Emily Taylor

Is the Orchid Really to Blame? —Polly, take this orchid or I’m throwing it out, Katya said carelessly, handing me the clear pot from the windowsill. —Oh, thanks, love! But what’s so wrong with this orchid? I wondered aloud, seeing she still had three lush, healthy orchids left. —This one was given to my son for his wedding. You know how that turned out… Katya sighed heavily. —I know Denis divorced less than a year in. I won’t ask why; I can imagine it was something serious. Denis adored Tanya, after all, I didn’t want to pick at Katya’s still-fresh wound. —I’ll tell you the reason for the divorce someday, Polly. But for now, it’s hard to talk about, Katya sniffed, lost in thought. I took the “banished” and “rejected” orchid home. My husband looked at the wilted flower with a sympathetic frown. —Why this little wretch? There’s no life in it. Even I can see that. Don’t waste your time. —I want to bring it back to life. I’ll give it love and care. You’ll soon see how beautiful it can be, I insisted, determined to “breathe” life into the drooping plant. My husband winked mischievously: —Who could turn down a bit of love? A week later, Katya rang up: —Polly, may I visit? I can’t carry this burden. I want to tell you everything about Denis’s failed marriage. —Of course, Katya, come round. I could never say no to my friend. Katya had once supported me through divorces and hard times; our friendship went back years. Katya arrived in an hour. She settled in the kitchen, and over a glass of dry wine, a cup of fresh coffee, and some dark chocolate, she began a long, heartfelt tale… I Never Thought My Ex-Daughter-in-law Could Do This: An Orchid’s Journey Through a Wedding, a Sudden Divorce, and the Blossoming of New Love — A Story of Friendship, Family, Betrayal, and Healing in the Heart of England

IS THE ORCHID TO BLAME? Polly, take this orchid with you or Ill just throw it out, Kate said carelessly

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Like a Bird Drawn to the Call – “Girls, you only get married once in your life. You should stay with the one you love till your last breath, rather than drifting endlessly, searching for your ‘other half’—or you’ll end up like a nibbled apple core. Married men are strictly off-limits. Don’t even think about getting involved; telling yourself ‘just a quick fling’ will only send you both spiraling into disaster while happiness slips past… My parents have been together fifty years, the perfect example. I promised myself I’d find my soul mate and cherish him with all my heart—wise words from my grandmother that I believed completely. My friends always laughed: ‘Don’t be silly, Ksyusha. Wait till you fall for a married man—let’s see how easily you let him go…’ But I never told my friends that before marriage, my mother had my older sister by someone unknown—a scandal that haunted us for years. Five years later, I was born in wedlock; Dad fell madly in love with Mum, and they stuck together through it all. We had to move away, and from then on I swore: no affairs, no children out of wedlock. But fate had its own plans… My sister Sonia and I never saw eye to eye. She always felt our parents favored me; she’s never stopped being jealous. It was always a silent contest for parental love—a bit ridiculous. I met Yegor at a club—he was a cadet, I was a nurse. We hit it off instantly, married within a month, and I was completely smitten. After Yegor’s training, we moved far from home, and soon enough the arguments began. I had no one to turn to—Mum was in another country. Our daughter Tanya was born in the ‘90s, with all the upheaval of the times. Yegor left the army, began drinking heavily. I tried to console him, saying it would all pass, but he slipped further away—disappearing for days, once even a month, before returning and tossing a briefcase stuffed with cash on the table. I stashed it away, untouched—something felt wrong. When he finally came back, exhausted and demanding my gold jewellery to pay off some ‘serious’ people, I was terrified. I handed him the case and told him it was enough; Tanya and I would cope. In the end, he made love to me with the wild desperation of someone already leaving. The next morning, he was gone again—for years. At the hospital where I worked, a married doctor, Dmitri, began courting me. I resisted, still married although my husband was a ghost. Then Yegor returned, asking for a divorce—he’d fathered another son and wanted to be a proper dad. I agreed without emotion; ‘You can’t gather spilt water,’ as the saying goes. He didn’t even care to see Tanya. That was the last time they met. Stranded in loneliness, I let myself be swept up by Dmitri, even though he was married. Our affair lasted three years. He proposed, but I refused to build our happiness on someone else’s heartbreak. Finally, I transferred jobs to end our romance for good. Then came Vasily, a patient at my new hospital—a single dad bringing up his son after his wife left him for another man. The jokes and banter turned into love. His son Denis was seven, my Tanya eight; our families blended under a lucky star. There were stresses and struggles, but Vasya and I always stood together with no secrets. Thirty years on, I treasure him more than anything. Just the other day, Yegor called my mum, saying, ‘I’ve never met a woman like Ksyusha…’”

