Anton’s Hidden Gift: A Tale of Fate
I woke to the sound of a frying pan sizzling in the kitchen, the kettle boiling, and the air thick with the smell of fried potatoes. My father, Peter, was preparing for his early morning fishing trip, moving quietly in the dawn’s hush. His old motorbike, creaking and groaning, waited outside while he packed sandwiches, a thermos, and checked his fishing gear. He tried not to make noise, but he still woke Mum. She’d felt unwell since last night but thought rest would help. Peter, cheerful about his morning by the lake, had no idea the day would bring not relaxation but a shock none of us expected.
After the motorbike rumbled away, Mum tried to sleep, but suddenly she felt worse. A sharp pain twisted in her stomach, her head spun. She called out, “Anton! Call an ambulance, love!”
Still half-asleep, I rushed out and found her pale and trembling. I grabbed the phone, but the ambulance took too long. I gave her water, tucked her in, but helplessness gnawed at me. Not knowing what else to do, I hugged her tight—and then I felt it. Her weakness flowed into me. A minute later, she sat up, colour returning to her lips. “Love, it’s gone… like it was never there.”
I stepped back, gasping. My head pounded—it had happened again. Again, I’d “pulled” someone’s pain onto myself. This strange gift had been with me since childhood. Sometimes I felt as if some ancient, wise presence lived inside me, letting me heal—but at the cost of my own strength.
Meanwhile, Peter ran into trouble. On a wooded bend, his motorbike stalled, and a speeding SUV nearly hit him. The driver, a bloke in an expensive jacket, leapt out, frantic. “You alright, mate? Christ, I’m sorry! Look, don’t call anyone—here, take this, get yourself a new bike!” He shoved two thick wads of cash into Peter’s hands before speeding off.
Peter towed the bike home at dusk. Mum met him on the porch, tearful. “Peter, where were you? I nearly died today, and you—where’s your fish?!”
Pale and shaken, he clenched the money. “This… this is for my life, Mary. Today could’ve been the end.”
Soon, a second-hand but sturdy car appeared in the driveway. Peter beamed like a boy. “There we are—now we’ve got wheels for life!”
I, meanwhile, lay recovering. Mum fussed. “No use from either of you—one’s always fishing, the other’s moping about! You ought to marry, but no, you’re just a loner!”
But I rallied. A job came up—fitting kitchen cabinets in a new house. There, I saw Valerie. She didn’t speak, just watched me work, her gaze warm.
I went back the next day, pretending I’d forgotten fittings. She offered tea. Scones, quiet smiles. Then, out of nowhere, I said, “What if we went out? The cinema, maybe. I’d introduce you to my parents, you’d introduce me to yours. And then… well, maybe a wedding?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”
And so it began. Our parents were thrilled; everyone liked Valerie. I got promoted to foreman, work went smoothly, and soon—we were expecting a baby.
Sometimes I remembered Gran’s words: “Some folk haven’t the strength to live. They just exist. You, Anton, must stand by them—but don’t forget to save a bit for yourself.”
I tried. I never showed how much the “transfers” drained me. I stayed quiet when they called me a loner. And quietly, I accepted it—if this was my gift, so be it. At least now, I wasn’t alone.
