Walton Merritt

A Grown-Up Test: When Michael Faces Jealousy, Family, and Temptation on the Eve of a Project’s End

A Test for Grown-Ups Lucy, why arent you coming with us to celebrate finishing the project?

“My Mum Has One Just Like That,” Remarked the Waitress, Noticing the Millionaire’s Ring…🤵 His Response Brought Her to Her Knees… One Evening in the Heart of London, Where the Scent of Fresh Coffee and cut Blooms Filled the Velvet-Lined Walls of a Posh Restaurant, Waitress Annie was Finishing Her Shift When a Mysterious VIP Guest Arrived—Sir Leonard Sutton, a Man with a Public Reputation but a Secretive Private Life. When Annie Noticed the Simple Silver Ring with a Vivid Sapphire on His Hand and Whispered That Her Mother Once Wore an Identical One, His Unexpected Reply Stopped Her in Her Tracks and Unveiled a Family Secret Long Hidden in the Shadows of Her Mother’s Past…

Diary Entry Last night was one of those peculiar evenings that seem, at first, altogether unremarkablejust

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“You’ll Never Make It Without Me! You Can’t Do Anything!”—That’s What My Husband Yelled While Packing His Shirts into a Big Bag. But I Proved Him Wrong. Alone With Two Little Girls, No Time for Tears—Just Nursery Runs, Work, and Life Onward. How an Unexpected Neighbor, a Cup of Melissa Tea, and a Second Chance at Happiness Turned My Struggles Into a Life Filled With Love, Friendship, and Summer Days at Our English Country Cottage.

Youll never manage without me! You cant do a thing on your own! my husband shouted as he packed his shirts