LIKE A LARK TO HIS CALL Girls, you must marry only once, and make it last until your final breath.

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RAW AND UNFILTERED… In This English Family, Everyone Lived for Themselves. Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife—he had a string of lovers, sometimes more than one at a time. Mum, Jane, aware of her husband’s affairs, was hardly a saint herself—she enjoyed spending time away from the family with a married colleague. Their two sons were left to their own devices, with no one really bothering to raise them. Mum insisted the school should handle all responsibility for her sons. The family only gathered at the kitchen table on Sundays, just to eat quickly and then disappear into their own separate worlds. And so, this broken, sinful, yet oddly sweet family might have continued in their own spoiled chaos—until the unthinkable happened. …When the younger son, Danny, was twelve, Dad Alex took him to his garage for the first time to help out. As Danny eyed the strange tools, Alex slipped out to chat with his car-loving mates nearby. Suddenly, black smoke and flames billowed from the garage! No one understood what had happened. (Later, it was discovered Danny had knocked over a lit blowtorch onto a petrol can.) People froze. Panicked. The fire raged on. Someone doused Alex with water, and he dashed inside. Seconds later, he emerged from the burning maw, carrying his lifeless son. Danny was badly burnt—only his face, which he must have shielded with his hands, was untouched. All his clothes had burned away. The fire brigade and ambulance were already on their way. Danny was raced to hospital. He was alive! He was taken straight into surgery. Hours later, a doctor told Alex and Jane: “We’re doing all that is medically and humanly possible. Your son is in a coma. His chances of survival—one in a million. Conventional medicine can do no more. But, should Danny have the will to live, there could be a miracle. Be strong.” Without a thought, Alex and Jane dashed to the nearest church. A torrential rain started. The desperate parents barely even noticed. They had to save their child! Soaked to the skin, they entered the church for the first time in their lives. It was quiet and nearly empty. Spotting a vicar, they hesitantly approached. “Vicar, please—our son is dying! What should we do?” Jane sobbed. “My name is Father Samuel, my children. When you’re frightened, you turn to God, eh? Are you great sinners?” he asked directly. “Not really—we’ve never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, lowering his eyes under Father Samuel’s piercing gaze. “But why did you kill the love in your family? It’s lying dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass—between you, you could lose a whole log! Ah, people…” “Pray, my children. Pray to St. Nicholas for your son’s health! Pray with all your might! And remember, all is in God’s hands. Do not curse the heavens! Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise, you’d never learn! You’ll destroy your own souls without even noticing. Change your ways! Love can save everything!” Alex and Jane stood shivering from rain and tears, listening to Father Samuel’s bitter truths—like a pair of ugly ducklings. He pointed them to the icon of St. Nicholas. Alex and Jane fell to their knees and prayed desperately, sobbing and making vows… Every extra-marital relationship was put aside, once and for all. Forgotten and erased. They dissected their lives, letter by letter, thread by thread… The next morning, the hospital called. Danny had come out of his coma. Alex and Jane rushed to his bedside. Danny opened his eyes and tried to smile at them. It was a painful attempt—the suffering etched on his young face. “Mum, Dad, please—don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Darling, why would you say that? We’re together,” Jane answered, gently brushing his weak, hot hand. Danny flinched and cried out in pain. Jane pulled back. “I saw it, Mum! And when I have children, they’ll have your names…” Alex and Jane exchanged glances, thinking their son was delirious. What children, Danny? You can barely move your finger! Just get well and we’ll thank God! …But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s resources went into his treatment. Alex and Jane even sold their cottage. Sadly, the garage and car were lost in the fire—they too could have been sold for Danny’s recovery. But what mattered most was their son survived! All the grandparents helped in whatever way they could. The family drew together in their shared ordeal. …Even the longest day comes to an end. A year passed. Danny was now in rehab. He could walk and take care of himself. There, Danny befriended a girl named Molly—like him, a fire survivor. Molly’s face had been burnt. After several operations, Molly was shy and avoided mirrors. Danny felt a warm compassion towards her—she radiated a wisdom and vulnerability that made you want to protect her. All their free time was spent together. They had much in common—unbearable pain, despair, handfuls of bitter pills, learning not to fear endless jabs, nurses’ white coats… They had favourite topics and could talk forever. Time passed… Danny and Molly had a modest wedding. They went on to have beautiful children—a daughter Charlotte, and three years later, a son, Jon. Finally, the family breathed easy—until Alex and Jane decided to part ways. The ordeal had exhausted them so much, they could no longer bear to be together. Each longed for release and peace. Jane moved in with her sister out of town. Before leaving, she went to church for Father Samuel’s blessing. She had visited him many times, always thanking him for saving her son. “Thank God, Jane,” he’d say. The vicar disapproved of Jane’s departure. “But if you must, go. Find rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex stayed alone in the empty flat. Their sons, now with families, lived separately. Ex-spouses visited their grandchildren on a rota, carefully avoiding each other. In short, everyone was finally comfortable…

