Emily Taylor

Circumstances Don’t Just Happen—They’re Made by People: The Story of How Oleg Rescued an Abandoned Dog, Gave Her a Home and Fought to Keep Her When Her Old Owner Returned

Circumstances dont simply come abouttheyre shaped by people. Yet so often, we create the very situations

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Max held onto his regret for rushing into divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife Max Peterson’s cheerful mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered the building. At home he was greeted with comforting predictability: slippers at the door, the appetising aroma of dinner, a spotless flat, and fresh flowers in a vase. He wasn’t moved: his wife’s at home, what else would an older lady do with her days? Bake pies and knit socks. (Alright, maybe not the socks—but you get the point.) Marina appeared as usual, smiling and ready: “Hard day? I’ve baked pies—cabbage, apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze. She stood there in her trousered, at-home suit, her hair tucked away under a kerchief—her chef’s habit from a lifetime in the kitchen. Her eyes subtly lined, lips sparkling with gloss: another lifelong habit, one Max now found gaudy. Why doll up old age! He shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he spat out: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips quivered; she didn’t reply and didn’t set the dinner for him. It was just as well. The pies were under a towel, the tea brewed—he could handle it himself. After a shower and dinner, kindness began to return to him, along with memories of the day. Swaddled in his favourite bathrobe, Max settled into his reserved armchair and pretended to read. He recalled what that new colleague had said: “You’re quite the handsome man—and interesting, too.” At 56, Max headed up the legal department of a major firm. A recent graduate and three women over forty reported to him; another was off on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya. Max had been on a business trip during her hiring; he met her properly today. He invited her into his office to introduce himself. With Asya came the scent of delicate perfume and the sense of youth. Blonde curls framed her soft face; confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a telling beauty spot. Thirty, she said? He wouldn’t have guessed above twenty-five. Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old son. He saw it as a good sign—for reasons he couldn’t explain. Chatting, he joked about being “the old boss.” Asya fluttered her lashes and protested with words that lingered with him for hours. His wife, her hurt eased, appeared with his nightly chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always at the wrong moment.” But drank it anyway. Suddenly, he wondered what Asya might be doing now, this young, pretty woman—and felt a sting of long-lost jealousy. **** After work, Asya stopped by the supermarket: cheese, a loaf, kefir for dinner. At home, she hugged her son Vasili with routine more than affection. Her dad tinkered in his workshop, mum made tea. Asya announced a headache—no one to bother her, please. Truthfully, she was simply low. Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…

Malcolm harboured a persistent regret over his quick divorce. Clever men, he mused, turn their lovers

