In that little town perched on the edge of the map, like the last speck of dust forgotten by time, life moved not by the clock but by the seasons. It froze in bitter winters, thawed into springs muddy slush, dozed in the summer heat, and wept with autumns damp chill. And in that slow, syrupy current, Lucyshort for Lucindafelt herself drowning.
Lucinda was thirty, and her life seemed hopelessly stuck in the quicksand of her own body. She weighed eighteen stone, and it wasnt just weightit was a fortress, built between her and the world. A fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected something inside her was brokena fault in her metabolism, perhapsbut seeing a specialist was unthinkable. Too far, too expensive, too humiliating.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the local council-run daycare, “Bluebell.” Her days smelled of baby powder, porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly gentle hands could soothe a crying toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, or mop up a spill without making a child feel ashamed. The little ones adored her, drawn to her softness and steady warmth. But the quiet admiration of three-year-olds was poor consolation for the loneliness waiting beyond the daycare gates.
Lucinda lived in an old, eight-flat tenement, a relic from some long-gone era. The building groaned at night, its beams creaking like a ship in a storm, flinching at every strong wind. Two years earlier, her mothera quiet, worn-down woman whod buried all her dreams in that same council flathad passed away. Her father was a distant blur, gone long ago, leaving behind only a dusty void and a single faded photograph.
Her life was harsh. The tap coughed rusty, lukewarm water; the only toilet was an outhouse that turned into an icebox in winter. But the real tyrant was the fireplace. In the coldest months, it devoured two lorry-loads of wood, gnawing at her meager wages. Lucinda spent long evenings staring into the flames behind the iron grate, feeling as though it wasnt just logs burningbut her years, her strength, her future, all turning to cold ash.
Then, one evening, as the gloom seeped into her room like spilled ink, a miracle happened. Not a grand one, but quiet and shuffling, like the slippers of her neighbor, Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Margaret, a cleaner at the local hospital, her face lined with years of worry, held out two crisp banknotes. “Lucinda, lovehere. Two hundred quid. Sorry it took so long.”
Lucinda stared, stunned. Shed written off that debt in her mind years ago. “Margaret, honestlyyou didnt have to.”
“I did!” Margaret cut in fiercely. “Ive got money now. Listen”
Lowering her voice, as if sharing a state secret, Margaret told a wild story. Migrant workers had arrived in townyoung lads from abroad, desperate for citizenship. One had offered her a bizarre deal: £1,500 for a sham marriage. “They grease the palms at the registry office, make it quick. My bloke, Rashid, hes upstairs nowgone by dark. My Lindas doing it tooneeds a new coat before winter. What about you? Lookits a chance. You need the money. And whos gonna marry you proper, eh?”
The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucinda felt the familiar ache under her ribs, but she barely hesitated. Margaret was right. Real marriage wasnt in her future. No suitors, no prospects. Her world was the daycare, the corner shop, and this room with its hungry fireplace. But £1,500? That meant firewood, new wallpaper to chase away the glooma real chance.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucinda opened the door, gasped, and instinctively shrank back, trying to hide her bulk. The young man before her was tall, lean, his face untouched by lifes hardness, his eyes dark and unbearably sad.
“God, hes just a boy!” she blurted.
He straightened. “Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, his voice smooth, barely accented.
“See?” Margaret nudged. “Mines fifteen years youngeryours is only eight. Prime of life!”
At the registry office, they were told to wait a month”for reflection,” the clerk said pointedly. The migrants left for work, but before going, Rahmanhis nameasked for her number. “Its lonely in a strange place,” he said, and in his eyes, she saw the same lostness she knew too well.
He called. Every night. At first, the conversations were short, awkward. Then longer. He spoke of his mountains, the sun theredifferent, fiercerof his mother, whom he adored, of why hed come to England: to help his family. He asked about her life, the children at the daycare, and to her own surprise, she talkednot complaining, just sharing. She caught herself laughing, bright and girlish, forgetting her weight, her years.
A month later, Rahman returned. Dressed in her only silver dress, tight against her curves, Lucinda felt something strangenot fear, but anticipation. The wedding was quick, impersonal to the clerks. To her, it was a flashrings, formal words, unreality. Afterward, he walked her home, handed her the promised money, then a velvet box. Inside lay a delicate gold chain.
“I wanted a ring, but didnt know your size,” he murmured. “I dont want to leave. I want you to really be my wife.”
Lucinda froze.
“Ive heard your soul these weeks,” he said, his gaze burning. “Its kindlike my mothers was. She died. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her deeply. Ive fallen for you, Lucinda. Let me stay.”
This wasnt a sham. It was a proposal. And in his eyes, she saw not pity, but respectand the beginnings of love.
He left the next day, but this time, it was just waiting. He worked in London, returning every weekend. When she discovered she was pregnant, Rahman sold his share in his work, bought a used van, and came back for good. He started a delivery service, thrived on hard work and honesty.
Their son came first, then another. Two beautiful, dark-eyed boys with their fathers gaze and their mothers gentle smile. Their home filled with laughter, small footsteps, the warmth of real family.
He didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itand he looked at her with such love the neighbors seethed. The eight-year gap vanished in that devotion.
But the real miracle was Lucinda herself. She blossomed. The weight melted away, as if it had only ever been a shell. She grew lovely, her eyes bright, her step light.
Sometimes, by the fire Rahman now tended, watching her sons play, feeling his adoring gaze, she thought of that odd evening, the £200, Margarets knockand the stranger with sad eyes whod given her not a sham, but a life. A real one.
