Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and immediately shivered as a biting wind cut straight through her thin jumper—she’d left the house without her coat. She wandered through the gate and simply stood there, glancing around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her face. “Annie, why are you crying?” She jumped, startled to see Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older, his hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just—” Annie lied. Michael looked at her for a moment, then reached into his pocket and held out three sweets. “Here, but don’t tell anyone or they’ll all come running. Go inside now,” he ordered sternly, and Annie quickly obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Michael already understood and nodded, heading on his way. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He often visited the only local shop, begging the shopkeeper, Valerie, for credit until payday. She scolded him but caved in. “How haven’t they sacked you yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie slipped back inside her home. She’d just come from school—she was nine years old. There was hardly ever proper food at home, but she wouldn’t tell anyone she was hungry. Otherwise they’d take her away to a children’s home—and she’d heard awful things about those places. Besides, what would Dad do without her? He’d go completely to pieces. She’d rather stay, even if the fridge was always empty. That day, Annie had come home earlier—two lessons were cancelled as the teacher was ill. It was late September; a sharp wind tore yellow leaves from the trees and whipped them across the yard. This September was a cold one. Annie’s old coat and boots let in the damp when it rained. Her dad was asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring. Two empty bottles sat on the kitchen table, another under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—nothing inside, not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate Michael’s sweets and decided to do her homework. Pulling her knees onto the stool, she opened her maths book, staring at sums she couldn’t bring herself to tackle. Instead, she gazed out the window, watching the wind bend trees and scatter yellow leaves around the yard. The garden, once lush, was now dead—raspberries shrivelled, strawberries gone, weeds everywhere, even the old apple tree dried up. Mum used to look after everything, cherishing every sprout. She’d bake sweet apple pastries and heart-shaped buns. But this August, Dad had picked all the apples early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he grumbled. Dad, Andrew, hadn’t always been like this—he used to be kind and jolly. With Mum, they’d go for walks in the woods, watch telly together, share tea and Mum’s fluffy pancakes in the mornings. Mum baked apple jam pies and heart-shaped buns. One day, Mum fell ill. Taken to hospital—with a heart condition, Dad said. She never came back. “Your mum is watching over you now,” Dad said through tears, and Annie cried too, clinging to him, her only comfort. Afterwards, Dad sat for hours with Mum’s photo, lost in thought. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men turned up at the house. Annie would hide away or slip outside to sit on the bench. Annie sighed and returned to her sums, finishing her homework quickly—she was clever and picked things up easily. She packed her books and lay down on her bed. Her bed always had Timmy, her old soft rabbit. Mum had bought him ages ago—she’d loved him forever, calling him Timmy since she was little. He was grey now instead of white, but still her favourite. “Timmy,” she whispered. “Do you remember Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered too. Annie closed her eyes—memories blossomed, vivid and joyful. Mum in an apron, hair tied back, hands dusted with flour. “Come on, darling, let’s bake some magic buns.” “How are buns magic, Mum?” Annie had asked. “They just are,” Mum smiled. “We’ll make heart-shaped ones—and if you eat a magic bun, you should make a wish. It’ll come true.” Annie loved shaping dough into little hearts, though they came out crooked. Mum just smiled fondly: “Every love has its own shape.” Annie would wait excitedly for the buns to bake, eager to eat a hot one and make a wish. Mum, Dad and Annie—tea together, magic buns filling the house with sweet vanilla. Annie wiped away tears from those happy memories. That was then… The clock ticked in the corner—she felt hollow and sad, missing Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Timmy, “how I miss you.” On a Saturday, with no school, Annie went for a walk after lunch—Dad was asleep on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and set off towards the woods. There was an old house nearby, once belonging to Old George, who had died two years back. But there were still apple and pear trees in his orchard. She’d often climb through the fence and collect fallen fruit. She told herself, “I’m not stealing, it’s just the windfalls—no one else wants them now.” She remembered Old George only vaguely—he was kind, gave out apples, pears, and sometimes sweets to the kids. He was gone now, but the trees still bore fruit. Annie squeezed through the fence, picked up two apples, rubbed one on her coat, and took a bite. “Hey! Who are you?” Annie jumped—on the doorstep stood a woman in a coat. Annie dropped her apples, startled. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing… just the windfalls…” Annie stammered, “I didn’t know anyone was here—there never used to be…” “I’m George’s granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I’ll be living here now. How long have you been collecting apples here?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked, and tears swelled. The woman embraced her. “There, there, don’t cry. Come in and have some tea—I’m Anna. Just like you, really—when you’re older, you’ll be called Anna too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life hard. They stepped inside. “Take off your shoes. I’ve put the house in order, still got suitcases to unpack. Let’s get you fed—I made chicken soup this morning.” Anna looked at Annie—thin shoulders, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is the soup with meat?” Annie asked quietly. “Of course—with chicken,” Anna replied gently. “Take a seat.” Annie was too hungry to be shy. Her stomach rumbled as she sat at a chequered table, warmth and light filling the house. Anna placed a bowl of soup and bread before her. “Eat up—have as much as you like, there’s plenty,” Anna urged. And Annie did, finishing every last bit, mopping up with her bread. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full,” Annie replied. “Then let’s have tea!” Anna brought out a basket covered with a cloth—underneath, heart-shaped buns filled the room with a vanilla scent. Annie took one, bit into it, and closed her eyes. “Just like Mum’s buns,” she murmured, “my mum made them too.” Afterwards, Annie sat, rosy-cheeked and relaxed, while Anna said, “So, Annie, tell me your story—where do you live, with whom? After, I’ll walk you home.” “I don’t need walking home, it’s just four doors down…” Annie hesitated, not wanting Anna to see the mess. “I insist,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home greeted them with silence—her father snoring on the sofa, empty bottles, cigarette butts, and clutter everywhere. Anna looked around and shook her head. “I see… Right, let’s have a tidy up,” she said, sweeping rubbish from the table, bagging bottles, opening curtains, shaking out the dirty mat. Annie said suddenly, “Please don’t tell anyone about our house. My dad’s a good man, just can’t get straight. If people find out, they’ll take me away. I don’t want that—he’s a good dad. He just misses Mum.” Anna hugged her. “I won’t tell a soul—I promise.” Time passed. Annie now rushed to school with neatly-plaited hair, smart new coat, backpack, and shiny new boots. “Annie! My mum says your dad’s remarried, is it true?” asked Molly, a classmate shyly. “You look so lovely—and your hair’s all pretty.” “It’s true—my new mum is Auntie Anna,” Annie said proudly, hurrying to school. Andrew had given up drinking—with Anna’s help. Now, he walked tall and smartly dressed beside Anna, strong and confident, always smiling with Annie between them. The years flew. Annie became a university student, coming home on holidays to burst through the front door. “Mum, I’m home!” she’d shout cheerfully. Anna would rush to greet her, wrapping her in a hug, “Hello, my brilliant professor, welcome back!” Both would laugh, and in the evening Andrew would return from work, beaming with happiness at his family. Every love has its own shape.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Annie stepped outside and immediately shivered; the biting wind sliced right through her thin jumper. Shed gone out into the front garden without putting on her coat, only intending to stand by the gate, gazing around absent-mindedly, unaware that tears were streaming down her face.

