A Hungry Little Girl Walked into a London Café and Started Eating Leftovers from a Table – But When a Waiter Spotted Her, He Took Away the Plate Without Saying a Word. You Won’t Believe What Happened Next! Emily was just 8 years old, the eldest of six siblings. Their father had left, and her mother struggled every day to put food on the table. For Emily and her family, every day was a battle for survival. During school holidays and at weekends, Emily would help a friendly market stall owner in the local high street, earning a few pennies to bring home. One Saturday lunchtime, Emily was returning from the market. Walking past a cosy café, she couldn’t resist the tempting aromas inside. Usually, she just peered longingly through the window—but that day, hunger got the better of her, and she timidly stepped inside, in worn shoes and shabby clothes, feeling smaller than ever. She was about to leave when she noticed a half-eaten plate of roast and chips left behind on a table. It smelled so delicious, and Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted meat. She sat down quietly and picked up a fork. But a waiter had been watching her. He strode over and, before she could take a bite, took the plate away! With tears in her eyes, Emily looked up, expecting to be told off or thrown out. Instead, the waiter gave her a gentle smile and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her puzzled and scared. Soon, the waiter returned—not with anger, but carrying a fresh, hot meal, a glass of juice, and even a slice of chocolate cake—Emily’s secret dream. Her eyes widened in astonishment and gratitude. “I saw you wanted something to eat,” the waiter said kindly. “Everyone deserves a good meal, especially a child.” Emily was overwhelmed by his kindness—a stranger showing her compassion when she’d expected none. After a few bites, she gathered her courage, wiped her tears, and thanked the waiter. “Thank you, sir. I’ll never forget your kindness… Please, could I have the rest wrapped up for my brothers and sisters? Mum didn’t have the money to buy bread yesterday.” The waiter was speechless, his own eyes brimming. “Of course,” he managed, and disappeared again, returning this time with a carrier bag filled with several food containers. “There you go! Now your siblings can have a warm meal too,” he said, handing the bag to Emily. “Oh, sir, thank you! How can I ever repay you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You already have,” he smiled. “You’ve taught me a precious lesson—to always share and help others. That’s how we make the world a better place.” Emily left the café not only with a full belly, but with a heart full of hope. That ordinary Saturday in a little café on her way home had changed her life. Inspired by the waiter’s generosity, she always looked for ways to help others, passing along the lesson she’d learned: even a small act of kindness can make a world of difference.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 2

A little girl walked into a restaurant. Shed spotted a plate of leftovers abandoned on a nearby table, and without a second thought, she began to eat. A waiter noticed her. He walked quickly towards her and, without saying a word, took the plate away from her. This is a story you must read to the end!

Emma was eight years old. She was one of six children. Their father had left the family, and their mother struggled desperately to put a meal on the table for the little ones. Every day was a battle for survival in Emmas home. Even at such a young age, during the holidays and on Saturdays and Sundays, Emma would often go to the local market to help a stallholder with her goods. The little bit of pocket money she earned, she always brought home to her mother, proud to be of help.

One Saturday afternoon, Emma was on her way home from the market. As usual, on her route she passed by a restaurant in the centre of Manchester. The smells coming from inside were so strong and delicious, they made Emmas mouth water every time. Sometimes, shed peer longingly through the window, imagining what it must be like to go in and taste the food that smelled so wonderful And a chocolate cakethat was a dream too big even for her wildest hopes. But on that particular Saturday, Emma could no longer resist. She quietly pushed open the restaurant door and walked in. With her scuffed shoes and threadbare clothes, Emma felt even smaller than her years.

She thought about turning round to leave, but then she spotted a plate on a tablea small piece of roast beef and some chips, left behind. The food looked and smelled so good, and Emma could hardly remember the last time shed had meat. She sat down quietly at the table and reached for the cutlery.

Emma didnt realise the waiter had been watching her ever since she entered. Before she could take her first bite, the waiter swiftly approached and took the plate away! Emma, with tears forming in her eyes, looked up at the man, expecting a scolding or to be sent outside. But instead, the waiter gave her a gentle look, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Emma bewildered and frightened.

Moments later, the waiter returned, but this time his arms were full. He set down in front of Emma a generous plate of warm food, a glass of lemonade, andat lasta slice of chocolate cake, the very thing shed always dreamed about. Emmas eyes grew wide with both astonishment and gratitude.

