Shared Hearts - By Nethaya S Bastian

Written By: Nethaya S Bastian

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Nethaya S Bastian presents "Shared Hearts," a moving short story submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This remarkable narrative dives into themes of family, identity, and the intricate bonds that shape our lives. Through the protagonist's journey, Nethaya crafts an introspective exploration of the complexities of mother-daughter relationships, ultimately revealing the profound connections that transcend conventional ties.

About the Work

"Shared Hearts" is a beautifully woven tale that explores the themes of identity and familial bonds. The narrative unfolds with intricate character development, shedding light on the protagonist's emotional journey toward self-discovery. The story's vivid imagery and emotive language captivate readers, drawing them into a world where love is both a refuge and a revelation. The mood shifts from warmth to tension, culminating in a profound understanding of what it means to be truly connected.

Shared Hearts

Original Submission by Nethaya S Bastian

Shared Hearts

* By Nethaya S Bastian

From the first time I knew her, she was a gentle flower. Her milky skin - warm and comforting - embraced my tiny figure in a clasp, reminding that I was never allowed to leave her arms. I barely knew her name, but she was close enough for me to know that I was going to be safe as long as this warmth was by my side. After a while, my eyes were wide open and I could make out the kind of person she was. Pretty. Very pretty. Angelic eyes that sparkled as she her breath brushed upon my neck, her hand gently patting down my back. I was only an infant and yet, her significance had been long engraved in my heart for me to know that she was home, family and my mom. I never knew my father. Not the slightest understanding that such an individual was needed in a person’s life was evident to me. She was the only person I needed and I was already quite aware of that.

“You were the most delicate little being who rested under my eyes” she would often say and then historically repeat the respected story of my birth with which I am now already too familiar.

“It was thirty past twelve, I remember, when the cries of youth echoed across the hospital ward. It was urgent. It was Christmas. No doctors were there in our neighbourhood and we had to rush to the nearest hospital in the dead of the night. The church bells and choirs filled the faithful night with triumphant hymnals; bright festive lights coloured and decorated the cold streets that led up to St. Michael’s hospital, and in my heart – she looked at me tenderly with tears brimming in her eyes – I knew that the one to come into my life was worthy and deserving of such a celebration.” She would narrate this story to me traditionally on every Christmas Eve. “The nurses absolutely adored you like you were their Christmas present. I would be selfish, envious and prevent every opportunity that allowed or involved a stranger to lay their eyes upon you.” This she would say proudly.

Strangely, I remember not the touches and whispers of other people: doctors, nurses, the priest who blessed me, neither any of the other people who visited me during my infancy. Even though I have heard these stories nearly a million times – though this might seem an exaggeration – I never complained because of how differently she used to narrate it each time; sometimes warmly with a glow in her eyes, sometimes with a strange dull emptiness, and most times with tears unlocking from her lids; I never knew why it was that way. I just assumed that she was being emotional. The melancholy that sometimes existed in her eyes, was beyond my comprehension. Perhaps it was because I chose to ignore it. I don’t anymore.

From the time I knew Maryanne, her hair was a light bubble-gum pink that made her look like a cotton candy fairy on a blissful Spring morning. I was deeply disappointed as a child, that my hair was a dark shade of chocolate brown but she would then insist that my green eyes look ever-more vibrant because it was so brown and captivating. I chose to believe her but she would secretly bend down and tell me that when I grew up, I could dye my hair pink like hers too. Imagine the excitement that etched on the face of a five-year-old girl who was told that her hair could magically become pink overnight when she grew up. I told my prayers each day earnestly, asking God that I may grow up quickly and dye my hair pink like mummy’s. I am grown up now but my hair is not pink. It’s still the same brown it always was. Perhaps it was because I realised that dying one’s hair might sometimes be an attempt to gain a new identity - to disguise one’s former self or rather, true-self. I grew up a healthy child, a plumpy rosy one who’s cheeks were constantly on the verge of disparity and redness because they became a victim to the random pinches that emerge from fingertips of strangers. It meant that people thought I was cute, and I wouldn’t blame them. Maryanne would dress me like a doll: colourful cotton dresses, and frilled socks with silk ribbons that adorned my hair. ‘My princess’ she would say after she was done dressing me up. I often used to feel like a model in a dressing room preparing for the Paris fashion week runway with her styling options. We would spend most of our time together. She used to call me “princess” and I wonder if I was ever close to one but with my undeniable pride and confidence, I might have been after all.

