Lucy was a big girl. Shed just turned thirty and tipped the scales at about 120kg. Maybe it was a thyroid glitch, a metabolism hiccup, or something equally mysterious. Lucy lived in a tiny, Godforgotten village called Brindlewick, the sort of place that appears on a map only when the ink has run out. The nearest specialist was miles away and outrageously expensive.
In Brindlewick, where the weather seemed to follow its own clock, time drifted with the seasons. Winters froze solid, spring melted into a soggy mess, summer lingered lazily, and autumn sighed under drizzly skies. Amid this sluggish, syrupy flow of days, Lucys life trudged on.
At thirty, Lucy felt stuck in a swamp of her own flesh. One hundred and twenty kilograms wasnt just a number; it was a brick wall separating her from the world, a fortress of tired muscles and quiet despair. She suspected the problem lay somewhere insideperhaps a hormonal snagbut travelling to a city clinic felt like an impossible quest: far, humiliatingly pricey, and seemingly pointless.
She worked as a caretaker at the council nursery Little Bell. Her days were scented with baby powder, mushy porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her massive, surprisingly gentle hands could soothe a crying tot, tuck a row of cribs with the grace of a ballet dancer, and mop up a spill without making the child feel guilty. The children adored her; they clung to her calm softness. The quiet delight in a threeyearolds eyes was a cheap dividend for the lonely evenings that waited for her outside the nursery gates.
Lucy lived in a rundown council block from the 70s, eight flats stacked like a tired sandwich. The building creaked at night, shivered in strong wind, and smelled faintly of old incense. Two years earlier her mothera frail, exhausted womanhad passed away, burying all her hopes in the same concrete walls. Lucy never knew her father; hed vanished long before, leaving only a dusty photograph and an empty spot on the mantle.
Life at home was harsh. Cold water sputtered from a ruststained tap, the only loo was a cramped outdoor facility that felt like an ice cave in winter, and the summer heat turned the rooms into saunas. The real tyrant, however, was the ancient stove. In winter it devoured two full loads of firewood, draining the last pennies of Lucys modest wage. Shed spend long evenings staring at the ironframed fire, feeling as if the stove was burning not just logs but her years, her strength, her future, turning everything to cold ash.
One gloomy evening, as twilight draped the room in a melancholy blue, a tiny miracle arrivedquiet, not grand, just the soft shuffle of slippers. It was her neighbour, Nellie, the janitor from the local clinic, clutching two crisp £20 notes.
Lucy, love, here you go. Two hundred pounds. I swear I didnt steal em, she muttered, thrusting the cash into Lucys trembling hand.
Lucy stared at the money, the debt shed mentally written off two years ago flashing back.
Oh, Nellie, you didnt have to
Must! Nellie snapped. Im finally got a bit of cash! Listen up
She lowered her voice, as if spilling a state secret, and launched into a wild tale. Apparently, a crew of Polish workmen had rolled into the village. One of them, while she was sweeping the street, offered a sweet gig£150 for a quick marriage.
Those lads need a local wife, quick and proper. Yesterday they signed me up. I dont know how they do it at the registryprobably a few quid and a handshake. My friend Rook, hes staying here til its done, then hell be off. My daughter wants a new coat cause winters coming. What about you? Look at this chance. Need money? Need a husband?
The last line came out not harshly but with a flat, homegrown honesty. Lucy felt the familiar ache under her breast for a split second. Nellie was rightreal marriage wasnt on her horizon. No suitors, no prospects, just the nursery, the corner shop and the ravenous stove. And now, £150. Enough for firewood, maybe new wallpaper to chase away the gloom of the cracked, faded walls.
Fine, Lucy whispered. Ill do it.
The next morning Nellie introduced the candidate. When Lucy opened the door, she instinctively stepped back, trying to hide her massive frame. There stood a lanky young man, tall, thin, with a face that hadnt yet been weathered by life, and eyes dark and oddly sorrowful.
My goodness, hes a child! Lucy blurted.
He straightened up. Im twentytwo, he said cleanly, with just a hint of a lilting accent.
Nellie, youre fifteen years younger than me, and hes only eight years younger than youwhat a match! she chattered. Hes a proper lad!
At the registry, the clerk in a stiff navy uniform gave them a skeptical glance and declared a mandatory onemonth waiting period to think things over.
The Polish crew finished their work and left. Before they went, the young mannow called Samasked for Lucys number.
Its lonely in a new place, he explained, and Lucy saw in his eyes the same lost feeling she knew all too well.
He called every evening. The first calls were short and awkward; later they stretched longer. Sam turned out to be a surprisingly good conversationalist. He talked about the hills near his hometown, the different sun there, his mother he adored, and why hed come to England to support his big family. He peppered Lucy with questions about her life, the nursery, the damp house, and the smell of fresh spring earth. She found herself laughing into the phone, her voice light and girlish, forgetting her weight and her age. In that month they learned more about each other than many couples do in years.
When the month elapsed, Sam returned for the ceremony. Lucy slipped into her only fancy dressa silver number that clung tightly to her curvesand felt a flutter of nerves, not fear. A few of his mates, equally fit and serious, stood as witnesses. The registry staff performed the vows quickly and without sentiment, but for Lucy it felt like a flash of fireworks: the sparkle of rings, the formal words, the surreal sense of finally stepping into something real.
After the ceremony Sam escorted Lucy home. Upon entering her familiar room, he solemnly handed her an envelope with the promised money. She felt a strange weight in her handthe heft of her decision, her desperation, and her new role. Then he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside, on black velvet, lay a delicate gold chain.
Its a gift, he whispered. I wanted a ring but didnt know your size. I I dont want to leave. I want you to be truly my wife.
Lucy stood mute, speechless.
In the past month Ive heard your soul over the phone, he continued, eyes alight with a grownup fire. Its kind, pure, just like my mothers. My mum passed away; she was my fathers second wife, and he loved her dearly. Ive fallen for you, Lucy, truly. Let me stay here, with you.
It wasnt a sham marriage; it was a genuine proposal. Looking into his honest, melancholy eyes, Lucy saw not pity but something she hadnt dared to dream ofrespect, gratitude, a budding tenderness.
The next day Sam left for the city to work, but it was no longer a goodbye; it was the start of a waiting game. He returned every weekend, and when Lucy learned she was expecting, Sam made a bold move: he sold part of his share in a small construction venture, bought a used van, and settled in Brindlewick for good. He became a local driver, ferrying people and parcels to the district centre, and his honest hard work soon paid off.
Soon a son was born, and three years later another. Two healthy, cheeky boys with Sams eyes and Lucys bright smile filled the house with noise, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of a real family.
Sam never drank or smokedhis faith frowned upon ityet he was incredibly diligent and looked at Lucy with such love that the neighbours would glance enviously. The eightyear age gap melted away, invisible in the glow of their affection.
And Lucy herself blossomed from the inside out. Pregnancy, a happy marriage, and the need to care for a growing family made her body transform. The extra kilos melted away on their own, as if the unnecessary shell was shedding to reveal a delicate, resilient core. She never went on diets; life simply filled with movement, responsibilities, and joy. She lost weight, her eyes sparkled, and her stride grew confident.
Sometimes, watching Sam tend the refurbished stove, Lucy would glance at her boys playing on the carpet and feel the warm, admiring gaze of her husband on her. She thought back to that strange evening, the twohundred pounds, Nellies knock, and how the biggest miracles often arrive not with thunderbolts but with a modest knock on the door, bringing in a stranger with sad eyes who ended up gifting her not a fake marriage but an entirely new life. A truly real one.