I saw you wanted something to eat, the waiter said kindly. Everyone deserves a good meal, especially a child.

Emma couldnt find her words, overwhelmed by the waiters kindness, a strangers hand offered when she least expected it.

She took a few bites of the meal the waiter had brought. Then, wiping her eyes, she stood up and approached the waiter to thank him. She shook his hand and said quietly,

Thank you, sir, Ill never forget your kindness. Please, could you put the rest of the food in a bag for me? I want to take some home to my brothers and sisters. Mum didnt have enough money for bread yesterday.

The waiter was lost for words. He swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with emotion.

Of course, he replied softly. He went back into the kitchen and returned with a shopping bag filled with several containers of food.

Here you are! Now your brothers and sisters can have a hot meal too, he said, handing her the bag.

Oh sir, thank you from the bottom of my heart. How could I ever repay you? the little girl said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Youve already given me a valuable lesson, the man replied. We should always help and share with each other. Thats how we make the world a better place, the waiter added with a smile.

Emma left the restaurant not only with a full tummy, but also with a precious lesson for life. That day changed not only her perspective on people and the world, but also planted seeds of compassion and generosity deep in her young heart.

From then on, whenever she had the chance, Emma thought of the kind waiter, and tried to offer help and smiles to those around her, spreading the lesson shed learned one ordinary Saturday, in a small restaurant along the road home.

“What Do You Mean You Won’t Take Care of My Son’s Child?” – The Mother-in-Law Couldn’t Hold Back “Firstly, I don’t turn my nose up at little George! Let’s not forget, in this very house, I’m the one coming home after work, like a proper wife and mother, and pulling a double shift with cooking, laundry, and cleaning. I’m happy to help out and offer advice, but I don’t intend to take on full parental responsibility. ‘What do you mean—you’re not going to? So that’s it, is it, you’re just a hypocrite?’ ‘Come off it, Rita. Who wants a job if you don’t get paid for it?’ – As expected, at the school reunion, Sue hadn’t dropped her old habits of judging and criticising everything and everyone. Those days when Rita was lost for words were long gone. Now she always had a comeback and didn’t hesitate to put sharp-tongued Sue in her place. ‘Just because you have to worry about money doesn’t mean everyone else has the same problems,’ Rita said with a casual shrug. ‘I inherited two flats in London from my dad—one we lived in before he and Mum split up, the other he got from my grandparents and then passed on to me. And you know what London rents are like—not exactly peanuts—so I have enough for life’s little luxuries. I get to choose a job I like, not just one that pays the most. That why you went from doctor to shop assistant, Sue?’ That was meant to be a secret. Rita had promised never to say a word. But if Sue really wanted to keep it quiet, she should’ve thought twice about what she said—at least not called Rita ‘an idiot’ in public. Did she really think Rita would just let that slide? If so, it’s definitely not Rita who’s the idiot. ‘A shop assistant, really?’ ‘You promised not to tell!’ Sue squeaked, grabbing her bag and dashing out of the restaurant, clearly barely holding back tears. ‘Serves her right,’ commented Andy after a moment’s silence. ‘Honestly, who even invited her?’ Tanya asked. ‘I did, sorry,’ said Anna—the old head girl and now the organiser—apologetically. ‘Remember, Sue was always a bit unpleasant at school, but people change. Or so I hoped. Not always, though,’ Rita shrugged, making the group laugh. After that, they had plenty of questions about Rita’s job—out of pure curiosity, not judgement. Not many people know the field (and wouldn’t wish it on anyone), so there are plenty of myths. Rita spent the evening busting them. ‘Why even bother treating them if you don’t think it works?’ one old classmate asked. ‘Who says it doesn’t?’ Rita replied. ‘Take this one little boy I work with—five years old, birth went wrong, he ended up with developmental delays. Yes, it’s tough, but with the right support, there’s every chance he’ll end up in a mainstream school and live a normal life. Without help, it would be a completely different story. ‘So, you’re doing meaningful work because you don’t have to chase every penny,’ Val summed up, and the conversation moved on to classmates’ lives and families. Rita suddenly sensed someone watching her—a fleeting, strange feeling she soon shrugged off. A week after the reunion, Rita tried to leave for work but her car was blocked in by another. She called the number in the window and a pleasant young man named Max came to apologise and move his car. There was something instantly likable about him—his manners, clothes, even the aftershave. When he asked her out, she happily agreed; one date became two, and soon Rita couldn’t imagine life without Max. His mother and his young son from a previous relationship welcomed Rita as family. The boy, George, had special needs, but thanks to Rita’s professional skills, she built a bond with him and helped Max with new ways of supporting his son. After a year, Rita and Max moved in together—she let out her old flat through the same agency that handled her London properties, and moved in with Max and George. That’s when the early warning signs began. It was little things at first—‘Can you help George get ready?’, or ‘Watch him while I pop to the shops.’ This was manageable, as Rita and George got on, and she was free when asked. But the favours grew more burdensome. Rita had to have a word: Max, your son is your responsibility. I’m happy to help, but I won’t take on more than a fifth of the parenting just because he’s not my child—and I deal with children with special needs at work already. Max seemed to understand. But, as the wedding approached, he and his mother began discussing George’s therapy programme, making it clear they expected Rita to take it on in her spare time. ‘Hang on a second,’ Rita interrupted. ‘Max, we agreed you’d handle your son’s needs. I don’t ask you to clean my mum’s place or fix her problems—that’s on me. The same should go for George.’ ‘Not the same!’ his mother huffed. ‘A mum is an adult, living independently. A child is a child! Or are you planning to turn your nose up at George after the wedding and expect us to accept it?’ ‘I don’t turn my nose up at him. But I won’t take on his full rehab on top of working and running the house—he’s your son, Max. You should be in charge. I can advise, but that’s as far as it goes.’ ‘What do you mean, you’re not going to? So you’ll wax lyrical about your work to your friends, but when it comes to actually caring for a child, you’re nowhere to be found—just a hypocrite!’ ‘Excuse me?’ Rita said, then realised: Max’s mother worked part-time as a dishwasher at the very restaurant where the reunion was held. It all made sense. ‘So, you planned the whole thing just to foist your sick child onto me?’ ‘Did you really think I was excited to date someone like you?’ Max blurted out. ‘If it wasn’t for George and your job, I wouldn’t have looked twice at you…’ ‘Well, don’t look now,’ Rita retorted, pulling off her engagement ring and tossing it to her now ex. ‘You’ll regret this,’ Max and his mother threatened. ‘No real man wants a plain Jane with a dead-end job and no money.’ ‘I’ve got two London flats—so yes, I do have money,’ Rita shot back, enjoying the look on both their faces. She packed up, brushing off Max’s efforts at reconciliation and his empty promises: ‘I’ll do more, I’ll never speak to you like that again, I’m just stressed at work, please forgive me, I love you.’ Of course, Rita wasn’t buying it. She made a joke about him losing his “mouse”—and it didn’t look like she was the one with any regrets. Later, her old classmates got a laugh out of the whole saga. As for Rita, she hasn’t given up hope of someday finding someone who loves her for who she is—not her money or her skills. For now, she’s content with her job, her friends, and plans to get a cat—at least that’s an animal you can train, unlike some men.

