Victoria dropped her heavy suitcases onto the hallway floor with a thud.

“Mummy’s home!!!” squealed the girls, tumbling out of the bedroom like a pair of overexcited puppies.

Vicky grinned. Finally, she was back! Four months of professional training in London, a dingy student flat, endless exams—all behind her now. She hugged her daughters tight, smothering them in kisses. Now, where were the presents?

“Emily, this is for you!” Mum pulled out a gorgeous, fluffy jumper for her elder daughter. Emily, ever the fashion enthusiast, shrieked with delight, dashed off towards her room, then—realising her manners—doubled back to hug her mum.

“Thanks, Mum! It’s exactly what I wanted!” And off she zoomed again.

“Charlotte, darling, this one’s yours!” From the suitcase emerged something bafflingly soft, white, and blue.

Grandma Rose arched an eyebrow. What on earth was this peculiar thing now cradled in her youngest granddaughter’s delicate hands? A toy, apparently.

Staring back at Charlotte was a lopsided bunny. Its head—stiff papier-mâché—perched oddly atop a body stuffed with sawdust, dressed in a faded blue smock.

Now, normally, one wouldn’t judge a toy by its face. But this one… Well.

Its eyes were wonky—different sizes, different heights. Its nose had an unfortunate bump, twisted slightly to one side, and its thin lips curled into what could only be described as an apologetic grimace. It looked as if it knew just how unfortunate it was.

“Blimey!” gasped Emily, now modelling her new jumper. “Mum, what *is* that monstrosity?”

“Good heavens, Victoria,” sighed Grandma Rose. “Was this really the best London had to offer? You could scare crows off a field with that thing!”

At this, little Charlotte flinched, clutched the bunny defensively, and fled to her room.

“Look, Mum, I get it,” said Vicky. “Hamleys was packed—shelves heaving with toys. But this one… it was just sitting there, all alone on the bottom shelf. I felt sorry for it. And, honestly, I swear it looked *grateful* when I picked it up. Like it whispered, ‘Ta, love.’”

Grandma Rose shook her head in disbelief. Her daughter—a top consultant, no less—still hadn’t outgrown that soft spot for lost causes. Post-war childhoods did that to you.

The hideous bunny, mass-produced in some distant Midlands factory, became Charlotte’s treasure. She christened it with the most dignified name she could muster: Archibald. The way she rolled the ‘r’s only made the poor creature seem more absurd.

By day, Archie waited patiently for Charlotte to return from school. By night, he endured whispered gossip about playground dramas and who-fancied-who. He’d drift off to sleep smushed against her cheek, his wonky smile pressed into her pillow.

Years flew by.

Countless washes turned Archie’s white fur yellowish (those pesky sawdust stains), and his blue smock faded to a sad, washed-out teal. He looked even more dreadful—which, somehow, made Charlotte love him more.

At seventeen, Charlotte became an aunt when Emily had little Oliver. The moment the baby could grab things, Archibald was his hero. Ollie whispered nonsense to him at bedtime, and Archie grinned back just as he had for Charlotte all those years ago.

It nearly broke Ollie’s heart when he reluctantly passed Archie on to his wailing toddler cousin, Alfie. But tears turned to giggles when Alfie stomped off, hugging the bunny like a prize. Archie had found his next admirer.

No one batted an eye when Alfie—years later—handed the ragged toy to a sobbing little girl in the park, muttering something secret into its floppy ear. The girl blinked up at him but took the offering.

And that, surely, was that—Archie had found a new home. Except…

Decades later, a very elderly Victoria sat sipping tea with her oldest friend, Margaret. They cackled over youthful mishaps until Victoria, quite out of the blue, brought up the ugly bunny.

“You don’t mean *this* horror, do you?” said Margaret, fishing out a shabby, blue-ish lump from behind a cushion.

“Archie?!” gasped Victoria.

“Dunno about ‘Archie’—looks more like a ‘Reginald’ to me. Been trying to bin this thing for years. Great-granddaughter Lily won’t let me. Some kid gave it to her when she skinned her knee in the park.”

Victoria took the toy, turning it over in her hands. She thought of a summer long ago, of small fingers clutching a hideous bunny tight—and smiled.