Emily Taylor

“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

La vida

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

La vida

011

Pavlo Asked for My Card on Wednesday Over Breakfast—His Tone Was Calm but Worried. By Friday Night, I Discovered the Truth: He Was Throwing a Lavish Party for His Mother at “The Diamond Shore” Using My Money—Without Me. But by Monday Evening, I Was Ready.

So, listen to this. On Wednesday morning, while we were having breakfast, Charles asked if he could borrow

La vida

011

My Dear Daughter-In-Law – A British Mother’s Tale: From Young Love and Unexpected Pregnancy, to Heartache, Divorce, and Second Wives – Why I’ll Always Miss Emilia, the Daughter-in-Law Who Stole My Heart

DEAR DAUGHTER-IN-LAW Mother, Im marrying Eleanor. Were expecting in three months, my son said, leaving

La vida

— Mr Smith, You’ve Overslept Again! — the Bus Driver’s Friendly Voice Held a Hint of Reproach. — That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Chasing the Bus Like the Clappers. The elderly pensioner in his crumpled jacket was out of breath, leaning heavily on the handrail. His grey hair was tousled and his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — he gasped, fishing some scrunched-up notes from his pocket. — My watch must be running slow. Or perhaps I’m just getting on… Andrew Grant — the bus driver with over twenty years behind the wheel, in his mid-forties, sun-kissed from the road. He knew most of his regular travellers. But this old chap stood out — always polite, quiet, riding at the same time every day. — Oh, never mind, hop in. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus trundled off. Mr Smith settled into his favourite seat — third row from the driver, by the window, clutching a battered plastic bag filled with odds and ends. There weren’t many passengers — weekday morning. A couple of students gossiped, a suited man scrolled through his phone. Just another ordinary day. — Say, Mr Smith, — Andrew asked, glancing at his passenger in the mirror, — do you really go there every day? Isn’t it difficult? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replied quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been gone a year and a half now. Made her a promise — I’d come every day. Something tightened in Andrew’s chest. He, too, was married, adored his wife. He couldn’t imagine… — Is it far from your place? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking it would take me ages, my legs aren’t what they used to be. My pension just about covers the bus fare. Weeks went by. Mr Smith became a fixture of the morning route. Andrew grew so used to seeing him, he’d even wait a couple of minutes if the old man was running late. — No need to wait for me, — Mr Smith said once, cottoning on to Andrew’s little kindness. — The timetable’s there for a reason. — Oh, nonsense, — Andrew waved it off. — A couple of minutes won’t hurt anyone. One morning, Mr Smith wasn’t there. Andrew waited — maybe he was late. But he didn’t come. Or the next day. Or the one after. — Say, that old gent who goes to the cemetery — haven’t seen him in a while, — Andrew remarked to the conductor, Mrs Turner. — Who knows, — she shrugged. — Maybe family’s come visiting, maybe he’s unwell… But Andrew missed him — his quiet ‘thank you’ as he got off, his sad little smile. A week went by. Still no Mr Smith. During his lunch break, Andrew decided to go to the terminus — the cemetery gates. — Excuse me, — he asked the woman manning the entrance, — there was an elderly gentleman, Mr Smith… grey-haired, glasses, always carried a plastic bag. Have you seen him? — Oh, him! — she said, nodding. — Came every single day, to visit his wife. — He hasn’t been in? — Not for about a week. — Has he taken ill? — Nobody’s said anything… He did mention where he lives once, just up the road — Garden Street, number fifteen. And who are you, if you don’t mind me asking? — I’m his bus driver. Gave him a lift every day. Garden Street, number 15. An old block of flats, peeling paintwork. Andrew rang the nearest doorbell. A man in his fifties opened, looking grim. — Who do you want? — I’m looking for Mr Smith. I drive his bus… — Oh, the chap from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softened. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke a week ago. Andrew’s heart dropped. — Which hospital? — The City Hospital, up on Florence Nightingale Avenue. Bad at first, but they say he’s slowly improving. After his shift, Andrew called in at the hospital, found the ward, and asked the nurse. — Mr Smith? Yes, he’s with us. And you are…? — A friend… — Andrew said awkwardly. — Sixth bed. But don’t tire him. Mr Smith lay by the window, pale, awake. On seeing Andrew, he looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. — Andrew? You? How did you…? — Well, I went looking, — Andrew said, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — When you didn’t come, I got worried. — You… worried about me? — Mr Smith’s eyes brimmed. — But I’m no one special… — Now, don’t say that. You’re my regular. I’ve grown used to you; I look forward to seeing you. Mr Smith lay silent, staring up. — I haven’t been to the cemetery in ten days — first time in over a year and a half, — he murmured. — I broke my promise… — Oh now, she’ll understand — your wife, I mean. Illness is illness. — I don’t know… — he shook his head. — I used to visit her every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m stuck here, and she’s all alone… At that, Andrew knew what he had to do. — Would you like me to go for you? I could visit your wife’s grave, pass on your news — let her know you’ll be back soon… Mr Smith turned towards him, hope and disbelief wrestling in his tired eyes. — You… you’d do that? For someone you hardly know? — Hardly! — Andrew smiled. — Eighteen months of early-morning bus rides? You’re family by now. The next day, on his day off, Andrew went to the cemetery. He found her grave — a photo on the headstone, a kind-looking woman. “Anne Smith, 1952–2024.” He felt awkward, but the words came anyway: — Hello, Mrs Smith. I’m Andrew, your husband’s bus driver. He’s in hospital at the moment, but he’s recovering, and sends his love. He promised he’ll visit again soon… He added how devoted Mr Smith was, how much he missed her. He felt a bit silly, but knew somehow it was the right thing. Back at the hospital, he found Mr Smith much brighter. — I went, — Andrew said simply. — Passed on your message. — And how… how is she? — the old man’s voice trembled. — Everything’s spotless — someone’s left fresh flowers, probably the neighbours. She’s waiting for you, Mr Smith. Mr Smith closed his eyes and wept quietly. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr Smith was discharged. Andrew picked him up outside the hospital. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — Andrew asked as he dropped him off. — You will, — Mr Smith nodded. — Eight o’clock sharp, like always. And he was, next morning in his usual spot. But now, something between driver and passenger had changed — it was more than just a bus journey. — Tell you what, Mr Smith, — Andrew said one day, — how about I take you at weekends in my car? Just as a friend. My wife says if you’re as lovely as you seem, it’s only right to help. — Oh, I couldn’t ask you— — You don’t need to. We’d miss you otherwise. So it became their tradition. Weekdays — the bus; weekends, Andrew drove him himself. Sometimes his wife came too — they all became friends. — You know, — Andrew said to his wife one evening, — I used to think passengers were just passengers. But every face on that bus is a life, a story. — Exactly, — his wife smiled. — I’m glad you noticed. And Mr Smith told them, one day, — After Anne died, I thought life was over. I thought nobody noticed me. Turns out people do care. And that means the world. *** What do you think? Have you ever seen ordinary people perform extraordinary acts of kindness?

