“Stop playing the fool. Where did your mother hide the ring? Or did you take it yourself? Speak!” Paul’s grip tightened painfully on Eliza’s shoulders.
Eliza had never been pretty. The moment her grandmother saw her newborn granddaughter in the hospital, she turned to her daughter and asked what she planned to name her.
“Rosie,” the new mother murmured tenderly.
“Rosies are sweet and lovely. Your daughter—forgive me—won’t be. Call her Eliza. That was your great-grandmother’s name,” the grandmother sighed.
In nursery, the other girls were cherubic, with plump cheeks, rosebud lips, and bouncing golden curls. Eliza was awkward, with mousy, straight hair that clung to her scalp or stood on end from static.
“She’ll struggle, poor thing. Doubt she’ll find a husband. I told you to pick a man with better looks, but no, you—” The grandmother sighed, tugging at Eliza’s thin hair as she braided it, ribbons barely clinging to the wispy strands.
“Mum, stop! She’ll grow into her looks,” Eliza’s mother insisted.
By twelve, Eliza had only grown lankier—taller than all the boys, her sharp angles mocked as “Beanpole” in the schoolyard. She withdrew, burying herself in books, avoiding mirrors and people alike.
At sixteen, she skipped the Christmas dance. The dress bought in summer no longer fit.
“Why are you home?” her mother asked, returning from work.
“Why did you even have me? Just so I could suffer? The boys call me Beanpole, no one asks me to dance—I’m hideous!” Eliza’s voice cracked.
“Sweetheart, even beautiful people don’t always have happy lives. What can we do if nature made you this way? Looks aren’t everything.”
“What is, then? Money? With money, you can buy anything—even beauty. But we don’t have that either. I’ll never marry, never have children. I won’t pass this curse on.”
“People fall for looks but stay for the heart,” her mother said gently.
“My heart’s rotten—you’ve said so yourself. How could it be good when no one wants me? They act like I’m diseased. Why didn’t you pick someone handsome to be my father?”
After school, Eliza could’ve gone to university but chose nursing college. As a child, hospitalized with pneumonia, the nurses had seemed like angels—white-capped, kind, their hair hidden. Fewer boys there, fewer taunts.
She graduated top of her class. Patients adored her—gentle with needles, kinder with their loneliness. The elderly filled her ward, though occasionally, younger men came through.
One, a thirty-year-old named Richard, lingered near the nurses’ station, flirting. Once, he kissed her in the supply room, promised to call. Weeks passed. Silence. Eliza nearly went to his flat.
“Don’t be daft. He’s married,” the head nurse warned.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Check his chart—wife’s number’s right there. Two kids. The baby’s barely a month old. That’s why he’s sniffing around—you’ve been feeding him, buying his fruit. If it was serious, I’d have said sooner.”
Eliza’s cheeks burned. The head nurse hugged her. “Men love nurses. You’ll find someone.”
An elegant older woman, Margaret, lay alone in the ward—no visitors, no oranges or homemade juice by her bed.
“Why does no one come?” Eliza asked.
“Husband died ten years back. My son’s abroad—family, work. No need to fuss.”
“But nothing’s more important than your health! Let me help after discharge.”
Margaret hesitated, but Eliza insisted.
She kept her promise, visiting often—cooking, cleaning, listening. Margaret’s flat was spacious, filled with memories.
“My husband was a brigadier,” Margaret said over tea. “We moved constantly. Finally got this flat, but he barely enjoyed it.”
“Why doesn’t your son live here?”
“His wife wanted to sell, split it. I refused—I’d had enough of cramped quarters. We argued. My husband took it hard—that’s when his heart gave out.” She sighed. “Years ago, he helped a high-ranking official. In return, he was given a ring—a rare diamond. My son demanded it after his death. I refused. My husband wanted it in a museum.”
Margaret left, returning with a heavy gold ring. “He never had it appraised. Didn’t want to know if it was fake… or priceless.”
Eliza admired it. “It’s beautiful.”
“Take it to the museum. Before my son—or his wife—finds it.”
Then, the worst happened: Margaret had a stroke. Eliza found her too late. With no way to contact the son, she arranged the funeral herself, using money tucked in Margaret’s burial clothes.
Weeks later, the neighbor called—Margaret’s son, Peter, had arrived. Eliza rushed over.
“Why didn’t you come? Call?” she demanded.
“We always fought. She hated my wife—rightly so. I divorced too late.” He wept. “You cared for her. Buried her. Thank you.”
Eliza turned to leave. Peter caught her hand. “Stay.”
She did.
Over tea, he poured out regrets—love unspoken, forgiveness unasked. Eliza pitied him. Then… she loved him.
She raced to his flat after shifts, ignored rearranged furniture, rumpled drawers. He kissed her, promised marriage after renovating the flat. She believed him.
Her mother warned her. Eliza didn’t listen.
One evening, stepping from the shower, she overheard Peter on the phone:
“Just wait. She’ll trust me… Don’t be jealous. There’s nothing between us. She’s bony, plain… In six months, the flat’s mine, and we’ll—”
Eliza’s blood froze. She dressed quickly.
“Who called?” she asked.
“Oh—the builders,” Peter lied.
She feigned illness, left.
Two days later, she returned—to chaos. Drawers upended, jars spilled, Peter tearing through books.
“What are you doing?”
He spun, eyes cold. “You know where it is. The ring.”
She backed toward the door. “I don’t—”
He seized her shoulders. “Don’t lie! Did she tell you? Or did you take it?”
“She only showed me her burial clothes!”
Peter shoved her away. “I’ll find it. Leave the keys. Go.”
As he took another call, Eliza’s gaze landed on the crooked portrait of the brigadier. Heart pounding, she lifted the frame—peeling a small bundle taped behind it.
She fled.
The next day, she met the museum director. The ring was extraordinary—possibly foreign, needing London’s appraisal.
“Take it. It belongs here,” Eliza said, recounting Margaret’s wish.
On the bus to work, she wiped her tears. No more lies.
Maybe she’d adopt one day—spare a child her face, her pain. But not yet. She was only twenty-eight.
At the hospital, patients waited—ready to share joys, sorrows, grateful for a nurse who gave painless injections… and listened.
