Leaving the hospital, Eleanor bumped into a man in the doorway.
“Sorry,” he said, his gaze lingering on her for a fleeting moment before turning dismissive, as if she were already forgotten.
She was used to such looks. Men’s eyes lingered differently on slender, long-legged girls—sticky, greedy. On her, they slid right off. The unfairness of it stung. Was it her fault she’d been born this way?
As a child, people had cooed over her chubby cheeks and rounded limbs. But in school, she’d been shoved to the front of the P.E. line, mocked as *Piggy Peppa*, *Pumpkin*, and worse. Teachers noticed but did nothing.
Dieting never worked—the weight always crept back. She was pretty, but her size eclipsed it. She’d wanted to teach but feared children’s cruelty. Nursing suited her better—when people were hurting, they didn’t care who helped them, so long as the pain eased.
Her classmates were busy with boyfriends and weddings. Eleanor was always alone. The girls used her as a human shield in lectures, hiding behind her broad frame to avoid the lecturer’s gaze.
Beautiful dresses in shop windows taunted her—too small, never meant for her. She drowned herself in loose knits and billowy skirts. But she was good at her job, gentle with needles, beloved by elderly patients.
Once, she’d gone ice-skating with friends. Teen boys snickered behind her—*Look, the meat truck’s racing to the abattoir!* Their laughter scalded.
Her mother set her up with friends’ sons. One took one glance and pretended he wasn’t waiting for her. Another groped her before introductions—she shoved him into a puddle. *Who’d want you anyway?* he’d spat. She never agreed to another date.
Online, she’d set Fiona from *Shrek* as her profile picture. When a man asked what she *really* looked like, she said, *Just like this, but not green.* He laughed—*Too many admirers, huh?*—and asked to meet. She blocked him.
One day, a six-year-old boy barrelled into her in the ward corridor.
“Where’s the fire? Sick people are resting,” she said, catching his wrist.
“I wanted to slide on the lino,” he admitted.
“Where’s your dad?”
“Visiting Gran. Where’s the loo?”
She showed him. He emerged with a theatrical sigh, then led her to a men’s ward. *”Maybe* it’s this one.”
“You scamp,” she scolded lightly. “What’s your name?”
“Ollie!” he chirped—just as the door opened, revealing a tall, striking man.
“Ollie, what took so—” The man’s eyes flicked over Eleanor, then away. “Was he misbehaving?”
Another dismissive gaze. She was numb to them.
“He was fine. Don’t scold him.” She walked off.
The next day, Ollie spun around in the corridor, caught her sticking her tongue out at his father’s back, and laughed, giving her a thumbs-up.
Later, she visited his grandmother’s bedside.
“You look brighter today, Margaret. Did Ollie visit?”
“Did you see him? Brilliant boy. I’d love to live long enough to see him grow up.”
“You will. You’ve got great-grandkids to meet yet,” she said briskly.
Margaret sighed. “Breaks my heart. His mum left him.”
“His mother—?”
“Not dead. Ran off. My son married a model. She *hid* having a child. Started their marriage on lies. Now every woman he dates is the same—pretty, selfish. Ollie hates them.”
That night, Margaret showed her Ollie’s drawing—a boy holding hands with his parents. The mother was drawn larger than the father.
“He’s picked you for his mum,” Margaret sniffed.
*Even a child sees how big I am. A man like that would never want me.*
But Ollie kept finding excuses to talk to her. A week later, he ambushed her with an invitation—his birthday. She bought a gift (a model railway set) and spent days agonising over outfits.
At the party, a glamorous blonde (another of his father’s *friends*) arched a brow at her. Wine *”accidentally”* spilled on the blonde’s lap. She left in a huff.
Later, in the car, his father, William, kissed her out of nowhere. She shoved him.
“Had enough of blondes? Fancy a change?” she snapped.
He looked stunned. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Save it. No one’s *ever* wanted me. Not like *that*.” She stormed out.
For weeks, she avoided the ward. Then her mother said a man had come by—frantic. Ollie was ill.
She raced over. The boy, feverish, lit up at the sight of her. *”You’re here!”* She gave the injection (his father watching, strangely intent).
On the drive home, William hesitated. “Eleanor… let’s get coffee. Properly.”
“Don’t. I’ll hope. You won’t love me. I’m—”
“You’re *warm*. Soft. Kind. Kids don’t lie—Ollie adores you. So do I.” He paused. “His mum signed away her rights. She’s remarried. So—coffee?”
She exhaled. “Yes.”
Love isn’t about fitting a mould. It’s about seeing—*really* seeing—the person meant for you. Even if they’ve spent a lifetime being overlooked.
