Walton Merritt

The Healer’s Touch: How Lizzie Baker Won Hearts and Changed Lives in St. George’s Hospital—A Story of Resilience, Hope, and Unexpected Love Among England’s Finest Doctors

Fairy Godmother By the time she reached Year 6, everyone knew that Lizzie Goodwin was destined to be

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The Further Away, the Dearer the Heart… “You know what, my dearest grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one choice left. I won’t go live with my daughters anymore, nor will I traipse about from friend to friend. And I certainly don’t need you matchmaking me for some old gentleman—imagine, marrying me off in my golden years! —Gran, it’s what I’ve been telling you for ages! Mum says the same—just move into the retirement home. All you have to do is sign the house over to me, and you’ll get a cozy room, Mum will sort it out. There’ll be people to chat with, neighbours close by, and you won’t be in my way anymore. —I’m not leaving my house for anyone, Sasha. If I’m in your way, there’s the door and seven roads—take your pick. You’re young, clever, find a flat and live as you please. If you won’t study, go get a job. Parade a different girl home every day if you want. I’m a woman of nearly 65; I need peace and quiet. I’ve wandered enough these past couple of years. Time to come home. It just isn’t right, my boy—when you drive me out of my own house and live off my pension with your girlfriends. My pension isn’t endless. So you’ve one week. If you can’t find a place, go to your friends or that girlfriend—her name I keep forgetting—but I want you out of my home by tonight. First you try to foist a husband on me, then pack me off to a care home—ridiculous!” Her indignant grandson tried to argue, but Lydia Pavlovna was done listening. She walked silently to her room and closed the door, her head pounding. She ought to take a pill, but it would mean braving the kitchen and a run-in with her grandson, which she’d rather avoid. Glancing around her small room, Lida spotted a bottle of sparkling water—just enough for a sip. *** Lida never thought she’d stand up for herself with such resolve. Years of biting her tongue had caught up with her. For two long years, she’d endured in silence, running to one daughter or the other whenever summoned—and just as quickly heading home at their first hint of overstaying her welcome. Now, her twenty-year-old grandson was master of her own home—different ‘true loves’ trailing behind him every week as if Gran’s mere presence and sniffles behind the wall were ruining his romantic atmosphere. —Gran, why not go stay with someone, let us have the house to ourselves—Dasha, Masha, Sveta, Ira (circle as appropriate, they change often) would appreciate it! So Lydia Pavlovna stayed with her cousin, her old workmate, her friend’s wife – initially welcomed, but eventually she realised her visits were a strain. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a baby. City life, a mortgage, a school-age child—the family needed Gran more than ever. At first, everyone was happy: dinners hot, house tidy, children cared for. But after a few months, her son-in-law—barely a decade younger than Lydia—grew snippy. “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages—they’re poison! If you’re at home all day, can’t you make proper meals—homemade burgers, a proper roast…?” “Lydia, why are you spending so much on groceries and toiletries? You need to economise!” “Lydia! Do I look like a cow, gnawing on vegetables? We need more meat, but do keep an eye on the budget.” “You’re home anyway—can’t you help the eldest with her studies? Why are we paying for tutors with a perfectly good grandmother in residence?” Even her eldest granddaughter, just a bold nine-year-old, found fault—Gran’s clothes were embarrassing, she made her study, ‘Gran, why are you even here? Off to your country house, go play boss there!’ Lida endured it all. Her meagre pension bought meat for her son-in-law, pocket money for the embarrassed granddaughter, and even topped up the grandson’s bills—just to keep the house running. Complaining was pointless; her daughter worshipped her husband, never a word against him. When the youngest granddaughter started nursery, Lydia’s job was done. Her son-in-law said it plainly: “Thank you, Lydia, but we don’t need you now, time to go home.” Lydia’s heart sang with relief—finally she’d have her own space again. But her grandson had moved back in, with a girlfriend in tow. The place was a dump; bills unpaid, even the electric at risk. With no other option, Lydia took out a personal loan, settled the debts, scrubbed the house clean. Still, her grandson complained—no privacy with Gran coughing behind thin walls. And then, providence: her youngest daughter needed help with a newborn. Off she went again—only to realise after three months that she was, once again, surplus to requirements. Lydia fled before she could be asked to leave, returning to yet another frown from her grandson. Lydia might have carried on like this forever had it not been for one incident after returning home… House clean (she always paid her own way), debts gone, but again: “Gran, I’m going to Karen’s today—it’s her birthday, I’ll be back late. Lock up after yourselves, I’ll use the back door so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay the night then? Give us a break!” “Where would you two get tired of me in seven days?” “You won’t stay?” “No, I’ll come home.” The party was joyful—first the café, then just the close friends at Karen’s place, reminiscing about youth, steering clear of complaints. Lida was just about to head home when Karen’s phone rang—it was Lida’s daughter, Nastya. “Is everything all right? Why didn’t she call me?” Karen answered quietly: “She just asked to keep you here for the night. Sasha rang his mum—wants you to give them space. She called me—said if you won’t go to a care home, perhaps we can find you an old gent with a flat, so Sasha can get married without Gran breathing down his neck.” Lida poured out everything—to Karen and later, to her grandson and daughter: all the years of juggling, of being unwelcome in her own home. Sasha left, vowing never to return or help. At last, Lida was alone—and relished it: after a lifetime of accommodating everyone else, she could finally breathe. Her daughters called, hoping for babysitting—she said, “Bring the children to me. The air is better here, and in my own home I’m the boss. No more running around for everyone else.” Lida says: the further away, the dearer they become. And I think she’s right.

