Anneliese’s POV

The early morning sunlight slipped through the thin white curtains and rested gently across my face. For a few peaceful seconds, I remained beneath the blanket with my eyes closed, listening to the birds outside my window and the faint sound of utensils coming from the kitchen downstairs.

Then I remembered what day it was.

My eyes opened immediately.

Result day.

By noon, I would know whether all those late nights, carefully prepared notes, practice tests and whispered prayers had been enough. My final percentage would decide whether I qualified for a full scholarship at St. Gabriel High School—the finest school in the city and the place I had dreamed of attending for years.

My heartbeat quickened before my feet even touched the floor.

I sat on the edge of my bed and folded my hands. “Thank You for another morning, Lord,” I whispered. “Please stay with me today. And please let everyone who worked hard receive good news—not only me.”

Even inside my prayers, I could not stop thinking about the result.

I opened the curtains fully. Golden light filled my bedroom, touching the books arranged neatly on my desk, the small wooden cross beside my lamp and the schoolbag I would no longer need after today. My secondary-school uniform hung from the wardrobe door for the final time, freshly washed and carefully pressed by my mother.

The sight filled me with happiness and sadness together. I was ready to move forward, but leaving a familiar life behind was never easy.

After making my bed, I went into the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth. The cold water helped wake me, but it did nothing to calm the nervous feeling moving through my stomach. I took a warm bath, dried my hair and dressed in a simple cream blouse with a pale blue skirt. My mother always said soft colors suited me, though I believed mothers were naturally required to think their daughters looked beautiful in everything.

I stood in front of the mirror and tied my hair back with a blue ribbon. The girl staring back at me looked calm enough, but I knew better. My fingers kept twisting together, and I had already checked the time three times.

“Whatever happens, You know what is best for me,” I whispered to God.

The words were true.

I only wished trusting them were easier.

The smell of toasted bread and cinnamon drew me downstairs. Mom stood in the kitchen wearing her favorite yellow apron, moving between the stove and the counter while quietly humming a hymn. Her dark hair was tied loosely at the back of her neck, and flour marked one side of her cheek.

She looked over her shoulder when I entered. “Good morning, sweetheart. I thought you might stay in bed until the results disappeared completely.”

“I considered it.”

“Unfortunately, hiding under a blanket has never changed examination marks.”

“Have you tested that scientifically?”

“Several times during my own school years.”

I smiled and kissed her cheek. “What can I do?”

“You can sit down and allow me to make breakfast.”

“Mom.”

She sighed because she knew I would not listen. “Fine. Cut the fruit, but leave the bread alone. You burn toast when you are nervous.”

“I do not burn it.”

“You turn it into evidence from a house fire.”

I picked up the knife and began slicing strawberries while she returned to the stove. Helping her made me feel slightly calmer. Our kitchen had always been the warmest room in the house, not because of the oven or the morning sunlight, but because most of our happiest memories had happened there. We celebrated birthdays around the wooden table, prayed together before meals and stayed awake talking whenever one of us could not sleep.

I was my parents’ only child, but they had never allowed their love to make me careless or spoiled. I had responsibilities, chores and rules like everyone else. My father often said that affection should teach gratitude, not entitlement. Mom taught me that faith was not only something spoken inside a church; it appeared in the way we treated people, animals and the world God had created.

By the time I arranged the fruit on a plate, Dad entered the kitchen dressed for work. His white coat was folded over one arm, and his reading glasses were still sitting unevenly on his nose. He worked as a doctor at St. Catherine’s Hospital and often left before sunrise, but he had delayed his morning rounds so he could eat breakfast with me.

He looked at the fruit plate and then at me. “You have arranged the strawberries by size.”

“They look better that way.”

“You are either preparing breakfast or conducting surgery.”

“Presentation matters.”

Dad placed his coat over the back of a chair. “Your hands are shaking.”

I immediately put the knife down. “They are not.”

Mom glanced at me. “They are.”

“It is cold.”

“It is midsummer,” Dad said.

I sat at the table before they could continue examining me. Mom placed eggs, toast and fruit in front of us, then took her seat. We joined hands and bowed our heads.

Dad began the prayer. He thanked God for our family, the food before us and the opportunities we had been given. When he prayed for my result, my throat tightened.

Before he could finish, I quietly added, “And please bless my friends too. Let everyone receive the result that is best for their future. Please comfort anyone who is disappointed today and give them another opportunity.”