Oh, Mr. Stephen, late again! The bus drivers voice has that friendly tone, but theres just a hint of

La vida

010

And Then She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t Nearly as Awful as She’d Always Thought The morning of December 30th was no different from any of the past twelve years Nadya and Dima had spent together. Everything happened as usual: he left early in the morning to go hunting and wouldn’t be back until midday on New Year’s Eve, their son was with Grandma, and once again Nadya found herself alone at home. Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to this routine. Dima was an avid fisherman and hunter, spending every weekend and holiday deep in the woods, whatever the weather, while she waited back at home. But today, for some reason, she felt uncharacteristically sad and lonely. Normally, she’d dedicate these days to housework and cooking—it was always easy to find things to do. New Year’s was tomorrow, and as usual, they’d be spending it at her mother-in-law’s, just like every year for the past twelve years. Nothing new, nothing different. But today, she didn’t feel like doing anything, and it seemed that everything was falling out of her hands. So when her best friend called, it was a welcome distraction. Her oldest schoolmate, Irka, was always cheerful, recently divorced, and often hosted get-togethers at her place. This time was no different. “Home alone again?” her friend stated rather than asked. “Dima off in his forests again? Come over later—a great bunch is coming. Why mope at home?” Nadya didn’t promise anything and honestly didn’t plan to go, but by the evening, the loneliness became overwhelming. She started recalling the past years and felt especially hurt today that her husband wasn’t around. Through all those years, her life had amounted to home, work, and her son. That was it. They never went anywhere. Dima found visiting others boring—fishing and hunting were the only things on his mind, and Nadya didn’t want to go alone. As a result, they never took a holiday, spending every vacation in her mum’s village. She was grateful that her husband got along with her mother, but she still wanted to see the sea and the world beyond her everyday routine. That evening, she thought, “Why not join my friends tonight? At least I won’t be alone.” She went to Irka’s, enjoyed herself surrounded by old school friends, and had a wonderful evening. Most importantly, Grisha was there—her first school love. Somehow, almost without realising it, the two of them spent the night together. Nadya didn’t know how it happened—it wasn’t as though she’d drunk much, but an avalanche of memories overwhelmed her and swept her away. The next morning, she felt ashamed and awkward, eager to forget the whole awkward incident, and literally ran away from Grisha’s flat. At home, she was met with a surprise—the first thing she saw was Dima’s coat: he had returned early. Her legs went weak with fear. If her husband discovered she hadn’t come home that night, she could already picture the inevitable row and how he’d leave her—she knew he wouldn’t forgive her, and honestly, she couldn’t blame him. She scolded herself for her recklessness, for nearly destroying her own family—she did love her husband, after all. But then the phone rang, bringing her back to reality. It was her mother-in-law. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you two, but Dima rang last night and couldn’t reach you. I told him you were at Auntie Kate’s—she was unwell and you were helping her. So don’t let me down now…” Help from her mother-in-law was the last thing Nadya ever expected. Their relationship had always been strange—no arguments exactly, but Zinaida Petrovna had never been fond of her daughter-in-law. She’d opposed their wedding from the start, thinking they’d rushed into things, and even after the wedding, she’d made Nadya’s life difficult. For the first few years, they’d all lived together, and after they finally got their own place, their contact had dropped to the bare minimum—they kept a polite neutrality, meeting mostly at family gatherings. But now Nadya felt grateful, no matter what the future held—as long as her husband never found out the truth. That evening, they went to her mother-in-law’s together, and while in the kitchen alone, Nadya tried to bring up what had happened—to confess and thank her. But her mother-in-law waved it away. “Don’t worry about it. Do you really think I’m immune to this stuff? I know what it’s like, being married to a man who sees nothing beyond his hobbies. I’m no saint myself. My Petru—” she nodded towards her husband—“has spent his whole life out in the woods too. Of course it hurts. Just don’t make it a habit, you know what I mean?” Nadya understood. And she also realised her mother-in-law wasn’t nearly as horrible as she’d always thought—she really did understand after all. So the story ended well, and Nadya decided then and there: never again would she spend the night out without her husband’s knowledge. Taken from the web

And she also realised that her mother-in-law was not nearly as spiteful as shed thought all these years.

La vida

“Mum, I’m Ten Years Old Now, Aren’t I?”: A Heartfelt Tale of Promises, Parents, and the Search for a Dog in England

Mum, Im ten years old now, arent I? said Michael suddenly as he returned home from school. So what?