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“Dad, please meet my future wife and your daughter-in-law, Barbara!” Boris beamed with happiness. “Who?!” exclaimed Professor Dr. Roman Fillimore, incredulous. “If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny!” Roman eyed the rough hands and dirty fingernails of his supposed new daughter-in-law with distaste, convinced this country girl had never seen soap or water. “My goodness! How lucky my dear Laura didn’t live to see this disgrace! We tried to teach Boris good manners,” he thought in dismay. “It’s not a joke,” Boris challenged. “Barbara is staying with us, and in three months we’ll be married. If you don’t want to support your son, I’ll manage without you!” “Hello!” Barbara smiled and strode confidently into the kitchen. “I’ve brought pies, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms…” she listed off the items from her tattered bag as Roman watched in horror; a splatter of jam ruined the pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth. “Boris! Wake up! If you’re doing this to spite me, it’s awfully cruel. Which village did you find this uncouth girl in? I won’t let her stay in my home!” the professor shouted in despair. “I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live here,” Boris replied mockingly. Roman realized his son was taunting him and retreated in silence to his study. Their relationship had changed since Laura’s passing. Boris became unruly, dropped out of college, disrespected his father, and lived carelessly. Roman still hoped Boris would return to the thoughtful, kind boy he once knew, but every day his son grew more distant. Now, Boris had brought home a country girl, knowing his father would never approve. Eventually, Boris and Barbara married—without Roman’s blessing. The professor refused to attend the wedding, unwilling to accept this unrefined daughter-in-law. It irked him that Barbara, so uneducated and awkward, replaced the wonderful Laura as mistress of the house. Barbara seemed oblivious to his hostility and tried her best to please him, only making things worse. Roman saw nothing good in her, only bad manners and ignorance. Boris, after his brief stint as a model husband, returned to his old drinking and carousing. Roman often overheard their heated arguments and secretly hoped Barbara would leave for good. One day, Barbara burst in, sobbing. “Professor Fillimore! Boris wants a divorce, he’s kicked me out—and I’m pregnant!” “Out on the street? Surely not—go back to your village,” he replied lightly. “Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship,” he added cheerfully, pleased to finally be rid of his bothersome daughter-in-law. Barbara wept and gathered her things. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or how Boris could toss her aside so carelessly. She was from the countryside, yes, but she had a heart and feelings, too… *** Eight years passed. Roman Fillimore now lived in a care home, his health rapidly declining. Boris wasted no time placing him there, eager to avoid extra responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other choice. After a lifetime teaching thousands the virtues of love and respect—letters of thanks still arrived from former pupils—he’d failed to raise his own son right… “Roman, you’ve got guests,” his roommate said, returning from a walk. “My son? Boris?” Roman blurted, though he knew that was wishful thinking—Boris would never visit; his resentment ran too deep. “Dunno. The nurse said I should fetch you. What are you waiting for? Go on!” his friend encouraged. Roman took his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. As he descended the stairs, he immediately recognized her—eight years on, yet unchanged. “Hello, Barbara,” he said softly, guilt lingering for his past refusal to support this honest, simple woman. “Dr. Fillimore?” Barbara gasped, surprised. “You’ve changed so much… Are you ill?” “Yes, a bit…” he answered with a sad smile. “How did you find me?” “Boris told us. He won’t see his son at all, but the boy keeps begging to visit his dad, or his grandad… Ivan isn’t at fault that you don’t acknowledge him. He’s lonely without family. We’re alone together…,” Barbara’s voice trembled. “Sorry if this was a bad idea.” “Wait!” said Roman. “How’s Ivan now? I remember last time you sent a photo, he was just three.” “He’s at the entrance—shall I call him?” Barbara offered nervously. “Of course, dear—call him!” Roman replied, delighted. Ivan, a ginger-haired boy who resembled Boris, came shyly to meet his grandfather for the first time. “Hello, son! You’ve grown so much…,” Roman said, moved to tears as he hugged his grandson. They spent the day walking through the autumn park, Barbara sharing her struggles: her mother’s early death, raising Ivan and managing the farm alone. “Forgive me, Barbara. I’ve been so wrong. Despite thinking myself clever and educated, I’ve only just realized people should be valued for their sincerity and kindness, not just their intellect and manners,” Roman confessed. “Dr. Fillimore, we have a proposal,” Barbara said, smiling nervously. “Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’d be wonderful to have family close.” “Grandad, come on! We’ll go fishing, pick mushrooms in the woods… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room in our house!” Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go!” Roman said, smiling. “I missed my chance to raise Boris well, but maybe I can give you what I didn’t give him. Besides, I’ve never lived in a village—I think I’ll like it!” “You’ll love it!” Ivan replied, bursting with laughter.

