Julia Lay Sobbing on the Sofa: Her Husband Confessed Months Ago He Was Expecting a Baby With Another Woman, Leaving Her Just Before Christmas—But a Childhood Memory, a Lost Ballerina Music Box, and an Unexpected Visit from “Father Christmas” Were About to Change Everything

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 1

Julia lay sprawled on the worn sofa, tears running freely down her cheeks. It had been only a few months since her husband confesseda confession that shattered her world. He admitted, with a mixture of pity and awkwardness, that there was another woman, and she was expecting his child.

Julia, Im sorry, but we have been together two years without any children. Its been long enough for me to start doubting myself, David stammered. But now well, shes pregnant, and in a couple of months, the baby will be here. Im sorry.

Julia hadnt bothered to argue, nor did she press him for details, such as why hed waited until just two months before the other childs birthof all times, right before Christmasto disappear from her life. So there she was, still dressed from the previous evening, drained of every ounce of strength, weeping her sorrow onto the sofa.

As she sobbed, her mind wandered to a distant Christmas from her childhooda memory that glittered at the edge of her grief.

Julia was only ten that year, a bright, curious girl in Year Five. After school, she and her friends loved to duck into the local charity shopan old, crooked place filled with unexpected treasures. The girls cared little for clothing or shoes, but they delighted in trinkets, toys, and costume jewellery.

That snowy December afternoon, Julia spotted an enchanting music box on the glass shelf. It was sky blue with delicate gold filigree. She stood glued to the spot, utterly enchanted by the little chest. The shopkeeper, a kindly older gentleman, noticed her fascination and opened the box. As he did so, a melody danced through the shop, and a small ballerina, dressed in a pristine white tutu, emerged on her velvet stage, twirling gracefully to the tune. There was even a hidden drawer, the perfect size for precious little things.

Her friends, Alice and Emily, hurried to her side, gasping in wonder.
Thats lovely! Oh, just look at it! Alice exclaimed, eyes wide.
How much is it? she asked without a moments hesitation.
The shopkeeper smiled, quoting what was, to them, a kings ransomfive pounds.

Never in my life will I save up that much, Julia thought with a pang. In those days, children were given only a few pence for lunchenough to buy a hot meal at school. Asking for more was unthinkable. If she pretended to be going to the cinema, perhaps she could ask her mother for fifty pence, but five pounds might as well have been five hundred.

Her father was away for work and wouldn’t return until next week. Had he been home, perhaps he would have bought it, but her mother would never see sense in it. Julia could almost hear her mothers sharp voice: What a silly idea! Five pounds for a ballerina in a box? I could buy three whole chickens for that. Youd be eating well for a week.

No, there was no use asking her mother. It had to wait until her father returned. In the meantime, Julia visited the charity shop every day after school, simply to watch the ballerina spin. The shopkeeper, growing fond of her, would wind up the box as soon as he spotted her, letting the music fill the shop once again.

Each visit, Julia made new discoveriesthere was a small scuff on one corner, a chipped piece of gold, a missing ballet slipper on the figurine, and the tiniest mark on her skirt. Julia examined every detail and loved it all the more for its imperfections.

When her father finally came home, she all but dragged him to the shop. The old man behind the counter shook his head in sympathy. Sorry, love. It was sold just a few hours ago. You just missed it. Julias tears sprang forth, unchecked.

Oh sweetheart, dont cry, her father murmured. Shall we get you a treat instead? Ill buy you a big chocolate cake. Your favourite, truffle, with those little chocolate mushrooms on top.

Julia nodded and let her father lead her away, but her heart remained with the little ballerina. She could not let go of her longing.

The next morning at school, Emily came striding in, holding the precious music box. Julias heart broke all over again when she realised it was her friend who now possessed the treasure. Emily opened the lid for all to hear, and her classmates fell silent as the melody played.

My gran bought it for me, Emily beamed. Shes staying with us for Christmas and I begged her to come by the shop yesterday. Id been eyeing it all week.

