Three or four years ago, my mum met Aunt Jane on the internet. It all started with a heated argument over a cooking post.

Mum insisted that onions and carrots for the soup should be sautéed together from the start, while Aunt Jane maintained that the carrots should go in first, followed by the onions after a few minutes. This was the first quarrel Mum had experienced in the vast web of the online world. I can’t fathom how they managed to reconcile their differing frying techniques, but their correspondence began and flourished for quite some time.

Aunt Jane became an almost official online member of our family; she was always in the loop about our lives, offering advice and sharing generous words.

She even sent Mum gifts for special occasions—a warm blanket, cranberry jam, and a set of screwdrivers (Mum had once mentioned she didn’t have a single screwdriver at home). In return, there were knitted socks, a belt made from dog hair, and jars of pickled mushrooms.

In early December, Aunt Jane celebrated her sixtieth birthday. Mum received an invitation along with money for the train ticket.

“I won’t go! What for? To embarrass myself?” Mum paced back and forth in our flat, torn between the desire to go and the comfort of staying home.

I decided to take matters into my own hands: I bought her a new winter coat, while my university friend, who had traded her surgical career for hairdressing, styled Mum’s hair. We also picked out a gift—a pair of earrings featuring large stones.

To eliminate any temptation for Mum to back out, I personally took her to the train station and saw her off. After the train pulled away, I let out a sigh of relief: let her have this break. For the last ten years, since Dad passed away, Mum had been slowly fading away. Even after I married and moved in with my husband, she seemed to lose any spark she had.

A call from Mum when she arrived cut through my thoughts:
“A man met me—apparently, Aunt Jane’s husband? Odd, she never mentioned being married. Well, I’ll figure it out. Don’t miss me too much! I’ll be back soon!”

But Mum didn’t come back: Aunt Jane turned out to be a 60-year-old gentleman named Eugene. Along with the unchanging surname, his gender was a mystery. Uncle Eugene expressed interest in Mum’s photo but was too shy to reveal his identity. So he continued to write, always asking about Mum’s life and gifting her those very presents.

They arrived in our town in January to sort out Mum’s flat rental. Mum proudly wore the earrings we had chosen for “Aunt Jane.”

“Will you come to the wedding?” Mum asked, blushing.
“We will,” I promised, scarcely believing my eyes: Mum was beaming, looking fifteen years younger.
Uncle Eugene charmed both me and my husband. Our daughter was ecstatic to have a newly minted grandfather. But most importantly, Mum seemed rejuvenated in his presence.

They married—quite simply. Uncle Eugene had no family of his own; he had been widowed in 2006, and they had no children, so he had lived alone all this time.

I am incredibly happy that these two lonely souls found each other. May they be blissful together—they truly deserve it!