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— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!!! — shouted Paul. — You Can’t Do Anything!!!… Can’t Even Earn Proper Money! … You’re No Help at All Around the House! … — Marina sobbed, — …And We Have No Children…, — she whispered almost inaudibly. Snowy — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten years, perched silently atop the wardrobe, watched the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew for certain — she could even feel it — that Mum and Dad loved each other, truly… So she just didn’t understand — why say such hurtful things that made everyone feel worse? Mum ran crying to the bedroom, and Dad began chain-smoking on the balcony. Snowy, seeing her family falling apart, mused: “This house needs happiness… and happiness is children… We must find children somewhere…” Snowy couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said it was possible, but it just never seemed to work out… In the morning, once her parents left for work, Snowy slipped out through the window for the very first time and went to visit her neighbour, Mittens, for advice. — What on earth do you want kids for?! — scoffed Mittens, — Look at ours! When their kids visit, I have to hide… they smear lipstick on my whiskers, they squeeze me so tight I can’t breathe! Snowy sighed: — We need normal children… If only we could find some… — Well… That stray Maggie had a litter… there’s five of them…, — Mittens mused, — take your pick… Taking her chances, Snowy scrambled from balcony to balcony and down to the street. Nervously twitching, she squeezed through the iron bars of a basement window and called: — Maggie, please could you come out for a moment… A desperate squeaking sounded from inside. Cautiously crawling closer and glancing all around, Snowy was nearly moved to tears at the sight: five tiny, blind kittens, their noses searching the air, crying deafeningly for their mother under the radiator, directly on the gravel. She realised — Maggie hadn’t been here in days. The kittens were starving… Holding back tears, Snowy gently and persistently carried each kitten to the front steps. Trying to keep the pitiful, hungry bundles in one place, she lay down beside them, anxiously awaiting the return of Mum and Dad. Paul, wordlessly collecting Marina from work, brought her home in silence. Approaching the house, they stopped in astonishment — on the doorstep lay their Snowy (who’d never ventured outside alone before), surrounded by five mewling, multicoloured kittens. — How on earth did this happen?? — Paul was baffled. — It’s a miracle…, — echoed Marina, and scooping up the cat and babies, they all hurried inside. As the now-contented Snowy purred in a box with the kittens, Paul asked: — What are we supposed to do with them? — I’ll feed them with a bottle… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — whispered Marina. Three months later, overwhelmed, Marina sat stroking the feline “herd,” staring into space, repeating over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen…, just don’t happen… And then, with happy tears, she and Paul laughed and spun around together, speaking all at once: — I didn’t finish the house for nothing! — Yes, a fresh-air baby will be so happy here! — And the kittens can run around! — There’ll be room for all of us! — I love you!!! — Oh, I love you even more!!! Wise old Snowy wiped away a tear — at last, life was looking up…

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How fed up I am with you!!! You dont like how I eat, the way I dress, or anything else I do! Even my breathing seems to annoy you! My voice cracked into a shout before I knew it.

You cant do anything right! Charlotte shot back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Never earn any proper money! Youre hopeless around the house And we have no children, she added, barely above a whisper.

Pearl, our ginger and white cat, who must be nearly ten years old now, watched from on top of the wardrobe, silently observing another one of our family tragedies. She seemed to knowreally feelthat Mum and Dad loved each other, deeply, even. So why did they say such bitter things, the sort that made everyone feel worse?

Mum ran off to the other room, sobbing, while Dad lit one cigarette after another in sullen silence.

Pearl watched on, sensing the family was teetering. “We need happiness in this house,” she thought. “And happiness means children I have to find some children somewhere”

Pearl couldn’t have kittens herselfshed been spayed years ago. As for Mum well, the doctors said it was possible for her, but somehow, it just didnt work out.

The next morning, once Mum and Dad had left for work, Pearl, for the very first time, slipped out of the kitchen window to visit next doors Tilly, looking for advice.

Why on earth do you want children? Tilly snorted. Our humans have kidsthey come over, I hide from them. Theyll either smear my whiskers with Mums lipstick or squeeze me so tight I cant catch my breath!

Pearl sighed, We want nice children. But where would we even find them?

“Well,” Tilly said, thinking, “that stray down by the alley had a litter five of them, actually. You could always pick one of those.

On a mix of nerves and determination, Pearl nimbly hopped balcony to balcony, finally reaching street level. She squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called gently, Molly, could you come out for a moment, please?

A faint squeaking came from somewhere deep inside. Creeping closer, Pearl spotted five tiny, blind kittens huddled together on the cold gravel under a radiator, snuffling desperately in the air and mewing for their mother. As she sniffed them, it was clear poor Molly hadnt been back in daysthey must be starving.

Fighting back her own tears, Pearl carefully, one by one, carried the kittens to the front steps.

Trying to corral her hungry, squeaking little crew, Pearl lay beside them, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the end of the terrace where Mum and Dad would soon appear.

James, who met Charlotte in silence after work, silently drove them home. As they turned the corner, both stood dumbstruckthere was Pearl, who had never set a paw outside alone in her life, lying on the doorstep, surrounded by five squealing, multi-coloured kittens, trying to nurse from her.

What on earth? James choked.

Its a miracle, breathed Charlotte. The two of them scooped up Pearl and the kittens, rushing inside together.

