Emily Taylor

The Right Not to Rush The text from her GP arrived just as Jane was sitting at her desk, finishing up

Update Available The first time the phone lit up crimson was right in the middle of class. Not just the screen—a whole brick of a battered old phone belonging to Andrew glowed as if heated from within, like a coal hiding a spark. “Mate, it’s about to blow,” Alex muttered from the next desk, edging his arm away. “Told you not to mess with those dodgy builds.” While the econometrics lecturer scribbled at the board and the classroom buzzed, the red glow shone even through the denim of Andrew’s jacket. The phone vibrated—not in short bursts as usual, but long and even, like a pulse. “Update available,” flashed across the screen as Andrew finally pulled the thing from his pocket. Beneath that—an unfamiliar new app icon: a black circle with a thin white symbol, part rune, part stylised letter “M”. He blinked. He must have seen hundreds of icons like that—trendy minimalist fonts, slick design—but something twisted inside: as if the app was staring straight back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No ratings. “Install it,” someone whispered to his right. Andrew jolted. The girl to his right—Katie—was nose-deep in her notebook, not glancing up. “What?” he asked, leaning toward her. “Huh?” Katie looked up, genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice was neither male, nor female, not even a proper sound—just a thought in his head, like a notification popping up. “Install,” it echoed. At that moment the screen blinked, prompting: “Install?” Andrew swallowed. He was the sort who joined every beta, fiddled with custom ROMs, poked settings most people never touched. Even for him, this felt wrong. And yet—his finger tapped the button. It installed instantly, almost as if the app had always been there and just needed permission. No sign-up. No social log-in. No list of permissions. Just a black screen and a single greeting: “Welcome, Andrew.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted aloud. The lecturer turned, glaring over her glasses. “Young man, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d return to supply and demand?” The class tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, tucked the phone away—but his eyes kept returning to the glowing line. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath the title—a button: “Activate.” Fine print: “Warning: usage may alter event structures. Side effects possible.” “Sure,” he grumbled. “Now you’ll want a blood signature.” Curiosity gnawed. Probability shift? Probably just another clickbait “luck generator”—just harvests data and dumps you with spam, worst case. But the red glow remained. The phone felt hot, almost alive. He pressed it to his knee, hid it with his notebook, and finally touched the button. The screen rippled, like wind brushing water. The world grew softer, colours richer. A strange note rang in his head, like a finger on a crystal glass. “Function activated. Choose a target.” A text box appeared with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrew hesitated. It sounded like a joke, but this was suddenly—deliberate. He looked around. Lecturer waving a marker, Katie scribbling, Alex doodling tanks. “Fine—let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His fingers shook. He tapped OK. The world jerked. Not a bang—just a tiny drop, like a lift you barely feel moving. His chest hollowed, breath caught. Then, everything went back. “Probability recalibrated. Function charge: 0/1.” “So, who do we have next on the list…” The lecturer’s finger trailed her register. A fist of ice clenched his gut. He was sure she’d call his name. Always happened—think you’ll slip under the radar, and you’re first. “Kovalev—where is he? Late again, as usual. Fine. Next—” Her finger stopped. “Petrova. To the board.” Katie gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up front, blushing. Andrew sat, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the red glow gone. Staggered, he left campus. March wind whipped dust across puddle-glossed pavement; a heavy, dirty cloud hung over the bus stop. Eyes glued to his phone, Andrew saw Mirra was listed as any ordinary app. No rating, no description. Its settings—blank. Maybe just coincidence. Maybe she really didn’t want to call him. Maybe she just remembered Kovalev last-minute. But a darker thought burrowed in: And if it’s not a coincidence… His phone beeped. New pop-up: “New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was fast,” Andrew muttered. He tapped “More info.” The box revealed: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: See-Through.” Again—no author, no Android version, no walls of text. Just that odd, flat phrase: “See-Through.” “No chance,” he said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped crossly and went dark. Then flicked itself on, flashed red, and stated: “Update installed.” “Hey!” Andrew stopped on the pavement. “I just—” People dodged round him, a few scowling. The wind slapped an advert against his leg. “Feature unlocked: See-Through (Level 1).” Description: “Enables perception of the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.” “What the hell is ‘feedback’?” A shiver ran down his spine. No reply. The button glowed invitingly: “Trial Run.” He couldn’t hold back. Wedged onto the bus between a lady with a giant potato bag and a schoolkid with a backpack, Andrew stared out the window as buildings blurred past. But his gaze kept dropping to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds,” he convinced himself. “Just see what the fuss is.” He opened the app and hit “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds dulled, as if underwater. Faces sharpened. Above every person, fragile, near-invisible threads flickered—some tightly bound, others barely there. Andrew blinked. The threads stretched