Emily Taylor

Hope Leonardovna’s Sudden Illness Left Her Alone—Her Daughters Didn’t Visit, Only Granddaughter Natalie Cared for Her. But with Easter Approaching, Her Daughters Returned for Country Delicacies—This Time, Hope Met Them at the Gate with Cold Words: “Why Are You Here?” Stunned, Svetlana Asked, “Mum, What’s Gotten Into You?” Hope Replied, “That’s It, My Dears! I’ve Sold the Whole Farm…” “What? What About Us?” Her Daughters Didn’t Understand What Was Happening.

So, Mary Leonard just became suddenly ill the other week. Not one of her daughters came around to see

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“Who Do You Think You Are to Tell Me What to Do!?” – When Stepmother-in-Law Zoya Threw a Rag in Tamara’s Face: Living in Her House, Eating Her Food, Every Day Became a Battlefield. Three Months Married, Already Treated as an Outcast with a Child. When Stepan Stood Up for His Wife, Zoya Snapped: “Now You’re Siding Against Your Own Mother?” – The Struggle of Finding a Home, Building a Life, and Discovering True Family Despite All Odds

And who are you to tell me what to do! Mrs. Zoe Peters flung the rag straight at my face. You live in

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The Shaggy Guardian Angel

Shaggy Angel Emma edged backwards, never letting her gaze stray from the massive dog lounging right in

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All’s Fair in the Game of Inheritance: When Family Gathers, Old Grudges and Hidden Schemes Turn a Cozy English Supper into Scandal and Betrayal

Alls fair when it comes to family money, you know? So, everyones gathered around at Mums for a family