Dad, let me introduce youthis is my future wife, and your daughter-in-law, Harriet! David beamed, his

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The Lonely Heart of the Cat Thudded in His Chest, Thoughts Racing and Soul Ached—What Had Happened for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Lesley Was Gifted a Pitch-Black British Shorthair for Her Housewarming, She Barely Recovered from Shock… Her Modest One-Bedroom Flat, Financed with Great Effort, Was Barely Furnished, and Life Was Full of Other Worries. Suddenly, There Was a Kitten. Still Reeling, Lesley Looked into Its Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a boy or a girl?” “A boy!” “All right, you’ll be called Felix,” she said to the kitten. The kitten opened his tiny mouth and obediently squeaked, “Meow”… ***** It turned out British Shorthairs make wonderful companions. And for three years now, Lesley and Felix have lived together in perfect harmony. Through sharing life, Lesley discovered Felix’s touching soul and big heart. He eagerly greeted his owner after work, warmed her at night, watched films snuggled by her side, and trailed after her during chores. Life with Felix became vibrant. It was nice to have someone waiting at home—someone with whom to laugh or cry, who understood her instantly. It seemed all was perfect, but… Recently Lesley noticed pain in her right side. She blamed an awkward twist, then heavy food, but as things worsened, she saw a doctor. When the doctor revealed her diagnosis and explained what lay ahead, Lesley sobbed all evening into her pillow. Felix, sensing her pain, quietly curled beside her and tried to comfort her with his soothing purr. Unknowingly, lulled by Felix’s purring, Lesley fell asleep. By morning, resigned to her fate, she decided not to tell her family about her illness—she wanted to spare herself pity and awkward offers of help. She still hoped medicine might help. A course of treatment was recommended. Then came the question: Where would Felix go? Deep inside, accepting that her illness could end tragically, she decided to find Felix a loving new home. She posted online, offering purebred Felix to good hands. When the first caller asked why she was parting with an adult cat, Lesley, not fully understanding herself, explained she was expecting a baby and had developed an allergy during pregnancy. Three days later, Felix departed with his carrier and belongings for a new family—and Lesley entered the hospital… Two days on, she phoned Felix’s new owners to ask after him, but, after many apologies, they explained Felix had escaped that same evening and couldn’t be found. Her first impulse was to run from hospital and search for her cat. She even pleaded with the nurse, but was sternly sent back to her ward. Her roommate, a frail elderly lady, noticed Lesley’s distress and asked what had happened. Lesley, in tears, confided everything. “Don’t despair, dear,” said the kind old woman. “Tomorrow a top specialist is coming from London. My own diagnosis is grim—my son wanted to transfer me, but I refused. He managed to arrange for this specialist anyway. I’ll ask her to see you too; maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” she said, gently patting Lesley’s shoulder. **** Once Felix escaped his carrier, he realised he was in a strange home. A hand reached out to stroke him—he snapped, clawed the hand, and fled to a dark corner. “Paul, leave him be for now. Let him adjust,” came a gentle female voice, but not the voice of his beloved Lesley. Felix’s heart beat dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, and his soul ached. What could possibly have happened for Lesley to give him away? Why had she left him? His amber eyes scanned the room fearfully. He spotted an open window. In a flash, the black cat shot across the room and out! Luckily, it was only the second floor and a soft lawn beneath—the beginning of Felix’s perilous journey back home… ***** The specialist appeared: a pleasant woman in her forties, named Dr. Mary Powell. She reviewed Lesley’s file, asked her to lie on her left side, and carefully performed examinations and tests. Lesley hoped for nothing. She returned to her room, finding her roommate already resting. “So, what did she say, love?” “Nothing yet; she’ll come to the ward later.” “I see. Sadly, my diagnosis was confirmed,” said the woman. “I’m so sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, unsure how to comfort someone aware her end was near. Half an hour later, Dr. Powell returned, accompanied by other doctors. “Well, Lesley, I have good news! Your condition is treatable. I’ve arranged your course already—stay a couple of weeks, complete treatment, and you’ll be healthy again,” she smiled. As the doctors left, her roommate said, “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, dear.” ***** Felix had no guiding star, but followed his feline intuition homeward. His journey was fraught with danger and comic mishaps—the once sheltered Brit transformed, overnight, into a streetwise predator. Dodging busy roads, darting stealthily, climbing trees, Felix pressed on toward his purpose… In one quiet yard, he came snout-to-snout with an old alley cat, who instantly marked Felix as an outsider. With a yowl, he attacked, but Felix, more bandit than aristocrat now, did not back down. Their scuffle was short—the local boss retreated, nursing a torn ear. How else? That alley cat wanted to show who’s boss; Felix was simply intent on getting home. The journey continued. Drawing on distant ancestry, Felix learned to nap on forked branches and, shamefully, eat from bins and steal scraps from other strays. Once, a pack of mongrels chased him up a spindly tree, barking and clawing at the trunk. Locals shooed the dogs away. One kindly woman tempted Felix with tasty sausage, and he let her scoop him up, seeking warmth, food, and safety. But, after resting and refuelling, Felix remembered his mission, sprinted out after her, and slipped back through a fortuitously open door—resuming his journey home… ***** Discharged from hospital, Lesley returned home, her mind echoing the kind woman’s wish for happiness. Of course, she was thrilled by her recovery. But her heart ached for Felix. She couldn’t imagine how she’d enter an empty flat, never to be met again. Barely across her threshold, Lesley phoned Felix’s previous adopters, got their address, and went to investigate Felix’s escape. She was told it was impossible, that two weeks had passed, that a pampered house cat couldn’t survive on the street—but she refused to accept it. Lesley wandered street after street, peering into every yard, scouring parks and garages, trying to think like a cat who had never braved the outdoors before. Calling Felix, peering into the darkness of cellar windows. Nearing her own block, she realised Felix had vanished without a trace. And how could he possibly find his way here—a route she’d walked for two hours, even with delays? She entered her courtyard, head bowed, eyes brimming with tears, heart heavy with grief. Through misted eyes, she saw, from the other side of the pavement, a black cat approaching. “A black cat”—the thought flashed through her mind. Lesley stopped, stared, and recognised him. She broke into a run, shouting, “Felix!” The cat didn’t run; he simply had no strength left. He sat down, squinting with happiness, and quietly squeaked, “Made it!”

