Uncle Boris was on his way to his business partners countryside cottage for a barbecuean invitation extended in honour of International Womens Daywhen he stopped at a supermarket. Hed originally planned to celebrate at a fancy London restaurant, but his fiancée, Angela, had convinced him the cottage gathering would be far more advantageous. Important people would be there, people shed been dying to network withafter all, she was engaged to the CEO of a major holding company.
Hed already arranged Angelas giftan elegant necklace, neatly wrapped and waiting on the back seat. At the supermarket, he picked up a bottle of cognac and decided to add flowers and a bar of fancy chocolate to the present. Angela adored sweets, despite her flawless figure.
Approaching the chocolate aisle, Boris frowned. The shelves were nearly empty. Of courseMarch 8th, a day for spoiling womenno surprise the good stuff was gone. Only budget bars remained, the sort Angela wouldnt glance at. Then, in the far corner, he spotted one last luxury barexactly her taste. As he reached for it, a small hand tugged his sleeve.
He turned to find a boy of about eight, nose red from the cold, voice trembling.
“Please, mister, can I have that chocolate? I want to give it to my mum for Womens Day!”
Boris raised an eyebrow. “Why not pick another? Plenty here.”
“Mum saw this one on telly,” the boy mumbled. “Shes never tried it.”
Boris hesitated, then shrugged and handed it over. Angela had everything; this boys gift clearly meant more.
“Here,” he said. “Happy Womens Day.”
The boy beamed, snatched the chocolate, and dashed to the checkout, shouting thanks over his shoulder.
Boris followed. At the till, he watched the child empty his pocketspennies, ten-pence pieces, a few coppersonto the conveyor.
“Miss, dyou think Ive got enough?” he asked timidly.
The cashier eyed the pitiful pile with disdain. “Not even close. Scram before I call security.”
Boris stepped in. “Happy Womens Day,” he said cheerfully, disarming the cashiers scowl. “Let the lad have it.” He paid with his card, winked at the boy, and said, “Keep your coins. Theyll come in handy.”
The boy hesitated, then thrust the money at him. “Take it. I owe you.”
“Owe me nothing,” Boris said, ruffling his hair. “Its a gift.”
As Boris collected his bags, the boy trailed him. “But misterI wanted to give it to Mum! Now its from you!”
Boris stopped. “Whats your name?”
“Timmy,” the boy said. Then, in a rush: “I was saving for Mums medicine. Picked up coins, did odd jobs. But Gran said Id never save enough. So I thoughtlet her have a treat. Ill earn the medicine later.”
Boris softened. “Good lad. Im Uncle Boris. What medicine does she need?”
“Dunno,” Timmy admitted. “Doctors say its pricey. Mum says if she hadnt lost her job, she wouldnt be ill. Now she cries a lot. Thought chocolate might cheer her up.”
Boriss brow furrowed. “Why was she sacked?”
“Says she got in someones way. Could only get market work after. Got soaked in the rain one day, caught a chill, and well.”
Boris crouched to his level. “Tell you whatlet me wish your mum a happy Womens Day myself. Maybe I can help.”
Timmys eyes lit up. “We live just round the corner.”
Boris stowed his shopping, grabbed Angelas flowers, and followed the boy.
The flat smelled of quiet exhaustionclean, tidy, but lacking warmth.
“Timmy, whereve you been?” called a womans voice. Boris froze. He knew that voice.
“Brought a nice man,” Timmy announced. “He wants to help.”
The woman appearedpale, frailand gasped. “Mr. Harrington?”
“Laura?” Boris stared. His former HR manager, now ghost-thin. “What happened?”
She sighed. “Angela sacked me. Blacklisted me. Said if I told you, shed frame me for theft.”
Boriss stomach dropped. “She told me you resigned.”
Laura laughed bitterly. “See? You didnt believe me just now. Why would you then?”
He called a pharmacy, ordered the medicines delivered by evening, then noticed a photo on the sideboardhim, years younger, on a Brighton beach with a laughing girl in a blue swimsuit, her long blonde plait tossed over one shoulder.
He gaped. “Laura is thisus?”
She nodded. “Cut my hair when I gave up on dreams. Didnt even realise it was your company I applied to. When you didnt recognise me I thought it was fates joke.”
Memories flooded backa summer fling, nine years ago. Hed left abruptly, business calling. By the time he returned to propose, shed vanished.
“And Timmy?” Boris whispered.
Her silence answered him.
That night, Boris confronted Angela in her pristine Chelsea flat.
“You lied. You fired her. You knew about my son.”
Angela sneered. “Prove hes yours.”
Boris left without another word.
By midnight, Laura and Timmy were in his Kensington home. Within months, they married.
Now, every March 8th, they buy Laura that same chocolate barthe one that started it all.
