They had always lived as three: Grandma Vera, Mum Valerie, and Annabel. Annabel had no memory of her father. Once, she mustered the courage to ask her mother about him, but Valerie only pulled her close, tears welling in her eyes. After that, Annabel never asked again.
“No need to upset Mum,” she resolved. “Why would I want a father when Grandma and Mum are enough?”
But Grandma Vera passed when Annabel was ten, leaving just the two of them. Annabel had always loved to draw—scribbling on any surface since she was small. Valerie paid little mind, only scolding,
“Wasting paper when you should be studying.”
At school, her art teacher praised her endlessly.
“Annabel, if you pursue art, you’ll go far. Trust me, I know talent when I see it. Tell your mother I said so.”
But Valerie dismissed it.
“What does a simple art teacher know? Still, if it keeps her busy, let her.” Yet she still bought Annabel paints and brushes, secretly indulging her.
Annabel lost herself in her sketches, especially landscapes. When school ended, she decided to apply to art college—but Valerie had other plans.
“No art school. You’re going to teacher training college.”
“Mum, I don’t want to—”
“Since when do I ask what you want? What kind of career is ‘artist’?” Annabel couldn’t defy her.
Like any young girl, she dreamed of a prince—tall, handsome, tender. She’d know him the moment she saw him.
Exams loomed, and to calm her nerves, Annabel took her easel to the river. Only there did she feel happy, painting the scene: the steep bank opposite, the pine woods beyond. Sometimes, she’d spot fishermen below the cliffs, some in boats, some casting lines from shore. She captured it all—the clouds rippling in the water.
One day, the painting wouldn’t cooperate. She stared in frustration.
“Paint lighter. You’re pressing too hard—it’s why the clouds look dead. The brush should dance.” A man’s voice. He took the brush from her, barely touching the canvas—and the clouds trembled to life.
Her heart trembled too. She looked up—and there he was. Her prince.
“Hello, little artist,” he said. “I’m Anthony.”
Annabel froze, words stuck in her throat. Finally, she whispered,
“Annabel.” He took her hand—then kissed it, soft as breath. No one had ever done that.
From then on, they met by the river. He taught her techniques—he was an artist too. He’d come from London to stay with his aunt, he said. Graduated from art school, but like so many greats, the world ignored him. Bitterness edged his voice.
“They’ll regret it. My time will come, and those talentless fools will see what they threw away!”
He’d say this, then pull her close, kissing her until she melted. Then—before she knew it—it happened. She barely resisted. She was blindly in love. It happened a few more times.
Then he vanished.
She waited by the river, easel untouched. Days bled into weeks.
“Did he leave me? But he said he loved me forever…” The truth settled like stone—Anthony wouldn’t return.
Exams ended. Graduation loomed, then teacher training. Annabel went through the motions, numb.
Two months after Anthony disappeared, she felt ill.
“You’re pale,” Valerie fretted.
“I don’t know—my head spins…”
Annabel would never be a student. The doctor’s words struck like lightning: she was pregnant.
Valerie raged—shouting, weeping, stomping—then hissed,
“I know a doctor. He’ll fix it—for a price.”
Horror seized Annabel. She wouldn’t lose this baby, betrayal or not.
“Never. I won’t do it.”
“You think you have a choice? We don’t need this child. We’re going tonight.”
“Then I’ll leave—or worse. Is that what you want?” Her voice cut like ice. Valerie paled, fear flashing.
“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Forgive me. I raised you alone—we’ll raise this child too.”
They made peace. Valerie never mentioned it again, even growing excited for the baby. Then the day came—Annabel was rushed to hospital.
She woke to a white-coated stranger.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
“Who—? Where’s my daughter?”
“I’m the doctor. I’m sorry—she didn’t survive. But you’ll have others.”
Annabel screamed until a needle dragged her under. Later, she insisted on the funeral—a tiny coffin, a glimpse of her baby’s face. The image burned into her forever.
Years passed. Annabel never married, never painted again. That part of her died with her daughter. Time dulled the pain. She trained as a seamstress, working in a garment factory.
Then Valerie fell ill. Annabel nursed her, rushing from work to feed her. But she faded daily, until one night, she whispered,
“Annabel… your daughter lives. My granddaughter—Vera. She’s Vera Sophie S—” The light left her eyes.
Annabel dismissed it as delirium. She’d buried her child—how could she be alive?
After the funeral, loneliness ached. To distract herself, she took a loan, opened a small dressmaking shop. She poured herself into work, hiring an assistant, building clientele. It wasn’t lavish, but it sufficed.
Lately, a dream haunted her: a beautiful girl in a beige coat, smiling as she walked closer—then fading before they met.
“Who are you?” Annabel tried to cry, but no sound came.
One day, a stranger entered her shop.
“Are you Annabel, the owner?”
“Yes. How can I help?”
“Stephen Whitmore—private investigator.” He showed a photo. “Do you know this woman?”
The doctor from the hospital.
“Yes. She—she told me my daughter died. What does this mean?”
“Don’t panic—but your daughter is alive.”
“Impossible. I buried her—”
“You buried another woman’s child. Your daughter was given to her. Your mother paid the doctor to lie. Now the doctor is dying—she wants you to know the truth.”
“Where is she? What’s her name?”
“Vera Sophie Somerset.” The door chimed—and in walked a beautiful girl in a light coat.
Stephen caught Annabel as she swayed. Then she remembered her mother’s last words: *Vera Sophie S—*
“Forgive me,” Annabel wept. “Your grandma made me believe—”
“It’s alright,” Vera said softly. “I had good parents—they died last year in a crash. They never knew I wasn’t theirs… But I can’t call you ‘Mum’ yet. May I say ‘Mum Annabel’?”
A year later, Annabel fidgeted at Vera’s wedding. The bride glowed; the groom beamed. Guests murmured,
“What a beautiful couple.”
Then came the bouquet toss. It sailed past outstretched hands—straight into Annabel’s arms.
“Mum, you’re next!” Vera laughed.
Flustered, Annabel turned—and met Stephen’s gaze.
“Annabel,” he said softly. “Marry me.”
Her heart melted. She said yes.
Now, flipping through her life, Annabel sometimes thinks of Anthony, the pregnancy, the years without Vera. It was hard—but life rewarded her in the end. She’s happy. She and Stephen even have a grandson now.
