Emily Taylor

Valerie Was Doing the Washing Up in the Kitchen When John Walked In—But Only After Switching Off the Light. “It’s Still Bright Enough, No Need to Waste Electricity,” He Grumbled. “I Was Going to Use the Washing Machine,” Said Valerie. “Do It Tonight, When the Electricity’s Cheaper,” John Replied Sharply. “And Don’t Run the Tap So Hard. You Waste Far Too Much Water—Far Too Much. Surely You Understand You’re Just Flushing Our Money Down the Drain?” He Turned Down the Tap. Valerie Looked at Her Husband with Sadness, Dried Her Hands, and Sat at the Table. “John, Have You Ever Looked at Yourself From the Outside?” She Asked. “Every Day,” He Snapped Back. “And What Do You See?” She Continued. “As a Man?” He Clarified. “As a Husband and a Father.” “Average, I Guess,” He Responded. “Neither Better nor Worse Than the Rest. Why Are You Nagging?” “Do You Really Think All Husbands and Fathers Are Like You?” Valerie Asked. “Are You Picking a Fight?” John Shot Back. Valerie Knew There Was No Turning Back—This Conversation Needed to Happen Until He Finally Understood Living With Him Was Pure Misery. “Do You Know Why You’ve Never Left Me, John?” She Asked. “Why Should I Leave You?” He Retorted. “Because You Don’t Love Me. Or Our Children.” John Tried to Shoot Back, But She Continued. “And Don’t Say Otherwise. You Don’t Love Anyone. And I Won’t Argue—No Point Wasting Time. I Want to Talk About Why You Haven’t Left Me and the Kids.” “Well? Why Not?” “Because of Your Stinginess—Because You’re So Incredibly Tight-Fisted That You See Leaving Us As a Financial Disaster. How Many Years Together? Fifteen? What Have We Achieved? Apart From the Obvious—Getting Married and Having Kids. What Achievements in Fifteen Years?” “We’ve Still Got Our Whole Lives Ahead,” John Said. “No, John. Not Our Whole Lives—Just What’s Left. In All Our Time Together, We’ve Never Once Had a Holiday by the Sea, Not Even in Britain. Always in the City. Not Even a Day Out for Foraging. Why? Because It’s ‘Too Expensive.’” “Because We’re Saving for Our Future!” John Insisted. “We? Or You? Every Month You Take All the Money and Squirrel It Away ‘for the Family.’ Really? Our Account? Let’s Check—Give Me Some Money for Clothes for Me and the Kids. It’s Been Fifteen Years Since I Bought Anything New—Still Wearing My Old Wedding Outfit and Hand-Me-Downs From Your Brother’s Wife. So Do the Kids. And I Want to Rent a Flat—Tired of Living in Your Mum’s Place.” “Mum’s Given Us Two Rooms, You Shouldn’t Complain. And As for Clothes, Why Waste Money? The Kids Can Wear What Their Cousins Outgrew.” “What About Me? Whose Cast-Offs Should I Wear—Your Brother’s Wife’s?” “Who Are You Dressing Up For?” John Sneered. “You’re a Mum of Two, You’re 35! You Shouldn’t Worry About Outfits.” “And What Should I Worry About?” “The Meaning of Life. Your Spiritual Growth is More Important Than Clothes, Flats, or All That ‘Women’s Rubbish.’” “So That’s Why You Keep All the Money to Yourself—for Our ‘Bright Future,’ So We Can Grow Spiritually?” “Because I Can’t Trust You—You’d Spend It All! How Would We Survive if Anything Happened?” “And When Exactly Will We Start ‘Living,’ John? Haven’t You Noticed We Already Live As If the Worst Has Happened—Scrimping on Everything, Even Soap and Toilet Paper, Stealing Hand Cream From Work—‘Every Penny Counts.’ Tell Me, How Much Longer Must We Endure? Ten Years More? Twenty? How Old Do I Have to Be Before We Can Finally Afford Decent Toilet Paper?” John Stayed Silent. Valerie Guessed, “Forty? No, Too Soon! Fifty? Still Too Soon? Sixty, Maybe? Or Will We Just Never Start Living At All?” Still Silence. “You Know What, John? What If We Don’t Make It to Sixty? We Eat So Much Cheap Rubbish Because You’re So Tight, and We’re Always Miserable—Don’t You Know That Miserable People Don’t Live Long? But Even If We Moved Out and Ate Properly, You Couldn’t Save Your Precious Money.” “Exactly,” Said Valerie. “That’s Why I’m Leaving—I’m Done With Constant Saving. I Don’t Want This Any More. You Can Keep Saving—I Won’t.” “How Will You Live?” John Was Horrified. “I’ll Manage—Rent My Own Place, Buy Clothes and Food, and Most of All, I Won’t Have to Endure Your Lectures on Penny-Pinching. I’ll Use the Washing Machine in the Day, Buy Nice Toilet Paper and Napkins, Shop Without Waiting for Sales, and Yes, I’ll Spend Every Penny—Even Your Maintenance Payments. I’ll Drop the Kids at Yours on Weekends and Go to Theatres, Restaurants, and By the Summer, I’ll Have a Seaside Holiday—Haven’t Decided Where Yet, But I Will.” John Felt Terrified—Not for Her or the Kids, But for Himself. What Would Be Left After Child Support? Especially If She Started Travelling and Spending ‘His’ Money? “One More Thing,” Valerie Said. “The Joint Account You Guard So Jealously—We’ll Split It. Half Each. And I’ll Spend My Share, Too. Every Penny. When My Time Comes, I Want My Account at Zero—That’s How I’ll Know I Truly Lived for Myself.” Two Months Later, John and Valerie Were Divorced.