Annie, why are you crying? She startled, realising it was Michael, the neighbours lada bit older than her, with an unruly mess of hair at the back.

Im not crying, just… caught the wind in my eyes, Annie fibbed, looking away.

Michael watched her for a moment, then pulled three boiled sweets from his pocket.

Here, but keep it quiet or the others will be round in a flash, he said seriously, pressing the sweets into her hand. Go inside.

Annie did as she was told.

Thank you, she whispered, but Im not really hungry… its just

But Michael had already walked on. He understood, though he hadnt said anything. In their small English village, everyone knew that Annies father, Andrew, drank too much. He was often in the village shop, always borrowing until payday. Mrs. Valerie, the shopkeeper, scolded him, but would end up lending him the money anyway.

How youve not lost your job, Ill never know, shed call after him as he left, coins in hand. Andrew would spend it at the off-licence, not the grocer.

Annie came back inside. She had just got home from school; she was nine years old. There was never much to eat in the house, and she would never admit she was hungrybecause then someone might take her away to foster care, and shed heard stories about those homes. Besides, what would happen to her dad if she left? Hed be lost. No, shed rather stay, even if the fridge was empty.

She’d returned early from school today; two lessons cancelled because the teacher was ill. It was late Septembera cold onewind yanked the yellowing leaves from the trees, swirling them down the lane. Annies coat was old, her boots worn out; when it rained, her feet got wet.

Her father was asleep. He lay on the sofa, shoes and all, snoring away, with two empty bottles on the kitchen table and more rolling beneath it. Annie opened the cupboard: nothing. Not even a crust of bread.

She ate Michaels sweets quickly, then decided to do her homework. Settling on a shaky stool, legs tucked under, she opened her maths book, but her mind wandered. Staring out into the wind-battered garden, she watched swirling leaves dance across the grass.

She could see the old vegetable patch through the window; it used to be green and lively, but now it looked dead. The raspberries had dried up, the strawberries were gone, only weeds grew now, and even the apple tree seemed to have withered. Annies mum used to tend every plant with care; shed made the apples sweet, but this past August, Dad had picked them too early and sold them at the Saturday market.

Need the cash, hed muttered.

He hadnt always been this way, Annie remembered. He was once cheerful and kind. With Mum, theyd pick mushrooms in the woods, watch telly together, drink tea and eat the best pancakes Mum would fry up. She made jam tarts, tooespecially apple.

But one day Mum became ill, was taken to hospital, and never came back.

Her heart gave out, love, Dad had whispered through tears. Annie had clung to him as they both sobbed. Now your mums watching over us, up there.

After that, Dad sat for hours staring at Mums photograph, then he started drinking. The house filled with the shouts and laughter of men Annie didnt know. Shed retreat quietly to her tiny room, or slip out to sit on the bench by the back road.

With a sigh, she returned to her sums. She was bright, and her homework never took long. When it was done, she packed her schoolbooks away and lay on her bed.