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Women’s Fates: Marianne After Granny Agnes Passed Away, Marianne Felt Utterly Lost. Her Mother-in-Law Saw Her as a Misfit—Too Thin, Too Feeble, Not Hardworking Enough, and Unlikely to Bear Children. Marianne Endured the Scorn, Finding Solace Only in Her Beloved Granny, Who Had Been Like a Mother and Father in One After Tragedy Struck Her Family. Dan, Strong, Handsome, With a House Full of Plenty, Fell Head Over Heels for This Orphaned Pauper, To His Mother Audrey’s Disgust. No Matter How Hard Marianne Tried—Working Tirelessly, Obeying Every Order—She Could Never Please Her. Things Were Bearable When Dan Was Home, But When He Left for Business, Audrey’s Cruelty Knew No Bounds. “Endure, My Dear,” The Old Granny Had Urged, “In Time, Things Will Soften,” But Now Her Confidante Was Gone, While Dan’s Mother Grew Ever More Hostile, Bitter That Her Son Had Not Chosen the Sturdy, Well-Connected Bride She Preferred. Dan, Inheriting His Father’s Stubbornness, Often Stood Up for His Wife, Fiercely Protective and Deeply in Love, Blinded by Her Gentle Beauty. Marianne Had Heard of Her Mother-in-Law’s Tempers and Greed But Was Soothed by Dan’s Loyalty. She Weathered Every Humiliation, Seeking Comfort at Her Granny’s Knee When She Could Bear No More, The Old Woman’s Fingers Stroking Her Hair and Whispered Prayers Easing Her Heart. But Now There Was No One Left. Marianne Was Utterly Alone. Contrary to What People Say, Time Doesn’t Heal—Instead, The Ache Deepened, Memories Bringing New Tears. In Dan’s House, Tensions Rose: Audrey Called Marianne a Useless Scrounger for Failing to Produce an Heir. The Whole Village Whispered That Dan’s Line Would Die With Him. Still, Dan’s Love Gave Marianne Strength—Until, At Last, Her Prayers Were Answered and She Fell Pregnant. Audrey Turned Even More Vicious, Taunting Her For Resting, For Every Perceived Failure, Even as Marianne Struggled with Exhaustion and Tears. When Her Frail Son, Benjamin, Was Born, Audrey’s Cruel Remarks Cut Deep: She Blamed Mother and Child for Their Weakness, Hardly Believing Marianne’s Protests That This Sickly Boy Was Her Precious Grandson, Dan’s Heir. The Infant’s Struggles Brought Even Greater Despair. Whenever Dan Returned Home, He Tried to Lift Her Spirits—But Soon Work Took Him Far Away. With Dan Gone, Audrey’s Reign Became Unbearable: She Forced Marianne to Labour Day and Night, While The Sick Baby Grew Weaker. At Last, Fearing Audrey’s Poisonous Words Might Be True—That Dan Would Be Better Off Without Her—Marianne Decided She Could Suffer No More. With Nowhere To Go, She Fled, Wrapping Benjamin In Scarves And Setting Out Into The Cold Dark Night. In A Distant Village, A Kindly Woman Named Alice Took Them In And Led Marianne To Her Mother, The Old Healer Grace, Who Lived Deep In The Woods. Grace Explained That Benjamin’s Illness Was The Result Of Grief—Marianne Had Visited Her Grandmother’s Grave Too Often While Pregnant, Picking Up A Clinging Sorrow That Now Threatened Her Son’s Life. Grace Promised Healing, Tending To Benjamin With Ancient Remedies Until He Grew Rosy And Strong. Meanwhile, Back in Dan’s Village, Audrey Spun Tragic Tales: She Claimed The Baby Had Died And That Marianne, Maddened By Grief, Had Vanished. Dan, Returning To An Empty Home, Was Consumed By Grief And Blame. As The Years Passed, He Withdrew Ever Further, Shrouded In Sorrow, While Audrey Wasted Away With Guilt, Dying Without Confessing Her Cruelties. Alone And Lost, Dan Resolved To Join His Family In Death, Wandering Toward The Marshes, Until He Heard Marianne’s Voice Calling Him Back From The Brink. Reunited In The Woods, Dan Discovered His Wife And Son Alive And Well, Healing In A Village Where Kindness Had Replaced Cruelty. Grateful For Second Chances And Determined Never To Return To The House Haunted By Their Sorrows, Marianne, Dan, And Benjamin Began A New Life Together, With Alice And Grace As Their True Family. As The Forgotten Brambles Grew Over Audrey’s Grave, No One Remembered The Woman Whose Jealousy Had Brought Such Misfortune—A Lost Soul, Unmourned And Alone, While Love And Hope Bloomed Anew In The Hearts Of Those She Had Tried To Destroy.

Womens Fates. Mary-Anne When Granny Agnes passed away, a deep sadness consumed Mary-Anne. She never seemed

