Hello… Is that Vasya? – No, this isn’t Vasya, it’s Helen… – Helen? Who are you?… – Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Were you looking for someone? He’s not home, he’s working late… My head started spinning when I saw drops of blood on the floor and my stomach twisted with pain — I knew the baby was coming. For five years my husband, Vasyl, has worked abroad: first driving lorries in Germany, then doing renovations in Poland, all to earn enough for our two sons and give them a better future, because we knew we’d never get ahead back home. Yet when I unexpectedly discovered I was pregnant at 45, I hid it from my family, afraid my grown children would laugh or call me mad. I considered ending the pregnancy, but medical risks were too great. Hopeful, I called Vasyl to share the news, but another woman answered, claiming to be his girlfriend while he worked late. Later, on Valentine’s Day, Vasyl returned and I revealed my pregnancy: he exploded, accused me of infidelity, and stormed out. After a traumatic birth at home, I handed my newborn daughter to the paramedics — convinced I couldn’t raise another child and desperate for Vasyl to return, even as he stayed overseas, never speaking to me, only his sons. Now, people may judge me, but I’ve chosen my husband over my child, and only God can judge my heart.

Author Emily TaylorReading 5 minViews 3

Hello Harry?
This isnt Harry. Its Emily
Emily? And who are you?
Madam, who are you? Im Harrys girlfriend. Did you want something? Harrys not here, hes held up at work

I felt so dizzy; I noticed drops of red on the kitchen floor. My stomach twisted painfully I was doubled over. It was clear the baby was about to arrive.

My husband, Harry, has been working abroad for five years now. First it was truck driving in Germany, then odd jobs in France. He went for the money. We have two sons, and we wanted to give them the best future. We knew full well there was no getting ahead in England without sacrifices.

Funny enough, things went well for him there. Hed send us packages once a month tins, flour, tea, biscuits. Hed put money on my account, and I put it into a savings account at the bank. We managed to save enough to buy our eldest a flat.

On the surface, everything seemed fine. But a few months ago, I started feeling strange. My first thought was the menopause, but it didnt fit. I was putting on weight, forever tired, hungry all the time, mood all over the place. The Internet insisted I was pregnant. Pregnant at forty-five? Absurd. Still, I did a test. Sure enough, those two blazing red lines stared right back at me.

I kept the news from our boys and their wives. What for? So my own children could laugh at me? So theyd say their mother had lost her marbles late in life? No thanks. I hid my pregnancy. It was the start of winter thick jumpers and coats camouflaged everything.

Truth is, I didnt want another child. People will say Ive no heart, no faith. But Im forty-five, far from young. I have sons and grandchildren who need my time, not nappies and sleepless nights. We couldnt afford a third child anyway. Harry wouldnt have a choice but to go off abroad again, and I just cant do life without him.

The doctors said it was much too late to end the pregnancy, far too risky. I tried talking myself into thinking it would turn out fine. Maybe Harry would be happy, even over the moon at the thought of a new baby. I decided to call him over Skype, break the news. I left the camera off, just voice.

Hello, Harry
This isnt Harry. Its Emily.
Emily? And who might you be?
Madam, who are you? Im Harrys girlfriend. Did you want something? Hes stuck at work, wont be home yet.

I hung up instantly and sobbed bitterly. Sometimes a husband will betray you anywhere, anyhow. I wanted to file for divorce right then and there, chuck all Harrys things out for good, disappear from his life.

But somewhere in my mind I still hoped hed come back to us once he heard about the baby. I knew hed be home in February it was our sons birthdays and hed wrangled a bit of time off. I dreamt once wed all walk together in the park, with Harry holding our daughters hand on one side, and me on the other.

On Valentines Day, Harry came back. I made a romantic dinner, set out candles, put music on. Everything felt gentle and calm.

Harry, Ive a surprise. Im pregnant. Supposed to be a girl.
You wretch! he shouted.

He went bright red with fury, overturned the dinner plates, thumped the table:
So Ive slogged my guts out abroad and youve been off with other men? Now you want me to raise some bastard child?

