“Stop playing dumb. Where’s the ring Mum hid? Or did you take it? Speak up!” Paul’s grip on Emma’s shoulders tightened painfully.
Emma had never been pretty. When her grandmother first saw her newborn granddaughter in the hospital, she asked her daughter what she planned to name her.
“Lily,” the new mother said tenderly.
“Lilies are beautiful, but—forgive me—your daughter won’t be. Call her Emma. That was your grandmother’s name,” the old woman sighed.
In nursery, all the other girls were sweet, big-eyed cherubs with rosy cheeks and curls like spun sugar. Emma, however, was gawky, plain, with dull, straight hair that crackled with static and stuck up like a startled hedgehog.
“She’ll struggle, poor thing. Doubt she’ll ever marry. I told you to pick a man with brains, not just looks,” Gran muttered, wrestling Emma’s thin hair into feeble braids that barely held their ribbons.
“Mum, stop! She’ll grow into it,” Emma’s mother sighed.
By twelve, Emma hadn’t. All elbows and knees, towering over her classmates, she endured endless taunts of “lamppost.” She withdrew, burying herself in books while her peers giggled over crushes.
At sixteen, she skipped the Christmas dance—the dress she’d bought in summer no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” Mum asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? So I could suffer? Boys call me names, no one asks me to dance—I’m hideous!” Emma wailed.
“Love, even beautiful people don’t always get happy endings. What can we do? Looks aren’t everything.”
“Oh, really? Then what is? Money? You can buy anything with money—even a new face! But we don’t have that either. I’ll never marry. Never have kids. Why would I curse a daughter with this?” Emma jabbed a finger at her reflection.
“People fall for looks, but they stay for heart and soul,” Mum said gently.
“I’ve got a rotten personality—you’ve said so yourself. How could I be kind when everyone runs from me like I’ve got the plague?” Tears spilled. “Why couldn’t you pick a better-looking man to be my father?”
Despite top marks, Emma chose nursing school over university. As a child, hospitalized with pneumonia, the nurses had seemed like angels—their hair hidden under caps, their hands steady and kind. Fewer boys there, fewer taunts.
She graduated with honours. Patients adored her—she gave painless injections and actually listened. Most were elderly, but occasionally, younger faces appeared.
One, a thirty-year-old named James, lingered near the nurses’ station, showering her with attention. One day, he kissed her in the supply closet, even promised a cinema date after discharge. But weeks passed—no call, no James. Emma nearly went to his flat.
“Naive goose. He’s married,” the head nurse clucked.
“You’re just jealous,” Emma snapped.
“Check his file—wife’s number’s right there. Never visited because she’s home with their two kids, the youngest just a month old.”
“Was that in the file too?” Emma’s voice wobbled.
“Lives next door to me. I’d have warned you if it got serious. He was after the snacks you brought—home-cooked meals, wasn’t it? Chin up. Men fancy nurses. We’re handy with needles and sympathy.” She hugged Emma like a mum.
Among the patients was an elegant old widow, Margaret Bell. No oranges brightened her bedside, no lovingly packed meals.
“No visitors?” Emma once asked.
“Husband died ten years back. Son’s abroad—family, job. No need to fuss.”
“But your blood pressure—how will you manage alone?”
“I’ll manage, dear.”
“Let me help. I’ll check on you after shifts.”
Margaret hesitated. “It’s too much.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Emma said, squeezing her hand.
True to her word, Emma became Margaret’s lifeline—cooking, shopping, tidying the spacious flat.
“My Henry was a general,” Margaret said over tea. “We moved from base to base. Finally got this place, but he barely enjoyed it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here?”
“His wife wanted to split it into two flats. I refused—done with cramped quarters. We quarrelled. The stress… well, it contributed to Henry’s heart attack.”
She lowered her voice. “Henry once helped a high-ranking official, who repaid him with a rare diamond ring. After Henry died, my son demanded it. But Henry wanted it in a museum—he’d examine it for hours, marveling at the cut.”
Margaret fetched it. “He never had it appraised. If it’s fake, he’d be gutted. If real… well, collectors can be dangerous. Take a look.”
The heavy gold band dwarfed Emma’s finger.
“It should be in a museum. Before my son’s greed destroys him.”
One day, Margaret showed Emma a bundle—her burial clothes.
“Your son’s contact details?” Emma asked. “If anything happens—”
“Gone. Henry tossed them after our row.”
Then came the stroke. Emma arrived too late. With no way to reach the son, she arranged the funeral herself, using savings tucked in the clothing bundle.
Weeks later, Margaret’s neighbour called: the son had come. Emma hurried over, ringing the bell instead of using her key.
A tired forty-five-year-old man answered. “Why didn’t you visit? Call? I didn’t know how to reach you!”
“We fought during my last visit. Mum disliked my wife. She was right—I divorced too late.” He choked up. “You cared for her. Buried her. Thank you.”
“I should go,” Emma said.
“Stay.” He caught her hand.
They talked for hours—his regrets, his grief. Emma pitied him.
Then she fell in love. She rushed from shifts to his arms, ignoring rearranged furniture, rumpled wardrobes. His kisses, his promises—”We’ll renovate, marry, live here”—blinded her.
Mum warned her. Emma didn’t listen. After years of waiting, she’d take this happiness.
Then, one evening, towel forgotten, she overheard him on the phone:
“Be patient. She needs to trust me… Don’t be daft—there’s nothing between us. She’s scrawny, plain… In six months, the flat’s mine, and we’re set.”
Emma’s heart stopped. She washed mechanically, then confronted him.
“Who called?”
“Just the builders,” he lied smoothly.
She faked illness, fled. For two days, she numbly weighed her options: James hadn’t divorced—he’d schemed to find the ring. And it was still in that flat.
She returned with her key. The scene—gutted cupboards, scattered books—made her freeze.
James whirled. “You said you weren’t coming. Feeling better?” His smile faded. “Good. You’ll tell me where Mum hid it.”
“I—what ring?”
He advanced, eyes cold. “Don’t play daft. Mum told you. Did you take it?” His grip bruised her shoulders.
“She only showed me her burial things,” Emma gasped.
He released her. “I’ll find it. Leave the key and go.”
As he took a call, Emma eyed the off-kilter portrait of the general. Heart pounding, she lifted the frame—and pried a tiny bundle from its back.
She fled, keys abandoned.
At home, she hid the ring under her mattress, sobbing. The next day, she called a museum.
The director’s eyes lit up. “This cut’s unheard of here. It needs expert appraisal—in London.”
“Take it. It belongs in a museum,” Emma said, recounting Margaret’s wish.
It was done. James and his wife wouldn’t get it—the general’s flat was enough.
On the bus to work, Emma dabbed her eyes.
“That’s it. No more trusting anyone,” she decided. “Maybe I’ll adopt. No passing on this face or my terrible luck. But there’s time—I’m only twenty-eight.”
At the hospital, patients awaited their favourite nurse—the one who gave painless jabs and really listened.
