Emily Taylor

Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I just can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tommy, a Year 2 pupil, sadly poking his paintbrush at the stubborn, curling-the-wrong-way green leaf on the flower he’d drawn. “Not so hard, love, be gentle with your brush – like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. There, that’s it! Beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky one getting your lovely picture?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy replied, grinning now that he’d tamed the awkward leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His pride at the teacher’s praise was clear in his voice. “Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paints dry a little or they’ll smudge. Then, when you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. Trust me, your mum will love it!” The teacher glanced one last time at the boy’s tousled head bent over the paper, then returned to her desk, smiling at her thoughts. What a gift for his mum! Bet it’s been years since she’s had something so lovely. Tommy’s got real talent for art—maybe I should call his mum about art school. Talent shouldn’t go to waste. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask my former pupil if she liked the present. I can’t take my eyes off those flowers Tommy painted; they look ready to rustle their living green curls. Oh, he takes after his mum! No doubt about it. Lorna was a brilliant young artist herself at his age… ***** “Miss Mary, it’s Lorna—Tommy Cottam’s mum,” came the strict voice of a young woman over the phone that evening. “Just letting you know, Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna! Is everything alright?” “No, it isn’t! That little rascal ruined my whole birthday! And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left.” “Hang on, Lorna, what do you mean fever? He left school happy, bringing you his—” “You mean those splotches?” “Splotches? No, Lorna! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call to suggest art school for him…” “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy mess for a gift!” “Soggy mess? What on earth happened?” Miss Mary was lost for words as Lorna rambled on, tense and upset, and her frown deepened with every explanation: how Tom came home late, drenched in mud and water… How he pulled a soaking-wet puppy from under his coat—the stench! He’d climbed into a thawing puddle to rescue it after bigger boys threw it in. Ruined books, splotched sketchbook, and a fever nearly touching 39… The party ruined, guests left before the cake came out. The doctor scolded her for not watching her child… “After Tom fell asleep, I took that puppy straight back to the dump. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator, but the water’s made a mess of everything, not just the flowers!” Lorna grumbled. She didn’t seem to notice how the elderly teacher’s expression grew grimmer with every word, especially when she heard what happened to the rescued puppy. Miss Mary looked sternly at Lorna, stroked the ruined sketchbook gently, and spoke softly… About green swirls and living flowers. About the care of a child and his brave heart, unwilling to look away from injustice. Of the bullies who threw the little animal into that pit. Then she stood, took Lorna by the hand, and led her to the window. “There’s that pit,” she pointed. “Tom could have drowned, not just the puppy. Do you think he gave that a thought while he was rescuing it? Or was he thinking about those flowers on the page and trying not to breathe on them, so he wouldn’t spoil his gift?” “Or have you forgotten, Lorna, how—you in the nineties—sobbed bitterly on the school bench, hugging a stray kitten you’d rescued from the local boys?” “How we all stroked it, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home when your parents tossed your ‘scruffy flea bag’ out… Luckily, they changed their mind in time.” “Well, let me remind you! And your cat, Tigger, you never wanted to part with! And floppy-eared Max, that puppy who went everywhere with you right up to uni, and the rook with the broken wing you took care of at school…” Miss Mary fetched an old photo from her album: a tiny girl in a white pinafore holding a furry kitten, smiling at her classmates. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “I’ll remind you of the kindness in your heart, the kindness that bloomed in spite of everything, bright as paint on a child’s page.” A faded drawing tumbled out after the photo: a girl, clutching a fluffy kitten and gripping her mum’s hand. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary added more sternly, “I’d have kissed that puppy and Tom together! And put those splotches in a frame! There’s no better gift for a mother than raising her child to be a good person!” Lorna didn’t seem to notice how her face changed with every word. She cast worried glances at Tom’s bedroom door, clutching the ill-fated sketchbook with whitening fingers. “Miss Mary! Please, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? I’ll be right back, I promise!” Under her teacher’s gentle gaze, Lorna threw on her coat and rushed out. She ran straight for the distant dump, not caring that her feet got soaked, calling and searching under boxes and bags, glancing anxiously homeward… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Tom, who’s got their nose buried in the flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does! There’s that white star on his paw—how I remember washing those muddy paws with your mum.” The teacher chuckled fondly. “And now I wash them every day! Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even bought a special doggy tub for it!” Tom said proudly. “You’ve got a wonderful mum,” nodded Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another picture, then?” “Yep! This one’s for a frame. The splotches are up on the wall now, and she always smiles at them. Why would you smile at splotches, Miss Mary?” “At splotches? Maybe you would, if they came straight from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school?” “It’s brilliant! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait—she’ll love it! But for now—look, I’ve got something for you, from Mum. She draws too.” Tom pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag, and Miss Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly. On the paper, a brightly painted Tom beamed, his hand resting on Duke’s head, the dog gazing at him adoringly. Next to them, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress hugged a fluffy kitten… To the left, behind a teacher’s desk piled with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling with bottomless, wise kindness in her lively gaze at her happy students. In every brushstroke, in every mark, she could feel the proud love of a mother. Miss Mary brushed away her tears and, suddenly beaming, noticed—right in the corner, drawn in flowers and curling green spirals—one single word: “Remember.”