Margaret was washing the dishes in the kitchen when Edward came in, flicking off the lights as he entered.

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Not Again! Max, Take Him Away! Anya Frowned at Toby, Who Was Clumsily Bouncing by Her Feet. After All That Time Deliberating, Researching Breeds, and Consulting Dog Trainers, They Had Finally Settled on a German Shepherd—Looking for Loyalty, Protection, and Companionship—Yet Ended Up with a Goofy Puppy Who Needed Rescuing from Even the Local Cats… Now, Living on the Ground Floor of a Classic Red-Brick London Terrace with a Newborn Daughter, Surrounded by Her Husband’s Ever-Growing Collection of Antiques and Rare Books, Anya Began to Doubt Their Decision. With Her Curator Husband Off at the British Museum or Scouring Portobello Market Most Days, Anya Found Herself Alone with Baby Katie and Their Lovable, Not-So-Fearsome Guard Dog—That Is, Until the Morning a Burglar Chose Their Flat and Discovered That Even the Silliest Dog Can Become a True Hero.

Hes licking himself again! Michael, will you get him off? Emily shot an exasperated look at Toby, the

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THE MYSTERIOUS NEW NEIGHBOURS A new couple moved into Flat 222 at Number 8, Byron Street. Middle-aged, maybe in their early fifties, both quite short and slender. He sports a beard and a grey coat; she often wears a long skirt and a colourful beret. They’re polite—always smiling in the lift and holding the door open, especially if someone’s carrying heavy shopping. And, which matters with these modern flats: they’re quiet. At least, that’s how it seemed at first. But after about two weeks, the Smiths from 221 and the Harrisons from 223 started to hear their new neighbours rather distinctly. It soon became the main topic of conversation at family dinner. Here’s what the Smiths—both in their forties and married half their lives—had to say: “Have you seen our new neighbours?” “Yes, we rode together in the lift yesterday.” “What do you think?” “They seem normal enough. Why?” “They’re… very affectionate.” “In what way?” “Well, during the day when everyone’s out, it gets quiet, and you can hear everything. They’ve been playing… erm, adult games. For three days in a row now. Very inventive, too. Like something out of a film.” “Seriously?” “Yes, and with a real sense of drama. It’s amusing until it gets distracting. Honestly, it makes working from home tricky.” “Oh, don’t be a prude; good on them—living it up at their age.” ‘Not like us,’ he thought but dared not say. At the weekend, even Mr Smith found himself an unwilling audience to a “classic” gardener-and-lady-of-the-house scene. Both blushed furiously. ***** As for the Harrisons, the youngest couple on the floor—nearly thirty, five years married, expecting their first child: “Did you see the new couple?” “Yeah, bumped into them in the corridor. Why?” “They’re interesting. She cooks him restaurant-worthy meals, and he showers her with gifts—never a day goes by without one.” “How do you know?” “I go for walks daily, and their kitchen smells divine. I even bumped into him with flowers and a gift bag once, dashing home like it was a date.” “Hmm.” “Maybe they’re not married at all—just lovers?” “No idea, but they definitely live together.” “And they’re always chatting in the kitchen, giggling and laughing if you listen quietly. Just like newlyweds.” “I get it. News is on—I’ll be in the lounge.” That Friday, Mr Harrison ran into the neighbour by the lift—clutching roses, a bottle of red, and looking hopeful for the evening. ***** A month passed. The mysterious neighbours of 222 were firmly established. The Smiths had grown used to the sounds from next door. The couple next door still hadn’t tired of one another; every day something new, or at least sweet sighs and creaking beds. As if they were in a hurry to savour every moment together. One night, Mrs Smith, eyes averted, confessed: “I stopped by the lingerie shop at the centre today—look at what I bought.” She flung open her robe. Mr Smith’s eyes sparkled. “Well,” he said, “I popped into an adult shop the other day—got this. Don’t know if you’ll like it.” “You never know until you try,” she blushed. ***** “Process is underway,” whispered the man in 222, eavesdropping on the Smiths through the wall. ***** Mr Harrison decided to visit the jeweller at lunch—he hadn’t treated his wife in ages. Once, he always had a treat for her tucked in his bag, even if only her favourite chocolate. He spotted his wife in her familiar coat. “Rachel! What are you doing here? This is miles from home.” “Just fancied a walk,” she faltered. “You?” “Got you these earrings. Here—couldn’t resist.” Rachel beamed, kissing him. “Thank you, love! I’m making carbonara with prawns tonight. Remember when I used to make that? They have the best prawns here.” “Mmm, my mouth’s watering just thinking about it.” “Don’t be late; I’ll have it ready by seven.” “Of course,” thought Mr Harrison, ‘better stop for flowers.’ ***** “What’s the update?” asked the man from 222. “She’s cooking something special and they’re off and running,” smiled his wife. ***** A month later, the Smiths were unrecognisable—ten years younger, always catching each other’s eye, just waiting for a moment alone together. Sometimes they’d even sneak away from the kids for a hotel night, relishing every second. Shared interests sprouted, and everything seemed easier. ***** Meanwhile, with the Harrisons about to welcome their first child, they’d rediscovered date nights: cinema, restaurants, art galleries. Rachel had dug out her old recipe book, and every week, Mr Harrison spoiled her with gifts or slipped a favourite chocolate into her bag. He couldn’t remember the last time he watched the news. ***** “So, how are they?” asked the woman from 222. “They’re good—quiet creaks now, must be the kids at home. But everything’s far livelier—I listen in all the time, just to make sure.” “And the other couple?” “They’re happily nest-building, laughing in the kitchen, delicious smells drifting down the hall.” “Brilliant! All done in three months. We’ll stay a few more weeks to seal the results.” “Alright. Who’s next?” “Simmons, Flat 65, Number 4. Next door in 66, a couple overrun by routine—forgotten each other’s names. And the lot in 64—bedroom blues, as usual.” “Understood. I’ll leave your tapes for now, keep things lively. No need to cancel the restaurant deliveries either. There’s still plenty of scented oil left. Oh, and those roses you swapped water for all week—completely wilted. You’ll have to buy a new bouquet.” “Will do. Rub my back, would you? Then let’s get some sleep…”

ODD NEIGHBOURS New neighbours moved into flat 222, number 8, on Shakespeare Avenue. A married couple

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“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Home The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. Saturday. My only day to catch up on sleep after that brutal quarterly report, and the last day I wanted to play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law, Sarah. She looked like she was about to storm the Tower of London, and behind her loomed three varying sizes of scruffy heads. “Ian!” I yelled, not picking up. “Your family. Handle them.” My husband stumbled from the bedroom, shorts on backwards. He knew, from my tone, my patience for his clan was buried somewhere in the Thames. … My flat—my rules. I’d bought this three-bed in central London two years before we even married, paying off the mortgage with the sweat of my brow. The absolute last thing I wanted was uninvited guests. The door burst open, flooding my meticulously designed and delicately scented hallway with mayhem. Sarah, laden with bags, didn’t bother saying hello. She just shuffled me aside like I was a side table. “Oh, thank goodness, we made it!” she exhaled, dumping bags onto my Italian tile. “Ali, why are you blocking the door? Kettle on, the kids are starving after that drive.” “Sarah,” my voice was cold, and Ian’s posture said he already knew what awaited him later. “What’s going on?” … The “one week” squatted into three. My once-immaculate flat, which I’d designed with an interior architect, became a barnyard—muddy shoes everywhere, sticky countertops, general chaos. … But the last straw wasn’t that. Arriving home early, I found my nephews bouncing on my £2,000 memory foam bed and my niece drawing a mural—with my Tom Ford lipstick—on the bedroom wall. … That night, Sarah wandered off to the shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. A text flashed up: “Sarah, payment for next month sent. Tenants ask if they can stay until August?” followed by a bank transfer of £800. It hit me. There was no renovation—Sarah had rented her own flat out for extra cash and moved into mine on a free ride. Groceries, utilities, and a passive income—genius, if you’ve no shame. … With my husband made aware and given a choice—his freeloading family or both of them gone by noon—I set a plan in motion during a rare window when the flat was empty. Locksmith, police, bags packed, evidence ready. When Sarah returned, arms full of Selfridges bags and attitude, she found all her belongings on the landing. The police officer confirmed: no right to be here. The game was up. She collected her stuff, shrieking, and departed. … Ian crept back—alone and apologetic. I laid down the law: one more family scheme, and he’d be following his sister out the door. … Finally, I sipped a perfect, hot coffee, in silence, in my own undisturbed flat. Crowns don’t chafe—when they’re well earned. (Adapted for a British audience and culture, names and settings changed, all original plot points and detail maintained.)

