Just a Childhood Friend — Are you seriously planning to spend your entire Saturday sorting junk in the garage? The whole day? — Ellie speared a piece of cheesecake with her fork and shot a sceptical look at the tall, ginger-haired lad opposite her. Ian leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on his cooling cappuccino. — Ellie… That’s not junk, those are my childhood treasures. My “Love Is” bubblegum wrapper collection is somewhere in there, I’ll have you know. Can you imagine what riches await? — Oh my god. You kept gum wrappers. Since what year? Ellie snorted, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This café, with its well-worn plum-coloured sofas and eternally misted-up windows, had long since become their territory. The waitress, Mari, no longer asked what they wanted—she just put a cappuccino down for him, a latte for her, and the day’s dessert to share. Fifteen years of friendship had turned this into ritual. — Alright, I’ll admit it, — said Ian, saluting with his mug — the garage can wait. My treasures too. Kieran’s invited us for a barbecue on Sunday, if you’re keen. — I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking out a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes would glaze over with boredom. Their laughter melted into the hum of the coffee machine and the quiet buzz from other tables… …There were never any awkward silences or unspoken words between them—they knew each other as well as they knew their own hands. Ellie remembered when skinny Year 8 Ian, with perpetually untied laces, was the first to greet her in a new class. Ian remembered she was the only one who didn’t mock his chunky specs. Kieran had accepted their friendship from the very start, without question or suspicion. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the calm of someone who trusts completely. On Friday nights of Monopoly and Uno, Kieran laughed loudest when Ian lost to his wife at Scrabble yet again, and topped up everyone’s tea while the other two argued over the rules of charades. — He’s cheating, that’s why he always wins, — Ellie announced once, tossing playing cards at her husband. — It’s called strategy, my love, — Kieran retorted, unruffled, as he gathered the scattered cards. Ian watched them with a fond smile. He liked Kieran—steady, reliable, with such dry wit you never knew when he was joking. Ellie blossomed around her husband, became softer, happier, and Ian celebrated her joy the way only a true friend could. That balance shifted when Vera came into their world… …Kieran’s sister turned up on their doorstep a month ago, eyes red with exhaustion and determined to begin afresh. The divorce had drained her completely, leaving only bitterness and an aching emptiness where some semblance of stability had once been. On the first evening Ian came round for their usual board game, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up like some distant mechanism had been triggered inside her. Here stood a man—calm, kind-eyed, with a smile you couldn’t help but return. — This is Ian, my mate from school, — Ellie introduced. — And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. — Lovely to meet you, — Ian said, offering a hand. Vera held it a second longer than necessary. — Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at their favourite café at exactly the time Ellie and Ian were there. She’d float into the room with a plate of biscuits just as Ian arrived. She’d squeeze in dangerously close at the board game table, shoulders brushing. — Could you pass me that card? — Vera leaned over his arm, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oops, sorry. Ian would politely draw away, murmuring something mild. Ellie exchanged glances with her husband, but Kieran only shrugged—Vera had always been a bit much. It became blatant. Vera steadily fixed her gaze on Ian, showered him with compliments, found any excuse to touch his arm. She laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. — You’ve such beautiful hands, so long and elegant. Play piano? — Vera caught his hand one night over the Scrabble tiles. — Um, I’m a software engineer. — Still beautiful. Ian gently pulled away, staring at his cards with exaggerated focus. He blushed. By the third invite for a “friendly chat over coffee,” Ian gave in. He liked Vera—she was lively, fun, vibrant. Maybe, he thought, if they actually dated, she’d stop giving him that hungry look and things could just go back to normal. The first weeks of their romance went well—Vera was beaming, Ian relaxed, family evenings became normal again. Then Vera noticed what she’d rather not. She saw Ian brighten when Ellie entered. How his face opened around her. How easily they picked up each other’s jokes, finished each other’s sentences, shared a connection she could never reach. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. — Why do you see her all the time? — Vera blocked Ian’s path, arms folded. — She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. That’s— — I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came in waves. Vera cried, accused, demanded. Ian explained, pleaded. — You think about her more than me! — Vera, that’s just not true. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Ian’s phone buzzed every time he was with Ellie. — Where are you? When are you back? Why aren’t you answering? With her again? He learned to mute it, but Vera started turning up—in the café, the park, outside Ellie’s house—flustered, eyes blazing with jealous tears. — Vera, please — Ian rubbed his temples. — This is crazy. — Crazy is you spending more time with someone else’s wife than your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meet-up became a trial—when would Vera appear, with what fresh accusations, what drama? — Maybe I should see you less… — Ellie started. But Ian cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You are not reorganising your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had already decided: if honesty wouldn’t work, she’d bend the truth. Kieran was in the kitchen when Vera breezed in. — Big brother, I need to tell you something. I really didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She spun her story in careful doses, sobbing in all the right places. Secret meetings, lingering looks, Ian supposedly holding Ellie’s hand when no one was looking. Kieran listened in silence, giving nothing away. When Ellie and Ian walked in an hour later, the atmosphere in the lounge was thick as syrup. Kieran lounged in his armchair with the expression of a man expecting a show. — Sit, — he motioned to the sofa. — My sister’s just told me a rather… fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze mid-step. Ian stiffened. — What the hell… — She claims to have witnessed some compromising things. Vera shrank into her seat, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Ian spun round so suddenly that Vera recoiled. — That’s enough, Vera. I should have drawn the line ages ago! His face was ashen with fury—the ever-calm, patient Ian now simmering over. — We’re through. Right now. — You can’t— Her tears, for once, were real. — It’s her! — Vera jabbed a finger at Ellie. — It’s always her! You always choose her! Ellie let the silence stretch, allowing her sister-in-law to let it all out. — You know, Vera, — she said quietly, — if you hadn’t tried to manage every second of his life, if you didn’t make scenes out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to keep. Vera snatched her handbag and stormed out, slamming the door. Kieran burst out laughing at last—genuine, head thrown back, amusement pouring out. — Good grief, finally. He pulled Ellie in, arm around her shoulders. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Ellie pressed her nose to his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like brother and sister squabbling over the last biscuit. Ian let out a long breath as the tension finally broke. — Sorry for dragging you into this circus. — Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—it’s her own responsibility. Now let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold, and I won’t reheat it just because of someone else’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, relief in her voice. Her family was whole. Her friendship with Ian survived. And her husband had once again proved his trust was ironclad. They headed for the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed beneath the lamps—and the world slid easily, quietly, back into place.

