Emily Taylor

We’ve Still Got Things to Do at Home… Granny Val opened the garden gate with difficulty, limped her way to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock, entered her chilly, unused cottage, and sat down on a chair by the cold stove. The air inside smelled abandoned. She had only been gone three months, but the ceilings were already thick with cobwebs, the old chair creaked in protest, wind howled in the chimney—the house greeted her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me with? How are we meant to survive the winter?! “I’m coming, my dear one, just let me rest a moment… I’ll get the fire going, we’ll warm up soon…” Only a year ago Granny Val bustled around her old home: whitewashing, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before icons, worked at the stove, darted through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house thrived with her—floorboards cheerfully squeaked under her light steps, doors and windows flew open to a gentle touch, and the stove diligently baked delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She buried her husband early, raised three children, educated them all and set them up out in the world. One son became a sea captain, one a colonel in the military—both live far away and rarely visit. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed on in the village as head agronomist, working from dawn till dusk; she visits on Sundays with a pie and a hug, then disappears again for the week. Val’s comfort is her granddaughter, sweet little Sarah. You could say Sarah was raised by her granny. And what a beauty Sarah turned out to be! Big grey eyes, waist-long hair the colour of ripe wheat, curly, thick and shining—a real glow to it. She puts it up in a ponytail and the lads in the village are left speechless. Lithe and graceful—how did a village girl get such poise, such prettiness? Val herself was charming in her youth, but side by side with Sarah—she’s the shepherdess, Sarah’s the princess… And she’s clever, too. Sarah finished an agricultural degree in the city, returned home to work as an economist. Married the local vet, and thanks to a young families’ government scheme, they landed themselves a brand new home. And what a home! Sturdy, solid, all red brick. By village standards—a manor, not a house. But Granny Val’s house has its orchard—everything grows and blooms. Sarah’s new place—only three lonely sprigs in the garden. Growing things never came naturally to Sarah, gentle as she is, sheltered by her grandmother from every draft and heavy chore. Then little William was born, and there was no time for gardens. Sarah kept urging her granny: Come live with us! The house is big and modern, and you won’t have to light the fire. Val was beginning to feel her age—she turned eighty, and it’s like her body waited for the milestone to give up. Her once lively legs carried her less and less. So she agreed at last—lived with Sarah for a couple of months. Then one day she heard: “Gran, you know I love you—but all you do is sit! You’ve been on your feet all your life! Look at me—I want to set up a home, but I need your help…” “I can’t, darling, my legs have given out… I’m old now…” “Hm… got old as soon as you moved in with me, did you?” Not quite what Sarah hoped for; soon Granny, not much use anymore, was sent home. From then, stung by disappointment, Val’s health declined. Her feet shuffled slower and slower—tired from a lifetime of rushing. Getting from her bed to the table became a struggle, and getting to church—impossible. Father Brian, the parish priest, came to visit his once-most-active helper. He sized up the scene with a caring eye. Val was writing letters for her sons—her usual monthly updates. The cottage was chilly despite the stove being lit; the floor icy cold. She wore an old woolly cardigan, faded headscarf, and worn-out slippers—hardly the neat, proud woman she used to be. Father Brian sighed: she needed help. Maybe Anna, from nearby, still young enough to lend a hand? He brought bread, gingerbread, and half a warm fish pie (a gift from his wife, Alexandra). Rolling up his sleeves, he cleaned the stove, brought in armfuls of firewood, lit the fire, filled up a large blackened teapot. “Dearie me! Oh! I mean, Father—could you help me with these envelope addresses? My handwriting is chicken scratch—they’ll never arrive that way!” He wrote out the addresses neatly, throwing a glance at her letters—big, shaky writing: “I’m doing very well, my dear son. I have all I could want, thank God!” Letter after letter, the tales of Val’s ‘good life’ were all blurred with salty splotches. Anna took over looking after Val, while Father Brian visited regularly, bringing Communion; on big holidays, Anna’s husband would give Val a lift to church on his motorbike. Life settled a little. Sarah didn’t visit, and a few years on—she fell gravely ill. For ages, she’d blamed her stomach aches on ulcers, but it turned out to be lung cancer. Within six months, Sarah was gone. Her husband nearly moved onto the grave—drinking away his misery, sometimes sleeping at the cemetery. Four-year-old Will was left dirty, hungry, unwanted. Tamara took him in, but her job kept her busy, so Will was soon destined for boarding school. The place was decent, with a strong headteacher, good food, and weekend visits allowed. Not a real home, but Tamara couldn’t see any other way. Then, one day, Val came roaring up in Anna’s old motorbike sidecar, driven by their burly neighbour Peter, sailor tattoos and all. Both looked like they meant business. “I’m taking Will in with me,” she said. “Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage a little boy? He needs feeding, washing—” “As long as I’m alive, Will isn’t going to a home,” Val insisted. Tamara, surprised at her usually gentle mum’s resolve, fell quiet and packed Will’s things. Peter bundled old and young into the sidecar, delivered them home. Neighbours clicked their tongues: “Kind old dear, but losing her wits—she needs caring for herself, and now she’s taken on a child? He’s no puppy! Where does Tamara get off, letting this happen?” After Sunday service, Father Brian visited, half-expecting to find a hungry, neglected Will to have to rescue. Instead, the house was warm, the stove ablaze. Will, clean and happy, listened to “The Gingerbread Boy” from an ancient record player, and the ‘frail old lady’ was bustling around the kitchen—greasing trays, kneading dough, cracking eggs for a cheese cake, as sprightly as she’d been years ago. “Father dear! I’ve just started cheese buns—wait a bit, there’ll be a treat for Alexandra and young Fraser, too!” Father Brian came home, amazed, and told Alexandra what he’d seen. She thought a moment, then reached for a big blue notebook, found a page, and read: “Old Nora had lived her long life well. All her hopes and dreams had drifted by, now sleeping beneath a snowy grave. One bitter February night, she prayed for ages in front of the icons, then lay down and told the family: ‘Call the priest—I’m dying.’ Her face went as white as the snow outside. The family called the priest, Nora confessed and took Holy Communion. She lay there, not eating or drinking, for a whole day—only the faintest breath showed her soul hadn’t flown. Suddenly, the front door opened—a blast of frosty air, a baby’s cry. ‘Hush—it’s Granny dying in here!’ ‘Well, I can’t silence a newborn, she doesn’t know any better!’ It was Nora’s granddaughter, Maggie, home from the hospital with her red-faced new baby. That morning everyone else had left for work, leaving Nana and the new mum alone. Maggie had barely any milk yet, couldn’t settle her daughter, and the baby screamed, utterly disturbing Nora’s dying. Nora lifted her head, focused her clouded eyes, and with effort, sat up, swung her bare feet onto the icy floor, feeling for her slippers. When the rest of the family rushed home, fearing the worst, they found Nora not only alive but far healthier than usual—walking the room, soothing the contented baby, while her exhausted granddaughter snoozed on the settee.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and finished, “My great-gran, Vera, loved me so much, she just couldn’t let herself die yet. Like that old song says: ‘It’s far too early for us to leave—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived another ten years after that, helping my mum, your mother-in-law, raise me—her cherished great-granddaughter.” Father Brian smiled back at her.

Theres still important work left to do at home Gran Vera managed to unlatch the garden gate, shuffled

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

“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!

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.

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!

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

“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. “

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

“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