Emily Taylor

Even now, there are nights I wake up and wonder: When did my father manage to take everything away from us? I was 15 when it happened. We lived in a small but well-kept house—furnished, with a fully stocked fridge after grocery trips, and the bills mostly paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Things began changing when Dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without a word, toss his keys onto the table and disappear into his room, phone in hand. Mum would say: — “Late again? Do you think the house runs itself?” And he’d reply, his voice flat: — “Leave me be, I’m tired.” I’d hear it all from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was wrong. One night, I saw him talking on the phone outside. He was quietly laughing, saying things like “It’s almost sorted” and “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straightaway. My stomach twisted, but I said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I got home from school and saw his suitcase on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway with her eyes red. I asked: — “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me: — “I’ll be away for a while.” Mum shouted: — “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He exploded: — “I’m leaving with another woman. I can’t stand this life anymore!” I burst into tears: — “What about me? My school? Our home?” All he said: — “You’ll manage.” He closed his suitcase, grabbed papers from the drawer, picked up his wallet and left without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to get money from the cashpoint and the card was blocked. The next day at the bank, they said the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the savings. Then we found out he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan, listing Mum as guarantor, without telling her. I remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table—checking bills with an old calculator, crying over and over: — “It’s not enough… it’s not enough…” I tried to help add up the numbers but didn’t understand half of it. A week later, our internet was cut off, and the electricity nearly went too. Mum started working—cleaning people’s houses. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed to stand during break with a bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because at home we didn’t have the basics. One day I opened the fridge: there was just a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried by myself. That night we ate plain rice, nothing more. Mum apologised, saying she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw on Facebook a photo of Dad with that woman—raising a toast with wine in a restaurant. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. He never rang again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He simply disappeared. Today, I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But the wound is still there—not just from the money, but the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us in debt and moved on as if nothing happened. And yet, so many nights I still wake up with the same question stuck in my chest: How do you get through it when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out survival while you’re still just a kid?

Even now, I sometimes find myself waking up in the darkness, wondering just how my father managed to