The further you go, the more you realise where you belong… You know what, my dear grandson, Margaret

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From Dumpster Kitten to Unlucky Cat, and a Fearsome Chihuahua Named Rex: The Hilarious and Chaotic Adventures of Our Two Most Accident-Prone Pets—A Tale of Broken Vases, Midnight Mishaps, and an Unexpected Heroic Moment That Changed Everything in Our English Home

My wife had to take the dog to the vet, and she was already beginning to suspect shed made a colossal mistake.

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A Little Girl Walked into a London Café Hungry—She Spotted Leftover Chips and Steak on a Table and Began to Eat. A Waiter Noticed Her, Took Away the Plate Without a Word… But What Happened Next Is a Story You’ll Want to Read to the Very End!

A young girl stepped quietly into a bustling London café. Her worn shoes tapped nervously on the tiled

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Miss, when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table—I haven’t got time to waste! I’m feeling generous today, so put his bill on me. But the humble old man would put the wealthy snob in his place in the most unexpected way! In that little English bistro, nestled in a quiet corner of Britain, time seemed to move differently. It was a simple, cosy spot, filled with the scent of fresh bread and steaming soup—where people came not just to eat, but to feel at home… And every day, at the same hour, he would appear. An old man in worn clothes, hands roughened by years of work, with that weary look only a hard life leaves behind. He never asked for extras. Never complained. Never disturbed anyone. He took his usual seat in the corner, pulled off his flat cap, warmed his hands against the cold, and always said the same gentle words: — A soup… if you please. The waitress knew him by heart. Everyone did. Some glanced at him with pity. Others, with disdain. Most, though, simply saw him as part of the place: a man with nothing left to lose, but a dignity he never let go. Then, one day, the door swung open and the whole air changed. A man strode in, sharp suit, gleaming watch, the look of someone used to getting what he wants—immediately. That was Mr. Smith. Richard Smith. A businessman, well-heeled and “somebody.” Everyone knew who he was. As he sat at the prime table near the window, tossing his coat over the chair as if the café belonged to him, he caught sight of the old man. The old fellow was sipping his soup slowly, as if every mouthful was a small victory. Smith laughed, short and derisive, and motioned the waitress over. — Miss… when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table. I can’t afford to waste my time. I’m feeling generous today—just put his bill on me. The waitress froze. Not because it was a “charity.” But because his tone wasn’t kind. It was humiliating. The old man heard. Everyone heard. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t argue. No fuss. Just put his spoon down and looked up at the man in the suit. His eyes held not anger, but something far deeper: Memory. After a pause, his voice gentle and calm, he said: — Glad to see you’re well, Richard… Smith stiffened. The diner fell silent. The old man spoke on, never raising his voice: — But remember… when you had nothing, it was I who gave you a bowl of soup. You came from a poor family… used to run to my house at noon for a meal. Smith’s jaw dropped, his mask of “important man” yanked away in a heartbeat. The waitress stared. People began whispering. Smith tried to laugh—but the laugh wouldn’t come. — No… it can’t be… he murmured. The old man smiled sadly. — Oh, it can. I was your mother’s neighbor. I remember you hiding behind the fence—you were ashamed to be hungry. Smith’s eyes darted desperately, searching for a way out. But it wasn’t at the door anymore. It was inside. — You forgot me, the old man said. And I understand. Success makes us forget fast. But I never forgot you. You were the child who shivered in the cold and treated every bowl of soup like a gift from Heaven. Smith clutched his glass, his fingers trembling. — I… I didn’t know… he whispered, not really knowing what he meant. Not “didn’t know”—just “didn’t want to remember.” The old man rose slowly. Before leaving, he simply said: — You had everything today… yet chose to mock a man for eating soup. Don’t forget, Richard… Life can put you right where you once pointed your finger. And he left. No one breathed normally in the café. The waitress had tears in her eyes. The owner stared at the floor. And Richard Smith—the man who seemed to have the world at his feet—was, for the first time in years, small. So very small. He hurried after the old man, catching him at the door. — Sir… he said, voice breaking. Please… forgive me. The old man studied him. — It’s not me you need to ask forgiveness from. It’s the child you were—and buried, just to feel grand. Smith bowed his head. Then quietly said: — Come tomorrow… and the next day… and as long as God allows… Your soup will never be “cheap” again. The old man smiled. And for the first time in years, his eyes showed peace. Because sometimes God doesn’t punish us with loss. He punishes us with memories. To bring us back… to our humanity. If you’ve read this far, leave a ❤️ and share—someone out there might need to remember today that a person’s worth isn’t counted in money, but in soul.

Miss, once this old man finishes slurping his cheap soup, please give me his table. I havent the whole

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An Elderly Lady Finds a Lost Locket on the Floor of an Old English Church and Refuses to Return It Until She Uncovers the Truth About the Photograph Inside – A Tale of Family Secrets, Long-Lost Twins, and a Miracle Reunion That Changes Everything

An elderly lady found a necklace on the floor in church and decided not to return it In the old church