Mom gently squeezed my hand.

“Amen,” Dad said.

“Amen,” we repeated.

I tried to eat, but after two bites my appetite disappeared. I moved the toast around my plate and glanced at the clock.

Mom noticed. Of course she noticed. Mothers seemed capable of observing everything their children hoped to hide. “Your result will not arrive faster because you stare at the clock.”

“I know.”

“And worrying will not add marks to your examinations.”

“I know that too.”

Dad leaned closer and lowered his voice dramatically. “Your mother is saying something sensible. This is a rare event. We should record it.”

Mom placed her fork down. “Daniel Grace.”

“I was trying to make our daughter laugh.”

“You may need medical attention before breakfast is over.”

I could not help smiling.

Dad pointed at me triumphantly. “It worked.”

Mom shook her head, but she was smiling too. They spent the next few minutes telling embarrassing stories from their own school days. Dad admitted that he once wrote the correct answers on the wrong page of an examination booklet. Mom confessed that she had been so nervous during a speech competition that she thanked the audience before beginning.

Their stories helped, but the scholarship remained at the center of my thoughts.

St. Gabriel was not only the city’s best high school; it was also extremely expensive. Its science laboratories, medical preparation program and university placement record were better than those of any other school nearby. Studying there could bring me closer to my dream of becoming a doctor.

My parents had never complained about money, but I knew how hard Dad worked. I knew about the mortgage, household bills and the sacrifices they had already made for my education. A full scholarship would mean I could attend without becoming another financial responsibility resting on their shoulders.

Dad reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “Anneliese, listen to me. Scholarship or no scholarship, you are going to St. Gabriel.”

I looked at him. “Dad—”

“I have already considered the fees. We can manage them.”

“You work too much already.”

“I work because I love my profession and because I want to provide for this family.”

“You and Mom have done enough for me.”

“There is no such thing as ‘enough’ when it comes to giving your child an education.”

My eyes began to sting. “I do not want my dream to become a burden on both of you.”

Mom immediately moved her chair closer. “You have never been a burden.”

“I know, but I want to earn this myself. I want to enter St. Gabriel because I worked hard enough, not because Dad accepted more shifts at the hospital.”

Dad’s expression softened.

I looked from him to Mom. “You have given me everything—love, education, a safe home and the freedom to dream. Now I want to prove that I can do something with all of it. I will earn that scholarship. I will study medicine, become a doctor and make both of you proud through my own hard work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Mom stood, came around the table and wrapped her arms around me. Dad joined us from the other side, and suddenly I was held between the two people who had loved me before I had achieved anything at all.

“We are already proud of you,” Mom whispered against my hair.

“More proud than you understand,” Dad added.

He kissed my forehead and looked upward. “Thank You, Lord, for giving us a daughter with a heart better than anything we could have taught her.”

My tears escaped despite my attempt to hold them back. “You taught me everything.”

Mom wiped my cheeks. “Not everything. You arrived with some goodness of your own.”

Dad checked the clock and smiled. “Now finish your breakfast before our future doctor faints at the notice board.”

After eating, we drove to church. Sunday service had ended the previous evening, but the doors were open for morning prayer, and visiting before receiving my result had been Mom’s suggestion. The church was quiet when we entered. Sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, painting the wooden floor in shades of blue, gold and red.

We sat together near the front. Dad and Mom prayed silently while I folded my hands and closed my eyes.

“Dear God,” I whispered, “I know I have asked many times already, but please remain with all of us today. Let my result be good enough for the scholarship, but if it is not, give me the courage to accept it. Please help my friends too, especially Clara. She worked so hard. Do not let anyone believe that one number decides their worth.”

A deeper calm settled inside me after the prayer. The nervousness remained, but it no longer felt large enough to swallow me.

Mom touched the silver cross around my neck as we stood. “Ready?”

I took a breath. “As ready as I can be.”

The grounds outside Bellmere Secondary School were crowded when we arrived. Students stood with their parents near the main building, some laughing too loudly and others staring nervously at their phones. Teachers moved between groups, offering smiles that revealed nothing.

The familiar redbrick building looked different that morning. It was still the place where I had spent years studying, making friends and discovering who I wanted to become, but it was also somewhere I was about to leave behind.