Harry, let me explain
Dont come near me! he shoved me, and I hit my stomach on the sharp corner of the table, collapsing to the floor.

Harry stormed out, grabbed his bag, slammed the door. I was dizzy, saw blood drops on the floor, pain gripped my belly hard. Somehow, I reached the phone and dialled for an ambulance. But I knew the baby was coming right then.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I already held our daughter. She lay quiet, didnt cry, fast asleep in my arms.

Well then, Mum, are you coming with us?
No. Take the baby. I dont want her.

What do you mean?
Just that. Take her! This child broke up my family. Maybe someone will love her, but it sure isnt me. Just take her I never want to see her!

No guilt, nothing. I gave my child to the medic. They checked me over at home no tearing, calm birth. When the ambulance left, I tidied up, had a shower, went to bed.

None of my sons know I gave the girl away. Every day I go to church, pray for her health, for a loving family to find her. I know I can’t do it again. All I want is Harry home, but he’s off in Germany again, only calls our sons.

Say what you like maybe I am a terrible woman. But I choose my husband over a child. And God is my judge.

Ended Up As the Maid When Alice announced her plans to remarry, her son Ryan and daughter-in-law Kate were stunned by the news and completely at a loss over how to respond. “Are you sure you’re ready for such a drastic change at your age?” Kate asked, glancing nervously at her husband. “Mum, why such extreme decisions?” Ryan fretted. “I get it—you’ve spent most of your life alone and devoted yourself to raising me, but getting married now is just reckless.” “You’re both young, that’s why you think this way,” Alice replied calmly. “I’m sixty-three, and no one knows how much time I have left. I have every right to spend the rest of my life with someone I love.” “Then at least don’t rush into a registry wedding,” Ryan tried to reason. “You’ve only known Frank for a couple of months and you’re already ready to upend your whole life.” “At our age, we can’t waste time, and there’s nothing left to learn—he’s two years older, lives with his daughter and her family in a three-bedroom flat, has a good pension, and owns a cottage,” Alice reasoned. “And where are you planning to live?” Ryan asked, utterly bewildered. “We all live together, but we simply don’t have space for another person.” “Don’t worry so much, Frank isn’t after our square footage. I’ll be moving in with him,” Alice explained. “His place is spacious, and I’ve already got on well with his daughter. We’re all adults, so there shouldn’t be any drama.” Ryan was anxious, but Kate tried to persuade him to understand and accept his mum’s decision. “Maybe we’re just being selfish?” Kate pondered. “Of course it’s convenient for us that your mum helps out, babysits Keira all the time. But she’s perfectly entitled to her own happiness. If she has the chance, we shouldn’t stand in her way.” “It’s fine if they just live together, but do they really have to get married?” Ryan didn’t get it. “I don’t think I can handle seeing Mum in a white dress and wedding games at her age.” “They’re old school, maybe it just makes them feel more secure,” Kate tried to explain. So Alice did marry Frank, whom she’d met unexpectedly in town, and soon moved into his flat. At first everything went smoothly; the household accepted her, her husband was kind, and Alice truly believed she’d found the happiness she deserved at last. She revelled in each new day. But as their blended family settled in, new dynamics began to emerge. “Would you mind whipping up a roast for supper?” asked Frank’s daughter, Emma. “I’d do it myself, but work’s been crazy and I just don’t have time—you’ve got plenty of free time anyway.” Alice understood the hint and took over cooking, grocery shopping, cleaning, laundry, and even tending to the cottage. “Now that we’re married, the cottage is both of ours,” Frank said. “Emma and her husband never have time, and their little girl’s still young. We’ll handle everything together.” Alice didn’t complain; she liked being part of a big family built on mutual support. Her first husband had been lazy and sly, then ran off when Ryan turned ten—no word