It’s all because of the Italian air…
Lydia was a quiet, plain girl. Even her mum admitted she’d been short-changed by nature when it came to looks. “With a face like that, she’ll have a hard time finding a husband,” her dad would sigh.
Thin hair, a prominent nose, large teeth, a weak chin, and skin prone to breakouts—Lydia wasn’t blessed in the looks department. But her personality? Gentle, kind, endlessly patient. She *seemed* unbothered by her appearance. Seemed being the word. Lydia knew she wasn’t pretty. What could she do?
“Never mind, love—happiness isn’t just about beauty,” her mum would say. “God made a match for everyone. You’ll find love, have a family. What matters is your heart, and yours is good. The right person will see that.”
But hearts take time to notice, and no one ever looked at Lydia long enough. Men preferred pretty girls with doll-like faces.
She chose psychology as her career—no beauty required there. In fact, it helped. No distractions, no barriers to honesty. Lydia’s sincerity and knack for listening made her a sought-after therapist. Her parents helped buy her a flat in London. Life was good… except for the love part.
Then, one day, a man brought his grown-up daughter to a session. Emma was reeling from a messy divorce. At first, she acted like she was doing her dad a favour by being there. But after two sessions, she was the one rushing to see Lydia. Her father dropped by to thank her.
“You’ve worked miracles with my Emma,” he gushed. “She’s smiling again, believing in herself. I haven’t seen her like this in years. Please—let me take you to dinner.”
Over dinner at a cosy pub, William opened up. “Raised Emma alone after her mother ran off to America with another man. Never remarried—didn’t want to upset her. Spoiled her rotten, I admit. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone. Maybe one day she’ll remarry, give me grandkids…”
“You’re a kind man,” Lydia said. “You’ll meet someone.”
“What about you?” William asked suddenly. “Could I interest *you*?”
Lydia froze. She hadn’t seen *that* coming. Flustered, she looked away. William took it as hesitation.
“Don’t overthink it. At my age, I’ve no time for games. I like you. I’m comfortable—you’d want for nothing. No rush—just think about it.”
She told her mum later.
“Don’t overthink it,” her mum said bluntly.
“But I don’t *love* him.”
“Love fades. You think your dad and I are still lovey-dovey after all these years? We’ve had our rows, nearly divorced. But life’s easier with someone. At your age, with your looks… well, be realistic.”
Lydia *was* realistic. Lonely old age? Young, handsome men weren’t an option. Divorced, desperate blokes—that was her lot. William was decent. Older, yes, but kind. So she said yes.
The wedding was lovely. Make-up artists worked magic, and William beamed with pride. He turned out to be a good husband—tender, attentive. Called her “Lyddie,” never raised his voice. Came home tired? He’d bring her tea, tuck a blanket round her. What more could she want?
Then an old schoolmate came for therapy. Used to be the prettiest girl in class—lads queued for her. Two kids by two men. Now married to a third who moaned about her past, hated her kids, lived off her money.
“You see?” Lydia thought. “Pretty doesn’t mean happy.”
She had no complaints. William adored her. Kids? She’d wanted them, feared they’d inherit her looks. But none came.
Then, three years in, William got sick. Heart trouble, then cancer. Lydia nursed him through surgeries, chemo. Emma visited just to snipe: “This is *your* fault. Dad wouldn’t be ill if he hadn’t married you.”
William shut her down. “Leave Lyddie alone. She does more than enough.”
Emma huffed. “I’ve got my own life. *She* married him—she can nurse him.”
One day, William handed Lydia tickets. “Ten days in Italy. You’re exhausted. Emma’s agreed to step in.”
Lydia refused. “People will talk! ‘Husband sick, wife swanning off?’ No.”
“Who cares?” William insisted. “I *want* you to go.”
She gave in. Called him daily, but he always sounded fine. “Enjoy yourself!”
Italy was bliss. Sea air, pasta, no worries. Then a handsome local—Antonio—chatting her up in a café. Flirty at first, then pushy. She escaped, fled in a taxi. The driver—another Brit!—bonded over shared roots. “Women here aren’t like ours,” he grumbled. Next day, he showed her vineyards. Wine, laughter… and *feelings*.
For the first time, Lydia was *in love*. She spent the night at Antonio’s. The days flew. At the airport, he begged her to stay. She refused—it’d kill William—but he scribbled his number. On the plane, she tossed it. No temptations.
Back home, William was worse. Emma had hired a nurse. Then—nausea. Lydia assumed food poisoning. William fretted, sent her to the doctor.
She returned glowing. “Just a bug.” But William guessed.
“I don’t blame you. Glad for you. Wish I could help raise your son.”
“*Son*?”
“You’re radiant. With Emma, my ex looked half-dead.”
Lydia burst into tears. In that moment, she *did* love him—how could she not?
William faded fast. Lydia, despite the pregnancy, cared for him tirelessly. Only guilt? A flicker. Mostly, she was *happy*.
Then, one day, he sent her to work. “I’m fine.”
She came home to an ambulance. Heart pounding, she stumbled inside. The nurse babbled—Lydia heard nothing. William lay still. She collapsed at his side.
After, under his pillow—a letter. “*Lyddie…*” She couldn’t read past the tears.
No blame. Just love. The flat, savings—hers. Emma got the countryside cottage, half the money…
At the funeral, Emma screeched: “You *killed* him! That *bastard*—he died of shame!”
Three months later, Lydia had a son. *Beautiful*—nothing like her, or Antonio. “Must be the Italian air,” she joked.
Maybe it was the air. Maybe fleeting love. Maybe Lydia’s kind heart. With age, her features softened.
Her son was her joy. And joy, as they say, makes any woman beautiful.
