“Get Out This Instant! I Told You – Out! Why Are You Lurking Here?!” – Mrs. Mildred Witherspoon Slammed Down a Big Plate of Hot Pasties Under the Sprawling Apple Tree and Shoved Her Neighbour’s Scrawny Boy Away. “Go On, Go Home! When Will Your Mother Ever Watch You, You Little Layabout?” Skinny as a rake, Johnny—known by everyone just as “Cricket” thanks to his long limbs and knobbly head—cast a wary glance at his stern neighbour and shuffled back to his shabby stoop. The huge rambling house, split into a handful of flats, was barely half full. Only two families and the half-family—the Carters and the Shepherds, and Cat with her boy, Cricket—called it home. Cat and her son were the ones everyone tried to ignore except in moments of dire necessity. Cat had only her son; no husband, no parents, and the neighbours looked down on her, barely acknowledging her existence save for chasing away Cricket with shouts and nicknames for his odd looks. Cricket, despite being awkward and frightened and never conventionally handsome, was unfailingly kind. He’d drop everything to comfort a crying child, earning nasty words from mothers who didn’t want “that scarecrow” near their little darlings. For a long while, Cricket didn’t know who “the Scarecrow” was, till his mother gave him a book about Dorothy and her friends, and suddenly, everything made sense. And instead of resenting the name, Cricket decided the others must have read the book too, and so must realise the Scarecrow was clever and good, and helped everyone, and even ruled over a beautiful city. Cat cherished her boy with fierce love, forgiving Johnny’s father’s fecklessness without hesitation, and stood up to the midwife’s dire predictions after his birth, declaring, “Enough of that! My son is the most beautiful child in the world!” In his early years, Cat pursued doctors, determined Johnny would thrive, enduring the bus trips into town and all the pitying looks. Sacrificing everything for his health, Cat prepared the most wonderful meals she could for her boy, growing stronger with love, even if his head was big and his limbs were thin. By school age, Johnny could read and write, though he stammered a little, which undermined his gifts. His first teacher dismissed him—tolerable in every way, she said, except for his reading aloud—but her replacement, Mrs. Mary Ellison, recognised the bright child at once. She set Cricket up with a good speech therapist and encouraged him to submit work in writing, praising his cleverness. The neighbours thought little of Cat and her boy, but Cat long ago decided not to waste her energy on people with closed hearts; better to plant another rose outside her door or lay another tile on her patchwork stoop, created from scavenged pieces that shone in the sunlight, drawing admiration from across the neighbourhood. Cat’s patch—her “penny’s worth”—was the prettiest: blooming with roses, a vast lilac bush, her steps paved with colourful tiles she’d won from the local arts centre’s leftovers. The neighbours gossiped, but Cat didn’t care; the only praise she treasured was when Johnny would sit on the steps and trace the patterns, whispering, “Mum, it’s so beautiful.” Johnny had few friends, not keeping up with the other boys and preferring books to football. And neighbour Mrs. Witherspoon, with her trio of granddaughters, strictly forbade them to go near him—her curls as tight and fierce as her judgments. So Cricket stayed away, especially when Mrs. Witherspoon prepared for a birthday gathering, only passing by the party by chance, not daring to join in. “Lord forgive me!” Mrs. Witherspoon grumbled, covering a plate of pasties with an embroidered cloth. “They’ll call me stingy! Wait here, lad!” She chased after Johnny, handing over a couple of pasties. “Here! And keep out of our way! It’s a celebration! Stay inside till your mother’s home—understand?” Johnny nodded, grateful, quietly vanishing to watch the party from his window, gazing as the birthday girl in her bright pink dress danced like a butterfly across the lawn. Later, disaster struck—the little girl vanished near the old, dangerous well, ignored by the others, but Cricket noticed at once. Remembering his mother’s warnings, he rushed to the well, spotted the pink among the shadows, and, not pausing to shout for adult help, lowered himself in to save her, risking everything to keep her afloat and call for help. Only when Cat raced home from work, in a mother’s blind panic, did the neighbours finally act, helping to haul both children from the dark water. Johnny—Cricket—became the hero of the neighbourhood, his actions forcing even the harshest gossips to see his courage, kindness, and the unwavering love of his mother. And years later, when Cricket, grown-up but ever slight of build, risking his life to save others as a doctor in times of war, is asked why he gives so much—when the world gave him so little—he simply replies, “I am a doctor. That’s what’s right. Life must be lived. That’s what’s right.” Mother’s love knows no bounds, and true greatness shines from the heart: the underestimated, the unvalued, may have more courage and worth than all the rest. Do you believe kindness, no matter the obstacles, finds its way and changes the world for the better? Has your life shown that appearances can mislead, and a person’s true wealth is found in their soul? (Adapted for an English audience, with British names, locations, and references, keeping the original meaning, length, and emotional impact.)

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 15 minViews 2

Off you go! I said go! Why are you loitering around here?! Mrs. Florence Middleton banged down a large plate loaded with steaming sausage rolls under the old apple tree and gave the neighbours boy a firm push. Off you pop! When will your mother start keeping an eye on you? Idle hands are the devils workshop!