for twenty years. Now everything felt right; she didn’t mind the chores and felt no bitterness from tiredness. “Mum, you’re no gardener! Every cottage visit sends your blood pressure through the roof. Why do you put yourself through it?” Ryan tried to reason. “I enjoy it, and besides, Frank and I will grow plenty of produce for everyone—we’ll share with all of you,” explained Alice. But Ryan remained doubtful; months passed and nobody had invited them over to even meet properly. He and Kate had invited Frank, who always had excuses. Eventually, they stopped trying, accepting that the new family wasn’t interested. Their only wish was for Alice to be happy. For a time, Alice was. She found joy in her busy days, but the tasks kept piling up and began to wear her down. Frank started complaining of back pain and heart trouble whenever they visited the cottage, leaving Alice to do all the heavy lifting. “Borscht again?” Frank’s son-in-law Adam grimaced. “We just had that yesterday—I expected something different tonight.” “I didn’t have time for the shops, and I was re-hanging all the curtains today, got dizzy and had to lie down,” Alice apologised. “I get that, but borscht isn’t my favourite,” Adam pushed his bowl away. “Tomorrow Alice will treat us all to a feast,” Frank quickly chimed in. And sure enough, the next day, Alice was on her feet for hours making dinner—only to see everything devoured in minutes. She’d tidy up again, and the cycle repeated. Meanwhile, Frank’s daughter Emma and son-in-law found fault with every little thing, and Frank always sided with them, leaving Alice blamed for anything wrong. “I’m not a young woman, I get tired, and I don’t understand why I’m the only one doing everything!” Alice finally protested. “You’re my wife, so it’s your job to keep the household running,” Frank insisted. “As your wife, I should have rights, not just obligations!” Alice cried. She’d calm down and carry on, trying to keep the peace for everyone, but one day, she finally snapped. Emma and Adam were going out and wanted Alice to look after their daughter. “Let the little one stay with her granddad or go with you, because I’m seeing my own granddaughter tonight,” Alice said. “Why should we all rearrange our lives for you?” Emma snapped. “You shouldn’t, but I don’t owe you, either—I’ve told you since Tuesday, it’s my granddaughter’s birthday. Not only did everyone ignore it, now you’re trying to tie me down at home,” Alice reminded them. “That’s not right,” Frank turned red with anger. “Emma’s plans shouldn’t fall apart because of your granddaughter’s birthday—she’s only little, she won’t mind if you celebrate tomorrow.” “If it’s fine for me to wait, it’s fine for us to go to my family now—or you stay with your granddaughter until I return!” Alice responded firmly. “I knew nothing good would come of you marrying in,” Emma said spitefully. “You’re a mediocre cook, the cleaning’s never up to scratch, and you only think about yourself.” “After all I’ve done these months, you think that too?” Alice asked Frank. “Tell me straight—did you want a wife or a housemaid to serve everyone’s whims?” “Now you’re making me out to be the villain,” Frank replied, blinking rapidly. “Don’t start a row over nothing.” “I asked a simple question—I deserve a real answer,” Alice pressed. “If you’re going to talk like that, do as you please. But I won’t tolerate that attitude toward household duties in my home,” Frank declared. “In that case, I quit,” Alice said, and packed her things. “Will you take back your wayward granny?” she asked, hauling her suitcase and birthday present. “I got married and came back again. I don’t want to talk about it—just tell me: will you have me?” “Of course!” Ryan and Kate embraced her. “Your room’s waiting, and we’re happy you’re home.” “You’re happy for no reason?” Alice sought reassurance. “Isn’t that why people are glad their family’s home?” Kate smiled. That’s when Alice knew she wasn’t a maid. Yes, she helped with the house and watched her granddaughter, but her son and daughter-in-law never took advantage or exploited her kindness. Here, she was just Mum, Grandma, Mother-in-law—a real part of the family, not the help. Alice filed for divorce and tried not to dwell on what she’d been through.

