The Secret Gift of Anthony: A Tale of Fate
Anthony awoke to the clatter of a frying pan in the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle, and the rich scent of fried potatoes filling the air. His father, Peter, was preparing for his dawn fishing trip, moving quietly but still stirring his wife from sleep. The old motorcycle, groaning and creaking, waited in the yard as Peter packed sandwiches, a thermos, and checked his tackle. He tried not to disturb her, but Marina had felt unwell since the evening, hoping rest would help. Peter, cheerful at the prospect of a morning by the lake, had no idea the day would bring not peace, but a terrible shock.
Once the motorcycle rumbled away, Marina tried to sleep, but her pain sharpened suddenly—a dull ache in her belly, her head spinning. She called out, “Anthony! Fetch the doctor, love!”
Still half-asleep, Anthony rushed in, saw his mother’s pallor, and dashed for the telephone. But the doctor never came. He gave her water, tucked blankets around her, yet despair gnawed at him. Not knowing what else to do, he held her tight—and then felt it. Her weakness seeped into him, like a river changing course. A minute later, Marina sat straighter, colour returning to her lips. “Son, it’s gone… as if I were never ill at all.”
Anthony stepped back, breath heavy. Again. Again, he’d drawn another’s pain into himself. This strange gift had haunted him since childhood—as if some ancient, wise spirit lived within him, permitting healing, but at the cost of his own strength.
Meanwhile, Peter met with misfortune. His motorcycle stalled on a wooded bend, and only by sheer luck did a speeding Land Rover miss him. The driver, a man in a fine coat, leapt out in a panic. “You all right, mate? Christ, I’m sorry! Look, take this—no need to call anyone, eh?” He shoved two thick bundles of banknotes into Peter’s hands before vanishing. The old bike had to be towed home. At dusk, Peter arrived to find Marina on the doorstep, her eyes wet with tears. “Peter, where were you? I nearly died today, and you—where’s your fish, then?”
Pale and shaken, Peter clenched the money. “This… this is for my life, Marina. It could’ve ended today.”
Soon, a secondhand but sturdy car stood in their yard. Peter beamed like a boy. “There now—something to last us till old age!”
Anthony, however, lay recovering. Marina fretted. “No use from either of you—one’s always off fishing, the other lazing about! You ought to marry, but here you are, a proper loner!”
Yet Anthony rallied. A job came—fitting cabinets in a new house—and there he saw Eleanor. She stood watching him work, silent, her gaze warm with quiet kindness.
The next day, he returned, claiming he’d forgotten the fittings. He fixed the handles; she offered tea. Scones, quiet, smiles. Then, unprompted, he said, “What if we took a walk? The pictures, perhaps. I’d introduce you to my parents, you’d introduce me to yours. And then… maybe a wedding?”
Eleanor answered at once. “I’d like that.”
So their story began. The parents rejoiced; Eleanor charmed them all. Anthony was made foreman, work flourished, and soon—they were expecting a child.
Sometimes, he recalled his grandmother’s words: “There’s folk with no life left in ’em. They sit, going nowhere. You, my Anthony, must stand by them—but mind you don’t forget to keep something for yourself.”
He tried. He never showed the toll his “gifts” took. Stayed silent when called a loner. And in his heart, he admitted—if this was his burden, so be it. What mattered was he wasn’t alone anymore.