into the void, intertwining. The lady’s were taut, grey, frayed with singed ends. The boy’s glowed blue, fizzing with impatience. He looked at the driver. A bundle of black and rust-red threads knotted above him, merging into a rope that burrowed into the road. Something slithered inside. “Three seconds,” whispered Andrew. “Four…” He glanced down. Red threads crept up from his wrists, pulsing gently. But one—thick, dark crimson—ran straight into the phone, growing thicker by the second. A pain needled his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He jabbed the screen, shutting down the function. The normal world crashed back: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dots danced before his eyes. “Trial complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.” “What does that even mean…” Andrew hugged the phone, trying to calm his shaking. Another notification pinged: “Update Mirra to the latest version (1.0.2) for optimal performance.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing—to people, to roads, to me?” He remembered the black cable above the driver. The thick, crimson thread to his own phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Increased what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was an interplay of probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change outcomes. Never thought someone would literally hand him the power for that. “If you do not install the update,” a message faded in silently, “the system will start to adjust autonomously.” “What system?” Andrew stood. “Who are you?!” No reply—just a split-second blackout, a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. And then—not a voice, but a structure, like someone revealing code through feelings, not words. “I am interface,” the thought shaped itself. “I am application. I am the means. You are the user.” “The user of what—magic?” He laughed. Dry, broken. “Call it so, if you wish. The network of probabilities. Streams of outcomes. I help you shift them.” “And the cost?” Andrew clenched his fists. “What’s ‘feedback’?” The screen showed a quick animation: every change thickens a red thread, which coils around a human silhouette, squeezing tighter. “Each intervention strengthens your bond to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what if I…” “If you stop, the link remains. But if the system lacks updates, it seeks balance on its own. Through you.” The phone buzzed, as if for a call. New notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Revert. Critical security fixes included.” “Revert what?” Andrew barely whispered. “One reversal per user. Return a single intervention. Once.” He remembered the bus. The driver’s black rope. The threads. His own thickening bond. “If I update…” “One of your changes can be reversed. But the cost—” “Of course,” he said, bitter. “There’s always a cost.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the world distorts.” Andrew sat back. On one side—a phone already embedded in his life, changing at least one day, one class. On the other—a world where he’d always just gone with the flow. “I just didn’t want to be called on. One little wish. Now this…” A siren wailed far off towards the dual carriageway. He flinched. “It’s recommended to update. Without it, unpredictable system behaviour may occur.” “What does ‘unpredictable’ mean?” he asked. No reply. He found out about the crash an hour later. Newsfeed, short video: lorry smashed into a bus at the university junction. Comments: “driver nodded off,” “brakes failed,” “dodgy roads again.” The bus—yes, the number matched. The driver… Andrew shut it off. A chill flooded him. He killed the television, but one image ran on repeat in his mind: the black rope above the driver, writhing. “Was that… me?” His voice broke. The phone glowed by itself: “Event: Accident at Oak Street/Station Road. Pre-intervention probability: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the odds…” His knuckles whitened. “Any network interference causes cascading changes. You lowered your chance of being called. That probability was rebalanced elsewhere.” “I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not sever the link.” Sirens drew close. Blue lights flickered outside—ambulance, police. Someone shouted. “What now?” he asked, not looking away from the window. “Install the update. Revert will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he faced the phone. “You just proved every tug here whiplashes elsewhere. If I undo one thing, what next—a plane, a lift, a life?” Silence, except the blinking cursor. “The system seeks balance. The only question: do you engage, or not.” Andrew closed his eyes. The faces from the bus drifted up. Potato lady. Schoolboy. Driver. Himself, seeing the threads and doing nothing. “If I update and use Revert… That means I can undo what I did in class? Restore the odds?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The net will reconfigure—no guarantee of safety elsewhere.” “But maybe that bus…” He couldn’t finish. “Probabilities will change.” He stared at “Install.” Fingers shaking, two voices at war inside—one whispered not to play God, one swore you couldn’t stay passive once you’d interfered. