Every Kind of Love Has Its Own Shape Anya stepped outside and shivered; the raw English wind cut straight through her thin jumper. She had hurried out into the garden without grabbing her coat, passed through the gate, and stood there, looking around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” Startled, she saw Mikey, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older than her, with tousled hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, I just…,” Annie lied. Mikey just looked at her, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Go inside,” he said firmly. She obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Mikey understood everything, nodded, and wandered off. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He’d often go down to the corner shop—our only one—and beg Mrs. Valentine to let him have more on tick until payday. Mrs. Valentine would scold him, but always gave in. “How haven’t you lost your job yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe us a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie let herself back into the house. She’d just got in from school; she was nine. There was never much to eat at home, and she never wanted to say she was hungry. If she did, they’d take her away from her dad to a care home, and she’d heard such awful things about those. Besides, how would Dad cope on his own? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was always empty. That day, school had finished early—her teacher was off sick and two lessons were cancelled. It was the end of September. The wind was biting, tearing golden leaves from the trees and swirling them around. It had been a cold September. Annie’s old coat and boots weren’t much use—when it rained, they got soaked. Her father was asleep on the sofa in his clothes and shoes, snoring. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table, and more stashed under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—empty. Not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate the sweets Mikey had given her and decided to do her homework, perched on a stool with her knees tucked up. She opened her maths book but just stared at the numbers. She couldn’t concentrate, not with the wind howling and the yard full of blowing leaves. The window overlooked the veg patch. It used to be lush and green, but now it looked dead. The raspberry canes were dry, the strawberries gone, and only weeds grew in the beds now—even the old apple tree was barren. Mum used to look after it all, cherishing every shoot. The apples had been sweet, but this August Dad had picked them all early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he’d muttered. Dad hadn’t always been like this. He used to be cheerful. He’d go mushroom picking in the woods with Mum, they’d all watch films together and have tea with warm apple fritters and homemade jam buns Mum baked. Then one day Mum got ill and was taken to hospital. She never came back. “Mum’s had something with her heart,” Dad had said through tears, holding Annie close. “She’ll be watching over you now.” For weeks, Dad just sat with Mum’s photo. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men began dropping by the house and Annie would hide away in her small room, or sit alone on the garden bench. Annie sighed and got on with her homework. She was a clever girl and finished quickly. She packed her books away and lay on her bed. On her bed was her old stuffed bunny, Tim—Mum had bought it years ago. Once white, now grey, but just as loved. Annie hugged him close. “Tim,” she whispered, “do you remember our mum?” Tim was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered everything, just like she did. As she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—blurry, but joyful. Mum in her apron, hair pinned up, kneading dough. Always baking something. “Let’s make magic buns together, darling.” “How, Mum? Are magic buns real?” Annie would ask. “Oh yes,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you eat one, you have to make a wish. It’ll come true, you’ll see.” Annie would help her mum shape the buns into wonky hearts and Mum, always smiling, would say, “Every kind of love has its own shape.” She’d wait eagerly for the buns to bake, ready to eat a hot one and make her wish. The smell of sweet buns would fill the house and