I never once doubted Maryanne. At least not when I was growing up. She was the sweetest human being to exist in the whole universe. Her work made her the proudest entrepreneur of a small pottery store called ‘Little Holly’- named after me. She made the most intricate clay creations that I had ever laid eyes upon. They were sculpted to different shapes, sizes and were painted with beautiful shades of vibrant colours. It was a wonder to watch her perform her art. A skilled potter, shaping meaning and giving a story to each work her hands beheld. Some uninterested and ignorant individuals may have rejected, and called them worthless pieces but as Keats once put it “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder”, and I beheld such kind of profound wisdom more than any of them. From the windows, gentle streaks of sunlight often reflected through, and filled her workroom with light, giving it an ethereal ambience of a sacred space. I hoped to follow in her footsteps and someday create artworks that were priceless and wanted. Yes, wanted. I used to believe that I was the most precious work of art she had moulded and yet now I’m the most unwanted person I know. How did this come to be?

It all began on a rainy night, like most stories. The thunder clapped loudly, the glass shattered, the store was destroyed, as the torrential rain poured on. It was a burglar some assumed and to others, an accident caused by the disruptive weather. It was neither. The window that brought rays of sun to the workroom was broken and instead, from the now bare open space on the wall, darkness and gloom seeped in. The shards of glass were scattered all over the workroom table and floor, but not a pot was harmed. I should have realised it then, like I should have when she told me my birth story with dull eyes. However, I was quite popular of playing the ignorant fool. This was an act committed with purpose, I thought. Someone was looking for something, perhaps even someone. Maryanne was not bothered by the state of her workroom but her eyes suggested otherwise. It is remarkable how many truths the human eye is capable of revealing. If one is ever in want of the truth, they are always concealed behind the depths of another’s eye. Love, Fear, Deceit. The eyes would speak them all. She was afraid. An emotion I never knew she possessed. She knew something was coming; someone was coming. I plainly did not. From my own eyes back then, the only thing I could discern was that something had gone horribly wrong. Searching over her pale condition made panic gush through my blood and bones. My head felt heavy, dizzy and within a few moments, darkness encapsulated my body. I fainted for the first time in my life. My eye lids awakened to the warmth that was ever so familiar and tender fingers were gently caressing my forehead. The bubble-gum hair, now slightly faded into lighter streaks of blonde came into view slowly but surely. I knew it was her by my side. “It’s alright princess” she said as she sighed heavily and intertwined her fingers between mine, “everything will be fine”. She smiled reassuringly. I looked beyond her eyes, and again caught a glimpse of that lost feeling; a feeling that everything in the world had reached the highest pinnacle of disaster and nothing could be done to reverse or reroute it from this direction. For the first time in my fifteen years, I decided to doubt my own mother.

She was more careful since then. The broken window panes were replaced by newer ones but somehow, they never had the effect the old ones carried. They brought in enough light but not enough to consider it ethereal. It was the same with Maryanne. She was tough and went through every day like usual with a bright smile, and even so, it was not as bright as it was before. The fear still lingered in her eyes, sucking up her soul bit by bit though she denied the existence of the fear itself. It was consuming her up, and devouring me. Every time we passed by the window panes, her milky hands became cold and her veins began to shake but she brushed it off, unnoticed; she would open the door and ask me to finish my homework or go out and play. Slowly, she would forget to call me “princess” but I preferred to believe that it was because I was growing older and she assumed that I no longer required her to coddle me. It was quite the contrary. I missed those times, the good times; any child would, no matter how old they are, require the company of a mother. It is the kind of company you cannot live without. A few years passed by, and it gradually worsened. She looked sick, weathered and exhausted over her years. I wasn’t able to bear it up any longer.

While she was cutting the crusts off my sandwiches one morning for breakfast, I braced myself and asked her, “Mum, how are you?” She looked taken aback.

I had asked a question I hadn’t before.

“Why, I’m quite alright my dear. Is something the matter?” she looked at me then with concern filling her eyes.

“No, not with me. I fear something is wrong with you.” Terror seized her face and she became lifeless.

“What do you mean?” her brow twitched.

“What do you mean, Holly?”, her volume and tone increasing with every word. She had become someone else. She shook me hard. “Holly? What are you talking about? Did someone speak to you? Tell me Holly! Now!” she demanded, almost at the verge of shrieking out loud.

