hand. “Stop, mum.” “I have no money. None. I spent it all on him, every penny. The pension’s small, you know—” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you.” Igor sank onto the sofa, heavy as if the world’s weight was on him. “Said don’t rush. Said get to know him. Said don’t sign over the flat. Do you remember what you told me?” Mrs Taylor’s eyes dropped. “That I didn’t know true love. That we were just jealous. I remember everything, mum.” “Igor…” Olga tried to stop him, but he shook his head. “No. Let her hear it.” He turned to his mum. “You’re a grown woman. You made your choice. You ignored everyone who tried to stop you. And now, you want us to deal with the fallout?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” Igor shot to his feet, voice cracking. “I’m tired, mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away, then run to me for rescue!” Mrs Taylor shrank, small and pitiful. “He lied to me, son. I really loved him, I trusted—” “Trusted him so much you handed the flat to a stranger. Brilliant, mum. Just brilliant. And what about the fact that Dad bought this flat!” “Forgive me.” The tears flowed again. “Forgive me. I was blind, I know. But please… let me have one more chance. I’ll never—” “Adults bear the consequences of their choices.” Igor’s voice was quiet, tired. “You wanted independence? You’ve got it. Sort your own accommodation. Find a job. You’re on your own.” Mrs Taylor left, sobbing loudly on the landing. Olga spent the whole night beside Igor—silent, just holding his hand. Igor didn’t cry. Just lay staring at the ceiling, sighing from time to time. “Did I do the right thing?” he murmured at dawn. “Yes.” Olga stroked his cheek. “It was hard. It hurt. But yes.” In the morning, Igor called his mum and rented her a room in a house-share at the edge of town. Paid six months up front. It was the last help he agreed to. “From now on, you’re on your own, mum. On your own. If you go to court, we’ll help with legal fees. But living here—no.” Olga listened and wondered about justice. About how, sometimes, the harshest lesson is the only one that works. Mrs Taylor got exactly what her blindness brought. And somehow that was both bitter and comforting. And she knew, deep down, this wasn’t the end, and somehow, things would work out. She didn’t know how—but they would…

You’re just jealous Mum, are you serious right now? Thats the Savoy! Thatll be at least two hundred

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If Only Everyone Got This Kind of ‘Help’: The Real Cost of a Mother-in-Law’s Good Intentions, a Husband’s Indifference, and a Mother’s Breaking Point

If only everyone received such help Polly, Ill pop round today to help with the grandkids. Polly wedged

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Just a Childhood Friend — Are you seriously planning to spend your entire Saturday sorting junk in the garage? The whole day? — Ellie speared a piece of cheesecake with her fork and shot a sceptical look at the tall, ginger-haired lad opposite her. Ian leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on his cooling cappuccino. — Ellie… That’s not junk, those are my childhood treasures. My “Love Is” bubblegum wrapper collection is somewhere in there, I’ll have you know. Can you imagine what riches await? — Oh my god. You kept gum wrappers. Since what year? Ellie snorted, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This café, with its well-worn plum-coloured sofas and eternally misted-up windows, had long since become their territory. The waitress, Mari, no longer asked what they wanted—she just put a cappuccino down for him, a latte for her, and the day’s dessert to share. Fifteen years of friendship had turned this into ritual. — Alright, I’ll admit it, — said Ian, saluting with his mug — the garage can wait. My treasures too. Kieran’s invited us for a barbecue on Sunday, if you’re keen. — I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking out a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes would glaze over with boredom. Their laughter melted into the hum of the coffee machine and the quiet buzz from other tables… …There were never any awkward silences or unspoken words between them—they knew each other as well as they knew their own hands. Ellie remembered when skinny Year 8 Ian, with perpetually untied laces, was the first to greet her in a new class. Ian remembered she was the only one who didn’t mock his chunky specs. Kieran had accepted their friendship from the very start, without question or suspicion. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the calm of someone who trusts completely. On Friday nights of Monopoly and Uno, Kieran laughed loudest when Ian lost to his wife at Scrabble yet again, and topped up everyone’s tea while the other two argued over the rules of charades. — He’s cheating, that’s why he always wins, — Ellie announced once, tossing playing cards at her husband. — It’s called strategy, my love, — Kieran retorted, unruffled, as he gathered the scattered cards. Ian watched them with a fond smile. He liked Kieran—steady, reliable, with such dry wit you never knew when he was joking. Ellie blossomed around her husband, became softer, happier, and Ian celebrated her joy the way only a true friend could. That balance shifted when Vera came into their world… …Kieran’s sister turned up on their doorstep a month ago, eyes red with exhaustion and determined to begin afresh. The divorce had drained her completely, leaving only bitterness and an aching emptiness where some semblance of stability had once been. On the first evening Ian came round for their usual board game, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up like some distant mechanism had been triggered inside her. Here stood a man—calm, kind-eyed, with a smile you couldn’t help but return. — This is Ian, my mate from school, — Ellie introduced. — And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. — Lovely to meet you, — Ian said, offering a hand. Vera held it a second longer than necessary. — Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at their favourite café at exactly the time Ellie and Ian were there. She’d float into the room with a plate of biscuits just as Ian arrived. She’d squeeze in dangerously close at the board game table, shoulders brushing. — Could you pass me that card? — Vera leaned over his arm, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oops, sorry. Ian would politely draw away, murmuring something mild. Ellie exchanged glances with her husband, but Kieran only shrugged—Vera had always been a bit much. It became blatant. Vera steadily fixed her gaze on Ian, showered him with compliments, found any excuse to touch his arm. She laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. — You’ve such beautiful hands, so long and elegant. Play piano? — Vera caught his hand one night over the Scrabble tiles. — Um, I’m a software engineer. — Still beautiful. Ian gently pulled away, staring at his cards with exaggerated focus. He blushed. By the third invite for a “friendly chat over coffee,” Ian gave in. He liked Vera—she was lively, fun, vibrant. Maybe, he thought, if they actually dated, she’d stop giving him that hungry look and things could just go back to normal. The first weeks of their romance went well—Vera was beaming, Ian relaxed, family evenings became normal again. Then Vera noticed what she’d rather not. She saw Ian brighten when Ellie entered. How his face opened around her. How easily they picked up each other’s jokes, finished each other’s sentences, shared a connection she could never reach. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. — Why do you see her all the time? — Vera blocked Ian’s path, arms folded. — She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. That’s— — I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came in waves. Vera cried, accused, demanded. Ian explained, pleaded. — You think about her more than me! — Vera, that’s just not true. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Ian’s phone buzzed every time he was with Ellie. — Where are you? When are you back? Why aren’t you answering? With her again? He learned to mute it, but Vera started turning up—in the café, the park, outside Ellie’s house—flustered, eyes blazing with jealous tears. — Vera, please — Ian rubbed his temples. — This is crazy. — Crazy is you spending more time with someone else’s wife than your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meet-up became a trial—when would Vera appear, with what fresh accusations, what drama? — Maybe I should see you less… — Ellie started. But Ian cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You are not reorganising your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had already decided: if honesty wouldn’t work, she’d bend the truth. Kieran was in the kitchen when Vera breezed in. — Big brother, I need to tell you something. I really didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She spun her story in careful doses, sobbing in all the right places. Secret meetings, lingering looks, Ian supposedly holding Ellie’s hand when no one was looking. Kieran listened in silence, giving nothing away. When Ellie and Ian walked in an hour later, the atmosphere in the lounge was thick as syrup. Kieran lounged in his armchair with the expression of a man expecting a show. — Sit, — he motioned to the sofa. — My sister’s just told me a rather… fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze mid-step. Ian stiffened. — What the hell… — She claims to have witnessed some compromising things. Vera shrank into her seat, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Ian spun round so suddenly that Vera recoiled. — That’s enough, Vera. I should have drawn the line ages ago! His face was ashen with fury—the ever-calm, patient Ian now simmering over. — We’re through. Right now. — You can’t— Her tears, for once, were real. — It’s her! — Vera jabbed a finger at Ellie. — It’s always her! You always choose her! Ellie let the silence stretch, allowing her sister-in-law to let it all out. — You know, Vera, — she said quietly, — if you hadn’t tried to manage every second of his life, if you didn’t make scenes out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to keep. Vera snatched her handbag and stormed out, slamming the door. Kieran burst out laughing at last—genuine, head thrown back, amusement pouring out. — Good grief, finally. He pulled Ellie in, arm around her shoulders. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Ellie pressed her nose to his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like brother and sister squabbling over the last biscuit. Ian let out a long breath as the tension finally broke. — Sorry for dragging you into this circus. — Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—it’s her own responsibility. Now let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold, and I won’t reheat it just because of someone else’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, relief in her voice. Her family was whole. Her friendship with Ian survived. And her husband had once again proved his trust was ironclad. They headed for the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed beneath the lamps—and the world slid easily, quietly, back into place.

Are you honestly planning to spend your Saturday in the garage sorting through old rubbish?

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Every Kind of Love Has Its Own Shape Anya stepped outside and shivered; the raw English wind cut straight through her thin jumper. She had hurried out into the garden without grabbing her coat, passed through the gate, and stood there, looking around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” Startled, she saw Mikey, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older than her, with tousled hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, I just…,” Annie lied. Mikey just looked at her, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Go inside,” he said firmly. She obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Mikey understood everything, nodded, and wandered off. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He’d often go down to the corner shop—our only one—and beg Mrs. Valentine to let him have more on tick until payday. Mrs. Valentine would scold him, but always gave in. “How haven’t you lost your job yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe us a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie let herself back into the house. She’d just got in from school; she was nine. There was never much to eat at home, and she never wanted to say she was hungry. If she did, they’d take her away from her dad to a care home, and she’d heard such awful things about those. Besides, how would Dad cope on his own? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was always empty. That day, school had finished early—her teacher was off sick and two lessons were cancelled. It was the end of September. The wind was biting, tearing golden leaves from the trees and swirling them around. It had been a cold September. Annie’s old coat and boots weren’t much use—when it rained, they got soaked. Her father was asleep on the sofa in his clothes and shoes, snoring. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table, and more stashed under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—empty. Not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate the sweets Mikey had given her and decided to do her homework, perched on a stool with her knees tucked up. She opened her maths book but just stared at the numbers. She couldn’t concentrate, not with the wind howling and the yard full of blowing leaves. The window overlooked the veg patch. It used to be lush and green, but now it looked dead. The raspberry canes were dry, the strawberries gone, and only weeds grew in the beds now—even the old apple tree was barren. Mum used to look after it all, cherishing every shoot. The apples had been sweet, but this August Dad had picked them all early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he’d muttered. Dad hadn’t always been like this. He used to be cheerful. He’d go mushroom picking in the woods with Mum, they’d all watch films together and have tea with warm apple fritters and homemade jam buns Mum baked. Then one day Mum got ill and was taken to hospital. She never came back. “Mum’s had something with her heart,” Dad had said through tears, holding Annie close. “She’ll be watching over you now.” For weeks, Dad just sat with Mum’s photo. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men began dropping by the house and Annie would hide away in her small room, or sit alone on the garden bench. Annie sighed and got on with her homework. She was a clever girl and finished quickly. She packed her books away and lay on her bed. On her bed was her old stuffed bunny, Tim—Mum had bought it years ago. Once white, now grey, but just as loved. Annie hugged him close. “Tim,” she whispered, “do you remember our mum?” Tim was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered everything, just like she did. As she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—blurry, but joyful. Mum in her apron, hair pinned up, kneading dough. Always baking something. “Let’s make magic buns together, darling.” “How, Mum? Are magic buns real?” Annie would ask. “Oh yes,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you eat one, you have to make a wish. It’ll come true, you’ll see.” Annie would help her mum shape the buns into wonky hearts and Mum, always smiling, would say, “Every kind of love has its own shape.” She’d wait eagerly for the buns to bake, ready to eat a hot one and make her wish. The smell of sweet buns would fill the house and then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Annie wiped away the tears. Those times were gone now… The clock ticked on and her heart ached—empty, lonely, missing her mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Tim, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday, with no school, she decided to go for a walk after lunch—Dad was dozing again. Annie pulled on an old jumper under her coat and headed towards the woods. Nearby stood an old house—Mr. Evans’ place. He’d passed away two years before, but his apple orchard remained. It wasn’t her first visit. She’d clamber over the fence to collect fallen apples and pears, reassuring herself: “I’m not stealing. They’d just go to waste otherwise.” She only vaguely remembered Mr. Evans—a kind old man with a cane who would give kids fruit and even a sweet if he found one in his pockets. After he passed, the orchard kept bearing fruit. Annie reached the fence, slipped over, picked up two apples, rubbed one clean on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” She jumped, dropping the apples. A woman in a smart coat was standing on the porch. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing, just… ones from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore…” “I’m Mr. Evans’ granddaughter. Came yesterday—this is my new home now. Have you been picking apples here long?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked and tears welled. The woman pulled her into a hug. “Shh, don’t cry. Come inside, be my guest. My name’s Anna, like yours! When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna, too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life wasn’t easy. Inside, Anna invited her to take off her shoes. “I only moved in yesterday, still unpacking. But let me get you something to eat—I’ve made chicken soup and a few other things. So, we’re neighbours, it seems.” She eyed Annie’s thin jacket, the sleeves too short for growing arms. “Is it chicken soup?” “Of course. Sit—eat as much as you want; if it’s not enough, I’ll get you some more.” Annie didn’t hesitate—her stomach rumbled, she hadn’t eaten all day. She finished her soup and bread in moments. “Would you like more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you. I’m full.” “Now, let’s have tea.” Anna brought out a basket, lifted the cloth—and the whole kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it and squeezed her eyes shut. “Just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum used to bake these, just like this.” After tea, relaxed and rosy-cheeked, Annie chatted while Anna listened closely. “Come on, Annie, tell me about yourself—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you back afterwards.” “I can go by myself, honestly—it’s only four houses away.” Annie didn’t want Anna to see the mess at Harry’s house. “Nonsense,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home was still and quiet; her father lay asleep on the sofa, bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty rags scattered about. Anna looked around and shook her head. “Now I understand…” she said quietly. “Let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, stuffed empty bottles into a bag, flung open the curtains and shook out the grubby mat. Annie blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s not bad, he’s just… lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away—but I don’t want to leave. He’s just lonely for mum…” Anna hugged her tight. “I promise I won’t tell.” Time passed. Annie rushed to school in a smart new coat, hair in neat plaits, a shiny rucksack and new boots on her feet. “Annie, is it true your dad’s married now?” asked her classmate, Molly. “You look so pretty! And your hair’s amazing!” “It’s true! I’ve got a new mum now—Auntie Anna,” Annie beamed, hurrying to school. With Anna’s help, Andrew had long since quit drinking. Now you’d see them walking together—Andrew, tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna, confident and elegant, and always smiling at Annie. Time flew by. Annie was now a university student. She’d come home for the holidays, shout as she walked in the door— “Mum! I’m home!” Anna would run to meet her, hug her tight and laugh. “Welcome back, my little professor,” she’d say—and both would burst out laughing, as Andrew came home from work, as proud and happy as ever. Because every kind of love has its own shape.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Amy stepped outside, shivering instantly as the biting wind snuck straight