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

Are you honestly planning to spend your Saturday in the garage sorting through old rubbish? The whole of Saturday? Emily prodded at a piece of lemon drizzle cake with her fork, arching an eyebrow over at the tall ginger-haired lad across from her.

Thomas leaned back comfortably in his threadbare armchair, warming his hands around a mug of cooling flat white.

Emily… Its not rubbish, its a trove from my childhood. Theres my ancient Beano sticker collection in there somewhere, you know. Imagine what treasures I might uncover.

Good grief. Youve kept those? Since when?

Emily snorted, shoulders quivering as she stifled a laugh. This cafe, with its faded plum-coloured sofas and eternally misted-over windows, had long since become their shared retreat. The waitress, Jenny, didnt bother asking what they wanted anymore she simply set down flat white for him, a milky tea latte for her, and the cake of the day for them both. Fifteen years of friendship had made this ritual second nature.

Alright, Ill admit it, Thomas saluted her with his mug, the garage can wait along with the rest of the treasure. Olivers invited us round for a Sunday roast, if you fancy it.

I know. Yesterday he spent three hours researching new barbeque grills online. Three hours, Tom. I genuinely thought my eyeballs were going to dissolve from boredom.

Their laughter dissolved into the gentle murmur of espresso machines and the hum of fellow customers

There were never awkward pauses, and nothing remained unsaid they knew each other as well as the backs of their own hands. Emily remembered when Tom, a beanpole of a thirteen-year-old with eternally undone laces, had first offered her a seat in a new class. Tom remembered how she, alone, never laughed at his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Oliver had accepted the friendship with easy confidence from the very first days. Hed observe his wife and her childhood friend with the equanimity of a man supremely secure in those he loves. On their Friday nights with Scrabble and Cluedo, Oliver chuckled loudest when Tom lost yet again to his wife at Trivial Pursuit, and hed pour tea for everyone while the other two squabbled over the rules in Pictionary.

Hes cheating, thats why he keeps winning, Emily once declared, tossing Uno cards across the table at her husband.

Its called strategy, darling, Oliver replied implacably, sweeping up cards into neat piles.

Tom would watch the pair, a fond smirk on his lips. He liked Oliver steady, dependable, with such a bone-dry humour that youd never be sure if he was joking. With Oliver, Emily seemed softer, happier. Tom was pleased for her with the pure, unselfish pride of a true friend.

