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A Stranger at the Door Ben had been in love with Anna since their school days. He wrote her notes and did everything he could to get her attention. But Anna liked David, the tall, blond volleyball player on her team. She never noticed awkward Ben, who wasn’t great at his studies either. Soon, David started dating Helen, a girl from the class next door. After graduation, Ben tried to win Anna’s attention again. He even proposed to her at the school prom… But Anna quickly replied “No!” She didn’t even want to think about him. After university, Anna became an accountant. Her boss was a handsome brunet, ten years her senior. Anna admired his professionalism, striking looks, and intelligence. They developed feelings for each other, and Anna didn’t mind that her chosen one was married with a young son. Mr. Eric promised to get a divorce and swore he loved only Anna. Years went by. Anna got used to spending weekends and holidays alone, always waiting for her lover to keep his word so they could finally be together. One day, Anna saw Eric with his wife at the supermarket. She was pregnant, and he held her hand with care. Then he picked up the shopping bags, and they walked out together. Anna watched the scene with tears in her eyes. The next day, she quit her job… New Year’s was approaching. Anna had no desire to shop for food, decorate her home, or celebrate. One day, she came home and found the house cold—the boiler had broken. Anna lived in a detached house. She tried calling a repairman, but with the holidays approaching, everyone wanted huge fees, especially when they found out she lived on the outskirts of town. Feeling hopeless, Anna called her friend. Her friend’s husband worked in this area and might be able to help. Larissa promised to ring her husband straight away. A couple of hours later, Anna heard the doorbell ring. Standing on the doorstep was a stranger… but when she looked closely, she recognised him. It was Ben, her classmate. “Hey Anna, so what’s happened here?” “What… how did you know?” “My boss called and said to head to this address because you’re freezing. Did you drain your radiators so the pipes wouldn’t freeze?” “No, and I don’t even know how.” “Blimey, you could’ve been left with no heating at all. Good job it’s not freezing outside.” Ben quickly drained the system, tinkered with the boiler, and then left. An hour later, he returned with the necessary parts. Soon the house was warm again. Ben washed his hands and then asked, “Anna, your tap’s leaking and the light’s flickering… Can’t your husband fix it?” “I don’t have a husband…” “Oh? Still looking for Mr Right?” “There’s no such thing… I haven’t got anyone,” Anna suddenly admitted. “Then why did you turn me down?” Ben smiled. She didn’t reply… After fixing the tap and changing the bulb, Ben headed home. Anna found herself thinking about her childhood, her youth, and the chubby boy who had once adored her. Ben had changed, becoming a tall, fit man with deep brown eyes. But his smile was just the same. She hadn’t even asked if he was married. Then, on December 31st, someone rang the doorbell. Surprised, Anna went to answer—she wasn’t expecting visitors. Ben was on the doorstep, wearing a new suit and holding a bouquet. “Anna! I’ll ask you again—will you marry me, or wait for Prince Charming until you’re old and grey?” Anna burst into tears and nodded joyfully. On the second try, the proposal was accepted… A Stranger at the Door

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There was a stranger at the door.

James had been in love with Emily since they were in secondary school. He used to write her little notes and do anything he could to get her attention.

But Emily fancied Daniel, the tall, blond lad who was on her volleyball team.

She never paid any notice to awkward little James, who also struggled with his studies.

Not long after, Daniel started going out with Sophie, a girl from another class.

When they finished school, James tried again to catch Emilys eye.

He even proposed to her at the leavers party

But she immediately said, No! She didnt even want to think about him.

After university, Emily got a job as an accountant. Her boss was an attractive dark-haired man, over ten years older than her.

Emily admired his professionalism, his striking appearance, and intellect.

A romance blossomed, and Emily wasnt put off by the fact that he was married and had a small son.

Richard promised he would leave his wife and swore he only loved Emily.

Years passed, and she grew used to spending weekends and holidays on her own. She kept waiting for the day her lover would separate from his wife and they could be together.

One day, Emily spotted Richard with his wife in the supermarket.

His wife was expecting, and he was tenderly holding her by the hand. Then he took the shopping bags, and together they went to their car.

Emily watched this domestic bliss through tears.

The next day, she resigned from her job

New Years Eve was drawing near, but she had no heart to buy food, decorate the house, or celebrate.

Returning home one day, she found the house was freezing cold. It turned out the boiler had packed in. Emily lived in a detached house.

She tried calling a professional to fix it, but just before the holidays everyone wanted a hefty sum, especially once they realised it was out on the edge of town.

She grew desperate and called her friend Laurawhose husband worked in that trade, hoping he might help.

Laura promised to ring her husband right away.

A couple of hours later, Emily heard someone at the door.

A stranger was standing there, but when she looked closer, she recognised himit was James, her old classmate.

Hello, Emily. So, whats gone wrong here?

Oh How did you know?

My boss called, said to pop over to this address, its freezing here. Have you drained the system so the pipes dont burst?

No I dont even know how.

Youll be in trouble if you dont, you know. Good thing its not too cold out.

James quickly drained the system, tinkered with the boiler, and then left.

An hour later, he came back with the parts he needed.

Soon, the house was warm again. James washed his hands, then asked, Emily, your taps leaking and the light bulbs flickering Cant your husband fix them?

I havent got a husband

Whys that? Waiting for the perfect man?

Hardly Theres no one, she admitted suddenly.

So why did you turn me down, then? James smiled.

She didnt answer.

Once hed fixed the tap and changed the bulb, James headed home.

But Emily was left thinking about her childhood, her teenage years, the chubby boy whod always been in love with her.

James had changed a lot, grown into a tall, slender man with brown eyes, though his smile was just the same.

She hadnt even thought to ask if he was married.

Then, on the 31st of December, someone rang the bell again.

Emily opened the door, surprisedshe wasnt expecting visitors.

Standing there was James, smartly dressed in a new suit, holding a bouquet of flowers.

Emily! Ill ask you once more. Will you marry me, or are you going to wait for a prince until youre drawing your pension?

She started crying and nodded happily.

On his second try, she finally said yes.