then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Annie wiped away the tears. Those times were gone now… The clock ticked on and her heart ached—empty, lonely, missing her mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Tim, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday, with no school, she decided to go for a walk after lunch—Dad was dozing again. Annie pulled on an old jumper under her coat and headed towards the woods. Nearby stood an old house—Mr. Evans’ place. He’d passed away two years before, but his apple orchard remained. It wasn’t her first visit. She’d clamber over the fence to collect fallen apples and pears, reassuring herself: “I’m not stealing. They’d just go to waste otherwise.” She only vaguely remembered Mr. Evans—a kind old man with a cane who would give kids fruit and even a sweet if he found one in his pockets. After he passed, the orchard kept bearing fruit. Annie reached the fence, slipped over, picked up two apples, rubbed one clean on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” She jumped, dropping the apples. A woman in a smart coat was standing on the porch. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing, just… ones from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore…” “I’m Mr. Evans’ granddaughter. Came yesterday—this is my new home now. Have you been picking apples here long?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked and tears welled. The woman pulled her into a hug. “Shh, don’t cry. Come inside, be my guest. My name’s Anna, like yours! When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna, too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life wasn’t easy. Inside, Anna invited her to take off her shoes. “I only moved in yesterday, still unpacking. But let me get you something to eat—I’ve made chicken soup and a few other things. So, we’re neighbours, it seems.” She eyed Annie’s thin jacket, the sleeves too short for growing arms. “Is it chicken soup?” “Of course. Sit—eat as much as you want; if it’s not enough, I’ll get you some more.” Annie didn’t hesitate—her stomach rumbled, she hadn’t eaten all day. She finished her soup and bread in moments. “Would you like more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you. I’m full.” “Now, let’s have tea.” Anna brought out a basket, lifted the cloth—and the whole kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it and squeezed her eyes shut. “Just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum used to bake these, just like this.” After tea, relaxed and rosy-cheeked, Annie chatted while Anna listened closely. “Come on, Annie, tell me about yourself—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you back afterwards.” “I can go by myself, honestly—it’s only four houses away.” Annie didn’t want Anna to see the mess at Harry’s house. “Nonsense,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home was still and quiet; her father lay asleep on the sofa, bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty rags scattered about. Anna looked around and shook her head. “Now I understand…” she said quietly. “Let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, stuffed empty bottles into a bag, flung open the curtains and shook out the grubby mat. Annie blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s not bad, he’s just… lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away—but I don’t want to leave. He’s just lonely for mum…” Anna hugged her tight. “I promise I won’t tell.” Time passed. Annie rushed to school in a smart new coat, hair in neat plaits, a shiny rucksack and new boots on her feet. “Annie, is it true your dad’s married now?” asked her classmate, Molly. “You look so pretty! And your hair’s amazing!” “It’s true! I’ve got a new mum now—Auntie Anna,” Annie beamed, hurrying to school. With Anna’s help, Andrew had long since quit drinking. Now you’d see them walking together—Andrew, tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna, confident and elegant, and always smiling at Annie. Time flew by. Annie was now a university student. She’d come home for the holidays, shout as she walked in the door— “Mum! I’m home!” Anna would run to meet her, hug her tight and laugh. “Welcome back, my little professor,” she’d say—and both would burst out laughing, as Andrew came home from work, as proud and happy as ever. Because every kind of love has its own shape.