La vida

010

The Only Man in the House Over Breakfast, Vera, the eldest daughter, glanced at her smartphone and asked, “Dad, did you see today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” Instead of replying, she turned the screen to show a line of numbers—11.11.11, meaning 11 November 2011. “That’s your lucky number, Dad—11! And today, there are three in a row. You’re going to have an amazing day.” “If only your words were honey in my tea,” Valery chuckled. “Yes, Daddy,” her younger sister Nadya piped up, glued to her own phone. “It says here that Scorpios will have a pleasant encounter today and receive a lifetime gift.” “Awesome. Maybe some distant relative in Europe or America passed away, and we turn out to be the heirs—millionaires!” “Billionaires, Dad,” Vera continued the joke. “You’re thinking too small.” “Indeed, what would we do with so much money? Should we buy a villa in Italy or the Maldives? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter!” Nadya laughed. “I want my own helicopter.” “No problem. Vera, what do you want?” “I want to star in a Bollywood movie with Salman Khan.” “That’s easy! I’ll ring Amitabh Bachchan for you. All right, daydreamers, finish up—we have to leave soon.” “Never even allowed to dream…” Nadya sighed. “Of course you should dream,” Valery finished his tea, stood up. “Just don’t forget school…” He remembered this morning conversation at the end of a long day, loading groceries into bags at the supermarket. The day had been ordinary—even tough, with extra work and no signs of lucky encounters or gifts for life. “Happiness flits by like a paper plane over Paris,” he smirked as he left. By his aging, faithful old Ford—their family’s “old reliable”—was a scruffy boy, all tattered clothes and mismatched shoes: a scuffed trainer on one foot, a battered boot with an electric cord for a lace on the other, and a flat cap with a melted earflap. “Mister… I’m hungry, could you spare some bread…” the boy mumbled as Valery neared the car. The child’s tone had a telling pause. And Valery, a former foster kid himself and a longtime amateur actor, recognised the difference between real emotion and stage delivery. The boy was acting—a little too well. Why? And why had the show been put on just for him? “All right, my clever friend, let’s see where you’re going with this,” Valery thought. “My girls love a detective story.” “You won’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of borscht, some potatoes with herring, and plum compote with cheese rolls—sound good?” The boy hesitated, surprised, then nodded. “Hold this for me, will you?” Valery handed him a heavy groceries bag—his old test. Real runaways bolted with it the moment your back was turned. This boy stayed rooted, glum but still. “Good lad,” Valery thought, locating his keys, and piled things into the car. “Your chariot awaits!” Valery waved him into the front seat. “Potatoes are boiling, soup’s on.” The drive was silent. Valery lived with his daughters in a cottage in a small English village—seven miles from town, working as a welder for emergencies. With no family of his own, his girls were everything to him. He loved them fiercely, and they returned it twice over. Maybe that’s why stories of troubled kids always hit him extra hard. As he drove, Valery thought about how many lost children he’d steered towards better lives, and how, if the law allowed, he’d have adopted every single one. But right now, he had a mystery on his hands. This boy wasn’t like the other runaways: he wasn’t from care, he wasn’t tough. He was silent and shell-shocked. “Perhaps I judged him too quickly,” Valery thought. “Maybe he’s just scared… When we get home, a warm wash, a good meal, and a bit of love—he’ll open up. Everything will come right.” The girls rushed from the porch as the car pulled up, helping with bags. “And who’s this?” Vera finally noticed the boy. “This?” Valery winked. “Your promised pleasant encounter and lifetime gift from the morning’s horoscope.” “Brilliant, Dad!” Nadya peered under the boy’s cap. “Best present ever. Are you sure he’s ours?” “He attached himself, said he was a gift I couldn’t return.” “What’s he called?” “He’s nameless.” “No name tag? No barcode?” “Nothing.” “Poor you, Dad,” Nadya sighed theatrically. “Clearly a dud present. Have to throw him out…” The boy tensed, ready to run, but Nadya grabbed his shoulder, patting his hat. “Hello? Anyone in there?” Silence. “Subscriber unavailable,” Vera shrugged. “Maybe the signal’s better inside. Let’s go.” The sisters exchanged a silent glance—a tried and tested routine was needed. This needed shock therapy: the good cop-bad cop act. Valery allowed them five minutes. “Nadya, bring the present inside. Time to discover what Unknown Walking Object we’ve unwrapped here.” Inside, investigations continued—literally. Nadya marched out to the garage, hand blackened. “Dad, he’s lying!” “How do you know?” “It’s elementary, Watson. He doesn’t smell like a street kid—smells like home.” Valery sniffed her hand. “Face paint? Greasepaint?” “Bingo!” Nadya grinned. “He dressed up like this on purpose. He’s no stray.” “Why the act?” “We’ll find out—Vera will get it out of him soon.” Just as Vera came out, yelling, “Do we still have any sulphuric acid?” the game was on. Finally, over dinner, the truth spilled out. The “runaway” was Spartacus Bugayev. His father died in Afghanistan. He was just a day older than Nadya; his sister Sofia had raised them after their mother passed away. Now, Sofia had fallen in love… with Valery. But she’d been too afraid to say, and Spartacus had set out to secretly investigate the family, “the only man in the house” making sure his sister’s future would be safe—and happy. The revelation brought laughter and tears. “Please, will you take my sister as your wife, Mr. Zvyagintsev? I’m the only man left in my family, and I want her to be loved.” Valery hugged the boy. “All I ever wanted was a big, happy family… and now, at last, I have one.”

The Only Man in the Family At breakfast, the eldest daughter, Emily, stared at her phone and asked, Dad