03

Wow, Dad, you really got a welcoming committee! And what did you need that health resort for if you’ve got ‘all-inclusive’ right here at home? When Dmitri handed Eva the keys to his flat, she realised: the fortress was conquered. No DiCaprio ever waited for his Oscar like Eva waited for her Dmitri—now with her own little nest. Disheartened at thirty-five, she was casting sympathetic glances at stray cats and craft shop windows more and more often. And there he was—a solitary soul who’d spent his youth on career, healthy eating, gym memberships, and other nonsense like ‘finding himself’, and still no kids. Eva had wished for this gift since she was twenty, and it seemed the heavens finally understood she wasn’t joking. ‘I have one last business trip this year, and I’m all yours,’ Dmitri said, handing over the precious keys. ‘Just don’t be alarmed by my cave. I usually come home only to sleep,’ he said—and then whisked off to another time zone for the whole weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush, face cream, and set off to inspect this cave. The problems started at the door. Dmitri had warned the lock could be temperamental, but Eva hadn’t expected it to be this bad. She attacked that door for forty minutes: shoving, pulling, sliding the key in all possible ways, politely cajoling it, but it refused to open to its new resident. Eva tried psychological pressure, like her classmates taught behind the garages back in school. The noise brought out a neighbour. ‘Why are you breaking into someone else’s flat?’ asked a worried woman’s voice. ‘I’m not breaking in, I’ve got keys!’ Eva snapped, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘And who are you, exactly? I’ve never seen you before,’ the neighbour continued nosily. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ Eva said boldly, hands on hips. But she saw only a crack where the negotiation was happening. ‘You?’ the woman was genuinely surprised. ‘Yes, me. Problem?’ ‘No, none at all. It’s just, he’s never brought anyone here before,’ (at which Eva loved Dmitri even more), ‘and now suddenly, someone like…’ ‘Someone like who?’ Eva asked, baffled. ‘You know, it’s not my business. Sorry,’ the neighbour retreated, closing her door. Knowing it was now or never, Eva forced the key with all her resolve, nearly twisting the entire doorframe around. The door opened. Dmitri’s inner world appeared before her, and Eva felt her soul turn frosty. She understood that a solitary young man could be a bit ascetic, but this place was positively monastic. ‘Poor thing, your heart has long forgotten, or maybe never knew, what comfort means,’ Eva whispered, surveying the modest home she’d now be spending so much time in. Still, she was happy. The neighbour was right: a woman’s touch had clearly never graced these walls, floors, kitchen, or those grey windows. Eva was the first. Unable to resist, she hurried off to the nearest shop for cheerful curtains and a bath mat—and ended up with oven mitts and kitchen towels too. Once there, her excitement took over: scented candles, handmade soaps, handy organisers for cosmetics joined the pile. ‘Adding a few touches to someone else’s flat isn’t overstepping,’ Eva soothed herself, as she attached a second trolley to the first. The lock gave her no more trouble—in fact, it quit working altogether, now about as secure as a hockey goalie who forgot his mask. Realising what she’d done, Eva spent the night extracting the old lock with whatever kitchen knives she could find, and the next morning dashed off for a new one (and knives, and forks, spoons, a tablecloth, cutting boards, coasters, and, obviously, curtains). On Sunday Dmitri called, saying he’d be delayed a couple more days. ‘I’d be glad if you brought some warmth and comfort to my flat,’ he laughed, when Eva confessed she’d made a few changes. By now, Eva was importing coziness by the truckload, distributing it according to technical plans and paperwork—as though she’d been storing up for years as a lonely woman, and now, unleashed, couldn’t stop. By the time Dmitri returned, his old flat housed