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The Caretaker for the Widower A month ago, she was hired to care for Regina White—bedridden after a stroke. Thirty days she tended to her every need, turning her, changing sheets, monitoring IVs. Three days ago, Regina passed away quietly in her sleep. Doctors declared it a second stroke. No one to blame. No one—except the nurse. At least, that’s what the daughter believed. Zina brushed a thin white scar on her wrist—a burn mark from her first job at the local clinic. Fifteen years ago, she was young and careless; now, she was near forty, divorced, her son with her ex-husband. And with a reputation that was about to be ruined. “You dare come here?” Christina seemed to appear out of nowhere. Hair pulled so tight her temples paled, eyes red from sleeplessness—she looked far older than her twenty-five years. “I wanted to pay my respects,” Zina replied calmly. “Pay respects?” Christina hissed. “I know what you did. Everyone will know.” Christina stalked off—toward the coffin, toward her stone-faced father with his right hand in his jacket pocket. Zina didn’t follow. She didn’t explain. She’d realised already: no matter what, she’d be made the villain. Christina’s post appeared two days later. “My mum’s death is shrouded in mystery. The nurse who was supposed to look after her may have hurried her on. Police refuse to investigate. But I will find justice.” Three thousand shares. Comments mostly sympathetic. A few screaming, “Find that monster.” Zina read it on her bus ride home from the GP clinic—or rather, from her now-former side job. “Zinaida Palmer, you understand…” the head GP didn’t meet her eye. “This has caused a stir… Patients are worried. Staff are anxious. Temporarily—until things settle.” Temporarily. Zina knew that meant never. Her tiny flat—one room, a kitchenette, three floors up, no lift—greeted her with silence. All that was left after divorce: twenty-eight square metres, just enough to survive, not to live. Her phone rang as she filled the kettle. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias White.” She nearly dropped the kettle. She remembered his low, hoarse voice—during that month caring for Regina, he seldom spoke, but when he did, she remembered. “Yes?” “I need your help. Regina’s… things. I can’t. Christina least of all. You’re the only one who knows where everything is.” After a pause, Zina said, “Your daughter accuses me of murder. You know this?” A long, heavy silence. “I know.” “And you’re still calling?” “I’m still calling.” She should have refused—any sensible person would have. But something in his voice—less a request, more a plea—made her say: “I’ll be there at two tomorrow.” The White family home stood outside town—two stories, spacious, echoing with emptiness. Zina remembered it differently, full of bustle, beeping machines, nurses. Now, silence covered every surface like dust. Elias answered himself. Nearly fifty, grey at the temples, broad-shouldered—now hunched. Right hand in pocket, she noticed something metallic outlined beneath the fabric. A key? “Thank you for coming.” “I’m not doing it for you.” He arched an eyebrow. “Then for whom?” For herself, she thought. To understand: why the silence? Why not defend her when he knew she was innocent? Aloud, she said, “For order. Where are the keys to her room?” Regina’s room smelled of lily-of-the-valley—sweet and suffocating. Perfume. The scent lingered, soaked into the walls. Zina worked methodically: sorting cupboards, packing clothes in boxes, organising paperwork. Elias stayed downstairs—she heard his footsteps, pacing corner to corner. On the bedside table: a photo. Zina reached to pack it—and froze. Elias, young, about twenty-five; next to him, a woman. Fair-haired, smiling—not Regina. Zina turned it over. “Eli and Laura. 1998,” the faded inscription read. Strange. Why did Regina keep her husband’s photo with another woman by her bed? She placed it in her bag and kept working. Kneeling near the bed, her hand brushed something wooden. A small box. No lock. She pulled it out; the lid flipped open. Inside—envelopes. Dozens, stacked neatly, all in a woman’s rounded hand. All opened and re-sealed with care. The top: “Elias Andrew White.” Sender: “L. V. Melnyk, Leeds.” Date: November 2024, last month. She rifled through—the oldest dated 2004. Twenty years. For two decades someone wrote to Elias—Regina intercepted the letters. And kept them. Not thrown away, but preserved. Why? Zina sniffed an envelope—the same lily-of-the-valley scent. Regina had handled them, read and re-read, the creases worn. She left the box on the bed and sat, hands trembling. This changed everything. “Mr. White.” He looked up from the kitchen table, untouched mug before him, gardens and terraces blurred beyond the window. “All done?” “No.” She put an envelope before him. “Who is Larissa Melnyk?” His face transformed—not pale but stone. His hand tightened in his pocket. “Where did you find this?” “Box under the bed. Hundreds. Twenty years’ worth. All opened and resealed by your wife.” He was silent a long, unbearable moment. Then rose, turned to the window, back to her. “You knew?” Zina asked. “Found out three days ago. After the funeral, sorting her things… Thought I could manage. Found the box.” “And you say nothing?” “What am I supposed to say?” He spun toward her. “My wife stole my post for twenty years. Stole letters from the woman I loved before her. “Kept them—as trophies, or punishment, I don’t know. And now am I supposed to—what—tell my daughter? She worshipped her mother.” Zina stood. “Your daughter accuses me of killing your wife. I lost my job. My name is being dragged through the mud online. And you stay silent—afraid of the truth?” He stepped closer, eyes dark, drained. “I stay silent because I don’t know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zinaida. For twenty years Larissa wrote—I thought she’d forgotten me, moved on, had children. But she…” He couldn’t finish. Zina raised the envelope. “Return address—Leeds. I’ll go.” “Why?” “Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.” Larissa Melnyk lived in a ground-floor flat at the edge of Leeds—windows lined with geraniums, a cat on the sill. Zina rang the bell uncertainly. A woman of Elias’ age opened. Blonde hair in a loose bun, crow’s feet at her eyes, cautious but not hostile. “You’re Larissa Valerie Melnyk?” “Yes. And you are?” Zina held out the envelope. “I found your letters. Every one. Opened, read, hidden away.” Larissa looked at it as if it might bite, then met Zina’s eyes. “Come in.” They sat in a cramped kitchen, tea cooling in mugs. “I wrote for twenty years,” Larissa said. “Every month. Sometimes more. No reply. I thought—he hated me. For letting him go.” “Letting him go?” She gripped her mug. “We were together three years. From university. He wanted to marry. I… I was scared—just twenty-two, life ahead, why rush?” “I said wait. He waited. Six months. Then she came—Regina. Beautiful, certain, knowing exactly what she wanted. And I…lost.” Zina said nothing. “When they married, I moved to Leeds. Thought I’d forget. I didn’t. After five years, I started writing. Not to win him back—just so he’d know. That I existed. That I still thought of him. “And he never replied.” “Never,” Larissa gave a bitter smile. “Now I know why.” Zina produced the photo. “This was on her bedside table. ‘Eli & Lara, 1998’.” Larissa’s fingers shook as she took it. “She kept this… by her bed?” “Yes.” Silence. “You know,” Larissa said softly, “I hated her, my whole life. The woman who stole my love. But now… now I pity her. “Twenty-five years with a man, always fearing he’d remember another. Reading my letters, hiding them. That’s hell—her own, self-made hell.” Zina stood up. “Thank you for telling me.” “Why are you doing this?” Larissa asked, rising. “You’re not family or a friend.” Zina stalled. “I’m blamed for her death. Elias’s daughter… she thinks I wanted her place.” “And you want to prove your