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The Elderly Gentleman Struggled from Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Shuffled into the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Peered with Dim Eyes at His Sleeping Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away? – He Sank to His Knees. – Seems She’s Still Breathing.” He Stood, Shuffled into the Kitchen, Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Returned to His Room. He Lay Down, but Sleep Wouldn’t Come: “We’re Both Ninety—Lena and I. What a Long Life! We’ll Die Soon, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter, Natasha, Passed Before She Hit Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, but She’s Been Living in Germany for Over Twenty Years. She’s Forgotten Her Grandparents Completely. She Must Have Grown Children by Now.” He Didn’t Realise When He Drifted Off. He Woke to a Hand Touching His Face: “Are You Alive, Kostya?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Bent Over Him. “What is it, Lena?” “I Saw You Weren’t Moving. I Got Frightened, Thought You’d Gone.” “Still Alive! Go Back to Bed!” There Were the Shuffling Footsteps, the Click of the Kitchen Light. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Went to the Loo, and Headed to Her Own Room. She Lay Down: “One Day I’ll Wake and He’ll Be Gone. What Will I Do? Or Maybe I’ll Go First. Kostya’s Already Arranged Our Funerals. Never Thought You Could Organise Your Own Send-Off. Then Again, Who Would Bury Us? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us. Only Polina, the Neighbour, Pops In—She Has a Key. Grandpa Gives Her Ten Thousand from Our Pension Each Month. She Buys Our Groceries and Medicines. What Else Would We Spend Our Money On? We Can’t Even Get Down From the Fourth Floor by Ourselves Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sun Peeped Through the Window. He Stepped Out onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Cherry Tree Treetop. A Smile Broke Across His Face: “We’ve Made It to Another Summer!” He Went to See His Wife, Who Sat on Her Bed, Lost in Thought. “Lena, Stop Brooding! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve Barely Any Strength Left!” Grumbled the Old Lady, Hauling Herself from Bed. “What Are You Planning Now?” “Come On, I’ll Help You!” Supporting Her by the Shoulders, He Led Her Out to the Balcony. “Look, the Cherry Tree’s Green! You Said We’d Never See Another Summer, and Here We Are!” “Oh, So True! The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Side by Side on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Took You to the Pictures for the First Time? Back in School. The Cherry Tree Had Just Budded that Day Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago That Was?” “Seventy-Plus… Seventy-Five.” For a Long Time, They Sat, Reminiscing. So Much Slips Away in Old Age, Sometimes Even What Happened Yesterday, but Youth Never Fades from Memory. “Oh, We’ve Chattered Away the Morning!” His Wife Shook Herself. “We’ve Not Had Breakfast Yet.” “Make Some Proper Tea, Lena! I’m Fed Up with All These Herbal Brews.” “We’re Not Supposed To.” “Just Make It Weak—Add a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Diluted Tea, Eating a Little Cheese Sandwich, and Remembered When Breakfast Meant Strong, Sweet Tea with Pasties or Meat Pies. Their Neighbour, Polina, Popped In. She Smiled in Approval: “How Are You Both Doing?” “What Business Can Two Ninety-Year-Olds Have?” He Quipped. “If You’re Joking, All Is Well. Need Me to Pick Anything Up?” “Polina, Buy Us Some Meat!” Requested Konstantin Leonidovich. “You’re Not Supposed To, Are You?” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Cook You Chicken Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Pick Up Something For My Heart?” Asked His Wife. “Elena Ivanovna, I Only Got You Some Recently.” “I’ve Run Out.” “Shall I Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Cleared the Table, Washed Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Out on the Balcony,” Suggested Her Husband. “Let’s Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! No Point Sitting in This Stuffy Flat.” Polina Returned, Stepped onto the Balcony: “Missing the Sunshine, Are You?” “It’s Lovely Here, Polina!” Elena Ivanovna Beamed. “I’ll Bring You Some Porridge and Then Start Soup for Lunch.” “She’s a Good Woman,” Said Konstantin as She Left. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And All We Give Her Is Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, The Flat’s Willed to Her—The Notary Confirmed It.” “She Doesn’t Know That.” They Stayed on the Balcony Until Lunch. The Chicken Soup Was Delicious, with Finely Cut Meat and Mashed Potatoes. “That’s How I Made Soup for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Small,” Elena Ivanovna Recalled. “And Now, In Our Old Age, Strangers Cook for Us.” Sighed Her Husband. “It’s Just Our Lot, Kostya. When We Die, Nobody Will Even Cry.” “Enough, Lena, Let’s Not Dwell. Let’s Have a Nap!” “Kostya, They Say: ‘Old Folk Are Like Little Ones.’ We Have Pureed Soup, Nap Time, an Afternoon Snack…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed but Soon Woke; He Couldn’t Sleep—Maybe It Was the Weather? He Stepped Into the Kitchen. On the Table, He Found Two Glasses of Juice, Thoughtfully Set Out by Polina. He Picked Them Up and Headed Carefully to His Wife’s Room. She Was Sitting on the Bed, Staring Out the Window. “Why So Glum, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice.” She Took a Sip: “You Can’t Sleep Either?” “The Weather—My Blood Pressure’s Up.” “I’ve Felt Off All Day,” Elena Ivanovna Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Much Time Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off.” “Don’t Be Silly, Lena. What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Will Go First, Either Way.” “That’s Enough! Let’s Go to the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Syrniki for Supper. They Ate and Watched the Telly as Usual, Only Old British Comedies and Cartoons These Days—Anything New Was Hard to Follow. Tonight, They Managed Just One Cartoon. Elena Ivanovna Got Up: “I’m Off to Bed—So Tired Tonight.” “Then I’ll Join You.” “Let Me Have a Good Look at You First!” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “Just Because.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time—Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Was Still Ahead. “I’ll Walk You to Your Bed,” She Said, Taking His Arm, and Slowly Led Him Off. He Tucked Her In, Went to His Own Room, But His Heart Was Heavier than Ever. He Thought He Didn’t Sleep, but the Digital Clock Read Two in the Morning. He Rose and Went to His Wife’s Room. She Was Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open. “Lena!” He Took Her Hand. It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened? Le-e-na!” Suddenly, He Himself Struggled for Breath. He Barely Made It to His Room, Put Their Prepared Documents on the Desk, Then Returned to His Wife. He Gazed at Her Face for a Long Time, Lay Down Beside Her, and Closed His Eyes. He Saw Lena, Young and Beautiful as Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant, Shining Light. He Rushed After, Caught Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered Their Bedroom. They Lay Side by Side, Identical, Contented Smiles on Their Faces. When She Came to Her Senses, She Rang for an Ambulance. The Doctor Examined Them and Shook His Head in Amazement: “They Passed On Together. Must Have Loved Each Other Deeply.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank, Exhausted, onto a Chair by the Table—and Then Spotted the Burial Agreement and… a Will in Her Name. She Buried Her Head in Her Hands and Burst Into Tears.