It wasnt until Ivy appeared that their little world tilted out of balance

Olivers sister knocked on their flats door just a month prior, red-eyed, determined to reinvent life from scratch. Divorce had drained her to a hollow, bitter shell, where even the illusion of stability was lost.

On her first evening, when Tom dropped by for their usual board games, Ivy looked up from her phone and weighed him with a thoughtful gaze. Somewhere deep inside, an ancient cog clinked into gear. Here stood a man level, gentle-eyed, wearing a smile that almost demanded you smile in return.

This is Tom, my school friend, Emily introduced. And this is Ivy, Olivers sister.

Pleased to meet you, Tom said, offering his hand.

Ivy held his hand just a touch longer than politeness dictated.

Likewise.

From then on, Ivys accidental appearances became routine. Shed materialise in their favourite cafe precisely when Tom and Emily were there. Shed flutter round with a plate of biscuits whenever Tom popped round, and always plonked herself beside him at the games table, elbows nearly brushing.

Could you hand me that card, just there? Ivy leaned over him, her hair, seemingly by chance, brushing his neck. Oops, sorry.

Tom would politely withdraw, mumbling something about the rules. Emily exchanged glances with Oliver, but Oliver only shrugged his sister had always been a bit much.

Soon enough, Ivys flirtation grew shameless. Shed let her eyes linger on Toms smile, lavish him with compliments, find every excuse to touch his sleeve. Shed shriek at his jokes so piercingly that Emily felt her head ring.

Youve lovely hands, so long and elegant almost like an artist, Ivy once said, capturing Toms palm above the pile of tokens. Do you play an instrument?

Um I’m a software developer.

Still, lovely.

Tom carefully withdrew his hand, staring at his cards with exaggerated interest. His ears reddened.

After the third time Ivy asked him out just for a chat, no strings, Tom relented. He found her bright, impulsive, vibrant. Perhaps, he reasoned, starting something might put an end to her unblinking attention and life could resume as before.

Their first weeks together were pleasant enough. Ivy was radiant; Tom felt at ease again, and their family evenings gradually fell back into their ordinary pattern.

But it was only a matter of time before Ivy noticed something she would rather have missed.

She saw the lightness that swept Toms face when Emily entered a room. She saw how his voice softened, how their banter came and went like an old song, how there was a current passing between them she simply couldn’t join.

Jealousy sprouted in Ivys chest, sour and stubborn.

Why are you always with her? Ivy stood in Toms way, arms folded tight.

Because shes my friend, Ivy. Fifteen years shes

But IM your girlfriend! Its me me, not her!

The arguments came in waves. Ivy sobbed, accused, demanded; Tom explained, defended, tried to reason.

You think about her more than me!

Ivy, this is mad. Were just friends.

Just friends dont look at each other like that!

Toms phone would buzz and buzz whenever he met up with Emily.

Where are you? When are you coming back? Why arent you answering? Are you with her again?

He learned to silence his phone, but then Ivy took to following him. Shed pop up at the cafe, in the park, outside Emilys house wild-eyed, chest heaving with angry sobs.

Ivy, please, Tom pressed his fingertips to his temples, exhausted. This isnt normal.

Whats not normal is you spending more time with another mans wife than your own girlfriend!

Emily was weary, too. Each catch-up with her childhood friend stretched into ordeal, wondering if, or when, Ivy would appear and what drama shed stage this time.

Maybe I ought to cut back, Emily had started one time, but Tom cut her off.

No. No way. You shouldnt change a thing because of her outbursts. None of us should.

But Ivy had already made her decision. If things wouldnt work by playing fair, shed simply cheat the game.

Oliver sat in the kitchen when Ivy drifted in like a spectre.

Ollie theres something I must tell you. I didnt want to but you deserve to know the truth

She spooned out her lies, pausing for tears in all the right places. Supposed secret meetings, lingering looks, Tom allegedly holding Emilys hand when no one was watching.

Oliver listened in silence, asking no questions. His expression was blank.

When Emily and Tom returned to the flat an hour later, a sticky tension hung over the living room, thick as a stagnant fog. Oliver lounged in his armchair, the air of someone braced for a strange show.

Take a seat, he gestured at the battered sofa. My sister has shared quite an outrageous tale of your clandestine affair.

Emily froze mid-step. Toms teeth grated.

What the

She claims to have witnessed compromising behaviour.

Ivy shrank into her seat, eyes darting anywhere but at them.