Surveying the purring cat curled in a box with her adopted brood, James asked, What do we do now?

Ill feed them from a bottle. Once theyre a bit bigger, well find them homes, Charlotte replied softly. Ill give my friends a ring

Three months later, the news hit Charlotte like a thunderclap. There she was, stroking her furry feline troop, staring off into the distance and murmuring again and again, Things like this just dont happen its impossible

But soon, she and James were weeping for joy. He spun her round the living room, both of them talking at oncelaughing, crying, barely able to catch their breath.

I didnt build this house for nothing!

And its perfect for a child to play outside!

Let the kittens run free in the garden too!

Well manage, all of us together!

I love you, Charlotte!

And I love you far more than you know, James!

Wise old Pearl blinked back tearslife, it seemed, was turning out all right after all.

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She Trampled Across My Fate Like a Passing Rogue “Mum, if you don’t break things off with that brazen hussy, then don’t consider me your mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated yet again. “Mum, I can’t help it! I wish I could…” I tried explaining. …Once, there was my darling girl, sweet little Lena, just fourteen: pure, modest, precious. When I first met her at a school disco, I was eighteen. Lena caught my eye—my heart ached for her! Through her friend, by hook or by crook, I managed to invite Lena out. Did she come? No! I became a hunter, determined to catch my prize. I got her number, kept calling, pleaded for a date. Finally, she gave in, but made sure I came to meet her mum for permission. Sweating and nervous, I stood at Lena’s door. Her mother turned out to be a good-natured lady with a sense of humour—and entrusted me with her treasure for two hours. We wandered the park, chatting and laughing—innocent as you please. But then Lena said, “Vova, I already have a boyfriend. I think I love him. But he’s a terrible player, I’m sick of catching him with other girls. I do have pride, you know. Why don’t we give friendship a try? Would you like that?” Eyebrows raised, I looked at Lena with even greater curiosity. She could seem so untouchable—or so in love. I was captivated. Time flew and I delivered Lena safely home. …As time passed, I couldn’t imagine life without her. Mum also fell for this “little ray of sunshine.” Lena often visited. Mum would share advice and teach her lady’s secrets. Now and then, they’d get to chatting and forget all about me. By the time Lena turned eighteen, we were talking about a wedding. No one—not me, Lena, nor our families—doubted it would happen. The wedding was scheduled for autumn. …Summer arrived. Lena left to visit her gran in the countryside. I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum in the garden. One day, while watering the tomatoes, I heard someone call, “Young man, may I have a drink of water?” Turning, I saw a woman around thirty-five, rather unkempt but with a fire in her eyes. I didn’t recall seeing her at the cottages before. Still, I couldn’t refuse. Pouring her a cup of well water, I handed it to her: “Here you go…” She drank with pleasure, sighing, “Oh, thank you, young man! Thought I would die of thirst. Here, I’ve got a little homemade cordial. Sweet stuff. Take it as a thank you. Don’t be shy.” And she pressed a bottle into my hand. I accepted, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, while eating alone (Mum had gone into town), I drank the cordial. If Mum had been home, she would never have let me touch it. Next day, the visitor returned. Her name was Nina, she said, from the nearby village. I invited her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I fixed a quick salad and sandwiches. We chatted over drinks, not noticing how the bottle emptied. Looking back, I curse myself for what happened next… Nina took charge, as if I were a schoolboy. I was helpless, lost in a fog. When I came round, Nina had gone. Mum stood over me, anxious: “Vova, what happened while I was away? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed all ruffled, like a herd of horses ran over it?” she worried. I could barely open my eyes, my head spinning. I couldn’t explain. That evening, guilt set in—especially for my fiancée Lena… A week passed, and Nina came again. I was glad—even missed her a bit. Mum stormed out the door, hands on hips: “What do you want, woman?” I tried to calm her: “Mum, really—is that how you greet a guest? Maybe she just wants water. Why are you so hostile?” “A guest? That’s Nina the Tramp from the village! Every dog in town knows her! Goes round the dachas, seduces men! Disgraceful! After you, too—well, I won’t allow it! Get her out before it’s too late!” Mum raged. But it was already too late—Nina’s honeyed brew had enchanted me. I was tied to her with invisible strings. I forgot Lena completely. When I told Nina about my fiancée, she just said, “Come now, Vova—first loves aren’t real fiancées.” The wedding was called off. Mum called Lena over and told her everything. “Forgive him, dear—he doesn’t know he’s headed towards ruin. Don’t wait for him.” Lena soon married someone else. But Mum was determined to save me from Nina—she went to the draft office and asked them to send me to the army. So I was packed off to Afghanistan. I won’t describe what happened there—but I returned missing three fingers, just “a light wound”… My mind, of course, was badly affected. I became fearless and numb. Nina had waited for me—and we now had a son. Before heading to war I’d sown my “seed,” unsure I’d come back alive. While fighting, I dreamed of having five children one day. Mum still despised Nina, doted on Lena, and knitted socks and caps for her child—insisting that girl was my daughter. I would have been overjoyed, but alas… Lena got everything right—she would visit my mother, ask about me. Mother would shrug, “Oh, Lena, Vova’s still with that tramp. I doubt he’ll ever leave her. What he sees