Emily Taylor

I’m 47 Years Old. For 15 Years, I Worked as a Personal Chauffeur for a Senior Executive at a Leading UK Tech Firm. He Always Treated Me Well—Great Pay, Bonuses, Full Benefits, Even Extra Perks. I Drove Him Everywhere: Business Meetings, Airport Runs, Formal Dinners, and Family Events. My Family Lived Comfortably; I Gave My Three Children a Good Education and Bought a Modest Home on a Mortgage. Last Tuesday, I Was Driving Him to an Important Meeting at a London Hotel. As Always, Dressed Smartly, Car Immaculate, Arrived Promptly. He Told Me This Meeting Was Crucial, With International Guests, and Asked Me to Wait in the Car. I Agreed, No Problem. The Meeting Began in the Morning. I Waited in the Car. Noon Came and Went, Then the Afternoon, Still No Sign. I Texted to Check In—He Said It Was Going Well, to Give Him Another Hour. By Evening, I Was Hungry But Didn’t Move—Didn’t Want to Miss Him. Finally, Around 8:30pm, He Came Out With His Guests, All Laughing. I Opened the Car Door for Them. He Asked Me to Take Them to Dinner. On the Drive, They Spoke English. Over the Years, I’d Studied the Language in My Evenings, Though I’d Never Mentioned It at Work. I Understood Everything. One Guest Remarked How Dedicated I Was for Waiting All Day. My Boss Laughed and Said, “That’s What I Pay Him For—He’s Just a Driver, He Has Nothing Better to Do.” They All Laughed. A Lump Formed in My Throat, But I Said Nothing and Kept Driving. During Dinner, He Told Me to Grab Something to Eat and Return in Two Hours. Alone, His Words Echoed in My Mind: “Just a Driver.” Fifteen Years of Loyalty, Early Mornings, Hours Waiting—Was That Really All I Was to Him? Next Day, I Arrived as Usual. As He Got in, I Left My Resignation Letter on the Seat Beside Him. He Looked Puzzled and Asked What It Was. I Told Him I Was Resigning—Respectfully but Firmly. He Was Stunned, Offered Me More Money, Asked If Something Happened. I Said It Wasn’t About Money, But Time for a Change. He Pressed for the Real Reason. At a Red Light, I Looked at Him and Said, “Last Night, You Called Me ‘Just a Driver’ With Nothing Better to Do. Maybe That’s True for You, But I Deserve to Work for Someone Who Respects Me.” He Turned Pale, Tried to Explain He Didn’t Mean It, It Was a Thoughtless Remark. I Told Him I Understood, But After 15 Years, It Was Clear Enough. I Deserved to Be Valued. At the Office, He Asked Me to Reconsider and Offered a Significant Raise. I Refused, Promised to Work My Notice, Then Leave. My Last Day Was Difficult. He Tried Harder With Even Better Offers, But My Mind Was Made Up. Now, I’m in a New Job—Not as a Driver, But as a Coordinator, With Higher Pay, My Own Office, Set Hours. My New Boss Said He Values Loyalty and Hard Work. I Didn’t Hesitate to Accept. Later, I Got a Message From My Old Boss—He Said He Was Wrong, I Was More Than a Driver, I Was Someone He Relied On, and Asked for Forgiveness. I Haven’t Replied Yet. Now, I Feel Valued in My New Job, but Sometimes Wonder—Did I Do the Right Thing? Should I Have Given Him a Second Chance? Sometimes, Five Seconds and a Careless Sentence Can Undo 15 Years of Trust. What Do You Think—Did I Do the Right Thing, or Was I Too Harsh?

