Emily Taylor

A Parent’s Love: Little Blessings, Holiday Traditions, and the Gift That Truly Mattered—How Gratitude, Laughter, and One Scary Taxi Mix-Up Showed the Fierce Heart of Family

Parental Love “Children are the flowers of life,” my mother used to say. And my father, always

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“YOU’RE TOO LATE, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE! AND WITH IT, YOUR JOB AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” — HER BOSS SHOUTED DOWN THE PHONE. MARINA STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED A STRANGER’S CHILD FROM. SHE LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF. Marina was the model corporate high-flyer—a regional director at 35, tough, efficient, always on call, her life scheduled to the minute in her Google calendar. That morning was the biggest deal of her year—a contract with a Chinese firm. She needed to be at the airport by 10:00. Leaving with time to spare (she was never late), she sped down the motorway in her new SUV, rehearsing her pitch. Suddenly, a battered old Ford ahead skidded, hit the verge, and tumbled into a ditch, landing wheels-up. Marina slammed on the brakes—calculating instantly: “If I stop, I’ll be late. Millions on the line. They’ll destroy me.” Other drivers slowed, took photos, drove on. She checked her watch—8:45. Time slipping away. Foot on the accelerator, she almost swerved round the forming jam, when she saw a child’s gloved hand pressed to the window of the upturned car. Marina cursed, hit the wheel, and pulled onto the shoulder. Running through the snow in stilettos, the smell of petrol filled the air. The driver—a young man—was unconscious, head bloody. In back, a five-year-old girl trapped and sobbing. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart!” Marina shouted, yanking at the jammed door. When it wouldn’t budge, she smashed the window with a stone, glass nicking her face, scratching her designer coat. She pulled the girl free, then—with help—got the driver out just before the car ignited. Shaken, tights torn, hands trembling and face covered in soot, she sat in the snow, clutching the girl. Her boss’s number flashed again. “Where are you?! Check-in closes in minutes!” “I can’t make it, Mr. Harrison. There’s been an accident. I was helping survivors.” “I don’t care! You’ve blown the deal! You’re finished! Out of the industry, do you hear!” She hung up. The ambulance arrived. The paramedic said, “They’ll live. You’re their guardian angel—without you, they’d have burned.” The next day, Marina woke up jobless. Her boss had kept his word—besides firing her, he blacklisted her in their tight-knit field. Doors kept slamming. She slid into depression, financial pressure mounting. “Why did I stop?” she wondered each night. “If I’d just driven on, I’d be in Shanghai sipping champagne. Now I have nothing.” A month later her phone rang—an unknown number. “Marina? It’s Andrew—the man from the Ford. You saved us. Please, we’d like to see you.” Visiting their council flat, Andrew (in a back brace), his teary wife, and their daughter Dasha (with a crooked angel drawing for Marina, black hair just like hers) offered her all they had: tea and gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Andrew said. “We’ve no money… but if you ever need anything…” “I need a job,” Marina admitted ruefully. Andrew had an idea—his mate, a quirky Yorkshire farmer, was looking for a manager—not mucking out barns, but sorting paperwork, grants, logistics. Modest wages, room included. Desperate, Marina went to see. Gone were the marble desks and Armani suits—just a battered desk, jeans, and wellies. She got to work—streamlining systems, securing subsidies, finding new markets. Within a year, the farm turned a profit. And she discovered a new peace—fresh bread, a loyal dog, no more layers of fake makeup or backstabbing games. For the first time, she felt alive. One day, a city delegation came to source farm produce for top restaurants—her former boss among them. He barely concealed his scorn, sneering at her weathered face and old jeans. “Well, Marina? Queen of muck, are we? You could have stayed on the board. Regret playing the hero?” She smiled, feeling nothing but indifference. “No, Victor. I saved two lives that day—and a third: my own. I saved myself from ever becoming you.” He harrumphed and left. She headed to the barn to greet a newborn calf, its nose nuzzling her palm. That evening—barbeque with Andrew, Lena, and Dasha—now close friends. Under vast stars invisible in the city, Marina knew she was finally where she belonged. Moral: Sometimes, losing everything is how you find what really matters. Career, money, status—they can all go up in smoke in an instant. But compassion, a life saved, and a clear conscience stay with you forever. Don’t be afraid to change course when your heart says “stop”—it might just be your true turning point.