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“We’re at the train station, you’ve got half an hour to order a business-class taxi for me and my children!” demanded my sister — “Are you really my sister or just a random stranger? Aren’t you ashamed to act like this, especially in front of the kids? Is it really so hard for you to buy your beloved nephews and nieces some new clothes? Why should I have to beg you to buy things for them? You should offer on your own! You ought to help with money! After all, you couldn’t have children, probably never will! But I’m a single mum!” Angela fired words at Nadya like darts, each one aimed to wound and press deeper into her personal space. Nadya had never been the favourite child. Born out of wedlock, her mother only married later, and from then on Nadya felt like she was in the way. Her stepfather resented her, and her mother took her frustration out on her firstborn for having to marry the first man she could find just to avoid single parenthood. It was only after her little sister was born that Nadya began to breathe easier, as now she had a purpose: the family decided the eldest would serve as nanny to the youngest. Nadya was expected to spend all her time caring for her sister, entertaining and teaching her, regardless of schoolwork, hobbies or friendships. If Nadya didn’t feed or change her sister quickly enough, she’d be grounded or forbidden from seeing friends. As Angela grew older, she began treating Nadya just the way their parents did—as little more than a servant. At eighteen, Nadya decided to change her life. She picked the furthest university from home, packed her bags and left, determined never to return. She barely kept in touch; her parents only called to borrow money they never repaid, always citing Angela’s children. Nadya knew Angela had become a mother at seventeen and married at eighteen, thinking a second child would keep her husband out of army service. She gave birth to twins, but soon after, the young father bolted, demanding a divorce. Now the requests for financial help came frequently. Unlike her sister, Nadya had made a life for herself: she’d earned a degree, landed a good job, and managed to buy her own small flat on a mortgage. Once they knew she was managing, her parents called almost weekly, always for money for Angela’s kids—never repaying, never asking how Nadya herself was coping. She still couldn’t shake the guilt drilled into her since childhood. Saying no to her mother was nearly impossible; every call left her struggling to balance her own finances for the month. Her own love life hadn’t flourished—after finding out she couldn’t have children, Nadya’s husband-to-be had left her. When her family discovered she was childless, it became a recurring source of shame in their conversations: “Nadya’s barren… Tough luck! Thank goodness at least our Angela’s given us grandchildren,” her mother would say. After a while, Angela had the brilliant idea to show up on Nadya’s doorstep, unannounced, one of the few weekends Nadya had to herself: “Nadya, where are you? Am I supposed to take the kids on the bus? Order us a taxi, and make sure it’s not the cheap kind! The little ones get carsick in smoky cabs!” “Hi… Where are you, and why should I get you a taxi?” “Mum didn’t tell you? I’ve decided to move in with you. There’s nothing for me in our hometown. I’m at the station; you have half an hour to send a taxi for us.” Angela hung up before Nadya could protest. That evening Angela began issuing orders: “Tomorrow you’ll get me a job at your office—good pay, easy work, and a team with fit young men, please. I’ll need time off whenever I want. Buy the twins a bunk bed—can’t have us all crammed on the same sofa. I’ll sleep in your bed with the boys tonight, you and Polina can take the sofa. Also, it’s nearly winter, so buy the kids proper warm clothes—none of that bargain rubbish. I don’t want people calling me a divorced mum with baggage!” Nadya listened, incredulous that she’d tolerated such treatment for so long; suddenly, she found her courage: “You can spend tonight here, but tomorrow morning I’ll drive you back to the station—you’re going home to Mum and Dad. I’m not supporting you or your children anymore! You chose to have them—raise them yourself. Consider your debts paid in full! And if you’re not gone by morning, I’ll call the police. I don’t care if the kids are with you—they’re your responsibility! You can all sleep on the guest sofa—I’m not giving up my bed!” Angela sputtered her outrage and rang their mother to complain, but Nadya stood firm. In the morning, she didn’t even drive her sister to the station—just handed her a fare for a taxi and the train. “That’s it. Forget the way to my flat. I have my own life, and it doesn’t revolve around your problems,” Nadya said, shutting the door behind her. Afterward, Nadya wept, thought it through, and realised she’d done the right thing—otherwise, her “wonderful” family would have ruined her. Freed from the burden of never-ending obligation, Nadya felt she could finally breathe. She met a man, married, adopted two children and, at last, found happiness.

Were at the station. You have thirty minutes to order a black cab for me and the childrenbusiness class!

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“How I Used to Say ‘I Love You, Mum’ at Breakfast When I Was Fourteen—And How She Showed Me What Love Really Means Through Warm Meals, Paper Doll Dresses, and Life’s Everyday Little Things”

I love you so much, Mum, I tell her over breakfast, when Im about fourteen. Oh really? she smiles, Then

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Julia Lay Sobbing on the Sofa: Her Husband Confessed Months Ago He Was Expecting a Baby With Another Woman, Leaving Her Just Before Christmas—But a Childhood Memory, a Lost Ballerina Music Box, and an Unexpected Visit from “Father Christmas” Were About to Change Everything

Julia lay sprawled on the worn sofa, tears running freely down her cheeks. It had been only a few months

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Women’s Fates: Liuba – An English Village Healer’s Tale of Sisters, Sickness and Dark Magic

Women’s Fates. Louisa Oh, Louisa, for heavens sake, take my little Andrew with you, cried Dorothy