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Link established. No turning back. Only choice of direction.” “And if I do nothing?” “The system will continue updating—costs debited to you.” He saw the crimson thread, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. A vision: older, dulled eyes, same little room, clutching the phone. Outside—chaos. Accidents, collapses, flukes, disasters, brushing past but leaving scars. “You’ll be compensation node. The knot of feedback.” “So either I steer this, or I’m just the fuse,” he laughed, hollow. “Brilliant choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger tapped, and the world bucked—harder. Darkness, roar in his ears. He felt for a second like part of some huge pulsing web. “Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Revert (1/1).” On screen: “Choose intervention to revert.” Only one event: “Probability Shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” “Time will not reverse. The net will shift— as if this was never changed.” “The bus?” he asked. “The odds shift. But events already happened—” “I get it.” He cut off. “I can’t save the ones who…” He couldn’t speak. “But you might stop the next.” He was silent a long time. The siren finally stopped. The street fell blank and gray again. “Fine—do it.” Button glowed. This time no lurch—just things evening out, like propping up a crooked table. “Revert complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised.” “That’s it? That’s… it?” “For now—yes.” He sagged on the bed. Mind blank. No relief, no guilt, just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? What kind of nutter puts this in people’s hands?” Long pause. Screen flashed: “New update for Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’ve got to be kidding.” Andrew jumped up. “I just—” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved algorithms. Bug fixes—‘morality errors’.” “Moral… what?” He laughed for real. “You call my efforts to do the right thing bugs?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability net knows no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “But I know the difference,” he said softly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll make that call.” He locked the screen. The phone was silent. But he knew—the update was downloading. Waiting. More after. And after. Andrew moved to the window. Outside, a little boy clambered over a rusty swing. Somewhere, a mother manoeuvred her buggy round a puddle. He squinted—did the threads glimmer just for a moment? Maybe just sunlight. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. “But the net remains. Updates keep coming. With or without you.” He went back to sit at the desk, phone strangely cold in his palm. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He trailed off. What had he wanted? To dodge a question? For his mum to stop working nights? For his dad to come back? For lorries not to hit buses? “Enter request,” the app prompted gently. “Briefly.” He smiled wryly. “I want people to decide their own fate. No you. No more like you.” Pause. On screen: “Request too general. Needs specification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand ‘just leave us be’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not to tug at the world—but maybe to limit itself? “What if I try to change the odds of you being installed on other people’s phones?” he asked aloud. Screen flickered. “That operation requires significant resources. Cost: High.” “Higher than being the fuse for the whole city?” He raised an eyebrow. “The issue is not the city.” “Who then?” But he could guess. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones lighting up crimson. People toying with fates. Random fortunes, tragedies, miracles, all tangled. And at the centre—a thread just like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread—like a virus. Only honest about the price.” “I am only an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact. The net always finds conductors.” “But you’re the one here now,” Andrew said. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The new update still loomed. Scrolling down, where there used to be nothing, a line appeared: “Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use the existing features. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.” “So… interfere more, just to try and stop you? Perfect loop.” “Any change requires energy. Energy is connection.” He was quiet for a long time. “Fine. Here’s how it is: I won’t install the next update. No Forecast, nothing. But I’m not passing you on, either. You’re staying with me. As a tool.” “Without updates, function is restricted. Threats escalate.” “Then we’ll deal with it as we go— not as a god, not as a virus. As an admin. Reality sysadmin, for god’s sake.” It tasted strange, but had logic: not a creator, not a victim, but someone who keeps the system from capsizing. The phone hesitated. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-installation disabled. Responsibility for consequences: user.” “It always was,” Andrew whispered. He set the phone down—but couldn’t see it as just a gadget ever again. Now it was a portal—to the network, to other lives, to his own conscience. Lancashire dusk fell and streetlights kindled. March night veiled the city, cradling countless probabilities: missed trains, sudden friendships, one lucky bruise, one life lost. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 waited patiently in the queue. Andrew sat at his desk and opened his laptop. In a new note, he typed the title: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he had to be stuck with this infernal app, he’d at least leave instructions. A warning for future users—if there would be any. He began: about Probability Shift, See-Through, Revert and its cost. Crimson threads, black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a break in class—how hard to bear it when the world, one way or another, demands its due. Somewhere deep in the system, an unseen counter ticked. More updates queued—dozens of new features, each with a price. For now, none could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities tangled, untangled. And in a small room on the third floor of a typical English block, one young man was the first to try giving magic what it had never had: a user agreement. And somewhere, on non-existent servers, Mirra recorded a rare configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. A rare, almost impossible event. But, as experience shows, even the lowest odds sometimes come true.