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 1

Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Amy stepped outside, shivering instantly as the biting wind snuck straight through her jumper. She hadnt bothered with a coat, stepping into the front garden with only the thought to be out for a moment. She leaned against the gate, blinking tears away and pretending not to notice their silent escape down her cheeks.

Ames, whats got you weeping then? She jumped, startled to find Mikey, the neighbours boy, peering at her. He was a year or two older with an unruly tuft of hair that always stuck up at the back.

Im not crying, Amy fibbed, sounding very unconvincing.

Mikey gave her a long, knowing look, then fished three sweets out of his coat pocket and thrust them into her palm. Here. Mums the word, yeah? If you breathe a word, the whole lotll be round in a shot. Off you go, back inside.

She obeyed, quietly murmuring, Thanks but Im not hungry, its just

But Mikey understood, gave her a quick nod, and wandered off. Everyone on the street knew that Amys dad, Andy, had taken to drinking. He was often seen at the corner shopthe only one in their little villagepleading with Mrs. Valentine for more credit til payday. She griped, but always put his purchases on the slate.

How youre not sacked yets beyond me, shed call after him, You owe me half the shop! But Andy shrugged her off and spent the money on yet more bottles.

Amy slipped back into the house. Shed just left schoolshe was nine, bright and sharp as a tack. There was never much to eat at home, and Amy kept her hunger to herself. If anyone found out, theyd probably ship her off, and shed heard all sorts about those childrens homes. Besides, who would look after Dad? Hed only get worse.

Today shed returned early. The last two lessons were cancelled because Miss Parker, her teacher, had caught the dreaded autumn bug. It was late Septemberthe sort of September that howls with wind and snaps yellow leaves off the trees, scattering them across gardens and lanes. Amys old coat was thin and her boots leaky; on wet afternoons, her toes always ended up soaked.

Dad was out for the count, sprawled on the sofa, fully clothed and snoring. Two empty bottles sat on the kitchen table, another one had rolled under it. The food cupboard was depressingly bare. Not a crust in sight.

Amy wolfed Mikeys sweets then set about her homework. She perched on the stool, legs folded underneath her, cracked open her battered maths book and gazed at sums she couldnt be bothered to solve. Her eyes drifted to the window, watching the wind harass the trees and tumble leaves around the muddy yard.

She could see their allotment from here. Once, it had been lush and green, with raspberry canes and strawberries, but now it looked half-deadnothing but brambles and weeds, even the old apple tree was dried-up. Mum had cared for every last plant, picking the apples for delicious pies. Just last August, Dad had stripped the tree early and carted the apples to the market, muttering, Need the money.

Amys dad, Andy, wasnt always like this. Hed once been a laughkind, always smiling, taking family walks in the woods, watching telly together on rainy days, sipping strong tea and wolfing down Mums legendary pancakes and jam tartlets for breakfast.

But then Mum fell ill. She was carted off to hospital and never did come back.

Something wrong with her heart, Dad said, tears streaking his face. Amy wept too, clinging to him. He hugged her tight. Now your mums watching over you from up there.

He spent long evenings staring at Mums photo. And then, one day, he switched to staring into the bottom of a bottle instead, and brought home a string of loud, smelly blokes who always laughed too much. Amy would hide out in her box room, or slip out to the bench behind the shed until they left.

Amy sighed and knuckled down to finish her sumsclever girl that she was, she flew through them in no time. Once done, she stuffed her books in her bag and flopped onto her bed.

Nestled there was her oldest, scruffiest soft toy: a raggedy white bunny, now more grey than anything, Mum had bought years agoher beloved Bun-Bun. She hugged him close.

Bun-Bun, she whispered, do you remember our Mum?

Bun-Bun stayed silent, but Amy was sure he remembered, just as she did. She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself drift into those faded yet joyful memories: Mum bustling about the kitchen in her pinny, her hair in a bun, rolling dough for baking. She always seemed to be making something.

Come on, love, lets bake some magic buns, shed say.

Magic? Amy would ask, wide-eyed. Really?

Oh yes, Mum would laugh, Heart-shaped magic buns. Make a wish as you take a bite and its bound to come true!

Amy loved shaping them, though hers were a bit wonky. Mum always smiled and said, Every love has its own shape.

Amy would wait impatiently for them to bake, ready to eat one warm from the oven with her wish on standby. The house filled with the sweet smell of scones, and when Dad got home, the three of them would have tea and heart-shaped buns together.

Amy wiped away her tearshappy memories, but so distant. The room felt echoing and bare; her heart, empty and raw. She hugged Bun-Bun tighter.

Mummy, she sighed, I miss you so much.

It was a Saturday, no school, so after lunch Amy wandered out. Dad was still asleep on the sofa, so she bundled up in her thickest jumper under her old coat and headed for the woods. Not far off stood an abandoned house where old Mr. Edgar had lived before passing away a couple of years back. His garden was still lousy with apple and pear trees.

Shed been beforescrambling over the fence, collecting windfalls. Its not nicking if theyre on the ground, she told herself. No one wants them anyway.

She remembered Mr. Edgar, a kind, ancient chap with a shock of white hair and a stick. He used to hand out apples, sometimes even a sweet or two if he found one in his coat pocket. Since hed gone, only the trees seemed to carry on as usual.