TO THE QUICK In this family, everyone largely minded their own business. David, the father, somehow managed

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Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I just can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tommy, a Year 2 pupil, sadly poking his paintbrush at the stubborn, curling-the-wrong-way green leaf on the flower he’d drawn. “Not so hard, love, be gentle with your brush – like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. There, that’s it! Beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky one getting your lovely picture?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy replied, grinning now that he’d tamed the awkward leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His pride at the teacher’s praise was clear in his voice. “Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paints dry a little or they’ll smudge. Then, when you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. Trust me, your mum will love it!” The teacher glanced one last time at the boy’s tousled head bent over the paper, then returned to her desk, smiling at her thoughts. What a gift for his mum! Bet it’s been years since she’s had something so lovely. Tommy’s got real talent for art—maybe I should call his mum about art school. Talent shouldn’t go to waste. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask my former pupil if she liked the present. I can’t take my eyes off those flowers Tommy painted; they look ready to rustle their living green curls. Oh, he takes after his mum! No doubt about it. Lorna was a brilliant young artist herself at his age… ***** “Miss Mary, it’s Lorna—Tommy Cottam’s mum,” came the strict voice of a young woman over the phone that evening. “Just letting you know, Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna! Is everything alright?” “No, it isn’t! That little rascal ruined my whole birthday! And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left.” “Hang on, Lorna, what do you mean fever? He left school happy, bringing you his—” “You mean those splotches?” “Splotches? No, Lorna! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call to suggest art school for him…” “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy mess for a gift!” “Soggy mess? What on earth happened?” Miss Mary was lost for words as Lorna rambled on, tense and upset, and her frown deepened with every explanation: how Tom came home late, drenched in mud and water… How he pulled a soaking-wet puppy from under his coat—the stench! He’d climbed into a thawing puddle to rescue it after bigger boys threw it in. Ruined books, splotched sketchbook, and a fever nearly touching 39… The party ruined, guests left before the cake came out. The doctor scolded her for not watching her child… “After Tom fell asleep, I took that puppy straight back to the dump. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator, but the water’s made a mess of everything, not just the flowers!” Lorna grumbled. She didn’t seem to notice how the elderly teacher’s expression grew grimmer with every word, especially when she heard what happened to the rescued puppy. Miss Mary looked sternly at Lorna, stroked the ruined sketchbook gently, and spoke softly… About green swirls and living flowers. About the care of a child and his brave heart, unwilling to look away from injustice. Of the bullies who threw the little animal into that pit. Then she stood, took Lorna by the hand, and led her to the window. “There’s that pit,” she pointed. “Tom could have drowned, not just the puppy. Do you think he gave that a thought while he was rescuing it? Or was he thinking about those flowers on the page and trying not to breathe on them, so he wouldn’t spoil his gift?” “Or have you forgotten, Lorna, how—you in the nineties—sobbed bitterly on the school bench, hugging a stray kitten you’d rescued from the local boys?” “How we all stroked it, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home when your parents tossed your ‘scruffy flea bag’ out… Luckily, they changed their mind in time.” “Well, let me remind you! And your cat, Tigger, you never wanted to part with! And floppy-eared Max, that puppy who went everywhere with you right up to uni, and the rook with the broken wing you took care of at school…” Miss Mary fetched an old photo from her album: a tiny girl in a white pinafore holding a furry kitten, smiling at her classmates. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “I’ll remind you of the kindness in your heart, the kindness that bloomed in spite of everything, bright as paint on a child’s page.” A faded drawing tumbled out after the photo: a girl, clutching a fluffy kitten and gripping her mum’s hand. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary added more sternly, “I’d have kissed that puppy and Tom together! And put those splotches in a frame! There’s no better gift for a mother than raising her child to be a good person!” Lorna didn’t seem to notice how her face changed with every word. She cast worried glances at Tom’s bedroom door, clutching the ill-fated sketchbook with whitening fingers. “Miss Mary! Please, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? I’ll be right back, I promise!” Under her teacher’s gentle gaze, Lorna threw on her coat and rushed out. She ran straight for the distant dump, not caring that her feet got soaked, calling and searching under boxes and bags, glancing anxiously homeward… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Tom, who’s got their nose buried in the flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does! There’s that white star on his paw—how I remember washing those muddy paws with your mum.” The teacher chuckled fondly. “And now I wash them every day! Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even bought a special doggy tub for it!” Tom said proudly. “You’ve got a wonderful mum,” nodded Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another picture, then?” “Yep! This one’s for a frame. The splotches are up on the wall now, and she always smiles at them. Why would you smile at splotches, Miss Mary?” “At splotches? Maybe you would, if they came straight from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school?” “It’s brilliant! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait—she’ll love it! But for now—look, I’ve got something for you, from Mum. She draws too.” Tom pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag, and Miss Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly. On the paper, a brightly painted Tom beamed, his hand resting on Duke’s head, the dog gazing at him adoringly. Next to them, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress hugged a fluffy kitten… To the left, behind a teacher’s desk piled with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling with bottomless, wise kindness in her lively gaze at her happy students. In every brushstroke, in every mark, she could feel the proud love of a mother. Miss Mary brushed away her tears and, suddenly beaming, noticed—right in the corner, drawn in flowers and curling green spirals—one single word: “Remember.”

ILL REMIND YOU Miss Maple, the curls not working here, whispered the forlorn second-former, Tom, jabbing

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Fate on the Hospital Ward Bed – “Love Can’t Be Ordered”: How I Nursed a Man Whose Wife Gave Up on Him, Only to Find My Own Heart at Risk, and How Tragedy, Faith, and Family Ties Transformed Our Lives Over The Years

FATE ON THE HOSPITAL BED Miss, take these and look after him, will you? I cant even stand to go near

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I Never Took What Wasn’t Mine: The Story of Martha and Nastya—From Envy and Hardship at School to Unexpected Love, Family Struggles, and Redemption Ten Years Later

NEVER TOUCHED WHATS NOT MINE Back when she was in school, Martha always looked down on Emily and, deep

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Life Back on Track – “Lada, I Forbid You from Speaking to Your Sister and Her Family!” Bogdan’s Jealousy, Family Rift, and My Path to Freedom, Happiness, and Love with Dr. Herman in England

LIFE IN ORDER Clara, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! They have their own livesso do we.