only a lone spider near the vent. Eva almost evicted it too, but seeing its eight astonished eyes, decided it was best left as a symbol of respecting someone else’s property. Dmitri’s home now looked like he’d been happily married for eight years, got divorced, and was now happy out of sheer defiance. Eva didn’t just take over the flat—she let the whole building know she was now the lady of the house, and any questions should be addressed to her. There might not be a ring yet, but that was just a technicality. The neighbours watched with suspicion at first, then shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, it’s your business.’ *** On Dmitri’s return day, Eva cooked a proper home dinner, poured herself into a glamorous—almost scandalous—outfit, scattered fragrances round the flat, dimmed the new lighting, and waited. Dmitri was late. When Eva began to notice her dress biting uncomfortably into the spot she’d been working on in the gym for months, she heard a key in the lock. ‘It’s a new lock, just push, it’s not locked!’ Eva called out, flustered but inviting. She wasn’t afraid of judgement—she’d done such a good job on the flat, she’d be forgiven anything. Just as the door opened, Eva received a sudden text from Dmitri: ‘Where are you? I’m home. The flat looks just the same. My mates warned me you’d drown it in cosmetics!’ Eva only saw the message later. Meanwhile, five complete strangers entered: two young men, two kids, and a very old gentleman, who instantly straightened up and patted his hair upon seeing Eva. ‘Wow, Dad, they’re rolling out the red carpet! And why’d you need the health spa, when there’s ‘all-inclusive’ at home?’ said one young man, only to get an elbow from his wife for staring. Eva stood frozen at the doorway, two brimming glasses in hand. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t overcome her shock. A triumphant spider tittered in the corner. ‘Excuse me, and who are you?’ Eva squeaked. ‘I’m the master of this den. And you, I suppose, are from the clinic, here to do the bandages? I said I’d manage myself,’ replied the granddad, eyeing Eva’s nurse outfit. ‘Uh, yes, Adam Mathews, your place is such a haven now!’ the young man’s wife peered hopefully behind Eva. ‘So much better; before it was like a crypt. And you, dear, what’s your name? Isn’t our Adam Mathews a little too old for you? Although, he does have his own place…’ ‘E-e-va…’ ‘Well, well! You’ve picked a winner, Adam Mathews, no doubt about that!’ Judging by his twinkling eyes, granddad felt the same. ‘Where’s Dmitri?’ Eva whispered, nervously downing both glasses. ‘That’s me!’ chirped the eight-year-old lad. ‘Not yet, son—it’s too soon for you to be a Dmitri,’ his mum said, shooing the kids and husband back toward the car. ‘I…I’m sorry, I must have the wrong flat,’ Eva stammered, remembering her misadventures with the lock. ‘This is Lilac Street, eighteen, flat twenty-six?’ ‘No, this is Beech Street, eighteen,’ the old man replied, ready to unwrap his surprise visitor. ‘Oh…’ Eva sighed dramatically. ‘I must’ve mixed it up. Well, make yourselves at home. I just need to make a call.’ She grabbed her phone and dashed to the bathroom, barricading herself and wrapping up in a towel to finally read Dmitri’s message. ‘Dmitri, I’ll be there soon, just got held up in the shop,’ she replied. ‘Great, I’m waiting. If you don’t mind, grab a bottle of red,’ Dmitri left in a voice message. Eva would certainly bring the red—now boiling inside her. Clutching her bath mat and removing the curtain, she waited till the strangers entered the kitchen, then made her escape. Quickly packing up, she ran from the flat. *** ‘I’ll explain later,’ Eva mumbled about her appearance as Dmitri opened the door. Moving like she was sleepwalking, she passed him without a glance, headed straight to the bathroom, rehung the curtain and laid out the mat—then collapsed on the sofa and slept till morning, letting all the stress and all the ‘red’ fade away. Upon waking, Eva saw an unfamiliar young man waiting for an explanation. ‘Can I just ask… what’s this address?’ ‘Boot Avenue, eighteen.’