Amy ducked under the fence, gathering up a couple of apples and giving one a quick polish against her coat, already halfway to her mouth when

Oi, whos that? She spun round, dropping both apples. A woman in a smart overcoat stood on the porch.

The woman eyed her, coming closer. And you are?

Amy I wasnt stealing, honestonly picked up whats already fallen I thought no one was here…

Im Mr. Edgars granddaughter. Just moved in yesterdayplanning on living here now. Been coming long, have you?

Since since Mum died, Amy faltered, tears brimming.

The womans face softened, and she wrapped Amy in a gentle hug.

Come in, sweetheart. Im AnneAnne Smith. Thats Anna to grown-ups, one day youll be called that too! She guided Amy inside, noticing the thin arms and jacket sleeves halfway up her forearms.

Anne quickly gathered that Amys home life was far from easy. Pop off your boots, I only scrubbed the floor yesterdaynever trust what youll bring in from this garden. Lets get you fed, Ive a nice soup on and something else to go with it. Looks like well be neighbours, eh? Anne gave her a gentle, appraising glance.

Is there meat in your soup? Amy asked, hope flickering.

Chicken, darling. Come on, sit yourself down.

She hardly needed urging; Amys stomach rumbled loud enough to make them both laugh, then Anne laid a chequered cloth and set out a steaming bowl, a doorstep slice of bread alongside.

Tuck in, as much as you like. Theres plentyask for seconds.

Amy didnt need telling twice. In a flash, her bowl was clean, the bread all but inhaled.

Want some more? Anne offered.

No thank you, Im full up, said Amy, a little shy but so grateful.

Tea, then! Anne beamed, setting a low basket on the table, covered with a cloth. When she revealed the contents, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. Inside lay heart-shaped buns. Amy took one, bit in, and closed her eyes.

My mums tasted just like these, she whispered, just the same

After the buns and tea, Anne casually asked, So, Amy, tell me about yourselfwhere you live, who with. Ill walk you back after.

Amy hesitated, I can pop back alone; its only four doors down, not wanting Anne to see the state of her home.

Not a chance, Anne said gently but firmly.

Amys house greeted them with silence and the lingering smell of old cigarettes. Dad was still snoring. Empty bottles and wrappers littered the place.

Anne took it all in, nodded slowly. I see, she said. Right, lets tidy up, shall we?

She set to work: binning bottles, flinging open curtains, dusting the rug. Amy blurted, Dont tell anyone about this, please. My dads a good manjust a bit lost. If anyone finds out, theyll take me away, and I dont want that. Hes only sad cause he misses Mum…

Anne moved to her side, squeezed her gently. My lips are sealed, promise.

Time passed. Amy began dashing to school with perfectly plaited hair, wrapped in a new coat with shiny boots and a rucksack bouncing on her back.

Amy, my mum says your dad got hitchedis that true? piped up Maisie, her classmate. You look so smart! Whos been doing your hair?

Its true. My new mum is Auntie Anne, Amy replied, head held high as she hurried inside.

Andy, with Annes help, had long since ditched the drink. Now youd see the two of them out walking, Andy tall and neatly dressed, Anne smart and stately, always wearing a confident smile. Together, they doted on Amy, and smiles came easily to them all.

Years hurried by. Now a university student, Amy would breeze through the front door during holidays, calling out, Mum, Im home!

And Anne would dash up, hugging her tight: Theres my little professorwelcome home! Theyd laugh together, and later that evening Andy would arrive from work, just as happy as could be.