in her—I’ll never understand…” Years later, Lena told me my mother’s laments. Soon after, I took a job in the North. Nina and our three children came with me. Two more were born—but our five-year-old daughter died of pneumonia. The northern climate was cruel. We returned home, to cope under our own birches. More and more, I found myself longing for Lena, my forsaken bride. Mum gave me her number and even the address, but warned, “Don’t meddle in Lena’s marriage—don’t stir up trouble.” I phoned her—the reunion was instant. Lena had grown more beautiful. She invited me home, introduced me to her husband as an “old friend.” He trusted her fully, and left for his night shift, leaving us alone. There was half a bottle of champagne on the table, fruit—a daughter away with Grandma. “Well then, hello Vova! I know everything about you from your mum. How are things?” Lena sighed, looking deep into my eyes. “Forgive me, Lena. This is how it all turned out—nothing can change now. I have four children,” I stammered. “No need to change anything, Vova. We met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only your poor mother—I feel for her. Be kinder to her,” Lena asked warmly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Time hadn’t touched her—still as lovely as ever. Taking her hand, kissing it tenderly, I burst out, “Lena, I love you as I did when I was young. Our love just floated by. You can’t rewrite life—I’m sorry for everything I put you through!” “Vova, it’s time for you to go. It’s late.” Lena drew the line under our meeting. But could I just walk away like that? Overwhelmed by feelings, swept up by longing and reckless passion… …In the morning I slipped out—Lena fast asleep. We began a secret affair that lasted three years, until Lena’s family moved away and the connection was lost forever. …Nina and I divorced when our children grew up. My mother was right. A tramp is a tramp—she trampled over my fate, broke my heart. …No matter how long you boil water, in the end, it’s still just water. In the end, I had only one real child—my very first son… — She Walked Roughshod Over My Destiny: The Story of a Son Torn Between a Mother’s Warnings, a First Love, and the Allure of a Relentless Stranger
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When Little Vasily Rogov Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother, “What a big lad. He’ll be a real hero one day.” His mother said nothing. Even then she looked at the bundle in her arms as though it was not her child. But Vasily didn’t become a hero. He became superfluous. The sort of child, you know, who gets born but nobody quite knows what to do with. “Your strange boy is in the sandpit again—he’s scared off all the other kids!” shrieked Auntie Linda from her second-floor flat, the self-appointed voice of neighbourhood justice. Vasily’s mum, an exhausted woman with a dull, distant look, could only snap back, “If you don’t like it, don’t look. He’s not bothering anyone.” And Vasily really didn’t bother anyone. He was big, awkward, his head always lowered, his long arms hanging at his sides. At five he was mute. At seven, he’d grunt. At ten he finally spoke—but so hoarsely and harshly that silence seemed preferable. At school, he was sat at the back of the class. The teachers would sigh at his empty gaze. “Rogov, are you even listening?” the maths teacher would ask, tapping the board with chalk. Vasily nodded. He listened. He just couldn’t see the point in answering. Why bother? They’d give him a C to keep up the stats and send him on his way. The other kids didn’t hit him—they were scared of him. Vasily was built like a young ox. But nor did they befriend him. They gave him a wide berth, like you’d skirt a murky puddle. With distaste, at arm’s length. Home was no better. His stepdad, who moved in when Vasily turned twelve, made things clear from day one: “I don’t want to see him when I get in from work. Eats like a horse, good for nothing.” So Vasily would disappear. Wander building sites, sit in cellars. He learned to be invisible. That was his one skill—he could blend with walls, with grey concrete, the filth beneath his feet. The night everything changed, a cold, miserable drizzle was falling. Fifteen-year-old Vasily was perched on the stairs between floors five and six, unable to go home—his stepdad had guests, which meant noise, smoke, and likely a heavy hand. The flat opposite creaked open. Vasily shrank into the corner, trying to seem smaller. Out came Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna. She was well into her sixties by the look of her, though carried herself like she was barely forty. The whole estate thought she was odd: never gossiped on the bench, never discussed the price of tea, always walked with her back straight. She glanced at Vasily. Not with pity, not with disgust. Instead, she looked at him thoughtfully—as though sizing up a broken clock, wondering if it could be fixed. “What are you doing sitting there?” she demanded. Her voice was low and commanding. Vasily sniffed. “Nothing really.” “Kittens are born for nothing really,” she cut him off. “Are you hungry?” Vasily was. He always was—growing lads need fuel, and the family fridge might as well have hosted mice for all it held. “Well? I don’t ask twice.” He stood awkwardly and followed her in. Her flat was nothing like the others. Books. Books everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, on chairs. It smelled of old paper and something rich and meaty. “Sit,” she nodded at a stool. “But wash your hands first—in there, use that bar soap.” Vasily obeyed. She placed a plate before him—potatoes and a proper stew, with big chunks of beef. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten real meat. He ate fast, barely chewing. Tamara Ilyinichna just sat, chin in hand, watching. “No need to rush. No-one’s going to take it off you,” she said calmly. “Chew, or your stomach won’t thank you.” Vasily slowed down. “Thank you,” he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t wipe your mouth on your sleeve. That’s what napkins are for.” She slid the pack over. “You’re practically wild. Where’s your mum?” “At home. With my stepdad.” “Figured. Not much of a place for you there.” She said it so simply that it didn’t even sting. Just a fact, like ‘it’s raining’ or ‘the bread’s gone dear.’ “Listen here, Rogov,” she said sternly. “You’ve got two paths ahead: drift, hang around alleys and play with trouble until it finishes you; or get your act together. You’ve got strength, I can see that. But your head’s full of wind.” “I’m thick,” Vasily admitted. “That’s what school says.” “School says all sorts. Their curriculum’s for average minds. You’re not average. You’re different. Where’d you get those hands?” Vasily stared at his broad, battered knuckles. “Dunno.” “We’ll find out. Come by tomorrow. My tap needs fixing—leaks like mad and calling a plumber’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll give you tools.” From then on, Vasily began calling on Tamara Ilyinichna most evenings. First it was taps, then sockets, then locks. Turned out his hands were skilled indeed. He could sense the mechanism, knew how things worked, not with logic, but with a kind of animal instinct. Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t gentle, but she taught—firmly, with high standards. “You’re not holding it right!” she’d bark. “No-one holds a screwdriver like a spoon! Put your weight behind it!” And she’d rap his knuckles with a wooden ruler—it stung, too. She gave him books—not textbooks, but tales about people who survived against the odds: explorers, inventors, pioneers. “Read,” she insisted. “Let your brain work or it’ll go to rot. Think you’re the only one like this? The world’s been full of ‘em—and they made it. Why shouldn’t you?” Slowly, Vasily learned her story. She’d been an engineer all her life. Her husband had died young, no children. The factory closed in the 90s, she scraped by on a pension and translating technical texts. But she hadn’t broken. She hadn’t turned bitter. She just lived—straightly, sternly, alone. “I’ve got no one,” she told him once. “You haven’t really, either. Doesn’t mean it’s over. It’s a beginning. Understand?” Vasily didn’t really. But he nodded. When he turned eighteen and the time came for military service, she summoned him to a proper sit-down—pies, jam, the works. “Listen here, Vasily,” she used his full name for the first time. “Don’t come back here. You’ll fall right back in—you’ll sink in this marsh. Same estate, same people, same despair. Serve your time, then move on. North, building sites, wherever. But don’t come back. Understood?” “Understood,” he nodded. She handed him an envelope. “Here’s thirty thousand. All I’ve saved. It’ll get you started, if you’re careful. Remember, you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. Be a man, Vasily. Not for me, but for you.” He wanted to say no, not take her last savings. But when he saw her severe, insistent gaze, he realised—this was her final lesson, her final order. He left. And never returned. Twenty years passed. The estate had changed. The old poplars were gone, replaced by tarmacked car parks. The benches were metal and uncomfortable now. The building aged, the facade peeled, but stood stubbornly, like an old man with nowhere else to go. A black SUV pulled up. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fine but understated coat. His face was hard, weathered by northern winds, but his eyes were calm. Certain. Vasily Rogov. Vasily Sergeyevich, as his employees now called him. Owner of a major construction firm in Siberia. One hundred and twenty on staff, three big projects running, a reputation for honest work. He’d built himself up from nothing on those northern sites—labourer, then foreman, then site manager. Studied at night, earned a degree. Saved, invested, took risks. Went bust twice, rebuilt twice. The thirty thousand Tamara Ilyinichna had given him was long repaid—he’d sent her money every month, despite her protests and threats to refuse it. But she always accepted. Then, suddenly, the money bounced back: ‘Recipient not found.’ He stood and gazed up at the fifth-floor window. Dark now. Women sat on the estate benches—new faces, the old ones gone. “Excuse me,” he asked, “does Tamara Ilyinichna still live in flat forty-five?” The women perked up; after all, such a man, in such a car… “Oh, love, well, Tamara… she went downhill fast,” one whispered. “Memory went, got muddled. Ended up signing her flat over to some relatives, so called. They packed her off to a village somewhere. Do you remember where, Nina?” “Sosnovka, I think,” the second replied. “Some ancient family house. Nephew turned up out of nowhere. Though what nephew—she had no kin. Most odd. Flat’s already on the market.” Vasily felt cold. He’d seen such scams plenty in Siberia: find a lonely pensioner, gain their trust, get a deed signed, then ship them off to rot—if they survive at all. “Where’s Sosnovka?” “About forty miles out. Roads are iffy this time of year.” He nodded, climbed into his car, and sped off. Sosnovka was a dying village of three lanes. Half the houses boarded up, roads washed out by autumn rain. A handful of old folk and families with nowhere else to go. Locals gave him directions—a tumbling shack and a collapsing fence. Mud everywhere. On a line, some threadbare laundry. Vasily pushed the rickety gate, which creaked in protest. A scruffy man in a filthy vest, bleary-eyed from drink, emerged. “What you want, mate? Lost?” “I’m looking for Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily said flatly. “No Tamara here. Off you go.” Vasily didn’t argue. He stepped forward, seized the man by the shirt, and moved him aside, almost gently. The man yelped, landing by the steps. Vasily entered the house. Damp, mould, sourness hit his nose. Dishes, bottles, filth everywhere. In the second room—on an iron bed—lay Tamara Ilyinichna. Tiny now, dried up. Grey hair matted, her face ashen, bruises beneath her eyes, lips cracked. But it was her. The woman who’d