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Apples in the Snow… In our village on the outskirts, right at the edge of the ancient forest—where the pines hold up the sky and even at midday it’s dusk beneath the needles—lived John “Jack” Carter. He was as tough as old boots. He spent his whole life as a forester, knew every tree, every badger sett, every winding deer trail for miles around. His hands were huge—like shovels—calloused and stained by sap, the marks of a lifetime’s graft. His heart seemed carved from the same weathered oak: strong, reliable, but unyielding. He and his wife, Annie, made it thirty years together in perfect harmony—a striking pair. In the evenings, you’d walk past their gate and see them on the porch: Jack softly squeezing an old concertina, Annie joining in, their voices twining so sweetly it would stop you in your tracks to listen. Their home was the picture of comfort: blue-painted window frames as bright as Annie’s eyes, a cottage garden brimming with phlox, not a stray weed in the tidy rows. I remember watching them plant their apple orchard—Jack digging rich, black earth for Annie to cradle the young saplings, murmuring encouragement as gently as if she were soothing a child. ‘Grow well, loves. Grow sweet, for our children’s delight.’ Jack would wipe the sweat from his brow, grinning brighter than he ever would again. The orchard thrived. Every spring it blossomed into a white mist, and by autumn the apples were so plentiful you could smell their crisp sweetness from half a mile away. But God took Annie far too soon. She wasted away in just three months—gone in her sleep, Jack’s hand held tight in hers. Grief turned him hollow and grey overnight—he didn’t shed a tear (for men mustn’t show it), but the loss set his jaw so tight his teeth ached and he went white as a sheet. He was left with only his late-in-life daughter, Nancy—his window of light in that wild loneliness, the sole anchor tying him to this world. Jack doted on her fiercely, a bear of a father: strict, protective to a fault, sheltering her even from the spring wind. His terror of being left alone again, abandoned like the day Annie died, made him cling too tightly. ‘You’re my hope, Nancy,’ he’d say, his big hand stroking her hair. ‘When you’re grown you’ll run this house. You don’t need anything from that world out there—all wolves in sheep’s clothing, all heartbreak and empty promises.’ Nancy grew into a beauty—golden hair thick as rope, eyes as blue as Jack’s, a voice that could turn birds silent and stop scythes mid-swing in the hayfields. The village women whispered she took after her mother, only more brilliantly still. She dreamed of singing, moving to London, auditioning for the Royal College of Music. She poured over music books, taught herself to read scores, wore out old records on her battered player. Jack’s thinking was country plain: ‘Where you’re born is where you’re needed.’ He feared the city’s fiery appetite, believed London would devour all that was good. ‘Not a chance!’ he’d bellow till the sideboard rattled. ‘You’ll milk cows, marry a decent lad—Tom the tractor driver is a good man, building his own house! No need for this nonsense about being a performer. Outrageous!’ But one stormy October came the breaking: Nancy, usually so meek, packed her small suitcase and headed for the door. Jack lost all sense: shouting, slamming, vowing, ‘Go and you’re no daughter of mine! Don’t darken my doorstep!’ When Nancy left into the rain without once looking back, Jack split the porch step with his axe—wood chips flying like blood. ‘No daughter,’ he rasped. ‘Gone for good.’ Twelve years passed—a lifetime. Winters turned to springs, village babies grew and scattered, some to war, some to marriage. Jack’s house stood silent, his apple trees tangled and wild, window frames stripped bare, axe rusted to a scar in the wood, porch sagging like an old bruise. Then, during last year’s wild November freeze, with the earth black and frozen, I passed by and noticed his chimney dead cold at dusk—a bad sign in any village. The old dog didn’t even rise to bark—just whimpered from his icy kennel. Inside the cottage was colder than the night—water iced in the bucket, the place stinking of medicine and despair. Jack was a shivering wreck beneath a battered coat, teeth chattering, calling for Annie and Nancy in fevered delirium. Pneumonia, eating him alive. I stayed through the night, kindled the fire; his dreams were all wretched apologies and lost hopes. When the fever broke, he waited for news every day by the window, just as Nancy’s letters—hundreds, withheld by the postwoman out of mercy—waited in the shop. Over shaking fingers and blotted tears, Jack finally read his grandchildren’s names and pressed their photos to his chest. With only part of a phone number left, I found a local lad—well up on computers—to search. At last, a reply: Nancy in Birmingham now, status: ‘Missing home.’ We left a message, and the wait was agony. Jack drank bitters down to the dregs, terrified she’d never forgive. But then—connection. At first her husband answered, then Nancy herself, voice trembling, wary as she heard her father’s plea. ‘I’m dying, lass. I wronged you, but I’ve always loved you. Forgive me if you can.’ ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ she sobbed, ‘I waited so long—I wrote so many letters… I don’t know if I can forgive…’ ‘I’m not asking it all at once. Just know: it was love, even if it hurt us.’ She agreed to come, out of duty if not love yet, and in the days that followed the cottage was scrubbed and scoured, anxiously awaiting her return. At last, Nancy and her family arrived: tall, proud, London-smart—her children wary, her husband stern. The old wounds hung thick as ever, the silence heavy over tea. Only on the third day, after a child’s innocent question about the missing axe and Jack’s rueful reply (‘It rotted away—anger does too, in time’), did the ice begin to break for good. Later, over tea in the nurse’s kitchen, Nancy confided, ‘The anger won’t let go. But when I see him… so old, so lost… and today he warmed my daughter’s boots by the fire, just as he did for me—something healed, a little.’ They returned in summer, and it was a new life: Jack tending the orchard, the old trees in bloom again, father and daughter side by side in the golden dusk as laughter returned to their home. They say you can mend a broken cup; the crack remains, but the tea is all the sweeter because you cherish it more. Life is short as a winter’s day—blink, and it’s twilight. You always think, ‘I’ll have time—forgiveness will wait, I’ll write or visit next holiday…’ but sometimes, ‘next time’ never comes. A house can grow cold, a phone can fall silent forever, and the mailbox can stay empty until the very end.