La vida

I Stayed Silent for So Long—Not Because I Had Nothing to Say, But Because I Believed Biting My Tongue Would Keep Peace in the Family. From the Very First Day, My Daughter-in-Law Didn’t Like Me. At First, It Seemed Like a “Joke,” Then It Became a Habit, and Finally Our Daily Reality. After They Got Married, I Did Everything a Mother in England Would Do: Gave Them a Room, Helped With Furniture, Created a Home. I Told Myself, “They’re Young, They’ll Adapt—I’ll Keep Quiet and Step Back.” But She Didn’t Want Me to Step Back—She Wanted Me Gone. Every Attempt to Help Was Met With Scorn: — Don’t Touch, You’ll Just Mess It Up. — Leave It, I’ll Do It Properly. — Will You Ever Learn? Her Words Were Supposedly Quiet, But They Stung Like Needles. Sometimes In Front of My Son, Sometimes In Front of Guests, or Even Neighbours—as If She Was Proud to Put Me in My Place, Smiling, Playing With Her Sweet Yet Poisonous Voice. I Nodded. I Stayed Silent. And I Smiled, Even When I Was Close to Tears. The Hardest Part Wasn’t Her… It Was My Son’s Silence. He Pretended Not to Hear. Sometimes He Just Shrugged, Sometimes Gazed at His Phone. When We Were Alone, He’d Say: — Mum, Don’t Mind Her. That’s Just How She Is… Don’t Think About It. “Don’t Think About It”… How Could I Not Think About It, When I Started Feeling Like a Stranger in My Own Home? There Were Days When I Counted the Hours Until They Left, Just to Be Alone, To Breathe, Not To Hear Her Voice. She Started Acting as Though I Was Some Servant Who Should Stay Quiet in the Corner: — Why Did You Leave Your Cup Here? — Why Didn’t You Take Out the Rubbish? — Why Do You Talk So Much? And I… I Hardly Spoke At All. One Day, I Made Some Soup. Nothing Fancy. Just Homemade. Warm. As I’ve Always Done for Those I Love—By Cooking. She Came Into the Kitchen, Lifted the Lid, Sniffed, and Laughed: — Is That It? Your “Country Cooking” Again. Thanks So Much… Then She Added Something That Still Rings in My Ears: — Honestly, Life Would Be Easier If You Weren’t Here. My Son Was at the Table and Heard It. I Saw His Jaw Clench, But He Stayed Silent. I Turned Away So They Wouldn’t See My Tears. I Told Myself: “Don’t Cry. Don’t Give Her the Pleasure.” Just Then She Continued, Louder: — You’re Just a Burden! A Burden to All of Us! To Me, To Him! I Don’t Know Why, But This Time Something Broke. Maybe Not in Me, But in Him. My Son Got Up From the Table. Slowly, Without Slamming, Without Shouting. He Simply Said: — Stop. She Froze. — Stop What? — She Laughed Innocently. — I’m Just Speaking the Truth. My Son Moved Toward Her, and For the First Time I Heard Him Speak Like This: — The Truth Is, You’re Humiliating My Mum. In the Home She Keeps. With the Hands That Raised Me. She Started to Speak, but He Didn’t Let Her Interrupt. — I Stayed Silent Too Long. I Thought That’s What “Being a Man” Was—Keeping the Peace. But No, I Was Just Allowing Something Ugly to Happen. And That Ends Now. She Went Pale. — So… You’re Choosing Her Over Me?! And Then He Said the Strongest Sentence I’ve Ever Heard: — I’m Choosing Respect. If You Can’t Give That, Maybe You’re Not Where You Belong. The Room Fell Silent, Heavy, Like All the Air Had Left. She Stormed Off to Their Room, Slammed the Door, Mumbling Something, But It Didn’t Matter Anymore. My Son Turned to Me, His Eyes Wet. — Mum… I’m Sorry I Left You Alone. I Couldn’t Answer Right Away. I Just Sat Down. My Hands Trembled. He Kneelt Beside Me, Holding My Hands Like When He Was a Little Boy. — You Don’t Deserve This. No One Has the Right to Humiliate You. Not Even Someone I Love. I Cried—but This Time, Not From Pain. From Relief. Because At Last, Someone Saw Me. Not As a “Nuisance,” Not As an “Old Woman,” But As a Mother. As a Person. Yes, I Stayed Silent for a Long Time… But One Day, My Son Spoke Up for Me. And I Learned Something Important: Sometimes Silence Doesn’t Protect Peace… It Just Protects Cruelty. What Do You Think—Should a Mother Endure Humiliation to “Keep the Peace,” or Does Silence Only Make the Pain Worse?

I kept quiet for ages. Not because I hadn’t anything to say, but because I’d convinced myself

La vida

014

I’m 66 Years Old, and Since January I’ve Been Living with a 15-Year-Old Girl Who’s Not My Daughter: The Daughter of My Neighbor Who Passed Away Just Before New Year’s—Her Story of Resilience, Loss, and Finding a Home in My Flat

Im sixty-six and, since the start of January, Ive been living with a fifteen-year-old girl who isnt my daughter.