Thin as a rake, little Tommy, known to everyone only by his nicknameCricketdarted a furtive glance at the formidable neighbour and slunk back to his own front steps.

The vast Victorian house, long ago divided into flats, was only half-occupied. In truth, just two and a half families lived here: the Bantons, the Everetts, and the CartersEmily and her son, Tommy.

The latter were the half, and hardly anyone paid them any mind ignoring them unless there was some pressing reason. Emily simply wasnt considered someone of consequence, not worth anyones time.

Emily had no one but her boy. No husband, no parents. She made do alone as best she could. People eyed her sideways, but mostly left her alone, except for the odd occasion when they chased the lad out of their gardens, calling him nothing but Cricket for his spindly limbs and overlarge head wobbling atop a neck as fine as a daisy stem.

Cricket was, to put it politely, a rather peculiar boy scrawny, fearful, but heartbreakingly kind. He never walked past a crying child without stopping to comfort them, which earned him scornful glares or sharp words from mothers who didnt want that scarecrow near their darlings.

Who exactly this Scarecrow character was, Tommy didnt know at first. Then, one day, his mother gave him “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz”, and suddenly it all made senseScarecrow was clever, kind, helpful, and in the end, he became ruler of that beautiful city.

Tommy wasnt the least bit hurt by the nickname. If anything, he thought it was lovelyperhaps, he reasoned, everyone calling him Scarecrow had read the book too, and they must know the truth of Scarecrows heart.

Emily, wise enough not to contradict her son, let him keep this lovely illusion. There was enough nastiness in the worldher boy would learn that soon enough. Let his childhood have some joy yet.

Emily loved her son fiercely. She had forgiven his father for running off before Tommy ever drew breath, and when the midwife said the baby looked a little odd, Emily had snapped, Dont talk rubbish! My sons the most beautiful child in the world!

Well, no ones arguing, the midwife soothed, But he may never be the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know

Thats what you think. Ill show you! she insisted, stroking her newborns face and sobbing.

For two years, she ferried Tommy to every doctor in town, determined that someone would look after her boy. Dragging him by bus into London, huddled close in her battered old coat, she ignored all the sympathetic looks, and if anyone offered advice, she turned on them like a lioness.

You mind your own! If youre so clever, put yours in a homeif not, leave me and my boy be! I know what Im doing.

By the time Tommy was two, hed caught up with most children his ageno more doctors warnings. His large head, spindly arms, and unyielding thinness remained, but Emily accepted this and gave him the best of everything she could, skipping meals herself just to feed him.

Emilys sacrifices paid off. Tommy rarely troubled the doctors anymore, and the health visitors shook their heads in amazement every time they saw Emilyelfin, determined, wrapping her arms around her Cricket.

Mothers like you are a rare breed, Emily! He was almost labelled disabled, but look at him now. Hes thriving!

Thats my boy for you.

Were talking about *you*, Emily, not the lad! Youre the star here!

Emily just shrugged. Isnt it a mothers job to love her child? She was just doing what any parent should.

By the time Tommy was due to start school, he could read, write, and count, but he did stammer a little. That sometimes undid all his progress.

Thank you, Tommy, thats enough! the teacher would cut him short, passing reading aloud to someone else, and grumbling in the staffroom that, charming as the lad was, listening to him read or answer was excruciating.

Luckily for Tommy, after two years, that teacher married and went on maternity leave. Her replacement, Mrs. Mary Barton, was older, no-nonsense, but loved children as she always had. Mrs. Barton quickly understood what Cricket was about, spoke with Emily, sent her to a good speech therapist, and asked Cricket to submit assignments in writing.

You write so marvellously! I really enjoy reading your work! Mrs. Barton would say, reading Tommys answers aloud to the whole class, pronouncing what a talented pupil shed been given.

Emily would quietly weep with gratitude, wanting to kiss the hands that so gently guided her boy. But Mrs. Barton brushed off every attempt at thanks.

Dont be daft! Its my job! Hes a smashing lad. Hes going to be fine, youll see!

Tommy would skip to school, which made the neighbours chuckle.
There goes our little Cricket! Must be time for us to change shifts. Poor childnature can be cruel sometimes. Why is he even here?

Emily knew full well what the neighbours thought but never fought back. She believed that if a person had no kindness or heart, you couldnt force them to behave properly. Best not to waste timeor better, turn that energy to something useful: cleaning, or planting a new rose by her own front door.

No one bothered to mark out the gardens boundaries, but there was an unwritten rule: the patch by your steps belonged to your flat. Emilys patch was by far the prettiestblossoming roses, a great lavender bush, and stepping stones set with the broken tiles shed salvaged from the town hall refurbishment, shining in the sun like little treasures.

Shed charged in that day, demanding, Can I have those broken tiles?

The centre manager had just stared at herWhat on earth do you want with them?

But hed let her take them, laughing softly. Emily wheeled load after load home, picking only the best bits, Tommy perched on top like the prince of salvage. Neighbours gossiped about the rubbish collector, but were left speechless when they saw the splendid mosaic she madea work of art everyone in town came to see.