02

“I couldn’t leave him behind, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “Do you understand? I just couldn’t Nikita was fourteen, and the whole world seemed against him—or rather, no one cared to understand him. “There’s that troublemaker again!” muttered Auntie Clare from the third flat, hurrying to cross the other side of the courtyard. “Raised by a single mum. There’s your result!” Nikita walked by with his hands shoved into the pockets of his battered jeans, pretending not to hear—though he heard everything. His mum was working late again. On the kitchen table, a note: “Meatballs in the fridge, heat them up.” And silence. Always, endless silence. Now, he was trudging home from school, where teachers had yet again sat him down for “a talk” about his behaviour. As though he didn’t realise he’d become everyone’s problem. He understood. But what did it matter? “Hey, lad!” called Uncle Victor, the ground-floor neighbour. “You seen a lame dog about? Ought to chase it off.” Nikita stopped. Squinted. By the rubbish bins, a dog lay—full-grown, ginger with white patches. Lying still, but its eyes followed people. Clever eyes. And sad. “Someone get rid of it!” Aunt Clare chimed in. “Probably diseased!” Nikita walked closer. The dog didn’t move, only wagged its tail feebly. On its back leg, a ragged wound, dried blood. “What are you staring at?” snapped Uncle Victor. “Grab a stick, get rid of it!” Something snapped inside Nikita. “Don’t you dare touch him!” Nikita burst out, shielding the dog. “He’s done nothing wrong!” “Well, there’s a first,” said Uncle Victor, amazed. “A little defender.” “And I’ll keep defending!” Nikita crouched beside the dog, gently reached out. The dog sniffed his fingers and gave his palm a soft, grateful lick. A warmth flooded Nikita’s chest. For the first time in ages, someone greeted him with kindness. “Come on,” he whispered to the dog. “Come home with me.” Back at home, Nikita made a bed for the dog with his old jackets in the corner of his room. Mum wouldn’t be home till evening—no one to shout or chase “the pest” out. The wound looked nasty. Nikita found articles online about first aid for animals, wincing at medical lingo but determined to learn. “Needs rinsing with antiseptic,” he muttered, searching the medicine cupboard. “Then dab around with iodine—carefully, so it won’t hurt.” The dog rested quietly, trustingly giving his bad leg. Looked up at Nikita in a way no one had for a long time. “So, what’s your name? You’re ginger… Ginger it is—how’s that sound?” The dog barked softly—as if agreeing. Come evening, Mum arrived. Nikita braced for an argument, but his mum silently checked Ginger, felt the bandaged leg. “You did the dressing yourself?” she asked quietly. “Yeah. Found out how online.” “What will you feed him?” “I’ll find something.” She looked at her son a long time. Then at the dog, who gratefully licked her hand. “Tomorrow, we’ll take him to the vet,” she decided. “See what’s up with his leg. Have you settled on a name?” “Ginger,” Nikita answered, beaming. For the first time in months, there was no wall between them. In the morning, Nikita got up earlier than usual. Ginger tried to stand, whining softly. “Stay put,” Nikita soothed. “I’ll get you water, fetch some food.” No dog food at home. He gave up his last meatball, soaked bread in milk. Ginger gobbled it up, but gingerly, licking every crumb. At school, Nikita didn’t talk back to teachers for once. Thought only of Ginger—was his leg hurting, was he lonely? “You’re different today,” his form teacher remarked, puzzled. Nikita just shrugged. He didn’t want to explain—kids would laugh. After school, he dashed home, ignoring neighbours’ stares. Ginger greeted him with happy yelps, able to stand on three legs already. “Right, buddy, want to go outside?” Nikita made a lead out of rope. “Just take it easy, mind your leg.” In the courtyard, something unexpected happened. Aunt Clare saw them and nearly choked on her sunflower seeds. “He’s brought it home! Nikita! Are you mad?” “So what?” said Nikita calmly. “I’m treating him. He’ll get better soon.” “Treating him?” the neighbour stepped closer. “And where do you get the money for medicine? Steal it from your mum?” Nikita clenched his fists, but held back. Ginger pressed close to his leg, sensing his nerves. “Don’t steal. Spent my own—they’re breakfast savings,” he said quietly. Uncle Victor shook his head. “Son, do you get what you’ve taken on? That’s a living soul, not a toy. Needs feeding, healing, walking.” Now, every day began with a stroll. Ginger recovered quickly, soon running about, though still limping a bit. Nikita taught him commands—patiently, for hours. “Sit! Good boy! Give me your paw! Like that!” Neighbours watched from a distance. Some shook their heads, others smiled. But Nikita only noticed Ginger’s loyal eyes. He changed. Slowly, over time. Stopped being rude, started tidying at home, even his