The heart of the cat thumped dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, his soul ached. What on earth could

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Well, Your Precious Anastasia Has Gotten So Pompous! You Know What They Say—Money Changes People! I Had No Idea What Was Going On or How I’d Offended Anyone Once, I had a wonderful marriage—a loving husband and two great kids. Then everything fell apart in an instant when my beloved died in a car accident on the way home from work. The grief was almost unbearable, but my mum insisted I hold myself together for the children. So I did. I began working tirelessly and, when my kids grew up, I travelled abroad for work to support them, as I had no help at all. That’s how I ended up in Poland, and then in England. I changed jobs many times before earning a decent living. I sent money home every month, eventually bought my children their own flats, and renovated my own place. I was proud of myself and planned to return to Ukraine forever. But last year my life changed when I met a man—a fellow Ukrainian who’d lived in England for twenty years. We began talking, and I wondered if something real could blossom. But doubts haunted me. Artur couldn’t move back to Ukraine, and I wanted to go home. Recently, I finally returned, first meeting with my children and parents, but had no time to visit my in-laws. One day, my friend who works as a shop assistant came to tell me: —Your mother-in-law is upset with you! —How do you know? —I overheard her saying you’ve become arrogant and money has turned your heart. Plus, you never helped them financially. Hearing this hurt deeply. I raised two kids alone and did everything for them—I couldn’t afford to support my late husband’s parents too. I needed something for myself, you know? After that, I didn’t want to see my in-laws. But I forced myself, bought groceries, and visited. At first, all was well, but thoughts of the conversation stuck with me, so I said: —You know, life wasn’t easy all these years. I did everything for my kids because I had no one else to rely on. —We had no help either. Everyone else’s children support them, but we’re on our own—like orphans! You should return and look after us. My mother-in-law made me feel ashamed. I couldn’t even bring myself to admit I have a partner in England. I left, feeling heavy-hearted. Now I don’t know what to do. Am I really obligated to support my late husband’s parents? I just can’t take it anymore!

