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.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Annie steps out into the garden and shivers as a biting wind cuts straight through her thin jumpershe hasnt bothered with her coat. She wanders beyond the gate, simply standing there, glancing about, tears slipping from her eyes without her realising.

Annie, why are you crying? She jumps, startled to see Mikey, the boy from next door, slightly older, with messy hair sticking out at the back.

Im not crying, its just the wind… Annie lies.

Mikey watches her quietly, then pulls three sweets from his pocket and holds them out to her.

Here, take them, but dont tell anyone. Otherwise the others will come running. Go on, go inside, he orders, and she obeys.

Thank you, she whispers, but Im not hungry… I just…

Mikey nods knowingly and heads off. Everyone in the village is well aware that Annies dad, Andrew, drinks. He often pops into the only village shop, asking the shopkeeper, Mrs. Valentine, for credit until his wages come in. She always scolds him, but she gives in eventually.

How havent they sacked you yet? she calls after him. You owe so much money! But Andrew always hurries out, spending what little he has on drink.

Annie slips inside. Shes just come home from schoolshes nine now. Theres never much to eat at home. She tells no one shes hungry, fearing theyll take her away to foster care, where shes heard its dreadful. And how would her father cope alone? Hed waste away. No, better to stay here, even if the fridge is empty.

Today shes home earlytwo lessons cancelled because Miss Jenkins is ill. Its late September, a fierce wind outside tearing yellow leaves from the trees and tossing them around. Its been a chilly month. Annies old coat and boots are worn; if its wet, her feet always end up soaked.

Her father is asleep on the sofa, fully dressed, shoes still on, snoring. Two empty bottles sit on the kitchen table, others are scattered underfoot. She opens the kitchen cupboardbare, not even a heel of bread.

Quickly, Annie eats the sweets Mikey gave her and settles herself to her homework. Perched on the stool, legs tucked beneath her, she opens her maths book and stares at the sums. But she cant bring herself to work. Outside, the wind plays in the yard, bending the trees and scattering leaves.

She looks out at the vegetable patch; once it was green and bursting with life, now it looks abandoned. The raspberries are withered, the strawberries long gone, only weeds remain on the beds, and even the old apple tree seems dead. Her mum once poured her heart into it, caring for every sprout. The apples used to taste so sweet, but this August, her dad picked them early and sold them at the market, grumbling, We need the cash.

Andrew didnt always drink. He was once kind and cheerful; theyd go mushroom-picking as a family, watch telly together, chat over mugs of tea and her mums delicious drop scones. Her mother would even bake apple turnovers with homemade jam.

But everything changed the day her mum fell illhospital took her away and she never returned.

Its Mums heartit gave up on her, Dad had said, crying. Annie cried, too, hugging him tight. Mum will be watching over you now, hed whispered.

Her father used to sit for ages, staring at Mums photo, and then slowly, he began drinking. Unfamiliar, unpleasant men started visiting, shouting and laughing late into the night. Annie would retreat to her little room or sneak outside to the bench around the corner.

With a sigh, Annie returns to her homework. Shes smart and learns easily, so the works soon done. She packs away her books and climbs onto her bed.

Her old soft rabbit always waits for her thereMum bought it long ago, her favourite. Annies always called him Toby. Once as white as snow, now hes gone grey, but shell never swap her Toby. Hugging the stuffed rabbit, she whispers, Toby, do you remember our mum?

Toby stays silent, but Annie is sure he remembers too. She closes her eyes, and memories comefaded but bright and happy. Her mum in her apron, hair pinned up as she fusses over dough, always baking something fresh.

Lets make magic buns, love, Mum would say.

How do you mean, Mum? Theres no such thing as magic buns! Annie would giggle.

Oh, but there are! Mum would laugh. Well bake them in the shape of hearts, and when you eat one, make a wishif you believe, itll come true.

Annie always helped, shaping the heart bunsnever quite right, but Mum always smiled and said, Every love has its own shape.

Annie would wait eagerly for the buns to be baked, so she could munch one hot from the oven, and squeeze her eyes shut to make her wish. The whole house would smell of sweet baking, and then Dad would come home and the three of them would share tea and magic buns together.

Annie wipes away her tears at the memory. That was then, but now? Silence ticks in the corner, and her heart achesfor her empty house, for herself, for missing her mum.

