30September
Im Blythe Hart, thirty years old, and I weigh a solid 120kilograms. Perhaps a hidden ailment, a metabolic glitch, or some lifelong imbalance is to blame. I live in Littleford, that forgotten speck of a village in the Yorkshire Dales, tucked away on the very edge of the map where time seems to march to its own lazy rhythm. Winter freezes the world solid, spring thaws it into endless mud, summer presses down with a sweaty heat, and autumn rains in relentless sheets. In that slowmoving tide my everyday life drifts, and I feel myself sinking deeper into the mire of my own body.
The number on the scale isnt just a statisticit feels like a thick wall standing between me and the rest of the world, a fortress built of fatigue, loneliness, and quiet despair. I know the cause must be somewhere inside me, some malfunction or hidden disease, yet the thought of travelling to the city for specialist care feels absurdly far, shamefully expensive, and ultimately futile.
By day I work as a nursery assistant at the Bellflower DayCare Centre. The air is always scented with baby powder, boiled porridge, and damp, wornout floorboards. My large, gentle hands can soothe a crying toddler, change a dozen cribs in a breath, and mop up a spill so the little one never feels guilty. The children adore me; they cling to my softness and quiet kindness. Their affection is a faint balm against the emptiness that awaits me beyond the nursery gates.
I live in an eightflat council block, a relic from the postwar era. The building creaks at night, its beams shudder with every gust of wind. Two years ago my mothera quiet, exhausted woman who buried all her hopes within these wallsleft us. I hardly remember my father; he disappeared long ago, leaving only dustfilled memories and a faded photograph.
Life at home is harsh. The tap spits out cold, rusty water; the toilet is outside, turning into an icecold cave in winter and a stifling oven in summer. The biggest tyrant is the old coal stove. In winter it devours two loads of wood, sucking the last pennies from my wages. Long evenings find me staring into its iron doors, feeling as if the flames are burning away not just the wood, but my years, my strength, my future, leaving only cold ash behind.
One dusk, as the room filled with a heavy grey gloom, a quiet miracle unfolded. It was as subtle as the soft tread of my neighbour, Nora Clarke, in her battered slippers. She knocked on my door, clutching two crisp notes.
Blythe, Im sorry, honestly. Here, two hundred pounds. I havent forgotten the debt, please forgive me, she murmured, sliding the money into my trembling hands.
I stared at the cash, the debt I thought long written off.
Never mind, Nora, you didnt need to worry, I whispered.
It was worth it! she snapped, eyes bright. Because now I have money! Listen
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a terrible secret, and told me an unbelievable tale. Recently, a group of Polish workers had arrived in Littleford. One of them, seeing her with a broom, offered a strange and rather frightening job£150 for a quick marriage.
Those lads need citizenship fast. Theyre looking for fake brides in our little town. Yesterday they already signed one up. I dont know how they manage it at the registry, probably with cash, but its quick. My brother, Rafi, is already held here; hell be released soon. My daughter, Sienna, also agreed. She needs a coat; winter is coming. And you? Look at the chance. Money, right? Who will marry you?
Her words carried no anger, only a bitter truth. I felt a familiar ache in my chest and thought for a heartbeat. Nora was right. A real marriage was never in my stars. I had no suitors, and there was no room for them in my life of the nursery, the shop, and the stoveeating flat. Yet nowmoney, a whole £150could buy firewood, new wallpaper, maybe even a sliver of bright hope for my battered walls.
Alright, I said softly. Im in.
The next day Nora brought the candidate. When I opened the door, I gasped and stepped back into the dim hallway
I keep seeing that same scene: Blythe, opening the door, shrieking, and stumbling back into the dark passage, trying to hide my hefty frame. On the threshold stood a young mantall, lean, his face still untouched by lifes harshness, his eyes large, dark, and oddly sorrowful.
Good heavens, hes still a boy! I blurted.
He straightened up.
Im twentytwo, he said clearly, almost without accent, his voice melodic.
See? Nora chuckled. Hes fifteen years younger than me, but the age gap is only eight. Hes in the prime of his life!
At the registry office they refused to process the marriage instantly. A stern clerk in a crisp suit measured them with a suspicious glance and dryly explained the law requires a months noticeso they have time to think, she added, pausing meaningfully.
The Polish workers, having done their part, left for their jobs. But before they went, the young manPiotr Kowalskiasked for my telephone number.
Alone in a strange town, he explained, and in his eyes I recognized a familiar feelingconfusion.
He began calling every evening. At first the calls were brief and shy, then grew longer, more open. Piotr turned out to be an extraordinary conversationalist. He spoke of his mountains, of a sun that seemed different, of his beloved mother, and of why hed come to England to support his large family. He asked about my life, my work with the children, and I, to my surprise, found myself sharing. I laughed into the receiver, a bright, girlish laugh, forgetting my age and my weight. Over that month we learned more about each other than many couples do in years.
A month later Piotr returned. I slipped into my only silver dress, snug against my figure, feeling a strange flutternot fear, but a trembling anticipation. His fellow countrymen, same wiry, serious lads, stood as witnesses. The ceremony for the registry officials was swift and routine, but for me it was a flash of brilliance: the glint of rings, the formal words, the surreal feeling of something truly happening.
After the registration Piotr escorted me home. Entering the familiar room, he solemnly handed me an envelope with money, just as wed agreed. I took it, feeling an odd weight in my handboth the burden of my choice, my desperation, and a new role. Then he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside, on black velvet, lay a delicate gold chain.
This is for you, he whispered. I wanted a ring but didnt know the size. I I dont want to go back. I want you to truly be my wife.
I stood frozen, unable to speak.
In this month Ive heard your soul through the phone, he continued, his eyes alight with a mature, serious fire. Its kind and pure, like my mothers. My mum passed away; she was my fathers second wife, loved beyond measure. Ive fallen for you, Blythe, truly. Let me stay here, with you.
It wasnt a sham marriage after all. It was a heartfelt proposal. And looking into his sincere, earnest eyes, I saw not pity but something I hadnt dared to dream of for years: respect, gratitude, tenderness blossoming before my very eyes.
The next day Piotr left again, but it was no longer a farewelljust the start of a waiting period. He worked in Manchester with his compatriots, returning on weekends. When I learned I was carrying a child, Piotr made a decisive move: he sold part of his share in a small haulage firm, bought a secondhand Ford Transit, and returned to Littleford for good. He began transporting people and goods to the nearest market town, and his business quickly grew thanks to his hard work and honesty.
Soon our son arrived, and three years later a secondtwo handsome, freckled boys with their fathers eyes and my gentle temperament. Our house filled with laughter, squeals, tiny footsteps, and the warm scent of a true family life.
My husband never drinks or smokesour faith forbids ityet he is industrious and looks at me with a love that makes the neighbours turn green with envy. The eightyear age gap melted away in that love, becoming invisible.
But the greatest miracle happened to me. I seemed to blossom from within. Pregnancy, a happy marriage, caring for my husband and children made my body transform. The extra kilograms melted away day by day, as if the unnecessary shell finally fell off, revealing the delicate, tender being beneath. I didnt go on dietslife simply overflowed with movement, duties, joy. I grew more beautiful, my eyes gained a sparkle, my step became springy and confident.
Sometimes, sitting by the stove that Piotr now tends with care, I watch my boys playing on the carpet and feel the warm, admiring gaze of my husband upon me. Then I think back to that strange evening, the two hundred pounds, the neighbour Nora, and how the greatest wonder doesnt thunder like a storm but knocks gently at a door. A stranger with sad eyes once gave me not a fake union, but a genuine life. New. Real.