Well, your Emily is quite stuck-up now! They say money ruins people, and it surely has changed her!

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You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?! Screamed My Mother-in-law I’m Just a Normal, Working Daughter-in-law—No Crown on My Head. My Husband and I Live in Our Own City Flat, Juggling Mortgage, Bills, and Jobs from Morning till Night. My Mother-in-law Lives in the Countryside, Along with My Sister-in-law. It Would All Be Fine, If Only They Didn’t Treat Our Place Like a Weekend Getaway. At First, It Seemed Sweet: ‘We’ll Just Pop Over This Saturday.’ ‘Just for a Bit.’ ‘We’re Family, After All.’ Just for a Bit—Means They Stay the Night; Pop Over—Means They Arrive with Empty Bags, Pots, and Eyes Expecting a Feast. Every Weekend It’s the Same: After Work, I Rush Through Supermarkets, Cook, Clean, Set the Table, Smile for Hours, Then Stay Up Washing Dishes. Valentina Sits and Critiques: ‘Why’s the Salad Missing Sweetcorn?’ ‘My Favourite Borscht Is Thicker Than This.’ ‘We’d Never Make it Like This in the Village.’ My Sister-in-law Chimes In: ‘Oh, The Journey Was Exhausting.’ ‘No Dessert?’ And Never a ‘Thank You,’ or ‘Need a Hand?’ One Day I Said to My Husband: ‘I’m Not a Maid, and I Don’t Want to Spend Every Weekend Catering Your Family.’ ‘Maybe We Really Should Do Something About This.’ That’s When I Had an Idea. Next Time My Mother-in-law Called: ‘We’re Coming Over Saturday!’ ‘Oh, We’ve Got Plans for the Weekend,’ I Said Calmly. ‘What Plans?’ ‘Just Our Own.’ And You Know What? We Did Have Plans—But at Valentina’s Place. Saturday Morning, My Husband and I Were Standing on Her Doorstep. She Opened the Door—And Froze. ‘What’s This?!’ ‘We’re Visiting You. Just for a Bit.’ ‘You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests!?’ I Looked Her in the Eye and Said Calmly: ‘See? This Is How I Live Every Weekend.’ ‘So You’re Trying to Teach Me a Lesson? How Dare You!’ She Yelled So Loud The Neighbours Looked Over—and We Went Home. Here’s the Best Part: Since Then, No More Visits Without an Invitation. No More ‘Just Popping Over’ and No More Weekends Gone in My Kitchen. Sometimes, To Be Heard, You Just Need To Show People What It’s Like To Walk in Your Shoes. Do You Think I Did the Right Thing? What Would You Do in My Place?

One must really give fair warning; I wasnt at all prepared! Do you know how much it costs to host guests?

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“The Silent Gift: Five Years of Waiting, a Miracle at the Garden Gate, and How Our Deaf Son’s Art Taught Us What Family Truly Means”

“James, we’ve waited five years. Five. Doctors say theres no chance of children for us.

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You’ll Find Your Fate—No Need to Rush, Everything Happens in Its Own Time: Polina’s Quirky New Year’s Tradition of Visiting a Fortune Teller Leads Her on an Unexpected Train Journey, Where She Discovers Destiny and the True Meaning of Holiday Magic Among Strangers in a Big City

Youll find your fate. No need to hurry. All in good time. There was a curious tradition I once kept

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“Gran, Hello! — Matvey Shouted. — Who Gave You Permission to Keep a Wolf in the Village?”

Gran Alice! I cried, bursting through the gate. Who ever gave you permission to keep a wolf in the village?

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Breaking Free from Mother’s Shadow: At Thirty-Five, Barbara Begins Her Journey to Independence, Self-Love, and Happiness After a Lifetime Under the Control of Her Glamorous but Overbearing Mum

Under the Thumb of Her Mother At thirty-five, Mildred was a reserved and, as people say, rather downtrodden