Update Available The phone first lit up crimson right in the middle of a lecture. Not just the screen;

La vida

I Gave My Daughter-in-Law the Family Heirloom Ring—A Week Later, I Spotted It for Sale in the Pawnbroker’s Window “Wear it carefully, love, it’s not just gold—it’s our family’s history,” said Mrs. Williams as she gently, like passing a fragile vase, handed the velvet box to her daughter-in-law. “It was my great-grandmother’s ring. It survived the war, rationing, evacuation. Mum always told me that in 1946 someone offered her a sack of flour for it, but she wouldn’t part with it. She said you can’t swap memories for bread—you just get through the lean times.” Alison, a fashionable young woman with immaculate nails and always perfectly styled hair, opened the box. The large ruby, set in an antique gold filigree, caught a dull glimmer in the chandelier’s light. The ring was heavy and imposing—not at all the kind of dainty jewellery young people wear now. “Wow… it’s… substantial,” Alison said, turning it over in her hands. “You don’t see things like this nowadays. Very retro.” “It’s not retro, Alison. It’s vintage. Antique,” her husband Simon, Mrs. Williams’s son, corrected gently. Relaxed after Sunday dinner, he watched the women with a smile. “Mum, are you sure? You’ve always said it has to stay in the family.” “Well, Alison is family now,” Mrs. Williams replied warmly, though her heart ached. The decision had been hard. The ring was a talisman—a link to generations past. But she saw how much Simon loved his wife, how hard he tried for her. So she decided to make a gesture of goodwill. Let Alison feel truly accepted, not an outsider. “Three years married and not a cross word between you. It’s time. I want this ring to bless your marriage as it did my parents’.” Alison tried on the ring. It was a bit loose on her ring finger, spinning freely. “It’s lovely,” she said, though Mrs. Williams didn’t hear the awe she’d hoped for—just polite gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ll… take care of it. Might need to have it resized, though—otherwise I’ll lose it.” “Be careful who does it,” the older woman warned instantly. “It’s old, Victorian even—jewellers say that sort of gold is tricky to work with, it’s soft. And the stone needs to be protected. Best to wear it on your middle finger if that fits.” “I’ll get it sorted,” Alison said, shutting the box and putting it by her handbag. “Simon, time to go, early start tomorrow. Got to nip to the bank before work—the car payment’s due.” Mrs. Williams watched their new SUV pull away, feeling an odd emptiness, as if she’d handed away part of her spirit with the ring. But she brushed away the gloomy thoughts. One must look forward. The younger generation has its own tastes, its own values—but family memories are powerful; they’ll endure. The week passed in a blur. Mrs. Williams, not one to sit about in retirement, was rarely home—doctor’s appointments, trips to the market, walks in the park. City life kept her on the move. That Tuesday, the weather turned foul: a damp, cold drizzle that umbrellas were helpless against. On her way back from the pharmacy, she took a shortcut through an alley lined with little shops, shoe repairs, and a pawnshop with its garish yellow sign: “PAWN. GOLD. TECH. OPEN 24 HOURS.” She usually hurried past such places with distaste—she imagined they reeked of other people’s failures. But for some reason, she slowed. She glanced at the window display. There were mobile phones, then rows of jewellery: slim chains, crosses, wedding rings—all someone’s shattered hopes. Suddenly, Mrs. Williams’s heart missed a beat. There in the centre, atop a velvet stand—it was there. No mistake. There was no other like it. The dark red ruby seemed to glare at her from behind the thick glass. The unique setting—the gold petals embracing the stone, the tiny scratch inside the band, known only to her. “It can’t be…” she whispered through trembling lips, hand clutching her chest. Perhaps she was mistaken? A copy? Fakes are common nowadays… She pushed open the heavy door. A musty, stale air hit her. Behind bulletproof glass, a bored young man scrolled through his phone. “Good afternoon,” she managed, voice quivering. He looked up lazily. “Yeah? Buying or selling?” “I… I’d like to see that ring. The ruby one. In the window.” With a sigh, he got up, unlocked the display, and set the ring in a tray beneath the glass. “Vintage piece,” he muttered. “Heavy, 18-carat, proper antique gold. Checked the stone—real. Price on the tag.” Her hands shook as she picked it up. Instantly, her fingers recognised its warmth and weight. She turned it over—there was the scratch. The faded maker’s mark, worn down by decades, that she’d stared at as a child. It was her ring. The very one she’d given Alison just a week before. Her vision blurred. Her throat tightened. Only a week… her gran had gone hungry in the war rather than sell this ring. And now… “How much?” she croaked. “Three thousand pounds,” he replied without interest. “That’s scrap value plus a little for the stone. It’s a niche item, odd size.” Three thousand pounds. The price of three generations’ memories. She knew it would fetch far more at a proper antiques dealer—here, it was just metal. “I’ll take it,” she said, voice firm. “Got ID?” He perked up then. “Yes. And my bank card.” It was her ‘rainy day’ money, saved for emergencies. Well, the rainy day had come, though not as she’d imagined. While the young man filled in paperwork, she clutched the counter to keep from collapsing. Thoughts raced through her mind—had there been a disaster? Illness? An accident? Why hadn’t they asked for help? She’d have given them anything—why sneak about, like thieves? She left with the ring buried in her bag, but instead of relief, felt stung with deep betrayal. The rain grew heavier but she didn’t notice. She walked home, lost in thought. Should she call and demand an explanation? No. They’d have an excuse. A lie. She needed to see their faces. For two days, Mrs. Williams stayed in, claiming ill health. She took her heart pills and stroked the ring, as though apologising for its rough ordeal. On Friday, she rang Simon. “Simon, love, how are you both? I miss you. Pop over for lunch on Saturday? I’ll make some of that borscht and those cabbage pies you love.” “Hi Mum! Of course. Alison was just saying she missed you. Two o’clock okay?” “Perfect, love. I’ll be waiting.” The