Tom turned on her so sharply Ivy flinched.

Enough, Ivy. Thats enough. Ive had it with your nonsense!

He looked positively ghost-pale with anger, the laidback, patient Tom gone, replaced by a man on the edge.

Were done, Ivy. Finished. Now.

You cant

Her eyes brimmed with a different kind of tears at last.

Its her! Ivy jabbed a finger at Emily. Its always her! You pick her every time!

Emily let the silence thicken, allowing Ivys poison to run out.

You know, Ivy, Emily said calmly, if you hadnt tried to micromanage each moment of his life, if you hadnt made a scene over nothing, perhaps none of this wouldve happened. You destroyed what you tried to keep.

Ivy snatched her bag from the sofa and stormed out, the door slamming behind her like the bang of a judges gavel.

Then Oliver laughed properly, wholeheartedly, throwing his head back in sheer relief.

Good Lord, at last.

He rose and wrapped an arm around his wifes shoulder.

You didnt believe any of that, did you? Emily murmured, burrowing into his chest.

Not for a second. Ive watched you two for years. You act more like squabbling siblings fighting over the last Custard Cream.

Tom exhaled, shoulders drooping as the tension finally ebbed away.

Sorry for all the drama, mate.

Dont be. Ivys old enough to face up to her choices. Now then, Oliver clapped his hands, lets eat. The lasagnes getting cold and theres not a chance Im reheating it, no matter the nonsense.

Emily chuckled softly, relief fluttering through her. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with Tom had withstood the storm. And once again, her husband proved that his trust was stronger than any whisper of scandal.

So they filed into the kitchen, golden lasagne steaming beneath the warm glow of the overhead lamp, and the world returned to its familiar, gentle shape, just as in the echo of a very strange, dreamlike afternoon.