The old man heaved himself out of bed, steadying himself against the wall as he shuffled into the next room.

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Hello, I’m Your Husband’s Mistress: When the Other Woman Arrives Pregnant and I’m Ready for Her—Confessions of a British Wife Who’s Seen it All

Good afternoon. Im your husbands mistress. I paused, setting aside the mock-up of the magazine I was

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Life, Like the Moon: Sometimes Full, Sometimes Waning I believed our marriage was as eternal and unbreakable as the universe—how wrong I was… I met my future husband, David, at medical school; we married in our fifth year. My mother-in-law’s wedding gifts were a trip to the Lake District and keys to a new flat. Life seemed perfect. We moved into a three-bedroom flat, with his parents helping us at every turn. Each year, thanks to their generosity, we holidayed all over Europe. We were young and blissful, with our whole future ahead—David became a virologist, I a GP, and our sons, Daniel and Victor, completed our happiness. But looking back, I realise my life then was a river in full flow—I lived in luxury for a decade. And then, it all collapsed overnight. …The doorbell rang. I opened it to a pretty but troubled-looking young woman. ‘Are you Sophia? I’m here to see you—may I come in?’ she asked, hesitantly. She was slightly pregnant. ‘My name’s Tanya. I’m ashamed to say this, but I love your husband. David loves me, too. We’re having a baby,’ she blurted. She handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a gold ring. ‘Is this some kind of bribe? David isn’t for sale!’ I snapped, returning the ring. Tanya began to cry, pleading for understanding, but I felt only sorrow for myself. This woman had stolen my happiness. I pushed the ‘compensation’ back to her, ushered her out, and from that moment, my life began to unravel… My mother-in-law called: David was leaving. She packed his things, gently telling me, ‘We’ll always be family, no matter what. David and his new girl, well—let them get on with it.’ Within months, David had a new family, including Tanya’s daughter from her first marriage. He never visited our sons, sent only minimal support via his mother; it was the ‘90s. I ended up hospitalised with a breakdown. The boys stayed with their grandmother, spoilt and cared for. When I tried to bring them home after my recovery, they refused—her cooking and lenience were too tempting. What could I say? ‘Let them stay with us,’ my mother-in-law coaxed. ‘You’ll need to downsize the flat, anyway.’ So, I was left alone, soon forced to trade our spacious home for a tiny, shabby bedsit—a far cry from before. I saw my sons only on holidays. ‘Let’s not upset the boys’ contentment,’ my mother-in-law would say. They drifted from me; the connection broke. I longed to disappear into my cold, lonely corner. My gran used to say, ‘Life is like the moon: sometimes full, sometimes waning.’ It couldn’t go on like that. Even my first-class medical degree felt meaningless. …Work sent me to a conference in France, where I had a whirlwind romance with a Serbian doctor, Ivan. For ten days, I came back to life. There were other brief liaisons after, but nothing lasting. Once, my mother-in-law remarked, ‘Sophia, you’re glowing! You look like spring itself!’ Yet I remained alone. When my best friend emigrated to Greece, she introduced me to her ex. ‘Sophia, you take Alexander! He’s all yours now!’ she joked. So, I picked up the pieces of a man left behind. Alexander became my husband, but he had a major flaw: he was a hopeless alcoholic. I couldn’t leave him, no matter the heartbreak, and spent seven years fighting for him—rehab, doctors, tears. At last, he sobered up and now works as a driver at the local mortuary—sobering work, but he comes home quiet and, more importantly, sober. My friend from Greece can scarcely believe it: ‘Alexander isn’t drinking? I don’t believe it!’ I just laugh: ‘No refunds or exchanges!’ My sons are in their thirties now, both bachelors after witnessing so much marital upheaval as boys. I doubt I’ll have grandchildren. As for my ex-husband, David—his second wife, Tanya, drank herself into oblivion, and their daughter is now a single mum. David remarried again, this time to his nurse. Just before the wedding, he even asked our sons, ‘Would your mum want to start over with me?’ I answered sharply, ‘When pigs fly! In other words—never!’