La vida

021

“Dad, please don’t come to visit us anymore! Every time you leave, Mum starts crying and doesn’t stop until morning. I ask her, ‘Mum, are you crying because of Dad?’ but she always says it’s just a sniffle. But I’m old enough to know that sniffles don’t sound like tears. Dad sat with me at a café, stirring his cold coffee while my ice cream—an absolute masterpiece—remained untouched. Any six-year-old girl would be excited, but not me. I had decided, even last Friday, it was time for a serious talk with Dad. He was silent for ages before saying, ‘So what should we do, sweetheart? Not see each other at all? How will I manage?’ I wrinkled my nose—just like Mum’s—and said, ‘No, Dad. I can’t be without you either. Here’s what we’ll do: call Mum and tell her you’ll pick me up from nursery every Friday. We’ll cafe if you want, and you can tell me all about your and Mum’s week. If you ever want to see Mum, I’ll take her picture every week and show you. Deal?’ Dad smiled and nodded. We agreed. I felt relieved and finally had my ice cream, but I wasn’t done yet. With chocolate moustaches, I turned serious and said, ‘I think you need to get married… You’re not that old!’ He chuckled at my generous fib. ‘Not that old, not that old!’ I insisted, ‘Mum’s friend, Uncle Steve, who’s been round twice, is actually quite bald right here.’ I touched my head and suddenly realised I’d let out Mum’s secret. Dad’s reaction was intense—‘Who’s this Steve? Mum’s boss?’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe. He brings sweets. And cake. And flowers for Mum.’ Dad stared at his hands, deciding something important. I waited, realising men need a gentle nudge from a woman—especially one they love. Finally, Dad sighed, raised his head, and spoke with tragedy and love, though I didn’t know about Romeo or Othello, I understood people suffer and find joy over tiny things. ‘Let’s go home. I want to talk to Mum.’ I knew this was important. I quickly finished my ice cream, wiped my lips, sniffled, and looked seriously at Dad: ‘I’m ready. Let’s go.’ We didn’t walk—we half ran. Dad took my hand, and I fluttered behind like a bright little flag. When we reached our building, the lift was just leaving. Dad scooped me up and raced up the stairs. At last, when Mum opened the door after Dad’s anxious ringing, he got right to the point: ‘You can’t do this! Who is Steve? I love you. We have Oly…’ Still holding me, Dad hugged Mum. I wrapped my arms around both their necks and closed my eyes because the grownups were kissing… Sometimes, in life, it only takes a loving little girl to bring two stubborn adults back together—because she loved them both, and they loved her, and each other, but let their pride get in the way… Share your thoughts in the comments below and give us a like if you enjoyed this story!

You know, I need to share something thats been weighing on my mind. So, last Saturday, I was out with my dad.

La vida

013

I’ve Been Married for Twenty Years and Never Suspected a Thing: My Husband’s Work Trips, His Late Replies, and the Night He Told Me He Was Seeing Another Woman—How Divorce, Heartbreak, and a Chance Encounter with a Younger Man in a London Café Changed My Life Forever

Ive been married for twenty years and never suspected anything was off. My husband travelled a lot for

La vida

The most heartbreaking thing that happened to me in 2025 was discovering that my husband was having an affair—and that my brother, my cousin, and my father all knew about it the entire time. We had been married for eleven years. The woman my husband was involved with worked as a secretary at the company where my brother works. Their affair began after my brother introduced her to my husband. It wasn’t a coincidence. They encountered each other at various workplaces, meetings, business events, and social gatherings that my husband attended. My cousin met them in the same circles as well. They all knew each other. They all saw each other often. For months, my husband continued to live with me as if nothing was wrong. I attended family gatherings, talked with my brother, my cousin, and my father—never knowing that all three were aware of his affair behind my back. No one warned me. No one said a word. No one even tried to prepare me for what was happening. When I found out about the infidelity in October, I first confronted my husband. He confirmed the affair. Then I talked to my brother. I asked him directly if he knew. He said “yes.” I asked since when. He answered: “for several months.” I asked why he hadn’t told me. He said it wasn’t his problem, that it was an issue between a couple, and that “men don’t talk about things like this to each other.” Next, I talked to my cousin. I asked him the same questions. He knew as well. He said he’d seen the behaviour, the messages, and the signs that made everything clear. When I asked why he hadn’t warned me, he said he didn’t want to cause trouble and didn’t have the right to interfere in someone else’s relationship. Finally, I talked to my father. I asked if he knew too. He said “yes.” I asked since when. He said, for a long time. I asked why he hadn’t said anything. He answered that he didn’t want conflict, that these matters should be resolved between spouses, and that he wouldn’t get involved. In reality, all three gave me the same answer. Afterwards, I moved out of the house, and now it’s listed for sale. There were no public scenes or physical confrontations, because I won’t lower myself for anyone. The woman continued to work at my brother’s company, and both he, my cousin, and my father maintained normal relations with my husband and her. For Christmas and New Year’s, my mother invited me to celebrate at her house, with my brother, cousin, and father in attendance. I told her I couldn’t come. I explained that I couldn’t sit at the table with people who had known about the affair and chosen to keep quiet. They celebrated together. I was absent from both occasions. Since October, I haven’t had contact with any of the three men. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them.

