Blysk

Every Love Has Its Own Shape On a blustery September day, little Annie stepped outside into the chill without her coat, shivering as the wind slipped right through her thin jumper. She stood at the garden gate, casting quiet glances around, not even noticing the silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” came a gentle voice. She jumped, finding Mikey, the boy from next door, a little older, with his hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just…” Annie fibbed, wiping her eyes. Mikey watched her for a moment, then dug three sweets from his pocket. “Here—don’t tell anyone, or all the kids will come running. Off you go, get inside,” he said firmly, and Annie obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not even hungry… just…” Mikey understood and simply nodded, walking off. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank too much. He often went to the only shop in the village to ask the shopkeeper, Val, for credit until payday. Though she scolded him, she still gave him what he asked for. Annie returned home, her stomach rumbling. The house was quiet—her father was out cold on the sofa, empty bottles on the kitchen table and floor, a heaviness filling the air. She opened the cupboard, but there wasn’t a crumb of bread. Weak with hunger, Annie ate the sweets Mikey had given her and moved to her homework, perching on a stool and pulling her knees to her chest. Numbers blurred in her maths book as she gazed at the wind whipping golden leaves around the yard. Out the window stood the vegetable patch—once lush and green, now grey and unkempt, the strawberry bed empty and even the old apple tree withered. Her mum used to care for it all, making sure every sprout thrived. The apples, always sweet, were picked early this summer by her dad, and sold at market with a muttered, “Need the money.” Once, life had been full of laughter—her dad cheerful, her mum baking apple jam buns and magic heart-shaped rolls that granted a wish if eaten warm from the oven. But when her mum’s heart failed, she vanished into the hospital and never came home. “Mum’s watching from above now,” her father cried, clutching Annie tight, before he started to drink, drifting away, and letting strangers fill the house. Clutching her battered old bunny, Timmy—her mum’s last gift—Annie whispered, “Do you remember Mum, Timmy?” She thought he must—just as she did—and closed her eyes to comforting memories of her mother in her apron, hair tied back, making heart-shaped rolls and promising that “every love has its own shape.” On weekends Annie wandered to the edge of the woods, to the long abandoned gardener’s cottage, where she would gather fallen apples and pears from the late old Mr. George’s garden, reassuring herself, “I’m not stealing, they’re only rotting on the ground.” This time, as Annie picked up an apple, a woman’s voice stopped her short. “Oi, who’s that over there?” The lady in the long coat approached. “Who are you?” “Annie… I was just picking up fruit from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore. I didn’t mean any harm…” “I’m George’s granddaughter, Anna. I just moved in. How long have you been collecting fruit here?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice broke and her tears fell. Anna wrapped an arm around her. “Come inside, love. Let’s get you warm. I’m Anna, just like you—but when you grow up, everyone will call you Anna too.” Inside the tidy kitchen, bowls of steaming chicken soup and thick slices of bread revived Annie, followed by a basket of heart-shaped vanilla rolls, just like the ones her mother made. “They’re just like Mum’s buns,” Annie said, tears stinging her eyes. Anna insisted on walking her home. Annie pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone what our house is like. Dad’s good—he just can’t pull himself together, not since Mum left. If they find out, they’ll take me away, and I couldn’t stand to leave him.” “I promise, love,” Anna said and hugged her close. Time passed. Annie, now with neat plaits, a smart new coat, and shiny boots, hurried to school, friends asking if it was true her dad had remarried. “It’s true,” Annie smiled proudly. “Now I have another mum—Auntie Anna!” Her dad, Andrew, finally stopped drinking with Anna’s help, and their house became warm and cheerful again. Annie grew up, went off to university, and always came home at holidays, rushing through the door with a shout, “Mum, I’m back!” Anna would greet her with a tight hug: “Welcome home, my clever girl!” And in the evening, Andrew would join them too, all of them happy—and Annie knew indeed: every love has its own shape.

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