Walton Merritt

A Parent’s Love “Children are the flowers of life,” Mum always loved to say. Dad, with a chuckle, would add, “…on their parents’ grave,” hinting at all our childhood mischief and the never-ending hubbub. Ella sighed—tired, yet truly happy—as she bundled her two little ones into a London black cab. Four-year-old Millie and one-and-a-half-year-old Davey had just spent a magical time at Grandma and Granddad’s: all biscuits, cuddles, bedtime stories, and joys allowed ‘just a little more than at home.’ Ella, too, cherished the trip to her family home: parents, sisters, nephews—no explanations needed, unconditional warmth. Mum’s cooking, impossible to refuse. The Christmas tree, sparkling with ancient, charming ornaments. Dad’s toasts—long-winded, but always heartfelt. Mum’s thoughtful gifts—caring, needed, given with love. For a moment, Ella felt herself a child once more, longing simply to say, “Thank you, Mum and Dad, for being here!” This year, she and her husband Russell had planned something special for her parents. Not from obligation, but from gratitude—for a happy childhood, for all the patient love and care given to Ella and her sisters, for welcoming Russell so openly, for all their support and faith in the family’s journey. “I always dreamed of buying my dad a car,” Russell confessed gently one evening. “But my dad didn’t live to see it… But your dad—we’ll make it happen!” he promised, his voice sure. Keeping to their arrangement, Ella arrived with the kids—hands full of clear boxes filled with homemade salads, roast joints, cakes; every dish her own, prepared with care. Davey solemnly presented Nan with a gigantic bouquet of roses that nearly toppled him over, while Ella hugged her dad, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of home. “Where’s Russell then? Why’s he not with you?” her parents fretted. Just then her phone chimed. “It’s Russ—he’s running late, says to go ahead without him…” The kids dashed into the lounge, where beneath the tall, beautifully decorated tree, labelled presents ‘from Santa’ awaited everyone. Millie, of course, got the motherlode: a magical Cinderella carriage, a pair of snowy-white horses with shimmering gold manes—even ‘glass’ slippers fit for a princess. There was a gossamer party dress, glittering gloves, jewels, a magic mirror, play makeup, craft kits, and books galore. Davey received a gigantic parking garage—shiny little cars riding lifts up and spiralling down ramps. In other boxes: a big dinosaur with glowing eyes, a bow and arrow, a ball pit with a whole sack of rainbow balls, a cosmic blaster flashing every colour, and of course, stacks of colouring books and magical markers. Ella wasn’t forgotten either—a little box with a ribbon held sparkly gold earrings, reflecting the tree’s fairy lights. On the table, pride of place: her favourite ‘Ant Hill’ cake, just like Mum made when she was little, filled with nuts, raisins, candied fruit, chocolate sprinkles. Russell’s presents sat neatly wrapped under the tree—with strict orders not to open a thing without their favourite son-in-law. Ella and the kids presented their gifts: a tiny box of real French perfume for Mum, a beautiful woven silver bracelet for Dad. Millie presented Nan and Grandad with her hand-drawn portrait—a little like a ‘Wanted’ poster, but so full of love it made everyone laugh and tear up a bit. The main surprise, however, was still to come! After the first round of Dad’s toasts and everyone busying over their gifts, Ella donned her new earrings—they sparkled, accenting her happiness. Millie took notice and declared with solemn pride, “Mummy, did you put those on just so I’d tell you you’re beautiful?” “That’s exactly why,” Ella replied, honestly. “Well, you