I’m 47 now, mate. For the past 15 years, I worked as a personal driver for a senior director at

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I Was in This Relationship for Five Years: Two Years Married and Three Years Living Together, Mostly Long Distance with Visits Every Three Months—How Trust, Independence, and a Seemingly Perfect Love Unravelled into Betrayal, Heartbreak, and Choosing My Self-Respect Over Revenge

I found myself five years deep in this relationshipa strange stretch of time, as if years were rivers

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Irresistible Force Meets Immovable Object: The Tumultuous Life of Aunt Pauline – A Tale of Unhappy Marriage, Generational Heartache, and the Unbreakable Bonds of Family

AN IRRESISTIBLE FORCE MEETS AN IMMOVABLE OBJECT My dear aunt Ill call her Beatrice got married not out

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When the Key Turned in the Lock, His Heart Nearly Leapt from His Chest and His Soul Rushed to Meet Her… “How Many More Mistakes Can You Make?! Even Your Errors Are Ridiculous! Look at This!” – Alice Edwards jabbed her long manicured finger at the monthly report, almost breaking a fake nail. “Go! Redo it! And if you can’t handle it—just quit!” Despite being a stylish, attractive woman, her boss’s anger transformed her into something demonic. Lisa left the office in silence. Just over an hour of the workday remained. She had to finish. But her bonus was already gone. It felt like one long, unbroken run of bad luck—with hurdles at every turn. A week ago, she’d rung her mum, who—true to form—was in a mood, picked a fight out of nowhere, accused Lisa of everything under the sun, and hung up in a huff. Lisa could never get used to it and was left badly shaken. Now she was afraid to call her mum at all. Two days ago, she’d lost her bank card and had to cancel it, order a new one. Yesterday, her one small comfort—Fifi, her tricolour one-year-old cat—had chased a bird onto the balcony and fallen from the third floor. Lisa saw her land in the flower bed below, pick herself up, brush off, and wander off, but when Lisa went down, Fifi was nowhere to be found. Nearly twenty-four hours later, her cat was still missing. Somehow, Lisa managed to hand in the cursed report and headed home, too miserable for even a quick stop at the shop. She crashed on the sofa and burst into bitter tears. Even half an hour later, when she’d run dry, there was no relief—just a procession of snakelike, poisonous thoughts: Who am I living for? My mother doesn’t care, I’ve got no family, even my cat’s gone. And that sudden, dark decision brought an odd sense of release. “Well, let them break their nails and drive themselves mad!” she thought bitterly. “It’ll be too late soon anyway.” The prospect of not having to go to work tomorrow, not having to beg forgiveness from her mum for things she hadn’t done, filled her with a giddy, reckless cheer. And then—with just one tiny step left—a phone rang. An unfamiliar number. She nearly didn’t answer; then thought, what if this is the last human voice I’ll ever hear? “Hello?