Just a Childhood Friend – Are you honestly spending your whole Saturday sorting out junk in the garage? All day? – Ellie poked at a piece of cheesecake with her fork, one eyebrow raised as she eyed the tall, gingerish bloke across from her. Ivan leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling cappuccino. – Ellie… It’s not junk, it’s treasure from my childhood. Somewhere in there is my prized collection of ‘Love Hearts’ sweet wrappers, I’ll have you know. Do you realise how valuable that is? – Good grief. You actually saved sweet wrappers? Since when? Ellie snorted, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This cafe, with its worn-down, plum-coloured sofas and eternally foggy windows, had long since become their personal hideout. The waitress, Marina, didn’t bother taking their order – she simply brought Ivan his cappuccino, Ellie her latte, and whichever dessert was on offer for them to share. After fifteen years of friendship, their ritual was as automatic as breathing. – Alright, I’ll admit it, – Ivan saluted her with his mug, – the garage can wait. So can my ‘treasure’. Kieran’s planning a proper barbecue this Sunday, by the way. – Yeah, I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes might actually fall out from boredom. Their laughter faded into the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of other tables… …There were never awkward silences or unspoken truths between them – they knew each other as well as their own hands. Ellie remembered Ivan as the gangly year-seven with perpetually undone laces, first to talk to her when she was new. Ivan remembered Ellie, the only one who didn’t mock his oversized glasses. Kieran had always accepted their friendship without suspicion or question from the day they met. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the ease of someone sure of himself and the people he loved. On Friday game nights with Monopoly and Uno, Kieran would laugh the loudest whenever Ivan lost yet again in Scrabble to his wife, topping up the tea as the two debated the rules of charades. – He only wins because he cheats, – Ellie once declared, tossing playing cards at her husband. – That’s called strategy, darling wife, – Kieran replied serenely, gathering up the scattered cards. Ivan watched them with a warm, fond smile. He liked this man – solid, trustworthy, with a dry wit you only caught if you paid attention. Ellie was softer and happier around Kieran, and Ivan was genuinely glad for her, the way only a true friend can be. Their balance only wobbled when Vera came into their tightly-knit little world… …Kieran’s sister had appeared on their doorstep a month before, eyes red, all-in on starting afresh. Her divorce had drained every last drop of her spirit, leaving only bitterness and a gaping hole where stability used to live. The first night Ivan dropped by for the usual board games, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up as though some hidden switch flicked in her head. Here stood a man – calm, kind-eyed, with a smile that made you want to smile back. – This is Ivan, my school friend, – Ellie introduced. – And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. – Nice to meet you, – Ivan said, holding out his hand. Vera held onto it just a shade longer than a handshake required. – Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at the cafe just when Ivan and Ellie were there. She’d pop into the living room with a plate of biscuits whenever Ivan visited. She’d slide in next to him at game night, so close their shoulders touched. – Can you pass me that card? – Vera leaned right across him, hair tickling Ivan’s neck ‘by accident’. – Oh, sorry. Ivan carefully moved away, mumbling polite nothings. Ellie would catch Kieran’s eye, but he’d only shrug – his sister always was a bit much. Vera’s flirting grew bolder. She held Ivan’s gaze, paid compliments, found reasons to touch him, and laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. – You’ve got lovely hands, so slender, like a pianist’s, – Vera said one night, catching his hand over the poker chips. – Do you play? – Er… programmer, actually. – Still lovely. Ivan quickly reclaimed his hand, staring at his cards with exaggerated attention. Even his ears turned pink. After the third invitation to coffee “just to chat as friends”, Ivan caved. He liked Vera – she was full of life and drama; maybe something could work. With luck, she’d stop looking at him that way and life would return to normal. The first weeks of their romance were fine enough. Vera beamed, Ivan relaxed, family nights returned to just “family nights.” But soon, Vera noticed something she wished she hadn’t. She saw Ivan come alive when Ellie walked into the room, saw his face grow more open, the way their jokes bounced and sentences finished in tandem, an invisible connection she couldn’t touch. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. – Why are you always with her? – Vera demanded, arms folded, blocking Ivan at the front door. – She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. You have to— – But I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came thick and fast. Vera wept, accused, demanded. Ivan explained, pacified, made excuses. – You think about her more than about me! – Vera, this is ridiculous. We’re just friends. – Friends don’t look at each other like that! Ivan’s phone pinged incessantly every time he saw Ellie. – Where are you? When will you be back? Why aren’t you answering? Are you with her again? Eventually, he switched off the sound, but Vera began to track his movements. She’d appear at the cafe, in the park, outside Ellie’s flat – wild-eyed and furious. – Vera, please, – Ivan massaged his temples. – This isn’t healthy. – What’s not healthy is you spending more time with another man’s wife than with