La vida

GRANNY, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never knew her parents. Her father abandoned her mother while she was pregnant, and Lena never heard from him again. Her mother passed away from cancer when Lena was just a year old. Lena was raised by her grandmother, Nana Dorothy, her mother’s mother. Dorothy’s husband died when she was young, so she devoted her entire life to her daughter and granddaughter. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a deep spiritual bond. Nana Dorothy always seemed to know what little Lena wanted, and the two understood each other perfectly. Everyone loved Nana Dorothy, from neighbours to Lena’s teachers at school. She often brought baskets of homemade pastries to school meetings, believing nobody should sit hungry after a long day’s work. She never gossiped or judged, and people often came to her for advice. Lena felt incredibly lucky to have such a wonderful grandmother. But Lena’s own romantic life never seemed to take off. School, university, work—she was always busy, always rushing. She’d dated a few men, but nothing ever seemed right. Nana Dorothy often worried about this. “Oh, Elena, why are you still single? Isn’t there a decent young man out there? You’re so beautiful and clever!” Lena would laugh it off, but inside, she knew she was ready for a family—after all, she was thirty now. When Nana Dorothy passed away suddenly in her sleep, Lena was devastated and numb with grief. She kept going to work and running errands, but at home, only her cat, Maisie, awaited her. She felt unbearably alone. One day, while riding the train and reading a book, Lena met a well-dressed, pleasant man in his forties named Alex. He struck up a conversation about books, and they hit it off right away. When Alex invited her to a nearby café, Lena was delighted. Soon, they were swept up in a passionate romance. Though she didn’t know much about Alex—he avoided questions about his past and family—Lena felt truly happy for the first time. Then, one night, Alex invited her to a fancy restaurant, hinting that the evening would be special. Lena suspected he would propose, and she was over the moon. She would finally have a husband, children—a family of her own. If only her grandmother could have seen this day. Later, as Lena scrolled for the perfect dress online, she dozed off and dreamt of her grandmother. Nana Dorothy, in her favourite dress, sat beside Lena and gently stroked her hair. “Gran, how are you here? You’ve gone,” Lena whispered. “I never left, darling, I’m always nearby. Please, don’t see this man. He’s not good for you. Listen to your grandmother,” Dorothy replied, then faded away. Lena woke up shaken, unable to shake the feeling of unease. Why would her grandmother warn her about Alex? The big day arrived, but Lena, clouded by her dream, couldn’t settle on anything to wear and felt unsettled throughout dinner. When Alex went down on one knee and presented a ring, Lena was overcome by a vision of her grandmother looking in the window. “I’m sorry, Alex. I can’t,” Lena blurted out and rushed away. Alex chased after her, his gentle mask slipping as he hurled insults and stormed off. The next day, Lena asked her old school friend Andrew, now a detective, to check on Alex’s background. Soon after, Andrew called: “Lena, I’m sorry—you dodged a bullet. Alex is a con artist. He marries single women, convinces them to sign over their flats and take loans for his ‘business,’ then dumps them and disappears after emptying their savings. He’s already been convicted multiple times. You were lucky to get out in time.” How could her grandmother have known any of this? Miracles happen, Lena thought, grateful her granny was still watching over her. She picked up groceries and cat food for Maisie, heading home with a lighter heart, knowing she was never truly alone. They say the souls of our loved ones watch over us—our guardian angels, keeping us safe from harm and heartache… And sometimes, you just have to believe it’s true.

GRANDMA, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Jane could not remember her parents. Her father left her mother before she

