“Stop playing dumb. Where did my mother hide the signet ring? Did you take it? Speak!” Paul gripped Lisa’s shoulders hard.
Lisa had never been pretty. When her grandmother first saw her newborn granddaughter in the hospital, she asked what name her daughter had chosen.
“Eleanor,” her mother said softly.
“Eleanors are lovely, but your daughter—forgive me—won’t be a beauty. Call her Elizabeth. That was your grandmother’s name,” the old woman sighed.
In nursery school, all the other girls were rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed, with plump little lips and golden curls. Lisa, meanwhile, was awkward, plain, with straight, mousy hair that frizzed at the slightest touch.
“Poor thing, she’ll struggle with looks like that. Doubt she’ll ever marry. I told you to choose a husband wisely,” her grandmother muttered, braiding Lisa’s thin hair into pigtails that barely held their ribbons.
“Mum, stop! She’ll grow out of it,” her mother insisted.
By twelve, Lisa hadn’t grown out of it. Tall and gawky, her hair cropped short, she towered over the boys who called her “Beanpole.” Withdrawn, she spent her time reading alone at home.
At sixteen, she skipped the Christmas dance—the dress she’d bought in summer no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” her mother asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? To make me suffer? The boys call me names, no one asks me to dance. I’m hideous!” Lisa sobbed.
“Don’t say that. Even beautiful people have hard lives. Beauty isn’t everything,” her mother soothed.
“What is, then? Money? You can buy anything with money—even looks. But we don’t have any. I won’t marry. I won’t have a daughter to suffer like me!”
“People fall for looks, they stay for heart and character,” her mother sighed.
“I’ve got a rotten temper—you’ve said so yourself. How can you have a good heart when no one wants you? Everyone treats me like I’ve got the plague.” Lisa’s eyes brimmed. “Why didn’t you pick a better-looking man for my father?”
After school, she skipped university for nursing college. As a child, nurses had seemed like angels in white caps, hiding their hair. Fewer men meant fewer bullies.
She graduated top of her class. Patients adored her. She listened to their aches and lonely woes, especially the elderly in the ward.
But younger patients came, too. A man named Robert, thirty, flirted endlessly. One day, he kissed her in the treatment room, asked her to the cinema. But after discharge, he vanished. Lisa nearly went to his house.
“Naive girl. He’s married,” the head nurse warned.
“You’re just jealous!”
“Check his file—wife’s number’s right there. Two kids. Youngest just born. That’s why he sweet-talked you—free meals, attention.”
Lisa nearly wept.
“He lives near me. If it were serious, I’d have told you sooner. Don’t cry. You’ll find someone. Men love nurses—we’re kind, we care.” The matron hugged her.
An elegant older patient, Margaret, never had visitors. No oranges, no homemade juice.
“Why doesn’t anyone come?” Lisa asked once.
“My husband died years ago. My son’s abroad—family, work. No need to bother him.”
“But your blood pressure—how will you manage alone?”
“I’ll manage, dear.”
“Let me help. I’ll check on you, give your injections.”
“Wouldn’t want to impose.”
“We’ll talk later,” Lisa smiled, squeezing her hand.
True to her word, she visited often—cooking, cleaning, shopping. She loved the spacious flat.
“My husband was a general,” Margaret said over tea. “We moved all over. Finally got this place, but he hardly enjoyed it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here?”
“His wife wanted to split it into two flats. I refused—after years in lodgings, I wanted space. We argued. My husband took it hard—his heart gave out.”
She hesitated. “There’s more. Years ago, a high-ranking official gave him a rare diamond ring. After he died, my son demanded it. I refused. My husband meant to donate it—said the cut was unique.”
She fetched a heavy gold band. “He never had it appraised. Didn’t want to know if it was fake. But it shouldn’t stay here—my son’s wife won’t give up.”
Lisa came daily. Once, Margaret showed her a bundle—clothes for her burial.
“Your son’s address? In case—”
“Gone. My husband burned it.”
Then came the stroke. Lisa found her too late. With no way to contact the son, she arranged the funeral herself, using money tucked in the burial clothes.
Two weeks later, a neighbour called—the son had arrived. Lisa rushed over. A handsome man in his forties answered.
“Why didn’t you visit? Call? I didn’t know how to reach you!”
“We fought that last time. Always did. Mum never liked my wife. She was right—I divorced too late.” He wept. “You buried her. Thank you.”
“I should go,” Lisa said.
“Stay. Please.” He held her hand.
She stayed. Over tea, Paul (his name) mourned his regrets. Lisa pitied him.
She fell in love. Rushed from work to him. Noticed moved furniture, rummaged drawers—but ignored it. His flat, his business. He kissed her, pulled her to bed.
Love transformed her. Her face softened, eyes bright.
Paul said they’d marry after renovating.
Blind with love, Lisa ignored her mother’s warnings. Too long waiting for happiness—she wouldn’t let go.
One night, stepping from the shower, she overheard him on the phone:
“Just wait. She’ll trust me… Don’t be jealous—there’s nothing there. God, she’s bony, plain… Six months, the flat’s ours…”
Her heart froze. She dressed, feigned illness, left.
Two days numb, she realised—he’d never divorced. Wanted the ring. She had to get it before he did.
Returning, she found the flat ransacked—drawers flung open, groceries spilled. Paul was searching books.
“What are you doing?”
“You said you weren’t coming! Feeling better?” He straightened. “Good. You know where Mum hid it.”
“What ring?”
His grip crushed her shoulders. “Don’t play stupid! Did she tell you? Did you take it?”
“She only showed me her burial things!”
“Then leave the keys and go.”
His phone rang. As he turned, Lisa spotted the general’s portrait—hanging crooked. She crept over, lifted the frame—a small bundle taped behind it.
She fled.
Next day, she met the museum director. The diamond’s cut was foreign—needed expert evaluation.
“Take it. Do what’s right.” She explained Margaret’s wish.
Done. Paul wouldn’t get it. The flat was enough.
On the bus to work, she wiped tears.
“Enough. No more trusting anyone. Maybe adopt. Pass on no looks, no bad luck. But no rush—I’m only twenty-eight.”
At the hospital, patients waited—ready to share joys, sorrows, with a nurse who gave painless injections.