And me! Alice chimed in, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Julia couldnt contain herself any longer. She burst into tears and fled the classroom. Peter Ramsey, a cheeky boy notorious for his mischief, called after her, Julia, why are you crying? She snapped, Nothing! and dashed away, ignoring the whispers that followed her.

Everyone knew Peter liked Juliathe girls envied her, but she paid him no mind.

Standing by the frosted window to cool her burning face, Julia heard Peters voice behind her, gentle for once. Ill find you one just like it, Julia. Dont cry. And where will you find one? Julia scoffed. Silly boy. She darted away, regretting her harsh words almost at once.

That evening, she spent half an hour shivering on the school grounds, lost in her grief, and of course, came down with a fierce cold. Peter heard she was ill and arrived that same day.

I havent found the ballerina yet, he reported, but I will. I promise. Julia could only shake her head. Where will you? Its foreignyou can see on the bottom, Made in Germany. Youll never find another. Germany, is it? Peter replied. Then Ill go there if I have to. Despite herself, Julia laughed a little.

That winter marked the beginning of a true friendship. They walked to school together, shared secrets, and by the time they reached Year 8, their friendship had grown into something more. It was Peter who first dared to kiss her. She did not resist. From then on, they were devoted to one another, sharing all the sweet promises of first love.

But as fate would have it, after their final year at school, Peter was called up for National Service, posted to Germany of all places. He wrote Julia many letters, sometimes joking that he was still searching for her ballerina.

Six months before he was due to return, Julia met David. He charmed her at once, serenading her with a made-up song at a friend’s gathering, strumming his guitar as though it were meant for her alone. Her heart melted. Two months later, they were married.

Peter came back to England and, learning Julia was wed, took a position on a trawler bound for Norway. He came back to town rarely. They never saw each other again.

Now, as Julia sat up on her sofa, she wiped her tears, feeling their taste was not only for her husbands departure, but for the happiness she once might have had with Peter. Where was he now? Was he married? She wondered.

The calendar read December 31st. She braced herself for another lonely New Years Eve, while her friends gathered with their families. She could hardly impose on them. Instead, she visited the market and the grocers, picking up a few treats to soften the achecheese, fruit, and a little bottle of sherry.

As she entered her block of flats, arms full of groceries, a man dressed as Father Christmas emerged from the lift. The sight was so absurd, so unexpected in her desolation, that fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Why the tears, my girl? he asked in a hearty, exaggerated old-mans voice. Its Christmas! Surely you can manage a smile? Here, take this. He handed her a sturdy box from his sack and vanished into the winter darkness before she could utter a word.

The box had a pleasant weight to it. Julia carried it to the kitchen and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was a beautiful new music boxsky blue, traced with golden leaves, just as she remembered. She opened the lid, and the familiar melody began. The ballerina whirled from her velvet stagethis time with both ballet slippers. Julia pulled open the secret drawerand there, gleaming, was a small, gold ring.

Heart pounding, she rushed to the window. Outside in the lamplight, she saw Father Christmas, unmistakably Peter, lingering in the snow. Julia, still in her slippers, raced downstairs. They met in the cold, laughing and crying at once, and she pressed herself to the warmth of his red coat.

Silly boy, she whispered, tears of joy streaming down her face. You really did find it, after all.

Peter laughed, drawing her close. I told you I would. Found her in Germany, just as I promised.He reached into his pocket, shy and sheepish as ever. With trembling hands, he slipped the gold ring onto Julias finger. Not a proposaljust a promise kept, he said quietly. His eyes brimmed with histories unspoken, the pain of years apart, and all the hope that remained.

The bells from St. Marys tolled midnight, echoing down the snowy streets. Julia found herself laughingfree, unguarded joy that startled her own ears. She realized she hadnt felt so light in years. Around them the flakes spun and danced, the world remade in silver and blue, and Peter pulled her close, their breaths mingling in the frosted air, their shadows tangled on the white ground.