But none of this mattered to Emilyher greatest praise was from her son:
Mum, its beautiful

And Tommy, sitting on their steps, would trace the mosaic patterns with his finger, thrilled with happiness while Emily wept quietly for joy.

For Tommys happiness came in small measuresa word of praise at school, or a treat from his mother and her softly whispered reassurance of how bright and good he was. That was the sum of his joys.

He hadnt many friends. Football matches left him behind and hed rather read a book. No girls ever came nearespecially not Florences grandchildren. Florence, with three granddaughters aged five, seven, and twelve, never failed to shoo him away.

Dont go near them! shed wave her fist, Not your sort, young man!

None knew what went on in Florences tightly curled head, but Emily advised Tommy to avoid her and the girls altogether.
Dont upset her, love. Shell only make herself ill.

So Cricket dutifully kept away, going nowhere near Florences celebration that dayhe was only passing by the garden, not daring to join in.

Oh, my sins! Florence grumbled, tucking a napkin round a tray of sausage rolls. Theyll all call me stingy. Hang on! She picked two sausage rolls and hurried after Tommy.

Herenow disappear! Weve got a party. Stay put till your mother gets in from work, hear?

Tommy nodded and thanked her, then scampered home. Florence was already busysoon the family would arrive, her grandchildren and the lot, and she wanted little to do with the sickly big-headed Cricket. No scaring the children on a birthday, thank you!

Florence remembered all too well when she tried to talk Emily out of keeping Tommy.
You cant manage, my girl!
Have you ever seen me with a drink in hand? Emily shot back.
That means nothing! With your poverty and no help, what good will you do him? You werent taught how to be a mother. Best send the boy away before its too late!

Emily, after that, never even greeted Florence, striding proudly past her with her large, awkward bump.

You soft thing, I only want to help! Florence would fuss.

Well, your help stinks! And Ive got morning sickness! Emily would retort, soothing the unborn Cricket. Dont worry, sweetheart. No one will harm you

Tommy never told his mother about the ways people teased or hurt himhe felt sorry for her. If he was badly treated, he just wept quietly somewhere alone, knowing his mother would be angrier about it than he ever was. Hurts slipped away; he forgave quickly and felt no bitterness, only mild pity for those strange grownups who didnt understand.

Life is easier without grudges.

Cricket fairly stopped fearing Mrs Middleton long ago, but neither did he much like her. Whenever she wagged her finger and barked something mean, Tommy just cleared offbetter than seeing her mean little eyes and hearing words sharp as razors. Had she ever asked what he thought, Mrs Middleton might have been surprised: Tommy pitied herpity reserved for people who wasted their precious minutes being angry.

Minutes meant everything to Tommy; he knew there was nothing more valuable. Anything else in life could be fixed or replaced, but not time.
Tick-tock! went the clock.
And thats itgone, never to return, not for all the pounds in the world.

Clambering onto his windowsill, Tommy munched a sausage roll, watching Florences granddaughters and the local children dart about the back field, cheering for the birthday girl Lydia as she fluttered around in her pretty pink dress, just like a princess in a fairy tale. The adults were busy at the table by Florences porch, while the children, after a spell, ran off to kick a ball near the old well at the far end of the field.

Tommy slipped into his mothers bedroom, where from the window he could see everything. He watched the game, clapped his hands, felt happy for them. As dusk crept in, some children peeled away, others invented new games. Only the girl in the pink dressLydiaremained by the old well, busy spinning, drawing Tommys gaze.

He knew that old well was dangeroushis mum had warned him time and again.

The woods rottentheres still water down, though no one uses it. Fall in, and no one will hear. Understand? Never go near it.

I wont!

Tommys gaze drifted for just a moment, distracted as the other boys huddled in a group, plotting something. When he looked backLydia was gone. No pink dress in sight.

He dashed for their porch, checkedLydia wasnt with the family either, singing round the table.

Why Tommy never thought to raise the alarm later, he couldnt say. Instinct took over; he tore down the steps, didnt even hear Florence shout, Didnt I tell you to stay indoors?!

None of the other children noticed anything wrong. Tommy, reaching the well, saw a pale shape far below. He shouted, Hold on to the wall!

Fearing hed hurt her if he jumped, Tommy lay on his front, slid his legs down first, scraped his stomach raw on the damp wood, and plunged into the darkness.

He knew how little time Lydia had. She couldnt swimhed seen the countless failed lessons on the river, Florence scolding her for her inability.

So when she clung, shivering and coughing, to his bony shoulders, Tommy said as gently as he could, Its alright. Im here. Hold tight, and Ill call for help.

Gripping slimy wood, struggling to stay above water, he screamed his loudest,
Help!

The children had already vanished, the adults drinking not yet aware that anything was amiss. He didnt know if hed have the strength to hold out, if anyone would hear, if any help would come.
He just knew that Lydia, in her pink dress, mustnt die. Beauty and time are both too rare.

His cries went unheard for some minutes.

It took Florence, bustling out with a platter of roast goose, scanning for the birthday girl, to realiseWheres Lydia?!

Grown-ups lost in chatter didnt grasp the panic at first. Florence dropped the platter and started screamingloudly enough to rouse the whole lane.