innocence?” Zina shook her head. “I want to understand the truth. The rest will follow.” Zina called Elias on the way back—said she was returning. He waited on the porch, dusk painting the grass in long streaks. “You were right,” she told him as she approached. “Larissa wrote for twenty years. She never married. She waited.” He didn’t answer. His hand in his pocket tightened, relaxed. “There’s something in your safe,” she said. “You keep touching the key—as if you fear it’ll disappear.” Pause. “Come.” The safe was in the study, the old sort from the Thatcher days. Elias unlocked it and retrieved an envelope—the handwriting, harsh and jagged, Regina’s. “She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral papers.” Zina took it. Inside—a page covered in cramped writing. “Elias, if you’re reading this, I’m gone, and you’ve found the box. I always knew you would, someday. I knew—and still couldn’t stop. I began stealing her letters in 2004. Five years after our wedding. You grew distant, silent. I thought you stopped loving me. Then I found her first letter in the mailbox. And I knew. She never let you go. I should have shown you the letter. Should have asked. But I was afraid—afraid you’d leave, choose her. So I hid it. Then the next one. And the next. For twenty years, I stole your post. Twenty years I read someone else’s love for you. Hated myself daily. But I couldn’t stop. I loved you so much, I destroyed everything—your chance to choose, her hope, my own conscience. Forgive me, if you can. I know I don’t deserve it. But I ask anyway. Regina.” Zina let the letter drop. “Does Christina know?” “No.” “She should. You know that?” Elias turned away. “She adored her mother. This will ruin her.” “She already is,” Zina said softly. “She lost her mum and fears she’ll lose you. So she blames me. She needs a villain; otherwise, she’d have to face her own grief, and that’s something you can’t fight.” Elias was silent. “If you tell her the truth—she might hate you, for a while. But later she’ll understand. If you lie—she’ll never forgive you. Not you. Not herself.” He turned, eyes wet. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Since Regina fell ill… we stopped speaking.” “Then you’ll learn. Today.” Christina arrived an hour later. Zina saw her from the window—getting out, retying her ponytail, freezing as she saw her father on the porch. They talked for ages. Zina heard only voices, not words. At first Christina yelled, then cried, then fell silent. The door finally opened. Christina emerged, Regina’s letter in hand, face blotchy with tears, but her eyes—changed, not angry but lost. She approached Zina, who braced for accusations. “I deleted the post,” she said. “And posted a correction. And… I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Zina nodded. “I understand. Grief makes people cruel.” Christina shook her head. “Not grief—fear. I was terrified of ending up alone. Mum left. Dad changed. You were there. You saw her final days. You knew her differently. I thought—you meant to take her place. To steal Dad. “I don’t want to steal anything.” “I know. I do now.” Christina reached out, awkward as if she’d forgotten how. Zina shook her hand. “Mum… was she unhappy? All her life?” Zina thought of the letter—of twenty years of fear and jealousy, of love turned prison. “She loved your dad. In her own way. Wrong, maybe. But she did.” Christina nodded, then sat on the porch steps and wept, quietly, soundlessly. Zina sat beside her. Not hugging—just present. Two weeks passed. Zina was reinstated at work—after Christina personally phoned the head GP. Reputation is fragile, but sometimes, you can piece it back together. Elias called that night—like the first time. “Zinaida Palmer. Thank you.” “For what?” “For the truth. For not letting me hide.” Pause. “I’m going to Leeds,” he said. “Tomorrow. To see Larissa. Don’t know what I’ll say or if she’ll see me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long to be silent.” Zina smiled—he couldn’t see, but perhaps he heard. “Good luck, Elias.” “Elias. Just Elias.” A month later, he returned—with company. Zina discovered by chance; saw them at the local market. Elias carrying shopping bags, Larissa picking tomatoes. An ordinary scene—just two people shopping. But there was a lightness, a synchronicity—more than routine. Elias noticed her, raised a hand—his right hand, no longer hidden. Zina waved back and went on her way. That evening, she opened her window. May carried the scent of lilac and petrol from the road—a familiar, living smell. She thought of Regina—her lilies of the valley, her secret box of letters, a love that became a prison. Of Larissa—twenty years of waiting, unanswered letters, faith undimmed. Of Elias—his silence, the key in his pocket, the man who finally chose. And then she stopped thinking. She simply sat by the window, listened to the city, and waited—not quite knowing for what. Her phone rang. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias. Just Elias. We’re having dinner here tonight. Larissa’s making pie. Care to join us?” Zina looked round her flat—twenty-eight square metres of quiet. At the open window. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up, grabbed her keys, and left. The door softly clicked behind her. Above the city, the sunset glowed gold and warm—a promise of a gentle tomorrow…
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The Rented Bride: When Her Wedding Is Cancelled, Polina’s Shocking Decision Leads Her from Heartbreak and London Dreams to Love, Intrigue, and Unexpected Family in an English Country Home
02
When Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to Our Housewarming Feast, I Closed the Fridge Door “Are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder is enough, Steve? Last time they devoured everything, even mopping up the bread with sauce. And Lucy asked for a takeaway ‘for the dog,’ then posted a photo of my roast on Instagram like it was her own masterpiece.” Julia anxiously fiddled with the kitchen towel, surveying the war zone her kitchen had become. It was only midday and she was already shattered. Up at six: a trip to the farmers’ market for the freshest meat, then the supermarket for premium booze and nibbles, followed by endless slicing, boiling, and roasting. Her husband Steve was peeling potatoes at the sink, his silent aggravation mounting along with the pile of peels, though he tried not to show it. “Jules, it’s half a kilo of meat each for four guests—and us. That’s plenty. You’re going all out: red caviar, smoked salmon, salad bowls the size of bathtubs. We’re not throwing a wedding—just finally celebrating our move! Late, but still.” “You don’t understand,” Julia said, stirring a thick sauce. “It’s Sarah and Mark, and Lisa and Tom—our oldest friends. We haven’t seen them in years, and they’re coming all the way from another side of town. I’d die if the table looked meagre. People would think we’ve gotten snobby since buying this flat and started scrimping.” Julia was always this way. It was in her bones, inherited from her gran, who could rustle up a feast from nothing. For her, an empty table was a personal insult. If you’re having guests—host a banquet! If it’s a party—the table should be groaning under the weight. She’d spent a week planning the menu, hunting recipes, squirreling away cash for the posh cognac Mark liked, and that fancy French wine Sarah always preferred. “Would be nice if they brought something for once,” Steve grumbled. “Last time at Tom’s birthday, we brought a nice gift, our own booze, and you baked a cake. And them? Remember just popping by their place? Builder’s tea and stale digestives.” “Oh, don’t be petty, Steve,” Julia chided gently. “They had a tough time then—mortgage and renovations. Things are fine for them now. Mark just got promoted, Lisa’s got a new fur coat. Maybe they’ll actually bring something. Cake or fruit? I hinted to Sarah that dessert should be theirs, so I didn’t bother making one.” By