…” No one spoke. “If you’re going to call, at least say something!” A deep male voice finally cut through: “Please… don’t hang up.” “Who are you? What do you want?” Lisa asked irritably; she was in a rush, after all, for something she considered—at that moment—life-or-death. “I just wanted to hear another person’s voice… I haven’t spoken to anyone for a week. I thought, if no one answered me, then that was it…” He sighed, ragged and desperate. “How can that be? Can’t you go out, walk in the park? It’s so simple!” Lisa scrambled onto the wide windowsill with her feet. “I can’t. I live on the fifth floor. My wife left me a week ago…” his voice faded. “I’d have left too! Are you a man or not?!” Lisa snorted, not grasping his problem just yet. “I’m in a wheelchair. Not even a year now. I’m afraid I couldn’t manage five flights, not both ways. Our building has no lift.” He sounded steadier now. “You can’t walk?!” Lisa cried in horror, regretting her outburst, but her words were out and couldn’t be caught. “No, not at all. Spinal injury. I can’t walk,” he said, and she thought she even heard a smile in his voice. They ended up chatting for half an hour. Lisa wrote down his address, and an hour later she was at his door with two giant shopping bags. A young, attractive man opened the door—sitting in his wheelchair. “I’m Lisa!”—only now it hit her: she didn’t even know his name. “Arsene,” he beamed at her, as though he’d been waiting his whole life for her to arrive. It turned out they lived nearby. Lisa began visiting every day and realised her troubles, compared to his, were mere trifles—trifles that had nearly cost her the will to live. She grew stronger, tougher, and more determined as she cared for him. As if by magic, Fifi reappeared one day, peacefully waiting for Lisa on the doormat. At work, her boss, Alice Edwards, went right back to howling in the mornings. But Lisa had had enough: “Alice, what right do you have to shout at and demean me? I can’t work under this stress. I feel a migraine coming on, I’m going on sick leave—where will you find a replacement?” Her colleagues snorted with laughter as Alice turned and stomped away. Her mother rang, unable to withstand the silence: “Hello, daughter! Why don’t you call? Don’t you care if your mother’s alive? You’re so hard-hearted! Ungrateful! I’m talking to you, Elizabeth!” her voice raised to a shriek. “Hello, mum. I won’t speak to you if you shout at me,” said Lisa calmly. “How dare you?! I’ll hang up this phone!” her mother screamed. “Go on, then.” Lisa’s voice was indifferent. Two days later, her mother called back—not to apologise, of course, but at least she kept it civil. A month later, Lisa moved in with Arsene and rented out her own flat. Their friendship deepened into something gentler, more trusting, more grateful—perhaps this was how love began. Lisa hired a masseur for him and booked weekend pool sessions using her rental income. And, joyfully, feeling slowly returned—he could already wiggle his toes. Then Lisa’s mother fell ill, and she took two days off work to be with her. Arsene waited, missing her like mad, lying uselessly on the sofa like a loyal dog, day after day. It was February: a blizzard was raging that day. He knew when the coach would arrive, how long she’d take to get home, climb the stairs—time crawled past with no sign of Lisa. He wheeled himself to the window. All he saw was a whiteout; even her phone was dead by now. One hour, then two, then three passed… When the key finally turned in the lock, his heart nearly leapt from his chest, his soul racing to greet her. “Arsene, the coach got stuck in the snow—had to wait for the rescue crew. My phone died straight away…” she shouted from the hallway as she hurled off her coat. “Arsene!” she called as she ran in and froze. He was standing just two steps from his wheelchair, smiling.