taught him to hold a screwdriver, to believe in himself. The one who’d given him all she had and told him: “Be a man.” She opened her eyes, unfocused. “Who’s there?” Her voice was weak, broken. “It’s me, Tamara Ilyinichna. Vaska. Rogov. Remember? The one who fixed your taps.” She peered at him, blinking tears from her eyes. “Vaska…” she whispered. “Come back… I thought I was seeing things. You’re so big now. A real man…” “I am, Tamara Ilyinichna. Thanks to you.” He wrapped her in a blanket—so light, she barely weighed anything—and lifted her in his arms. Beneath the smell of sickness and damp, he caught the familiar scents of her—old paper and soap. “Where are we going?” she asked, frightened. “Home. To mine. It’s warm there. And there are books. Lots of books. You’ll like it.” On the way out, the sorry man tried to bar the way. “Oi! You can’t just take her! Show me your papers! She signed the house to me, I look after her!” Vasily stopped, looked at him—calmly, with no anger. The man blanched. “You can explain it to my lawyers,” Vasily said evenly. “And the police. And the court. And if I find out you tricked her—believe me, I’ll make sure you pay. Got it?” The man nodded furiously. It took months—hearings, paperwork, court battles—to overturn the deed, proven signed when Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t competent. The so-called nephew was a scam artist, a repeat offender. The flat was restored; he was sent to prison. But Tamara Ilyinichna no longer needed the flat. Vasily built her a home—a real home, not a mansion, but a solid timber house on the edge of a Siberian city. Scents of wood, a crackling stove, and sunlight filled the rooms. She lived in the brightest room on the ground floor. The best doctors, a carer, nutritious food. She got better, gained some colour. Her memory never returned fully, but her spirit was intact. She read again, bossed the housekeeper, pointed out dust on shelves. “What’s that cobweb? This a house or a barn?” she’d grumble. And Vasily would smile. But he didn’t stop there. One night he came home with a thin young lad, wary and skittish, a scar along his jaw, clothes swallowing his frame. “Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily introduced, “this is Alex. Found his way onto the building site. No home. An orphanage boy—just turned eighteen. Great with his hands, mind’s a bit breezy.” She put down her book, fixed her glasses, and took him in, head to toe. “What are you standing around for? Wash up—soap’s in the bathroom. We’ve got meat pies tonight.” Alex jumped, glanced at Vasily for assurance. Vasily smiled and nodded. A month later, a girl arrived—Katie. Twelve, slight limp, head always bowed. Vasily became her guardian after her mum was stripped of parental rights for drink and violence. The house grew fuller—not charity, not for show but for real family. A family of those who never belonged anywhere. The rejects, who’d found each other. Vasily would watch as Tamara Ilyinichna taught Alex to plane wood, rapping his knuckles with that ancient ruler. As Katie read aloud in a slow, stumbling voice but read all the same. “Vasily!” called Tamara Ilyinichna, “Why are you dawdling? Come help! The youngsters can’t move the wardrobe on their own!” “Coming,” he’d reply. He’d step towards them—towards his strange, patchwork, difficult family. And for the first time in forty years, he knew he wasn’t superfluous. He was exactly where he was meant to be. “Well, Alex,” Vasily asked one evening as the house slept, “how do you like it here?” The lad sat on the porch, staring at the stars. The Siberian sky was massive, cold, full of light. “It’s alright, Uncle Vasily. Just weird, that’s all. Why would you bother with me? I’m a nobody.” Vasily sat beside him, handed over an apple from his pocket. “Once someone told me: ‘Kittens are born for nothing, really.’” Alex chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means nothing happens for no reason. Not good, not bad. There’s always a reason, always a consequence. You’re here now—not for no reason. So am I.” Light burned late in Tamara Ilyinichna’s room, her reading way past doctor’s orders. Vasily shook his head. “Off to bed, Alex. We’ve a fence to mend tomorrow.” “Yeah. Goodnight, Uncle Vasily.” “Goodnight.” He stayed a while on the porch. Perfect silence. No shouting neighbours. No fights. No fear. Just crickets and the distant hum of the road. He knew he couldn’t save everyone who’d been cast aside. But these ones—he had. Tamara Ilyinichna. Himself. For now, that was enough. And then, he’d get up and carry on—just as she’d taught him.
02
The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching milk quietly simmer on the hob. She’d forgotten to stir it three times—each time, the froth would rise, spill over, and she’d wipe the stove in growing irritation. Moments like these made her realise the problem wasn’t the milk at all. Ever since her second grandchild was born, her family seemed to have unravelled. Her daughter was exhausted, losing weight, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes retreating straight to his room. Anna saw it all and thought: how can a woman be left to cope alone? She spoke up. Gently at first, then sharply. First to her daughter, then her son-in-law. But she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the atmosphere grew heavier, not lighter. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew moodier, and Anna went home feeling she’d only made things worse. One day, she went to see the vicar—not for advice, but because she didn’t know where else to take her feelings. “I must be a terrible person,” she said, without meeting his gaze. “I’m always getting it wrong.” The vicar paused in his writing. “What makes you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I just want to help. But I end up making everyone cross.” He looked at her kindly, without judgement. “You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. You’re worried.” She sighed. That sounded about right. “I’m scared for my daughter,” she said. “She’s different since the baby. And him…” She gestured dismissively. “It’s like he doesn’t see it.” “Do you notice what he does do?” asked the vicar. Anna thought. She remembered seeing him washing up late last week, thinking no one noticed; how he’d taken the pram out on Sunday when he clearly just needed to sleep. “He does… I suppose,” she admitted. “But not the way I think he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna was ready to answer but suddenly realised she wasn’t sure. In her head: more, more often, with more attention—but what, exactly? Hard to say. “I just want life to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that to yourself,” the vicar murmured. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re fighting her husband, not fighting for her. And fighting makes everyone tense. You, them, all of you.” Anna was silent for a long time. Then she asked, “So what now? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he said gently. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. Not against anyone—*for* someone.” On the way home, she dwelled on this. She remembered when her daughter was small, she never lectured—she just sat nearby if her child cried. Why was it different now? The next day, Anna arrived unannounced with soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t be long,” Anna said. “Just here to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. She left quietly, no comments about how hard things must be, or how life should be lived. A week later, she came again. And again. She still noticed her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she started to see other things: how gently he picked up the baby, how—thinking no one noticed—he’d cover her daughter in a blanket at night. Once, she couldn’t resist and asked him in the kitchen, “Is it hard for you now?” He seemed surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It is,” he admitted finally. “Very.” And nothing more. But after that, the air between them lost its sharpness. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it was herself she had to begin with. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said I told you so. She just listened. Sometimes she’d take the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she rang her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was far easier to be cross. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better or perfect—just… quieter; no heavy tension. One day her daughter said: “Mum, thank you for being with us now—not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She realised something simple: reconciliation isn’t about one person admitting guilt; it’s about someone choosing to stop the fight first. She still wished her son-in-law were more attentive. That would never go away. But something else had grown alongside that wish: the desire for peace in the family. And every time her old feelings resurfaced—outrage, resentment, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want them to have it easier? And, almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
03
“My Mum Has One Just Like That,” Remarked the Waitress, Noticing the Millionaire’s Ring…🤵 His Response Brought Her to Her Knees… One Evening in the Heart of London, Where the Scent of Fresh Coffee and cut Blooms Filled the Velvet-Lined Walls of a Posh Restaurant, Waitress Annie was Finishing Her Shift When a Mysterious VIP Guest Arrived—Sir Leonard Sutton, a Man with a Public Reputation but a Secretive Private Life. When Annie Noticed the Simple Silver Ring with a Vivid Sapphire on His Hand and Whispered That Her Mother Once Wore an Identical One, His Unexpected Reply Stopped Her in Her Tracks and Unveiled a Family Secret Long Hidden in the Shadows of Her Mother’s Past…
00
Rex the Loyal German Shepherd Bowed His Head at the Sight of His Old Owners, but Refused to Leave—A Heartwarming Winter Tale of Betrayal, Community, and a Dog’s Unbreakable Loyalty in a British Suburb
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“My Grandkids Only See Fresh Fruit Once a Month, Yet I Buy Premium Food for My Cats” – My Daughter-in-Law Accuses Me of Coldness, But Isn’t It a Parent’s Job to Provide for Their Own Children?
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“You’ll Never Make It Without Me! You Can’t Do Anything!”—That’s What My Husband Yelled While Packing His Shirts into a Big Bag. But I Proved Him Wrong. Alone With Two Little Girls, No Time for Tears—Just Nursery Runs, Work, and Life Onward. How an Unexpected Neighbor, a Cup of Melissa Tea, and a Second Chance at Happiness Turned My Struggles Into a Life Filled With Love, Friendship, and Summer Days at Our English Country Cottage.
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Vitaly’s Unexpected Journey: A Routine Workday, a Mysterious Phone Call, and the Heart-Wrenching Story of an Unknown Child, a Mother Lost in Childbirth, and a Life Forever Changed at St. Mary’s Maternity Hospital
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Women’s Fates: Marianne After Granny Agnes Passed Away, Marianne Felt Utterly Lost. Her Mother-in-Law Saw Her as a Misfit—Too Thin, Too Feeble, Not Hardworking Enough, and Unlikely to Bear Children. Marianne Endured the Scorn, Finding Solace Only in Her Beloved Granny, Who Had Been Like a Mother and Father in One After Tragedy Struck Her Family. Dan, Strong, Handsome, With a House Full of Plenty, Fell Head Over Heels for This Orphaned Pauper, To His Mother Audrey’s Disgust. No Matter How Hard Marianne Tried—Working Tirelessly, Obeying Every Order—She Could Never Please Her. Things Were Bearable When Dan Was Home, But When He Left for Business, Audrey’s Cruelty Knew No Bounds. “Endure, My Dear,” The Old Granny Had Urged, “In Time, Things Will Soften,” But Now Her Confidante Was Gone, While Dan’s Mother Grew Ever More Hostile, Bitter That Her Son Had Not Chosen the Sturdy, Well-Connected Bride She Preferred. Dan, Inheriting His Father’s Stubbornness, Often Stood Up for His Wife, Fiercely