five the place sparkled and the dining room table looked like the window of an upscale food hall. Centre stage: gleaming homemade terrine, circled by dishes of prawn cocktail, luxury Olivier salad (with real roast beef and crayfish, not cheap ham!), and a spread of home-cured meats. That famous pork shoulder was slow-roasting in the oven with country potatoes and mushrooms. In the fridge: a bottle of “Finlandia” vodka, expensive cognac, and three bottles of wine chilling. Julia, exhausted but content, donned her best dress, fixed her hair, and waited for the doorbell. “I’m nervous,” she admitted to Steve. “First gathering in the new flat—I want everything to be perfect.” The bell rang—five o’clock, on the dot. Punctual, as ever. Julia opened the door to a lively crowd. Sarah in that infamous new mink, Mark in a designer leather jacket, Lisa loud with makeup, Tom already somewhat tipsy. “Congrats, homeowners!” Sarah whooped, bursting inside in a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume. “Show us the palace!” They bustled in, flinging coats at Steve, who scrambled to hang them up. Julia smiled, eyeing their hands—completely empty. No gift bag. No cake box. Not even a token bottle of wine or a bar of chocolate. “Where’s—” Julia started, but bit her lip. Maybe something was waiting in the car? Hidden in a pocket? “Wow, Jules, you’ve lost weight!” Lisa kissed her on the cheek, wandered in without removing her shoes, then eyed the living room critically. “Decor’s, well… a bit basic, but clean. Paintable wallpaper? Gosh, makes it look like my office. Should’ve gone with silk finish!” “We like minimalism,” Steve said diplomatically. “Table’s ready—come through.” They paraded into the lounge. Mark’s eyes lit up. “Wow, what a spread!” he grinned mischievously. “Julia, you are a legend. Knew we’d be fed right. We’ve starved ourselves all day for your roast!” Everyone took a seat. Julia dashed off to fetch hot starters. In her mind, one thought whirred: Maybe they’re giving us money? In a card? That’s why their hands are empty? Returning with the tray, she found her guests already elbows-deep in salads, not even holding back for a toast. “Mmm, top-notch salad!” Tom smacked his lips. “Steve, let’s get the glasses filled—thirsty work, this.” Steve poured vodka for the men, wine for the women. “To the new flat!” Mark toasted. “May your walls stay up, your neighbours behave. Cheers!” He downed his shot, used his sleeve as a napkin (never mind the linen ones provided), and stabbed at the smoked salmon. “Oi, Jules,” he added through a mouthful, “vodka’s a bit warm—should’ve stuck it in the freezer.” “It’s from the fridge, Mark—five degrees, just as it should be,” Julia replied, already seething inside. “Come off it—it should be ice cold! Never mind, it’ll do. Got any cognac? Fancy a chaser.” “I do,” Julia replied. “But maybe eat first?” “One doesn’t stop the other!” Tom guffawed. They got stuck in with gusto, food vanishing at an alarming rate. They ate as if they’d spent the week surviving on water and dry toast. And the critique kept coming. “This fish pie’s a bit dry,” Sarah sniffed, piling her third helping. “Skimped on mayo, or what?” “I made it myself, so it’s not as fatty,” Julia explained. “Oh, why bother! Buy a tub from the shop. Brilliant, quick, job done! And this caviar’s tiny—pink salmon? Should’ve gone for king.” Julia exchanged a look with Steve, whose knuckles were white around his fork. “So, tell us your news,” Steve tried. “Sarah, didn’t you just get back from Dubai?” “Oh, it was a dream!” Sarah gushed. “Five-star hotel, all you can eat, mountains of lobster, rivers of Champagne. I bought a real Louis Vuitton—two grand! Mark moaned, but hey—you only live once.” “Women, eh? Spend and spend,” Mark agreed, helping himself to more cognac. “I’m about to buy a new car. Saving up. We don’t waste money on things like renovations.” “What do you mean, ‘waste’?” Julia blinked. “Well, walls are walls, aren’t they?” Lisa explained. “We moved in ten years ago, never redecorated—just keep it all granny-style. But we go abroad every year, have proper meals out, wear branded gear. You lot, always obsessed with concrete. Boring lives.” “Talking of restaurants,” Tom interrupted, wiping greasy lips on a napkin and tossing it onto the tablecloth, “we went to The Ivy last night—amazing! The bill was a whopper, but worth it. Not like home cooking. Jules, will the roast be much longer? Salads don’t count as proper food!” Julia stood to clear plates, shaking inside. They boasted of designer bags and thousand-pound dinners, but arrived at her door empty-handed—not even a potted plant or a Dairy Milk. She retreated to the kitchen. Sarah slipped in behind, feigning helpfulness, really after a gossip. “Jules, you’ve outdone yourself…” she whispered. “But I can tell you’re a bit… stretched. This wine’s a bit average, isn’t it? Only have stuff like this at barbecues. Could’ve got something better for your guests.” “It’s French, twenty quid a bottle,” Julia said through gritted teeth, stacking the dishwasher. “Twenty?! You were robbed! Sour as vinegar. Listen—have you got some food for us to take home? Hangover city tomorrow, can’t be bothered to cook. Cold meat, salads—whatever. There’s so much, no way you’ll finish it before it goes off.” Julia froze, a plate in her hand. Slowly, she turned to Sarah. “You want me to pack you a doggy bag?” “Yeah, why not? Everyone does that—it’s budget-friendly! By the way—is there pudding? Kinda fancy something sweet. Did you bake a cake?” “You were bringing dessert, remember?” Julia reminded her quietly. “Me?! I never said that! I’m on a diet—don’t buy treats. Thought you’d make your Napoleon, you’re the pro. Or at least buy something decent. We came empty-handed ‘cos we reckoned you’d have everything. You’re loaded now—with a flat and all.” Julia set the plate down, the clink sharp as a gunshot. “So you thought we have everything. That we’re flush with cash.” “Of course! You’ve got a mortgage, fancy place—must be rolling in it. We’re the poor relations, saving for the Maldives. Anyway, hurry up with that roast—the men are banging cutlery for it.” Julia recalled lending Sarah money for a “last-minute holiday,” only to wait months for repayment (no thanks ever). How Steve had helped Mark move flat, putting in petrol—and how the hospitality was never returned. They’d come to every celebration, eating her out of house and home, but hosted rarely—in which case you’d get supermarket sausage rolls. She glanced at the oven—her masterpiece roast, golden and fragrant, half a day’s labour. At the fridge—the mammoth berry meringue cake, five times the price of a supermarket dessert. She closed the oven; switched off the gas. Walked over to the fridge and pressed the door shut. “There’ll be no roast,” she said loudly. “What? Burned it, did you?!” Sarah gawked. “No. It’s perfect. But you’re not having any.” Julia strode into the lounge. The men were pouring another round, debating politics. Steve looked utterly miserable. “Dear guests,” Julia announced, voice steely, “the party is over.” Everyone fell silent. Mark paused mid-toast. “What do you mean?” he asked. “We haven’t even had the main! You promised roast!” “I did,” Julia nodded. “But I’ve changed my mind.” “How’s that?” Lisa blustered. “We’re starving! Salads are just garnish—bring the meat!” “The roast is in the oven, and there it will stay. Now, kindly gather your things and see yourselves either home or to The Ivy—where you can spend a fortune and be properly fed.” “You pissed?” Tom bellowed. “Steve, sort your wife out! We’re your guests!” Steve slowly stood, glanced first at Julia, then at their “friends.” He saw the trembling in his wife, the unshed tears. And he understood. “She isn’t drunk,” Steve said firmly. “She’s just had enough. You came to our home empty-handed, drank my cognac, trashed Julia’s cooking, called our wine vinegar, and our home an office. And now, you demand more?” “Oh, we were joking!” blurted