Emily Taylor

Nice Try, Romeo! My Suitor Thought He Could Move Into My Flat at My Expense I’ve always been determined and goal-oriented—by 25, I managed to save enough to buy my own flat, all on my own, with no help from family or relatives. When I fell in love, I was foolish enough to mention I had my own place. I made it clear from the start: I wasn’t going to live in his flat, so we agreed he’d find us a place to rent together, while I’d let out my flat to save up for a car. He agreed and said he’d soon have enough saved so we could move in together. But just six months later, he turned up at my door with his suitcase, claiming he’d lost his job and had no money, asking me to let him stay “just for a while.” Thankfully, he had his own family to turn to—because I said no. I’m convinced this was just a ploy to freeload at my expense—so I ended things for good.

As luck would have it, Ive always been someone who sets her sights firmly on her goals. By the time I

Ever Since I Was a Little Girl, My Parents Told Me I Was Useless and Nobody Needed Me—But I Proved Them Wrong by Moving to London, Starting My Own Business, and Building the Family I Always Dreamed Of

Since I was a young boy, my parents used to tell me that nobody needed me and that I would never amount

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.

Emily, its been five years since you left; you havent cared how Im living or whats happened to me.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.

Emily, its been five years since you left; you havent cared how Im living or whats happened to me.

A Grey Beard, But a Beautiful Soul: How a Year-Long Romance with a Sheffield Gentleman Ended in Heartbreak—And Led Me to Unexpected Love with My Own British Neighbour

A GREY BEARD, BUT A BEAUTIFUL SOUL Youve lied to me about everything! Im ending our correspondence.

Go Away and Never Come Back: A Heart-Wrenching Tale of Love, Betrayal, and Loyalty Through the Eyes of a Boy, His Dog, and a Family Shattered by Hardship in Rural England

Go. Dont come back. Go, do you hear me? Tom whispered, tears stinging his eyes. Go, and never come back.

Go Away and Never Come Back: A Heart-Wrenching Tale of Love, Betrayal, and Loyalty Through the Eyes of a Boy, His Dog, and a Family Shattered by Hardship in Rural England

Go. Dont come back. Go, do you hear me? Tom whispered, tears stinging his eyes. Go, and never come back.

Grandad It was summertime. I was walking home after evening football practice when I spotted an elderly gentleman—really quite frail—fallen on the pavement, unable to get up. People were giving him a wide berth, apparently assuming he was drunk, while he muttered to himself and reached out for help. My mum taught me from a young age to help others whenever I can, so I went over and asked, “Do you need a hand?” He couldn’t answer coherently; he just made sounds and kept stretching his arms out towards me. A passing woman scolded me: “Don’t go near him! Can’t you see he’s drunk? You’ll catch something! And he’s filthy, you’ll get yourself dirty!” Looking closer, I saw the man’s hands were covered in blood, and a wave of pure dread washed over me. I asked what had happened, but again only got murmurs in reply; then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up a plastic carrier bag lying beside him. Inside were shards of broken beer bottles. He bent down, grabbed a few more pieces from the ground, and put them in the bag. That’s why his hands were bleeding. I started cleaning his hands with wet wipes so I could help him up and walk him home (call me selfish, but I didn’t want to get blood on my football kit…). Once his hands were as clean as I could manage, I helped Grandpa to his feet. I asked for his address but he just mumbled and gestured. Realising I wasn’t understanding, he pointed towards a nearby block of flats, then indicated two numbers with his fingers—his flat number, I guessed. I pressed the right button on the entryphone and soon a woman’s anxious voice answered. Grandpa murmured again. Within moments, a man and woman dashed outside—both immediately fussed over Grandpa, checking he was okay. The man thanked me and scooped Grandpa up to carry him inside. The woman kept asking how she could thank me. I refused, about to leave, when she suddenly asked me to wait, as if she’d remembered something. She rushed back inside and soon reappeared with a huge basket of raspberries. “Home grown,” she beamed. I thanked her, but tried to refuse. “Go on, take them,” she insisted. “We nearly lost our minds when we came back from the allotment and Grandpa was missing. Here’s the thing: he was captured by the Germans in the war. Because he held an important post, he injured his own tongue so he wouldn’t speak under interrogation. There wasn’t exactly much hygiene in those camps, so by the time he escaped, the infection was so bad half his tongue had to be removed. That’s why he can’t talk, only makes sounds. Local teenagers have taken to drinking beer in our playground in the evenings, smashing the bottles everywhere. We’ve filed police complaints, but nothing gets done. Children get glass in their hands and feet—my own daughter, Sophie, cut her foot badly once. That’s why Grandpa started sweeping up after those hooligans—so the little ones wouldn’t get hurt. But he’s old now, his legs barely hold him. We’ve tried everything, even hiding his keys, but he keeps going out. Once, when I was on shift, he fell and lay in the cold for five hours—no one helped. We were just about to go searching when you called up on the entryphone. Thank you.” After that story, I was speechless. She pressed the raspberry basket into my hands and I gave her a grateful bow—honestly, there were no words. Halfway home, I broke down in tears. Why is our country like this? Why does everyone only think of themselves? Please, if you ever see someone who has fallen and can’t get up, don’t just assume they’re a drunk. Go over and ask! They might need your help. And especially—young people—let’s remember that we are HUMANS, not PIGS!

