**The Wings of Chubbykins: A Tale of Inheritance and Inner Strength**
When my cousin Emily first saw her newborn daughter, she burst into tears. The midwife at the small hospital in a quiet Yorkshire town assumed they were tears of joy, and Emily, wiping her eyes, nodded: “Yes, of course, it’s happiness!” But later, in the hushed ward, she whispered to her husband James:
“The first thing I noticed—her enormous ears. I thought, how will she live with these… and then I cried.”
James chuckled at his wife, though deep down, he agreed: their daughter was unlucky. She had inherited the “gift” from her great-grandfather, William Thompson, a well-respected man in their town—but one whose ears had long been the subject of jokes. “William, with those flaps, you ought to be flying!” his friends would tease. When little James first saw the cartoon of *Dangermouse*, he gasped in delight:
“Grandad, you look just like him, you do!”
And so, William Thompson became “Chubbykins” to everyone who knew him. His ears were indeed remarkable, yet strangely, none of his four sons, eleven grandchildren, or six great-grandchildren had inherited them—until Emily gave birth to the first girl in the family, whose tiny head bore those unmistakable “wings.” James’s mother tried to console her:
“Don’t fret, dear. Plastic surgery works wonders these days—we’ll just have them fixed!”
The girl was named Sophie, after Emily’s late mother. There were already a few Sophies in the family, each called something different to avoid confusion—Soph, Sophy, Sophster. This little one became “Little Soph.”
She grew up sharp and spirited, speaking early and clearly, without babyish babble. I met her and Emily in town one day when she was three. As we parted, I waved and said:
“Bye-bye, Soph!”
She studied me with wide eyes and replied, dead serious:
“Goodbye, Auntie Louise.”
When nursery school began, one boy pointed at her and laughed:
“Mum, look, it’s Dumbo!”
Without flinching, Little Soph corrected him:
“I’m not Dumbo. I’m Chubbykins!”
She pronounced it with a ‘b’ instead of a ‘v’—just as she’d heard at home. Soon, all the children, and later her entire primary school, called her “Little Chubbykins,” just like her great-grandfather.
Emily tried hiding her daughter’s ears beneath long hair, but Soph insisted on braids or pigtails. When her mother murmured, “But your ears will show,” she answered proudly:
“So what? They’re my charm!”
Emily marvelled—where did such confidence come from? Meanwhile, Uncle Geoffrey often remarked:
“That girl’s going to make us all proud one day.”
Whenever adults corrected children for saying “Chubbykins” instead of “Dangermouse,” Soph would snap:
“You’re fine with me being called it, but not how I say it?”
At nine, her life changed. Her father left—ugly, loud, fighting over money, threatening. He took the savings, even the funds set aside for Soph’s surgery:
“I’m starting over. *I* need it more.”
He erased not just Emily but his daughter too. Emily wept for days, begging for the money back, but James sneered:
“I’ve got a house, an income—what do *you* have? A librarian’s wage and a rented flat? The courts will side with *me*.”
Soph, hugging her mother, whispered fiercely:
“We don’t need his money. Let him go.”
Emily, swallowing tears, murmured:
“Sweetheart, your ears… the cartilage is still soft. Surgery would be easier now. And later—what then?”
One evening, a knock came at Emily’s parents’ house, where they now lived. It was William. Soph refused to come out, and Emily nearly scolded her—until the old man stopped her:
“Let me talk to her. Alone.”
What they spoke of, Emily never learned, but it took hours. Leaving, William handed her an envelope:
“There’s a card inside. Enough for surgery, recovery, and to live on. The PIN’s there—change it later. I’ll send money monthly instead of that wastrel’s child support.” He smirked. “I’ll show them the *real* Chubbykins.”
When Emily brought up the surgery again, Soph dug in her heels:
“I won’t change a thing! I look like Great-Grandad, and I’m proud of it. Let them love me for *me*.”
Years passed. Soph turned 23. Despite Emily’s fears, she never lacked for suitors—until Adam came along, outshining them all.
James’s family—large, loud—acted as if Soph didn’t exist. Not even her grandmother called. Only William stayed in touch, sending money as promised and inviting her to birthdays. She never went, preferring phone calls, then meeting him in town—first for ice cream, later for proper dinners.
William missed his 90th by a month. The funeral was grand—he’d been well-known. Days later, a solicitor summoned the family to read the will. No one knew of it, and Soph’s arrival stunned them all.
The will shocked everyone. Each son, grandchild, and great-grandchild received £5,000—”to keep their trousers up,” as William put it. Everything else—homes, flats, shares in local and international firms—went to Soph. The room froze. One cousin burst out:
“He’s lost it! Contest this!”
The solicitor replied coolly:
“Mr. Thompson was assessed sound of mind. All documents are in order.” Then, to Soph: “There’s a letter for you, Ms. Thompson.”
She took the envelope, thanked him, and left without a glance at the seething relatives. Sitting by the town fountain, she opened it.
*”My dear Chubbykins,”* William had written, *”you’re the only one like me—inside and out. I remember our pact. I’ve kept my word…”*
Three pages later, through tears, she read the last lines:
*”Chubbykins, I release you. Do what you will with those ears.”*
Smiling at the sky as if he could hear, she whispered:
“And what I will is *nothing*. I’m perfect as I am.”