LIFE, LIKE THE MOON: SOMETIMES FULL, SOMETIMES A SLIVER I used to believe our marriage was as unshakeable

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— After I’m Gone, You’ll Have to Move Out—The Flat Will Go to My Son… — I’m sorry, Gail, but after I’m gone, you’ll have to vacate this flat, — said her husband Tony. — I’m leaving it to my son. I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. I hope you’re not upset with me about this? You’ve got your own children—they’ll look after you. Life had never been kind to Gail. Raised in an orphanage, she never knew her parents. She married young for love but found little happiness. Thirty-five years ago, she was left a widow with two small children when her husband, Nick, tragically died. Gail spent five years alone, working hard to give her son and daughter a good life, until Tony came into her world. At least she had her own roof—Nick’s flat had come to her as an inheritance. Gail’s new love, Tony, was thirteen years her senior, owned his spacious three-bedroom flat, and earned well. They quickly decided to move in together, and Tony got on splendidly with the children of the woman he loved. Gail’s eldest, Vicky, was wary of her stepdad at first, but Tony soon won her trust. Gail’s son, Ben, all but instantly called Tony “Dad.” Tony raised them as his own—never stingy with money, time, or affection—and Vicky and Ben were forever grateful for a joyful childhood. *** Both Vicky and Ben had long moved out. Vicky married early and left the nest, while Ben, who dreamed of a career in the Army, hadn’t lived at home in years. Ten years ago, Gail asked her children over to discuss an important matter. “I want to sell our two-bed flat,” she told them over tea. “We need major renovations here: furniture’s outdated, pipes need changing. No one lives in that old place anyway—it’s just sitting empty. If you’re both happy, I say we sell it and split the money.” Vicky shrugged. “That’s fine with me—I don’t need the flat, but to be honest, Mum, I could use the cash. You know how expensive it is treating my son, and we’re still hoping to help him fully recover.” Vicky’s eldest had a birth defect affecting his legs, so money was tight—constant rehab, trips to London, and private treatment sucked up every penny. Ben nodded in agreement. “Me neither, Mum. Give my share to Vicky for little Greg’s treatment. I’ve got my flat and still working on the mortgage. My nephew’s health matters more.” So the flat was sold. Gail gave half the proceeds to Vicky, and with what was left, she completely renovated Tony’s place—new wiring, new pipes, all new furniture and appliances, paid for out of her own pocket. Never could she have imagined her generosity would turn out to be for nothing, or that after thirty years together, Tony would betray her so cruelly. Tony’s health took a turn for the worse four years ago. He complained constantly of knee pain—some days, he couldn’t get out of bed unaided. Gail pleaded: “Tony, stop acting like a child and go to the doctor. Get some proper treatment—I’ll go with you if you want!” Tony grumbled in reply, “Doctors will just prescribe a load of expensive rubbish that won’t work. My knees have ached since I was young… Just worse now I’m nearly seventy.” Vicky had always called Tony “Dad” like Ben did, so she was determined to help. Together, the women made Tony go to the GP, and after a thorough check, the doctor was blunt: “It’s serious. You need urgent treatment. And you really must lose some weight before it gets worse.” Gail took this to heart—she overhauled Tony’s diet, swapped sweets for dried fruit, and cooked only healthy, low-calorie meals. Tony wasn’t having it. “I’m not living like a rabbit! I’ll drop dead starving before my knees ever get better!” But Gail stood firm, and eventually Tony agreed to treatment and dieting. Medicines barely helped, pain came and