Well stay here until summer!: how I gave my husbands cheeky relatives the boot and changed the locks.

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Déjà Vu: She Always Longed for Letters – From Childhood Through Every Changing Address, While He Trusted No One and Expected Little, Living with His Dog and Sports Trophies – Their Lives of Solitude, Untold Loss, and Silent Hope Intertwine One Snowy New Year’s Eve, As a Rescue on an Icy Road, a Black Dog with Shining Eyes, and a Mysterious Letter Uncover Family, Healing, and the Courage to Love Again

Déjà vu She was always waiting for a letter. Ever since she was a child. For as long as she could remember.

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010

“WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HE’S A VEGETABLE! NOW YOU’LL BE CHANGING HIS BEDPANS FOR LIFE, WHILE I’M YOUNG AND NEED A REAL MAN!” — SHRIEKED THE BRIDE IN A&E. DR. LIDIA SAID NOTHING. SHE KNEW THIS PATIENT WASN’T “BRAIN DEAD,” BUT THE ONLY ONE WHO HEARD HER.

WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HES A VEGETABLE! YOULL BE EMPTYING HIS POTS FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, AND IM YOUNGI

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My Ex-Wife… It Happened Two Years Ago, Just Before My Return from a Work Trip to Sheffield. With Three Hours to Spare Before My Train Home to Birmingham, I Wandered the City – and Ran Into My First Wife, Whom I Hadn’t Seen for Twelve Years. Zina Still Looked the Same, Only Paler, and Our Unexpected Meeting Shook Us Both. I Had Loved Her Madly, to the Point of Jealousy and Our Inevitable Divorce. Unable to Bear My Constant Questions and Suspicions, She Finally Left, Leaving a Note Apologising and Asking Me Never to Look for Her. Now, After All Those Years, We Spoke at Length Until I Realised I Was Late for My Intercity Bus. As I Started to Leave, Zina Asked for a Favour: to Escort Her to an Office in a Large Building She Didn’t Want to Enter Alone, and I Agreed. Inside, We Wound Through Corridors and Stairways Among People of All Ages, My Thoughts Consumed by Zina. At Last, She Entered a Room Alone, Gave Me a Strange Farewell Look, and Said, “It’s Odd—I Couldn’t Be With You, Nor Without You.” When She Didn’t Return, I Suddenly Realised I Was Late. To My Horror, I Found Myself Alone in an Abandoned, Derelict Building. I Barely Escaped and Missed My Bus, Only to Learn That It Had Crashed into a River With No Survivors. Two Weeks Later, I Tracked Down Zina’s Mother in London and Learned the Truth: Zina Had Died Eleven Years Ago—A Year After Our Divorce. Sceptical, I Asked to See Her Grave and Stood Before the Headstone, Staring at the Smiling Woman Who, Somehow, Had Just Saved My Life.

My Former Wife… It all unfolded two years ago. My posting in London was drawing to a close, and

