It was all because of that Italian air…
Lydia was a quiet, plain girl. Even her mother admitted nature hadn’t been kind—thin hair, a strong nose, uneven skin, and a weak chin. “With looks like that, she’ll struggle to find a husband,” her dad would sigh.
Yet Lydia had a gentle, kind heart. She never let on how much her appearance bothered her, but of course, it did. “Don’t fret, love,” her mum said. “It’s not about beauty. The right man will see your soul.”
But souls take time to notice, and no one gave Lydia a second glance. Men preferred pretty girls with doll-like faces.
She became a psychologist—a job where looks didn’t matter. Her warmth and sincerity made her good at it. Soon, she was in demand. Her parents helped her buy a flat. Life was steady—except for one thing: love never came.
Then one day, a man brought his grown-up daughter to her for therapy. The girl, Sophie, had been heartbroken after a divorce. At first, she acted like she was doing her dad a favour by being there—but after two sessions, she was eager to return. Her father, Michael, came to thank Lydia.
“You worked magic on her,” he said. “She’s herself again. Please, let me take you to dinner.”
Over wine, he opened up—raising Sophie alone after his wife left them for a man in America. “I never remarried. Didn’t want to upset Sophie. Now she’s grown, and I’m still alone.”
“You’ll meet someone,” Lydia reassured him.
“Would you be interested?” he asked bluntly.
Lydia flushed. She wasn’t prepared for that.
“Think about it,” he said gently. “I’m serious, and I’m not getting any younger.”
She told her mum later. “Don’t overthink it,” her mum said. “Love fades. Companionship lasts.”
So Lydia agreed.
At the wedding, makeup artists worked wonders. Michael beamed with pride. He was a good husband—tender, caring, always calling her “Lyddie.” Life was calm. She’d come home tired, and he’d bring her warm milk, tuck a blanket around her. What more could she ask?
One day, an old schoolmate came to her for therapy—once the prettiest girl in class, now worn down by three failed marriages. “Beauty doesn’t guarantee happiness,” Lydia realised.
Then Michael fell ill. Cancer. He grew sharp with pain, but Lydia nursed him without complaint. Sophie blamed her—”If he hadn’t married you, he’d be fine.”
One day, Michael insisted she take a break. “Go to Italy. Ten days. I’ve arranged it.”
She refused, terrified something would happen. “Sophie will be here,” he said. “Go. You’re exhausted.”
Reluctantly, she went.
Italy was bliss—sea air, pasta, freedom. One evening, a handsome local, Antonio, chatted her up. She awkwardly escaped, but later, he gave her a tour. By sunset, she was smitten.
When the trip ended, he begged her to stay. She couldn’t—not with Michael so ill. On the plane, she tore up Antonio’s number.
Back home, Michael was worse. Sophie had hired a nurse. Then Lydia felt queasy… and tests revealed the truth.
“I’m pregnant,” she admitted, bracing for anger.
Instead, Michael smiled. “A boy, I think. Register him as mine. He’ll be my son.”
She clung to him, weeping. Maybe she did love him.
As he faded, she glowed with life. Then, one day, she came home to an ambulance.
He was gone. Under his pillow, a letter: *Lyddie…* She couldn’t read past the tears.
At the funeral, Sophie screeched accusations. “You killed him!”
Three months later, Lydia had a son—beautiful, unlike her. “Must be the Italian air,” she’d joke.
Maybe it was the air, or fleeting love, or just her good heart. Over time, even her face softened.
Her son was her joy. And joy, as they say, beautifies any woman.