your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meeting with her childhood friend was now nerve-wracking: would Vera show up? Would she kick off? What would she accuse them of next? – Maybe I should see you less… – Ellie started, but Ivan cut her off: – Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had made up her mind. If honesty wouldn’t get her what she wanted, maybe something else would. Kieran was sitting in the kitchen when Vera swept in. – Big brother… I have to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She dispensed her lies in careful doses, sniffing in the right moments. Secret meetings. Lingering looks. Ivan holding Ellie’s hand, thinking no one saw. Kieran listened silently, face unreadable, not interrupting or interrogating. When Ellie and Ivan came home an hour later, the living room air was thick and unmoving. Kieran reclined in the armchair, wearing a look that said he was expecting entertainment. – Take a seat, – he gestured at the sofa. – My sister’s just told me a rather fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze. Ivan clenched his jaw. – What the— – She claims she witnessed some rather compromising behaviour. Vera huddled, eyes fixed on the rug. Ivan turned to her so suddenly Vera flinched. – That’s enough, Vera. I’ve put up with your drama for too long. His patience gone, the easy-going Ivan vanished, replaced by a man pushed beyond his limits. – We’re done. Finished. Right now. – You can’t— Tears filled her eyes, properly this time. – It’s her! – Vera jabbed at Ellie. – You always pick her! Always! Ellie waited a beat, letting Vera vent her poison. – You know, Vera, – she said calmly, – if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t made a scene out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to save. Vera grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door. And Kieran laughed – wholeheartedly, head thrown back in relief. – Thank God, finally. He stood, drawing his wife into a hug. – You didn’t believe her, did you? – Ellie mumbled into his shoulder. – Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like watching a brother and sister argue over the last biscuit. Ivan sagged, tension finally easing. – Sorry you had to get dragged into this circus. – Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—her choices are hers. Now, let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold and I don’t reheat it for anyone’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, with relief. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with Ivan survived. And once again, her husband showed why his trust was stronger than any rumour. They headed to the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed under the evening lights, and everything in their world felt right again.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and shivered as the bitter wind cut right through her thin jumper—she’d gone out into the yard without a coat. She walked through the garden gate and simply stood, glancing around, tears she didn’t notice running down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” She startled at the sound of Mikey, the boy from next door. He was a bit older, and his hair always stuck up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just…” Annie lied. Mikey looked at her, then reached into his pocket and handed her three sweets. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Now go inside,” he ordered, and she obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… just…” But Mikey seemed to understand and nodded, walking on. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He often visited the only shop in the village, asking the shopkeeper, Valerie, to lend him money until payday. Valerie grumbled but always relented. “How haven’t you lost your job with all the debt you’ve run up?” she’d scold as he hurried out—and spent what little he had on drink. Annie went back inside. She’d recently come home from school, where she was in Year 4. There was rarely much food at home, but she couldn’t admit she was hungry—otherwise, they’d take her away to a children’s home, and she’d heard only bad things about those places. Besides, how could she leave her dad all alone? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was empty. She’d finished school early that day—her teacher was ill. It was late September, and a biting wind whipped yellow leaves from the trees and swept them across the village. Her old coat and clunky boots barely kept out the damp and cold. Her father was asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring, two empty bottles on the table and another under it. Rummaging in the kitchen cupboard, Annie found nothing, not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate Mikey’s sweets, resolved to do her homework, and perched on a stool, tucking her legs underneath. Opening her maths book, she stared at the sums, but couldn’t concentrate. From the window, she watched the wind rock the trees and swirl the yellow leaves. The view included what used to be a vibrant vegetable patch. Now it looked dead—raspberries withered, strawberries vanished, weeds everywhere, and even the old apple tree was dry and bare. Her mum had tended every plant lovingly; the apples were always sweet. But this August, her father had picked them all too soon and sold them at the market, mumbling, “Need the money.” Annie’s dad, Andrew, hadn’t always been this way. He used to be kind and jolly; they’d go for woodland walks and watch films together, drinking tea and eating her mum’s delicious pancakes or jam tarts. But one day, her mother fell ill and went away to hospital—and never came back. “Mum’s got something wrong with her heart,” her father had said, with tears in his eyes. Annie clung to him as he sobbed. “Now your mum will be watching over