“Nothing” I finally let out. “Nothing mother. I was just wondering because of how pale your face looked.”

“Oh, I see” she silently let out with relief, sweat beads dripping down from her forehead. The awkwardness that stirred in the air was evident to her. She tried to recover from her present state; she faced me, calming her nerves down a little.

“I apologise, Holly. I should not have raised my tone; it must have scared you. I must admit, the break in at the workroom was quite a terrible endangerment. I suppose you have grown up, my little one, you notice these things too” she brushed it off – she was a professional at it - with a laugh.

“In any case, do let me know if anyone does try to talk to you about anything out of the ordinary”, she smiled.

Again, the smile that wasn’t bright enough robbed the daylight from her face. She was not telling me something and what was it? I was not intelligent enough to figure it out. A few days passed by since we had this conversation. She was under my constant scrutiny. It felt wrong, but I felt the need to be observant of her every move. It was like she was playing a game. A game that I was involved in but I didn’t know the rules to. I was not going to ignore what I felt. Perhaps, this was what it meant to grow up: catching the cheating lies of others, and sensing emotions that were directing my heart and mind in opposite directions. My heart repeatedly drummed that something was wrong, and my mind, a loyal nemesis provoked me to forget and live life as it was. Choosing the later would certainly be more comfortable but it didn’t mean that my life would be less comforting, I thought to myself.

Thus, I began following Maryanne more closely each day, month, year. Where she went: the workroom mostly, the supermarket, church, school to pick me up, Ms Janet’s where she bought her pottery supplies and recently, the hospital? Who was she visiting at the hospital? At first, I assumed that she was taking medication, maybe visiting a psychiatrist in secret due to the shock that had befallen on her after the workroom incident. I could understand that she didn’t want me to know her shortcomings, her weaknesses. Sure, I was disappointed that she couldn’t trust me but I chose to ignore, like I always did. My thoughts, however began crashing down the minute I saw her step into the plastic surgery ward. What was going on? Why was Maryanne going over there? Questions began to flood and crowd my mind. I couldn’t cope with the emotions that were bewildering me with every fleeting second.

Plastic surgery. Something I could never imagine her with. I searched my head and tried to reason out why she opted to take such a drastic step, but I was incapable of finding out an answer. It was then that I realised how little I actually knew of my mother. I knew if she was close, I knew what she felt, I knew what her favourite colours were, flowers were, restaurants were but there were more that I didn’t know. I didn’t know her family, where she grew up, whom she fell in love with and for the first time, I found myself questioning who my father was. I knew everything there was to be known of Maryanne’s present, but I knew nothing of her past and I feared what I would find out about her in the future. Was this her first time being here? It couldn’t be. She knew the route too well. She knew where to turn, which elevator to take and which room to go into without asking for any directions. This, I was able to decipher by tracking her steps. She disappeared into thin air but she must be somewhere around here, I trusted. I mustered courage to walk over to the reception counter on this floor, my heartbeat twisting into several melodies. Then, a thought threw itself across my mind. The conversation I had with my mother came back to me. The memory of her tensed and angered face became still and clear like water in my mind. I was flustered. What if the nurse told her I was here? What if she came out and saw me? Would I be able to face such an encounter or worse, the consequences of stalking one’s own mother? But what if she was a spy or a government agent? I had to know the mess I was in. The pessimism leashed its control over my mind and compelled me to redirect myself to a wall where I took shelter to hide behind, to be safe, if it was necessary. “Too dangerous, too close”, whispered a voice in my head. “It will be fine”, the voice in my heart reassured me.

Moments passed and I stayed hidden until her light pink-blonde head bobbed out from the doctor’s office. She walked past my hiding spot hurriedly as if she was just held hostage by a gun. The haste was great that she failed to notice my presence there and I couldn’t tell if I was glad that she couldn’t recognise me or not. However, there was someone else who noticed my presence.

“Excuse me miss” boomed a loud voice from behind. “Are you here for an appointment? If not, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave” said the doctor politely.

It was then that I noticed how far I had wondered off from my hiding spot and how near my feet had subconsciously carried me – all the way to the corridor with the doctors’ offices. This individual in particular, was a young, handsome and dreamy doctor. Brown eyes - like mine, hair neatly combed, with veined forearms that slid slender hands inside his coat pocket and a smile that could make all the glaciers of Iceland melt in an instant. Oh my, his eyes fluttered in slow motion and the existence of the universe seemed to slip away from my finger-tips and left my mind drifting away into senseless thoughts. I was grateful that the sound of the typical hospital-ringing-telephone at the reception caused gravity to pull me back to my senses.