The most painful thing that happened to me in 2025 was discovering that my husband was having an affairand

La vida

011

Oh, girl, you greet him in vain – he’ll never marry you Vera had just turned sixteen when her mum passed away. Her father had left for the city to look for work seven years earlier and was never heard from again—no letters, no money. Nearly everyone in the village attended the funeral and helped as best they could. Aunt Mary, Vera’s godmother, often stopped by, reminding her what needed doing. Vera finished school and got a job at the post office in the neighbouring village. Vera was a strong girl—people said she was the picture of health, with a rosy round face, a button nose, sparkling grey eyes, and a thick honey-coloured braid down to her waist. The most handsome boy in the village was Nick. Two years home from the army, he had girls flocking around him. Even city girls who came for the summer took notice. He should have been acting in Hollywood films, not driving trucks in a village. Nick wasn’t ready to settle down—choosing himself a bride wasn’t on his mind. This summer, Aunt Mary asked Nick to help Vera fix her fence—without a man’s strength, life is tough in the countryside. Vera managed the garden on her own, but not the house. Nick agreed right away, looked over the fence, and started giving orders: ‘Fetch this, run over there, bring, hand me that.’ Vera did as he asked, cheeks growing redder as her braid whipped behind her. When Nick got tired, Vera would feed him hearty soup and strong tea, watching as he bit into black bread with strong white teeth. Three days Nick worked on the fence, but on the fourth, he came by just to visit. Vera fed him supper, and after a chat, he stayed the night. Soon, Nick was dropping by regularly, leaving before sunrise so no one saw. But in a village, nothing stays secret for long. “Oh, girl, you greet him in vain—he’ll never marry you. And if he does, you’ll suffer for it. When summer comes and city beauties appear, what will you do? You’ll burn with jealousy. You need a different sort of boy,” Aunt Mary would say. But when does youth in love ever listen to wisdom? Soon Vera realised she was expecting. At first, she thought she was ill, but then it hit her—she was carrying Nick’s child. She thought of giving it up—it was too soon for a baby. But then she decided she’d manage; better not to be alone. Her mother raised her, and she’d cope too. Her father had hardly helped, always gone or drinking. People would gossip, then quiet down. Come spring, Vera took off her coat, and the whole village saw her round belly. They shook their heads, saying trouble had come to the girl. Nick stopped by to ask what she’d do. “What else? I’ll have the child. Don’t worry—I’ll raise him myself. Carry on,” she said, busying herself at the stove. Only the blush of fire played on her cheeks and eyes. Nick admired Vera, but left. She’d made up her mind. Summer came, and with it, city girls—Nick forgot about Vera. She tended her garden quietly, with Aunt Mary helping out—hard work with a belly so big. Vera hauled buckets from the well, and village women predicted a strong boy. “Whoever God gives,” Vera joked. One September morning, Vera woke in pain. The labour had begun. She rushed to Aunt Mary, whose eyes told her she understood at once. “Is it time? Sit—I’ll fetch help.” Aunt Mary ran to Nick, who was only just awake after a late night. She roused him, and when he realised, he shouted, “Ten miles to the hospital! If we wait for a doctor, she’ll have the baby before they get here. I’ll drive straight away—get Vera ready!” “But in a truck? You’ll shake her to bits!” Aunt Mary protested. “You’d better come too, just in case,” Nick retorted. They crawled the battered road, Aunt Mary sat on a sack in the back. On the asphalt, the drive went faster. Vera writhed in pain on the passenger seat, clutching her belly to keep from crying out. Nick sobered up quickly, pale-knuckled at the wheel, thinking of his own life. They got Vera to the hospital in time. Aunt Mary scolded Nick the whole way back: “Why did you ruin the girl’s life? Alone, without parents—just a child herself, and you’ve given her more worry. How will she cope with a baby?” Before they reached the village, Vera was already the mother of a healthy, strong baby boy. The next morning, the nurse brought him to her. Vera didn’t know how to hold or feed her baby. She stared fearfully into his wrinkled