grades improved. He had a purpose now. And it was just the beginning. Three weeks later, Nikita’s greatest fear came to pass. He was walking Ginger after dark, when a gang of strays burst out from behind the garages. Five or six dogs—angry, hungry, eyes burning in the night. The leader, a huge black mongrel, bared its teeth and charged. Ginger instinctively shrank behind Nikita. His leg still hurt; he couldn’t run. The pack sensed weakness. “Back off!” Nikita shouted, swinging the leash. “Go away!” But the pack closed in. Circled. The black leader snarled, about to pounce. “Nikita!” came a woman’s scream from above. “Run! Leave the dog and run!” It was Aunt Clare, leaning from her window. Other neighbours crowded behind her. “Lad, don’t be a hero!” bellowed Uncle Victor. “That dog’s lame—he’ll never outrun them!” Nikita glanced at Ginger. Trembling, the dog stayed put—pressed to his side, ready to share his fate. The black dog leapt first. Nikita shielded himself, but the bite landed on his shoulder, teeth sinking through his coat. And Ginger—despite his pain, despite his fear—lunged to protect his boy. Sank his teeth into the pack leader’s leg, locked on with all his might. A brawl broke out. Nikita fought off the dogs, kicking, flailing, desperately trying to shield Ginger. Receiving bites, scratches, but refusing to retreat. “Heavens, what’s happening!” wailed Aunt Clare. “Victor, do something!” Uncle Victor ran down with a stick, a metal pipe—whatever came to hand. “Hang on, lad!” he shouted. “I’m coming!” Nikita was nearly overwhelmed when he heard Mum’s voice: “Get off them!” She burst out of the block with a bucket of water, dousing the gang. The strays scattered, spitting and snarling. “Victor, help!” she called. Uncle Victor rushed over with his stick; more neighbours came running. The street dogs, realising they were outmatched, fled. Nikita lay on the tarmac, clutching Ginger. Both bleeding, both shaking—but alive. Safe. “Son,” Mum knelt beside him, examining his scratches. “You scared me half to death.” “I couldn’t leave him, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “You see? I just couldn’t.” “I do see,” she replied softly. Aunt Clare came down to the courtyard. Stared at Nikita, as if seeing him for the first time. “Boy,” she stammered. “You could’ve di—because of a dog.” “It’s not ‘because of a dog’,” Uncle Victor cut in unexpectedly. “It’s for a friend. Understand the difference, Clare?” The neighbour nodded silently, tears running down her cheeks. “Let’s get home,” Mum said. “We need to tend to those wounds. Ginger too.” Nikita struggled to his feet, carried Ginger in his arms. Ginger whimpered, but his tail twitched—he was happy, knowing his master was near. “Wait,” said Uncle Victor. “Going to the vet tomorrow?” “We are.” “I’ll drive you. And pay for the treatment—the dog’s a little hero.” Nikita looked at his neighbour, surprised. “Thank you, Uncle Victor. But I’ll manage.” “Don’t argue. You can pay me back when you earn it. For now…” the man clapped Nikita on the shoulder. “For now, we’re proud of you. Aren’t we?” The neighbours nodded in silence. A month passed. On a typical October evening, Nikita was heading home from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteered on weekends. Ginger trotted alongside—his leg healed, almost no limp. “Nikita!” called Aunt Clare. “Wait a sec!” He paused, bracing for another lecture. But she handed him a bag of dog food. “This is for Ginger,” she said shyly. “Good stuff—expensive. You take such care of him.” “Thank you, Auntie Clare,” Nikita replied sincerely. “But we have dog food. I’m working at the clinic now—Dr. Anna pays me.” “Take it anyway. You’ll be glad you did.” At home, Mum was making dinner. When she saw Nikita, she smiled. “How’s it going at the clinic? Is Dr. Anna pleased with your work?” “Says I’ve got the right touch. Patience too.” Nikita gave Ginger an affectionate pat. “Maybe I’ll be a vet—seriously considering it.” “And how’s your schoolwork?” “Fine. Even Mr. Peterson praised me in Physics. Said I’m more focused.” Mum nodded. In the past month, her son had become unrecognisable. No longer rude, helping at home, greeting neighbours. Most importantly—a purpose. A dream. “You know,” she said, “Victor’s coming round tomorrow. Wants to offer you another little job. His mate runs a dog kennel—needs a helper.” Nikita grinned: “Really? Can I bring Ginger too?” “Think so. He’s almost a working dog now.” That evening, Nikita sat outside with Ginger, practising a new command—“Guard.” Ginger tried his best, watching Nikita with loyal eyes. Uncle Victor stopped by, sat down next to them. “So, off to the kennel tomorrow?” “Yes—with Ginger.” “Then get an early night. It’ll be a busy day.” After Victor left, Nikita stayed in the courtyard a little longer. Ginger rested his head on his master’s lap, sighing contentedly. They’d found each other. And they’d never be alone again.

