It must have been the Italian air.
Lydia had always been a plain and unassuming girl. Even her mother admitted that nature had not been kind to her. “With looks like that, she’ll have a hard time finding a husband,” her father would sigh.
Thin hair, a prominent nose, large teeth, a weak chin, and skin prone to irritation—her appearance was far from striking. Yet Lydia had a gentle, kind-hearted nature, seemingly untroubled by her own reflection. But only seemingly. Deep down, she knew the truth. What could she do?
“Never mind, darling,” her mother would say. “Happiness isn’t all about beauty. God makes a match for everyone. You’ll find love and a family one day. What matters is the heart, and yours is as good as gold. The right man will see it.”
But hearts must first be noticed, and no one paid Lydia much mind. Men always preferred pretty girls with porcelain faces.
She chose psychology as her profession—beauty wasn’t required there, and in fact, its absence might even encourage honesty. Lydia had a way of putting people at ease, listening deeply, and offering genuine comfort. Before long, she became a sought-after therapist. Her parents helped her buy a flat, and life might have been comfortable—if not for the loneliness that lingered.
One day, a man brought his grown daughter to her office. The young woman, fresh from a painful divorce, had arrived reluctantly, but after two sessions, she was eager to return. Her father, William, came to thank Lydia.
“You’ve worked magic on Charlotte,” he said warmly. “She’s herself again—smiling, hopeful. All thanks to you. I’d be honoured if you’d join me for dinner.”
Over the meal, he confessed, “I raised Charlotte alone. Her mother left us for a man in America. I never remarried—didn’t want to upset her. Perhaps I spoilt her. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone. Maybe she’ll marry again, give me grandchildren someday…”
“You’re a fine-looking man,” Lydia assured him. “You love your daughter. Any woman would be lucky to have you.”
“And you?” he asked suddenly. “Might I interest you?”
Lydia was stunned. She fumbled for words, eyes dropping to her lap. He took it as hesitation.
“Don’t misunderstand—my intentions are serious. At my age, there’s no time for games. I’m fond of you already. Financially, you’d want for nothing. Just think on it,” he said as they parted.
She told her mother later.
“What’s there to think about?” her mother pressed.
“But I don’t love him.”
“Love fades, Lydia. Do you think your father and I still adore each other after all these years? We’ve had our troubles, even near-divorce. But life is easier with someone by your side.”
Lydia wondered—was this her future? A solitary old age? Youth and beauty were not her lot. Divorced, desperate men—that was her lot, with a face like hers. William was kind, stable, though much older. In the end, she agreed.
The wedding was lovely, and Lydia, transformed by skilled hands, looked radiant. William beamed with pride.
He proved a good husband—gentle, attentive, always calling her “Lyddie.” Their life was quiet and comfortable. She’d return from work, tired and chilled, and he’d bring her warm milk, tuck a blanket around her legs. What more could she ask for?
A former schoolmate once came to see her—once the beauty of their class, now burdened with two children from different men, married to a third who resented her past. No way out, no prospects.
Beauty was no guarantee of happiness. So Lydia had no complaints. William adored her. What else did she need? Children? She longed for them but feared they’d inherit her plainness. And yet, none came.
Then, three years in, William grew ill—heart troubles at first, then cancer. Lydia nursed him with quiet devotion, but he grew restless, embittered by his fate.
Charlotte visited occasionally—not to help, but to accuse. “If Father hadn’t married you, he’d still be well. You’ve worn him down.”
“Leave Lyddie be,” William would scold. “She does more than enough. And you might visit more often yourself.”
“Life’s finally good for me,” Charlotte snapped. “If he chose a young wife, she can manage.”
One day, William insisted Lydia take a holiday. “You’re exhausted. Go to Italy—ten days, no more.”
She refused at first. What would people say? A sick husband, a wife abroad? But he wore her down.
She phoned often, listening for strain in his voice. He spoke cheerfully, urging her to rest. She knew better but pretended otherwise.
Italy was breathtaking—the air, the sea, the food. In a café, she caught the eye of a handsome local, Antonio, who pressed his company upon her. She dodged his advances, fled through a back door, lost in the warren of streets until a cabbie—another Englishman—rescued her.
They spent the next day together, and Lydia, though she scarcely dared admit it, fell in love.
Time flew. At the airport, Antonio begged her to stay. She refused—it would kill William. But he pressed his address into her hand.
On the plane, she tore it to pieces. No temptations, no regrets.
Home again, William was weaker. The nurse Charlotte hired was there, but Lydia remained at his side—except for work, which she’d nearly given up, save for the odd client.
One evening, as she hurried home, an ambulance stood at the door. Her legs turned to lead. Inside, William was still, distant. She collapsed beside him.
After they took him away, she found a letter beneath his pillow:
*”Lyddie… You’ve done no wrong. The child is mine in every way that matters. The flat, the savings—they’re yours. Charlotte has the cottage…”*
At the funeral, Charlotte shrieked accusations—Lydia had killed him, betrayed him.
Three months later, Lydia bore a son. To her relief, he resembled neither her nor Antonio. Perhaps nature, having been unkind to her, had taken pity now.
“Must have been the Italian air,” she’d say.
Or perhaps love, however fleeting. Or simply a heart too generous for envy.
Her son was her joy. And joy, as they say, makes any woman beautiful.