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“Get Out of Here, I Said! Go On, Off with You!” — Mrs. Gladys Beech Slams Down a Steaming Plate of Freshly Baked Sausage Rolls Under the Old Apple Tree, Shoves the Neighbour Boy Away, and Frowns: “Why Are You Lurking About? Off You Go! When Will Your Mother Start Looking After You? Lazybones!” Skinny as a Beanpole, Little Jack—known only by his nickname “Grasshopper”—casts a nervous glance at the stern neighbour and slinks off towards his own front steps. The sprawling old house, split into several flats, is only half-occupied. Really, just two and a half families call it home: the Parkers, the Smiths, and the Carters—Kate and her boy, Jack. The last two are that “half”: generally ignored unless someone needs something. Kate’s not considered important, so people don’t bother with her. Other than her son, Kate has no one—no husband, no family. She muddles through on her own, best she can. People look at her askance, but seldom bother her—except to chase Jack off, calling him “Grasshopper” for his gangly limbs and head that looks a tad too big for his skinny neck. Grasshopper isn’t much to look at—awkward and easily frightened, but kind-hearted. He can’t pass a crying child without trying to help, which often earns him a scolding from anxious mums who want “that odd-looking boy” nowhere near. He only found out what “Scarecrow” meant after his mum gave him a book about Dorothy and the Yellow Brick Road, and he realised his neighbours were calling him after that character. Surprisingly, Jack didn’t mind—he figured they must at least know Scarecrow was loyal, clever, and brave, and in the end, ruled the Emerald City. Kate let him believe that. There’s enough bitterness in the world, she thought; let him keep some innocence for now. She loves her boy unconditionally. Forgiving Jack’s father his uselessness and betrayal, she clung to her newborn fiercely—snapping at the nurse who whispered he was “not quite right”. “Don’t talk rubbish! My boy’s the handsomest in the world!” “Sure—though clever, he will never be…” “We’ll see!” Kate crooned, stroking her baby’s cheek, sobbing quietly. For his first two years, she shuttled him round doctors until someone took real notice. Old coaches and worn prams rattled through the village, Kate holding her well-wrapped son tight. To pitying looks and busybodies, she was ice: “Put your own in care if you like. No? Then keep your advice! I know best for my boy!” By two, little Jackie nearly caught up—healthier now, if not handsome, still a touch awkward: big, flattened head, stick-thin arms, and legs Kate struggled to fatten. She sacrificed everything to give her boy the best—he was her purpose. In time, doctors all but stopped warning her, shaking heads in awe as elf-like Kate cuddled her Grasshopper. “Mums like you—one in a million! He was nearly disabled, and now—look at him! A little hero! Smart as anything!” “…It’s not about Jack, love—we mean you, Katie! You’re a star!” Kate only shrugged—what mother wouldn’t fight for her child? By the time Jack started school, he could already read, write, and count, though he stammered; it undid all his skills. His first teacher, Mrs. Fielding, grew exasperated: “Thank you, Jack, that’s enough!” Aloud, she’d say he “seemed nice, but his reading—impossible.” She lasted two years before marrying and moving away; a new teacher, Miss Hardy, took over the class. Miss Hardy, an old hand with a fierce love for children, quickly saw what Jack needed. She had a quiet word with Kate, suggesting a speech therapist, and let Grasshopper hand in his work written. “You write so beautifully, Jack! I love reading your answers!” Jack glowed; Miss Hardy read his work aloud with pride. Kate wept with gratitude, desperate to thank the kind teacher—who simply waved her off. “You’re daft, woman! It’s my job—and your son’s wonderful! He’ll be just fine, you’ll see!” Jack skipped to school—literally. The neighbours giggled: “Off he hops—there’s our Grasshopper! Maybe it’s shift change for us too! Shame on nature, leaving a child like that behind. Was there ever a point?” Kate heard the whispers, but never stooped to argue—if God hadn’t given a person a heart, she thought, no power on earth could make them act kindly. Better to spend your time making a prettier home or planting another rose bush. The big front garden, all flowerbeds and a tiny orchard out back, was unmarked by fences; each family’s porch had its “patch”—Kate’s was brightest with roses and lilacs, and her steps she’d mosaicked with broken tiles from the village hall’s renovation, pieces glinting like treasure in the sun. When the director teased her about carting home “rubbish”, within weeks neighbours gasped to see her tilework blossom into a work of art—folk came just to marvel. Kate didn’t care what they thought; the only praise that mattered was from her son. “Mum, it’s so beautiful…” Jack would sit tracing the mosaic with his finger, beaming with joy while Kate welled up again—her boy was happy. Such moments were rare for Jack: a compliment at school or a treat from Mum were his only real joys. He had few friends—couldn’t keep up—and much preferred reading anyway. Girls were strictly off-limits; especially thanks to neighbour Gladys, who with three granddaughters (five, seven, and twelve), guarded them fiercely. “Don’t you dare go near them!” she’d threaten with a fist. “They’re not for you, lad!” What went on in Gladys’s perm-frizzed head was a mystery, but Kate told Jack not to get under her feet or near her girls. “Why make trouble? The poor soul might fall ill…” Jack agreed, keeping well away. Even when Gladys was busy for a party, he was only passing by—not angling for an invite. “Oh, my sins!” Gladys muttered, covering her pastries with an embroidered cloth. “They’ll say I’m stingy. Wait!” She picked out a couple of sausage rolls, caught up with Jack, and thrust them at him. “Take