Once, I Received a Call from a Distant Aunt Inviting Me to Her Daughter’s Wedding—My Long-Lost Cousin Whom I Last Saw at Age Six. Not One for Family Gatherings, I Tried to Make My Excuses, but My Aunt Declared, “Once in Twenty Years—Don’t You Dare Not Come!” An Invite Adorned with Doves and Roses from Svetlana and Anatoly Arrived, with Reminders, So Off I Went, Grumbling About My Lost Saturday. Arriving at the Reception with a Bouquet, Foul Mood, and Plans to Slip Out Early, I Was Seated Among the Groom’s Jovial Friends, Who, After a Few Drinks, Began Praising Me as the Bride’s Stunning Aunt—and Suggesting We All Get to Know Each Other Better. I Didn’t Recognize the Bride, Who’d Gone from Mousy Kid to Glamorous Blonde, and Felt the Whole Affair—Full of Grumpy Aunts, a Nervous Groom, and a Bride Enamored with Her Own Beauty—Was Rather Gloomy, Saved Only by Our Lively Table. I Missed the First Round of Toasts, but Was Next Up, When the MC Announced, “Now a Word from the Bride’s Young and Beautiful Aunt!” As I Began, All Fell Silent—Only for an Aunt in Pink to Hiss That the Bride’s Name Was Actually Lucy, and the Groom Was Oliver. Realization: I’d Crashed the Wrong Wedding! My Invitation Clearly Said Svetlana and Anatoly, Hall So-and-So—But Apparently, There Was Another Banquet Hall Upstairs. Despite Savage Glares and Accusations from the Real Family, Salvation Came in the Form of a Waiter, Who Redirected Me to the Correct Party, Where My Real Aunt—After Some Odd Winking—Reunited Me with the Actual Bride and Groom. I Was Spared from Handing Over My Gift at the Wrong Wedding, But the Best Part? I Was Still Bidden Farewell by the Groom’s Friends from the First Wedding!

Author Emily TaylorReading 5 minViews 2

A little while ago, my distant aunt rang me unexpectedly and invited me to her daughters weddingmy distant cousin, whom I last saw when she was six. That is, when she was six.

Im not especially overcome by family warmth, but there was no getting out of it this time.
At least once every twenty years we ought to meet. Dont you dare not turn up, my aunt declared sternly.

The invitation, complete with doves and roses, soon arrived, signed by Victoria and Christopher. And just a couple of days before the big event, I was reminded again. There was no escaping now.

Well, I thought, there goes my Saturday, but what can you do?
So there I was, clutching a bunch of flowers, in a foul mood, fully intending to slip away after an hour in true English fashion. I made my way to the restaurant and entered the dining hall. They sat me with a lively group of young ladsfriends of the groomwho, after a few pints, began praising what a wonderful aunt the bride had, and how young I looked to be anybodys aunt. They insisted we get properly acquainted and truly enjoy ourselves, which, for lack of anything better to do, we did.

Of course, I didnt recognise the bride at all. After so many years, shed gone from a dusky little mouse into a rather extravagant blonde with an impressive figure. To be honest, I rather preferred her as a mouse.

In general, the mood was on the grim side: a crowd of frowning aunties with their husbands, a groom who looked utterly terrified, and a bride who had just realised her own improbable beauty and curves. If it werent for our increasingly cheerful corner of the room, the whole affair might as well have been a wake. The aunties gave us thoroughly disapproving looks.

Id missed the first round of toasts, but I arrived just as the second began. As it happened, it was my turn. The master of ceremonies, after figuring out who I was, happily announced:
And now, the lovely and youthful aunt of the bride will say a few words to the happy couple!

So I stood up and, with all sincerity, began:
My dearest Victoria and Christopher

The wedding hadnt ever been particularly lively, but at that moment an absolute silence fell. It was only then I realised my aunt was nowhere in sight, and I doubted shed ever have changed enough that I wouldnt recognise her.

The brides name is Rachel, hissed the lady in pink opposite me. And the grooms Oliver.

Rachel? Oliver? I stammered, utterly lost.

