**Antony’s Hidden Gift: A Twist of Fate**
I woke to the clatter of a frying pan in the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle, and the smell of fried potatoes filling the air. My dad, Peter, was up before dawn, getting ready for a day of fishing. His old motorbike groaned outside, and Peter, in his usual morning flurry, packed sandwiches, filled a flask, and checked his gear. He tried to be quiet, but Mum stirred anyway. Margaret had felt unwell since the night before but thought rest would help. Peter, cheerful at the thought of a quiet morning by the lake, had no idea the day would bring anything but peace.
Once the motorbike rumbled off, Mum tried to sleep, but she only grew worse. A sharp pain twisted in her stomach, her head spun, and she gasped, “Tony! Call an ambulance, love!”
Still half-asleep, I bolted from my room and found her pale and shaking. I rang for help, but the ambulance took forever. I gave her water, tucked the blanket around her, but dread pooled in my chest. Not knowing what else to do, I hugged her tight—and then I felt it. Her weakness seeped into me like a tide. A minute later, she sat up, colour returning to her lips. “Love, it’s gone… like I was never ill.”
I stumbled back, breath ragged. Again. This strange gift of mine had haunted me since childhood—the ability to take someone’s pain, but at the cost of my own strength. It felt as though some ancient, knowing thing lived inside me, letting me heal but always demanding payment.
Meanwhile, Dad ran into trouble. His motorbike stalled on a wooded bend, and by sheer luck, a speeding Land Rover didn’t plough straight into him. The driver, a bloke in a posh jacket, leapt out, panicked, and shoved thick wads of cash into Dad’s hands. “You alright, mate? Christ, take this—just forget it happened, yeah?” Then he sped off. Dad had to tow the bike home. At dusk, he limped into the yard, where Mum, tearful, stormed out. “Where were you? I nearly died today, and you—! Where’s your bloody fish?”
Dad, pale and shaken, clenched the money. “This… this is for my life, Marg. Today could’ve been the end.”
Soon, a second-hand but sturdy car sat in our drive. Dad grinned like a kid. “Now we’ve got something to last us!”
I spent days recovering. Mum fussed. “Useless, the lot of you—one always off fishing, the other lazing about! You ought to marry, but here you are, moping like a hermit!”
But then I met Eleanor. I’d been hired to fit a kitchen in her parents’ new home. She stood quietly, watching me work. Never said a word, but her gaze was kind.
Next day, I went back—claimed I’d forgotten some fittings. As I screwed in the handles, she offered tea. Scones, silence, smiles. Then, out of nowhere, I said, “What if we went out? The cinema, maybe. I’d introduce you to my folks, you’d introduce me to yours. And then… well, maybe a wedding?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”
Just like that, our story began. The family adored her. I got promoted to foreman, work went smoothly, and soon—we were expecting.
Sometimes, I’d remember Gran’s words: “Some folk haven’t the strength to live. They sit there, going nowhere. Your lot, Tony—you’ve got to stand by them. But don’t forget to look after yourself too.”
I tried. Never let on how much it drained me, taking others’ pain. Bit my tongue when they called me odd. And in the quiet, I’d admit: if this is my gift, so be it. At least now, I’m not alone.