Sarah. “Just forgot the cake, that’s all! But at least we brought the party!” “Partying at our expense?” Julia retorted. “No, thanks. I stood at the stove for hours. Spent half my salary on this meal. I wanted you to feel special. But you… You’re leeches. Freeloaders. Swanning around Dubai—but can’t be bothered with a £2 bar of chocolate.” “So that’s how it is? Choking on your roast, are you?” Mark snapped, upending a chair. “Come on, let’s get out of this miserly dump! I’ll never set foot here again!” “Off you go,” Steve said, opening the door wide. “Don’t forget your empty Tupperwares.” They thundered out, cursing and moaning. Sarah shrieked that she’d never speak to Julia again; Lisa griped about a ruined evening; the men swore all the way down the stairs. As the door clicked shut, silence settled on the battered table—wine stains, crumpled napkins, messy plates. Steve slipped his arm round Julia’s shoulders. “You alright?” he whispered. “My hands are shaking,” she admitted. “Am I really a miser? Should I have just fed them and kept quiet?” “You’re not stingy. You finally started respecting yourself. I’m proud of you. Honestly, I’d have kicked them out myself, if you hadn’t. They crossed a line, Jules.” She sighed, relaxing into him. “And the roast?” Steve ventured, eyes twinkling. “Because it smells so good I could eat right now…” Julia laughed—truly, for the first time all evening. “It’s ready. And the cake’s here too—huge, with berries.” They sat down, pushed aside dirty dishes, and served themselves: slow-roasted pork, luscious cake, that ‘sour’ Bordeaux wine. “To us,” Steve said, raising his glass. “And to our home—may it welcome only those who come with open hearts, not empty hands.” That meal, in the quiet, was the best of their lives. An hour later, Julia’s phone buzzed—Sarah, from McDonald’s: “Enjoy your roast, you miserable cow! We’re choking down burgers thanks to you. You should be ashamed!” Julia smiled, pressed “block,” then did the same for Lisa, Mark, and Tom. Her contact list was four names shorter. But her world felt lighter—and her fridge was full of good food, now destined only for those who truly deserved it. This story reminds us: friendship is a two-way street, and sometimes a closed fridge door is the best way to preserve your own self-respect.
04
A Good Woman – What Would We Do Without Her? “You Only Pay Her Two Thousand a Month!” “Elena, We Put the Flat in Her Name…” Nikolai struggled out of bed and shuffled slowly into the next room. In the glow of the nightlight, he squinted at his wife, listening for her breath. “Seems fine,” he sighed, then wandered into the kitchen and downed some kefir, stopped by the bathroom, then returned to his lonely room. Sleep wouldn’t come. “We’re both ninety now, Elena and me. How long have we lived? Soon we’ll meet our maker, and there’s no one left beside us.” Their daughters gone—Natalie, not even sixty, and Max had long since passed, living too fast. Their granddaughter Oksana lived in Poland for twenty years now, likely with grown children of her own. She never mentioned her grandparents. He didn’t remember falling asleep. A gentle touch woke him. “Nikolai, are you okay?” Elena peered down, worry etched on her face. “I thought you’d stopped moving.” “Still alive! Go to bed!” She shuffled off, the light flicking on in the kitchen. A sip of water, a stop in the bathroom, and then she climbed back into her bed. “Someday I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. Or maybe I’ll be first.” Nikolai even organized their own funerals, who else would do it? Oksana had forgotten them; only their neighbour Ivanka visited, holding the spare flat key. She got a thousand each from their pensions, handled all the groceries. At ninety, climbing even a few steps was impossible. In the morning, sunlight peeked through. Nikolai smiled at the cherry tree’s green crown from the balcony. “We made it to summer!” He guided Elena onto the balcony. “See? The tree’s green. You said we wouldn’t make it, but here we are.” They recalled their youth—first dates, school days, memories that never fade. Ivanka dropped by, smiling at their banter. “What could ninety-year-olds possibly need?” Nikolai joked. “If you’re still joking, things aren’t so bad! What should I get you?” “Chicken for soup?” “Alright, I’ll make noodle soup.” After breakfast, Nikolai suggested more balcony sunshine. Elena agreed and Ivanka promised to bring porridge and start lunch. “What would we do without her?” Elena sighed. “And you only pay her two thousand a month.” “We did leave her the flat,” said Nikolai. “She doesn’t know that,” Elena replied. They ate chicken soup, just as Elena used to make for their children, Natalie and Max. “Now strangers cook for us,” Nikolai sighed. “Seems that’s our fate.” “Enough, Elena. Let’s nap a bit!” “Whoever said the elderly are just like children was right,” she joked as they settled in: mashed soup, naps, afternoon tea. Nikolai woke restless, weather on his mind. On the kitchen table: two glasses of juice, kindly left by Ivanka. He carried them carefully to Elena, who was lost in thought. “Cheer up, have some juice!” Neither could sleep. “I don’t feel right,” Elena admitted. “Promise you’ll give me a good send-off.” “Don’t talk like that. How could I live without you?” “One of us will go first.” “Enough! Let’s go to the balcony!” In the evening Ivanka brought cheese pancakes. After TV, Elena stood up. “I’m tired, I’ll go to bed.” “Let me walk you.” She took a long look at her husband. “Why do you look at me like that?” “Just because.” Memories flooded back. He tucked her in, headed to his own room. Troubled, he couldn’t sleep. In the night, he checked on Elena—she lay with open eyes. “Elena!” He took her hand. “Elena, what’s wrong? Elena!” Suddenly, he too struggled to breathe. He gathered important papers, returned to Elena, and lay beside her, drifting to dreams of youth and light. In the morning Ivanka found them lying peacefully, smiles frozen on their faces. She called the ambulance. The doctor shook his head in awe. “They passed together. Must have loved each other deeply…” They were taken away. Ivanka slumped into a chair, then saw the paperwork—a will in her name. She wept, her head in her hands. Like and leave your thoughts in the comments!
04
I Grew Up Trying Not to Disappoint My Mum – and Without Realising, I Started to Lose My Marriage My mother always seemed to know best. Even as a child, I learned to read her moods by her voice, the way she closed a door, the hush in our home. If she was happy, everything felt right. If not, I’d clearly done something wrong. “I don’t ask for much,” she would say, “just don’t let me down.” That “just” weighed heavier than any rule. When I became an adult and got married, I thought my life was finally my own. My husband was calm and patient, someone who avoided arguments. At first, my mum liked him. Then she began to have opinions about everything: “Why are you home so late?” “Don’t you think you’re working too much?” “He doesn’t help you enough.” At first, I laughed about it. I told my husband she was just worrying. Then I started making excuses for her. Then, I started accommodating her. Without realising, I was living with two voices in my head. One quiet, reasonable, wanting closeness – my husband’s. The other, my mother’s, always certain, always demanding. When my husband wanted us to go away alone, my mother suddenly became unwell. When we had plans, she needed me. When he told me he missed me, I’d say, “Please understand, I can’t leave her.” And he understood. For a long time. Until, one night, he said something that unsettled me more than any argument: “I feel like there are three of us in this marriage, and I’m the third.” I lashed out. I defended her. I defended myself. I said he was exaggerating, it wasn’t fair to make me choose. But the truth was, I had already chosen. I just hadn’t admitted it. We stopped talking. We fell asleep back to back. We spoke about chores, but never about us. And when we argued, somehow my mum always knew. “I told you,” she would repeat, “men are all like that.” And I believed her. Out of habit. Until I came home one day, and he was gone. He hadn’t left in anger – just his keys and a note: “I love you, but I can’t live with your mum between us.” I sat on the bed, not knowing who to call first – my mum or my husband. I phoned my mum. “Well, what did you expect?” she said. “I told you…” That’s when something in me broke. I realised I’d spent my whole life afraid of disappointing one person… and lost another who only wanted me by his side. I don’t blame my mother entirely. She loved me the way she knew how. But I was the one who failed to set boundaries. I was the one who confused duty with love. Now I’m learning something I should have learned long ago: Being a child doesn’t mean staying small forever. And a marriage can’t survive when there’s a third voice between you. Have you ever had to choose between not letting down a parent and saving your own family?