these! And I don’t want to see you in the yard! We’re celebrating today! Keep to yourself till your mum gets back from work, got it?” Jack nodded, mumbling thanks. But Gladys was too busy with guests—today was her youngest and favourite granddaughter’s birthday, little Sophie, and she wanted everything just so. That scrawny, big-headed “Grasshopper” was the last thing she needed hanging about—no need to frighten the children! Gladys had long since told Kate to give Jack up: “Why bother? He’ll just end up a drunk in the gutter—child’s got no future!” She scorned Kate’s pride, but Kate stopped even greeting her after that. “What are you angry for, fool? I only meant well!” Gladys would mutter as Kate waddled by, heavily pregnant. “What’s good for you stinks to me!” Kate retorted, stroking her belly. “Don’t worry, little one—no one will ever hurt you.” Jack never told his mum who said what—he didn’t want to upset her. If something hurt badly, he’d cry alone, then forget it, pitying those grown-ups who didn’t understand how life was simpler without spite or grudge. Gladys no longer scared Jack—but he didn’t like her much. Whenever she scolded or insulted him, he’d disappear; if she asked, she’d be surprised to hear he pitied her, for wasting so many minutes on anger. Jack cherished every moment—he’d learned young how much time mattered. Everything else could be fixed, but you never get time back. Tick-tock, the clock says. And it’s gone. You can’t buy it back, not for all the best sweet wrappers in England. Adults, though, never seemed to learn. Sitting in his window, munching his sausage roll, Jack watched Sophie—bright as a butterfly in her pink dress—flitting on the lawn among the children ready for her party. The adults seated by Gladys’s porch, children darted off to kick a ball near the old well out back; Jack, guessing their destination, ran to his mum’s bedroom for a better view from the window. He watched until dusk, clapping as they chased the ball, pleased for their fun. After a while, some drifted home, new groups started other games, but Sophie lingered near the old well, catching Jack’s attention. Kate had often warned him never to approach it—years of rot had left it unsafe. “The beams are rotten, love. No one uses it anymore, but the water’s still there—fall in, and you’re done for, without a sound! Never go near, Jack, you promise?” “I promise!” Jack missed the moment Sophie vanished—distracted by the boys clustering elsewhere. Glancing back, his heart froze—the pink dress was gone. He shot outside. It took him only a second to realise Sophie wasn’t with the adults at the table, either. He’d never know why he didn’t think to call for help; he simply bolted, flying across the garden as Gladys shrieked behind him, “I told you to stay inside!” The other children carried on, oblivious to Sophie’s absence or Jack’s dash to the well. Spotting something pale far below, he called down: “Press yourself against the side!” To avoid landing on her, he swung himself onto the rim, dangled his legs, and slid inside—coated in moss and splinters. He knew Sophie couldn’t swim—he’d seen her struggle while sulking at the beach, never mastering it, never trusting Jack thanks to her grandma. Yet, clinging to his narrow shoulders now, Sophie gripped him with all her might. “It’s alright—don’t be scared, I’ve got you!” Like his mum had shown him, he held her up. “Just hold on—I’ll call for help!” His hands slipped on the slick, slimy beams, Sophie pulling him down, but he gulped air and screamed as loud as he could: “Help!” He had no way of knowing how long rescue would take, or if anyone could hear. But this much he knew: this silly, wonderful girl in her pink dress had to live. There’s little enough beauty and too few precious moments in the world. His cries didn’t carry at first. Gladys, bringing out the roast goose, searched for Sophie and stiffened with dread: “Where’s Sophie?!” Guests, already tipsy, reacted only when she dropped the dish and howled so even passers-by paused on the road. Meanwhile, Jack managed a last, hoarse, desperate cry: “Mum…” Kate, hurrying home from work, suddenly broke into a run, forgetting the bread, racing past gossiping neighbours—compelled, certain now was the time for running. She arrived just as Gladys collapsed on Kate’s own steps, clutching her heart. Kate, not pausing, darted out back and heard Jack’s faint call. “I’m here, darling!” She knew at once where—the old well. No time to think: sprinting indoors for the washing line, she shot back out. “Hold this!” she cried to the startled menfolk. Gladys’s stone-cold son-in-law sobered up at once—he tied Kate on, and lowered her down. She found Sophie immediately—scooping her up, clinging to her, praying she’d survived. Then Kate fished about for her son, pleading to God as she had the night he was born. She almost gave up hope before she finally grabbed something slick and thin—dragging Jack up, terrified of what she’d find. “Pull!” she yelled. And as she rose above the black water, relief flooded her: a faint, broken whisper just for her. “Mum…” After two weeks in hospital, Jack returned home as a hero. Sophie’s recovery was quicker; a few scratches, a ruined dress, little more. Jack wasn’t as lucky—a broken wrist, sore lungs, but he had his mum and visits from Sophie and her parents. Soon, he’d be back among his books and his old cat. “Oh, my dear boy—God bless you! If not for you…” Gladys wept, hugging him, “I—anything you want—” “Why?” Jack only shrugged. “Did what needed doing. Isn’t that what men do?” Gladys, speechless, would only hug him tighter—not knowing that this awkward, skinny “Grasshopper,” years later, would one day drive an ambulance through gunfire, carry the wounded, and bring comfort to all, friend or stranger. And if ever asked why, after the life he’d had, he’d simply say: “I’m a doctor. It’s what’s needed. Life must go on. It’s the right thing to do.”