When the key turned in the lock, his heart nearly leapt from his chest, and his very soul dashed out

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Growing Up Trying Not to Disappoint My Mum – and How I Lost My Marriage Without Realising It My Mother Always Knew Best. Or So It Seemed. From Childhood, I Learnt to Read Her Moods by Her Voice, The Way She Closed Doors, the Silence. If She Was Pleased, All Was Well. If Not… I Must Have Done Something Wrong. “I Don’t Ask Much,” She’d Say. “Just Don’t Let Me Down.” That “Just” Weighed More Than Any Rule. When I Married, I Thought My Life Was Finally My Own. My Husband Was Calm and Patient, Avoided Arguments. At First, Mum Approved. Then She Had Opinions on Everything. “Why Do You Come Home So Late?” “Don’t You Think You’re Overworking?” “He Doesn’t Help You Enough.” At First I Laughed and Told My Husband She Was Just Worried. Then I Started Explaining Her, Then Trying to Please Her. Without Realising, I Started Living by Two Voices. My Husband’s—Gentle, Caring, Wanting Closeness— And My Mother’s—Always Certain, Always Demanding. When We Planned a Trip, Mum Would Get Ill. When We Had Plans, She Needed Me. When My Husband Said He Missed Me, I’d Reply, “You Have to Understand, I Can’t Just Leave Her.” And He Did—For a Long Time. Until One Night He Said Something That Shocked Me More Than Any Argument: “I Feel Like I’m the Third Person in This Marriage.” I Snapped Back, Defended Mum, Defended Myself— Told Him He Was Overreacting, It Wasn’t Fair to Make Me Choose. But the Truth Was, I Had Already Chosen. I Just Hadn’t Admitted It. We Stopped Talking. Slept Back to Back. Chatted About Chores, Not Us. And When We Fought, Mum Always Knew. “I Told You,” She’d Say. “Men Are Like That.” And I’d Believe Her—Out of Habit. Until One Day I Came Home and He Was Gone. No Drama—He Left His Keys and a Note: “I Love You, But I Don’t Know How To Live With Your Mother Between Us.” I Sat on the Bed, Not Knowing Who to Call—Mum or Him. I Chose Mum. “Well, What Did You Expect?” She Said. “I Told You…” Something Broke in Me Then. I Realised I’d Spent My Life Afraid to Disappoint One Person… And Lost Another Who Only Wanted Me By His Side. I Don’t Blame Mum Entirely—She Loved Me In Her Way— But I Didn’t Set Boundaries. I Mixed Duty With Love. Now I’m Learning What I Should Have Known Sooner: Being Someone’s Child Doesn’t Mean You Stay Small Forever. And A Marriage Can’t Survive When There’s a Third Voice. Have You Ever Had to Choose Between Not Disappointing a Parent… And Saving Your Family?

