Three or four years ago, Mum met Aunt Jane online, sparked into existence by a disagreement on a culinary post. It all revolved around how to prepare the perfect soup; Mum insisted on frying the onions and carrots together, whereas Aunt Jane argued that the carrots should cook first, followed by the onions five minutes later. This disagreement marked Mum’s first spat in the vast expanse of the internet.

I still can’t fathom how they resolved their differences in frying techniques, but soon enough, a lively correspondence began and lasted quite some time. Aunt Jane became an almost integral part of our family life—always up to date with our happenings and eager to offer advice.

She often sent gifts during the festive seasons: a warm blanket, cranberry jam, and a set of screwdrivers (Mum had once lamented the lack of tools in the house). In return, gifts from us included woolen socks, a dog-hair belt, and jars filled with pickled mushrooms.

At the beginning of December, Aunt Jane celebrated her sixtieth birthday, and Mum received an invitation along with money for the train ticket.

“I shan’t go! What would I even do, an old wreck like me, making a fool of myself?” Mum paced the flat, torn between the desire to go and the comfort of staying home.

I took matters into my own hands: I bought her a new winter coat, and my university friend, who had traded a hard life as a surgeon for the whims of the hairdressing scene, tidied Mum’s hair. We also purchased a gift: a pair of earrings adorned with large stones.

To ensure Mum wouldn’t change her mind, I drove her to the train station and put her on the train. Once I saw the train depart, I breathed a sigh of relief; let her enjoy herself. The past decade, since Dad had passed, had seen Mum gradually fading away. And after I married and moved in with my husband, she had all but withered.

The phone rang once she arrived:
“A man met me, presumably Aunt Jane’s husband. Odd, she never mentioned being married. I’ll sort it out. Don’t miss me too much! I’ll be back soon!”

But Mum did not return. Aunt Jane turned out to be a 60-year-old man named Eugene. The username had concealed his identity. Uncle Eugene became intrigued by Mum’s photograph yet hesitated to reveal his identity. Thus, he continued to write, expressing keen interest in her life, sending her those very same gifts.

In January, they visited our town to sort out Mum’s apartment rental. In her ears sparkled the earrings we had intended for “Aunt Jane.”

“Will you come to the wedding?” Mum asked, her cheeks flushing.
“We’ll come,” I promised, still incredulous at the sight of her, constantly smiling and looking about fifteen years younger.
Uncle Eugene charmed both my husband and me. Our daughter was simply ecstatic at the prospect of a newly minted grandfather. Most importantly, Mum flourished in his presence.

They married, modestly. Uncle Eugene had no family of his own; he had been widowed since 2006 and had no children. Thus, he had lived alone.

I couldn’t be happier that two lonely souls had found each other. May they find happiness—they certainly deserve it!