Get out! I said, out! What are you hanging about for? thundered Mrs Claudia Matthews, setting a heaping

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“For Four Generations, the Men in Our Family Worked on the Railways! So What Have YOU Brought?” — “Emily,” Anna Whispered, Stroking Her Bump. “We’ll Name Her Emily.” — “Another Girl? Is This Some Kind of Joke?” A Heartfelt Story of Fatherhood, Tradition, and Realising What Truly Matters

Four generations of men in our family have worked for the railway! And what have you brought us?

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The Unexpected Brother: How My Late Husband’s Secret Child Became Family – A Heartfelt Story of Forgiveness, Motherhood, and Finding Room for One More

Oh no, its not my son. Hes my neighbours, Kates, lad. Your husband used to pop round hers quite a lot

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Natalie Was Returning Home from the Shops with Heavy Bags When She Spotted an Unfamiliar Car Parked by Her Gate. “Who Could That Be? I’m Not Expecting Anyone,” She Wondered. But as She Drew Closer, She Saw a Young Man in the Garden. “He’s Here!” She Exclaimed, Rushing to Embrace Her Son—Only to Have Him Hold Back: “Wait, Mum. I Have Something to Tell You…” Natalie Sat Down, Bracing Herself for the Worst. Living Alone in a Charming English Village, Natalie Had Grown Used to Her Son Victor’s Rare Visits After He Moved to London to Work as an Engineer. Now, Suddenly, He Was Arriving More Often—This Time with a Young Boy in Tow and News That Would Change Natalie’s Life Forever…

Natalie trudged home from the local shop, juggling heavy shopping bags that felt as though they were