“Er-er-sorry, no I-er”, I stammered. Where had my words disappeared to?

“Sorry”, I said attempting to compose myself from this severe embarrassment.

“Actually – Dr…” I looked at his nametag and saw that he was a plastic surgeon named Wickham. Probably the one my mother just visited. My brain cells finally fell into place, and the speech impediment left me briefly.

“Doctor, I was wondering if I should get my nose straightened out?” – oh yes, the best excuse I could think of; my nose was a little crooked after all. Perhaps it was the most hideous excuse to offer when one is caught red-handed.

“Who was that beautiful woman with the pink hair, who just came out of your office?” I said immediately to recover, and change the course of the conversation.

“She looked as glorious as a 21st century Persephone. Were you her consultant doctor?”, the words spewed out of my mouth slowly, politely and I realised how ridiculous this conversation was with every passing minute. I demanded my mind to not wander off.

“Ah, you mean Ms Wallace?”, he smiled. I must admit I was jealous at the tone he used to address my mother. What was happening to me?

“No, she’s someone my uncle once worked on a few years ago”, he exclaimed. Uncle? Years ago?

“Are you positive sir – er, Doctor?”, I inquired suddenly.

“Why, do you know her?”, he asked me equally puzzled. My ignorance nearly cost me and I quickly gathered up a sentence.

“No. Might you give me your uncle’s number then? I would love to consult him sometime”, I added, hoping that he would not press anymore questions upon me.

“I hope you don’t mind but what you said quite offended me miss. Do you not trust that I, who am younger and am the resident plastic surgeon of this hospital that you are now standing in, would have better skills than an older man?”, he slyly commented with a wink. I would have evaporated right there if I wasn’t dancing with time.

“I apologise. But experience in years speaks louder”, I roughly followed. Where was this playful aggressiveness erupting from? Did these belong to Maryanne? I wondered.

“I suppose you have a point young lady. Here, this is my uncle’s card. Funny enough, the lady before you wanted the same piece of information” he said while handing over a half-bent clinic card onto my palm. Mother wanted to contact her previous doctor, why? The young doctor had already helped me enough to find some clues without knowing it.

“And mine, if you ever feel a need”, he smirked placing his own card - a rather modern one, above his uncle’s.

He left me speechless and my cheeks blushed all over, a cherry blossom pink. If I didn’t have my hands full, I would have immediately booked an appointment to see him again and get my nose straightened. Right, I had other matters to solve. After collecting my mind that kept darting back to the soap opera episode I just experienced, I retracted and telephoned the number mentioned on the card of his uncle. Ra-ring-Ra-ta-ring, an old-ancient music sounding tone began to play. The doctor was right, his uncle sounded old before I even heard his voice. I made my way down to the hospital parking lot. The music made my pulse accelerate like a crescendo melody on a piano. It felt like I was hanging on the last thread to unravel an egregious secret and my heart veins were almost on the verge of tangling themselves into a tight unbreakable knot. This internal fiasco ended the moment an elderly gentleman picked up the phone on the receiver’s end.

“This is Dr. Graham Wickham speaking. May I know who this is?”, he coughed.

I was flustered. I called this man on an impulse and I didn’t even consider what I was supposed to ask.

“I want to inquire about a past patient of yours”, I finally responded.

“I apologise but I cannot relate confidential details to a random stranger now, can I?”, he chuckled. His tone reminded me of the playful one his nephew had, maybe it ran in the family, I couldn’t help but think. Now there went my mind wandering again.

“Actually, Mr- I mean Dr. Wickham, I’m Maryanne Wallace’s daughter, Holly. You do know her, right? Silence echoed loudly from the other end. Fear clasped by throat tightly. He didn’t say anything.

I looked to see if the line was disconnected but it wasn’t.

“I know about you and I know about my mother.” I spoke nervously. Silence. I heard nothing from my other interlocutor.

“Hello? – Dr Wickham?”, I asked after a few silent seconds passed.

“Yes”, he replied in a serious tone. “I don’t know what to say to you, dear”, he softened. “But what is it that you wanted to ask?”, he enquired. Something about his tone sent shivers down my spine. It wasn’t a calming one but rather a tone filled with sympathy.