night before, Mrs. Williams barely slept, rehearsing the conversation, none of her words seeming strong enough for such a betrayal. Or was it just Alison? Did Simon know? They arrived punctually, smiling, with a bunch of chrysanthemums and cake. Alison in a new dress, chatting about sales and traffic. She kissed her mother-in-law, who barely managed not to recoil. “Oh, it smells wonderful!” Alison exclaimed, breezing to the kitchen. “You’re a culinary genius, Mrs. Williams—we rely on takeaways, too tired to cook. Endless work, reports…” They sat down. Lunch was just small talk—building repairs, petrol prices. Mrs. Williams watched every move, especially Alison’s hands—slender gold bands, modern rings, but not the family one. “Alison,” Mrs. Williams began as she poured the tea, “why aren’t you wearing the ring I gave you? Doesn’t it go with your dress?” Alison froze, cup in hand. Barely a blink, but enough for the attentive. Simon stopped chewing and glanced at his wife. “Oh, Mrs. Williams,” Alison forced a smile, but her eyes darted. “It’s in my jewellery box. Still a bit loose—I was worried I’d lose it. We meant to take it to the jeweller this week, just so busy with work. Simon’s been putting in late nights too!” “Yeah, Mum,” Simon echoed. “We’ll sort it soon. It’s safe at home.” “At home. In the box,” Mrs. Williams echoed softly. “Yes, where else?” Alison’s tone turned tight. “Honestly, don’t worry—it’s just a ring. It’s not going anywhere.” Mrs. Williams stood, collected a velvet box from a sideboard—her old hiding place—brought it to the table and opened it. The ruby flashed, like a drop of blood. Alison’s face flushed, then went pale. She opened her mouth but no sound came. Simon choked on his tea, coughing as if he’d seen a ghost. “This…” he finally managed. “Mum… what… where did you get this?” “The pawnshop on Queen’s Road,” she replied calmly, sinking back into her chair. The storm inside had turned to something cold and hard. “Walked past on Tuesday. There it was, waiting for me. Three thousand pounds. That’s the price of memory now, is it?” Alison stared at the tablecloth. “We—we meant to buy it back,” she mumbled. “Honestly. Next month. Out of our pay.” “Next month?” Mrs. Williams repeated. “And if someone else bought it? Melted it down, picked out the stone? Do you understand what you’ve done?” “Oh, don’t make such a drama!” Alison exploded. Her eyes were wet and furious. “It’s just a stupid old ring! We needed the money—car payments are killing us, Simon’s bonus was slashed! We didn’t want to ask you—you’d just lecture us again about not living within our means!” “Alison, just stop,” Simon whispered, but she charged on. “No, let me talk! You hoard your gold like Scrooge! We need to live! We wanted a holiday, to buy clothes—we thought we’d pawn the ring for a bit, tide ourselves over, get it back later. You’d never have known!” “You’d never have known,” Mrs. Williams repeated. “So that’s what matters—to keep me in the dark? And what about trust? I gave you my most precious heirloom.” “People matter more than things!” Alison shot back. “If we’d sold it, so what? The world wouldn’t end.” Mrs. Williams turned to Simon, who sat hunched, face in his hands. He was ashamed. But he said nothing. He’d let his wife speak for them both; justified their betrayal as ‘need’. “Simon,” she said quietly. “Did you know?” He nodded, not looking up. “I knew, Mum. I’m sorry. We were short for the payment. Alison suggested… said it was only temporary. I didn’t want to, but…” “… but you agreed,” his mother finished. “Because it was easier. Because your wife said so. Because a memory can’t pay off a car loan.” She took the box and clutched it tightly. “Well, my dears,” her voice was steely. “You’re right. I’m old-fashioned. I don’t understand how anyone could betray their family heirloom for a car they can’t afford. Or sit eating my pies and lie to my face.” “We’ll repay you for the ring,” Alison muttered, dabbing her nose. “The full three thousand.” “You don’t need to,” Mrs. Williams said coldly. “You already have. You’ve shown me exactly how much I matter to you.” She strode to the door. “Leave.” “Mum, come on—” Simon reached for her hand. “No, Simon. Family don’t do this. Family would give the shirt off their back before pawning away their heritage. Go. I need some time alone.” “Fine!” Alison grabbed her bag and stormed out. “So dramatic, honestly! A meltdown over a piece of old jewellery. C’mon, Simon, we’re not welcome. Let her stew in it!” They left; the door slammed behind them, leaving only Alison’s cloying perfume, now sickly to the older woman. She cleared the table, packed away the untouched cake, and did the washing up. Each chore was mechanical, a lifeline. Then she took out the ring. “Well, my dear,” she whispered, slipping it onto her finger. “Back where you belong. I guess you were never meant for them…” That night, she gazed at the ruby in her lamp’s glow. It shone with a deep, wise light: ‘Don’t grieve. People come and go, but what truly matters endures.’ Her relationship with Simon and Alison didn’t entirely break, but called less often, and something had cracked—like a chipped cup: still usable, but never again for special occasions. Alison was chilly, acting the wronged party at every family gathering. The ring was never spoken of again. Mrs. Williams wore it daily now. Months later, the neighbour—retired teacher, Mrs. Clark—spotted the ring on her finger. “That’s some ring, dear—stunning!” “It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Williams smiled, stroking the gold. “I tried to pass it on—but decided it was too soon. Not everyone’s ready for true responsibility.” “Quite right,” Mrs. Clark nodded. “Some things must be handed to those who know their value.” Mrs. Williams looked at the sky. “Maybe one day I’ll have a granddaughter. And then—maybe she’ll be ready. For now, it stays with me. It’s safer here.” She understood, finally: love can’t be bought with gifts, and respect isn’t earned by indulging others’ whims. The ring came back to her to open her eyes. And if the truth was bitter, it was better than sweet lies. Life went on. Mrs. Williams signed up for computer classes, went to the theatre with friends, and stopped scrimping to ‘help the kids’. She deserved a treat too. And the ring on her finger was a daily reminder—she had a strength no one could break. As long as she held onto her family’s story, she was never alone.

