**The Pearl Earring**
The movers didn’t bother carefully disassembling the old sofa—it was going straight to the dump anyway. They hacked at it with an axe and pried it apart with a crowbar. The side panels leaned against the wall, and as they tackled the backrest, something clinked and rolled across the wooden floor. A small, glimmering object tumbled out from beneath the sofa, stopping at Anton’s feet. He bent down and picked up a delicate gold earring with a tiny white stone. Simple, unassuming, and modest.
There was no mistake—it was *the* earring. Anton turned it over in his palm, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it. Memories surged like a whirlpool, pulling him into the past…
***
Anton grew up in an ordinary family. His mother worked as a nursery teacher, while his father drove buses for a living.
“Study hard, Anton,” his father would say. “Get a degree, earn good money—maybe even start your own business. Make something of yourself, not like us.”
His mother chimed in, “Education is important, but you can’t start a business without money. And where will we get it from? Marry a girl from a well-off family, then you’ll have everything. Your father and I had nothing—no money, no rich relatives, no education. We had to work for every little thing.”
“Oh, come off it, Mum,” his father chuckled. “We did alright, didn’t we? Look at the fine lad we raised.”
Anton listened, silent.
He’d been blessed with good looks, never short of female attention since school. He fell effortlessly into university and just as effortlessly fell for Vicky—the prettiest girl in his year, a blonde with model-like features. He always sat beside her in lectures, and together, they looked like a picture-perfect couple.
Anton never cared about her parents. He was planning to marry *her*, not them. But as it turned out, they were well-off—her mother an optician, her father a furniture businessman.
Plenty of blokes fancied Vicky, but she chose Anton. At first, everything was grand, but as they grew closer, she started nitpicking. She criticised the way he dressed, pushing him to buy designer labels. Anton couldn’t afford them, so Vicky bought them for him instead. But his pride wouldn’t let him accept expensive gifts, and they argued.
“Are you ashamed of me?” he’d ask.
“Don’t be daft,” Vicky replied. “But first impressions matter, and I *want* to get you nice clothes. I can afford it.”
“It’s your *dad’s* money, not yours,” Anton argued.
“What’s the difference?”
But Anton wouldn’t budge, and Vicky eventually dropped it—she didn’t want to lose him.
His parents had long since guessed he was smitten and insisted on meeting her. His mother cooked a proper Sunday roast, laid out the good plates. But in simple homes like theirs, knives weren’t part of the table setting.
Vicky whispered to Anton to fetch her one. His family didn’t own proper table knives, so he gave her a plain kitchen knife instead. His parents exchanged glances as she awkwardly sawed through her meat. Anton suddenly felt the gulf between Vicky’s world and his. He wasn’t ashamed of his family—he was ashamed of *himself*.
“She’s lovely, son,” his mother sighed after Vicky left. “But she’s not for you. She’s out of your league. I shouldn’t have put those ideas in your head.”
“Mum, this has nothing to do with your advice. I love *her*, not her parents. Didn’t you like her?”
“Oh, she’s beautiful. But you’re not suited.”
“Let the lad decide for himself,” his father cut in.
His mother waved a hand dismissively.
For days, Anton practised using a knife properly—he was meeting her parents soon, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself.
Vicky’s parents turned out to be refined but down-to-earth. Her mother could’ve passed for her older sister, and her father, despite being a businessman, didn’t fuss with cutlery at all. Anton’s knife-skills impressed Vicky, though.
“My parents like you,” she told him later. “Dad always says the best husbands come from humble backgrounds. You remind him of himself. And he’ll help with your career.”
Vicky started talking marriage—venues, honeymoons, how her father would handle everything. It made Anton uneasy. He didn’t *want* to live off her parents. He wasn’t earning yet—how could he give her the life she expected? Like his own parents, he wasn’t used to relying on others.
“Good lad,” his father supported him. “Don’t sell yourself for a comfortable life.”
Friends teased, “You’re not even married yet, and already under her thumb.”
Anton laughed it off, but it gnawed at him. Then he shrugged—he still had his final year, and he hadn’t even *proposed* yet. No need to rush into anything.
After summer exams, Vicky left for Spain with her family—they owned a holiday home there.
The moment she left, Anton felt a breath of freedom. He finally hung out with mates, dancing in a London club where he spotted Cara. She wasn’t a stunner, but pretty in a warm way. While others flailed to the beat, she moved gracefully, lost in the music.
She’d toss her curly hair, exposing a slender neck, sway her hips, then let her curls tumble back. Anton couldn’t look away.
Vicky danced well too, but she performed—Cara danced for the sheer joy of it.
Anton slid to her table and asked for a dance. That’s how they met. She was visiting London for a friend’s birthday, also in her final year at uni.
“Cara—short for anything?” he joked.
“Just Cara,” she smiled.
They walked along the Thames, watching the city lights shimmer on the water.
“Oh no,” she gasped suddenly. “My friend’s place is across the bridge!”
Anton grinned. “My nan’s flat’s nearby. She’s away—I’ve got keys. You can stay there if you like. I promise to behave.”
They drank tea, ate biscuits, talked for hours—like they’d known each other forever. Anton settled Cara on the sofa and took the spare room. But sleep wouldn’t come. The old bed creaked as he tossed.
“You awake?” Cara whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Come here.”
He lay beside her, careful not to touch her. Then she curled into him, and everything else dissolved. They fell asleep at dawn.
When Anton woke, the flat smelled of pancakes. Cara stood in the kitchen wearing his t-shirt. He crept up and swept her into his arms. Breakfast was very, very late.
“I’ve got to go,” Cara sighed, pulling on her coat. “Mum’s expecting me.”
His chest ached. He’d *forgotten* she was leaving.
“Stay one more day,” he begged.
“I can’t.”
At the door, Cara panicked—she’d lost an earring. They tore the sofa apart, scoured the floor, hunted every inch of the flat. Nothing.
“Maybe I dropped it at the club?” Anton suggested.
“Maybe. But there’s no time. It’s gone.”
“It’s a sign. Stay.”
But Cara was upset—her dad had given her those earrings before he passed. They were her lucky charm.
Anton swallowed hard. “If I find it, I’ll call.”
He barely saved her number before her train pulled away, leaving him hollow.
He searched everywhere—the club, the streets, the flat again. It was gone.
He called Cara a few times, but the conversations faltered. What could he promise? He had Vicky; Cara probably had someone too.
“Forget it,” she finally said.
And he tried.
Graduation came. Decisions had to be made. So Anton did what everyone expected—he proposed. In the jeweller’s, he spotted earrings identical to Cara’s.
“What are you looking at?” Vicky frowned.
“Those earrings.”
“Ugh. Tacky.”
Anton flushed but stayed silent.
Her father offered to buy them a flat. Anton refused—the first time he’d ever pushed back.
“You want to make your own way? Respect,” her father nodded.
In the end, his nan moved in with his parents, leaving her flat to them.
A month before the wedding, Vicky insisted on redecorating. That’s how the movers ended up dismantling the old sofa, the one where Anton and Cara had—
“Whose is this?” Vicky’s voice startled him.
“Dunno,” Anton lied. “Nan’s, probably. She lost one ages ago.”
“Ring her then. Bet she’ll be chuffed.”
As the movers hauled the sofa out, Anton rushed to hold the door. He never expected Vicky to callBut when Vicky dialled his nan herself and was met with confusion—neither she nor his mother had ever owned such earrings—Anton knew the truth was out, and at last, he was free to chase the love he’d never really forgotten.