03
The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering—either from fear, or from the cold.
03
“I’m Ashamed to Take You to the Banquet,” Denis Didn’t Even Look Up From His Phone – “There Will Be People. Normal People.” Twelve Years of Marriage, Two Kids, and Now I’m Embarrassed: How Nadia Rediscovered Herself, Her Talent, and Her Dignity, While Her Husband Lost Everything He Never Valued
05
The Hardest Part of Living with a Puppy Isn’t What Most People Think: It’s Not Walks in the English Rain, Sleepless Nights, Giving Up Holidays, or the Endless Fur—It’s Realising One Day Their Boundless Love Will Fade, and Letting Go of the Dog Who Taught You to Love Unconditionally
02
A Stranger at the Door Ever since their school days, Matthew had been hopelessly in love with Anna—writing her sweet notes, doing anything to catch her eye. But Anna only had eyes for Dan, the tall blonde star of their school volleyball team. The awkward Matthew, with his struggles in class, didn’t stand a chance. Dan soon began dating Elaine, a girl from another class, and after graduation, Matthew tried again to win Anna’s heart—even proposing to her at the leavers’ prom. But she flatly turned him down, not wanting to entertain the thought. Years passed. Anna landed a job as an accountant, working for an attractive manager ten years her senior, James. She admired his charisma and intellect, not caring that he was married with a young son—he promised her he would leave his family, swearing she was his only love. Eventually Anna got used to spending holidays and weekends alone, waiting for James to keep his promises. One day, Anna spotted James tenderly shopping with his pregnant wife. Heartbroken, she handed in her notice. As New Year’s Eve approached, Anna couldn’t bring herself to celebrate—the house was cold, the boiler had failed, and every repairman wanted a fortune to travel out to her home in the suburbs. In desperation, she called her friend Laura, whose husband worked as a heating engineer. Laura promised to send help. Two hours later, the doorbell rang. A stranger stood on the doorstep, but as Anna looked closer, she recognised Matthew, her classmate from years ago. He quickly set about draining the system, fixing the issue, and returned later with replacement parts. Soon, Anna’s house was warm again. Noticing a leaky tap and flickering bulb, Matthew asked with a grin why her husband hadn’t fixed them—only to learn that Anna was single. “Still waiting for Mr. Perfect?” he teased, reminding her of his long-ago proposal. With the repairs finished, he headed home. On New Year’s Eve, a surprise knock at the door brought Matthew back, smartly dressed with a bouquet of flowers in hand. “Anna, I’ll ask you once more—will you marry me, or wait for Prince Charming until you’re eighty?” Anna burst into tears and nodded happily. His proposal was accepted on the second try, finally bringing their story full circle.
05
Two Pink Lines on a Test Became Her Ticket to a Fresh Start—And Plunged Her Best Friend Into Heartbreak. She Married to the Cheers of Betrayers, But the True Ending Was Written by the One Everyone Thought Just a Foolish Pawn
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THE LAST LOVE “Irochka, I really have no money! I gave my last bit to Natasha just yesterday! You know she’s got two kids!” Utterly distressed, Anna Foster put down the phone. She would rather not recall what her daughter had just said to her. “How did it come to this? I raised three children with my husband, tried to give them everything. Got them all through university, well-settled in good jobs. Yet now, in my old age, I have neither peace nor help.” “Oh, Frank, why did you leave me so soon? It was all easier with you,” Anna thought wistfully of her late husband. Her heart seized painfully; her hand instinctively reached for her medicine: “Just one or two pills left. If things get worse, I won’t have anything to help myself. I should get to the chemist.” Anna tried to stand, but dropped straight back into her chair; her head spinning violently. “It’s fine, the tablet will kick in soon, and I’ll feel better.” But as time passed, she wasn’t feeling any better at all. Anna dialled her younger daughter. “Natasha…” – she barely managed to say. “Mum, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you later!” Anna tried her son. “Charlie, I’m not feeling well. I’m out of my medicine. Could you maybe after work…” – but her son didn’t let her finish. “Mum, I’m not a doctor, and neither are you! Call an ambulance, don’t wait!” Anna sighed heavily, “Well, he’s right, after all. If this doesn’t pass in half an hour, I’ll have to ring for an ambulance.” She carefully settled back in her chair and closed her eyes. Silently, to calm herself, she started counting to a hundred. A noise sounded distantly. What was that? Oh yes, the telephone! “Hello!” Anna answered, her mouth barely moving. “Anna, it’s Peter! How are you? I felt uneasy and just needed to ring you!” “Peter, I’m not well.” “I’ll come now! Will you be able to open the door?” “It’s always open these days, Peter.” Anna let the phone slip from her hand. She didn’t have the strength to reach for it. “Well, let it be,” she thought. Memories from long ago flashed before her eyes, like a film; she was a first-year student at the London School of Economics. Two dashing young officers, somehow clutching balloons. “How silly!” Anna had thought back then, “Such grown men, with balloons!” Oh yes, it was the ninth of May! Victory Day, a parade, joyful crowds. And there she was with her own two balloons, between Peter and Frank. She’d chosen Frank, simply because he was braver, while Peter seemed more reserved, almost shy. Their destinies diverged: she left with Frank for a posting in the country, while Peter was sent off to Germany. They met again years later, back in their hometown, when both men had retired. Peter had lived alone, never marrying, no children. People asked why he’d never settled down… He’d just wave them off, joking, “I’ve no luck in love—maybe I should start playing cards!” Anna could now hear unfamiliar voices nearby, a conversation. With effort, she opened her eyes. “Peter!” Standing next to him was presumably the paramedic. “She’ll be all right soon. Are you her husband?” “Yes, yes!” The medic gave Peter some instructions. Peter never left Anna’s side, holding her hand until she finally began to feel better. “Thank you, Peter! I feel so much better already.” “Good. Here, have some tea with lemon!” Peter busied himself in the kitchen, fussing over Anna. Even as she improved, he was nervous to leave her alone. “You know, Annie, I’ve loved only you all my life. That’s why I never married anyone else.” “Oh, Peter, Frank and I had a good marriage. I respected him deeply. He loved me. You never said anything back in the day. I never really knew how you felt. Still, what good does it do to talk about it now—all that is in the past.” “Anna, how about we