Tommy, weakening, managed one last cry:
Mum

Emily, hurrying home from her shift at the bakery, somehow sensed something was wrong, quickening her pace, not stopping for bread, not pausing to greet the neighbours gossiping on their steps. She dashed through the front gate, just as Florence collapsed in shock on Emilys own mosaic steps.

Emily needed no guessing. The old well always frightened her. Shed begged the council to fill it in, or at least cover it properly. Her makeshift fence was no real barrierno one but Emily worried about it.

There was no time to waste. Emily grabbed the line she used for the washing and shouted for help as she rushed out.

Luckily, one of Florences sons-in-law was still sober enough to make sense of it all. In seconds, he looped the rope around the tiny Emily.

She found Lydia straight away the girl clung round her neck, limp with terror. But Emily shook so with fear she could barely hold steady. She fumbled about, feeling for her son, panic rising.

It was then she prayed, as fiercely as she had on the day Tommy was born:
Please, dont take him.

She grasped something thin and slick she pulled, fearful even to wonder if he was breathing, and yelled,
Pull!

As they were lifted up, she heard a ragged, precious,
Mum

***

Tommy came home a hero after nearly a fortnight in hospital.

Lydia was released earlyshaken but fine, except for some nasty scratches and the loss of her beloved birthday frock.

Tommy bore the brunt broken wrist, coughing fits, but his mother by his side and no more fear for Lydia, who dropped by with her whole family to thank him. Tommy just looked forward to being home againwith his books, and his favourite tabby cat.

Oh, my dearest boy! God bless you! If it werent for you Florence would sob, hugging sunburnt Tommy tight. Anything you want!

What for? Tommy shrugged his narrow shoulders. I did what needed doing. Im a boy, arent I?

She could find no answer, just hugged him again, not knowing yet that this awkward, skinny ladthis Cricket, as hed always be calledwould, some years down the line, drive an ambulance under fire to rescue the wounded, not caring who they were, simply easing suffering. And if someone asked why, after all he had endured, he would say, simply:

Im a doctor. Thats how it should be. Life must go on. Thats right.

***

Dear reader

A mothers love truly knows no bounds.

Emily, despite all hardships and neighbourly prejudice, loved her son fiercely. Her devotion and faith helped him grow into a kind, clever soul. This is a reminder that parental love is a force unequalled.

The real hero is always within: Tommy, unattractive outside, was truly heroic, plunging without hesitation to save a child. It is courage, kindness, and mercy not appearance that mark greatness.

Those who once sneered were forced to see his worth. Let this story remind us: preconceptions fade beside real goodness. Forgiveness and right action are true strengths, even when treated unfairly. In Tommys words: Im a doctor. Thats how it should be. Life must go on. Thats right.

Let us rememberhumanity and compassion outshine all meanness; true beauty comes from within.

And for you:
Do you believe that kindness, no matter the challenge, always finds a way to make our world better? Has your experience shown how appearances deceive, and the greatest wealth is within a persons soul?

