**The Secret Gift of Anthony: A Twist of Fate**
I woke to the clatter of a frying pan, the whistle of the kettle, and the rich scent of fried potatoes filling the kitchen. It was Dad—Peter—getting ready for his dawn fishing trip, as he always did. His old motorbike groaned outside, waiting, while he fussed with sandwiches, a Thermos, and checked his tackle. He tried to be quiet, but Mum stirred anyway. She’d felt unwell since last night but thought rest might help. Peter, cheerful at the thought of a morning by the lake, didn’t know the day would bring not peace, but a terrible shock.
Once the motorbike rumbled away, Mum tried to sleep, but then pain gripped her stomach, dizziness swept in. She gasped, “Anthony! Call an ambulance, love!”
Bleary-eyed, I rushed to her side, saw her pale face, and snatched up the phone. The ambulance took too long. I gave her water, tucked the blanket around her, but fear coiled inside me. Desperate, I hugged her tight—and then I felt it. Her weakness drained into me. A minute later, she sat up, colour returning to her lips. “It’s gone, love. Like magic.”
I stepped back, breath heavy. Again. This strange gift—taking others’ pain—had haunted me since childhood. It was as if something old and wise lived inside me, letting me heal… but at my own cost.
Meanwhile, Dad ran into trouble. His bike stalled on a wooded bend, and by sheer luck, a speeding jeep didn’t hit him. The driver—a man in an expensive jacket—leapt out, frantic. “You alright? Christ, mate, I’m sorry! Look, take this—no police, yeah?” He shoved two thick wads of cash into Peter’s hands, then sped off. Dad towed the bike home, shell-shocked.
At dusk, Mum met him at the door, tears brimming. “Where were you? I nearly died here, and you—what about your fish?”
Dad, pale, clutched the money. “This is… for my life, Mary. It could’ve ended today.”
Soon, a second-hand but sturdy car sat in our drive. Dad beamed like a boy. “Now we’ve got wheels for life!”
I lay weak in bed. Mum grumbled, “One’s always off fishing, the other’s lounging about! You ought to marry, but no—just loafing!”
But soon, I recovered. A job came—installing kitchen fittings at a new house. That’s where I saw Emily. She watched me work in silence, her gaze warm and kind.
Next day, I went back—claiming I’d forgotten fittings. I fixed the handles; she offered tea. Scones, quiet, soft smiles. Then, suddenly, I said, “What if we went out? Cinema, maybe. Meet each other’s families. Then… a wedding?”
Emily didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”
And so it began. Our wedding brought joy. I was made foreman, work thrived. Then came news—Emily was expecting.
Sometimes I recalled Gran’s words: “Some people lose their will to live. They sit idle. You must help, Anthony… but don’t forget to save yourself too.”
I tried. I hid the toll my “gifts” took. I stayed silent when called a loner. And in private, I accepted it—if this was my burden, so be it. But at least now, I wasn’t alone.