are beautiful!” said Millie. “And so am I! And Daddy too! And Davey!” More laughter burst forth. “But really, where IS our favourite son-in-law? Time he showed up!” And then he did. The security light flashed, the gates opened, and in rolled a large, shiny white car honking merrily—brand new, silver gleaming, topped with balloons on wing mirrors and bonnet. Everyone rushed out into the wintry dusk—noisy, laughing, shivering in the crispy air. There it stood at the gate, a brand-new car. Russell slipped out from behind the wheel, quietly, calmly, walked up to Ella’s dad and held out the keys. “For you. With all our love,” he said, embracing him, a solid, manly hug—no fuss, just feeling. Ella’s dad stepped back in shock, a smile breaking across his face. “What are you up to, you two… I can’t…,” he stammered, barely able to believe it. But before he could protest further, they led him gently to the driver’s seat where he ran his hand over the sleek wheel, stared at the glowing, almost sci-fi dashboard. The new interior smelled of expensive leather and future road trips. He wiped at his eyes—eyes that so seldom found tears. “Well, I never…” was all he could say, before getting up to embrace each of them—Ella, Russell, the grandkids, his wife. In short, Christmas had worked its magic—everyone was blissfully happy. The adults’ and children’s hearts were fit to burst with joy. But all good things must end, and soon it was time to head home. Next morning, Russell left for work. Ella’s dad, chest out, drove him in that brand-new car—proud, confident, looking years younger. Ella watched, smiling—this was exactly what she and Russ had wanted. After lunch, Ella called for a taxi. The suitcases were lighter than upon their arrival, but their hearts were fuller. Millie hugged Grandma once again; Davey waved goodbye to Grandad, clutching his new toy car tight in his little fist. They all got into the taxi. The drive was calm: the children, worn out and content, snuggled together asleep on the back seat. On the way home, Ella asked the driver to stop by a small corner shop. “Just a moment—need to grab nappies and some water,” she said. Five minutes later, she climbed back in—and her heart dropped. The children weren’t there! The driver was chatting calmly with an unfamiliar young woman up front. “Excuse me…,” Ella managed. The woman spun around. “Who are you?!” she barked. The driver shrugged. “No idea—who are you?” “Where are my children?!” Ella cried. The girl screamed, “What—so you’ve got kids now too, have you?!” and began to thump the driver with her handbag. Ella yelled, flailing her arms, “You just let anyone in your car? Where are my kids?!” Three or five minutes of pure chaos erupted—shouting, accusations, wild gestures, the whole world turned upside down. Then suddenly, a man opened the door, leaned in, and quietly said, “Miss… this isn’t your taxi. Yours is parked just up ahead.” The world stopped. Ella snapped the door shut, darted over to an identical pale cab ahead, flung open the back door—and there were her children, sound asleep. Not a stir. Ella exhaled as though she’d just tottered back from the edge of a cliff, climbed in and muttered, “Let’s go.” Suddenly laughter took her—a silly, giddy, nervy release. The driver joined in, wiping his eyes, relieved that this tale had ended in comedy, not tragedy. Glancing at her sleeping kids, Ella grasped a simple truth: parents—gentle, weary, smiling, sometimes scatterbrained in ordinary moments—turn into lions the instant danger dares cross their child’s path. No questions, no thinking, no fear—just the instinct to protect. That’s how love works. Quiet and gentle when all is well; indestructible when it comes to our children.

