Emily Taylor

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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!

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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

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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, scowling as she passed her husband, George, who had been fussing over the well for three days straight—determined to carve ornate patterns, as if there weren’t more important things to do! While his wife bustled about tending to the animals, there he stood with his chisel, covered in wood shavings, just smiling at her. What sort of man had God sent her? Not a tender word, nor a fist to the table—just silent, steady work. Only now and then did he walk over to touch her thick golden braid, his way of showing affection. But Annie longed to hear pet names like “darling” or “my dove”… Lost in thought about her woman’s lot, she nearly tripped over old Buster, their dog. George leapt up, caught her, then scolded the dog with a stern look: “Why are you getting underfoot? You’ll end up hurting your mistress.” Buster dropped his eyes and slunk to his kennel, and once again Annie marvelled at how animals always understood her husband. When she’d once asked him about it, all he’d said was, “I love animals—they give it right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love: being swept up in strong arms, sweet nothings in her ear, flowers on her pillow every morning. But George wasn’t one for grand gestures, and Annie had begun to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours,” called out Bill, popping his head over the fence. “George, you still fiddling with that well? Who needs your fancy carvings, anyway?” “I want my children to grow up to appreciate beauty,” George replied. “First you’ll need some children!” Bill laughed, winking at Annie. George glanced at his wife with sadness, while Annie—embarrassed—quickly returned to the house. She wasn’t in a rush for children, young and beautiful as she was, wanting to enjoy life a bit more, and anyway, George was just so… quiet. But Bill—now there was a man! Tall, broad-shouldered, a real charmer. When he met her by the gate, he made her heart flutter with his gentle, summer-rain whisper: “My dewdrop, my bright sunshine.” Still, Annie always ran from him, loyal to the vows she’d made when she married George—her parents’ marriage had lasted soul-to-soul for decades, and they’d taught her to cherish her family. But then, why did she always find herself gazing out the window, aching to meet Bill’s eyes? The next morning, leading the cow to pasture, Annie met Bill at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you keep dodging me? I can’t get enough of your beauty—it’s simply dizzying. Come to me at dawn. When your fella’s off fishing, slip over to my place. I’ll give you all the tenderness you crave—you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed a furious red, her heart fluttering, but she said nothing, just hurried past. “I’ll be waiting,” said Bill after her. She thought about him all day—she wanted love, wanted tenderness, and Bill’s eyes burned with longing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. At least, not yet. There was still time until dawn… That evening, George fired up the sauna, even invited Bill in for a steam—Bill, always happy to save his own firewood. They lashed each other with birch twigs, relishing the dry heat, then retreated to the anteroom to cool down. Annie brought in a decanter of homemade gin and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers left in the cellar. She ran down, collected the jar, and went to bring it to the men—only to pause as she caught snatches of their conversation through the half-open door. “Honestly, George,” Bill said quietly, “why so hesitant? Come with me—you won’t regret it. Those widows, they’ll spoil you rotten, and some are real beauties! Not like your Annie, she’s just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” Annie heard George reply, voice soft but firm. “I don’t need beauties—don’t even want them. And my wife’s no grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman alive. There isn’t a flower or berry on earth lovelier than her. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—I see only her eyes, her slender waist. Love fills me up like a river in spring, but I just—can’t find the words to tell her how much I love her. She’s angry sometimes, I know it. I know it’s my fault, and I’m scared to lose her. I couldn’t live a day, not even take a breath, without her.” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear tracing her cheek. Then, holding her head high, she strode into the anteroom. “Why don’t you head to those widows, Bill, and leave us to more important matters. We’ve got someone who needs to admire George’s handiwork. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish doubts. I was holding happiness all this time and never even realised. Let’s not waste another moment…” That dawn, George did not go fishing.

Love Is Not for Show I remember Mary stepping out of the cottage with a full pail of pig feed, her face

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You Were My Teenage Mistake A girl gave birth at sixteen; the father was also sixteen. Skipping the scandalous details, after the baby was born, they quickly went their separate ways. When the girl realised the boy wanted neither her nor their son, she immediately lost all interest in her child, who was then raised by his grandparents. At eighteen, the girl moved with a new boyfriend to a nearby city, cut off all contact, and her parents made no effort to see her. There was blame and disbelief: how could she abandon her own child? The shame and pain of raising such a person. The grandparents raised their grandson. To this day, the boy regards them as his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, good education—everything. When he turned eighteen, his cousin was getting married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters: the eldest ten, the youngest a year and a half. The boy was excited to meet his mother and sisters—and naturally, to ask: “Mum, why did you leave me?” Despite recalling how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even saving the only picture of her (his grandfather burnt the rest). The woman chatted with a relative, bragging about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right; I should’ve had an abortion,” she replied indifferently, turning away. Seven years later, now living comfortably with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he received a call from an unfamiliar number. “Son, it’s your mother. Listen, your uncle gave me your number. I know you live near the college your sister attends. Can she stay with you for a while? She’s family. She can’t stand the dorms, rent is expensive, my husband left me, life is hard, one daughter a student, another in school, the third starting nursery soon,” she said. “You have the wrong number,” he replied, hanging up. He went and picked up his son: “Let’s get ready to meet Mum, and then we’ll all visit Grandma and Grandpa, ok?” “And at the weekend, we’ll all go to the countryside together, yeah?” asked his little boy. “Of course, we must never break family traditions!” Some relatives criticised the boy for refusing to help his sister, but he believes he should only help his grandparents, not a stranger who called him her mistake.

Youre a mishap of youth. The girl gave birth when she was just sixteen, and the father was also sixteen.

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Living Together with My 86-Year-Old Mum: At 57, I Celebrate Quiet Birthdays Just With Her, Finding Comfort in Our Tea, Knitting, and Weekend Cakes Amid a Simple, Peaceful Life

I remember so clearly those quiet days spent with my mother. We shared a home together for many years.

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A Man Enjoyed a Day Off and Was Sleeping When the Doorbell Suddenly Rang — Who Came So Early? Upon Opening the Door, He Found an Unknown Elderly Woman Who Was Frightened, Claiming to Be His Mother After Years of Separation, Sparking a Heart-Wrenching Reunion Filled with Painful Memories and Unexpected Betrayal

The man is enjoying his day off and is fast asleep, but suddenly the doorbell rings. He wonders who could