red face, biting her lip as she did what she was instructed. Yet Vera’s heart trembled with joy. She marvelled at him, blowing on his fine hair and smiling, awkward and happy. “Will anyone come to pick you up?” a stern doctor asked as Vera was about to be discharged. Vera shrugged and shook her head. “Probably not.” The doctor sighed and left. The nurse wrapped Vera’s baby in a hospital blanket for the journey home, instructing she return it. “Fred will drive you and the little one back in the hospital car. You can’t use the regular bus with an infant,” the nurse said, kindly if gruff. Vera thanked her, head down, face reddening with embarrassment as she made her way down the corridor. On the drive home, Vera hugged her son, anxious about life ahead. Maternity payments would barely be enough—she felt sorry for herself and her innocent baby. But gazing at her sleeping son, Vera’s heart filled with tenderness, brushing away her worries. Suddenly, the car stopped. Vera looked anxiously at Fred, a short man in his fifties. “What’s wrong?” “Two days of rain—look at these puddles. I can’t drive through, and if I try, I’ll get stuck. Only a truck or tractor could make it.” “Sorry—you’ll have to walk. It’s only a couple of miles left,” he said, nodding at the flooded road. Her baby slept as she struggled to hold him. The only word for him—strong. But how to walk that road? Vera carefully climbed out, cradled her son, and picked her way along the edge of the puddle, mud clutching at her ankles, each step threatening a slip. Her worn shoes squelched. She wished she’d worn wellies. One shoe was claimed by the mud. Vera stopped, considered, then left it behind, pressing on. By the time she reached her village, dusk had fallen, her feet numb from cold, exhaustion overriding any surprise at seeing light in her windows. She stepped onto the dry porch, shivering yet drenched in sweat. Vera opened the door and froze. By the wall stood a baby cot, a pram filled with smart baby clothes. At the table, Nick lay sleeping, head resting on his arms. Whether he heard her or felt her gaze, Nick looked up. Vera, red-faced and dishevelled, barely stood in the doorway with her baby. Her dress was soaked, her legs muddy up to her knees and minus a shoe. Seeing her like this, Nick rushed over, took the baby and laid him in the cot. He stoked the stove, drawing hot water. He sat her down, helped her undress and wash her feet. While Vera changed behind the stove, Nick set out boiled potatoes and a jug of milk. Then the baby cried. Vera hurried over, picked him up and, unselfconsciously, began to feed him. “What did you name him?” Nick asked, his voice rough. “Sergei. Is that alright?” Vera looked up at him with clear, shining eyes. There was so much longing and love in them, Nick’s heart ached. “A lovely name. Tomorrow we’ll go register our lad and get married too.” “You don’t have to…” Vera began, watching her son nurse. “No—my son should have a father. I’ve had my fill of fun; I don’t know what sort of man I’ll be, but I won’t abandon my boy.” Vera nodded, head bowed. Two years later, they had a daughter, Hope, named for Vera’s mother. It doesn’t matter what mistakes you make at the start of life—what counts is that you can always make them right… That’s how life goes. Tell us in the comments what you think? Give us a like.

Oh, lass, youre wasting your greetings on himhell never marry. Martha had only just turned sixteen when

La vida

“Slice the Salad Finer, Dear” — How a Christmas Accident Helped a Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Finally Heal Old Wounds, Share Secrets, and Discover That Family Peace Is the Greatest Gift of the New Year

Chop the salad finer, said Margaret and immediately caught herself. Oh, sorry, love. There I go again

La vida

“No Seat for Elena at the Family Table: After Twelve Years of Marriage and Being Treated Like a Servant, I Left My Husband’s Banquet, Caught a London Taxi, and Discovered My True Worth in a New City, a New Career, and a Love Where I’ll Never Be Second Best Again”

George, where should I sit? I asked quietly, hesitating. He finally glanced my way, and the annoyance

La vida

010

“Forty Years Under One Roof, and Now At 63 You Want to Start Over? Maria Faces a New Chapter as Her Husband Leaves for Another Woman—But is Life Alone in Her City Flat Really So Bad?”

Forty years under the same roof, and now at sixty-three youve decided to change your life? Margaret sat