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Bittersweet Happiness – Why Don’t You Like This Lady? She’s a Good Girl: Modest, Tidy, Smart, Loves You. Elena’s Disapproving Look at Her Nearly Forty-Year-Old Son Who Still Hasn’t Settled Down, Despite a String of Relationships That All Felt Not Quite Right—Until a Chance Meeting on a Train Leads Denis to Larisa, a Woman with Three Kids Living in a Hostel, Seven Years His Senior, Whom He Marries Against All Odds, Only for Them to Welcome a Daughter with Down’s Syndrome—A Testing, Bittersweet, But Ultimately Cherished Happiness.

BITTERSWEET HAPPINESS “What exactly do you find fault with in that young lady? Shes a fine girl.

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My Dear Wife – “How have you managed to live with the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” My brother never missed the chance to ask these questions whenever he visited. “Love, and endless patience—that’s the whole secret,” I always replied. “That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. Living with a book you’ve already read? No, thanks,” my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen. His bride, Asya, was ten years his senior—a sweet woman hopelessly in love with Peter for life, while Peter saw her only as a passing amusement. Asya moved into Peter’s family home, where seven relatives lived, and gave birth to a son, Mitya. She believed her happiness was finally complete. The young couple was given a tiny room, where Asya displayed her cherished collection of rare porcelain figurines—ten delicate treasures that everyone in the family knew meant the world to her. At the time, I myself was searching for the one woman to spend a lifetime with—a dream that ultimately came true. My wife and I have now been married over fifty years. Peter and Asya lasted ten years. Asya could boast of little—the devoted, compliant wife who loved her husband and son wholeheartedly. What more did Peter want? One night, Peter came home drunk, picking on Asya and making crude jokes. Sensing trouble, Asya quietly left with Mitya. Suddenly, there was a terrible crash—the sound of her precious collection shattering. She ran back to find all her treasured figurines in pieces, except for one that miraculously survived. Asya kissed it, eyes brimming with tears, and said nothing. From that day, a rift opened between them. Asya fulfilled her duties, but a spark was gone. Peter drank more, brought home questionable friends and women. Asya withdrew, becoming distant and unreachable. Peter neglected the family, and eventually, they parted ways—without shouting or accusations. Asya took Mitya and moved back to her hometown, leaving the lone surviving figurine behind as a memory. Peter wasn’t lonely for long; he threw himself into a reckless, untethered life of repeated marriages, heartbreaks, and drink. Though a brilliant economist—in-demand at universities, author of a textbook, with a sparkling future—he let it all slip away. At last, thinking he had settled down, our relieved family attended his simple wedding to a stunning woman with a seventeen-year-old son—a stepchild Peter underestimated, and who ultimately drove them to divorce five years later after much strife. Peter bounced from one romance to the next—Lily, Natalie, Sue—believing each was the one. But life had other plans. At fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. No women remained but his family. On his deathbed, he asked me, “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed—bring it here.” I opened it, stunned to find it packed with delicate porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped. “I collected these for Asya—never forgot the silent reproach in her eyes when her collection was smashed. My poor wife endured plenty. There’s a hidden compartment with money—give it all to my dear wife. Ask her to forgive me. Promise you’ll do this, Simon.” I choked back tears and solemnly agreed. He pointed to an envelope under his pillow with Asya’s address. Though they hadn’t spoken in years, Asya had kept in touch, writing letters—never replied to, but always sent. After Peter’s funeral, I set off to find Asya. We met at a lonely train platform. She hugged me, “Oh Simon—you and Peter could be twins.” I handed her the suitcase, passed on Peter’s request for forgiveness and his last gifts. It was our final parting. Later, I received one last letter: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Mitya and I sold the figurines to a real enthusiast and used the money to move to Canada—my sister had long invited us, and nothing kept me here. All that remained was hope Peter would call me back—he never did. But I am happy he always saw me as his true wife. Now Mitya is better, and I am content. Farewell.” She left no return address…

THE TRUE WIFE How have you managed to survive so many years with one wife? Whats the trick?

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When a Man Breaks: The Night Stepan Came to My Village Surgery Weighed Down by Wife and Mother-in-Law, and How a Little Kindness Saved a Family

Wearied by the Wife and Mother-in-Law It was on one rain-soaked eveningoh, I remember it as clearly as