Oh, my dears, gather round, and I’ll tell you a tale whispered to me here in the care home by the old woman in the next bed. Left here by my own family, I’ve nothing to do but listen to stories and pass them on to you. So listen close, and I’ll tell you what happened to Arthur and his sweetheart, Lina.
Arthur was a young man who’d settled in London after university. The city glittered, life moved at a breakneck pace, and he’d found himself a fine job, a flat overlooking a park—everything as it should be. His parents, simple folk from the countryside, lived where time seemed to stand still. A cottage, chickens, an ancient telly—you know how it was back then. Arthur rarely called them, always busy, always too tired.
Then, one day, after two years, he decided to visit. Not alone, but with Lina—his sweetheart, his future. “Mum, Dad,” he said, “this is Lina, my love, my whole life.” The door swung open, and there she stood—tall, slender, hair dyed emerald green like spring grass, tattoos winding down her arms, makeup bold as if she’d stepped from another world. Leather jacket, torn jeans, heavy boots—nothing like the village was used to.
Arthur’s father nearly toppled from his chair, face pale as if he’d seen a spectre. His mother clapped a hand over her mouth, a gasp stifled.
“Pleased to meet you,” Lina murmured, stepping forward.
His mother recoiled as though faced with something monstrous. His father choked out, “Is this a joke, Arthur? This is your fiancée?”
“Yes!” Arthur snapped. “We love each other. What the hell’s the problem?”
His mother couldn’t hold back. “Look at her! Like some street rat! What will the neighbours say? And your gran—she’ll have a fit!”
Lina’s eyes dropped, fingers trembling, but she didn’t cry—just a familiar ache behind her lashes. Arthur gripped her hand. “We’re living in 2025! She’s an artist, works with kids, volunteers at the animal shelter. The kindest soul I know. And you’re judging her by her clothes?”
His mother sank onto a stool, drained. His father stalked outside without a word, silence ringing like a bell. Arthur whispered, “I’m sorry, Lina. I didn’t think it’d be like this.”
But Lina lifted her chin, pride flashing in her gaze. “I understand. My own family didn’t accept me either. But I’ve made my peace. If your parents ever want to know me—I’ll be ready.”
She took his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Outside, a fine rain fell, warm as tears, washing the world clean. The drive was quiet, Arthur’s knuckles white on the wheel, shame gnawing at him. Lina stared out the window, calm, though her eyes were weary.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I thought they’d at least try.”
“Arthur,” she said softly, “that’s their fear, not mine. You chose me. That’s what matters.”
Days passed. Mornings with coffee, work, Lina’s studio, evenings by the fire. Arthur tried to forget that visit. Thought it was over. Then, one evening—a knock at the door.
His mother stood there, unannounced, clutching a bag of pastries.
“Hello, love,” she said. “Can I come in? I’d like to talk.”
Lina stepped out from the kitchen, freezing at the sight of her. The two women locked eyes, seconds stretching into eternity. Then his mother spoke. “I’m sorry, Lina. I was frightened. Not of you—just what I didn’t understand. I’ve thought about it. You’re not just the clothes. You’re a person. And you’ve made my son better.”
Lina hesitated, then took the pastries, whispering, “Thank you.”
They sat at the table, sipping tea, laughing as his mother confessed to wearing green eyeliner in her youth. Not a fairy tale—just life, where fear sometimes steps aside.
Two weeks later, his mother was calling Lina, visiting, sending homemade pies, even asking about a gift for her niece. Arthur was glad—threads stitching them together.
Then, one evening, he came home to a thick silence. His mother sat rigid, arms crossed, face like stone. Lina stood by the window, back turned.
“What’s happened?” Arthur asked.
“Ask her,” his mother hissed. “Why she hid that she was married before. And that she’s got a son in foster care!”
Lina turned slowly, exhaustion in her eyes—no tears. “I wasn’t hiding. I just didn’t know how to say it. I had him at nineteen. My mother threw me out. His father was an addict. I gave him up because I was living in a basement. But I’ve worked, saved, looked for him. I’m bringing him home next month.”
His mother turned to Arthur. “You want to live with someone like this? With her secrets?”
He looked at Lina. Saw not secrets, but strength. “Yes,” he said firmly. “And you, Mum—if you won’t accept her, don’t come back with your ‘concern.’”
His mother stood, left without a word.
A month later, Lina brought her son home. Danny, small and quiet, flinched at loud noises. Arthur chased him around, built toy boats, read him stories. Bit by bit, the boy thawed.
Then, one spring day, Arthur’s mother returned. No flowers, no apologies. Just a children’s book in hand. She hugged Danny and said, “Hello. I’m your gran.”
Lina held back tears. She knew—to grow something, you plant the seed. Then wait for the ice to melt.