“Tell me your side of the story”, I replied. I gritted my teeth. I had asked too much already. I didn’t know anything about Maryanne at all. What was I getting myself into? I should have declined the call right then but I didn’t. Something in me wanted to explore the unknown. To know the concealed bits of information.

“I suppose you deserve to know it all since Maryanne must have told you little. I never imagined she would describe it all to you so quickly in just a few minutes since our last call but I suppose she needed to get it off her chest” he responded.

There lurked confusion again. Why were all these humans being so confusing? Tell me, I thought and I started to pace around the hospital parking lot frantically.

“Well, after your mother died…” and the rest was a blur…

What did he say? My mother died. My mother? Then who’s Maryanne? Hot air began to suffocate me. My veins knotted tightly across my chest; I couldn’t breathe. Everything around me changed entirely. Time stood still. Hot tears began to streak down my cheeks.

“It was tough. She was a single mother after all. Maryanne was struggling to breathe too. It was Christmas and the doctors had two women to save. Three really, including you.” He continued, becoming impatient and breathless as he revealed an ancient history buried from my ears for twenty-one years.

Panic struck me. It came again, the nemesis I met in that workroom. Darkness and gloom were waving at me and suddenly I saw nothing more. I had fainted again.

Her face suddenly appeared, bright like the morning sun; her eyes glorious and sparkling, and her hair, bubble-gum pink. She was nursing me, singing lullabies. This used to be a pleasant memory, my favourite one. If she was not my mother what use were these memories of a liar and a deceiver? The illusions she painted in front of me for eighteen years should not be regarded lightly. How could I trust a word she said anymore? When I opened my eyes, slowly but surely, a vision of her face began to appear in front of me. This figure unlike the one in my dream had grown pale and old. The faded pink streaks that now rested amidst her almost entirely blonde hair was enough for me to know it was her. In my head I repeated that I really didn’t know her at all.

“How did you find out?”, she asked me slowly after a few moments, when she was sure I was conscious enough to hear.

“I didn’t. I just followed you and Dr. Wickham told me the rest.” I replied sternly.

I wasn’t proud of my tone but it worked well to help me hide my feelings. I was becoming like her, so I thought. Did we actually share any relationship at all? All these years, I felt her closer to me than anyone else and suddenly it feels like we had never known each other at all.

“I didn’t expect you to be a nosy kid, Holl”, she exclaimed, taking in the features sketched on my face and gently tapping my fingers with hers.

“I’m not a kid anymore who will just sit and watch, Maryanne”, I suddenly blurted out.

She looked surprised as if uttering her name out loud had built an invisible wall of distant unfamiliarity between us. She sighed as heavily as she did once before. She nodded, reassuring me that she understood why I was acting this way. I hated the way that my heart was able to understand her gestures and facial expressions so clearly; it somehow still connected us, despite the void that prevailed.

Quietude filled the room for a few hours. She didn’t leave my side and I dared to look at her face. I avoided it entirely. Unable to bear this strange barrier between us, she hesitantly began her tale. The real one, at least I hoped it was.

She was not my real mother. My mother, actual mother, was never someone closely known or associated by Maryanne. They had lived in the same apartment building a few years ago. They were kindred souls who shared smiles, groceries, and pain, together. Maryanne was a runaway city teenager who had moved to a little town for peace after being cut-off from her family for being an artist. She, my mother, had not run. She was married too young, became a widow too young and was a pregnant orphan. With the little savings she had left from her husband, she worked late-night shifts at a bakery with her unborn, to afford the little apartment unit in that little town. Their lives were similar and yet so different, pronounced Maryanne. That was what connected the two of them. The last day they shared this connection was on Christmas Eve. My mother or “April” – as I came to know, was inside knitting stockings and singing carols loudly, too heavily pregnant to attend Mass. I never enjoyed the festivities at all, Maryanne admitted.

“Anyone could hear her, even folk from the neighbouring building. That’s how loudly she was singing. But her voice was sweet and calming, that I couldn’t help but appreciate that the carols existed. Then it came…” She shuddered and I knew that she had reached the climax of her narration.

“Smoke. Plumes of smoke began to engulf every unit of the complex. I just happened to see it fog my apartment window and enter in through the little gaps of the door.” Hot air - like the one I experienced before - had seemed to be flaming through to every unit in that building. The nearest firefighters had gone to inspect the midnight fireworks show and they were late. She rushed downstairs – Maryanne. Where’s my neighbour? She remembered her caroller at an instant. Where’s the soon-to-be mama?