I grew up doing my absolute best not to disappoint my mumwhich, quite unintentionally, led to the slow

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Bride for Hire — The Wedding’s Off! — Polina stunned her parents over dinner. Mum nearly choked on her tea at her daughter’s announcement. — Polina! Are you out of your mind? The dress is bought, the rings are ready, the reception is booked… Your David has been waiting for this day like it’s the Second Coming! Please tell me you’re joking, — her mother pleaded, panic in her voice. — No, Mum, I’m not joking. Floyd and I are moving to London soon. It’s serious, — Polina replied firmly. — London? Why would you go there? It’s all foreign, all strange… Different people, a different country. You’ll get lost and forgotten! This Floyd has clearly got inside your head. He’s probably married already—with kids! He’s old enough to be your father! Your David loves you so much. He’s like another son to us! Don’t throw away true love. Every action has consequences, remember that, — Mum begged. — I’m not afraid of consequences, — Polina said resolutely. …A couple of weeks later, Polina and Floyd left for England. Polina had dreamt all her life of seeing how people lived in other countries. She’d learned French by heart. Spoke flawless English. Was starting on Spanish—who knows where life would take her? After university, she worked as a translator in a travel agency. That’s where she met Floyd, when she had to accompany an overseas visitor to various events. Floyd took a keen interest in her straight away. Polina was easy-going, friendly, and beautiful—but most importantly, she was young, just twenty-three to Floyd’s forty-six. At first, she was amused by the foreign gentleman’s advances. She never expected Floyd to propose—within a week of meeting! Polina didn’t mention her own approaching wedding to David. She was left confused: what to do? Not every girl gets a chance to marry a foreigner! How could she miss such an adventure, even if it wasn’t for love? Her life would be exciting, full of new experiences. She’d be grateful to her foreign husband, surely that was enough for a young wife? David would get over it—he was still young, plenty of time to find someone new. Polina broke the news to her would-be groom over the phone. David, bewildered, wished her well—and drowned his heartbreak in drink. …Floyd and Polina landed in London. She was delirious with happiness—could dreams really come true? When they reached Floyd’s huge home, his family greeted them. Two grown-up sons—Harry and Ethan. (Soon, Polina would marry Ethan and find true happiness.) Later, Floyd’s ex-wife Leonora appeared—a tall, stylish woman who was not at all amused: — Have you lost your mind, Floyd? Who is this girl? Where did you find her? Is she moving in with us? — Yes, she’s moving in. Reminder: this is my house—and Polina will soon be my wife, so please be kind, Leonora, — Floyd replied, half-apologetic. Polina felt awkward in this tense atmosphere. The family had broken up but still all lived together, with Leonora clearly ruling the roost. But someone else had already won her heart—Ethan, Floyd’s younger son. Not David with his apologies, not even Floyd. Here was something universal—the spark of eternal love… Ethan, twenty-four, had his mum’s good looks and immediately noticed the pretty stranger his father brought home. Something electric passed between them. When Floyd suddenly delayed the wedding without explanation, Polina didn’t argue—she wasn’t going back to England. She was given a cosy room. Relations with Floyd were cordial but innocent; Leonora ignored her completely. …Three months passed. Polina got closer to Ethan, who finally confessed the truth about his family: Floyd was still in love with his ex-wife, and she with him. A huge row led to their divorce, but neither wanted to reconcile. So Floyd, hoping to make Leonora jealous, decided to pretend he was remarrying. Polina was perfect as the ‘bride-for-hire’. Once his ex gave in, the plan was to send Polina home—with gifts and a return ticket. When Polina heard this from Ethan, she burst out laughing in disbelief. — Just my luck! I’ve ended up a bride for hire! — Polina, I can’t be without you, — Ethan admitted. — I thought you’d never say it! At last! — she sighed in relief. — How could I, when you were supposed to marry my dad? When Ethan learned Polina was not really engaged to his father, their love blossomed. — Would you have married my father, Polina? — As soon as I saw you, my plans changed forever. I’d have said no, — she smiled. They embraced. Polina forgave Floyd and Leonora—sometimes even the worst twists of fate can lead to happiness… Polina and Ethan soon married. Ethan, afraid Polina might leave for her homeland, didn’t delay in starting a family—first a son, then a daughter. Their home was full of warmth and love. Floyd and Leonora, meanwhile, mended fences and doted on their grandchildren. …Once, Polina’s mother wrote, asking her to visit. She travelled alone, leaving the children with Leonora. Mum met her in tears: — Oh, Polina! Your David is dead! And he’s taken his wife with him—motorbike crash. Their little girl is orphaned, just three years old. Poor thing! David, as it happened, had never forgotten Polina. He remarried only to fill the void, but tragedy followed. Polina listened, hugged her mum and said, — It’s OK, Mum—we’ll adopt David’s little girl as our own. That will be his gift to us. Polina knew this was right, and Ethan would agree. — Now, please make me something to eat, Mum—I’m shattered after the journey, and you know future mothers have to eat for two! — Polina winked.