Her old, well-loved soft rabbit was thereMum had bought it years ago, and Annie had named him Buttons. Once white, he was now grey and worn, but always her favourite. She hugged him close.

Buttons, she whispered, do you remember Mum?

Of course he didshe was sure he did. With closed eyes, memories came, blurry but bright: Mum in her pinny, hair tied up, kneading dough. She was always baking.

Lets make magic buns together, Mum would say.

How? Annie would ask, amazed. Are there really magic buns?

Oh, absolutely, Mum would laugh. Well shape them like hearts, and when you eat one, you make a wishand it just might come true.

Annie loved shaping wonky little hearts alongside her mum, who always smiled and said, Every love has its own shape.

Shed wait eagerly by the oven. When the buns were baked, the house filled with their scent, and when Dad came home, the three of them would have tea and magic buns.

Now the kitchen was cold, and Annie wiped away a tear. There was just emptiness and longing. The clock ticked in the corner.

Mum, she breathed, hugging Buttons, I miss you so much.

It was Saturday. No school. After lunchwhat little there washer father was napping again. Annie put on her old jumper under her coat and went for a walk towards the woods, where a stand of old apple trees still grew by the abandoned house where Mr. George had lived. Hed died two years ago, but the apple and pear trees remained.

Annie had been there before, climbing the low fence to pick up fallen apples and pears.

Im not stealing, she reassured herself. Its only whats dropped; it would go to waste otherwise.

She had a distant memory of old Mr. George, a kindly gent with snowy hair and a walking stick, who would slip sweets to any child he met. The trees kept fruiting, even now.

As Annie reached the fence and climbed over to the first tree, she picked up two apples, rubbed one on her coat and took a bite.

Oi, whos that? A sharp voice made her jump. She turned to see a woman in a smart coat standing on the porch. Annie dropped the apples in fright.

The woman drew closer.

Who are you then? she asked again.

Im Annie… Im not stealing, just picking up whats fallen, Annie stammered. I thought no one lived here anymore…

Im Mr. Georges granddaughter. I only arrived yesterdaymoving in now. How long have you been coming here?

Since… since my mum died, Annie croaked, and tears welled up again.

The woman gently hugged her.

There, there, love. Come in for a bit. My names Anne, like yoursyoull be called Anne one day too, as a grown-up.

Anne seemed to know at once that Annie was hungry and struggling. She invited Annie in.

Pop your shoes off; I tidied up yesterday, though my suitcases are still everywhere. Never mind that. I made some soup earlier today. Anne noticed Annies thin frame and shabby coat.

Is there meat in your soup? Annie asked quietly.

Chicken, darling, Anne replied kindly. Come on, have a seat.

Annies stomach rumbled; shed not eaten that morning. She sat at a table covered with a chequered cloth, the house warm and welcoming. Anne brought her a steaming bowl of soup with a chunk of crusty bread.

Eat up, as much as you like. Theres plenty more.

Annie didnt hesitateshe was famished, the bowl was finished in moments.

More? Anne asked.

No, thank you. Im full.

Well, lets have some tea, the older woman said, and set a low basket, covered with a tea towel, on the table. She lifted the cloth, and the scent of vanilla filled the roominside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it, and closed her eyes.

These are just like Mums, she said softly. My mum made them exactly like this.

After tea and buns, Annie felt warm and calm, her cheeks rosy. Anne asked:

Now, tell me about yourselfwhere you live, who youre with. Ill walk you home afterwards.

I can go alone; its only four houses away, Annie said, not wanting Anne to see the mess they lived in.

We must, Anne insisted gently.

Annies house was silenther father still lay on the sofa. Empty bottles, cigarette ends, and old clothes littered the place.

Anne looked around and shook her head.

I see, she said quietly. Come on, lets tidy up. She began briskly clearing bottles and rubbish, opening curtains, shaking mats. Annie blurted out,

Please dont tell anyone about our house. Dads a good manhes just lost, he cant find his way. If people find out, theyll take me away, and I dont want that. Hes good, really. He just misses Mum, thats all…

Anne hugged her.

I wont say a word, I promise.

Time passed. Annie would run to school in new boots, her hair carefully plaited, and a fresh satchel over her new coat.

Annie, is it true your dad got married again? asked Mary, a classmate. Youve changedyou look so smart. Who does your hair now?

Its true! Ive got a new mumAuntie Anne, Annie replied, beaming, hurrying off to class.

Andrew had given up drinking, helped by Annes steady hand. Now he was the man Annie rememberedtall, well-kept, always smilingwalking proudly beside Anne, strong and warm, confident and, above all, loving. Together, they adored Annie.

Years sped by. Annie became a university student, returning home for the holidays.

Mum, Im home! shed call, bursting through the door.

Anne would always come running, arms open wide. Welcome home, professor! Hello, my darling… And theyd both burst into laughter. That evening, Andrew would come home too, his eyes bright with happiness.

In time, Annie realised: Love never looks the same for everyone. Its shaped by kindness, hope, and the courage to care for each other through hard times. In every heart, love forms its own wayand thats what makes it true.