Protective and Deeply in Love, Blinded by Her Gentle Beauty. Marianne Had Heard of Her Mother-in-Law’s Tempers and Greed But Was Soothed by Dan’s Loyalty. She Weathered Every Humiliation, Seeking Comfort at Her Granny’s Knee When She Could Bear No More, The Old Woman’s Fingers Stroking Her Hair and Whispered Prayers Easing Her Heart. But Now There Was No One Left. Marianne Was Utterly Alone. Contrary to What People Say, Time Doesn’t Heal—Instead, The Ache Deepened, Memories Bringing New Tears. In Dan’s House, Tensions Rose: Audrey Called Marianne a Useless Scrounger for Failing to Produce an Heir. The Whole Village Whispered That Dan’s Line Would Die With Him. Still, Dan’s Love Gave Marianne Strength—Until, At Last, Her Prayers Were Answered and She Fell Pregnant. Audrey Turned Even More Vicious, Taunting Her For Resting, For Every Perceived Failure, Even as Marianne Struggled with Exhaustion and Tears. When Her Frail Son, Benjamin, Was Born, Audrey’s Cruel Remarks Cut Deep: She Blamed Mother and Child for Their Weakness, Hardly Believing Marianne’s Protests That This Sickly Boy Was Her Precious Grandson, Dan’s Heir. The Infant’s Struggles Brought Even Greater Despair. Whenever Dan Returned Home, He Tried to Lift Her Spirits—But Soon Work Took Him Far Away. With Dan Gone, Audrey’s Reign Became Unbearable: She Forced Marianne to Labour Day and Night, While The Sick Baby Grew Weaker. At Last, Fearing Audrey’s Poisonous Words Might Be True—That Dan Would Be Better Off Without Her—Marianne Decided She Could Suffer No More. With Nowhere To Go, She Fled, Wrapping Benjamin In Scarves And Setting Out Into The Cold Dark Night. In A Distant Village, A Kindly Woman Named Alice Took Them In And Led Marianne To Her Mother, The Old Healer Grace, Who Lived Deep In The Woods. Grace Explained That Benjamin’s Illness Was The Result Of Grief—Marianne Had Visited Her Grandmother’s Grave Too Often While Pregnant, Picking Up A Clinging Sorrow That Now Threatened Her Son’s Life. Grace Promised Healing, Tending To Benjamin With Ancient Remedies Until He Grew Rosy And Strong. Meanwhile, Back in Dan’s Village, Audrey Spun Tragic Tales: She Claimed The Baby Had Died And That Marianne, Maddened By Grief, Had Vanished. Dan, Returning To An Empty Home, Was Consumed By Grief And Blame. As The Years Passed, He Withdrew Ever Further, Shrouded In Sorrow, While Audrey Wasted Away With Guilt, Dying Without Confessing Her Cruelties. Alone And Lost, Dan Resolved To Join His Family In Death, Wandering Toward The Marshes, Until He Heard Marianne’s Voice Calling Him Back From The Brink. Reunited In The Woods, Dan Discovered His Wife And Son Alive And Well, Healing In A Village Where Kindness Had Replaced Cruelty. Grateful For Second Chances And Determined Never To Return To The House Haunted By Their Sorrows, Marianne, Dan, And Benjamin Began A New Life Together, With Alice And Grace As Their True Family. As The Forgotten Brambles Grew Over Audrey’s Grave, No One Remembered The Woman Whose Jealousy Had Brought Such Misfortune—A Lost Soul, Unmourned And Alone, While Love And Hope Bloomed Anew In The Hearts Of Those She Had Tried To Destroy.
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The Angel in the Surgery: From Schoolgirl First Aid to Respected London Doctor—How Elizabeth Bennett’s Compassion and Resolve Changed the Life of a Difficult Colleague and Helped a Patient Find Love and Hope in the NHS
03
“We’re at the train station, you’ve got half an hour to order a business-class taxi for me and my children!” demanded my sister — “Are you really my sister or just a random stranger? Aren’t you ashamed to act like this, especially in front of the kids? Is it really so hard for you to buy your beloved nephews and nieces some new clothes? Why should I have to beg you to buy things for them? You should offer on your own! You ought to help with money! After all, you couldn’t have children, probably never will! But I’m a single mum!” Angela fired words at Nadya like darts, each one aimed to wound and press deeper into her personal space. Nadya had never been the favourite child. Born out of wedlock, her mother only married later, and from then on Nadya felt like she was in the way. Her stepfather resented her, and her mother took her frustration out on her firstborn for having to marry the first man she could find just to avoid single parenthood. It was only after her little sister was born that Nadya began to breathe easier, as now she had a purpose: the family decided the eldest would serve as nanny to the youngest. Nadya was expected to spend all her time caring for her sister, entertaining and teaching her, regardless of schoolwork, hobbies or friendships. If Nadya didn’t feed or change her sister quickly enough, she’d be grounded or forbidden from seeing friends. As Angela grew older, she began treating Nadya just the way their parents did—as little more than a servant. At eighteen, Nadya decided to change her life. She picked the furthest university from home, packed her bags and left, determined never to return. She barely kept in touch; her parents only called to borrow money they never repaid, always citing Angela’s children. Nadya knew Angela had become a mother at seventeen and married at eighteen, thinking a second child would keep her husband out of army service. She gave birth to twins, but soon after, the young father bolted, demanding a divorce. Now the requests for financial help came frequently. Unlike her sister, Nadya had made a life for herself: she’d earned a degree, landed a good job, and managed to buy her own small flat on a mortgage. Once they knew she was managing, her parents called almost weekly, always for money for Angela’s kids—never repaying, never asking how Nadya herself was coping. She still couldn’t shake the guilt drilled into her since childhood. Saying no to her mother was nearly impossible; every call left her struggling to balance her own finances for the month. Her own love life hadn’t flourished—after finding out she couldn’t have children, Nadya’s