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Anna sat weeping on a bench in the hospital garden. Today she turned 70, but neither her son nor daughter came to see her or offered any birthday wishes. Her ward-mate, Mrs. Jenkins, was the only one who congratulated her, even bringing a small gift. The kindly cleaner, Mary, gave her an apple for her birthday. The care home was well-kept, but most of the staff were indifferent. Everyone knew that the elderly were left here by children to live out their days, as they’d become a burden. Anna’s own son had brought her here, saying it was just for a rest and some medical care, but in truth, she’d simply become a nuisance to her daughter-in-law. After all, the flat belonged to Anna, until her son convinced her to sign it over to him. He promised she’d live just as before, but the reality was different: the whole family moved in, and life became a battleground with her daughter-in-law. She was never satisfied—complaints about Anna’s cooking, about the bathroom, about everything. At first, her son defended Anna, but he stopped, and soon began to shout at her too. Then Anna noticed them whispering together and stopping abruptly when she entered the room. One morning, her son told her she needed to rest, to have treatment. Bitterly, Anna asked him straight to his face: “Are you putting me in a care home, son?” He flushed and fidgeted, replying guiltily: “No, Mum. It’s just a nice nursing home. Just a month of rest and then back home.” He delivered her, swiftly signed the papers, and hurried away, promising to come back soon. He only visited once, bringing two apples and two oranges, asking how she was before leaving again in a rush. She’s been here nearly two years now. After a month passed with no sign of her son, she phoned the family flat. Strangers answered—the flat had been sold, and her son’s whereabouts were unknown. Anna wept for a few nights, but knew by then she’d never go home, so what was the point in tears? Her greatest regret was pushing aside her daughter for her son’s sake. Anna was born in a village, married Peter, her school sweetheart. They had a large house and a smallholding—never rich, but never hungry either. One day a friend from the city visited, tempting Peter with promises of city life and good wages. He persuaded Anna to sell all and move, and they were given a flat and bought an old car, a battered Ford. But Peter died in a car accident. Left alone with two children, Anna worked evening cleaning jobs to scrape by. She thought her children would help her once they grew up—it didn’t turn out that way. Her son got into trouble; Anna borrowed to keep him out of jail and spent years repaying the debt. Her daughter Daisy got married and had a baby, but the child was often ill and Daisy left her job to care for him. After much searching, doctors finally diagnosed a rare disease that only one London specialist could treat, and the waiting list was endless. Daisy’s husband left her, though she kept the flat, and she eventually met a widower whose child suffered from the same illness. They became a couple, but five years later he fell ill and needed surgery. Anna had savings she’d meant to give her son for a house deposit—but when Daisy asked for help, Anna refused, wanting to save the money for her own child instead of “an outsider.” Daisy was deeply hurt, telling her mother to never ask for help again, and they stopped speaking for twenty years. Daisy eventually cured her husband and they moved to live by the sea with their children. Anna always wished she could change the past, but it was all too late. Anna slowly stood from the bench and turned for the care home. Suddenly, she heard: “Mum!” Her heart leapt. Slowly turning, she saw her daughter—Daisy. Her knees buckled, but Daisy rushed over and caught her. “At last, I’ve found you… My brother wouldn’t give me your address, but I threatened court over the illegal flat sale and then he finally gave in.” They sat together in the entrance hall. “I’m so sorry, Mum, for not speaking for so long. First, I was angry, then ashamed, and kept putting it off. But last week I dreamed of you, wandering the woods and weeping. I woke up feeling so heavy-hearted. I told my husband everything—he said, ‘Go, make peace.’ I came, but strangers were living in your flat. It took a while, but I finally got your address. Now I’m here. Pack your things, you’re coming with me. We have a beautiful house by the seaside, you know. My husband insisted, if my mum ever needed help, I should bring her home.” Anna hugged her daughter tearfully—but these were tears of happiness at last. Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long on the land the Lord your God is giving you.

June 9th I found myself sitting alone on the bench in the hospital gardens, tears blurring my vision.

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That Morning, Michael’s Condition Worsened—He Struggled to Breathe. “Nick, I Don’t Want Anything—No More Medicines, Nothing. But Please, Let Me Say Goodbye to My Friend. I Beg You, Unhook All This…” Men from the Ward Gathered. “Nick, Surely There’s Something You Can Do? No One Should Go This Way.” Nick Knew What He Had to Do—Consequences Be Damned. With the Nurse’s Blessing, He Rushed Out to Fetch Michael’s Beloved Dog. The Tearful Goodbye Left the Room in Silence, the Dog Crying Beside His Owner. Afterwards, Nick Sat in the Hospital Courtyard, Ready to Quit His Job—But Anna, Eyes Red from Grief, Called Him the Best of Men. Three Years Later, Nick and Anna, Now a Family, Stroll Down to the River: Their Child in a Pram, Their Loyal Dog at Their Side—Love, Loss, and Loyalty Endure.

In the morning, Michael George was worse. He was struggling to breathe. Nick, I dont want anything.

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Night Express: When a Rowdy Gang of Partygoers Takes Over London’s Last Trolleybus, Only to Discover the Chilling Price for Their Wild Ride—A Harrowing Midnight Journey with a Silent Conductor, a Desperate Plea for Escape, and an Unexpected Lesson Waiting at the End of the Line

Night Bus The doors of the night bus folded together with a clatter, letting a burst of warmth and murky