**The Pearl**
Mum was baking and boiling something in the kitchen since morning. The rich, mouthwatering smells made Andrew’s stomach growl.
*”Mum, I’m starving. Can’t I just have a taste?”* he whined, darting into the kitchen for the third time.
*”Be patient. We’ve got guests coming soon. Then we’ll all sit down and eat.”*
*”How much longer?”* Andrew grumbled.
*”Have an apple for now. It won’t spoil your appetite,”* Mum said, nodding at the fruit bowl on the table.
*”Right. Like that won’t just make me hungrier,”* he sighed, but he took the apple anyway and shuffled off to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Andrew was nine, but he looked no bigger than a Year One pupil. Every grown-up felt it their duty to comment on his height—
*”My, aren’t you tiny?”*
*”You mustn’t be eating enough.”*
*”Starting school soon? Already in Year Three? You’re joking!”*
And they all advised him to eat more.
His classmates laughed at him, called him names. When it got too much, Andrew skipped school. He’d fake an illness. Oddly enough, his throat would turn red, his temperature would spike. Mum would call the doctor. But the moment he went back to school and faced the jeers again, it all repeated.
He was a good student, but the absences piled up. Mum panicked, dragged him to specialists.
*”Doctor, why is my son so small? He’s not growing at all. His father and I are average height—”*
*”No developmental abnormalities. People grow at different rates. He’ll catch up,”* yet another medical expert assured her.
*”Give it time. Ever heard of Stallone? Bullied as a kid, too. Started lifting weights. Look at him now,”* another said.
They prescribed vitamins, fresh air, hearty meals. Poor Andrew might’ve been stuffed full of treatments forever if one clever doctor hadn’t pinned it all on stress and suggested homeschooling. Once he switched, the “illnesses” stopped.
Andrew bit into his apple, watching the lads in the yard kick a football around. They never let him play.
*”Piss off before you get hurt. We don’t need your mum screeching at us.”*
So he left, head down. Who could he play with? Not the little kids. He had no friends.
How desperately he wanted to catch up. No one understood his misery. Every night, he hoped morning would bring a miracle—that he’d wake up taller. But it never came.
Before he’d finished the apple or wallowed enough in self-pity, the doorbell rang. Finally, the guests. But he stayed put. Soon, Mum peeked in.
*”Andrew, come on. The table’s set.”*
*”Not coming. They’ll just fuss—’What year are you in? Why so small? Not eating?’ I’m sick of it.”*
*”No one will say a word, I promise. Your father’s colleague’s here with his wife and daughter. You’re hungry. Come on.”*
Andrew left the apple core on the windowsill and trudged out—because he *was* starving. Mum didn’t cook like this every day.
*”This is Andrew, our son,”* Mum introduced, nudging him toward an empty chair.
She must’ve warned them. No one said a thing. The elegant woman across from him gave an encouraging smile. Next to her sat a girl who looked just like her—only extraordinary. Andrew kept stealing glances. She was maybe two years older. When their eyes met, his heart stuttered. Her eyes were the colour of the ocean on a clear day, her hair long and fair.
*”Andrew, you must be bored with grown-up talk. Why don’t you show Mabel your photo albums? Our boy’s quite the photographer,”* Mum said.
*Mabel.* He mouthed the name—as unusual as she was.
Mabel was already up, waiting. Tall, poised.
*”Sit here,”* Andrew said in his room, pointing to the sofa. He grabbed an album and settled beside her, flipping through shots, explaining where and when he’d taken each.
*”Why aren’t there any people in your photos?”*
*”Dunno. Prefer nature. Look—how the sunset lights up every blade of grass.”*
*”It’s beautiful. Could you take one of me?”*
*”Course. But the light’s fading.”*
*”Doesn’t matter.”* She smoothed her hair. *”Ready.”*
*”Hold still. Relax. Smile a bit. Now turn toward the window—”* Click.
*”Can I see? Oh, I look lovely! Print it? I’ll frame it.”*
*”I’ll take even better ones next time,”* he promised, glowing under her praise.
They talked books, films. Turns out Mabel didn’t have many friends either. For once, Andrew forgot to fret about his height. He liked her. Really liked her. When Mum came to fetch her—parents were leaving—his heart sank.
That evening, he uploaded the photos, fiddled with filters. Didn’t notice Mum enter.
*”Pretty girl,”* she said.
He startled.
*”Her parents invited us over next weekend. Fancy it? You should print that one—frame it for her. You’ve got talent.”* She ruffled his hair.
After that, they called each other often.
*”When I grow up, I’ll marry her,”* Andrew announced one night.
Mum gave him a sad look, tucked him in, turned off the lamp. He lay awake, imagining himself tall, strong—like Stallone—and Mabel loving him back.
By Year Seven, he was back in school, stretching on gym equipment daily. After Year Nine, his parents packed him off to sports camp for two sessions straight.
*”Look at you!”* Mum gasped when he returned.
He *had* shot up. Still shorter than his peers, but no longer tiny. At the barber’s, he asked for a trendy cut—short back, longer on top. The result was sharp.
*”So grown-up,”* Mum said. *”Off somewhere?”*
*”Mabel’s. Can’t reach her—her phone’s always off.”*
*”Wait. She’s not in town.”*
*”What? School starts next week.”*
*”Her parents divorced. The new wife talked her father into sending her to a boarding school in Scotland. No distractions. She’ll finish there, go to uni. Her mum’s in hospital—took the divorce hard…”*
*”Why didn’t she tell me?”*
*”She’s overwhelmed. The school’s strict—one call a month, parents only. So…”*
*”Why didn’t *you* tell me?”* His voice cracked. Her silence felt like betrayal.
*”And what would you have done? She’ll come back. Maybe for holidays, if her mum recovers.”*
*”Her mum’s in a *mental hospital*?”*
*”A clinic, not—”*
*”What’s the difference? Her dad’s a prick. You *all*—”* He slammed the door on his way out.
At school, no one mocked him now. Girls glanced his way. But the haircut wasn’t for them. It was for *her*, now oceans away.
In Year Eleven, Mabel called unexpectedly.
*”You’re back?”* he blurted.
*”Wow, your voice. I didn’t recognise you.”*
*”Five-foot-six now,”* he said proudly. *”So, you’re back?”*
*”Someone’s coming—”* Her whisper faded. *”I’m not supposed to call. They’ll punish me—”* The line died.
But his spirits soared. She’d called! She remembered!
Mabel’s father never visited again. Andrew knew nothing, had no one to ask. After A-levels, he started uni. By his maths, she should’ve returned by now. Then, one day, a call from an unknown number.
*”Andrew?”*
*”Who else? Still in Scotland?”*
Silence.
*”You there?”* he muttered.
*”I’m getting married…”* The line went dead.
He redialled. No answer. *Married? To who? That should’ve been me.* He nearly wept with frustration.
Two years later, he married a pretty girl who vaguely resembled Mabel. All she cared about were clothes, nails, and fixing her nose. Kids? Would *ruin* her figure. She couldn’t cook—lived off toast and scrambled eggs. They split within a year.
Mum nudged him about grandchildren, fresh starts. He tuned her out.
He worked, bought a flat with his parents’ help, a car on his own. Then Mum called—Then, one rainy afternoon, years later, as he flipped through old photographs, the doorbell rang—and there she stood, her ocean eyes filled with tears, whispering, *”Took me long enough to find my way back.”*