spend what time we have left happily, together? However much we’re granted, let us be happy!” Anna rested her head on Peter’s shoulder and took his hand. “Let’s do it!” she laughed joyfully. A week later, finally, her daughter Natasha called. “Mum, you called—what was up? Sorry, I got caught up and completely forgot to ring back—” “Oh, that’s all sorted now. Since you’ve called, I wanted to tell you myself so it won’t be a shock— I’m getting married!” Silence on the line, just the sound of Natasha gasping, searching for words. “Mum, are you alright? The registry office has probably marked you as a permanent absentee, and here you are talking about getting married? Who is this lucky gentleman?” Tears pricked Anna’s eyes, but she managed to steady her voice. “That’s my business.” She hung up. Turning to Peter, Anna said, “Well, that’s done. The children will all come storming round tonight, be ready for a battleground!” “We’ll manage! We’ve survived worse!” Peter chuckled. That evening, all three arrived together: Charlie, Irene, and Natasha. “Well then, Mum, introduce us to your Casanova!” Charlie sneered. “No need for introductions; you know me,” Peter said, coming out from the other room. “I’ve loved Anna since we were young, and after seeing her so unwell last week, I realised I couldn’t bear to lose her. I asked her to marry me, and she kindly accepted.” “Look, you overgrown clown, have you lost your mind? At your age, talking love?!” Irene shrieked. “What ‘age’ would that be, exactly?” Peter asked calmly. “We’re not even seventy. There’s plenty of life in us both, and your mother is still a beauty!” “I take it the plan is to snatch up her flat, is it?” Natasha inquired, all lawyerly bravado. “Children, for goodness’ sake, what’s the flat got to do with anything? You all have your own homes!” “Regardless, we all have a share in this flat!” Natasha shot back. “I don’t want anything! I’ve always managed for myself!” Peter replied. “And be respectful to your mum, will you? I won’t sit here listening to rudeness!” “And who are you to open your mouth, you aged playboy? Who asked for your opinion?” Charlie blustered. But Peter didn’t budge. Standing tall, he looked Charlie squarely in the eye. “I am your mother’s husband, whether you like it or not!” “And we’re her children!” Irene shouted. “Yes, and first thing tomorrow, we’ll have her sent to a care home or an institution!” Natasha echoed. “Oh, not on your life! Come, Annie, we’re leaving!” The two of them walked out, hand in hand, never once looking back. It didn’t matter to them what anyone thought—they were happy and free. A lone streetlamp lit their way. The children watched them leave, unable to fathom: what kind of love could possibly exist at seventy?
010
The Letter Dennis walked home from work, the snow crunching pleasantly under his boots, memories of childhood filling his mind—sliding down hills on his school bag, snowball fights, eating icicles, those golden days… Suddenly, he heard a child crying. Looking around, he spotted a boy in a brown coat and grey hat, sobbing loudly on a bench, tears streaming down his cheeks. Dennis approached him. “Are you lost? Why are you crying?” “I lost my letter… I was carrying it in my pocket, then looked—and it was gone,” the boy wailed again. “Don’t cry, let’s look for it together. What letter is it? Did your mum give you something to post?” “No, I wrote it… to Father Christmas. Mum doesn’t know…” “Oh dear… But don’t worry, you can always write another.” “But it won’t get there in time now…” “Tell you what, you run home—it’s getting dark—and I’ll look for your letter. Deal?” “Alright… If you find it, will you really post it?” “I promise! And don’t worry—Father Christmas always knows what children write to him. Even if I can’t find it, I’m sure he’ll still bring you something…” The boy wiped his face on his coat sleeve and ran off. Poor lad. He’d tried so hard, only for this to happen… Dennis smiled, remembering the days he’d find gifts under the Christmas tree, convinced Father Christmas had read his letters. That was so long ago… Soon his own son would be writing Christmas letters—though for now, at just four, he couldn’t write yet. Dennis walked on, peering carefully at the ground, but there was no sign of the letter. Poor kid, he must have been hoping for something… Then he spotted the corner of an envelope poking from a snowdrift. He pulled it free—it was the letter! The paper was wet, but carefully, Dennis tucked it into his bag to avoid tearing it. At home, his wife Valerie was making dinner, and little Max played with his toy cars. Dennis cherished his family, so happy to come back to their warm home. “Valerie, you’ll never believe this,” he began. “I was walking just now and saw a boy, about eight, sobbing his heart out on a bench. He lost his letter to Father Christmas. And I found it! Let’s take a look…” Dennis pulled the envelope from his pocket. In a child’s handwriting it read: To Father Christmas, from Alex Leonard. “Shall we open it and see what he’s wishing for?” “Let’s, it never would have made it past the post anyway…” Dennis gently opened the envelope and unfolded a squared exercise paper, reading aloud: “Dear Father Christmas! It’s Alex Leonard, living at 97 Churchill Road. I’m nine and in Year 4. I love playing football and running around with my friends. I live with Mum Vera and Granny Lydia. We just moved into a little old cottage, kindly lent to us by people who wanted to help. We used to live with Dad in another town, but he drank vodka and hit Mum—a lot, and sometimes me, too. Mum and Granny (who’s Dad’s mum) would always cry, and so would I. It was awful with Dad, so we ran away and brought Granny with us. Father Christmas, please help Mum find a new job. She cleans floors, but she really shouldn’t be bending—her back’s bad. And please, give her a new dress, hers is all torn now. Mum’s tall, slim and so beautiful! For Granny, please bring medicine for her knees—she struggles to walk, though she’s not very old. Granny always dreams of a warm thick dressing gown, she gets cold a lot. My gran’s tiny and thin. And for me… I just wish for a beautiful Christmas tree, with lights and colourful baubles. Mum always put one up before, and we celebrated—until Dad got too drunk and knocked it over… I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear Father Christmas. Alex Leonard” Dennis finished and glanced at Valerie, who had tears in her eyes. “Oh, how moving… That poor boy—ran from a drunken father, and now they’ve nothing left. What a truly lovely request, you hardly ever hear children wishing for gifts for Mum and Gran these days—except for a Christmas tree, he asked for nothing for himself…” “They’ve clearly suffered a lot… And she took her mother-in-law with her, didn’t leave her behind. Good people, I’d say. Valerie, what if we make Alex’s Christmas wish come true? What do you think?” “That would be wonderful, Dennis. You know I grew up in a family like that; my father would terrorise us when he was drunk… My mum never found the courage to leave, not till he died did we have any peace…” “My work’s looking for an admin staff, we could offer the job to Vera—decent pay and no floor cleaning,” said Dennis. “Let’s ask the Simmons for their Father Christmas and Snow Princess costumes, pay Alex a visit. Let him believe in miracles… Let’s give them a real Christmas! I’ll buy Nana’s arthritis tablets—same as Mum’s—and find a soft pink dressing gown and a new dress for Vera; she’s about my size I think, shouldn’t be expensive, it’s sale season with Christmas coming…” “We’ve got a bit of money, no reason not to do a good thing, right, Dennis?” “I’m with you! You’re such a kind soul, Val…” Dennis hugged his wife. What happiness, to share these thoughts and so much understanding. The next day, Valerie bought a simple but beautiful dark green dress, a soft pink dressing gown, Nana’s medicine, chocolates, satsumas, ornaments, and fairy lights. Dennis added a cheap but cheerful