Inside, the music box played on: a second chance turning slowly on the spindle of fate. Julia squeezed Peters hand, heart wide open to this unlooked-for magic. For the first time in forever, she understoodloss didnt erase old dreams; they sometimes waited just out of sight, ready to surprise you when the winter thawed.

Hand in hand, they walked up the steps. The night felt endless, bright with promise, and somewhere between laughter and tears, Julia let herself believe in beginnings again.

The Fool Everyone Always Thought Anna Was Daft. She’d Been Married Fifteen Years, Had Two Kids — Alice, Fourteen, and Tommy, Seven. Her Husband Cheated on Her from the Second Day of Their Marriage, and Never Bothered to Hide It. Friends Tried to Warn Her, But Anna Always Smiled Silently. Anna Worked as an Accountant at a Toy Factory, With a Tiny Paycheck and Mountains of Work, Even on Weekends. Her Husband Made Good Money, But No Matter What, There Was Never Enough for Groceries, and at Best, Dinner Was Borscht and Meatballs with Pasta. People Always Gossiped About Val With His New Girl. He’d Often Come Home Drunk. “Oh, Anna’s a fool, why does she put up with him?” On Their Son Tommy’s Tenth Birthday, Her Husband Declared He Wanted a Divorce — He’d Fallen in Love and Wasn’t Happy at Home. “Don’t Be Upset, Anna, But I’m Filing for Divorce. You’re so Cold and Not Even a Good Housekeeper,” He Said. “Alright, I Agree,” Anna Replied Calmly, Smiling Oddly, Which Rattled Val. The Next Day, Val Came Home with His New Flame, But Found the Locks Changed and a Mountain of Surprises Awaiting Him. No Key Under the Mat, Just a Burly Man Answering the Door. “Have You Got Any Papers to Prove You Live Here?” Confused, Val Searched for His Passport — Only to Discover He’d Been Removed from the Flat’s Deeds Two Years Prior. Anna and the Kids Had Moved On — His Daughter Studying Abroad, His Son in a Different School, and Anna Gone from the Factory. Crushed, Val Prepared for the Divorce Hearing, Sure He’d Expose Anna as a Swindler. But in Court, He Was Reminded: Two Years Back, Buzzing from a New Affair, He’d Signed Power of Attorney Over to Anna for Household Matters. He’d Lost It All By His Own Hand. His Mistress Eliza Disappeared After Hearing He’d Lost the Flat. Determined to Get Revenge, Val Planned to Refuse Child Support — Only to Receive a Court Summons Contesting His Paternity. DNA Tests Proved Both Children Weren’t His. Anna Had Seen Him Cheat on Their Wedding Day, and Vowed Subtle Revenge — Affair for Affair, Saving Every Penny He Gave Her, Living Frugally so She Could Support the Children Elsewhere, Until She Was Ready to Strike. He Took Losing the Flat Better Than Finding Out Both Kids Weren’t His. Beware the Women You’ve Wronged — In Anger, They Can Do Anything.

