Oh, my dears, gather round—I’ve got a little story for you, one that my neighbor at the care home passed along to me. Since my family tucked me away here, all I do these days is listen to tales and pass them on. So, listen close—this one’s about Arthur and his fiancée, Lina.
Now, Arthur was a bright young lad, fresh out uni, settled in London—all those flashing lights and the rush of city life. He’d landed himself a proper job, a flat with a view of Hyde Park, everything sorted. His parents, though? Salt-of-the-earth folk, still in their little village up in Yorkshire where time moved at its own pace. Veg patch out back, chickens clucking, telly always on the blink—you know how it is. Arthur hardly rang, always too busy, too tired.
Then one day, two years later, he decided to visit. Not alone, mind—he brought Lina, his fiancée. “Mum, Dad,” he says, “this is Lina. She’s my future.” Door swings open, and there she is—tall, willowy, hair dyed emerald green, tattoos snaking up her arms, makeup bold enough to stop traffic. Leather jacket, ripped jeans, chunky boots—nothing like the girls back home.
His dad near fell off his chair, gone pale as a ghost. His mum clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp.
“Lovely to meet you,” Lina says softly, stepping forward.
His mum recoiled like she’d seen a spectre. His dad just stared. “This a joke, Arthur? This is your fiancée?”
“Yeah,” Arthur snapped. “We’re in love. What’s the bloody problem?”
His mum lost it then. “Look at her! Like some punk off the streets! What’ll the neighbors say? And your gran—she’ll have a heart attack!”
Lina dropped her gaze, fingers trembling, but no tears—just that old, familiar hurt in her eyes. Arthur squeezed her hand. “It’s 2025, Mum. She’s an artist, works with kids, volunteers at the animal shelter. Kindest soul I know. And you’re judging her by her clothes?”
His mum sank onto a stool, breathless. His dad walked out without a word, silence thick as fog. Arthur whispered, “Sorry, Lina. I didn’t think they’d—”
Lina lifted her chin, pride flashing. “I get it. My family didn’t accept me either. But I’m still here. If yours ever want to know me—I’ll be ready.”
She took his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Outside, rain started—soft, warm, like the sky was washing something away. The drive back was quiet, Arthur gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. Anger, shame, guilt gnawing at him. Lina just stared out the window, calm, but exhaustion in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “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 tea, work, Lina’s studio, evenings by the fireplace. Arthur tried to forget the visit. Thought it was over. Then—knock at the door. His mum stood there, unannounced, clutching a bag of scones.
“Hello, love,” she said. “Can I come in? Need to talk.”
Lina stepped out from the kitchen, froze. The two women locked eyes—seconds stretched into eternity. Then his mum spoke. “I’m sorry, Lina. I was scared. Not of you—of what I didn’t understand. I’ve thought it over. You’re not just… this.” She gestured at Lina’s clothes. “You’re a person. And you’ve made my son better.”
Lina hesitated, then took the scones. “Thank you.”
They sat at the table, tea steaming, laughing as his mum confessed to wearing lime-green eyeshadow in the ‘70s. Not a fairy tale—just life, where fear sometimes steps aside.
Two weeks on, his mum was calling, visiting, sending over shepherd’s pie, even asking Lina for gift ideas for her niece. Arthur was chuffed—a thread between them, finally.
Then one evening, he came home to silence. His mum sat stiff-backed, face like stone. Lina by the window, not turning.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Ask her,” his mum hissed. “Why she never said she’d been married. Or that she’s got a son in care!”
Lina turned slowly, weariness in her eyes—no tears. “I wasn’t hiding it. Didn’t know how to say it. Had him at nineteen. My mum kicked me out. His dad was an addict. I gave him up because I was living in a squat. But I worked, saved up, looked for him. I’m bringing him home next month.”
His mum turned to Arthur. “You want a life with this? All these secrets?”
He looked at Lina. Saw not secrets—strength. “Yeah,” he said firmly. “And if you can’t accept her, Mum, don’t bother coming round with your ‘concern.’”
His mum stood, left without a word.
A month later, Lina brought her son home. Danny, small and quiet, flinching at loud noises. Arthur chased him round the garden, built toy boats, read him stories. Bit by bit, the boy softened.
Then one spring day, Arthur’s mum returned. No flowers, no apologies. Just a children’s book in hand. She hugged Danny and said, “Hello, darling. I’m your grandma.”
Lina held back tears. She knew—things grow when you plant the seed. And eventually, even ice melts.