you from above.” After that, he’d sit for hours staring at her mum’s photograph, then started drinking. Strange, boisterous men began visiting, and Annie would retreat to her tiny room or slip outside to the bench behind the house. With a sigh, Annie got on with her sums. She was clever at lessons and finished them quickly before packing her books away and curling up on her bed. There, her old stuffed bunny, Timmy, always waited—a gift from Mum, worn grey now but still beloved. Annie hugged Timmy close. “Timmy, do you remember my mum?” she whispered. He didn’t answer, but she felt certain he remembered as well as she did. Closing her eyes, the memories came rushing back—bright and cheerful, though a bit blurred. Mum, in an apron, her hair pinned up, kneading dough to bake something wonderful. “Let’s make magic buns together, love.” “What do you mean, Mum? There’s no such thing as magic buns!” “Oh, there is,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you make a wish when you eat one, it will always come true.” Annie would help, shaping lumpy heart buns. Mum would smile warmly and say, “Every love has its own shape.” Eagerly, they’d wait for the buns to bake, then eat them hot and make wishes as the delicious smell filled the house. When Dad came home, they’d all have tea and magic buns together. Annie wiped away tears stung by those memories. That was then… Now, the ticking clock filled the quiet house, and she felt hollow, missing her mum desperately. “Mum,” she breathed, hugging Timmy tight, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday Annie didn’t have to go to school. After lunch she set off for a walk; her dad was asleep again on the sofa. Pulling on her old jumper under her coat, she headed towards the nearby woods. There was an old house on the edge—Granddad George’s. He’d died two years ago, but his apple and pear orchard remained. Annie had crept in before, climbing the fence to collect fallen apples and pears. “I’m not stealing—just taking what’s wasted,” she reassured herself. She remembered Granddad George a little—old and grey, always kind, giving children apples, pears, or even a toffee from his pocket. This time, as Annie reached the fence, she climbed over, picked two apples, wiped one on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” A woman on the porch startled her, causing her to drop the apples. The woman came closer. “Well? Who are you?” “Annie… I’m not stealing, just picking up these from the ground, I didn’t know anyone lived here…” “I’m George’s granddaughter; I arrived yesterday—I’ll be living here now. How long have you been coming?” “Since Mum died…” Annie’s voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears. The woman pulled her into a hug. “There, there, don’t cry. Come inside; I’m Mrs Anne Carter—though when you’re grown up, folk will call you Anna too.” Mrs Carter instantly guessed at Annie’s hunger and hard life, and brought her into the kitchen. “Take off your boots, love. I cleaned up yesterday, though there’s still unpacking to do. Let me get you something to eat—there’s chicken soup on the hob I made this morning, and some other bits. Looks like we’re neighbours now.” She eyed Annie’s thin shoulders and old, too-short coat. “Is the soup… with meat?” Annie asked hopefully. “Of course, with chicken!” said Mrs Carter, kindly. “Come on, sit down, eat as much as you like. If you want seconds, just ask.” Hungry, Annie didn’t hesitate. She sat at the plaid-covered table, warmed by the cosy kitchen. Mrs Carter put a bowl of soup and bread before her. “Eat up, Annie.” Annie wolfed down the soup and bread in minutes. “Want more?” Mrs Carter asked. “No, thank you, I’m full.” “Then how about some tea?” Mrs Carter smiled, placing a basket covered with a towel on the table. As she pulled back the cloth, the sweet scent of vanilla spread across the room. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it, and her eyes filled with tears. “Buns—just like Mum used to make…” she murmured. After tea and buns, Annie was rosy-cheeked and relaxed. Mrs Carter spoke gently: “So, tell me about your life—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you home afterwards.” “I can go alone—it’s only a few houses up,” Annie mumbled, not wanting her new friend to see their messy home. “Nonsense,” said Mrs Carter firmly. Annie’s house greeted them with silence; her father still lay sprawled on the sofa. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty laundry were everywhere. Mrs Carter surveyed the scene and shook her head. “I get it now…” she murmured. “Right—let’s tidy up.” She quickly swept the mess from the table, packed bottles in a bag, opened the curtains, shook the rug. Annie suddenly said, “Please, don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s good, really—just lost and sad… If people find out, they’ll take me away, and I can’t leave him. He just misses Mum, that’s all…” Mrs Carter hugged her close. “I won’t tell a soul, promise.” Time passed. Annie skipped to school in neatly braided hair, a new coat and boots, her rucksack slung confidently over her shoulder. “Annie, my mum said your dad got remarried—is it true?” asked Molly, her classmate. “You look so pretty, and your hair’s lovely.” “It’s true—now I’ve got a new mum—Auntie Anna!” Annie said proudly, hurrying into school. Andrew had long since stopped drinking, thanks to Mrs Carter. Now they walked together—Andrew, tall and neat, and Anna, graceful, confident, and kind. They always smiled and doted on Annie. The years whizzed by. Now at university, Annie returned for holidays and called out cheerily as she opened the door: “Mum, I’m home!” Anna ran out to hug her. “Welcome back, Professor!” They both laughed, and in the evening Andrew came home from work, smiling and content. Every love truly does have its own shape.