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An Elderly Gentleman Struggled From His Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Made His Way to the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Squinted at His Slumbering Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away?”—He Sank to His Knees. “Seems She’s Breathing.” He Stood and Slowly Shuffled Into the Kitchen. Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Headed to His Room. Lying Awake, He Thought: “Lena and I Are Both Ninety. What a Life We’ve Lived! Soon We’ll Be Gone, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter Natasha Died Before Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, But She’s Been in Germany for Over Twenty Years—She Never Remembers Us. She Probably Has Grown-Up Children of Her Own Now.” He Didn’t Notice When Sleep Overtook Him. He Awoke to a Gentle Touch: “Kostya, Are You Alive?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Leaning Over Him. “Lena, What’s the Matter?” “I Saw You Lying So Still, I Was Frightened. Thought You’d Died.” “Still Alive! Go and Sleep!” Shuffling Steps Echoed. The Kitchen Light Flicked On. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Visited the Loo, and Headed to Her Room. She Lay Down, Thinking: “One Morning I’ll Wake to Find Him Gone. What Will I Do Then? Maybe I’ll Be the First to Go. Kostya’s Even Arranged Our Funerals Already—Who’d Have Thought You Could Organise Your Own? But It’s a Good Thing—Who’d Bury Us Otherwise? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us Completely. Only Polina the Neighbour Pops In Anymore—She’s Got a Key. Granddad Gives Her Part of Our Pension. She Gets Our Shopping and Medicines. Where Else Do We Have to Spend Our Money? We Can’t Even Get Down from the Fourth Floor Alone Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sunlight Was Peeking Through the Window. He Stepped Out Onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Tip of the Bird Cherry Tree. He Smiled: “We’ve Lived to See Another Summer!” He Went to Check on His Wife, Who Sat Pensively on Her Bed. “Lena, No More Pouting! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve No Strength Left!” She Struggled from the Bed. “What Are You Up To?” “Come Along Now!” He Supported Her to the Balcony. “Look, the Bird Cherry’s Green! And You Said We’d Never See Another Summer. But We Did!” “It Is—The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Together on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Invited You to the Cinema Back at School? The Bird Cherry Was Leafing Out That Day, Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago Was That?” “Over Seventy… Seventy-Five.” They Sat for a Long Time, Reminiscing About Their Youth—So Much Slips Away With Old Age, Even What Happened Yesterday, but Your Youth—That Sticks with You Forever. “We’ve Chattered Away! Haven’t Even Had Breakfast Yet.” “Lena, Make Us Some Proper Tea, Will You? I’m Tired of This Herbal Stuff.” “We Shouldn’t Really.” “Just a Weak Brew, and a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Weak Tea, Nibbling Cheese on Toast, Remembering How Breakfasts Used to Mean Strong Sweet Tea with Pies or Pasties. Their Neighbour Dropped In and Smiled Fondly: “How Are the Pair of You?” “What Can Possibly Be New When You’re Ninety?”—Granddad Joked. “Well, If You’re Jokers, You Must Be Fine. Do You Need Anything From the Shops?” “Polina, Could You Get Us Some Meat, Please?” “You’re Not Supposed to Have That.” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Make You Some Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Get Something for My Heart?” the Old Lady Asked. “Elena Ivanovna, I Got You Something Not Long Ago.” “We’ve Run Out Already.” “Maybe I Should Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Tidied the Table, Did the Washing Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Back Out on the Balcony—Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! Can’t Bear Sitting Cooped Up.” Polina Returned, Bringing Their Porridge onto the Balcony Before Starting Soup for Lunch. “She’s a Good Woman,” He Said as She Went. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And You Only Give Her Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, We Left Her the Flat in Our Will and Had It Notarised.” “But She Doesn’t Know That.” They Sat on the Balcony Until Lunch. Lunch Was Chicken Soup—Tasty, with Finely Diced Meat and Mashed Potato. “I Always Made It Like This for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Little,” Elena Ivanovna Reminisced. “And Now, in Our Old Age, It’s Strangers Who Cook for Us,” Her Husband Sighed Heavily. “Seems That’s Our Lot, Kostya. We’ll Die and No One Will Even Shed a Tear.” “Enough, Lena—No More Gloom. Let’s Have a Nap!” “They Say ‘Old Folk Are Just Like Children.’ Here We Are—Pureed Soup, Afternoon Naps, Tea Time…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed Briefly, Then Woke Unsettled—Perhaps the Weather Changing. He Checked the Kitchen—Polina Had Thoughtfully Poured Two Glasses of Juice. He Took Both to His Wife’s Room. She Sat Gazing Out the Window. “Why So Sad, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice!” She Sipped: “You Can’t Sleep Either, Can You?” “It’s the Weather—Must Be My Blood Pressure.” “I Haven’t Felt Right All Morning,” She Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Long Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off, Won’t You?” “Lena, Don’t Talk Nonsense—What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Always Goes First.” “Enough, Now—Let’s Go Onto the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Cheese Fritters, Which They Ate Before Watching TV—As Always, Soviet-Era Comedies and Cartoons, Since Modern Plots Were Hard to Follow. After One Cartoon, Elena Ivanovna Stood: “I’ll Go to Bed—I’m Tired.” “I’ll Join You, Then.” “Let Me Take a Good Look at You,” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “No Reason—Just Let Me.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time, Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Lay Ahead. “Come, I’ll See You to Bed.” She Took Her Husband’s Arm, and They Walked Slowly Together. He Tucked Her In Gently and Left for His Own Room. His Heart Felt Heavy—Sleep Would Not Come. Maybe He Hadn’t Slept at All, but the Clock Showed 2am. He Went to His Wife’s Room. She Lay Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open: “Lena!” He Took Her Hand—It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened! Lena!” Suddenly He Himself Struggled for Air. He Barely Reached His Room, Laid Out Their Documents, and Returned to His Wife. He Looked Long at Her Face, Then Lay Down Beside Her and Closed His Eyes. He Saw His Lively, Beautiful Lena, as She Was Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant Light. He Ran To Catch Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered the Bedroom. They Lay Side By Side, the Same Serene Smile On Both Their Faces. When She Recovered Herself, Polina Called for an Ambulance. The Doctor Who Arrived Looked at Them, Then Shook His Head in Wonder: “Died Together. They Must Have Truly Loved Each Other.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank Powerless onto a Chair, Only Then Noticing the Burial Contract and… a Will in Her Name. She Dropped Her Head in Her Hands and Wept.