“Did she come down, Sir, Ma’am?” she screamed loudly pulling aside panicked residents who were fleeing down the stairs of the building but they pushed her and trotted along, unbothered of her question and scared for their lives.

No, nobody had known where she was. She was trapped inside – Maryanne knew that. Courage, courage was the voice that whispered to Maryanne, “You need to save her. Them. No one else cares but only she cared for you” This thought was enough for Maryanne who fled up the fleet of stairs, gasping for air as the smoke began to spread vigorously and intoxicate her lungs. Fire, fire! Aluminium sheets on the roof toppled over and blast onto the sides of the building. When she finally reached the door of April’s apartment, it was locked. The door. Neighbour? She had not the breath and energy left to ask. A fallen brick, by a miracle was laying there. In minutes the door flung open and her eyes caught the scene of her pregnant neighbour lying unconscious on the floor with stubborn smoke refusing to leave her room. She hurriedly rescued the fainted mother-to-be. Holding on to her arms tightly she proceeded to climb down the stairs but she was feeling dizzy herself. Suddenly a door of fire came crashing upon the party of two, and Maryanne had stepped in front to save her companion; she managed to dodge it but couldn’t avoid it completely. It scarred her skin deeply. Pain was not a topic to be discussed at that point.

“I heard the sirens. I knew they were here and we were safe”, she said, tears exploding from her eyes.

I knew the story was becoming increasing unbearable to share. For once, I could understand why this story was kept hidden, it was not a story. It was trauma that prevented Maryanne from revisiting the events of that night. Anger clenched in my fists and although, I wanted her to stop and embrace her, she had to keep going. No more secrets.

“I kept passing out at intervals but I tried my best to remain strong for her sake and yours.” An ambulance came later on. She was strong enough to climb inside.

“I could barely see, you know”, and the memory of the moment made her paler and older. Then came the bits of the story that I knew, the choirs singing and the bright lights, except, they were in an ambulance. The “we” she always mentioned became clear now. I always assumed that it was my father she was referring to but then I realised it had been my actual mother all along. The doctors were quick to attend to all the patients in that ambulance, even me. They operated on her – unfortunately, the mother, April couldn’t be saved but the infant, Holly, was born. Maryanne in the opposite theatre desperately needed a heart transplant immediately. She wasn’t just a teenager who had run away, she was one with heart problems. Coincidentally, my mother’s happened to be a perfect match. Their hearts were exchanged. Maryanne was given another opportunity to live. Maryanne’s face, however, was unrecognisable because of the scars the fiery door had left. A mark to mark the incident. “Give me her mother’s” she had told the surgeon who was available that Christmas, ‘Dr. Wickham’ printed on the nametag he wore. And so, Maryanne was given both my mother’s heart and her face. The story ended. Thematically whether the story was based on deceit or love was up to me to decide. I couldn’t make it out. I was crying, loudly. She was crying, loudly. We embraced each other tightly. The first thing she had seen after regaining consciousness when the surgery was over was ‘a holly’, she said. Perfect, she had thought. Our cries filled the hospital ward as the sun set and the night began to dawn upon us. The veiled was revealed. The truth was exposed. Pain struck, I fainted soon enough, yet again. I woke up. It had been three days since that night; I had been asleep. Truthfully, I had been unconscious. A surgery, the doctor told me. It had kept me in bed for three days.

“Where’s mu – Maryanne?” I asked searching frantically for the bubble-gum-blonde haired lady with the warmth, across the room.

The doctors looked hesitant. The nurses dared to meet my eyes.

“With your mum”, replied a voice I knew. It was Dr. Wickam. Not my prince charming but his uncle.

“What do you mean?”, I croaked, my voice shaking. “What do you mean?” I yelled with hot temper. He sat down by me and calmed me down.

Maryanne was dead. Mentally and physically.

He tried to explain the rest. How much I thought I knew but how less I did know. I had been ill. The first time I fainted, it was evident. Maryanne knew it then. The effects of the fire had begun to take effect in my life. The doctors had warned her of it then. “She needs to be saved” had been her sole response. “I will take care of the rest when the time comes.” I needed a heart too, Dr Wickham told me, patting my hand gently. He was old and had wrinkly hands; they were warm but didn’t have the warmth Maryanne’s had.

“There were no matches this time” he sighed.