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“Come on then, Ginger – let’s go,” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old bit of rope. He zipped his jacket up tight against the raw February wind – this year, it was particularly cruel: sleet, biting cold, and drizzle that seemed to cut straight through. Ginger, the mangy old stray with faded red fur and one milky, blind eye, had wandered into Val’s life a year ago. It was after a late-night shift at the factory, near the bins, battered and hungry, his left eye glazed. A harsh voice cut through the grey morning. Val recognised it at once – Steve ‘Squint’, the local hard case, barely out of his teens, surrounded by his pack of sneering lads. “Out with the mutt, are we?” Steve leered, as one of the boys cackled, “What’s it, Uncle – you pay a tax to walk that ugly brute? Scary thing, that eye!” A stone came flying, thudding into Ginger’s side. The dog yelped and pressed closer to Val’s leg. “Clear off,” Val said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “Ooh, look, Uncle Bodger’s talking back!” Steve stepped closer. “Seen your kind before. Remember whose patch this is… And only dogs I let on my patch are here with permission.” Val tensed. The Army had taught him how to solve trouble – fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a worn-out old handyman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless pushed. “Come on, Ginger,” he muttered, turning towards home. “Thought so!” Steve jeered after him. “Keep your ugly mutt safe, old man – next time, I’ll finish it for good.” That night, Val replayed the incident over and over in his mind. Next day, with heavy snow coming down, he put off walking as long as he could – but Ginger sat by the door, steadfast, until Val finally relented. “All right, all right – but just a quick one.” They kept to quieter routes; Steve’s lot was nowhere in sight, probably sheltering from the weather. Val was starting to relax when Ginger suddenly halted by the derelict boiler house, ears pricked, nose twitching. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whined, tugged the rope in the direction of the ruined building. Strange noises drifted out: was that crying? Moaning? “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Only the wind replied, howling through the skeleton of the building. Ginger pulled insistently. Val heard it then – a child’s voice: “Help!” His heart skipped. Quickly, Val unfastened the lead and followed Ginger into the ruins. Buried behind a tumble of brick, a young boy lay crumpled: face swollen, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh, God!” Val dropped to his knees. “What’s happened to you?” “Mr. White? Is that you?” The boy squinted through bruised eyes, and Val recognised him – Andy Mason, the shy lad from three floors up. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang… They wanted money from my mum. I said I’d tell the police. They… they found me.” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. It’s freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Andy. Ginger curled up beside him, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand?” “My leg hurts – think it’s broken.” Val checked gently – definitely a break. “Got a phone?” “Taken.” Val fished out his ancient Nokia and dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, lad. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy asked in terror. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val promised. Andy stared. “But yesterday… you just walked away.” “That was just me and Ginger. This is different.” The ambulance arrived quicker than forecast. Andy was whisked off to hospital. Val stood with Ginger in the snow, deep in thought. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came to thank him, in tears: “If you hadn’t found him… The doctor said you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val shook his head, petting Ginger. “He found your son.” “But what now?” the woman whispered anxiously. “Steve won’t stop. The police say there’s no proof.” “It’ll be sorted,” Val promised, though he wasn’t sure how. That night, he tossed and turned, plans churning. Someone had to protect the kids – how many others had suffered in silence? By morning, he knew what to do. He pulled out his old Army dress uniform, pinned on his medals, squared his shoulders. “Let’s go, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve and his crew lounged by the off-licence, jeering as Val, in full regalia, approached. “Blimey, Grandad’s off to a parade!” one hooted. Steve sneered, “Jog on, soldier boy. Your time’s up.” “My time’s just begun,” Val replied. “Who asked you?” “Andy Mason – ring any bells?” Steve’s smirk faded. “You threatening me, grandad?” “I’m warning you.” There was a glint of a blade. “I’ll show you who’s boss!” Val didn’t flinch. “There’s only one law here – and that’s to protect the weak.” Steve scoffed, “Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience.” And then – the unexpected: Ginger, silent all this while, bristled and let out a low, threatening growl. “My dog fought in Afghanistan,” Val said, lying smoothly. “Bomb squad. She can sniff out villains in her sleep.” Even Ginger straightened in surprise, baring her teeth. “She caught twenty insurgents. All alive. Think she can’t take on a junkie?” Steve retreated. “Listen good,” Val stepped forward. “From today, it’s safe here. I’ll be patrolling the estate every evening – with my dog. If I catch anyone bothering kids again…” He left the threat hanging. “You reckon you can scare me?” Steve blustered. “Call who you like. But remember – I know people inside. More than you ever will.” It was nonsense, but Val’s words carried real weight. “Name’s Val the Veteran – remember it. Stay away from the kids.” With that, Val strode away, Ginger close at his heels. Steve’s gang melted away. For the next few days, Steve and his lot were nowhere to be seen, while Val and Ginger kept up their patrol. When Andy came home from hospital, still limping, he shyly asked, “Mr. White, can I help you patrol, too?” “Talk to your mum first.” Mrs. Mason agreed – relieved her boy had such a grown-up example to follow. And every evening, the estate saw a peculiar trio – an old soldier in faded uniform, a boy, and a ginger mongrel. Ginger became a favourite; even the parents didn’t mind their kids petting her. There was something noble about her. Val told stories about the Army, about real friendship; the children listened, rapt. One night, Andy asked, “Were you ever scared, Mr. White?” “Plenty of times,” Val admitted. “Even now, sometimes.” “What of?” “That I won’t have enough strength. Or I’ll be too late.” “When I grow up, I’ll help you,” Andy said. “And I’ll have a clever dog just like Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. And Ginger wagged her tail. Everyone in the area knew her now: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog – she knows the difference between heroes and bullies.” And Ginger patrolled, proud and steadfast, no longer just a stray, but a true guardian.

Well then, Rusty, shall we? grumbled Harold, adjusting the makeshift leash fashioned from a faded bit

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The Most Important Thing: Lara’s Fever Spikes to 40.5°C and Seizures Begin in an Instant—As Irina Fights to Revive Her Unconscious Daughter, Time Stops, and Maxim, Mistaking the Worst Over the Phone, Spirals into Despair Before a Wild Race Through London’s Streets Brings Him to the Children’s Hospital, Where He Clings to Every Second Waiting for News That Could Reshape His World Forever

The most important thing The temperature rose wildly in Emily. The old glass thermometer strayed beyond