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Andrew, please, kind sir, I beg you! I’m pleading—help us! A desperate woman threw herself at the feet of the tall man in the white coat and burst into tears. Behind a string of shabby consulting rooms, her child was dying in the medicine-scented A&E of the village hospital. —Try to understand! I can’t do it. I just can’t! That’s why I came here! I haven’t operated in two years. My hand, the conditions… —I beg you! Please!—the woman clung stubbornly to the reluctant doctor. He had to agree. He had to try—because otherwise… Just a few more steps. A creaking, white-painted wooden door. And there he was—her little Michael. Her own, her only. Tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hiding his faded freckles. Still breathing. Still alive. And the blood seeping from the bandage on his head was as thick and dark as last year’s cherry jam. The green line on the heart monitor wavered with every ragged breath. There was no way they’d make it to the city; it was a hundred miles. The helicopter… but the blizzard outside had stolen their last hope. His blood pressure kept falling. His heartbeat weaker and weaker. The paramedics averted their eyes. —Kovalevsky!—an elderly nurse clutching the stretcher seized his arm—Andrew! She pulled a crumpled old newspaper from her pocket, showing a photo of the man in his white coat, smiling children clustered around him like redbreasts on a rowan. Tears blurred lines about an accident, a damaged hand, a failed operation—yet spoke of a world-class neurosurgeon. A godsend. In their backwater… If only he’d agree! —I can’t take that kind of responsibility! Don’t you see? Last time… my wrist… I failed! I can’t operate anymore. I just can’t! The boy on the gurney was growing paler. The blood, like jam. The colleagues clustered at the doorway, uneasily silent. The sobbing mother. Time—against them all. And a dog… —A dog? —What’s a dog doing here? Only whining replied. A Labrador lunged for the stretcher, claws scrabbling on the floor, someone tugging at the collar, but he strained forward, locking eyes on Michael—and no longer whined. He rasped. And still he pressed on… —That’s Loyal—he’s Michael’s,—the woman wept, forgetting to breathe as the doctor’s words dropped like a stone into the heavy quiet: —Prep the operating theatre. He shut his eyes for a moment. Another memory surfaced—another dog. Hope. His father still alive. Andrew as a schoolboy. The icy New Year road. The wrecked car in the snow, like a shattered ornament. His mother crying. The doctor’s hesitant eyes. The impossible operation, the centre so far away. And Hope no longer whined at the grave. Only rasped. Stopped eating on the sixth day. Watched. Then followed her owner. Faded away. —I’ll be a neurosurgeon, Mum. I promised Hope, whispered the tousle-haired boy at the grave. The very best. Do you believe me? How could he forget? Why? ***** The theatre lights, blinding as the sun. The shine of steel. His wrist pulsed again. “Maybe I should get a dog”—what wild thoughts, now of all times! His fingers were wooden. Never mind, he’d manage. The injury was bad. Complicated. Pressure dropping, praying swelling wouldn’t worsen… Delicate tissue damaged. The skull bone in shards to piece back together. Blood vessels… And even the fastest helicopter would have been too late. The local assistants’ eyes shone. For them, this was a miracle. For him? How many times had he done this? Why give up after one failure? Why run away? Why break all ties? The wrist throbbed. And Hope’s eyes seemed to watch from the corner… Or maybe it was the Labrador, ready to follow his boy—Loyal. It was hard to hold the clamp. The staples. His fingers trembled. Nearly there—just a little longer. Breathe, Michael, just breathe. Don’t give up. We won’t let you slip away. Time—now it ticked for Michael. Was that the sound of a helicopter, somehow? Had it finally made it? ***** —Dr. Kovalevsky, someone’s asking for you,—the duty nurse peeked into his office and couldn’t help but break into a wide smile. Everyone smiled these days. Kovalevsky had returned. Every department was abuzz. Critical children were being sent from all over the county. Now the fear was gone. Kovalevsky’s hands were “golden.” Laughter echoed down the paediatric neuro wards again. The little ones were recovering. And the parents… why, they followed him everywhere… —Five minutes. Just let me check on Matthew. Just around the corner to his six-year-old patient’s room. A cheeky red-haired boy. Called him Uncle Andy. Came for a trip to London, fell from the second floor—just like Michael from the village. His skull—Dr. Kovalevsky had pieced it together over eight hours. Managed. Even the wrist barely ached. Maybe it was the children’s laughter—healed something, somehow… It was right, after all, that he came back. He should have done it sooner—never had the right reason. Had forgotten so much. But life, well—life reminded him. The dog, though, he’d never gotten around to. Too busy. He often wondered how that Labrador and Michael were getting on. He thought of them a lot. —Oh, Dr. Kovalevsky, dear! No sooner had he reached the door. Speak of the devil! —Hello, Michael, hello, Natalie,—he smiled—And you too, Loyal. His hand reached for the soft head, a wet nose nuzzled his palm. Gentle brown eyes watched him, full of knowing. —What brings you here? Is Michael all right—or are you in for a check-up? —Michael’s grand,—Natalie gushed—absolutely fine! That’s not why we’re here! Only now did Dr. Kovalevsky notice the radiant smile, the oddly bulging coat, her glittering eyes—but it felt awkward to ask. Loyal whirled around restlessly, breaking his train of thought. —Here! A taller Michael couldn’t hold his silence any longer. He burrowed behind his mother’s coat and handed the bemused Dr. Kovalevsky something small, black, pathetic and floppy-eared. —Ah…?—words caught in his mouth as he lifted the surprise to his face. —Don’t be cross,—Michael babbled—Loyal found him. Mum said we could keep him. And yesterday, we saw your interview on telly. And Loyal dragged him to the screen by the scruff when he heard your voice. So Mum and I thought… —You thought right. Long overdue,—Dr. Kovalevsky winked at the beaming dog—He’ll be my inspiration. I’ll call him Timmy.