THE BRIDE FOR HIRE The weddings off! I blurted out to my parents over dinner. Mum nearly choked on her

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Last Love: “No, Irochkina, I really haven’t any money! I gave my last to Natasha yesterday! You know she has two children!” Deeply upset, Anna Ford hung up the phone. She did not want to think at all about what her daughter had just said. “Why is it like this? I raised three children with my husband, did everything for them. Put them all through university, now they all have good jobs. But now, in my old age, I have neither peace nor help.” “Why did you have to leave me so soon, Walter? Life was easier with you,” Anna thought, speaking to her late husband in her mind. Her heart squeezed painfully; her hand reached habitually for her tablets: “Only one or two capsules left. If I get worse, there will be nothing to help me. I must go to the chemist.” She tried to stand up but sat down immediately: her head spun terribly. “It’s fine, the tablet will work soon, and all will pass.” But time went on, and she felt no better. Anna dialled her youngest daughter: “Natasha…” was all she managed to say. “Mum, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later!” She dialled her son: “Darling, I’m not feeling well. I’ve run out of my tablets. Could you, after work…” Her son didn’t even let her finish. “Mum, I’m no doctor, and neither are you! Call an ambulance, don’t wait!” Anna sighed heavily. “That’s true, he’s right! If I don’t feel better in half an hour, I’ll ring for an ambulance.” She carefully leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, counting to one hundred in her mind to relax. From far off, a sound reached her—what was it? Ah yes, the telephone! “Hello!” she said, struggling to open her mouth. “Anna, love, it’s Peter! How are you? I just had a bad feeling—I wanted to call you!” “Peter, I don’t feel well.” “I’m on my way! Can you open the door?” “Peter, I always leave the door open these days.” Anna let the phone slip from her hand and didn’t have the energy to retrieve it. “So be it,” she thought. In her mind’s eye, memories of her youth began playing like a film: here she was, a young girl—a first-year at the London School of Economics. Two charming, dashing military cadets stood on either side of her, both holding balloons. “How funny,” she’d thought back then, “big lads with balloons!” Ah, of course! It was the ninth of May—VE Day! Parade, street parties! And there she was, between Peter and Walter, holding balloons. Back then, she’d chosen Walter. He was bolder, perhaps, and Peter was shy and reserved. Then fate parted them—she and Walter moved to Surrey for his service, Peter was posted to Germany. They met again in their hometown years later, both men retired. Peter had always lived alone—no wife, no children. They’d ask him why it happened that way… He’d just wave it off, or make a joke: “Unlucky in love—perhaps it’s time to take up poker!” Anna heard voices around her, conversation. She managed to open her eyes. “Peter!” He was beside her, with what was clearly a paramedic. “She’ll be fine now,” said the medic. “Are you her husband?” “Yes, yes,” Peter replied. The medic gave Peter instructions, and Peter sat, holding Anna’s hand, until she began to recover. “Thank you, Peter! I feel so much better now!” “That’s wonderful. Here, let me get you some tea with lemon.” Peter bustled away, making things in the kitchen, fussing over Anna, too concerned to leave her on her own. “You know, Anna, I loved you all my life; that’s why I never married.” “Oh, Peter, Peter! Walter and I were happy—I respected him, and he loved me. You never said anything in our youth; I never truly knew how you felt. But what use is there talking about it now? Those years are gone and can’t come back.” “Anna, let’s spend whatever time we have left happily—however long God gives us, let’s be happy together!” Anna rested her head on Peter’s shoulder, took his hand and said, “Let’s!” She laughed, her laughter light and full of joy. A week later, Natasha finally rang. “Mum, you called—I couldn’t answer, then I got busy and forgot…?” “Oh, that… It’s all fine now. Since you did call, I don’t want a surprise: I’m letting you know—I’m getting married!” There was silence on the other end, then the sound of her daughter sucking in a breath, smacking her lips in disbelief. “Mum, are you in your right mind? You’ve had one foot in the grave for years, and now you’re getting married? And who’s this extraordinary man?” Anna shrank inside, her eyes filling with tears. But she found the strength to reply, calmly and clearly: “That’s my personal business.” And she hung up. She turned to Peter: “Well, get ready—the whole gang will turn up tonight! Prepare for a siege!” “We’ll manage! We’ve survived worse!” Peter chuckled. That evening, all three children arrived: Greg, Irene, and Natasha. “Well, Mum, introduce us to your Casanova!” Greg sneered. “Nothing to introduce, you know me,” Peter said, stepping out. “I’ve loved Anna since our youth. When I saw her so ill a week ago, I realised I couldn’t lose her. I proposed and she kindly accepted.” “Listen here, you overgrown clown—have you completely lost your minds? Love at your age?” Irene screeched. “And how old is ‘your age’, exactly?” Peter asked calmly. “We’re barely seventy—still plenty of life in us. And your mother is still a beauty!” “I suppose you’re angling after Mum’s flat, is that it?” Natasha asked in her solicitor’s tone. “Children, for heaven’s sake—what does my flat have to do with it? You each have your own homes!” “Nevertheless, we have a share in this flat,” Natasha insisted. “Look, I want nothing! I have somewhere to live,” Peter said flatly. “But I will not sit by while you insult your mother. It’s disgusting to listen to!” “And who are you to be opening your mouth here, you ancient playboy? Who asked your opinion?” Greg puffed himself up like a fighting cock, moving threateningly towards Peter. But Peter didn’t flinch. He drew himself up to his full height and looked Greg directly in the eye. “I’m your mother’s husband, whether you like it or not!” “And we’re her children!” Irene shouted. “And tomorrow, we’re putting her in a home or in the madhouse!” Natasha joined in. “Not a chance! Come on, Anna, we’re leaving!” They walked out together, hand in hand, never looking back. They didn’t care what anyone thought. They were happy and free. A lonely streetlamp lit their way. And the grown-up children watched after them, unable to understand how there could possibly be love at seventy.

THE FINAL LOVE Maisie, I don’t have any money! I already gave the last of it to Sophie yesterday!