The result sheets had been placed on several notice boards inside the main hall. The moment the doors opened, students and parents hurried forward.

My legs refused to move.

Dad looked at me. “Would you like me to check?”

I nodded before pride could stop me. “Please.”

Mom held my hand while Dad moved toward the crowd. Every second felt unusually long. Around us, names were called, people celebrated and a few students began crying.

Then Dad became visible between two groups of parents.

He was not walking.

He was almost running.

His face carried a smile I had never seen before.

“Anneliese Grace!” he called across the hall.

Everyone nearby turned toward him.

I held my breath.

Dad reached us and placed both hands on my shoulders. “First position. Ninety-eight point seven percent—the highest result in the entire school.”

For one second, the words made no sense.

Then Mom cried out and pulled me into her arms.

“I topped the school?” I asked, still unable to believe it.

Dad laughed through tears. “You topped the school, and St. Gabriel has confirmed your full academic scholarship.”

The hall seemed to disappear around me.

I covered my mouth with both hands. “A full scholarship?”

“Full tuition,” Dad said. “You earned it.”

I began crying before I could stop myself. Mom hugged me tightly, and Dad wrapped his arms around us. Students and parents nearby clapped while several teachers approached.

Mrs. Carter, my literature teacher, reached me first. She held my face between her hands and kissed my forehead. “I knew you would do it.”

“Thank you,” I managed.

The principal, Mrs. Alden, shook Dad’s hand before turning to Mom. “You should be extremely proud. Your daughter has not only been our strongest academic student; she has also been one of the kindest young people ever to pass through this school.”

My mathematics teacher joined us. “She stayed after class to help students who were struggling, even while preparing for her own examinations.”

“And she never once used her intelligence to make another child feel small,” Mrs. Carter added.

Mom’s eyes filled with fresh tears.

Mrs. Alden looked at my parents. “We are going to miss your daughter more than I can properly express. Students with excellent marks come and go, but a student who changes the atmosphere of a classroom simply by being kind is rare.”

I tried to thank them, but emotion tightened my throat. These teachers had encouraged me when a subject became difficult, stayed late to answer my endless questions and believed in me before I had learned to believe fully in myself.

Mrs. Carter opened her arms, and I stepped into them.

The moment she hugged me, I began crying properly.

“I am going to miss you,” I whispered.

“Oh, sweetheart, we are all going to miss you too.”

She rubbed my back as though I were still the shy twelve-year-old who had once hidden behind a library book during class introductions. “St. Gabriel is only gaining you. We are not losing you completely.”

“I will visit.”

“You had better. And when you become a famous doctor, I expect free appointments.”

I laughed through my tears. “You will be the first patient.”

One by one, I hugged my teachers. Some offered advice; others reminded me to remain humble, focused and true to myself. Mrs. Alden presented me with my official certificate and asked Dad and Mom to stand beside me for photographs.

It should have been one of the happiest moments of my life.

Then I noticed Clara.

My best friend stood near the far wall, holding her result sheet against her chest. Her mother was speaking to a teacher, but Clara’s face told me everything before I reached her.

“What happened?” I asked.

She looked at my certificate and attempted a smile. “Congratulations. I knew you would top.”

“Clara.”

Her smile broke. “I did not get the required percentage.”

My happiness dimmed immediately. “For St. Gabriel?”

She shook her head. “I missed it by six percent. They will not accept me, not even with partial assistance. Mom says I will have to attend Westbrook.”

For years, Clara and I had planned to enter St. Gabriel together. We had imagined sharing classes, studying in its enormous library and preparing for university side by side.

She looked down. “You will make new friends there. Better ones.”

I placed my certificate on the nearest table and took both her hands. “Do not say that.”

“It is true.”

“No, it is not. A different school cannot erase all the years we have already spent together.”

“But we will not see each other every day.”

“That will hurt,” I admitted. “I am not going to pretend it will not. But we will call, study together on weekends and meet after school. We can still prepare for university together.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “I wanted to be there with you.”

“I wanted that too.”

I hugged her, and she began crying against my shoulder. While everyone around us celebrated my result, I stood with my best friend and allowed myself to grieve the future we had imagined.

“You are not a failure,” I whispered. “One percentage cannot decide your intelligence or your future. Westbrook is not the end of your dream.”

“You always know what to say.”

“I really do not. I only know I am not leaving you behind.”

She held me more tightly.