ILL REMIND YOU Miss Maple, the curls not working here, whispered the forlorn second-former, Tom, jabbing

Fate on the Hospital Ward Bed – “Love Can’t Be Ordered”: How I Nursed a Man Whose Wife Gave Up on Him, Only to Find My Own Heart at Risk, and How Tragedy, Faith, and Family Ties Transformed Our Lives Over The Years

FATE ON THE HOSPITAL BED Miss, take these and look after him, will you? I cant even stand to go near

I Never Took What Wasn’t Mine: The Story of Martha and Nastya—From Envy and Hardship at School to Unexpected Love, Family Struggles, and Redemption Ten Years Later

NEVER TOUCHED WHATS NOT MINE Back when she was in school, Martha always looked down on Emily and, deep

Life Back on Track – “Lada, I Forbid You from Speaking to Your Sister and Her Family!” Bogdan’s Jealousy, Family Rift, and My Path to Freedom, Happiness, and Love with Dr. Herman in England

LIFE IN ORDER Clara, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! They have their own livesso do we.

Bittersweet Happiness – Why Don’t You Like This Lady? She’s a Good Girl: Modest, Tidy, Smart, Loves You. Elena’s Disapproving Look at Her Nearly Forty-Year-Old Son Who Still Hasn’t Settled Down, Despite a String of Relationships That All Felt Not Quite Right—Until a Chance Meeting on a Train Leads Denis to Larisa, a Woman with Three Kids Living in a Hostel, Seven Years His Senior, Whom He Marries Against All Odds, Only for Them to Welcome a Daughter with Down’s Syndrome—A Testing, Bittersweet, But Ultimately Cherished Happiness.

BITTERSWEET HAPPINESS “What exactly do you find fault with in that young lady? Shes a fine girl.

My Dear Wife – “How have you managed to live with the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” My brother never missed the chance to ask these questions whenever he visited. “Love, and endless patience—that’s the whole secret,” I always replied. “That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. Living with a book you’ve already read? No, thanks,” my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen. His bride, Asya, was ten years his senior—a sweet woman hopelessly in love with Peter for life, while Peter saw her only as a passing amusement. Asya moved into Peter’s family home, where seven relatives lived, and gave birth to a son, Mitya. She believed her happiness was finally complete. The young couple was given a tiny room, where Asya displayed her cherished collection of rare porcelain figurines—ten delicate treasures that everyone in the family knew meant the world to her. At the time, I myself was searching for the one woman to spend a lifetime with—a dream that ultimately came true. My wife and I have now been married over fifty years. Peter and Asya lasted ten years. Asya could boast of little—the devoted, compliant wife who loved her husband and son wholeheartedly. What more did Peter want? One night, Peter came home drunk, picking on Asya and making crude jokes. Sensing trouble, Asya quietly left with Mitya. Suddenly, there was a terrible crash—the sound of her precious collection shattering. She ran back to find all her treasured figurines in pieces, except for one that miraculously survived. Asya kissed it, eyes brimming with tears, and said nothing. From that day, a rift opened between them. Asya fulfilled her duties, but a spark was gone. Peter drank more, brought home questionable friends and women. Asya withdrew, becoming distant and unreachable. Peter neglected the family, and eventually, they parted ways—without shouting or accusations. Asya took Mitya and moved back to her hometown, leaving the lone surviving figurine behind as a memory. Peter wasn’t lonely for long; he threw himself into a reckless, untethered life of repeated marriages, heartbreaks, and drink. Though a brilliant economist—in-demand at universities, author of a textbook, with a sparkling future—he let it all slip away. At last, thinking he had settled down, our relieved family attended his simple wedding to a stunning woman with a seventeen-year-old son—a stepchild Peter underestimated, and who ultimately drove them to divorce five years later after much strife. Peter bounced from one romance to the next—Lily, Natalie, Sue—believing each was the one. But life had other plans. At fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. No women remained but his family. On his deathbed, he asked me, “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed—bring it here.” I opened it, stunned to find it packed with delicate porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped. “I collected these for Asya—never forgot the silent reproach in her eyes when her collection was smashed. My poor wife endured plenty. There’s a hidden compartment with money—give it all to my dear wife. Ask her to forgive me. Promise you’ll do this, Simon.” I choked back tears and solemnly agreed. He pointed to an envelope under his pillow with Asya’s address. Though they hadn’t spoken in years, Asya had kept in touch, writing letters—never replied to, but always sent. After Peter’s funeral, I set off to find Asya. We met at a lonely train platform. She hugged me, “Oh Simon—you and Peter could be twins.” I handed her the suitcase, passed on Peter’s request for forgiveness and his last gifts. It was our final parting. Later, I received one last letter: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Mitya and I sold the figurines to a real enthusiast and used the money to move to Canada—my sister had long invited us, and nothing kept me here. All that remained was hope Peter would call me back—he never did. But I am happy he always saw me as his true wife. Now Mitya is better, and I am content. Farewell.” She left no return address…

THE TRUE WIFE How have you managed to survive so many years with one wife? Whats the trick?