smartphone—surely Alex didn’t have one. They borrowed the costumes, bought a little Christmas tree, and loaded the gifts into a big red sack. Dennis and Valerie dressed up and set off for the address from the letter, while their son Max stayed with his granny. An ancient, crooked cottage, a wonky garden fence. Lights on inside—they were home… Dennis took the tree, Valerie the sack, and they quietly knocked on the door. “Who is it?” called a tall, fair-haired woman in her mid-thirties—Vera, surely. Seeing Father Christmas, she hesitated. “Oh, we haven’t booked any visits… You must have the wrong address.” “Does Alex Leonard live here?” “Yes, he’s my son…” “Mum, who is it?” cried a boy, dashing from the living room. “Oh—Father Christmas!” “Hello, Alex! I got your letter, and here we are—with my granddaughter, the Snow Princess! May we come in?” “Mum, he got my letter! The man found it and posted it like he promised! Brilliant! Come in!” cheered Alex. Vera smiled, showing them inside. Granny, a petite, slim woman, peeked into the hall. Alex’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Christmas tree. “That’s ours? It’s beautiful, it smells like Christmas…” “That’s for you, Alex. Every child should have a beautiful tree. And here are the decorations and fairy lights. Now, I’ve got presents—but you’ll need to tell us a poem or sing a song. That’s my rule as Father Christmas…” Dennis spoke in a jolly, deep voice. Alex was too excited to think of anything, gazing at Father Christmas’s red suit and white beard in wonder. “Alex, I know you’re a good lad; the birds have told me so. You love your mum and gran and are good at school. Now, help yourself—take the gifts from the sack.” Alex looked at his mum for permission. She nodded, and shyly he reached in: a boxed, ribbon-tied dressing gown for Granny. Excitedly, he handed it over. “Granny, this is for you! I wrote for it in my letter!” “For me? Oh my—It’s beautiful!” said Granny, slipping it on, beaming. Next, Alex handed his mum the new dress, then Granny her medicine. Both women looked on in disbelief. Then, a huge bag of sweets and satsumas, and—on top—a box with a new smartphone. “For me? My own phone? Wow… Father Christmas, thank you so much for the presents! I knew—I believed you were real, and you didn’t let me down!” Alex cried overjoyed. “Wishing your family health and happiness! Now, we must go…” Dennis and Valerie packed the empty sack, ready to leave. Alex inspected his new phone. In the hall, Vera and Granny appeared. “Please—tell us, who are you? How do you know Alex?” “I found his letter—and my wife and I wanted to bring some Christmas cheer to your boy. He’s a wonderful lad. Here’s his letter back, and a business card—if you’re interested, do give me a call, we’re looking for an admin at my office, and you sound perfect for the role.” “Thank you so much… This is all so unexpected… Alex is over the moon, he believed so much, and thanks to you, his miracle came true…” Dennis and Valerie drove home in silence, hearts full of joy for the Christmas magic they’d brought this lovely boy and his family. Giving gifts is so often more rewarding than receiving—especially when you see that pure joy sparkling in a child’s eyes. The money spent meant nothing—they’d earn more soon enough. But the emotions, those are priceless…
01
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Useful Social Services for Seniors in the U.S. Support, care, and resources for older adults across America. Here are trusted services that offer help with healthcare, meals, legal issues, and daily living: 🩺 Medical & Healthcare Support Medicare What they do: Federal health insurance for people aged 65+ or with disabilities. Phone: 1-800-MEDICARE (1-800-633-4227) Website: medicare.gov 🍲 Nutrition & Meals Meals on Wheels America What they do: Delivers hot meals and provides regular check-ins for homebound seniors. Phone: 1-888-998-6325 Find services: mealsonwheelsamerica.org 💬 Support & Connection Eldercare Locator (by the U.S. Administration on Aging) What they do: Connects older adults to local services: transportation, housing, caregiving. Hotline: 1-800-677-1116 Website: eldercare.acl.gov 🧾 Financial & Retirement Benefits Social Security Administration (SSA) What they do: Provides retirement, disability, and survivor benefits. Phone: 1-800-772-1213 Website: ssa.gov ⚖️ Legal Support for Seniors Legal Services for the Elderly What they do: Free or low-cost legal assistance with wills, elder abuse, housing & benefits. Find local help via: lsc.gov/find-legal-aid
A Stranger at the Door Ben had been in love with Anna since their school days. He wrote her notes and did everything he could to get her attention. But Anna liked David, the tall, blond volleyball player on her team. She never noticed awkward Ben, who wasn’t great at his studies either. Soon, David started dating Helen, a girl from the class next door. After graduation, Ben tried to win Anna’s attention again. He even proposed to her at the school prom… But Anna quickly replied “No!” She didn’t even want to think about him. After university, Anna became an accountant. Her boss was a handsome brunet, ten years her senior. Anna admired his professionalism, striking looks, and intelligence. They developed feelings for each other, and Anna didn’t mind that her chosen one was married with a young son. Mr. Eric promised to get a divorce and swore he loved only Anna. Years went by. Anna got used to spending weekends and holidays alone, always waiting for her lover to keep his word so they could finally be together. One day, Anna saw Eric with his wife at the supermarket. She was pregnant, and he held her hand with care. Then he picked up the shopping bags, and they walked out together. Anna watched the scene with tears in her eyes. The next day, she quit her job… New Year’s was approaching. Anna had no desire to shop for food, decorate her home, or celebrate. One day, she came home and found the house cold—the boiler had broken. Anna lived in a detached house. She tried calling a repairman, but with the holidays approaching, everyone wanted huge fees, especially when they found out she lived on the outskirts of town. Feeling hopeless, Anna called her friend. Her friend’s husband worked in this area and might be able to help. Larissa promised to ring her husband straight away. A couple of hours later, Anna heard the doorbell ring. Standing on the doorstep was a stranger… but when she looked closely, she recognised him. It was Ben, her classmate. “Hey Anna, so what’s happened here?” “What… how did you know?” “My boss called and said to head to this address because you’re freezing. Did you drain your radiators so the pipes wouldn’t freeze?” “No, and I don’t even know how.” “Blimey, you could’ve been left with no heating at all. Good job it’s not freezing outside.” Ben quickly drained the system, tinkered with the boiler, and then left. An hour later, he returned with the necessary parts. Soon the house was warm again. Ben washed his hands and then asked, “Anna, your tap’s leaking and the light’s flickering… Can’t your husband fix it?” “I don’t have a husband…” “Oh? Still looking for Mr Right?” “There’s no such thing… I haven’t got anyone,” Anna suddenly admitted. “Then why did you turn me down?” Ben smiled. She didn’t reply… After fixing the tap and changing the bulb, Ben headed home. Anna found herself thinking about her childhood, her youth, and the chubby boy who had once adored her. Ben had changed, becoming a tall, fit man with deep brown eyes. But his smile was just the same. She hadn’t even asked if he was married. Then, on December 31st, someone rang the doorbell. Surprised, Anna went to answer—she wasn’t expecting visitors. Ben was on the doorstep, wearing a new suit and holding a bouquet. “Anna! I’ll ask you again—will you marry me, or wait for Prince Charming until you’re old and grey?” Anna burst into tears and nodded joyfully. On the second try, the proposal was accepted… A Stranger at the Door