— Four Generations of Men in Our Family Worked on the Railways! And What Have You Given Us? — A Daughter, Anna Whispered, Stroking Her Belly. — We’ll Call Her Grace. — Another girl? Is this some kind of joke? — Mrs. Ellen Mitchell threw the scan result onto the table. — Four generations of men in our family worked on the railway! And what have you given us? — Grace, — Anna replied softly, stroking her stomach. — We’ll call her Grace. — Grace… — her mother-in-law drawled. — Well, at least the name’s decent. But what’s the point? Who’s ever going to need her, your Grace? Max kept silent, glued to his phone. When his wife asked for his opinion, he just shrugged: — It is what it is. Maybe the next one will be a boy. Anna felt something tighten inside. The next one? Is this precious child just a rehearsal? Grace was born in January — tiny, with huge eyes and a shock of dark hair. Max showed up only for the hospital discharge, bringing a bouquet of carnations and a bag of baby things. — She’s beautiful, — he said, peering nervously into the pram. — Looks like you. — But with your nose, — Anna smiled. — And that stubborn chin. — Oh, give over, — Max brushed it off. — All babies look the same at this age. At home, Mrs. Ellen Mitchell met them with a sour face. — Our neighbour, Valerie, asked if it was a grandson or granddaughter. I was embarrassed to answer, — she muttered. — At my age, playing with dolls… Anna locked herself in the nursery and cried quietly, clutching her daughter. Max worked more and more. He took odd jobs, extra shifts, said family was expensive, especially with a child. He came home late, tired, and silent. — She waits for you, — Anna would say when Max walked by the nursery without so much as a glance. — Grace always perks up when she hears your footsteps. — I’m tired, Annie. Early shift tomorrow. — But you haven’t even said hello… — She’s small, she won’t understand. But Grace understood. Anna saw how her daughter’s head turned to the door at the sound of her father’s footsteps, and how she stared into space for ages when those footsteps faded away. At eight months old, Grace became ill. First, her temperature rose to thirty-eight, then thirty-nine. Anna called for the GP, who said to keep her hydrated and use fever medicine. In the morning, the fever hit forty. — Max, get up! — Anna shook her husband. — Grace is really ill! — What time is it? — Max mumbled, barely opening his eyes. — Seven. I was up all night with her. We need to get to hospital! — This early? Maybe we wait till evening? I’ve got a big shift today… Anna stared at him like he was a stranger. — Your daughter’s burning with fever and you’re thinking about your shift? — It’s not like she’s dying! Kids get ill all the time. Anna called a taxi herself. At the hospital, doctors admitted Grace at once to infectious diseases. Complicated inflammation suspected — a lumbar puncture was needed. — Where’s the child’s father? — the consultant asked. — We need both parents’ consent. — He… he’s working. He’ll be here soon. Anna called Max all day. His phone was unreachable. At 7pm, he finally answered. — Annie, I’m at the rail depot, busy… — Max, Grace has suspected meningitis! They need your consent for a lumbar puncture! The doctors are waiting! — What? What puncture? I don’t understand… — Just come! Right now! — I can’t, shift doesn’t end till eleven. And then I’ve plans with the lads… Anna quietly hung up. She signed the consent alone — as her mother’s right. Puncture under general anaesthetic. Grace looked so tiny on that big hospital trolley. — Results tomorrow, — the consultant said. — If it’s meningitis, the treatment will be long. A month and a half or more in hospital. Anna stayed the night at Grace’s side. Her baby lay, pale and motionless, tiny chest rising weakly. Max appeared the next day at lunchtime. Unshaven. Creased shirt. — Well… how is she? — he asked, hesitating at the door. — Not good, — Anna answered curtly. — Still waiting on the tests. — And what have they done to her? That… thing… — Lumbar puncture. Took spinal fluid for tests. Max turned pale. — Did it hurt her? — She was under. She didn’t feel a thing. He stepped to the cot and froze. Grace slept, tiny hand taped to the IV. — She’s… so little, — Max mumbled. — I never thought… Anna said nothing. Results were good — no meningitis. A regular virus, complicated but treatable at home overseen by the GP. — Lucky, — the consultant remarked. — Another day or two, and it could have been much worse. On the way home, Max was silent. When they pulled up, he quietly asked, — Am I really… that bad? As a dad? Anna shifted their sleeping daughter and looked at her husband. — What do you think? — I thought there was plenty of time. That she wouldn’t understand, being so little. But then… — he fell silent. — When I saw her there with those tubes… I realised I could lose her. And that I’d be losing more than I knew. — Max, she needs a dad. Not just a provider, a man who brings home a paycheque. A dad. Someone who knows her name, who can say what her favourite toys are. — Which ones? — he asked softly. — Her rubber hedgehog and the jingly rattle. When you come home, she always crawls to the door. She waits for you to pick her up. Max looked down. — I didn’t know… — Now you do. At home, Grace woke and cried softly. Instinctively, Max reached for her, then stopped. — May I? — he asked Anna. — She’s your daughter. Gently, Max picked Grace up. The little girl hiccupped, quietened, and fixed big eyes on her dad’s face. — Hello, precious, — Max whispered. — I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. Grace reached out and touched his cheek. Max’s throat tightened with a new, unfamiliar feeling. — Dada, — Grace said, clear as a bell. It was her first word. Max stared wide-eyed at Anna. — She… she just said… — She’s been saying it for a week, — Anna smiled. — But only when you’re not home. She was waiting for the right moment. That evening, with Grace asleep on his chest, Max gently put her in her cot. She didn’t wake, only gripped his finger even tighter in her sleep. — She doesn’t want to let go, — Max marvelled. — She’s afraid you’ll disappear again, — Anna explained. He sat by the cot for half an hour, unable to pry free. — Tomorrow I’m taking a day off, — he told Anna. — And the day after. I want… I want to really know my daughter. — What about work? All those extra shifts? — We’ll manage. Or live simpler. What matters most is not missing how she grows up. Anna drew close and hugged him. — Better late than never. — I’d never have forgiven myself if something had happened, and I hadn’t even known her favourite toys, — Max said softly, watching his daughter sleep. — Or that she could say “Dada.” A week later, when Grace was fully recovered, the three of them went to the park. Grace rode on her father’s shoulders, giggling and grabbing golden autumn leaves. — Look at all this, Grace! — Max showed her the yellow maples. — And there’s a squirrel! Anna walked beside them and thought about how sometimes you almost have to lose what’s dearest before you realise its true worth. At home, Ellen Mitchell greeted them with her usual disapproval. — Max, Valerie said her grandson is already playing football. And your little one… just plays with dolls. — My daughter’s the best in the world, — Max replied calmly, sitting Grace down and handing her the rubber hedgehog. — Playing with dolls is brilliant. — But our family line will end… — It won’t end. It will go on. Just a different way. Ellen opened her mouth to argue, but Grace crawled over and raised her arms. — Gran! — she called, beaming. The grandmother picked her up, flustered. — She… she’s talking! — she exclaimed. — Our Grace is very clever, — Max said proudly. — Isn’t that right, love? — Dada! — Grace shouted happily, clapping her hands. Anna watched the scene and thought that happiness sometimes comes through trials. And that the deepest love isn’t born at once, but ripens slowly, through pain and the fear of loss. That evening, as Max put Grace to bed, he softly sang her a lullaby. His voice was low and a little hoarse, but Grace listened, wide-eyed. — You’ve never sung to her before, — Anna observed. — There’s a lot I never did before, — Max replied. — But now… now I’ve got time to catch up. Grace slept, hugging her dad’s finger tight. And Max sat quietly in the dark, listening to her breathe, thinking how much can be missed if you don’t stop to treasure what truly matters. And Grace slept on, smiling in her dreams — she finally knew her dad wasn’t going anywhere. This story was sent in by one of our readers. Sometimes fate demands not just a choice but a great trial to awaken the brightest feelings in a person. Do you believe someone can truly change when they realise they stand to lose what matters most?