Granddad Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman

CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THAT MUTT’S SMELL! — SHOUTED HER HUSBAND. SHE CHOSE HIM AND DROPPED HER OLD GERMAN SHEPHERD IN THE WOODS… BUT THAT EVENING, HE TOLD HER HE WAS LEAVING FOR ANOTHER WOMAN

CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER YOUR DOG OR ME! I CAN’T STAND THE SMELL OF THAT MONGREL ANYMORE!

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val struggled to unlatch the garden gate, tottered up to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock for ages, then finally entered her chilly, unheated cottage and sank onto a rickety chair beside the cold stove. The house smelled empty and unlived in. Although she’d only been away for three months, cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the antique chair let out a mournful creak, and the wind whistled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her with a grumpy, “Where’ve you been, mistress? Who’d you leave me with? How are we supposed to get through winter like this?” “Just a minute now, my dear,” she murmured, “let me catch my breath… I’ll light the stove, we’ll warm up…” Just last year, Granny Val bustled briskly about her old place: whitewashing, painting, fetching water. Her tiny, sprightly figure would bow before the icons, then take charge of the stove, then whirl through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house rejoiced with her—the floors creaked with her lively steps, doors and windows eagerly swung open at the gentle press of her work-worn hands, and the oven baked splendid pies. They belonged together: Val and her timeworn cottage. She buried her husband early. Raised three children, educated each one, set them up in life. One son was a sea captain; the other, a colonel in the army—both living far away and rarely visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village, now the chief agronomist—but she worked all hours, visiting her mother only on Sundays with a soul-restoring pie, then away again for another week. Her consolation was her granddaughter, little Svetlana, who had practically grown up at Granny’s side. And goodness, how lovely she’d become—with big grey eyes, waist-length golden hair that shone even on cloudy days, and a willowy figure. Wherever did a village girl get such poise, such beauty? Granny Val herself had once been a looker, but comparing an old photo to Svetlana’s—well, it was shepherdess and queen… And clever, too: Svetlana finished university in a nearby city and returned home as an agricultural economist, married a local vet, and thanks to a scheme for young families, they were given a brand-new brick house—a real showstopper for those parts. The only thing missing was a garden—at Granny Val’s there was riotous colour and growth, but at Svetlana’s, just three timid green shoots. Svetlana, gentle by nature and always coddled by Granny against draughts and hard chores, wasn’t one for growing things. And then baby Vasya came along—no time for gardens now. So Svetlana invited her grandmother to move in: “Come on, Granny, live with us—it’s a big, comfortable house, no need to light the stove.” When Granny Val turned eighty, her sturdy legs suddenly refused to cooperate, and at last—reluctantly—she agreed. But after just a couple of months, she overheard: “Granny, you know I love you so much! But why do you just sit around? You’ve always been so active, always working, and now you’ve settled in—see, I wanted to start a little farm and was counting on your help…” “But I can’t, my dear, my legs just don’t work anymore… I’m getting old…” “Hmph… Funny how you got old the moment you moved in with me…” And so, not living up to expectations, Granny Val was quietly packed off back to her own place. Upset at not being able to help her beloved granddaughter, she soon took to her bed. Her worn-out legs barely moved anymore: getting from her bed to the table was a feat; making it to her beloved church? Impossible. Father Boris visited his loyal parishioner—once such an energetic helper at the old church. He surveyed the cold, draughty cottage. Granny Val sat at the table, laboriously penning her usual monthly letters to her sons. It was chilly—the stove barely warm, the floor icy. Even her best jumper and a scruffy old headscarf couldn’t keep her, once the tidiest of housekeepers, comfortable. Father Boris sighed: She needs help. But whom to ask? Maybe Anna, who lived nearby and was still hearty—twenty years younger than Val. He got bread, ginger cakes, and half a hot fish pie (a kind gesture from his wife Alexandra), then rolled