The Fairy Godmother Everyone could already tell by Year 7 that Lisa Browning was destined to become a brilliant doctor. It all started when the neighbour’s boy fell off the swings and bloodied his knee and head terribly. The sight would have made most people faint, but twelve-year-old Lisa kept her cool. “Yasmin, fetch some water, bandages and antiseptic!” she commanded her best friend, who lived in the flat opposite the playground. Without a word, Yasmin dashed home. By the time the frightened auntie—little Jamie’s mum, Mrs Turner, had found out and rushed over, Lisa had calmly and efficiently cleaned, treated, and dressed the wounds with the professionalism of someone far beyond her years. When Mrs Turner learned who had given her son first aid, she was astonished. Thanking Lisa warmly, she declared: “You’re going to be a doctor. And not just any doctor—an outstanding one. Well done, you didn’t panic! Some real doctors could learn from you, my dear.” On camping trips, Lisa was simply indispensable. No one wanted to get hurt, of course, but with Lisa Browning there, any scrapes seemed less frightening. Then came medical school, internships, hospital foundation years, and a steady stream of training courses. Once, in her role as a junior doctor, Lisa had to fill in for the Head of Functional Diagnostics. It was safe to say that Dr Elizabeth Alexandra, now Mrs Thompson, was both respected and valued by her colleagues. The team was fantastic—apart from the ageing deputy head, Dr Bernard Stephens, notorious for his grumpiness and temper, and something of an energy vampire to boot. He was in his element when there was trouble to be had. Lisa tried not to rise to his provocations, though only she knew how much effort that took! The only consolation for Dr Thompson was that their paths didn’t often cross—just once a week at the admissions panel when they discussed diagnoses for new patients. Even then, those meetings were anything but pleasant. Dr Stephens would frequently clash with Elizabeth, sometimes making sly, biting comments. He seemed to sense that Dr Thompson tried to ignore his barbs, and it only encouraged him. “Impossible man,” she complained to her husband Val after another trying day. “Honestly, I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if Stephens deliberately goads me.” “I’m sure you’ll come out on top,” Val grinned. “You’re the best diplomat I know.” “Absolutely, Mum,” agreed their thirteen-year-old, Max. “If you get bored being a doctor, you should be a diplomat. They earn loads more as well.” “I’ll give it some thought,” she laughed. Lisa was always diplomatic—but at the end of the day, only human. And patience, unfortunately, does have its limits. She sensed that sooner or later, she might just snap, and if she did, it would be for a good reason. The very next day at the usual doctors’ meeting everything was routine—until it was Lisa’s turn to present the notes of a woman in her sixties on the examination couch across from them. Normally, after the report, the patient would leave if she was able, and the head of department, the attending physician, and the deputy would discuss the case in private. This time, however, things got out of hand. “Just tell me one thing,” the older lady asked, her voice trembling. “Is it very serious? Will I recover? I have a granddaughter to raise on my own.” There was so much hope in her anxious eyes, it almost brought tears. Lisa had just begun to speak words of comfort when Dr Stephens bulldozed in. “With a diagnosis like yours?! Frankly, dear lady, your condition is so advanced, no sensible doctor would offer any guarantees! What were you thinking all this time?” The patient froze, lips trembling, but Dr Stephens pressed on: “I know your type! You ignore everything, self-medicate, and only come crawling to a doctor when it’s nearly too late! We’re not miracle workers…” The poor woman burst into tears and left the room. Later, Elizabeth berated herself for not reigning Stephens in, but in truth, she had been stunned. To yell at an elderly patient in such distress