Some people just show up to other peoples parties for a free feed, the pink lady muttered. We had one just like that come to our sons going away do before he joined the armybarely managed to throw him out. No shame, some people.

And thats when it hit me that this wedding was about to become rather more eventful. The guests seemed to tense up, eyes flashing, several even starting to rise from their seats. The rolling-up of sleeves wasnt far off.

But look, I have the invitation! I cried, actually waving my invitation like some sort of flag. It says hereVictoria and Christopher, this restaurant, this hall

Salvation came from a waiter, of all people.

Miss, he said, we do have another function room upstairs. Might you be looking for that one?

Of course, she is. Wants a free meal, thats what, the pink lady declared with satisfaction. Shell have had hers here and then nip upstairs for seconds. How do the brazen survive among us? Shameless!

And cheek, said another aunt in green, is a blessing that some people are born with.

For the record, I dont resemble a scrounger or an opportunist in the slightest. Although, as the saying goes, others may see you differently. The grooms friends actually leapt to my defence, only to get an earful from the lady in lilac:
Look at her, already turning the mens heads!

And the woman in pink added for good measure:
Thats exactly how our head accountant lost her husband. Turn your back a moment and theyre off, absolute hussies.

Ive never run off with anyones husband in my life, but right then I truly felt like a homewrecker. I even started glancing around at the menmight as well, seeing as I was being accused on all counts anyway.

Thank heavens, the kind waiter dashed off, and soon returned with my aunt, who was quick to take stock of the scene and swore up and down that yes, she knew me. All the while, she made odd, exaggerated winks both at me and the others, as if to imply I had always been a bit touched in the head.

Long story short, I was whisked away to the actual wedding upstairs, where the dusky beauty Victoria and, I think, Christopher awaitedand where, without pause, I was plied with all manner of strong drinks.

At least, I thought to myself, I hadnt handed over my present yet.

Still, the friends of the first groom saw me out at the end of the night. In hindsight, Ive learnt to always double-check the venue before I show up at any family functionand to never underestimate the power of an English aunts determination.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Emma Was His Daughter—His Wife Sheila Worked at the Local Shop and Was Rumored to Have Secret Meetings with Other Men. Leonard Rejected the Petite Girl, but Only Grandad Helped Her, Leaving His Countryside Cottage as an Inheritance Only Grandad Truly Loved Little Emma In her childhood, frail, tiny Emma often fell ill. “No one so slight in either of our families,” Leonard would scoff. “That child is barely knee-high.” Gradually, even her mother’s love grew cold. But one person adored Emma: Grandad Matthew. His cottage stood at the village’s edge, by the woods. A retired ranger, Matthew knew every trail and herb. People whispered he was odd, but they still came for his healing teas. After losing his wife, Matthew’s greatest solace was Emma. More and more, she stayed with Grandad, learning about nature and cures. She dreamed of becoming a nurse, but her mother claimed she couldn’t afford Emma’s education. “I’m not destitute,” Grandad reassured her. “If need be, I’ll even sell the cow.” He Left Emma a Home and His Blessing Emma’s mother rarely visited, but when her son got into trouble gambling, she turned up begging for money. “You never come unless you want something,” Matthew scolded, refusing to help and insisting his priority was Emma’s future. Furious, Sheila stormed out, declaring she had neither father nor daughter any longer. When Emma got into nursing college, only Grandad supported her. He promised her the house and a happy destiny, urging her to keep the cottage alive, believing her fate awaited her there. Matthew’s Prophecy Came True One autumn, after Matthew passed away, Emma worked as a nurse but spent weekends at the cottage. During a snowstorm, she sheltered a stranded stranger named Sam who came to her door. After helping with his car, she welcomed him inside for tea. Soon, the two became inseparable. Emma never wanted a wedding; only love mattered, and Sam soon agreed. When their first son was born, everyone marvelled at the robust boy. “What’s his name?” they asked. Emma replied with a smile, “He’ll be Matthew, after a truly good man.”