went, and soon Tony could barely move about the flat. Gail led him everywhere by the hand, and heart and blood pressure troubles soon arrived. He seemed to visibly age before their eyes, and Vicky and Ben took to spending as much time with him as possible. *** For several years, Tony battled on, but the ups and downs wore him out. Gail never once thought of leaving him, always nursing him over each crisis. Six months ago, Tony had a bad turn and ended up in hospital. Gail rarely left his bedside. One evening, as she was packing food for a visit, the doorbell rang. At the door stood a young man unfamiliar to her, yet oddly familiar at the same time. “Evening. Is Tony Evans in?” “I’m afraid he’s not home. Sorry, but who are you?” “I’m Serge. Tony Evans is my dad.” Gail was stunned—the resemblance to her husband as a young man was uncanny! She invited Serge in, feeling awkward and unprepared for the sudden revelation. Over tea, she learned her husband had never mentioned Serge, or that he’d been married before. When they finally visited Tony together, even her husband needed a moment to recognise his son. Later, Tony told Gail how he’d left Serge’s mum after catching her with a cousin, and how he’d been barred from Serge’s life—until, nearly thirty years on, Serge had tracked him down. “Serge is my son, my blood,” Gail said gently. “You can’t blame the child for the way his mother acted—give him a chance to know you.” Tony took her advice and began seeing Serge regularly, who soon met both Ben and Vicky—who welcomed their stepbrother warmly. Gail was happy for Tony, but unnoticed, their bank account was running low. Gail, still working as a remote accountant, checked her phone out of habit one day and was shocked to see a £1,500 withdrawal. She hurried to Tony. “Where’s our bank card? Someone’s emptied our account—was it you?” “Oh, don’t worry,” Tony replied calmly. “I gave Serge the card. He needed the money, so I helped him out.” “Why didn’t you tell me? Why give him so much, without even asking?!” “It’s none of your business,” Tony snapped. “He’s my son, he needed help. What’s your problem?” Rows followed, but Gail called the bank and cancelled the card. That night, Serge arrived, indignant: “The card’s blocked, Dad! We agreed I could use it.” Gail laid down the law: “That money’s mine—I paid for it every month. From now on, you get nothing without asking me.” After that, Serge stopped visiting, and Tony rarely spoke to Gail, giving her the silent treatment until, finally, she decided to spend some time away at her daughter’s house, “Let Tony think things over—a bit of space will do us good.” She returned home that night to find Tony in a cheerful mood, but then he looked at her seriously: “I hope you won’t be cross, but I went to the solicitor today—the flat’s now Serge’s.” “Really?” said Gail, quietly. “For what, exactly?” “He’s my son—my only flesh and blood. You’d better start sorting out where you’ll go next: your daughter’s or your son’s place?” A heaviness settled over Gail. Legally, perhaps, she had no rights to the flat, but it hurt. Every bit of furniture, every curtain, every pound she’d spent making that place a home—none of it mattered now. “Well, thank you, Tony,” she said softly. “Maybe you’re right. I need to look after myself now. Call your son—he can move in and look after you from now on.” “What’s going on, Gail? Where are you going? Explain yourself!” “There’s nothing to explain, Tony. I’m leaving you. I’ll call the children and make plans for my future.” Gail moved in with Ben, who had plenty of room. Vicky would have taken her too, but Gail didn’t want to impose. Tony tried to contest the divorce, but in the end, Gail was free—though she was left, in Tony and Serge’s eyes, as a gold-digger after someone else’s home.

Im sorry, Helen, but after Im gone, youll have to move out. Im leaving the flat to my son said Anthony