La vida

JUST IN CASE After Vera glanced indifferently at her weeping colleague and turned back to her computer, OIga, the department head, called out, “Heartless as ever, Vera.” “Me? Why do you say that?” Vera replied. “Just because your personal life is all sunshine, doesn’t mean others have it so easy. Can’t you see the girl’s heartbroken? Maybe give some advice, share a bit of your experience, since everything’s so perfect for you.” “Me? Share my wisdom? With her? I doubt Nadine would appreciate it. I tried, you know, five years back when she came to work with a black eye — said it helped her see the road home. It wasn’t her bloke, though; no, she did it herself, just a bad fall. When he left, the bruises disappeared. Third chap to bolt, by the way. I tried to help, share my story. Ended up the bad guy, apparently — just the jealous destroyer of Nadine’s happiness. Now she’s all modern, does therapy instead of spells. Still, it’s the same old cycle, just swapping names. So excuse me if I won’t be weeping and offering tissues this time.” “Still, Vera, it’s not right.” At lunch — everyone round the same table — the only topic was Nadine’s ex, the louse. Vera ate in silence, poured herself a coffee, and retreated to a quiet corner, scrolling her phone, trying to switch off. “Vera,” came the voice — bubbly Tanya, usually all sunshine, but today her face had clouded up. “You really don’t feel even a bit sorry for Nadine?” “Tanya, what do you all want from me?” “Oh, lay off her,” chimed in passing Irene. “She’s got her precious William — living the life of Riley, she’ll never get how it is to be left alone with a kid, fending for yourself. Try getting child support out of that so-called dad now.” “Shouldn’t have bothered having his kid in the first place,” piped up Mrs Taylor, oldest of the lot, whom everyone called Granny Taylor behind her back. “Vera’s right — how many times has Nadine blubbed over some fella? Even when she was expecting, he was already doing her head in. Before that — don’t get me started…” The circle of women gathered around the ever-crying Nadine, each offering advice. What was the point? Strong, independent Nadine was determined to bounce back: called her mum from the countryside to help with her son and that ungrateful ex, then tried to move on — had a new fringe, had her brows microbladed, stuck on eyelashes, almost got a nose ring, but the whole office talked her out of it. And off she went. “It’s nothing, Nadine — he’ll regret it, you’ll see!” “No, he won’t,” Vera muttered, more to herself than anyone, but the tipsy girls overheard, demanding an explanation. “He won’t. He won’t cry, and he won’t regret it. And Nadine? She’ll just meet another one, just like before…” “Easy for you to say, with your William, must be perfect, eh?” “Perfect… my William is golden — doesn’t hit, doesn’t drink, doesn’t chase women, loves me to bits.” “Oh come on, they’re all the same. Watch out, Vera, someone might nick him from you!” “Never — he won’t stray.” “I wouldn’t be so sure.” “You should be.” Fueled by wine and mischief, the girls start teasing: “Let’s all go see if your William can resist our charms! Bet you won’t invite us round. Afraid one of us will snatch your Mr Perfect?” “Alright, let’s go,” Vera grinned. “Right! To Vera’s house, girls! Granny Taylor, are you coming?” “No, girls, my Michael’s waiting at home. Off you pop!” A rattling, giggling crowd descended on Vera’s place; they bustled about the kitchen, laughing while they cooked. “Let’s whip up a dinner for William — I take it he’s out? He’ll be back to a lovely spread.” “Don’t put yourselves out; he’s fussy, barely eats, but yes, he’ll be home soon.” The excitement faded, and soon everyone drifted home, except Nadine, Olga, and Tanya. They sipped tea in Vera’s cosy kitchen, awkward, curious about the mysterious William. The front door opened. “William, my darling, you’re home!” crooned Vera. The women straightened up, suddenly nervous as a tall, handsome young man walked in. Ah, they all thought, so that’s the secret — her husband is much younger! “Girls, meet my Dennis.” Dennis? But… what about William? “My son, Dennis. So, how’s William, Denny?” “Fine, Mum. He just needs rest. He’ll be running about in a couple of days. Just don’t let him lick…” The women blushed. “We… should probably go?” “Wait — you haven’t met William! Quiet now; he’s just had surgery, Dennis and his girlfriend took him in, poor thing was marking the curtains… come meet him.” “There he is, my William, fast asleep.” Stifling laughter, the ladies dashed out. “Vera! It’s a cat!” “Of course it’s a cat. What did you think?” “But… your husband?” “Never had one. You all made that up — I mentioned my perfect William, and you filled in the gaps. First marriage was young and dumb, had Dennis, split up quick. Parents helped. Second time, I almost believed in fairy tales, but he wanted me to ship Dennis off to boarding school. Sent him back to his mum. Third bloke… well, he gave me a black eye, and I gave him the boot. Dennis grew up, got married, I got William. We get along. Movie nights, holidays — nobody owes anybody. Sometimes I cook a fancy dinner, he pops round; everyone’s happy.” Dennis never did get it. Asked why I didn’t live with William. Why? Separate lives, separate habits. If we’d met young, maybe — like my brother and his wife, married thirty years. But me? Nah, no need to fake it for the sake of a title. Me and William, we’re just fine. Right, lovey? Open those pretty eyes.” Home they all trudged, deep in thought — Nadine most of all. But Nadine couldn’t do as Vera did. Within a month, she was gushing over a new love, showing off bouquets at the office. Vera and Granny Taylor just smiled quietly. “How’s your Michael, Granny?” “He’s good, Vera, all healed up. Grandkids wanted him in a dog show — can you imagine? We’re happy enough without all that.” “Some get pets, some get husbands…” “Well, that’s how it goes. Maybe Nadine’s luck will change this time?” “Here’s hoping…” “What are you two whispering about?” “You, Nadine, just hoping things turn out better for you.” “I know how it looks, girls, but I just can’t do it alone, I swear.” “That’s none of our business — don’t apologise, everyone’s got their own way…” “Vera?” Nadine caught her as she walked to her car. “If you ever have tips about cats — which is better, boy or girl?” “Go on, don’t keep them waiting… we’ll see! Just in case…”

JUST IN CASE Margaret glanced at her sobbing colleague with indifference, then turned back to her computer