Many years ago, on a crisp March morning, Uncle Edward, a respected businessman in London, stopped at a market on his way to a countryside gathering. His fiancée, Victoria, had persuaded him to attendshe was eager to mingle with influential guests, being the daughter of a prominent industrialist. Edward had already arranged her gift: an elegant necklace, wrapped and waiting in the car. At the market, he picked up a bottle of fine whisky and, knowing Victorias sweet tooth, decided to add flowers and a bar of chocolate to his purchase.
The shelves were nearly barehardly surprising on Mothers Day. Only cheap brands remained, the sort Victoria would never glance at. Then Edward spotted itthe last bar of luxury chocolate, tucked high on the top shelf. As he reached for it, a small hand tugged his sleeve.
A boy of about eight stood there, his nose red from the cold. “Please, sir,” he whispered, “could I have that chocolate? I want to give it to my mum for Mothers Day.”
Edward frowned. “Why not take one of these?” He gestured to the cheaper bars.
“Mum saw this one in an advert,” the boy admitted. “Shes never tried it.”
After a pause, Edward handed it over. Victoria wanted for nothingthis small kindness would mean far more to the boy.
The child beamed and dashed to the till, where he emptied a handful of coinspennies and shillingsonto the counter. The cashier barely glanced at them.
“Not nearly enough,” she said dismissively. “Put it back.”
The boys lip trembled. “PleaseI need it for Mum!”
“Move along, or Ill call security,” snapped the woman.
Edward stepped in. “Happy Mothers Day,” he said smoothly, flashing his card before the cashier could protest. To the boy, he added, “Keep your coins. Youll need them.”
The child hesitated, then offered the money. “You should take it, sir.”
Edward shook his head. “Consider it a gift.”
As he turned to leave, the boy caught his sleeve again. “But now its from you, not me!”
Edward studied him. “Whats your name?”
“Thomas,” the boy said. Then, unprompted, he added, “I saved for medicine first. Gran said itd never be enough, so I thoughtlet Mum have a nice day instead.”
Edwards chest tightened. “Good lad. And your mothers illness?”
Thomas shrugged. “The doctors say its expensive. Mum says if she hadnt lost her job, she wouldnt be sick. She used to sell flowers in the market. One day, she stood too long in the rain…”
Edward interrupted. “Where do you live?”
Minutes later, he followed Thomas to a modest flat. The air inside was still, heavy with quiet exhaustion. A womans voice called weakly from the sitting room.
Thomas rushed ahead. “Mum, a kind gentlemans come to help!”
Edward enteredand froze. The woman on the sofa was Eleanor Whitmore, his former secretary.
“Mr. Harrington?” She tried to rise, but weakness held her down.
“Eleanor,” he murmured, pulling a chair beside her. “They told me you resigned.”
Her smile was bitter. “Victoria dismissed me. Said if I spoke a word, shed accuse me of theft.”
Edwards hands clenched. “Wheres your prescription?”
By evening, the medicine arrived. As he turned to leave, a framed photograph on the dresser caught his eye. His own face stared backyounger, carefree. Beside him stood Eleanor, her long blonde plait trailing over one shoulder.
He lifted it, stunned. “This was in Brighton. Nine years ago.”
Eleanor met his gaze. “Yes.”
Memory flooded backthe seaside holiday, the brief, bright romance. Hed left abruptly for business, intending to return, but shed vanished. And later, when a sharp-eyed secretary joined his firm, he hadnt recognised her with cropped hair and professional attire.
“You never said,” he whispered.
“What was there to say?” Eleanor sighed. “You were engaged. I had Thomas to think of.”
Edwards breath hitched. “Thomas is… mine?”
The boy, eavesdropping, burst in and threw his arms around Edwards neck.
That night, Edward took them home. When Eleanor recovered, they married. And every Mothers Day thereafter, they bought her the same chocolatethe one that had begun their second chance.