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Olivia Spent the Entire Day Preparing for Her First New Year’s Eve Away from Her Parents—Cleaning, Cooking, Setting the Table to Celebrate with Her Beloved. For Three Months, She’d Lived with Tony, Who Was Fifteen Years Older, Divorced, Paid Child Support, and Sometimes Drank Too Much… But None of That Mattered When You’re in Love. Nobody Could Understand What Drew Her to Him: Far from a Looker, With a Nasty Temper, Unbelievably Stingy, and Always Broke—And If He Did Have Money, He Only Spent It on Himself. But Somehow, Olivia Fell for This Oddball. She Hoped Tony Would Notice How Easygoing and Domestic She Was, and Want to Marry Her. He’d Always Say, “We Need to Live Together So I Can See What Kind of Homemaker You Are—My Ex Was Useless.” Olivia Never Knew What His Ex Was Like—He Never Explained. So She Tried Her Hardest: Never Complaining When He Came Home Drunk, Cooking, Cleaning, Doing Laundry, Buying Groceries with Her Own Money (He Shouldn’t Think She’s After His Wallet), Even Laying Out the New Year’s Feast at Her Expense and Getting Him a Brand New Phone as a Gift. While Olivia Prepared, Her “Wonderful” Tony Was Busy in His Own Way—Getting Drunk with Friends. He Came Home Merry and Announced His Mates Would Be Joining Them for New Year’s—People Olivia Didn’t Even Know. She’d Set the Table and There Was an Hour Left to Midnight, but Her Spirit Was Sinking—But She Held Back Her Feelings, Not Wanting to Be Like His Ex. Half an Hour Before Midnight, a Rowdy, Drunken Crowd of Men and Women Burst In. Tony Perked Up Immediately, Sat Everyone Down, and the Booze Kept Flowing. He Didn’t Even Introduce Olivia—She Was Invisible, Unnoticed, While They Ate the Food She’d Made, Joked Among Themselves, and Laughed together. When Olivia Suggested It Was Time to Pour the Champagne for the Countdown, Someone Slurred, “Who’s That Then?” and Tony Quipped, “My Bedside Neighbour,” Sending His Friends into Gales of Laughter. They Mocked Her Naivety, Praised Tony for His “Clever Move” in Finding Himself a Free Cook and Housemaid, and He Didn’t Defend Her—He Laughed Along, Munching on Food She’d Bought and Made, “Wiping His Feet” on Her Efforts. Quietly, Olivia Left the Room, Packed Her Things, and Went Back to Her Parents. She’d Never Had Such a Miserable New Year. Her Mum Gave the Usual, “I Warned You,” Her Dad Breathed a Sigh of Relief, and After She’d Cried Her Heart Out, Olivia Took Off Her Rose-Tinted Glasses. A Week Later, When Tony Ran Out of Money, He Turned Up at Her Door as If Nothing Had Happened: “Why’d You Leave? Did You Get Upset?” Then Tried Guilt-Tripping Her: “Nice of You, Lounging with Mum and Dad While I’ve Got Nothing in the Fridge! You’re Acting Just Like My Ex!” Olivia Was So Stunned by the Nerve of Him That She Was Momentarily Speechless—All the Comebacks She’d Practiced Vanished. All She Managed Was to Tell Him Off in the Strongest Terms and Slam the Door in His Face. This Was How Olivia’s New Life Began—Right with the New Year.

So, you wouldnt believe what happened to my friend Emily last New Years Eve. She spent the whole day