She searched for years while observing me each day, keeping me under her cautious eye. Time was a ticking bomb for me. The last warning weed of urgency sprouted when in my sleep on a raining night - I was too dizzy to remember – I crashed my head against the window panes of the workroom, shattering its glass all across the floor. Blood that I didn’t notice but had existed, was splattered all over the floor. The first time I remembered fainting. She wore herself out, calling anxiously from hospital to hospital around the world, walking to every clinic she could find but her efforts proved to be futile. “I’ll sell everything I own, even my workshop or even a body part” she had thought one day bursting in tears, breaking down, severely emotional at one of the hospital wards. There remained no suitable matches to be found anywhere. Then, according to her, the most appropriate idea flashed across her mind. She owned something that didn’t belong to her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Her own heart was available. Afterall, it once belonged to her real mother, she had thought. She was failing in health herself and would only be guaranteed to live around two years more. Maybe, deep down she knew it would come to this moment someday and she remained hesitant because she was afraid of what would become of the child if she ever were to leave this world. And yet, the thought that Holly would have to leave the world soon, while she remained, a cold object of the society with no purpose, pierced her heart and understanding even more. Hearing this explanation broke my soul into scarred fragments. Maryanne, never asked me my opinion and never explained my condition. How dare she? I violently pinched my arms in several places until they turned red. I was crying again and I couldn’t scream; my voice was strained. What kind of emotion should a girl be allowed to feel at this moment? For the best, Maryanne had thought. I needed immediate surgery, or I would die. She needed to tell somebody because she needed support and it would not be from me. Only someone who knew the incident that happened years ago, would need no further explanation. She remembered the kind Dr Wickham and resorted to find him. She had told him everything there was to know about me to himself and his nephew too, Dr Wickham said trying to restrain the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

“After you fainted in the hospital bed, you were rushed to the operating theatre. You were in dire need of a transplant and they couldn’t proceed without one. Maryanne couldn’t bear it, she knew there was only that option left. She handed me over a letter. Everything you need to know, she said and after telling me was going to gather some stuff from the room, she left. At some point during that walk, she consumed poison and collapsed on the floor.” He struggled to find words and I felt solitude fill the air. “Give her my heart” she had said on the letter. Funny. Every emotion she held all these eighteen years were worded on a single letter. The last words she ever spoke to me.

Remembering her last words, he smiled slightly and a warm glow appeared in his eyes. It was a wonder how this man I had never known, knew so much and more than I ever did.

“She wanted me to tell you that she left you her store, her workshop”, he was finishing his tragic tale, gathering the lost words in his empty mind, glancing at the ceiling, avoiding my gaze. “Said you knew the art well enough to continue it on your own”, he ended.

I stared hard into the loneliness that surrounded my hospital bed. Dr. Wickham never left the hospital room, he stayed by my side and yet, I was alone. My thoughts shifted every millisecond. My head felt lighter and heavier at the same time. I was like the lump of clay on a potter’s wheel, Maryanne’s wheel. She moulded me into something with her own bare hands. She didn’t create me but she moulded me bit by bit into who I am today. I am on that wheel now, still incomplete, a little imperfect like all her other artworks but I’m continuously spinning now, with no potter to sculpt me further. Perhaps it was left to me to mould how I would become. This I understood and I didn’t. Maybe it was because we all have the same heart? Was Maryanne actually ever my mother? Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. All I can say about her is that she was the warmth I needed most in my life. She was unfair in everything she did and yet remained faithful in her intentions until the end. I sobbed. I was not afraid for some reason; I was simply sad and disconcerted.

My real mother, April was strong, Maryanne was strong, and maybe it is because I have their heart at present, I felt strong. The mother I knew, the one I didn’t, will be in my heart throughout my life somehow. That is what the heart does after all, does it not? Connect us in unimaginable ways… Yes, this thought is enough, to keep me alive for today, I chose. I smiled carefully amidst the tears, as warm sunshine embraced my face through the window panes of the hospital room. Yes, I would get through with the power of a shared heart.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates the art of storytelling, inviting writers worldwide to share their unique voices. This esteemed competition provides a platform for poets, essayists, and storytellers to showcase their work, fostering a global community of creativity and expression. Participants are encouraged to explore diverse themes and styles, contributing to a rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Nethaya S Bastian for sharing "Shared Hearts" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This touching story offers a poignant reflection on the nature of love and identity, reminding us of the enduring power of familial bonds. Thank you, Nethaya, for your contribution to our literary community.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.