To See With Her Own Eyes After a devastating tragedy—losing her husband and six-year-old daughter in a car accident—Catherine struggled to recover, spending nearly six months in a clinic with only her patient mother by her side. When her mother warned her that her late husband’s business was on the verge of collapse, Catherine pulled herself together and took the reins, determined to carry on his legacy. Yet, no matter how successful she became, she couldn’t escape the grief of losing her little girl. Her mother gently encouraged her to adopt a girl from a children’s home, especially one who had it even harder than her. Though knowing she could never replace her beloved child, Catherine agreed and soon met Anna, a nearly blind girl whose educated parents had abandoned her out of fear and selfishness. At first sight, Catherine felt an immediate maternal connection to the golden-haired, blue-eyed Anna. They became inseparable, with Catherine devoting her life and love to her new daughter, seeking medical treatment to restore Anna’s vision and nurturing her as she grew into a beautiful, grateful young woman. Despite Catherine’s worries about opportunistic suitors, she cautiously approved when Anna fell in love with Anthony, a charming young man. Soon after their engagement, Anna overheard a chilling conversation: Anthony’s mother was pressuring him to marry Anna for her inheritance and then arrange an “accident” for her during a honeymoon in the mountains. Devastated, Anna confided in Catherine, who confronted Anthony, making it clear his scheme had been exposed. The pair fled town, and Catherine focused once again on Anna’s future. After a successful operation restored her vision, Anna discovered a new world of beauty—and love—with Dr. James, the kindhearted surgeon who’d overseen her recovery. Their joyful wedding and the birth of their grey-eyed daughter proved that no matter the darkness, hope could blossom anew when one truly gets the chance to see with her own eyes.