Youre too late, Susan! The flights gone! And with it, your promotion and your bonus! Youre fired!

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Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming from You? A Chance Encounter at the Shop Leads Rita to a Down-on-His-Luck Stranger with Sapphire Eyes, a Hidden Past, and Handy Skills, Sparking an Unexpected Romance, Family Drama, and a New Beginning in Middle Age

Sir, do you mind not pushing? Goodness, is that smell coming from you? Sorry, the man mumbled, shuffling aside.

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Sir, do you mind not pushing? Goodness, is that smell coming from you? Sorry, the man mumbled, shuffling aside.

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Oksana, Are You Busy? A Mother’s Request, a Midwinter Mishap, and a New Year’s Night That Changed Everything

Annie, are you busy? her mum asks, poking her head around her daughters door. One minute, Mum!

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Igor Never Returned From His Holiday: Three Years of Waiting, Sweeping Autumn Leaves, and a Husband’s Sudden Reappearance With Secrets by the Sea

Nigel Didnt Return From His Holiday Still no word from your fellow? No, Vera, not a letter, not a callneither

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“Oh, You Drive Me Crazy!!!… You don’t like the way I eat, the way I dress, you say I do everything wrong!” Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. “You can’t do anything right!” Marina sobbed. “You never earn decent money… I can never count on your help at home… And we don’t even have children…” she added quietly. Belka, their white-and-ginger cat of ten, perched on top of the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “tragedy.” She knew—she could *feel*—that Mum and Dad loved each other, truly loved each other… So she didn’t understand why they had to say such hurtful things, making everyone miserable. Mum ran crying to the bedroom, while Dad started chain-smoking in the kitchen. Belka, sensing her family was falling apart, pondered: “This house needs happiness… and happiness is children… We need children… But where do you get children?” Belka herself couldn’t have kittens—she’d been spayed years ago—and as for Mum… the doctors said it was possible, but something just never seemed to work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the first time ever, crept out the window to visit her neighbour’s cat, Tabby, for a chat and a bit of advice. “Why on earth would you want kids?” Tabby scoffed. “Look at mine—they come over, I have to hide! They’ll smear lipstick on your whiskers or cuddle you so tight you can’t breathe!” Belka sighed, “We want good children… If only we could find them somewhere…” “Well…” Tabby thought out loud, “that stray Molly from the street has a litter… five of them, in fact. Take your pick.” Taking her chances, Belka leapt from balcony to balcony, down to the street. Trembling with nerves, she squeezed herself through the basement window bars and called out, “Molly, could you pop out for a moment, please?” From the depths of the basement came the faintest of mews. Cautious and wary, Belka snuck inside and followed the sound of tiny cries. Under a radiator, right on the bare stones, lay five helpless, blind kittens, nosing the air, desperately wailing for their mum. Belka sniffed them—Molly hadn’t been there for at least three days; the poor things were starving… Near tears, Belka carefully carried each kitten to the entryway. She curled up beside the hungry, mewing bundle, trying desperately to keep them from wandering off, all the while anxiously watching down the street for Mum and Dad to appear. When Pavel silently met Marina after work, they returned home in silence. Near the doorway, they stopped in their tracks—on the front step lay their Belka, (who frankly had never set paw outside alone), and five little kittens, squeaking as they tried to feed from her. “How on earth…?” Pavel stammered. “It’s a miracle…” Marina breathed, and, grabbing Belka and the kittens, they hurried inside… As they settled Belka, purring happily, and her new litter in a box, Pavel asked, “So what do we do with them?” “I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re a bit bigger, we can find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…” Marina whispered. Three months later, overwhelmed by it all, Marina sat stroking the feline “pack,” gazing into the distance and softly repeating, “This can’t really be happening… this just can’t be…” Then she and Pavel wept tears of joy, he lifted her into his arms and they talked and talked over each other, laughing and crying: “I’m so glad I finished the house!” “Yes, perfect for a little one to play outside!” “And the kittens can all run around, too!” “There’s plenty of room for all of us!” “I love you!” “And I love you even more!” Sage old Belka blinked away a tear—because, finally, life was coming together…