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Apples in the Snow… In our village on the outskirts, right at the edge of the ancient forest—where the pines hold up the sky and even at midday it’s dusk beneath the needles—lived John “Jack” Carter. He was as tough as old boots. He spent his whole life as a forester, knew every tree, every badger sett, every winding deer trail for miles around. His hands were huge—like shovels—calloused and stained by sap, the marks of a lifetime’s graft. His heart seemed carved from the same weathered oak: strong, reliable, but unyielding. He and his wife, Annie, made it thirty years together in perfect harmony—a striking pair. In the evenings, you’d walk past their gate and see them on the porch: Jack softly squeezing an old concertina, Annie joining in, their voices twining so sweetly it would stop you in your tracks to listen. Their home was the picture of comfort: blue-painted window frames as bright as Annie’s eyes, a cottage garden brimming with phlox, not a stray weed in the tidy rows. I remember watching them plant their apple orchard—Jack digging rich, black earth for Annie to cradle the young saplings, murmuring encouragement as gently as if she were soothing a child. ‘Grow well, loves. Grow sweet, for our children’s delight.’ Jack would wipe the sweat from his brow, grinning brighter than he ever would again. The orchard thrived. Every spring it blossomed into a white mist, and by autumn the apples were so plentiful you could smell their crisp sweetness from half a mile away. But God took Annie far too soon. She wasted away in just three months—gone in her sleep, Jack’s hand held tight in hers. Grief turned him hollow and grey overnight—he didn’t shed a tear (for men mustn’t show it), but the loss set his jaw so tight his teeth ached and he went white as a sheet. He was left with only his late-in-life daughter, Nancy—his window of light in that wild loneliness, the sole anchor tying him to this world. Jack doted on her fiercely, a bear of a father: strict, protective to a fault, sheltering her even from the spring wind. His terror of being left alone again, abandoned like the day Annie died, made him cling too tightly. ‘You’re my hope, Nancy,’ he’d say, his big hand stroking her hair. ‘When you’re grown you’ll run this house. You don’t need anything from that world out there—all wolves in sheep’s clothing, all heartbreak and empty promises.’ Nancy grew into a beauty—golden hair thick as rope, eyes as blue as Jack’s, a voice that could turn birds silent and stop scythes mid-swing in the hayfields. The village women whispered she took after her mother, only more brilliantly still. She dreamed of singing, moving to London, auditioning for the Royal College of Music. She poured over music books, taught herself to read scores, wore out old records on her battered player. Jack’s thinking was country plain: ‘Where you’re born is where you’re needed.’ He feared the city’s fiery appetite, believed London would devour all that was good. ‘Not a chance!’ he’d bellow till the sideboard rattled. ‘You’ll milk cows, marry a decent lad—Tom the tractor driver is a good man, building his own house! No need for this nonsense about being a performer. Outrageous!’ But one stormy October came the breaking: Nancy, usually so meek, packed her small suitcase and headed for the door. Jack lost all sense: shouting, slamming, vowing, ‘Go and you’re no daughter of mine! Don’t darken my doorstep!’ When Nancy left into the rain without once looking back, Jack split the porch step with his axe—wood chips flying like blood. ‘No daughter,’ he rasped. ‘Gone for good.’ Twelve years passed—a lifetime. Winters turned to springs, village babies grew and scattered, some to war, some to marriage. Jack’s house stood silent, his apple trees tangled and wild, window frames stripped bare, axe rusted to a scar in the wood, porch sagging like an old bruise. Then, during last year’s wild November freeze, with the earth black and frozen, I passed by and noticed his chimney dead cold at dusk—a bad sign in any village. The old dog didn’t even rise to bark—just whimpered from his icy kennel. Inside the cottage was colder than the night—water iced in the bucket, the place stinking of medicine and despair. Jack was a shivering wreck beneath a battered coat, teeth chattering, calling for Annie and Nancy in fevered delirium. Pneumonia, eating him alive. I stayed through the night, kindled the fire; his dreams were all wretched apologies and lost hopes. When the fever broke, he waited for news every day by the window, just as Nancy’s letters—hundreds, withheld by the postwoman out of mercy—waited in the shop. Over shaking fingers and blotted tears, Jack finally read his grandchildren’s names and pressed their photos to his chest. With only part of a phone number left, I found a local lad—well up on computers—to search. At last, a reply: Nancy in Birmingham now, status: ‘Missing home.’ We left a message, and the wait was agony. Jack drank bitters down to the dregs, terrified she’d never forgive. But then—connection. At first her husband answered, then Nancy herself, voice trembling, wary as she heard her father’s plea. ‘I’m dying, lass. I wronged you, but I’ve always loved you. Forgive me if you can.’ ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ she sobbed, ‘I waited so long—I wrote so many letters… I don’t know if I can forgive…’ ‘I’m not asking it all at once. Just know: it was love, even if it hurt us.’ She agreed to come, out of duty if not love yet, and in the days that followed the cottage was scrubbed and scoured, anxiously awaiting her return. At last, Nancy and her family arrived: tall, proud, London-smart—her children wary, her husband stern. The old wounds hung thick as ever, the silence heavy over tea. Only on the third day, after a child’s innocent question about the missing axe and Jack’s rueful reply (‘It rotted away—anger does too, in time’), did the ice begin to break for good. Later, over tea in the nurse’s kitchen, Nancy confided, ‘The anger won’t let go. But when I see him… so old, so lost… and today he warmed my daughter’s boots by the fire, just as he did for me—something healed, a little.’ They returned in summer, and it was a new life: Jack tending the orchard, the old trees in bloom again, father and daughter side by side in the golden dusk as laughter returned to their home. They say you can mend a broken cup; the crack remains, but the tea is all the sweeter because you cherish it more. Life is short as a winter’s day—blink, and it’s twilight. You always think, ‘I’ll have time—forgiveness will wait, I’ll write or visit next holiday…’ but sometimes, ‘next time’ never comes. A house can grow cold, a phone can fall silent forever, and the mailbox can stay empty until the very end.