Dandelion Jam The snowy winter has finally ended. It wasn’t very harsh this year—just mild and filled with flurries—but even so, it’s worn out its welcome, and now everyone longs for green leaves, colourful sights, and the chance to shed their heavy winter coats. Spring arrives in a sleepy English market town. Tasha adores spring, eagerly awaiting the return of nature—and finally, she’s rewarded. Peering from her third-floor flat window, she muses: “With these warm spring days, the whole town seems to have woken from a long, wintry slumber. Even the traffic hums differently now, and the market is alive again. People in bright jackets and coats bustle here and there, and the morning birds are noisier than our alarm clocks. Oh, spring is lovely, but summer… that’s even better!” Tasha has lived in this five-storey block for years. Now, she shares it with her granddaughter, Vera, who’s in Year Four. Vera’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, entrusting their daughter to her gran. “Mum, we’re leaving Vera in your care. No dragging her halfway across the world! We know you’ll watch over your favourite granddaughter,” Tasha’s daughter declared. “Oh, of course I will—I’ll be happier with company! Now off you go, Vera and I’ll manage just fine,” Tasha replied. “Yay, Gran! Just you and me—plenty of trips to the park, and more time together. Mum and Dad are always too busy!” Vera cheered. After serving breakfast and sending Vera off to school, Tasha busied herself with housework—time slipped away. “I’ll pop to the shop before Vera gets back—she earned a treat for her top marks,” she thought, pulling on her boots. She left her flat to find two neighbours already perched on the communal bench, cushions beneath them to soften the chill. Mrs Simmons—ageless and living alone, perhaps seventy, perhaps more—keeps her birthday a secret and occupies a ground floor studio. Valerie, a lively 75-year-old, well-read and brimming with tales, is Simmons’s opposite—always laughing and full of life. As soon as the snow melts and the sun warms the ground, this bench is never empty, and Simmons and Valerie are its regulars. They spend all day chatting, with the briefest interlude for lunch at home. They know everything about everyone in the block—not even a fly gets past their watchful eyes. Sometimes Tasha joins them to swap stories—TV shows, books, the latest local news. Mrs Simmons is fond of discussing her blood pressure. “Morning, ladies!” Tasha grinned. “Already on duty?” “Morning, Tosh! Of course—otherwise they’d mark us absent. Off to the shop, are you?” Simmons declared, eyeing Tasha’s shopping bag. “Spot on. Vera’s expecting something sweet for her stellar grades,” Tasha waved, heading off. The day passed in a blur. Tasha picked up Vera from school, fed her supper, then Vera buried herself in homework while Tasha watched a bit of television. “Gran, I’m off to dance!” Vera chirped. Vera’s been in dance class six years now—she loves it, performing at all the local events. And proud Tasha can’t help but glow when speaking of her talented granddaughter. “All right, Vera dear—off you go!” said Gran, sending her to rehearsals. Later, Tasha waits alone on the bench for Vera to return from dance. “Feeling lonely?” Her second-floor neighbour, Mr Gordon, took a seat beside her. “How could I be, on a day like this? It’s spring. Gorgeous weather!” Tasha replied. “Yes, the sun’s warming up, the birds are singing—everywhere’s turning green, and those yellow coltsfoot flowers look just like tiny little suns,” Mr Gordon smiled. At that moment, Vera sneaked up and flung her arms around Gran’s neck. “Woof, woof!” “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tasha laughed. “Now, now—bit soon to joke about that!” chuckled Mr Gordon, patting her shoulder. “Come along, mischief. I’ve grated carrots with sugar and fried your favourite meatballs. You