Unaffection
Nina had despised her name since childhood—old-fashioned, dowdy. When she grew older, her mother explained that her father had once been smitten with a glamorous woman named Nina in his youth, a bright spark who had rejected him and married another.
“He met me afterward. When you were born, he gave you her name. Never quite let go of that first love,” her mother said evenly.
“And you’re not jealous?”
“No. He loves you and me. People always remember their first love. You’ll have yours one day too,” her mother murmured, smoothing Nina’s hair.
“Was his Nina ugly too?” the girl muttered.
“Don’t be absurd. Remember the ugly duckling? And if you dislike the name that much, you can change it when you’re older. What would you prefer?”
Nina stood before the mirror, trying on names like dresses. None suited her. She sighed, conceding that another name wouldn’t make her pretty. Names don’t shape the face. Besides, she’d grown used to it.
Still, she doubted anyone would ever love her as her father had loved his Nina. Mousy hair, narrow eyes, a chin too sharp—plain as a post.
Her father loved Nina almost as much as the pub. After work, he often stopped at a cheap café for a drink, returning cheerful, never empty-handed—chocolates, sweets, trinkets. If he forgot, he gave her coins instead. She saved them, bought what she liked.
When she finished school, he drowned. Children had been playing by the river, their ball lost to the water. Drunk, he waded in, never resurfaced.
Her mother cursed him for leaving them. How would Nina study? What future waited in their tiny village?
Nina mourned bitterly but refused to leave—until her mother insisted.
“What’s here for you? Go, maybe you’ll marry,” she sighed.
So Nina left. She dreamed of being a doctor but knew her village schooling wouldn’t suffice. Nursing college would do. She liked the crisp white uniforms.
Her dorm roommate was Margot—blessed with beauty, a striking brunette with curls, dark eyes, and flawless curves. Beside her, Nina felt like a shadow. She watched Margot with envy. Margot, in turn, relished the contrast.
Their truce lasted until Margot met Paul, a polytechnic student. Nina lost her head the moment she saw him. Handsome men were hard to resist.
He often waited in their room while Margot studied, sighing as she scribbled notes.
“Done yet?” he’d ask.
“Go to the cinema with Nina. I’ve an exam tomorrow,” Margot would dismiss him.
Nina longed to sit beside him in the dark, trembling with hope, but Paul never asked. He’d linger, sigh, and leave.
“Why d’you treat him like that? If someone waited for me like that, I’d be over the moon,” Nina huffed.
“What’s he to you? He’ll stray—girls already fawn over him. Find someone simpler,” Margot advised.
Nina was an average student, not driven. Once, Paul arrived before Margot. A skillet of fried potatoes sat on the table, golden and crisp, the scent of lard thick in the air—a rare treat her mother sent from home.
“Fancy dinner?” Nina offered, watching him swallow.
He didn’t need convincing. He ate greedily, praising her cooking, leaning back like a satisfied mosquito.
One Saturday, Margot left for home, asking Nina to apologise to Paul. She cooked another feast.
“I bought tickets,” he frowned upon hearing Margot was gone.
“Take me instead. Unless you’re ashamed?” she teased.
“Course not. Get dressed.”
Nina nearly floated, dressing in a rush. Paul waited outside, glowering. She chattered nervously, weaving tales of student mishaps, linking arms like friends.
The film was gripping, but Nina barely watched, nudging her hand toward his. He ignored it—until a tense scene let her clutch him, holding on till credits.
He walked her back.
“Fancy a café? I’m starving.”
“Waste of money. I’ve lard at home, sent yesterday. Better than any café.”
She led him in. They drank wine. Tipsy, he dozed on Margot’s bed. Nina turned off the light, sat beside him. He nuzzled against her, kissed her—perhaps mistaking her, perhaps not caring.
“Sorry,” he muttered at dawn. “Don’t tell Margot.”
Nina felt no guilt, only joy.
Three weeks later, she knew she was pregnant.
“Whose?” Margot demanded.
“Paul’s.”
“Quick work. Don’t expect marriage.”
Paul shrugged when she told him. “Sort it yourself.”
She bore the child, delivered just before finals. Margot brought money—collected from friends, shaken from Paul.
“Going home?”
Nina shook her head.
“Dorm won’t keep you. I found a room—cheap, landlady’s lonely.”
Luck, of a sort. The elderly Rose took pity, helped with the baby.
“Paul gave money. Don’t expect more,” Margot said. “He’s seeing someone.”
Then she left. Nina wept.
“Stop—you’ll sour your milk,” Rose scolded.
Money ran out, but Rose adored the child, fed them both, then brought friends for paid injections. Later, Nina took night shifts at a hospital, days with her daughter.
One walk led her to Paul. He peered into the pram. Began visiting, bringing little gifts.
Rose died in her sleep. The flat, willed to Nina, drew police suspicion till Rose’s friends defended her.
Now Nina owned the flat. When Paul called, she cooked his favourites.
Once, he proposed.
“I’m not a complete swine.”
She knew he wanted the flat, not her. Still, she accepted.
Nothing changed. He drifted in and out. She didn’t mind—he always returned.
Until he grew distant, staring past her.
She called his friend, learned the truth: a singer at a pub, blonde like Monroe.
Nina watched her perform—sleek, shimmering, long legs. She’d gained weight after childbirth, her waist vanished.
Paul was smitten. She pretended ignorance, loving him still, never confronting. He stayed out till dawn, reeking of other women.
One night, he returned late, found her awake.
“I’m leaving. I’ll send money for the girl.”
“Go,” she said calmly.
They’d refurbished the flat. Her daughter started school. She worked, still gave injections. Rose’s friends became family, bringing jams and pies.
Then her mother fell ill. New cares eclipsed heartbreak. She moved her in, sold the house, took a mortgage. Her mother died before they moved to the new flat—larger, for her teen daughter, now a beauty.
Life was bearable. Unloved, but wed—never divorced. A daughter, a home, work.
She saw Paul once more, removing him from the old flat’s papers before selling. He looked rough. She didn’t ask his plans.
Years passed. The singer arrived one day, aged.
“Fetch him from hospital. I’m leaving. He’s been drinking—fell at work, broke bones, walks with sticks. They’re discharging him.”
“Over my dead body,” Nina snapped at the closed door.
Yet she went.
“Don’t think I’ll swoon over you. Your singer asked me to check. Lost your looks, have you? No one wants you now?”
Paul studied her. “You’ve changed.”
The doctor, learning she was a nurse, said he’d need injections, perhaps massage.
“I’ve not decided if I’ll take him.”
“He’s your daughter’s father.”
Discharged, he limped in on sticks. She massaged him, though he accused her of spite.
“Done out of love,” she retorted.
Slowly, he improved, even cooked simple meals.
“Life’s worn you down. Even unloved, you’ll cling,” she mused.
One day, she asked, “Where will you go?”
“You’re tossing me out? Nina, you’re the best woman I’ve known. I’ve had my fill. I’ll behave—I’d be lost without you.”
He wept, grey, thin, leaning on a cane—no longer the beauty she’d loved. No suitors lined up for her either. Her daughter would marry soon.
She stroked his hair. He kissed her damp hand.
“I’ll make dinner.”
“Got any lard? Fry potatoes, like before.”