I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem—convinced I was a bad mum, a bad wife, somehow fundamentally flawed because, no matter how much I held everything together, deep down I felt I had nothing left to give. My daily routine started at 5am: cooking breakfasts, sorting uniforms and packed lunches, getting the kids ready for school, tidying the house, and heading to work where I smiled through meetings, hit targets, stayed organised—no one there ever guessed a thing. At home, I juggled lunch, chores, bath time, dinner, homework questions, sibling squabbles, hugs and mending tears, always present, always in control. From the outside, my life looked normal—even good: family, career, health. There was no obvious tragedy to explain the emptiness I felt. But inside, I was hollow. Not constantly sad, but exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. My body ached, noise grated on my nerves, and I started thinking thoughts I was ashamed to admit: maybe my kids would be better off without me; maybe I just wasn’t cut out for motherhood. I never missed a responsibility, never lost control, so no one—not even my husband—noticed. Whenever I mentioned being tired, I’d hear, ‘Every mum gets tired,’ or, ‘You just need more motivation,’ until I stopped talking about it. Some nights I sat alone in the bathroom, not crying, just staring at the wall, counting the minutes before I had to go back and be the one who copes with everything. The thought of leaving crept in quietly—not a dramatic urge, just a cold idea: disappear for a while, stop being needed. Not because I didn’t love my children, but because I didn’t feel I had anything left to give. The day I finally broke wasn’t spectacular; it was an ordinary Tuesday, when my child asked for a simple favour and I couldn’t respond. I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move. My son looked at me, frightened: ‘Mum, are you okay?’ And I couldn’t answer. No one came to help or save me. I just couldn’t pretend any longer. Only when my strength ran out did I seek help—from a therapist who finally said what I’d never heard: ‘You’re not a bad mother.’ And explained what was happening to me. I realised no one had noticed because I never stopped functioning; as long as a woman keeps doing everything, the world assumes she can go on. No one asks after the one who never falls. Recovery wasn’t quick or magical, but slow, awkward, guilt-ridden—learning to ask for help, to say no, to accept that rest doesn’t make you a bad mum. I still care for my children and keep my job, but I don’t pretend to be perfect anymore, I no longer let a mistake define me, and I understand now: wanting to run away didn’t mean I was a bad mother—I was simply exhausted.

A man was enjoying his day off and sleeping soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang. Who could be visiting so early? Upon opening the door, he found an elderly woman he didn’t recognise—she was frightened. “Who are you here to see?” he asked. “Son, don’t you recognise your mother?” “Mum? Come in… you!” he stammered. He remembered the day his mother was taken from him. He had waited for years in the orphanage, hoping she would come and bring him home. Eventually the pain faded. He graduated from school, attended university, and started his own business. When asked about his parents, he always said they had died. Independent and successful, no one would have guessed he was raised in care. The woman could not recall when she lost custody of her child. In her youth she drank heavily, and her mind would shut off during her binges. She spent time in prison, where she thought of her son—not with love, but because she felt sorry for him. When her second son was born, maternal instincts awoke. She would do anything for this child—putting him first, forgetting the elder son entirely. Her younger son grew up just like her—moving through care homes, and at 15 receiving his first suspended sentence, then another, and eventually prison. Now, desperate to save him from jail, she searches for her successful older son. She sits in his home, crying and clinging to him, telling him tales of searching, praying for his health, and hoping every day to see him again. He believes her, but something inside him warns him to keep his distance. Despite his reservations, he rents her a flat, gives her money, and promises support—while watching closely to judge her true intentions. Before Christmas, he visits the children’s home where he grew up, regularly donating toys and food. An elderly carer approaches him. “Your mother was asking for your address.” “Thank you for helping her,” he replies. “But be careful. She wants you only for money, to help her younger son. She never loved you—don’t trust her!” “Do I have a brother?” “Yes. Ask her yourself.” His throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe. He cannot believe his mother may betray him again. Pushing through his emotions, he seeks out the truth. The woman faces his questioning, reluctant to admit the existence of the younger brother for fear he would refuse to help. Days later, the man is attacked—beaten severely. When police catch the assailants, they confess—his mother had hired them, hoping to kill her elder son and inherit his wealth to give her younger son an easy life. In court, she feigns remorse and begs for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. “I lived without a mother before, and I’ll keep living without one now!” he whispers through tears.