When we finally separated, I promised to visit her that evening. Dad and Mom waited patiently near the exit. Neither of them complained that my celebration had been delayed.

As we drove home, my certificate rested safely in Mom’s lap. Dad suggested stopping at a restaurant, but I asked whether we could celebrate later. My thoughts remained with Clara.

“We will invite her for dinner,” Mom said. “A good result should never make someone else feel more alone.”

I smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

We were halfway home when something small moved near the roadside.

At first, I thought it was a piece of fabric blown by the wind. Then I saw four trembling legs and a light-brown body lying dangerously close to the passing cars.

“Dad, stop!”

He immediately slowed the car. “What happened?”

“There is a puppy near the road.”

Dad checked the mirror and pulled over. Before the car had fully stopped, I removed my seat belt.

“Wait for me,” he warned.

We approached the puppy together. It was young, perhaps only a few months old, with muddy fur and one injured back leg. A thin line of blood marked its side. Cars continued passing nearby, making it tremble every time an engine roared.

I crouched a short distance away. “Hello, little one.”

The puppy attempted to move but cried out and collapsed again.

My heart tightened. “It is all right. I am not going to hurt you.”

I extended my hand slowly and allowed it to smell my fingers. Its frightened eyes remained fixed on me, but after a moment it stopped trying to escape.

I moved closer and gently stroked its head. “You are safe now.”

Mom stood behind us with both hands covering her mouth. “The poor baby.”

I looked at Dad. “Please, we have to help it.”

“We will.”

“Can we take it to a veterinarian?”

“Of course.”

“And afterward…” I hesitated, already knowing I was asking for more. “We cannot put it back here.”

Dad folded his arms. “Anneliese.”

“It is injured and alone.”

“You do not know whether it belongs to someone.”

“We can look for its owner. Until then, it needs somewhere safe.”

Mom crouched beside me and touched the puppy’s ear. “She is right.”

Dad looked from me to Mom and realized he had already lost the argument.

“I am surrounded,” he muttered.

I smiled. “Does that mean yes?”

“It means we take the puppy to the veterinarian first. Everything else is discussed afterward.”

“Thank you!”

The puppy whimpered when I carefully lifted it, so I held it gently against my chest, supporting its injured leg. Its body trembled beneath my hands, and within seconds, its head rested weakly against my shoulder.

Mom opened the back door, and I climbed inside with the puppy in my arms.

My certificate remained on the seat beside us, but I barely looked at it.

As Dad drove toward the nearest veterinary clinic, I continued stroking the puppy’s muddy fur. “You had a difficult morning,” I whispered, “but I think your day is about to become better.”

The veterinarian confirmed that the puppy had been struck by a vehicle. Its leg was badly bruised but not broken, and the cut on its side required several stitches. There was no collar or identification chip.

Dad paid the bill before I could even ask.

When the puppy was brought back to us with a bandage around its body, it immediately tried to reach me. I took it carefully and held it close.

The veterinarian smiled. “It appears to have chosen you.”

Dad sighed. “Everyone chooses her.”

We reported the puppy as found and left our contact information in case an owner came forward. Until then, Dad agreed that it could recover at our house.

By the time we arrived home, the afternoon sunlight had begun turning golden. Mom prepared a soft bed from folded blankets while Dad found two bowls in the kitchen. I placed the puppy carefully in its new corner beside the living-room window.

It looked around uncertainly, then rested its head on my hand.

“What should we call it?” Mom asked.

“We should wait in case it already has a name,” Dad said.

I gently scratched beneath the puppy’s chin. “For now, we can call him Hope.”

Dad raised an eyebrow. “Him?”

The veterinarian had already told us the puppy was male, but I understood the real question.

“Because this morning, I prayed that everyone who faced disappointment would receive another opportunity,” I said. “Maybe he is ours.”

Mom rested her head against Dad’s shoulder. “Hope it is.”

I sat on the floor beside the puppy with my scholarship certificate resting unopened on the table behind me. That morning, I had received everything I had prayed for: excellent marks, a place at the city’s finest high school and the chance to pursue my dream without burdening my parents.

Yet as Hope curled against my lap, I felt equally grateful that we had noticed him before another car passed.

I believed then that kindness could save anything wounded.

I did not yet understand that some wounded hearts did not want to be healed.

Some only wanted to make another heart belong to them.