must be tired after all that dancing,” Gran coaxed, ushering Vera home. Mr Gordon rose to follow them. “What? You’re heading inside too?” Tasha asked. “You made those meatballs sound so good, I got hungry! Maybe I’ll come back out for a stroll later.” Mr Gordon winked. “I can’t promise—busy day! Maybe though…” Tasha smiled. She did come back out for a bit in the evening, just in case. Mr Gordon was waiting—and for once, the regular bench warmers had gone home. “Mrs Simmons and Valerie just slipped away for dinner,” Mr Gordon said cheerfully. From that night on, Tasha and Mr Gordon often met in the park, reading the paper together, swapping stories, recipes, and laughter beneath the old linden tree. Mr Gordon hadn’t had an easy life. Once, he had a wife, daughter, and grandson—but he was widowed young and raised his daughter, Vera, alone while struggling to make ends meet on double shifts. He rarely saw her, as she was often asleep when he left and again when he returned. Vera eventually grew up, married, moved to another city, and had a son. She visited infrequently, and their meetings lacked warmth. After fifteen years, Vera separated from her husband and raised her boy solo. “Tash, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Called this morning. Strange… we’ve not spoken in years,” Mr Gordon confided. “Maybe she’s feeling sentimental; getting older makes you treasure family,” Tasha suggested. “I’m not so sure…” he sighed. Vera arrived—sharp, unsmiling, purposeful. Mr Gordon braced for a serious conversation. “Dad, I’m here for a reason. Let’s sell your flat. Come live with us—with your grandson—won’t that be more fun?” Vera said, clearly having made up her mind. But Mr Gordon felt uneasy, not wanting to uproot to a distant city and become a burden to his frosty daughter. He refused, claiming he liked his independence. Vera persisted. Learning of her dad’s friendship with Tasha, she marched over during tea. Tasha served up biscuits and her homemade jam. “So, Vera—what brings you here?” Tasha greeted gently. “I see you’re quite friendly with my father. Can I ask a favour?” “What is it?” “Convince him to sell his flat. Why should one old man rattle around in a space like that? Can’t you think of others?” Vera said, her tone sharp. Startled by Vera’s bluntness, Tasha declined. Vera lost her cool—face red, voice shrill—accusing Tasha of angling for the flat herself, questioning their park strolls, and even their discussion of dandelion recipes. “You two—just a pair of dandelions! Having your little chats, planning your schemes. Have you registered at the registry office yet? Well, it won’t work. Nothing will work—got it, you old hag!” she spat, slamming the door on her way out. Tasha felt embarrassed, hoping the neighbours hadn’t overheard. Soon, though, Vera was gone and Tasha avoided Mr Gordon, rushing home at the sight of him. But fate has its own plans. One afternoon, returning from the shop, Tasha saw Mr Gordon waiting by the bench—he held a bunch of yellow dandelions, deftly weaving them into a garland. “Tasha, don’t rush off,” he pleaded. “Wait a minute. I’m sorry for my daughter. Really. I know what she said… We’ve had a long talk. My grandson will always have my help. But Vera—she’s gone now. Said she no longer has a father. So—here, take this garland. I made dandelion jam; it’s really tasty, very healthy. You must try some. And they’re good in salads too,” he smiled. After that chat, they made a salad together. Tasha enjoyed tea with dandelion jam—she loved it. That evening, they headed to the park again. “I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine,” Mr Gordon said, settling onto their bench beneath the linden tree. Tasha sat beside him, and conversation sparkled—the world faded away, and all that mattered was two friends, together, sharing spring. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