He’s Not My Son—But My Neighbour’s, Catty’s. My Husband Visited Her Often, and She Ended Up Bearing His Child: A Redhead Just Like His Father, No Testing Needed. Now They Want Me to Take Him In, But My Husband’s Gone, and I Have No Idea What He Was Up To… And Now Catty’s Gone Too Tanya Was Weeding the Beds When She Heard Someone Calling out in the Garden. She Wiped Her Brow and Went to the Gate, Where a Stranger Was Waiting ‘Tanya, Hello! We Need to Talk.’ ‘Hello. Well, come in if you’ve come…’ Tanya Welcomed the Woman Inside and Set the Kettle Boiling, Curiosity Bubbling—What Could She Possibly Want? ‘My Name’s Nina. We Haven’t Met, but I’ve Heard All About Your Situation… I’ll Get Straight to the Point. Your Late Husband Had a Son, Michael. He’s Three Years Old.’ Tanya Looked at the Woman, Surprised—She Seemed Far Too Old to Be the Mother… ‘He’s Not My Son—He’s My Neighbour Catty’s. Your Husband Used To Pop Round Her House, That’s How She Ended Up With His Child. Red Hair and Freckles, Spitting Image of His Father—No Need for a DNA Test.’ ‘And What Do You Want from Me? My Husband Only Recently Passed—I’ve No Idea What He Got Up to…’ ‘Well, Catty’s Gone Too—Pneumonia, It Got Her in the End. The Poor Boy’s an Orphan Now.’ Catty Had No Family—She Wasn’t From Around Here, Worked as a Shop Assistant… Poor Lad—He Has No One but the Children’s Home Now… ‘But I’ve Got My Own Kids, Two Daughters—Born Properly Married, Mind You. Are You Suggesting I Take in This Child? It Takes Some Nerve, Coming Here to the Wife and Asking Her to Take in Her Husband’s Love Child…’ ‘But He’s Your Daughters’ Brother by Blood—Hardly a Stranger, Really… And He’s a Good Lad—Kind, Gentle… He’s in Hospital Now; They’re Processing the Paperwork…’ ‘Oh, Don’t Think You Can Play on My Sympathy… I’ve No Idea How Many Children My Husband Left Behind—Am I Supposed to Raise Them All?’ ‘It’s Up to You… My Job Was Just to Let You Know.’ Nina Left, and Tanya Sat Down with a Mug of Tea, Lost in Thought… A Story About a Wife Who Discovers Her Late Husband’s Secret Son—And the Family Choices That Come Next

“You’re Driving Me Up the Wall!… You Never Eat Right, Dress Right, You Can’t Do Anything Properly!” Pavel’s Voice Finally Broke Into a Shout. “And You’re Useless! Can’t Even Earn Decent Money, Never Help At Home…” Marina Burst Into Tears. “And We Have No Children…” She Whispered. Belka – a ten-year-old, white-and-ginger cat – Watched Another “Tragedy” Unfold from atop the Wardrobe, Wondering Why Mum and Dad Hurt Each Other with Such Bitter Words When They Clearly Love Each Other So Much. Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Sat Chain-Smoking, and Belka Wondered: “A Family Needs Happiness… and Happiness Means Children… But Where to Find Them?” Belka Couldn’t Have Kittens (She’d Been Neutered), and Mum – Well, Doctors Said She Might, but Nothing Worked Out… The Next Morning, Once Her Owners Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window for the First Time and Popped Over to See Her Neighbour, Paws, for Advice. “Why Would Anyone Want Kids?” scoffed Paws. “Mine Drive Me Mad—Hide From Them All Day! Covered In Lipstick One Minute, Squashed the Next!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Good Kids… Just Not Sure Where To Find Them…” “Well,” mused Paws, “Street Cat Maisie Downstairs Has Five… Take Your Pick…” Taking a Deep Breath, Belka Braved Her Way Down, Squeezing through Railings and Calling, “Maisie! Please, Can I Talk to You?” From the Depths of the Basement Came Tiny, Desperate Squeaks. Belka Crawled Over—Five Scruffy, Blind, Hungry Kittens Huddled Under the Radiator, Clearly Abandoned for Days. Heart Heavy, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten Up to Her Building’s Entrance. Curling Protectively Around Them, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Return. When Pavel and Marina Arrived, Stunned to Find Belka (Who’d Never Been Outside Alone) Surrounded by Five Squeaking, Colourful Kittens, They Could Only Stare in Amazement. “How On Earth…?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina, Scooping Up the Cat and Kittens and Hurrying Indoors. Cradling the Purring Feline and Her Furry Brood, Pavel Asked, “What Now?” “I’ll Bottle-Feed Them… When They’re Bigger, We’ll Find Them Homes. I’ll Ring My Friends,” Marina Replied Softly. Three Months Later, Stroking Her Cat Family, Marina Whispered Again and Again, “Things Like This Don’t Just Happen… It’s Impossible…” But Soon She and Pavel Were Laughing Through Their Tears, Holding Each Other Close, and Dreaming Aloud: “I’m Glad I Finished the House!” “It’s the Perfect Place for a Child!” “The Kittens Can Roam, Too!” “We’ll Fit Just Fine!” “I Love You So Much!” “Oh, And I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together.