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Viktor, Please Don’t Take Offense—But I Want My Real Dad to Walk Me Down the Aisle. He Is My Father, After All. You… Well, You’re Just Mum’s Husband. The Wedding Photos Will Look Better If It’s Me and Dad; He Looks So Distinguished in a Suit. Viktor Paused Mid-Sip of His Tea. He Was Fifty-Five, with Trucker’s Calloused Hands and a Bad Back. Across the Table Sat Alina—the Bride, Beautiful and Twenty-Two. He Remembered Her at Five, Hiding from Him Behind the Sofa. He’d Stayed, Taught Her to Ride a Bike, Kept Vigil When She Was Sick, Paid for Her Braces (Selling His Motorbike) and Her College by Working Double Shifts. “Real Dad” Igor Showed Up Every Few Months—With Plush Bears and Tall Tales, Never Child Support. “Of Course, Alina,” Viktor Said Quietly, Setting Down His Cup. “Blood’s Blood. I Understand.” She Kissed His Cheek. “By the Way—the Restaurant Needs Another Deposit. Dad’s Account Is Frozen with Tax Issues. Could You Spot Us a Grand? I’ll Pay You Back…From the Gifts.” Viktor Wordlessly Retrieved the Envelope—His Toyota Repair Fund. “Take It. Keep It—It’s My Gift.” The Wedding Was Lavish, Country Club, Floral Arch, Fancy Host. Viktor Sat with Vera, His One Suit Pinching His Shoulders, Watching Alina Shine. Big Moment: Igor Walked Her Down the Aisle in a Perfect Tux—Rented, with Money Quietly Borrowed from Alina. At the Reception, Igor Toasted: “My Little Princess! May Your Husband Treasure You as I Always Did!” The Crowd Applauded, Women Wept. Viktor Lowered His Head; He Remembered Igor Not Bothering to Collect Alina from Hospital. Seeking Air, Viktor Stepped Out—And Overheard Igor Bragging on the Phone: “It’s All Good, Mate. We Party, Suckers Pay. The Groom’s Got Money—Dad’s Got Connections—I’m Working an Angle, Might Get a Loan. Alina? She Worships Me—a Couple Compliments and She Melts. Thank God I Left When I Did.” Viktor Froze—But So Did Alina, Hidden in the Shadows, Listening. Tears Ruined Her Makeup. Viktor Gently Draped His Jacket on Her Shoulders. “Come on, Love. Don’t Catch Cold.” “Uncle Viktor…Dad…He…” “I Know,” Viktor Said Softly. “Come—Wash Up, Fix Your Face. Don’t Let Him Know He’s Hurt You. This Is Your Day, Not His Performance.” Back in the Hall, the Father–Daughter Dance Began. Igor Marched Forward, Arms Outstretched, but Alina Took the Mic—Her Voice Trembling but Clear: “I Want to Change Tradition. My Biological Father Gave Me Life—and I Thank Him. But This Dance Belongs to the One Who Protected Me, Soothed My Scrapes, Never Let Me Fall. Dad Viktor—Will You Dance with Me?” The Room Whispered. Viktor—Awkward, Red-Faced, in His Ill-Fitting Jacket—Crossed the Floor. Alina Embraced Him, Sobbing, “Forgive Me, Dad, Please.” He Stroked Her Back Gently: “It’s All Right, Sweetheart. All Right.” Igor Drifted Off, Barred for His Final Curtain Call. Three Years Later, Viktor Lies in a Hospital Bed, Worn Out After a Heart Attack. Alina Arrives, Hand in Hand with Her Young Son, Who Runs to Viktor with a Cry of “Granddad!” Alina Kisses Viktor’s Work-Hardened Hand. “We Brought You Oranges. We’ll Get You Through This—I’ve Booked the Best Clinic.” Viktor Smiles. No Fortune, an Old Car, a Bad Back—but the Richest Man Alive. Because He’s Dad. No ‘Step-’ Needed. Life Set Things Right—Though Sometimes at Great Cost. At Last, Everyone Learned—Fatherhood Isn’t About a Name on a Birth Certificate, but a Hand That Catches You When You Fall. The Lesson: Don’t Be Fooled by Shiny Packages—They’re Often Empty Inside. Cherish the One Who’s There for You Every Day, Silently Supporting You, Asking Nothing in Return. When the Celebration Ends and the Music Fades, Only the Ones Who Truly Love You Remain. Did You Have a Stepfather Who Became the Real Dad? Or Do You Believe Blood Is Everything? 👇👨‍👧

Jack, please dont take this the wrong way. But I want my dad to walk me down the aisle. Hes my real dad

La vida

A Parent’s Love: Elly’s Heart-Stopping Taxi Mix-Up, Grandparents’ Hugs, and the Fierce Instinct to Protect Her Sleeping Angels

Emma sighed, exhausted but happy, as she settled her children into the backseat of the taxi.