When a Man Breaks: The Night Stepan Came to My Village Surgery Weighed Down by Wife and Mother-in-Law, and How a Little Kindness Saved a Family

Wearied by the Wife and Mother-in-Law It was on one rain-soaked eveningoh, I remember it as clearly as

Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “It’s high time the children’s home took you in! Get out of our family!” I screamed, my voice cracking with fury. The target of my utter indignation was my cousin, James. Oh, how I adored him as a kid! Sandy blond hair, dreamy cornflower-blue eyes, always up for a laugh – that was James. Family gatherings were frequent in those days. Out of all my cousins, James stood out. He could charm with words like a master storyteller, and he was a talented artist. He’d sketch five, even six pictures in an evening with nothing but a pencil. I’d gawk in awe, sneak the drawings away, and hide them carefully in my desk. I treasured James’s creations. James was two years older than me. When he was 14, tragedy struck – out of nowhere, his mum passed away in her sleep. Suddenly, everyone was asking, “What will happen to James?” First, people tried his biological father, but he was difficult to track down. Divorced from James’s mum for years, he’d started a new family and “didn’t want any disruption.” The rest of the relatives shrugged: “We’ve our own lives, our own kids…” Turns out, family’s close at midday, but when darkness falls, it’s nowhere to be found. So, with two kids of their own, my parents became James’s guardians. After all, his late mum was my dad’s little sister. At first, I was excited: James would live with us! But… On his very first day in our house, I noticed something unsettling. Wanting to comfort him, my mother asked, “Is there anything you’d like, James? Don’t be shy.” James didn’t miss a beat: “A Hornby train set.” I should mention – that was an expensive toy, especially then. I was stunned – his mum had died, and he was dreaming about a train set. How could he? My parents bought it immediately. But then it never stopped… “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the ‘80s – those things were pricey and hard to get. Still, my parents, stretching every penny, fulfilled the orphan’s wishes at the expense of their own children. My brother and I tried to be understanding. When James turned 16, he discovered girls. He was a hopeless flirt, constantly chasing after them – including me, his own cousin. But I was sporty, always dodging his sleazy advances, and we even came to blows. I often cried my eyes out. My parents never knew. Kids rarely spill secrets that private. When I rebuffed him firmly, James wasted no time shifting his attention to my friends – and they competed for it! And then James stole. Oblivious and shameless. I remember my piggy bank – I’d saved lunch money to buy presents for my parents. One day, it was empty. James denied everything, cool as a cucumber. My heart shattered – how could he steal from us, his family? He trampled our trust. I sulked and stewed, but James genuinely didn’t see what he’d done wrong – he truly believed everyone owed him. That’s when I started to hate him, and shouted for him to leave. I lashed out at James, said things that couldn’t fit in a hat… Mum barely calmed me down. From that moment on, James ceased to exist for me. I ignored him in every possible way. Later, it turned out other relatives knew what kind of ‘character’ James was. They’d seen things we hadn’t, since we lived in another part of town. James’s old teachers had warned my parents: “You’re taking on a burden – James will ruin your own children.” At his new school, James met Kate, who fell deeply in love and married him straight after graduation. They had a daughter. Kate endured his antics, constant lies and endless affairs. As the saying goes: “If you think you’ve suffered as a single girl, married life will double your woes.” James would always exploit Kate’s love – she seemed bound to him for life. He was called up for National Service, stationed in Yorkshire. There, somehow, James started another family – apparently during weekend leave. After demob, he stayed behind in Yorkshire because he had a son. But Kate, undaunted, tracked him down and, by hook or by crook, got him back. My parents never received a word of thanks from James, though that’s not why they took him in. Today, James Edward is 60, a regular churchgoer. He and Kate have five grandchildren. Life seems fine, but the bitterness from my dealings with James never left me. And I still can’t stomach honey with him, even now…

BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL The Council should have taken you years ago to some home!

Postage Stamp… When Love Sticks: A Family Torn Apart by a Husband’s Affair, a Sister’s Bitterness, and a Daughter’s Search for Answers—From Heartbreak and Revenge to Finding True Love at Last

A POSTAGE STAMP Williams left Emily, Mum sighed heavily down the line. What do you mean? I asked, confused.

A Husband Worth More Than Bitterness: My Journey from Heartbreak and Hardship to Divorce—And Back to Unexpected Love with Igor

A HUSBAND MORE PRECIOUS THAN BITTER GRIEVANCES Edward, that was the final straw! Thats it, were done!