“Well, Rusty, shall we?” muttered Val, adjusting the homemade lead fashioned from an old rope. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and shivered. February this year had been particularly vicious—sleet and biting winds that cut straight through. Rusty—a scruffy mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye—had come into his life a year ago. Val was just coming home from the night shift at the factory when he spotted the dog by the bins: beaten, starving, his left eye clouded over. A voice rattled his nerves. Val recognised it at once—Steve Squint, the local “top lad,” barely twenty-five, with three teenage lads swaggering at his side—his “crew.” “Out for a stroll, eh?” Val replied, eyes fixed on the pavement. “Oi, mister, you got a license for that mutt?” one lad jeered. “Ugly thing, innit—look, his eye’s all funny!” A stone hurtled and smacked Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered, pressing himself to Val’s leg. “Sling your hook,” Val said softly, but there was steel in his voice. “Oi, listen to this! Granddad MacGyver’s giving us orders!” Steve strolled closer. “You forget whose patch this is? Dogs walk round here if I say so.” Val tensed. He’d been taught in the army to solve problems swiftly and firmly. That was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a knackered, retired mechanic desperate to avoid trouble. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time, your freak won’t be limping—he’ll be gone for good!” At home, Val couldn’t sleep a wink, replaying the scene. The following day, sleet pelted down. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty perched patiently by the door, eyes brimming with hope, and Val relented. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts—Steve’s crew were nowhere to be seen, probably sheltering from the sour weather. Val was just starting to relax when Rusty froze by the derelict boiler house, one ear cocked, nose sniffing at the damp air. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whimpered, tugging towards the rubble. Strange noises drifted out—half cry, half moan. “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Silence, only the wind howled reply. Rusty insisted, pulling hard on the rope. In his one good eye was pure worry. “What is it?” Val crouched by him. “What have you found?” Then, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped the rope and followed Rusty through the shattered entry. Behind a pile of broken bricks, a boy lay crumpled—about twelve, face battered, lip split, clothes torn. “Good lord!” Val dropped to his knees. “What happened?” “Mr. Val?” the boy croaked, barely opening an eye. “Is it you?” Val peered closer—Andy Mason, his neighbour’s quiet lad from number 5. “Andy! What on earth happened?” “Steve and his lot,” the boy sniffed. “Wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell the copper. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val stripped off his coat, wrapped the shivering boy. Rusty pressed close, covering Andy with his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg… hurts. Bad.” Val felt it—sure enough, broken. Who knew what else was wrong inside. “Have you got a phone?” “They took it.” Val pulled out his ancient Nokia, rang for an ambulance. Help would be there in half an hour. “Hang on, lad. They’re coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy whimpered. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t hurt you again,” Val promised, voice firm. “Not anymore.” Andy looked doubtful: “But last night you ran from them…” “That was different. It was just me and Rusty then. Now…” He left it hanging. How to explain thirty years back, he’d sworn to defend the weak? That in Afghanistan they taught him—a real man never abandons a child? The ambulance arrived faster than expected. Andy was whisked away. Val remained with Rusty in the drizzle, thinking. That night, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came by in tears. “Mr. Grant,” she sobbed, “the doctors said if he’d stayed another hour in the cold… you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val stroked Rusty. “He found your boy.” “What now?” she whispered, eyes darting to the door. “Steve’s not finished. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word isn’t enough.” “It’ll be all right,” Val said, though he hadn’t a clue how. He barely slept, the questions looping—how to protect Andy? And not just him; how many kids here put up with Steve and his gang? By morning, he had his answer. Val donned his old military dress uniform—the lot, medals and all. He checked himself in the mirror—a proper soldier, if a bit battered. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve a job to do.” Steve’s lot lounged outside the corner shop. Seeing Val march over, they cackled. “Oi, Grandad, off to the Cenotaph, are ye?” one jeered. Steve stood, smirking: “Run along, old timer. Your day’s over.” “The day’s just starting,” Val said calmly, stepping up. “What’s up with the fancy dress?” “Serving my country. Protecting the weak from scum like you.” Steve’s grin faded. “Andy Mason—remember him?” “Why bother with that loser?” “Because he’s the last kid you’ll ever hurt round here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “Let’s see who runs things, grandad!” Val didn’t move an inch. Thirty years gone, but the soldier was still there. “The law runs things now.” “What law? You a copper?” “I don’t need a badge—I’ve got my conscience.” Then something wholly unexpected happened. Rusty, who’d sat at Val’s side quietly, rose. The hair on his hackles bristled, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “And your mutt—” Steve began. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in. “Afghan war, bomb squad. He can sniff out a villain from a mile off.” It wasn’t true—Rusty was just a scrappy stray. But Val sounded so convincing, everyone believed it. Even Rusty seemed to believe, straightening proudly, baring his teeth. “He’s found twenty terrorists—tied up every single one,” Val carried on. “Think he can’t handle one junkie?” Steve backed off. His mates froze. “Listen well,” Val stepped forward. “From now on, these streets belong to everyone. I’ll be out every day, every alley, every playground. And Rusty will sniff out any trouble. Then we’ll see…” He left it unsaid. But they understood. “You trying to scare us?” Steve tried bravado. “I make one call—” “Go ahead.” Val nodded. “Just remember—I know more people in prison than you ever will. Plenty owe me favours.” That wasn’t true either. But Steve bought it. “The name’s Val the Para,” Val said. “Remember it. And keep your hands off the kids.” He turned to go. Rusty trotted proudly at his side. Silence settled behind them. Three days on, Steve and his crew vanished from sight. And Val truly did start walking the neighbourhood every day—with Rusty, head held high and chest out. Andy was discharged a week later. His leg hurt, but he could walk. He showed up at Val’s door. “Mr. Val, can I help with your patrols?” Andy asked hopefully. “You’ll have to check with your mum first.” Mrs. Mason couldn’t have been more pleased—at last, her son had a role model. So every evening, you’d see them: the battle-scarred old gent in uniform, a quiet boy, and a scruffy ginger stray. Everyone adored Rusty. Even the mums let the kids stroke him, rough as he looked—there was something proud in his bearing. Val told tales of his army days, of true friendship. The children listened, wide-eyed. One evening, heading home with Andy, the boy asked, “Mr. Val, were you ever scared?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Of not being strong enough.” Andy patted Rusty. “I’ll grow up and help you, Mr. Val. I’ll have a dog just like him—clever, brave.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Of course you will.” Rusty just wagged his tail. And everyone round those streets knew: “That’s Val the Para’s dog. He can spot a hero from a villain in a second.” Rusty bore the title proudly—no longer just a stray. He was the neighbourhood’s protector.