Mummy, she breathes, hugging Toby close, I miss you so.

Saturday means no school. After lunch, Annie decides to take a walkDads on the sofa again. She pulls her oldest, warmest jumper under her coat and heads out. She wanders towards the woodstheres an old house nearby, where old Mr. Edgar once lived until he died two years ago. His apple and pear orchards are still there.

Shes come beforeclimbing over the fence to gather fallen apples and pears, soothing her conscience: Im not stealingonly picking up what wouldve rotted.

She barely remembers Mr. Edgaran old, white-haired man with a walking stick, always kind, sometimes slipping the children a sweet from his pocket. Now hes gone, but the orchard still bears fruit.

Annie clambers over the fence, picks up two apples, wipes one on her coat, and takes a bite.

Oiwho are you? Annie spins round in fright. On the porch stands a woman in a smart overcoat, and in her surprise, Annie drops both apples.

The woman approaches.

And who might you be?

Im Annie I didnt mean to steal… Im only picking up the ones on the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore…

Im Mr. Edgars granddaughter. Came yesterday. Ill be living here from now on. So, how long have you been gathering apples here?

Annies voice wobbles, tears springing to her eyes. Since Mum died.

The woman hugs her gently. Aw, dont cry, come on inside with me. Im Anne, Anne Smithsame as you, Annie! One day, people will call you Anne, too.

Anne understands at once that Annie is hungry and struggling. They go indoors.

Take off your shoesjust finished scrubbing up in here yesterday. Mind the suitcases, I havent unpacked yet. Ill get you fedI made chicken soup this morning and a few other bits and bobs. Looks like were neighbours now.” She eyes Annies thin shoulders and threadbare old coat with its sleeves too short.

Is your soup… does it have meat?

Of course, loveproper chicken. Come sit down, tuck in.

Annie doesnt hold back, her belly rumblingshe hasnt eaten since morning. She sits at a table with a cheerful checkered cloth. The house smells warm and welcoming. Anne soon brings over a bowl of soup with bread.

Eat as much as you like, Annie. Ill fill it again if youre still hungry. Dont be shy.

But Annie isnt shyshes ravenous. Within minutes, the bowl is empty, the bread all gone.

Want some more? Anne asks.

No, thank youIm full.

Right then, time for tea. Anne brings out a low basket covered with a tea towel and, peeling it back, grins. A wave of vanilla scent fills the airheart-shaped buns, just like Mums. Annie takes one, takes a bite, and closes her eyes.

Just like Mums buns, she whispers. She used to bake these.

After tea and buns, Annie sits rosy-cheeked and content. Anne says softly, So, Annie, tell me about your lifewhere do you live, who with? Ill walk you home in a minute.

No need, really, its only four houses away. Annie doesnt want Anne to see their mess.

No, wed better, Anne says firmly.

Annies home greets them with silenceher fathers still snoring on the sofa, the whole place strewn with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty clothes.

Anne surveys the room and frowns, shaking her head.

I see… Then she says brightly, Come on, lets tidy up a bit. She rolls up her sleeves, sweeps rubbish off the table, bags up bottles, throws open the curtains, and gives the rug a good shake.

Suddenly, Annie whispers, Please dont tell anyone what its like here. Dads good really, hes just… lost. If anyone finds out, theyll take me away. I couldnt bear that. He does love me, hes just lost without Mum…

Anne gives her a hug, Not a word to anyone, I promise.

Time passes. Annie now rushes to school with her hair neatly plaited, a new coat on her back, backpack slung over her shoulder, and smart new boots.

Annie, is it true your dad got married? asks Mary, her classmate. You look so pretty, and your hair looks lovely.

Its true, Ive got a new mum nowAuntie Anne! Annie replies proudly, hurrying into school.

Andrew has given up drinking, with Annes help. These days he walks with her down the lanetall and well-kept, Anne at his side, dignified and confident, always smiling, both beaming with warmth for Annie.

Years fly by in a blink. Annie, now a university student, returns home for the holidays, calling out as soon as she crosses the threshold:

Mum, Im home!

Anne runs to her, wrapping her in a hug, laughing, Welcome home, Professor! Welcome back! Both laugh in delight, and that evening Andrew comes home from work, happy tooa true family, at last.