Every Kind of Love Has Its Own Shape Anya stepped outside and shivered; the raw English wind cut straight through her thin jumper. She had hurried out into the garden without grabbing her coat, passed through the gate, and stood there, looking around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” Startled, she saw Mikey, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older than her, with tousled hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, I just…,” Annie lied. Mikey just looked at her, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Go inside,” he said firmly. She obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Mikey understood everything, nodded, and wandered off. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He’d often go down to the corner shop—our only one—and beg Mrs. Valentine to let him have more on tick until payday. Mrs. Valentine would scold him, but always gave in. “How haven’t you lost your job yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe us a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie let herself back into the house. She’d just got in from school; she was nine. There was never much to eat at home, and she never wanted to say she was hungry. If she did, they’d take her away from her dad to a care home, and she’d heard such awful things about those. Besides, how would Dad cope on his own? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was always empty. That day, school had finished early—her teacher was off sick and two lessons were cancelled. It was the end of September. The wind was biting, tearing golden leaves from the trees and swirling them around. It had been a cold September. Annie’s old coat and boots weren’t much use—when it rained, they got soaked. Her father was asleep on the sofa in his clothes and shoes, snoring. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table, and more stashed under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—empty. Not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate the sweets Mikey had given her and decided to do her homework, perched on a stool with her knees tucked up. She opened her maths book but just stared at the numbers. She couldn’t concentrate, not with the wind howling and the yard full of blowing leaves. The window overlooked the veg patch. It used to be lush and green, but now it looked dead. The raspberry canes were dry, the strawberries gone, and only weeds grew in the beds now—even the old apple tree was barren. Mum used to look after it all, cherishing every shoot. The apples had been sweet, but this August Dad had picked them all early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he’d muttered. Dad hadn’t always been like this. He used to be cheerful. He’d go mushroom picking in the woods with Mum, they’d all watch films together and have tea with warm apple fritters and homemade jam buns Mum baked. Then one day Mum got ill and was taken to hospital. She never came back. “Mum’s had something with her heart,” Dad had said through tears, holding Annie close. “She’ll be watching over you now.” For weeks, Dad just sat with Mum’s photo. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men began dropping by the house and Annie would hide away in her small room, or sit alone on the garden bench. Annie sighed and got on with her homework. She was a clever girl and finished quickly. She packed her books away and lay on her bed. On her bed was her old stuffed bunny, Tim—Mum had bought it years ago. Once white, now grey, but just as loved. Annie hugged him close. “Tim,” she whispered, “do you remember our mum?” Tim was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered everything, just like she did. As she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—blurry, but joyful. Mum in her apron, hair pinned up, kneading dough. Always baking something. “Let’s make magic buns together, darling.” “How, Mum? Are magic buns real?” Annie would ask. “Oh yes,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you eat one, you have to make a wish. It’ll come true, you’ll see.” Annie would help her mum shape the buns into wonky hearts and Mum, always smiling, would say, “Every kind of love has its own shape.” She’d wait eagerly for the buns to bake, ready to eat a hot one and make her wish. The smell of sweet buns would fill the house and then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Annie wiped away the tears. Those times were gone now… The clock ticked on and her heart ached—empty, lonely, missing her mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Tim, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday, with no school, she decided to go for a walk after lunch—Dad was dozing again. Annie pulled on an old jumper under her coat and headed towards the woods. Nearby stood an old house—Mr. Evans’ place. He’d passed away two years before, but his apple orchard remained. It wasn’t her first visit. She’d clamber over the fence to collect fallen apples and pears, reassuring herself: “I’m not stealing. They’d just go to waste otherwise.” She only vaguely remembered Mr. Evans—a kind old man with a cane who would give kids fruit and even a sweet if he found one in his pockets. After he passed, the orchard kept bearing fruit. Annie reached the fence, slipped over, picked up two apples, rubbed one clean on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” She jumped, dropping the apples. A woman in a smart coat was standing on the porch. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing, just… ones from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore…” “I’m Mr. Evans’ granddaughter. Came yesterday—this is my new home now. Have you been picking apples here long?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked and tears welled. The woman pulled her into a hug. “Shh, don’t cry. Come inside, be my guest. My name’s Anna, like yours! When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna, too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life wasn’t easy. Inside, Anna invited her to take off her shoes. “I only moved in yesterday, still unpacking. But let me get you something to eat—I’ve made chicken soup and a few other things. So, we’re neighbours, it seems.” She eyed Annie’s thin jacket, the sleeves too short for growing arms. “Is it chicken soup?” “Of course. Sit—eat as much as you want; if it’s not enough, I’ll get you some more.” Annie didn’t hesitate—her stomach rumbled, she hadn’t eaten all day. She finished her soup and bread in moments. “Would you like more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you. I’m full.” “Now, let’s have tea.” Anna brought out a basket, lifted the cloth—and the whole kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it and squeezed her eyes shut. “Just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum used to bake these, just like this.” After tea, relaxed and rosy-cheeked, Annie chatted while Anna listened closely. “Come on, Annie, tell me about yourself—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you back afterwards.” “I can go by myself, honestly—it’s only four houses away.” Annie didn’t want Anna to see the mess at Harry’s house. “Nonsense,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home was still and quiet; her father lay asleep on the sofa, bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty rags scattered about. Anna looked around and shook her head. “Now I understand…” she said quietly. “Let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, stuffed empty bottles into a bag, flung open the curtains and shook out the grubby mat. Annie blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s not bad, he’s just… lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away—but I don’t want to leave. He’s just lonely for mum…” Anna hugged her tight. “I promise I won’t tell.” Time passed. Annie rushed to school in a smart new coat, hair in neat plaits, a shiny rucksack and new boots on her feet. “Annie, is it true your dad’s married now?” asked her classmate, Molly. “You look so pretty! And your hair’s amazing!” “It’s true! I’ve got a new mum now—Auntie Anna,” Annie beamed, hurrying to school. With Anna’s help, Andrew had long since quit drinking. Now you’d see them walking together—Andrew, tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna, confident and elegant, and always smiling at Annie. Time flew by. Annie was now a university student. She’d come home for the holidays, shout as she walked in the door— “Mum! I’m home!” Anna would run to meet her, hug her tight and laugh. “Welcome back, my little professor,” she’d say—and both would burst out laughing, as Andrew came home from work, as proud and happy as ever. Because every kind of love has its own shape.