husband-to-be had left her. When her family discovered she was childless, it became a recurring source of shame in their conversations: “Nadya’s barren… Tough luck! Thank goodness at least our Angela’s given us grandchildren,” her mother would say. After a while, Angela had the brilliant idea to show up on Nadya’s doorstep, unannounced, one of the few weekends Nadya had to herself: “Nadya, where are you? Am I supposed to take the kids on the bus? Order us a taxi, and make sure it’s not the cheap kind! The little ones get carsick in smoky cabs!” “Hi… Where are you, and why should I get you a taxi?” “Mum didn’t tell you? I’ve decided to move in with you. There’s nothing for me in our hometown. I’m at the station; you have half an hour to send a taxi for us.” Angela hung up before Nadya could protest. That evening Angela began issuing orders: “Tomorrow you’ll get me a job at your office—good pay, easy work, and a team with fit young men, please. I’ll need time off whenever I want. Buy the twins a bunk bed—can’t have us all crammed on the same sofa. I’ll sleep in your bed with the boys tonight, you and Polina can take the sofa. Also, it’s nearly winter, so buy the kids proper warm clothes—none of that bargain rubbish. I don’t want people calling me a divorced mum with baggage!” Nadya listened, incredulous that she’d tolerated such treatment for so long; suddenly, she found her courage: “You can spend tonight here, but tomorrow morning I’ll drive you back to the station—you’re going home to Mum and Dad. I’m not supporting you or your children anymore! You chose to have them—raise them yourself. Consider your debts paid in full! And if you’re not gone by morning, I’ll call the police. I don’t care if the kids are with you—they’re your responsibility! You can all sleep on the guest sofa—I’m not giving up my bed!” Angela sputtered her outrage and rang their mother to complain, but Nadya stood firm. In the morning, she didn’t even drive her sister to the station—just handed her a fare for a taxi and the train. “That’s it. Forget the way to my flat. I have my own life, and it doesn’t revolve around your problems,” Nadya said, shutting the door behind her. Afterward, Nadya wept, thought it through, and realised she’d done the right thing—otherwise, her “wonderful” family would have ruined her. Freed from the burden of never-ending obligation, Nadya felt she could finally breathe. She met a man, married, adopted two children and, at last, found happiness.
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https://twitter.com/DapperPenguin01/status/1916776025440059428
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— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!!! — shouted Paul. — You Can’t Do Anything!!!… Can’t Even Earn Proper Money! … You’re No Help at All Around the House! … — Marina sobbed, — …And We Have No Children…, — she whispered almost inaudibly. Snowy — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten years, perched silently atop the wardrobe, watched the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew for certain — she could even feel it — that Mum and Dad loved each other, truly… So she just didn’t understand — why say such hurtful things that made everyone feel worse? Mum ran crying to the bedroom, and Dad began chain-smoking on the balcony. Snowy, seeing her family falling apart, mused: “This house needs happiness… and happiness is children… We must find children somewhere…” Snowy couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said it was possible, but it just never seemed to work out… In the morning, once her parents left for work, Snowy slipped out through the window for the very first time and went to visit her neighbour, Mittens, for advice. — What on earth do you want kids for?! — scoffed Mittens, — Look at ours! When their kids visit, I have to hide… they smear lipstick on my whiskers, they squeeze me so tight I can’t breathe! Snowy sighed: — We need normal children… If only we could find some… — Well… That stray Maggie had a litter… there’s five of them…, — Mittens mused, — take your pick… Taking her chances, Snowy scrambled from balcony to balcony and down to the street. Nervously twitching, she squeezed through the iron bars of a basement window and called: — Maggie, please could you come out for a moment… A desperate squeaking sounded from inside. Cautiously crawling closer and glancing all around, Snowy was nearly moved to tears at the sight: five tiny, blind kittens, their noses searching the air, crying deafeningly for their mother under the radiator, directly on the gravel. She realised — Maggie hadn’t been here in days. The kittens were starving… Holding back tears, Snowy gently and persistently carried each kitten to the front steps. Trying to keep the pitiful, hungry bundles in one place, she lay down beside them, anxiously awaiting the return of Mum and Dad. Paul, wordlessly collecting Marina from work, brought her home in silence. Approaching the house, they stopped in astonishment — on the doorstep lay their Snowy (who’d never ventured outside alone before), surrounded by five mewling, multicoloured kittens. — How on earth did this happen?? — Paul was baffled. — It’s a miracle…, — echoed Marina, and scooping up the cat and babies, they all hurried inside. As the now-contented Snowy purred in a box with the kittens, Paul asked: — What are we supposed to do with them? — I’ll feed them with a bottle… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — whispered Marina. Three months later, overwhelmed, Marina sat stroking the feline “herd,” staring into space, repeating over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen…, just don’t happen… And then, with happy tears, she and Paul laughed and spun around together, speaking all at once: — I didn’t finish the house for nothing! — Yes, a fresh-air baby will be so happy here! — And the kittens can run around! — There’ll be room for all of us! — I love you!!! — Oh, I love you even more!!! Wise old Snowy wiped away a tear — at last, life was looking up…