The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, only to remember too late: the milk would rise, overflow, and she’d wipe the stovetop in frustration. In those moments, she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since the birth of her second grandchild, the whole family seemed to have come off the rails. Her daughter looked exhausted, thinner, spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes went straight to his room. Anna saw it all and thought: how can you just leave a woman to manage alone? So she spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then her son-in-law. And then, she noticed something strange: her words didn’t lighten the atmosphere—they made it heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew sullen, and Anna went home feeling as though she’d done something wrong—again. That day, she went to see Father Matthew—not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. “I must be a terrible mother,” she began, eyes cast down. “I keep getting it wrong.” The priest was seated at his table, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I only wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her carefully, but kindly. “You’re not terrible. You’re tired. And you’re very anxious.” She sighed. It felt true. “I worry about my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different now, since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “He acts like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you see what he does?” Father Matthew asked. Anna thought. She recalled how, last week, he’d quietly done the dishes late at night, believing no one saw. How on Sunday he’d taken the pram out, though he looked like he just wanted to sleep. “He does… things,” she admitted. “But not the way he should.” “And what way would that be?” Anna was ready to answer, but then realised she wasn’t sure. In her mind there was only: more, better, kinder. But what, exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” Anna said. “Then say that,” Father Matthew replied quietly. “But say it to yourself, not to him.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re fighting her husband, not fighting for your daughter. And fighting brings tension. That exhausts everyone—you included.” Anna was silent for a long time. “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words—actions. Not against anyone, but for someone.” On her way home, she turned all this over. She remembered how, when her daughter was small, she hadn’t lectured her—just sat nearby when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day she dropped in, unannounced, bringing soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I’m not staying long,” Anna said. “Just here to help.” She watched the children while her daughter napped. She slipped away without saying how hard things were, or how they “should” live. A week later, she came again. And the week after that. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect—but now she noticed other things: how gently he lifted the baby, how in the evenings he covered her daughter with a blanket, thinking no one saw. One day, Anna couldn’t help but ask him in the kitchen: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It’s hard,” he replied after a pause. “Very.” And said nothing more. But after that, something sharp in the air between them vanished. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what she needed was to begin with herself. She stopped criticising him to her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to check in. None of it came easily. Anger was much easier. But gradually, the home became quieter. Not better. Not perfect. Just—quieter. The ever-present tension faded. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now—instead of against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood one simple thing: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits fault. It’s when someone is first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law were more attentive. That feeling never left. But another, more important wish grew alongside it: that the family be at peace. And each time the old feelings resurfaced—frustration, hurt, the urge for a sharp word—she asked herself: Would I rather be right, or make things easier for them? The answer almost always guided her next steps.