Just a Childhood Friend – Are you honestly spending your whole Saturday sorting out junk in the garage? All day? – Ellie poked at a piece of cheesecake with her fork, one eyebrow raised as she eyed the tall, gingerish bloke across from her. Ivan leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling cappuccino. – Ellie… It’s not junk, it’s treasure from my childhood. Somewhere in there is my prized collection of ‘Love Hearts’ sweet wrappers, I’ll have you know. Do you realise how valuable that is? – Good grief. You actually saved sweet wrappers? Since when? Ellie snorted, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This cafe, with its worn-down, plum-coloured sofas and eternally foggy windows, had long since become their personal hideout. The waitress, Marina, didn’t bother taking their order – she simply brought Ivan his cappuccino, Ellie her latte, and whichever dessert was on offer for them to share. After fifteen years of friendship, their ritual was as automatic as breathing. – Alright, I’ll admit it, – Ivan saluted her with his mug, – the garage can wait. So can my ‘treasure’. Kieran’s planning a proper barbecue this Sunday, by the way. – Yeah, I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes might actually fall out from boredom. Their laughter faded into the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of other tables… …There were never awkward silences or unspoken truths between them – they knew each other as well as their own hands. Ellie remembered Ivan as the gangly year-seven with perpetually undone laces, first to talk to her when she was new. Ivan remembered Ellie, the only one who didn’t mock his oversized glasses. Kieran had always accepted their friendship without suspicion or question from the day they met. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the ease of someone sure of himself and the people he loved. On Friday game nights with Monopoly and Uno, Kieran would laugh the loudest whenever Ivan lost yet again in Scrabble to his wife, topping up the tea as the two debated the rules of charades. – He only wins because he cheats, – Ellie once declared, tossing playing cards at her husband. – That’s called strategy, darling wife, – Kieran replied serenely, gathering up the scattered cards. Ivan watched them with a warm, fond smile. He liked this man – solid, trustworthy, with a dry wit you only caught if you paid attention. Ellie was softer and happier around Kieran, and Ivan was genuinely glad for her, the way only a true friend can be. Their balance only wobbled when Vera came into their tightly-knit little world… …Kieran’s sister had appeared on their doorstep a month before, eyes red, all-in on starting afresh. Her divorce had drained every last drop of her spirit, leaving only bitterness and a gaping hole where stability used to live. The first night Ivan dropped by for the usual board games, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up as though some hidden switch flicked in her head. Here stood a man – calm, kind-eyed, with a smile that made you want to smile back. – This is Ivan, my school friend, – Ellie introduced. – And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. – Nice to meet you, – Ivan said, holding out his hand. Vera held onto it just a shade longer than a handshake required. – Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at the cafe just when Ivan and Ellie were there. She’d pop into the living room with a plate of biscuits whenever Ivan visited. She’d slide in next to him at game night, so close their shoulders touched. – Can you pass me that card? – Vera leaned right across him, hair tickling Ivan’s neck ‘by accident’. – Oh, sorry. Ivan carefully moved away, mumbling polite nothings. Ellie would catch Kieran’s eye, but he’d only shrug – his sister always was a bit much. Vera’s flirting grew bolder. She held Ivan’s gaze, paid compliments, found reasons to touch him, and laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. – You’ve got lovely hands, so slender, like a pianist’s, – Vera said one night, catching his hand over the poker chips. – Do you play? – Er… programmer, actually. – Still lovely. Ivan quickly reclaimed his hand, staring at his cards with exaggerated attention. Even his ears turned pink. After the third invitation to coffee “just to chat as friends”, Ivan caved. He liked Vera – she was full of life and drama; maybe something could work. With luck, she’d stop looking at him that way and life would return to normal. The first weeks of their romance were fine enough. Vera beamed, Ivan relaxed, family nights returned to just “family nights.” But soon, Vera noticed something she wished she hadn’t. She saw Ivan come alive when Ellie walked into the room, saw his face grow more open, the way their jokes bounced and sentences finished in tandem, an invisible connection she couldn’t touch. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. – Why are you always with her? – Vera demanded, arms folded, blocking Ivan at the front door. – She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. You have to— – But I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came thick and fast. Vera wept, accused, demanded. Ivan explained, pacified, made excuses. – You think about her more than about me! – Vera, this is ridiculous. We’re just friends. – Friends don’t look at each other like that! Ivan’s phone pinged incessantly every time he saw Ellie. – Where are you? When will you be back? Why aren’t you answering? Are you with her again? Eventually, he switched off the sound, but Vera began to track his movements. She’d appear at the cafe, in the park, outside Ellie’s flat – wild-eyed and furious. – Vera, please, – Ivan massaged his temples. – This isn’t healthy. – What’s not healthy is you spending more time with another man’s wife than with your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meeting with her childhood friend was now nerve-wracking: would Vera show up? Would she kick off? What would she accuse them of next? – Maybe I should see you less… – Ellie started, but Ivan cut her off: – Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had made up her mind. If honesty wouldn’t get her what she wanted, maybe something else would. Kieran was sitting in the kitchen when Vera swept in. – Big brother… I have to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She dispensed her lies in careful doses, sniffing in the right moments. Secret meetings. Lingering looks. Ivan holding Ellie’s hand, thinking no one saw. Kieran listened silently, face unreadable, not interrupting or interrogating. When Ellie and Ivan came home an hour later, the living room air was thick and unmoving. Kieran reclined in the armchair, wearing a look that said he was expecting entertainment. – Take a seat, – he gestured at the sofa. – My sister’s just told me a rather fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze. Ivan clenched his jaw. – What the— – She claims she witnessed some rather compromising behaviour. Vera huddled, eyes fixed on the rug. Ivan turned to her so suddenly Vera flinched. – That’s enough, Vera. I’ve put up with your drama for too long. His patience gone, the easy-going Ivan vanished, replaced by a man pushed beyond his limits. – We’re done. Finished. Right now. – You can’t— Tears filled her eyes, properly this time. – It’s her! – Vera jabbed at Ellie. – You always pick her! Always! Ellie waited a beat, letting Vera vent her poison. – You know, Vera, – she said calmly, – if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t made a scene out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to save. Vera grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door. And Kieran laughed – wholeheartedly, head thrown back in relief. – Thank God, finally. He stood, drawing his wife into a hug. – You didn’t believe her, did you? – Ellie mumbled into his shoulder. – Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like watching a brother and sister argue over the last biscuit. Ivan sagged, tension finally easing. – Sorry you had to get dragged into this circus. – Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—her choices are hers. Now, let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold and I don’t reheat it for anyone’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, with relief. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with Ivan survived. And once again, her husband showed why his trust was stronger than any rumour. They headed to the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed under the evening lights, and everything in their world felt right again.