Apples on Snow… There lived on the far edge of our village, right where the ancient woods begin

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Andrew, please, kind sir, I beg you! I’m pleading—help us! A desperate woman threw herself at the feet of the tall man in the white coat and burst into tears. Behind a string of shabby consulting rooms, her child was dying in the medicine-scented A&E of the village hospital. —Try to understand! I can’t do it. I just can’t! That’s why I came here! I haven’t operated in two years. My hand, the conditions… —I beg you! Please!—the woman clung stubbornly to the reluctant doctor. He had to agree. He had to try—because otherwise… Just a few more steps. A creaking, white-painted wooden door. And there he was—her little Michael. Her own, her only. Tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hiding his faded freckles. Still breathing. Still alive. And the blood seeping from the bandage on his head was as thick and dark as last year’s cherry jam. The green line on the heart monitor wavered with every ragged breath. There was no way they’d make it to the city; it was a hundred miles. The helicopter… but the blizzard outside had stolen their last hope. His blood pressure kept falling. His heartbeat weaker and weaker. The paramedics averted their eyes. —Kovalevsky!—an elderly nurse clutching the stretcher seized his arm—Andrew! She pulled a crumpled old newspaper from her pocket, showing a photo of the man in his white coat, smiling children clustered around him like redbreasts on a rowan. Tears blurred lines about an accident, a damaged hand, a failed operation—yet spoke of a world-class neurosurgeon. A godsend. In their backwater… If only he’d agree! —I can’t take that kind of responsibility! Don’t you see? Last time… my wrist… I failed! I can’t operate anymore. I just can’t! The boy on the gurney was growing paler. The blood, like jam. The colleagues clustered at the doorway, uneasily silent. The sobbing mother. Time—against them all. And a dog… —A dog? —What’s a dog doing here? Only whining replied. A Labrador lunged for the stretcher, claws scrabbling on the floor, someone tugging at the collar, but he strained forward, locking eyes on Michael—and no longer whined. He rasped. And still he pressed on… —That’s Loyal—he’s Michael’s,—the woman wept, forgetting to breathe as the doctor’s words dropped like a stone into the heavy quiet: —Prep the operating theatre. He shut his eyes for a moment. Another memory surfaced—another dog. Hope. His father still alive. Andrew as a schoolboy. The icy New Year road. The wrecked car in the snow, like a shattered ornament. His mother crying. The doctor’s hesitant eyes. The impossible operation, the centre so far away. And Hope no longer whined at the grave. Only rasped. Stopped eating on the sixth day. Watched. Then followed her owner. Faded away. —I’ll be a neurosurgeon, Mum. I promised Hope, whispered the tousle-haired boy at the grave. The very best. Do you believe me? How could he forget? Why? ***** The theatre lights, blinding as the sun. The shine of steel. His wrist pulsed again. “Maybe I should get a dog”—what wild thoughts, now of all times! His fingers were wooden. Never mind, he’d manage. The injury was bad. Complicated. Pressure