**The Pearl**
Mum had been baking and cooking all morning, filling the kitchen with delicious smells that made Andrew’s mouth water.
“Mum, I’m starving—can I just try a little?” he whined, darting into the kitchen for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Be patient. Guests will be here soon, and then we’ll all sit down to eat.”
“How much longer?” he grumbled.
“Have an apple. It won’t ruin your appetite,” she said, nodding toward the fruit bowl on the table.
“Yeah, right. It’ll just make me hungrier,” Andrew sighed but grabbed an apple anyway before trudging back to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Andrew was nine but looked no older than a first-year. Every adult felt obliged to comment:
“You’re so small…”
“Mustn’t eat enough…”
“Ready for school yet? Wait—you’re in *Year Three*? No way!”
And each offered the same useless advice: *eat more*.
His classmates laughed at him, teased him relentlessly. When it got too much, he’d skip school, faking illness. Oddly enough, his throat would turn red, his temperature would spike—but the moment he faced their taunts again, it all flared up.
He was bright, but the missed classes dragged his marks down. Mum panicked, dragging him from doctor to doctor.
“Doctor, why is my son so small? He barely grows! His father and I are normal-sized—”
“No developmental concerns. Everyone grows at their own pace,” yet another specialist assured her. “He’ll catch up.”
“Give it time. Ever heard of Stallone? Bullied as a kid, took up weightlifting—now look at him,” another said.
Andrew was prescribed vitamins, fresh air, and hearty meals. They might’ve kept “treating” him forever if one sharp doctor hadn’t pinned it all on stress—his body reacting to misery. A different school or homeschooling was suggested. Andrew switched, stopped “falling ill” overnight.
Now, munching his apple, he watched boys kicking a football in the yard. They never let him play.
“Clear off—don’t need you underfoot. If you get hurt, we’ll catch hell from your parents. Scram.” So he’d walk away, head low. Who could he play with? Not the little kids. He had no friends.
How desperately he wanted to catch up. No one understood his torment. Every night, he prayed to wake up taller. Every morning, nothing changed.
Before he could finish his apple—or his self-pity—the doorbell rang. *Finally, guests.* But Andrew didn’t budge. Mum peeked in.
“Andrew, come on—we’re sitting down to eat.”
“Not hungry. They’ll just fuss over me—*How old are you? Why so tiny? Not eating enough?* I’m sick of it.”
“No one will say a word, promise. It’s Dad’s colleague with his wife and daughter. You’re starving; come on.”
Andrew left the apple core on the windowsill and slouched out—Mum’s cooking was too good to miss.
“This is Andrew, our son,” she said, nudging him toward a chair.
Clearly, she’d warned them—no remarks. The elegant woman opposite gave him an encouraging smile. Beside her sat the most extraordinary girl, her spitting image. Andrew stole glances between bites. She was maybe two years older. When their eyes met, his heart stuttered. Hers were the colour of sea-green waves under sunlight, her hair long and golden.
“Andrew, you must be bored with grown-up talk,” Mum said. “Show Emily your photo albums. He’s quite the photographer.”
*Emily.* The name suited her—just as striking as she was. She stood, waiting. Tall. Graceful.
“Sit here,” he said in his room, patting the sofa. He pulled an album from the shelf and settled beside her, explaining each shot—where, when, why.
“Why no people in your photos?”
“Dunno. Prefer nature. Look—sunset lights up every blade of grass.”
“Beautiful. Could you take one of me?”
“Sure, but the light’s fading—”
“Doesn’t matter.” She smoothed her hair. “Ready.”
“Hold still… Relax, smile a little. Now turn toward the window.” He clicked the shutter.
“Can I see? Oh—I look *lovely*! Print it? I’ll frame it. Never had a photo this nice.”
“I’ll take better ones,” he promised, glowing at her praise.
The ease between them was instant. Same books, same films. Emily, too, had few friends. Andrew forgot to fret about his height. He *liked* her. When Mum called her to leave, his disappointment was sharp.
He uploaded the photos that night, fiddling with filters, unaware of Mum entering.
“Lovely girl,” she said.
Andrew startled.
“Her parents invited us next weekend. Fancy going? Print this one—frame it for her. You’ve got talent.” She ruffled his hair.
They started calling.
“I’ll marry her when I grow up,” Andrew announced one bedtime.
Mum gave him a sad look, tucked him in, and switched off the light. He lay awake, imagining himself tall, strong—*Stallone-like*—and Emily adoring him.
By Year 6, he was back in school, gym-obsessed. After Year 8, his parents sent him to sports camp.
“My God—you’ve *shot up*!” Mum gasped upon his return.
And he had. Still shorter than peers, but not conspicuously. A barber gave him a sleek cut—short back, longer top, thick chestnut hair styled just right.
“Look at you,” Mum said. “Off somewhere?”
“Emily’s. Can’t reach her—phone’s always off.”
“Wait. She’s gone.”
“What? School starts next week!”
“Her parents divorced. The new wife shipped her to boarding school in Scotland—‘less distraction.’ She’ll finish there, maybe uni. Her mother’s… unwell. The divorce hit her hard.”
“Why didn’t she *tell* me?”
“Probably overwhelmed. The school’s strict—calls once a month, parents only. So—”
“Why didn’t *you* tell me?” His voice cracked. Her silence felt like betrayal.
“And if I had, what then? She’ll return after school. If her mother recovers, she might visit sooner—”
“Mother’s in a *mental ward*?”
“Not a *ward*, a clinic—”
“Same difference. Her dad’s a *wanker*. You all—”
“Andrew!” But he was already slamming the door behind him.
No one laughed at him in class now. Girls glanced his way. But the haircut wasn’t for them—it was for *her*, impossibly far away.
In Year 10, Emily called.
“You’re back?” he blurted.
“Wow—your *voice*! I barely recognised you.”
“Five-foot-six now,” he said proudly. “So?”
“Someone’s coming—” Her whisper faded. “I’m calling without permission… They’ll punish me—” The line went dead.
But his mood soared. *She remembered him.*
Emily’s father never visited again. Andrew knew nothing, had no one to ask. After A-levels, he started uni. By his math, she should’ve returned by then.
One day, an unknown number called.
“Andrew?”
“Who else? Still in Scotland?”
Silence.
“You there?”
“I’m… getting married,” she said softly, then rushed words he couldn’t catch before hanging up.
He redialed. No answer. *Married? To who? It should’ve been me.* He nearly cried with frustration.
Two years later, he wed a pretty girl who faintly resembled Emily. She babbled about clothes, nails, wanting a *nose job*. Kids? *”Ruins your figure.”* Cooking? *”Can’t be bothered.”* A year later, divorce.
Mum nagged about grandchildren, how first marriages often fail. Andrew tuned her out.
He worked, bought a flat with parental help, a car on his own. Then Mum called: *Emily’s back.*
“So?” he said flatly. “Years without a word.”
“You don’t know what she endured. Husband—a gambler, addict. Left her penniless. She barely escaped. Said she’d visit again. Forgot to ask her address.”
“Not with her dad?”
“Bankrupt. Young wife bled him dry. Sold the house—lives in some tiny flat now.”
They bumped into each other at a shopping centre before New Year’s, both hunting gifts. She spotted him first.
“Emily?”
“Who else? You’ve changed—taller, distinguished. I’m back. Dad set up a trust—bought a flat, got Mum out of hospital. And you?”
“Why no calls? I *waited*.”They stood in the quiet of his flat, her framed photo—now yellowed—on the shelf between them, and he whispered, “We’ve wasted enough time,” before pulling her close, finally home.