was simply unthinkable. The head of department shook her head in disapproval, too. Even if, deep down, the doctors acknowledged Stephens wasn’t technically wrong, there was no excuse for not speaking more kindly—at least with respect for the patient’s age. And that was when Lisa’s patience broke. Enough was enough. “Dr Stephens, with all due respect, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” “What’s the problem?” Stephens shrugged. “We’re not magicians. It’s about time patients knew that. Everything is easier to treat in the early stages, and you know that as well as I do.” Seeing Stephens’ self-satisfied smirk, Lisa grimaced in disgust. The head of department, knowing exactly what he was so pleased about, braced as Lisa took up the challenge. “Yes, Dr Stephens, you’re certainly right that early intervention is better. In most cases, it’s the only real chance! But do you realise how hard I worked to persuade that woman to get treatment? She believed me when I said things could be alright. And now—you’ve shattered all of that in a single moment. Well done.” Lisa threw up her hands in frustration. Stephens, recovering from her outburst, tried to assert his authority with the head of department, but soon realised it was no use. He had long ago discovered Mrs Thompson was no pushover—she knew her worth, and it was high. He blustered some more, but Lisa was barely listening. She watched, as if through a veil, as the department head left the office. With only Stephens for company, Elizabeth felt suffocated. Lisa gazed blankly at a corner, silent. How could she be expected to get on with her work after this? She felt like crying, but thought, “No way am I giving him that satisfaction.” She moved to the window, and heard the door slam. Lisa turned to see she was alone. She sat down at her desk and reached for her files. Duty still called. “Dr Thompson?” came a hesitant voice. She barely registered who it was, so unlike Stephens’ usual tone of command. The deputy held a bottle of valerian drops, his face creased in confusion. Strangely, Lisa felt no triumph—only pity. Rumour had it that Stephens was a lonely man. “Dr Thompson, here,” he muttered, handing her the vial. “And… forgive me. Maybe you’re right….” “And you, Dr Stephens,” she replied, choosing kindness, “have your own point. But our job is to heal people—and to give them at least a glimmer of hope. Sometimes, that hope creates miracles. I’m sure you know that as well as I do.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Stephens nodded absently. Such a transformation was something remarkable, but Lisa didn’t dwell on it. Better to strike while the iron was hot. “Dr Stephens,” she said, taking a steadying breath, “please remember: I’ll never allow anyone—no matter their position—to raise their voice or question my qualifications in front of a patient, whether they’re a porter or the Health Secretary himself.” “Absolutely, Dr Thompson. Understood.” “Let’s hope so,” thought Lisa, looking at the time. There was still so much to do. An hour later, she visited the patient—Veronica Grace, who had a bouquet of tulips on her bedside table. Seeing Lisa, the older woman smiled. “You’ll never guess who just visited me,” she said. “Your boss! Brought me flowers and apologised. Said, ‘We’ll do everything we possibly can to help you recover.’” “That’s wonderful,” Lisa replied, squeezing Veronica’s hand. “We really will do everything. You’re as good as new—practically a young bride-to-be!” “You joker!” laughed the patient. A month on, Veronica was on the mend. On the day she was discharged, Dr Stephens brought her a box of posh chocolates. “For your granddaughter,” he said, a little awkwardly. “And these are for you,” holding out a bouquet of roses. “Such beautiful flowers! Thank you so much. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers. And my thanks to all of you—doctors, really, you’ve given an old lady her life back.” History was made: “Did Stephens just do that?” thought everyone present, marvelling. The widely disliked deputy, famous for never speaking a kind word, had done the unthinkable. Relations between Lisa and Bernard improved, if not to friendship, then to very cordial understanding. They often shared a coffee after meetings, or sometimes ran into each other in the hospital café. “There’s no such thing as happiness,” Stephens confided once. “Maybe that’s why I’m so cantankerous. Life’s gone by, and I haven’t really lived it.” “What do you mean?” Lisa exclaimed. “You’re senior deputy, that’s no small achievement.” “I suppose so,” he conceded. “But I wish I was happy. I was, once. But it slipped away.” So, Lisa realised, the man had simply been defeated by loneliness. She found herself growing fond of him. Lisa’s new friendship did not go unnoticed by the staff, though nobody stooped to idle gossip—Dr Thompson was above that, and Stephens was hardly a ladies’ man. “What’s your secret?” nurse Abby asked in the middle of a girls’ tea party. “He’s different now—actually smiles. Not often, but it’s something!” Every Friday, all the female staff, from doctors to cleaners, held a tea party in the hospital kitchen, bringing their best cakes and jam. “Honestly, girls, there’s no secret,” Lisa said. “It’s simple really.” “As if!” scoffed Valerie the cloakroom lady. “It’s true! Everything depends on self-confidence and dignity. Anyone—be they doctor or cleaner—deserves both.” “I wish I could,” sighed young orderlie Sarah. “He scares me!” “You shouldn’t think like that,” Lisa replied. “Everyone has the right to self-respect. It’s all about confidence.” Psychiatrist Gillian nodded. “Especially with energy vampires. If they sense confidence, they steer clear—there’s nothing to feed off.” “Maybe Stephens is just an unhappy man,” mused Vera the cook. Everyone agreed—except Lisa, who knew it for a fact. “Did I miss much, girls?” panted Katie the linen lady, bustling in. “Not really—we’re just gossiping about old Bernie,” Gillian grinned. “Oh, then you’re all up to date!” Katie declared. “About what?” everyone clamoured. “Stephens is getting married!” “No way!” “Now that’s a shock!” “More likely the world’s about to freeze over than that!” Hospital staff were agog. “Lisa, don’t tell me you didn’t know,” said the housekeeper slyly. “No, I had no idea!” Lisa replied, surprised. “We talked about a lot, but not hearts and flowers.” “People like him would never let on!” pronounced psychologist Tamara sagely. “Too right,” Lisa thought. “I wonder who the lucky lady is…” “So who is he marrying?” Sarah piped up. “Not sure—apparently it’s a patient,” Katie said as she poured her tea. “Seriously?” Vera exclaimed, while Lisa smiled—she had an inkling. “Well, girls, I think this news deserves something stronger than tea,” Lisa said. “A bottle or two of wine, perhaps?” Cheers! For all they knew, becoming a newlywed might just soften Stephens up a bit. The next day at coffee, Stephens looked the picture of happiness. Lisa didn’t let on that she’d heard—it was obvious he wanted to announce it himself. “You’re looking well, Bernard,” she smiled. “You noticed,” he grinned. “And I’m in a fantastic mood—I’m getting married, Lisa!” “Really?” Lisa feigned surprise. “And who’s the lucky lady?” “Oh, she’s marvellous. The very best in the world for me.” “So—will you tell me who?” “It’s Veronica. You know, the lady you gave me a proper talking-to about. I really liked her, so I decided to act. Got her details from her records, went to see her—ostensibly as follow-up care.” “Well, well, a secret schemer after all,” Lisa laughed. “She’s a wonderful choice.” “I think so, too. And I want you at our wedding. You and your family. Because it’s thanks to you that I found my soulmate. Lisa, you really should have been a diplomat!” “Oh, don’t be silly! Fate would have brought you together regardless.” The wedding was lovely. The groom looked dashing, and the bride radiant—transformed from the anxious patient desperate for her granddaughter’s sake into a stylish, confident woman ten years younger. Veronica’s bob haircut and dark chestnut hair suited her perfectly, and she never tired of thanking Lisa…