03

“Hello, I’m Your Husband’s Mistress.” I paused my magazine layout work and looked up at the glamorous blonde who appeared at my office door. She smirked and added, “I have bad news for you—I’m pregnant. Naturally, by your husband.” Business-like, I asked, “Do you have proof?” She flashed a triumphant smile and produced a medical certificate from her designer handbag. She was well prepared. I inspected the certificate. It was authentic—not that surprising, really. When you bring such news to your lover’s wife, fakes won’t fly. “Alright,” I agreed, “it seems you really are pregnant. Now all that’s left is a paternity test to prove the baby is my husband’s, and then everything can be sorted.” This seemed to shake her a bit. She hesitantly asked, “Sorted—how?” I explained cheerfully, “My husband will pay child support, I’ll find you a good doctor, book you a top hospital—you can have your baby in comfort, no worries for you or the child.” The blonde looked unsettled. “Don’t you understand? I’m having his baby. He needs to be a father.” I answered patiently, “Our three children need a father too, and, thank God, they have one. But don’t worry, my husband will see your baby as well and take him to school when the time comes. Your child could even stay with us for a while—we have excellent nannies, and I adore children. It’ll give you time to get your own life in order. Believe me, it’s hard to date when you have a child.” Now she was upset, twisting her expensive bag. “Don’t you get it? I’m sleeping with your husband. I’m having his child. He doesn’t love you, he loves me!” I felt sorry for this young woman. Real life quickly banishes hopeless romantic dreams, even from girls who think they can snatch a wealthy husband for free. “Honey, you’re the fourth woman to come to me with this story. The first didn’t even have a certificate; the second and third brought forgeries… there was even one with a real pregnancy, but the paternity test failed. Neither I nor my husband have ever refused help, but we won’t tolerate lies—not even a kind man like my husband.” She looked lost. I continued, “As for sleeping with my husband—he sleeps with me, and many other hopefuls. I can’t deny my beloved his little indulgences. It doesn’t affect me or the children at all. Leave your number, I’ll arrange the paternity test, and we’ll be in touch.” She lost her nerve and ran out. I lit a cigarette. I’d been waiting for this visit—I knew about my husband’s latest fancy. I got through the conversation, as I had with the others, though it wasn’t easy. It would have been simpler to snap, make a scene, and let my very rich, successful husband leave for another woman. That’s exactly how I got him from his ex—when I turned up with news of my pregnancy, she made a scene, and he couldn’t stand drama. He married me, and I sealed the deal by having two more children. Deep down, I know a man who cheated on his wife with me won’t be faithful forever. There’ll always be new contenders. But I won’t make his ex-wife’s mistake—I’ll never give them a chance. I will endure. I can do this.

06

📌 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

A Hungry Little Girl Walked into a London Café and Started Eating Leftovers from a Table – But When a Waiter Spotted Her, He Took Away the Plate Without Saying a Word. You Won’t Believe What Happened Next! Emily was just 8 years old, the eldest of six siblings. Their father had left, and her mother struggled every day to put food on the table. For Emily and her family, every day was a battle for survival. During school holidays and at weekends, Emily would help a friendly market stall owner in the local high street, earning a few pennies to bring home. One Saturday lunchtime, Emily was returning from the market. Walking past a cosy café, she couldn’t resist the tempting aromas inside. Usually, she just peered longingly through the window—but that day, hunger got the better of her, and she timidly stepped inside, in worn shoes and shabby clothes, feeling smaller than ever. She was about to leave when she noticed a half-eaten plate of roast and chips left behind on a table. It smelled so delicious, and Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted meat. She sat down quietly and picked up a fork. But a waiter had been watching her. He strode over and, before she could take a bite, took the plate away! With tears in her eyes, Emily looked up, expecting to be told off or thrown out. Instead, the waiter gave her a gentle smile and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her puzzled and scared. Soon, the waiter returned—not with anger, but carrying a fresh, hot meal, a glass of juice, and even a slice of chocolate cake—Emily’s secret dream. Her eyes widened in astonishment and gratitude. “I saw you wanted something to eat,” the waiter said kindly. “Everyone deserves a good meal, especially a child.” Emily was overwhelmed by his kindness—a stranger showing her compassion when she’d expected none. After a few bites, she gathered her courage, wiped her tears, and thanked the waiter. “Thank you, sir. I’ll never forget your kindness… Please, could I have the rest wrapped up for my brothers and sisters? Mum didn’t have the money to buy bread yesterday.” The waiter was speechless, his own eyes brimming. “Of course,” he managed, and disappeared again, returning this time with a carrier bag filled with several food containers. “There you go! Now your siblings can have a warm meal too,” he said, handing the bag to Emily. “Oh, sir, thank you! How can I ever repay you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You already have,” he smiled. “You’ve taught me a precious lesson—to always share and help others. That’s how we make the world a better place.” Emily left the café not only with a full belly, but with a heart full of hope. That ordinary Saturday in a little café on her way home had changed her life. Inspired by the waiter’s generosity, she always looked for ways to help others, passing along the lesson she’d learned: even a small act of kindness can make a world of difference.