“How you get on my nerves!” shouted Paul, his voice cracking as he lost his patience. “

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The Mother-in-Law Anne Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching the milk simmer quietly on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times, each time remembering too late—foam would rise and spill over, prompting her to wipe the stovetop with a sigh. In these moments, Anne felt it wasn’t really about the milk. Since the birth of her second grandchild, everything in the family seemed to have gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary and withdrawn, speaking less each day. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes disappeared straight into the bedroom. Anne saw all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman to manage alone? She tried to talk, at first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she noticed a strange thing: after she spoke, the mood in the house grew heavier, not lighter. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew gloomier, and Anne herself returned home feeling as if she’d once again done something wrong. One day she went to see her vicar, not really for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with the weight she felt. “I must be a terrible mother-in-law,” she admitted, eyes averted. “I get everything wrong.” The vicar paused his writing and looked up. “Why do you think that?” With a shrug she replied, “I wanted to help. But it feels like I only make things worse.” He observed her, kindly. “You’re not a bad person. You’re tired, and deeply anxious.” She sighed. That felt true. “I’m frightened for my daughter,” Anne explained. “She’s so changed since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand in frustration. “It’s as if he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anne thought—remembering him washing up late at night when no one was looking, or taking the pushchair out on Sunday when it was clear he’d rather just collapse. “He does things… I suppose. But not the right way,” she replied, uncertain. “And what is the right way?” the vicar inquired gently. Anne wanted to answer at once, but found she really didn’t know. All she could think was: more, better, more thoughtfully. But what, exactly, was hard to say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” Anne said. “Then say that,” the vicar murmured, “not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?” “At the moment, you’re not fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting against her husband. Fighting makes you tense. And that exhausts everyone: them and you.” Anne sat in silence. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what actually helps. Acts, not words. Not against someone—for someone.” All the way home, Anne pondered that. She remembered how, when her daughter was small, she hadn’t lectured her but simply sat nearby if she cried. Why was it different now? The next day, she showed up at their house without warning, carrying homemade soup. Her daughter looked surprised, her son-in-law uneasy. “I won’t stay long,” she told them. “Just here to help.” She looked after the children while her daughter slept, and left without a single lecture about how hard things were or how they ought to be. The next week, she returned. And the week after that. She could still see her son-in-law wasn’t perfect, but she also saw him gently cradle the baby, tuck a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one was watching. One day in the kitchen, she finally asked: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as though nobody had ever asked. “It is,” he admitted after a pause. “Very.” That was all. But something sharp disappeared between them after that. Anne understood then: what she’d wanted was for him to change. But what she needed was to start changing herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, Anne no longer said, “See, I told you.” She just listened. Sometimes, she’d take the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she’d call her son-in-law just to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy, far easier to stay cross. But little by little, the house grew quieter. Not perfect, not happier—just more peaceful. One day, her daughter said: “Mum, thank you for finally being with us, not against us.” Anne thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation isn’t about someone admitting fault; it’s when someone chooses to stop fighting. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more considerate. That hope hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: the wish for peace in the family. And every time annoyance, resentment, or the urge to snap at him would rise, she’d ask herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.

DIARY ENTRY Margaret Taylor was sitting in the kitchen, absently watching the saucepan where milk was

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“My Grandchildren Only Get Fruit Once a Month While I Buy Premium Cat Food—Now My Daughter-in-Law’s Accusing Me of Being Heartless and Tries to Shame Me!”

My grandchildren only see fresh fruit once a month, yet she buys her cats ridiculously pricey food, my

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Vitaly’s World Is Turned Upside Down: A Mysterious Call from the Maternity Ward, an Unexpected Daughter, and a Life-Changing Decision He Never Saw Coming

William settled himself comfortably at his desk, laptop open and a strong cup of tea in hand.