The Pearl
Mum’s been baking and cooking in the kitchen all morning. The mouth-watering smells make Andrew’s stomach growl.
“Mum, I’m starving. Can I just have a little taste?” he whines, popping into the kitchen for the fifth time.
“Be patient. The guests will be here soon, and then we’ll all eat together.”
“How much longer?” he grumbles, scowling.
“Have an apple for now. It won’t ruin your appetite,” Mum says, nodding toward the fruit bowl on the table.
“Yeah, right. It’ll just make me hungrier,” Andrew sighs, but he grabs an apple anyway and stomps off to his room, shutting the door behind him.
Andrew’s nine, but he looks no older than a Year One pupil. Every adult feels the need to comment:
“You’re so small…”
“You mustn’t eat enough…”
“Are you starting school this year? Already in Year Three? No way!”
They all tell him to eat more.
His classmates tease him mercilessly. When it gets too much, he skips school, pretending to be ill. Strangely, his throat turns red, and his temperature spikes. Mum calls the doctor. But the moment he returns to school and faces the jeers, it happens again.
He’s bright, but the absences drag his grades down. Mum panics, hauling him from one doctor to another.
“Doctor, why is he so small? He’s not growing at all. His father and I are normal, but he—”
“There’s no developmental delay. Children grow at different rates. He’ll catch up,” yet another medical expert assures her.
“Give it time. You ever hear of Stallone? Bullied as a kid, then he hit the gym, built himself up—now he’s a star,” another says.
They prescribe vitamins, fresh air, and hearty meals.
Poor Andrew might’ve been stuck in this cycle forever if one sharp doctor hadn’t diagnosed his condition as psychosomatic, suggesting a new school or homeschooling. Once Andrew started learning at home, his “illnesses” vanished.
Now, he nibbles the apple, watching the lads kick a ball in the yard. They never let him play.
“Don’t get under our feet. We’ll clatter you, and your parents’ll go spare. Not worth it. Clear off.”
He slinks away, head bowed. Who’s he meant to play with? Not the little kids. He’s got no friends.
If only he could catch up to his peers. No one understands how it hurts. Every night, he hopes for a miracle—that he’ll wake up taller. But miracles don’t happen.
Before he finishes the apple or wallows too deeply, the doorbell rings. The guests are here. He doesn’t move. Soon, Mum peeks in.
“Andrew, come on. We’re sitting down to eat.”
“Not going. They’ll just fuss: ‘What year are you in? Why so small? Don’t you eat?’ I’m sick of it.”
“No one will say a word, I promise. Dad’s colleague is here with his wife and daughter. You’re hungry—come on.”
Andrew leaves the apple core on the windowsill and trudges out. Mum’s cooking is too good to miss.
“This is Andrew, our son,” Mum introduces him, nudging him toward an empty chair.
She must’ve warned them, because no one remarks on his size. The elegant woman opposite gives him an encouraging smile. Beside her sits a remarkable girl, her mirror image. Andrew sneaks glances between bites. She’s maybe two years older. When their eyes meet, his heart stutters. Hers are the colour of the sea on a sunny day, and her long blonde hair gleams.
“Andrew, you’re probably bored with grown-up talk. Why don’t you show Milena your albums? He’s keen on photography—quite talented, actually,” Mum says.
Milena. The name fits her perfectly. She’s already standing, waiting for him to lead the way. Tall and slender.
“Sit here,” he says, pointing to the sofa. He grabs an album from the shelf and sits beside her, explaining each shot—where and when he took it.
“Why are there no 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. Light’s fading, though.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She adjusts her hair, settles comfortably. “Ready.”
“Stay just like that. Relax, tiny smile—good. Now turn your head toward the window.” He clicks the shutter.
“Can I see? Wow, I look gorgeous! Print it? I’ll frame it. Never had a photo this nice.”
“I’ll take even better ones,” he promises, glowing at her praise.
Talking’s easy. They love the same books, the same films. Milena hardly has friends either. Andrew forgets to feel self-conscious about his height. He likes her. A lot. When Mum calls her to leave, his stomach sinks.
He transfers the photos to his laptop, tweaking filters all evening. Mum’s voice startles him.
“Lovely girl.”
Andrew jumps.
“Her parents invited us over next weekend. You’ll come? Print that one, frame it—give it to her. You’ve got a gift.” She ruffles his hair.
They start calling each other.
“I’m marrying her when I grow up,” Andrew declares one night.
Mum sighs but says nothing, just tucks him in. He stares at the ceiling, imagining himself tall, strong—like Stallone—and Milena loving him back.
By Year Six, he’s back in school, straining on the gym equipment. After Year Eight, his parents send him to a sports camp for two terms straight.
“Look at you!” Mum gasps when he returns.
He’s shot up. Still shorter than most, but no longer tiny. He gets a trendy haircut—thick chestnut hair trimmed close at the back, left longer on top.
“So grown-up,” Mum says. “Where are you off to?”
“Milena’s. She’s not answering her phone.”
“Wait. She’s gone.”
“What? School starts next week.”
“Her parents divorced. The new wife pushed her dad to send her to boarding school in England. She’ll finish there, then college. Her mum’s in hospital—took the divorce hard…”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She was shattered. The school’s strict—one call a month, parents only.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” he yells, tears welling. Her silence feels like betrayal.
“What would you have done? She’ll come back. If her mum recovers, she might visit.”
“Her mum’s in a mental hospital?”
“A clinic—”
“Same difference! Her dad’s a prick. All of you—” His voice cracks.
“Andrew!” Mum snaps, but he’s already slamming the door behind him.
No one mocks him in class now. Girls glance his way. But the haircut wasn’t for them. It was for her, oceans away.
In Year Ten, Milena calls out of the blue.
“You’re back?” he blurts.
“Wow, your voice! I didn’t recognize you.”
“Five-foot-five now,” he boasts. “So, you’re back?”
“—Someone’s coming,” she whispers. “I’m calling without permission—they’ll punish me—” The line goes dead.
But his mood soars. She called. She remembers!
Her dad never visits again. Andrew hears nothing more. At university, he calculates she should’ve returned by now. Then, an unknown number flashes.
“Andrew?”
“Who else? Still in England?”
Silence.
“You there?”
“I’m getting married,” she murmurs. The line cuts.
He redials. No answer. “Married? That should’ve been me.” He nearly cries with frustration.
Two years later, he weds a pretty girl who vaguely resembles Milena. She prattles about clothes, nails, and nose jobs. Kids? Ruin her figure. Cooking? Cheese toasties and scrambled eggs—that’s it. They divorce within a year.
Mum hints at grandchildren, insists first marriages often fail. Andrew won’t hear it.
He works hard. His parents help buy a flat; he gets a car himself. One day, Mum calls:
“Milena came by. She’s back.”
“So?” he says flatly. “Years without a word.”
“You don’t know what she endured. Her husband was a gambler, an addict. Left her penniless. She barely escaped. Said she’d visit again. Sorry—I didn’t get her address.”
“Not staying with her dad?”
“No. His new wife cleaned him out. Sold the house—lives in some tiny flat now.”
They bump into each other at the mall, days before New Year’s, both shopping for gifts. She spots him first.
“MilThey married the following spring and spent the rest of their lives loving each other as though no time had ever been lost.