The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block eagerly watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the factory workshop manager, whose role was quite prestigious in their quaint English market town. “Why would they choose to live in this old Victorian place?” wondered pensioner Mrs. Nora Andrews aloud to her friends. “Surely with his connections, they could’ve bagged themselves a flat in those new builds.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna—thirty, still single and all bold lipstick—chimed in. “Who needs a new build when we have these grand Victorian ceilings, big separate rooms, a generous hallway, and the balcony’s as good as an extra room! Besides, they got their phone line connected straight away. In our block of nine, only three flats even have one.” “You only care because you want to chat on the phone all day,” her mum scolded. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t go badgering those people—they’re important and busy.” “Oh, they’re not so serious,” Anna replied, rolling her eyes. “They’re young—a nine-year-old daughter, Natasha. Practically my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be charming and polite: Lydia worked at the local school library, while John had a decade’s experience at the button factory. Anna loved to keep everyone apprised of their business when she joined her mother and her friends in the courtyard. “And how do you know all this?” the women quizzed. “Well, they let me in to use the phone! Not like some people who’d rather I didn’t call my friends for half an hour about nothing,” Anna shot back, meaningfully. Anna soon became a regular visitor to the newcomers—sometimes turning up in new dresses, other days in cosy dressing gowns—all in pursuit of friendship with Lydia and John. One afternoon, she noticed John decisively closing the lounge door when she arrived to use the phone—a gesture that became a habit. After her calls, Anna would peek into the kitchen to thank Lydia, who would reply only with a polite nod and ask her to close the front door. “Can’t—I’m elbow-deep in flour,” Lydia would say, displaying her hands. “Our lock’s French; it snaps shut itself.” “Oh, are you baking again—more pastries? I wish I could do that,” Anna would sigh. “Yes, cheese danishes for breakfast. No time to bake in the morning, so I do it now…” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would grimace and leave, frustrated she hadn’t been invited to linger. One evening, John mentioned, “Lydia, I know you don’t want to seem rude, but she monopolises our phone every evening—my mates can’t get through. This can’t go on.” Lydia agreed, “She comes in as if our home’s a waiting room!” Soon Anna, dolled up once again, plonked herself on their hallway stool for another long call to a friend. “Anna, will you be long? We’re waiting for a call,” Lydia asked after ten minutes. Anna nodded, hung up, and produced a chocolate bar: “Brought a treat—let’s have tea, get to know each other.” She headed to the kitchen, setting the chocolate down invitingly. “No, sorry—please, put that away. Natasha has an allergy. Chocolate is a strict no-go here. I’m afraid tea together won’t work. Don’t be offended, but in our family, chocolate is off the table.” “What? Off the table? I just wanted to say thanks…” Anna blushed in confusion. “No need for thanks, but please, only use the phone for emergencies—doctor, ambulance, fire crew—that’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we understand. But for anything else, please…” Lydia managed, “John needs business calls, and Natasha’s doing her homework. We try to keep things quiet.” Anna retrieved the chocolate and left, fuming—to her, Lydia was just jealous of her youth and looks. “She’s just envious I’m younger and prettier,” Anna told her mother. “I tried to be nice—brought my own chocolate—and she didn’t even offer me a cuppa!” “Silly girl,” Nora chided her, “Stop butting into other families. They don’t want you forever using their phone. Make friends elsewhere—better yet, find your own fella and your own phone!” Anna’s final push for friendship was to ask Lydia for her famous cheese danish recipe. “Could you write it down for me? I’d really like to learn,” Anna pleaded. “Why not ask your mum? Our mums know everything!” Lydia replied, surprised. “Anyway, I bake by instinct—never measured a thing. Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” Anna flushed and trudged back. She knew full well her mum had a battered old recipe notebook stuffed with secrets, most of them devoted to baking. But Anna didn’t want to bake herself, and her mum had stopped, struggling with her weight. But Anna retrieved the book, leafed through, and found what she needed—her mother was astonished. “You’re going to bake?” “Well, why not?” Anna replied, closing the book around the dog-eared page. “Is this about that boy, Simon?” her mother asked. “I thought you’d finished with him, like all the others.” “Not at all! He’ll be back.” Anna snapped. “Suit yourself, but you’d better get a move on if you want to settle down.” A few days later, the unmistakable aroma of baking filled the flat. “Is it possible? Baking—here!” her mother exclaimed. “You must be in love!” “Shh—not so loud!” Anna laughed. “Ready for a taste test? They’re cheese danishes—classic ones.” The kettle boiled, cups were out, and on a plate glowed golden danishes, like tiny suns. “You’ve still got it!” her mother exclaimed. “Not bad at all.” “Don’t just humour me—try one,” Anna insisted. “Tastes just right!” her mother confirmed. Anna remembered her father’s words: “Edible—that’s the highest praise.” “I’ll invite Simon over for tea. What do you think, will he like them?” Anna grinned. “He’ll love them! I won your dad’s heart with these very danishes,” her mother replied. As Simon became a regular for tea and laughter echoed from the kitchen, Anna’s mother grew used to her daughter spending more time at the stove—with Simon, no less. The news they planned to marry brought tears to Nora’s eyes. Anna slimmed down in anticipation of her wedding, Simon teasing, “Don’t forget to bake danishes for the wedding feast!” The big day was celebrated simply, with Anna, her mother, and her aunt preparing treats for just twenty family guests. The couple set up home in a grand room of their Victorian flat, and with time, every neighbour enjoyed the luxury of their own telephone. Anna made quick calls now—no more lingering. “Oh, Rita, can’t chat—my dough has risen and Simon will be home soon. Talk later!” She hurried to the kitchen to check on her pillow-soft dough—Anna was expecting a baby, on the cusp of maternity leave, but still couldn’t resist baking up treats for her husband, and herself. Homemade cheese danishes—such delicious happiness! And Simon simply adored her for it, for her baking, her kindness, and her warmth.