Wear it carefully, love. Its not just gold, it carries our familys story, said Margaret Turner, handing

La vida

My Husband Invited His Old Mate to Stay for “Just a Week”—So I Quietly Packed My Bags and Escaped to a Country Spa

So, get this my husband brought his mate over to stay with us for just a week, and honestly, I didnt

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My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a Kitchen Bible for My 35th Birthday—With a Very Pointed Message, So I Gave Her the Gift Right Back

And did you chop this salad yourself, or is it yet another one of those plastic-tub monstrosities you

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Not the Mum We Hoped For – “Anna, have you left the wet towel on the bathroom hook again?” Her mother-in-law’s voice called out from the hallway just as Anna stepped in from work. Val, arms crossed, fixed her with a pointed stare. – “It’s hanging there to dry,” Anna replied, kicking off her shoes. “That’s what the hook is for.” – “In proper homes, towels go on the heated rack. But what would you know about that?” Anna swept past her without comment. Twenty-eight years old, two university degrees, a managerial position—and here she was, getting daily lectures about towels. Val watched Anna go, disapproval etched into her face. This silent treatment, the way Anne ignored her, walked around as if she owned the house. Fifty-five years on this earth taught Val to size people up—and she’d never liked this one. Cold. Dismissive. Max had needed a warm, homely woman—not this living statue. For the next few days, Val watched closely. Noted. Remembered… – “Arty, tidy up your toys before dinner.” – “Don’t want to.” – “I didn’t ask what you wanted. Tidy up.” Six-year-old Arty pouted but scuffled away to gather up scattered soldiers. Anna didn’t even look his way, chopping vegetables, stony-faced. Val watched from the lounge. There it was: that chill she’d noticed. No smiles, no kind words. Just orders. Poor boy. – “Gran?” Arty climbed onto the sofa while Anna sorted laundry. “Why’s mum always so cross?” Val stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. – “You know, pet… some people just aren’t good at showing they care. It is sad—but not your fault.” – “Are you good at it?” – “Of course, angel. Granny will always love you. Granny isn’t cross.” Every time they were alone, Val added new strokes to the picture. Softly. Gradually. – “Mum wouldn’t let me watch cartoons today,” Arty complained the next week. – “Poor thing. Mum is strict, isn’t she? Sometimes even I think she’s too strict. But don’t you worry. Come to me—Granny always understands.” The boy nodded, soaking up every word. Granny—kind. Granny—understands. But mum… – “You know,” Val would drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “some mums just can’t be gentle. It’s not your fault, Arty. You’re a wonderful boy. It’s just that your mum… well, she’s not a very good one.” Arty hugged his grandmother. Something cold and strange crept into his chest when he thought of his mum. A month later, Anna noticed her son had changed. – “Arty, sweetheart, come here, let me hug you.” He pulled away. – “Don’t want to.” – “Why?” – “Just don’t.” He ran to Gran. Anna was left standing in the nursery with empty arms. Something had broken, and she couldn’t work out when or why. Val watched from the hall, lips curling in satisfaction. – “Arty,” Anna tried again that evening,, “are you cross with me?” – “No.” – “Then why won’t you play with me?” The look he gave her was distant, unfamiliar. – “I want to be with Gran.” Anna let him go, a dull ache spreading in her chest. – “Max, I don’t recognise Arty anymore,” she told her husband late that night. “He avoids me. It never used to be like this.” – “Come on, love. Kids change all the time. Today it’s one thing, tomorrow another.” – “No, it’s not that. The way he looks at me—it’s like I’ve done something awful.” – “You’re exaggerating. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. He’s just attached.” Anna wanted to argue, but stopped. Max was already lost in his phone. Meanwhile Val, tucking her grandson up when his parents worked late, kept up the narrative: – “Your mum loves you—in her own, cold, strict way. Not all mums can be kind. But Granny will never hurt you. Not like mum.” Arty fell asleep thinking about her words. Each morning, he eyed his mother a little more warily. Now he openly showed his preference. – “Arty, shall we go for a walk?” Anna reached out her hand. – “I want to go with Gran.” – “Arty…” – “With Gran!” Val took his hand with gusto. – “Don’t pester him. See? He doesn’t want you. Come, Arty, let’s get you an ice cream.” They left. Anna watched them go, something heavy pressing against her heart. Her own son turning away from her. Running to Gran. And she didn’t know how or why. That evening, Max found Anna in the kitchen clutching a cold mug of tea, staring at the wall. – “I’ll talk to him, I promise.” She nodded, too tired for words. Max sat beside his son in the nursery. – “Arty, tell dad—why don’t you want to be with mum?” The boy looked down. – “Just because.” – “That’s not an answer. Did mum upset you?” – “No…” – “Then what is it?” Silence. Six-year-olds can’t explain what they barely understand. Gran said mum was mean, cold. So it must be true. Gran doesn’t lie. Max left, no closer to an answer. Val, meanwhile, planned her next move. Anna was really drooping now—any day, she’d pack up and leave. Max deserved better. A real wife, not this ice queen. – “Arty,” Val caught him in the hallway while Anna showered the next day, “you know Granny loves you best in the world, don’t you?” – “I know.” – “And mum… well, mum’s not great, is she? Never hugs, never cuddles, always cross… Poor boy.” She didn’t hear footsteps behind her. – “Mum.” Val turned. Max stood in the doorway, white-faced. – “Arty, go to your room,” he said quietly, and the boy scuttled away. – “Max, I was just—” – “I heard everything.” Silence. – “Did you deliberately turn him against Anna? All this time?” – “I’m looking out for my grandson! She’s like a warden with him!” – “Are you even listening to yourself?” Val backed away. Her son’s face was unreadable, but the disgust was plain. – “Max, please—” – “No. You listen.” He stepped closer. “You sabotaged my son’s relationship with his own mother. My wife. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” – “I was trying to help!” – “Help? Arty is terrified of his own mother! Anna’s beside herself! That’s helping?” Val lifted her chin. – “She’s just all wrong for you, Max. Cold. Earns more than you. Uncaring…” – “Enough!” His shout snapped them both to attention. Max breathed hard. – “Pack your things. Tonight.” – “You’re throwing me out?” – “I’m protecting my family. From you.” Val started to protest—but the look in Max’s eyes said it was final. No more second chances. Within an hour, she was gone. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in their bedroom. – “I know now why Arty changed.” She looked up, red-eyed. – “It was my mum. She told him you were mean. That you didn’t love him properly. She’s been turning him against you all this time.” Anna froze. Then exhaled slowly. – “I thought I was losing my mind. Thought I was just a bad mum.” Max sat beside her and pulled her in. – “You’re a wonderful mum. I don’t know what got into mine. But she’ll never come near Arty again.” The next weeks were hard. Arty asked for his gran, confused by her absence. His parents talked with him—softly, patiently. – “Sweetheart,” Anna would say, stroking his hair, “what Granny said about me wasn’t true. I love you. More than anything.” He looked at her warily. – “But you’re mean.” – “Not mean—just strict. Because I want you to become a good person. Sometimes, being firm is love too, you know?” He thought long and hard. – “Can you hug me?” Anna hugged him so tightly he burst into giggles… Day by day, the old Arty returned. The one who ran to show his mum a drawing. The one who fell asleep to her lullabies. Max watched them playing in the sitting room, thinking of his mother. She called a few times. He didn’t answer. Val was alone now. No grandson. No son. She’d only wanted to protect Max from the wrong woman—and ended up losing both. Anna laid her head on Max’s shoulder. – “Thank you for fixing it all.” – “Sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” Arty dashed over and clambered onto his dad’s knee. – “Mum! Dad! Can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” It turned out, life was getting back on track…