up his sleeves, cleared the old ashes, chopped and carried in wood for several stoves, stoked the fire, fetched water, and set a big blackened kettle to boil. “Dear boy—oh, I mean, dear Father, please help me with the addresses for the envelopes. My handwriting’s so wonky it’ll never get there otherwise!” Father Boris glanced at the shaky scrawl—big, wobbly letters: “I’m doing very well, darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!” But the letters about Granny Val’s “good life” were all blurry with ink—and, it seemed, with salty tears. Anna came to look after her, Father Boris checked on her often, and for big church holidays, Anna’s husband Uncle Pete, an old sailor, would bring Granny Val to church on his motorbike. Life gradually brightened. Her granddaughter stopped visiting, and before long fell gravely ill. Svetlana, always plagued by stomach pains, put it down to an old complaint—it turned out to be lung cancer. She passed away in just six months. Her husband, devastated, all but lived at her grave, drinking day and night. Four-year-old Vasya was left dirty, hungry, and neglected. Tamara took him in, but busy as she was, she couldn’t look after her grandson—and Vasya was soon lined up for the local children’s care home. It was well run, with a lively headmaster, proper food, even home visits at weekends—but nothing like family. One day, in Uncle Pete’s battered old “Ural” bike with a sidecar, Granny Val appeared at Tamara’s. Uncle Pete, barrel-chested and tattooed all over with anchors and mermaids, looked ready for a fight. Granny Val announced briefly: “I’m taking Vasya to live with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk! How can you handle a little one? He’ll need feeding, washing…” “As long as I live, Vasya won’t be sent to a home,” Granny Val declared. Astonished by her usually gentle mother’s determination, Tamara fell silent and started packing Vasya’s things. Uncle Pete delivered them both back to the little cottage, nearly carrying them inside himself. Nosy neighbours shook their heads: “Lovely old dear, bless her, but she must’ve lost her marbles—she can’t care for herself, never mind a child! He needs so much attention… What’s Tamara thinking?” After Sunday service, Father Boris braced himself for the worst: would he have to remove poor, hungry Vasya from a weak, ailing old lady? Instead, he entered a warm, welcoming cottage. Vasya, clean and content, listened to a scratchy old record of “The Gingerbread Man.” And that frail old lady? She was flitting around the kitchen, greasing baking trays, kneading dough, mixing eggs into cheese. Her tired old legs were suddenly working just like they used to. “Dear Father! I’m just making cheese buns… Wait a tick—hot ones for Alexandra and little Koozie…” Father Boris went home still reeling and told his wife what he’d seen. Alexandra paused, fetched a thick blue notebook from the bookcase, found a marked page, and read aloud: “Old Mrs. Egorova had lived her long life. Everything had passed by, flown away—hopes, dreams, all asleep beneath the snowy drifts. It was time to go where there’s no pain, no sorrow, no sighing… One February evening, Egorova prayed long before her icons, then lay down and said to her family, ‘Call the priest—I’m ready to pass.’ Her face became pale as the snow. The priest came, she made her confession, took communion, and lay for a whole day—taking neither food nor water. Only her faint breath showed a soul not yet departed. Suddenly, the front door burst open—a gust of cold air, a baby’s wail. ‘Hush now, Granny’s dying here.’ ‘I can hardly stop a baby—she’s just been born!’ Grand-daughter Nastya had come home from hospital with her newborn, and, all alone, felt helpless—her milk hadn’t come, she didn’t know how to soothe the baby, who screamed, disturbing dying Egorova. Somehow Egorova roused herself, sat up, put pale feet on the floor, and groped for her slippers. Hours later, when the family returned—expecting a death—they found Egorova brisk, alive, pacing the room with the now-contented baby, while the exhausted young mother recovered nearby.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and said: “That was my great-grandmother, Vera Egorovna. She loved me so fiercely, she simply refused to die, saying, as the song goes: ‘Oh, it’s much too soon for me to go—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived for ten more years after that, helping my mother, and raising me, her favourite great-grandchild.” And Father Boris smiled back at his wife.

Theres always still plenty to be done at home, isnt there Old Mary Jones fumbled with the creaky gate