dropping, praying swelling wouldn’t worsen… Delicate tissue damaged. The skull bone in shards to piece back together. Blood vessels… And even the fastest helicopter would have been too late. The local assistants’ eyes shone. For them, this was a miracle. For him? How many times had he done this? Why give up after one failure? Why run away? Why break all ties? The wrist throbbed. And Hope’s eyes seemed to watch from the corner… Or maybe it was the Labrador, ready to follow his boy—Loyal. It was hard to hold the clamp. The staples. His fingers trembled. Nearly there—just a little longer. Breathe, Michael, just breathe. Don’t give up. We won’t let you slip away. Time—now it ticked for Michael. Was that the sound of a helicopter, somehow? Had it finally made it? ***** —Dr. Kovalevsky, someone’s asking for you,—the duty nurse peeked into his office and couldn’t help but break into a wide smile. Everyone smiled these days. Kovalevsky had returned. Every department was abuzz. Critical children were being sent from all over the county. Now the fear was gone. Kovalevsky’s hands were “golden.” Laughter echoed down the paediatric neuro wards again. The little ones were recovering. And the parents… why, they followed him everywhere… —Five minutes. Just let me check on Matthew. Just around the corner to his six-year-old patient’s room. A cheeky red-haired boy. Called him Uncle Andy. Came for a trip to London, fell from the second floor—just like Michael from the village. His skull—Dr. Kovalevsky had pieced it together over eight hours. Managed. Even the wrist barely ached. Maybe it was the children’s laughter—healed something, somehow… It was right, after all, that he came back. He should have done it sooner—never had the right reason. Had forgotten so much. But life, well—life reminded him. The dog, though, he’d never gotten around to. Too busy. He often wondered how that Labrador and Michael were getting on. He thought of them a lot. —Oh, Dr. Kovalevsky, dear! No sooner had he reached the door. Speak of the devil! —Hello, Michael, hello, Natalie,—he smiled—And you too, Loyal. His hand reached for the soft head, a wet nose nuzzled his palm. Gentle brown eyes watched him, full of knowing. —What brings you here? Is Michael all right—or are you in for a check-up? —Michael’s grand,—Natalie gushed—absolutely fine! That’s not why we’re here! Only now did Dr. Kovalevsky notice the radiant smile, the oddly bulging coat, her glittering eyes—but it felt awkward to ask. Loyal whirled around restlessly, breaking his train of thought. —Here! A taller Michael couldn’t hold his silence any longer. He burrowed behind his mother’s coat and handed the bemused Dr. Kovalevsky something small, black, pathetic and floppy-eared. —Ah…?—words caught in his mouth as he lifted the surprise to his face. —Don’t be cross,—Michael babbled—Loyal found him. Mum said we could keep him. And yesterday, we saw your interview on telly. And Loyal dragged him to the screen by the scruff when he heard your voice. So Mum and I thought… —You thought right. Long overdue,—Dr. Kovalevsky winked at the beaming dog—He’ll be my inspiration. I’ll call him Timmy.

Please, Dr. Matthewson, Im begging you! Youre my last hope! The woman crumpled to her knees before the