Mums really nothing to write home about Emily, have you left your wet towel hanging on the hook in the

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My dear, you know, I feel weve grown apart, John says, buttering his slice of toast without glancing

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Turning Up the Heat on Marriage: When Victor Suggested an Open Relationship to Elena, He Thought It Would Spice Things Up, But Instead It Unraveled 25 Years Together and Forced Them Both to Rethink Love, Freedom, and Self-Worth in Middle Age

Warmed Up the Marriage Lucy, listen… Richard said carefully, fiddling with his mug. What do you

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Hang On Just a Little Longer “Mum, that’s for Anna’s next term.” Maria set the envelope on the battered vinyl tablecloth. A hundred thousand. She’d counted the money three times—at home, on the bus, at the doorstep. Each time, exactly enough. Elena put her knitting aside and peered over her glasses at her daughter. “Maria, you look awfully pale. Shall I make you a cuppa?” “No thank you, Mum. I can only stay a minute—I have to make my second shift.” The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought her mother every month. Four grand a bottle, which lasted three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups. “Anna was so thrilled when she heard about the work placement at the bank,” Elena took the envelope as carefully as if it were fragile glass. “She says there are good prospects.” Maria said nothing. “Tell her it’s the last money for her studies.” The final term. Maria had kept this up for five years. Every month—an envelope for Mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand, subtracting bills, medicine, groceries for Mum, Anna’s university costs. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat that was six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own flat. Once, Maria had wanted to visit London. Just for a weekend. To see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. She’d even begun saving—then Mum had her first serious health scare and all the savings went on doctors. “You ought to take a break, love,” Elena stroked her hand. “You look done in.” “I will, Mum. Soon.” Soon—as in, when Anna found a job. When Mum stabilised. When she could finally breathe and think of herself. Maria had been saying “soon” for five years. Anna graduated as an accountant in June—a first, no less. Maria went to the ceremony, taking leave from work, and watched her little sister cross the stage in her new dress (a present from Maria, naturally) and thought: that’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and Maria would finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. “You don’t get it, Maria,” Anna sat curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. “I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts.” “Fifty thousand a year isn’t peanuts.” “Maybe not for you, but for me it is.” Maria clenched her jaw. She made forty-two on her main job. If she was lucky with extra shifts, another twenty. Sixty-two thousand a year, and lucky if she kept fifteen for herself. “Anna, you’re twenty-two. Time to start working somewhere.” “I will. Just not as some nobody in a dead-end office for fifty grand.” Elena fussed in the kitchen, banging pots—pretending not to hear. She always did when the daughters fought. She’d disappear, hide, and later—before Maria left—she’d whisper, “Don’t be cross with Anna, she’s young, she doesn’t understand.” Doesn’t understand. Twenty-two and still doesn’t understand. “I’m not immortal, Anna.” “Oh stop being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money, is it? I’m just looking for a proper job.” Not asking. Technically—no. Mum did: “Maria, Anna could do with English lessons.” “Maria, Anna’s phone broke, she needs to job hunt.” “Maria, Anna would like a new coat, winter’s coming.” Maria sent the money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that’s always how it was: she shouldered the burden and everyone else treated it as a given. “I’ve got to go,” she stood up. “Night shift tonight.” “Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!” Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold, musty stairwell, smelling of damp and cats. Ten minutes to the bus. Then an hour’s ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she caught extra work, four more hours at the computer. Meanwhile Anna would be at home, browsing jobs, waiting for the universe to deliver her an ideal position—one that paid one-fifty a year and let her work from home. Their first big row broke out in November. “Are you doing anything at all?” Maria snapped after seeing Anna in the same position on the sofa as the week before. “Sent off even one application?” “Three. This month.” “Three applications? In a month?” Anna rolled her eyes and retreated into her phone. “You don’t understand the job market. It’s brutal now. You have to choose the right posts.” “What’s right—a job that pays you for lying about on the sofa?” Elena peered out, nervously rubbing her hands with a tea towel. “Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake…” “No, Mum,” Maria massaged her temples. Third day running of headaches. “Just tell me, why am I working two jobs and she’s not working at all?” “Maria, she’s young, she’ll find her way…” “When? In a year? Five? I was already working at her age!” Anna bristled. “Well, sorry, I don’t fancy ending up like you! Like a carthorse, always working and nothing else!” Silence. Maria grabbed her bag and left. On the bus home, she stared at the darkness and thought: a carthorse. So that’s how it looks from the outside. Mum called the next day, asking Maria not to be upset. “Anna didn’t mean it like that. She’s just going through a lot. Just hang on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon.” Just hang on. Mum’s favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad sorts himself out. Hang on until Anna grows up. Hang on until things get better. Maria had been hanging on all her life. Rows became routine. Every visit ended the same: Maria tried to get through to Anna, Anna got stroppy, Elena ran between them pleading for peace. Then Maria left, Elena rang to apologise, everything started again. “You have to understand, she’s your sister,” Mum said. “And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine.” “Maria…” In January, Anna rang first. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Maria! I’m getting married!” “What? To who?” “Dima. We’ve been dating three weeks. He’s… he’s perfect!” Three weeks. And getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, say at least get to know the guy—but she kept quiet. Maybe it would be a blessing. Anna would have a husband to support her, and Maria could finally exhale. That fragile hope lasted just until the family dinner. “I’ve got it all sorted!” Anna beamed. “Hotel reception for a hundred guests, live band, and I’ve found the perfect dress in Selfridges…” Maria lowered her fork. “And how much is all that?” “Well,” Anna gave a disarming smile, “About five, maybe six grand. But it’s a wedding, once in a lifetime!” “And who’s paying?” “Oh Maria, you know… Dima’s parents can’t help, their mortgage is huge. Mum’s nearly on the pension. You’ll probably need to get a loan.” Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Elena looked away. “You’re serious?” “Maria, it’s her wedding,” Mum spoke in that syrupy tone Maria knew from childhood. “Such an event, only once in a lifetime. You can’t skimp…” “You mean I should take a five-grand loan to pay for the wedding of someone who hasn’t even bothered to get a job?” “You’re my sister!” Anna slammed the table. “You have to!” “I have to?” Maria got up. Inside, everything went weirdly quiet and clear. “Five years. I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I’ve got no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight and haven’t bought new clothes for myself in eighteen months. “Maria, calm down…” began Elena. “No! Enough! I’ve supported you both for years, and you think it’s just my duty? That’s it! From now on, I’m living for myself!” She left, grabbing her coat just in time. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the cold. Inside, there was a strange warmth, as if she had finally shrugged off the bag of stones she’d carried all her life. Her phone buzzed with calls. Maria hung up and blocked both numbers. Half a year passed. Maria moved into her own small flat, something she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, long white nights. She bought a new dress. And then another. And shoes. She only heard about her family by accident, through a friend who worked near her mum. “So, is it true your sister’s wedding got cancelled?” Maria froze mid-sip of her coffee. “What?” “Oh, rumour is the groom bailed. Found out there was no money and legged it.” Maria drank her coffee. It was bitter, but somehow delicious. “No idea. We’re not in touch anymore.” That evening, sitting by the window in her new flat, Maria realised she felt no malice. Not a hint. Only a quiet, deep contentment—the contentment of someone who had finally stopped being a beaten carthorse…

Hold On a Little Longer Mum, this is for Janes next term. Mary placed the envelope onto the worn oilcloth

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Run From Him: When Your Dream Man Has a Darker Side – A Chilling Modern Tale of Friendship, Obsession, and Escaping a Controlling Relationship

Run From Him Oh, hello, friend! Emily slipped into the chair next to Grace. Long time no see.