05

“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Want to Leave Home!” – My Daughter Told Me My daughter became pregnant at 15, keeping it secret for months. My husband and I only discovered the truth when she was five months along. There was never any question of an abortion. We never did find out who the father was. My daughter said they’d only dated for three months, then broke up. She wasn’t even sure how old he was. “Maybe 17, maybe 18, or even 19!” she would say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked at the news of her pregnancy. We knew it would be extremely tough on all of us. Even so, our daughter insisted she wanted the baby and wanted to be a mum. I realised she didn’t understand what being a mother really meant. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful, healthy baby boy. But the labour was difficult, and she needed four months to recover. There’s no way she could have coped without my help, so I left my job to care for her and my grandson. Once her strength returned, she didn’t want anything to do with her son. She slept at night and refused to look after him during the day. I did what I could. I pleaded, explained, begged, even shouted at her for not helping. That’s when she said, “You love him. Why not adopt him? I’ll just be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go clubbing! I want to have fun!” I thought maybe she had postnatal depression, but it turned out she simply didn’t love her baby. Eventually, my husband and I arranged to get legal custody of our grandson. Our daughter became utterly unpredictable, ignoring us completely. She’d leave the house at night and come home in the early morning, never caring for her son. That’s how we lived for a few years. We thought things would never change. Our grandson grew up, getting smarter all the time. In two years he changed a lot: walking, talking, and always smiling. He was always thrilled when my daughter came home – running to her, hugging her, chatting away. And, quite suddenly, her heart melted: she became a wonderful mum. Now she spends all her free time with her son. Always hugging, always kissing him. She often says, “I’m so happy to have my son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I’ll never give him up!” My husband and I are incredibly happy that peace has finally returned to our family.

03

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

Hello… Is that Vasya? – No, this isn’t Vasya, it’s Helen… – Helen? Who are you?… – Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Were you looking for someone? He’s not home, he’s working late… My head started spinning when I saw drops of blood on the floor and my stomach twisted with pain — I knew the baby was coming. For five years my husband, Vasyl, has worked abroad: first driving lorries in Germany, then doing renovations in Poland, all to earn enough for our two sons and give them a better future, because we knew we’d never get ahead back home. Yet when I unexpectedly discovered I was pregnant at 45, I hid it from my family, afraid my grown children would laugh or call me mad. I considered ending the pregnancy, but medical risks were too great. Hopeful, I called Vasyl to share the news, but another woman answered, claiming to be his girlfriend while he worked late. Later, on Valentine’s Day, Vasyl returned and I revealed my pregnancy: he exploded, accused me of infidelity, and stormed out. After a traumatic birth at home, I handed my newborn daughter to the paramedics — convinced I couldn’t raise another child and desperate for Vasyl to return, even as he stayed overseas, never speaking to me, only his sons. Now, people may judge me, but I’ve chosen my husband over my child, and only God can judge my heart.