Parental Love. “Children are the flowers of life,” Mum always liked to say. And Dad, with

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Excuse Me, Sir, Please Mind the Queue. Oh—Is That Smell Coming from You? — A Chance Encounter in a Village Shop Leads Rita, on the Brink of Renovations, to Hire a Down-on-His-Luck Stranger Whose Sapphire Eyes Hide a Past as a Physics Teacher, Setting Off an Unexpected Romance, Family Drama, and a New Start in Middle Age

– Sir, please, theres no need to push. Good heavens, is that smell coming from you? –

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– Sir, please, theres no need to push. Good heavens, is that smell coming from you? –

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Oksana, Are You Busy? A Mother’s Last-Minute Holiday Errand, a Chance Encounter on an Icy Winter Night, and the Unpredictable Path of Love and Forgiveness—A New Year’s Eve Tale in London

Emily, are you busy? my mum asked, popping her head into my room. One minute, Mum. Ill send this email

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Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.

Ever since his holiday, Frank didnt return Still nothing from your old man? Not a call, not a letter?

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— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… You tell me I eat wrong, dress wrong, and do everything wrong!!! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything right!!!… Can’t even earn decent money!… I can never count on your help around the house!… — Marina sobbed, — …And there are no children…, — she added in a barely audible whisper. Bella — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the cupboard, silently observed the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew, could even feel, that Mum and Dad loved each other deeply… so she simply couldn’t understand why they had to speak such hurtful words that only made everyone miserable. Mum fled to the bedroom in tears, while Dad lit one cigarette after another. Sensing her family slowly falling apart, Bella pondered: “We need happiness in this house… and happiness means children… We need to find children, somehow.” Bella herself couldn’t have kittens — she’d been spayed long ago. As for Mum…, the doctors always said it was possible, but things just never worked out… The next morning, once her humans left for work, Bella, for the very first time, slipped out through the window to visit her neighbour, Lucky, for advice. — Why on earth would you want kids?! — Lucky snorted — Ours bring their kittens round and I have to hide from them… They smear my whiskers with lipstick or squeeze me so tightly I can hardly breathe! Bella sighed: — We want normal children… If only we knew where to find them… — Well… Street-cat Molly’s got a litter… there are five of them… — Lucky mused — take your pick… Taking a deep breath, Bella braved a leap from balcony to balcony, made her way down to the street, and squeezed through the bars of a cellar window. — Molly, could you come here a minute please… A chorus of desperate squeaks echoed from the dark. Cautiously creeping over, Bella began to whimper. Beneath the radiator, right on the gravel, five tiny, blind kittens snuffled at the air, mewing for their mum. Molly hadn’t been back in at least three days, and the babies were starving… Fighting back her tears, Bella gently, yet determinedly, carried each kitten to the building’s front entrance. Curling up beside them, doing her best to keep the hungry bunch from wandering off, she watched anxiously down the drive, waiting for Mum and Dad to return. That evening, Pavel silently picked Marina up from work and together they returned home. Approaching the steps, they were stopped in their tracks — there was their Bella (who’d never been outside on her own before), patiently lying with five needy, mewing kittens. — What on earth is going on?? — Pavel stammered. — It’s a miracle… — echoed Marina, and scooping up both cat and kittens, they hurried inside… As Bella purred in her box full of babies, Pavel asked: — So what do we do with them? — I’ll hand-feed them with a dropper… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — Marina replied softly. Three months later, reeling from unexpected news, Marina sat stroking her “cat clan” and whispered in disbelief: — This just doesn’t happen…, it just doesn’t happen… And then she and Pavel, spilling tears of joy, danced through the house, exclaiming over each other: — I didn’t build this home for nothing! — The baby will get the fresh air it needs! — And the kittens can roam the garden! — There’s room for all of us! — I love you!!! — I love you even more!!! And wise old Bella wiped a tear — life, at last, was coming together…

Oh, you really are driving me completely up the wall! I eat wrong, I dress wrong, apparently I even breathe wrong!

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The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching milk quietly simmer on the stove. She had already forgotten to stir it three times, each time remembering too late—the foam would rise up and spill over, leaving her to wipe the mess in irritation. In those moments, she felt it clearly: it wasn’t about the milk at all. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it felt as though her family had come off the rails. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes retreating straight to his room. Anna noticed, and thought: how can you leave a woman to manage alone? She spoke up. Softly at first, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she soon noticed a strange thing: after she spoke, the house didn’t become lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew gloomier, and Anna returned home feeling as though somehow, she had done everything wrong again. That day, she went to see Father Michael—not for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to take these feelings. “I must be a terrible person,” she said, not looking at him. “I do everything wrong.” The priest put down his pen. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I just wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angrier.” He regarded her, kindly, not sternly. “You’re not terrible. You’re just tired. And very anxious.” She sighed. That sounded about right. “I’m scared for my daughter,” she admitted. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” she waved her hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Have you noticed what he does do?” Father Michael asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one saw. How, on Sunday, he took the pram for a walk, even though he looked like he longed to just collapse and sleep. “He helps… I suppose,” she conceded. “But not in the right way.” “What’s the right way?” the priest asked calmly. Anna was ready to answer, but suddenly realised she didn’t know. In her mind, it was simply: more, better, more attentive. But what exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want it to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” Father Michael replied softly. “But don’t say it to him—say it to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean, right now, you’re fighting not for your daughter, but with her husband. And fighting means tension. It tires everyone. You, and them.” Anna was silent for a while. Then she asked: “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he said. “Just do what helps. Deeds, not words. And not against someone—but for someone.” On her way home, she thought about that. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her, but simply sat beside her when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day, she dropped in unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said, “Just came to help.” She sat with the children while her daughter napped. Quietly left, without saying a word about how hard they had it, or what they ought to do. A week later, she returned. And again the following week. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she noticed something else: the way he gently picked up the baby, the way he covered her daughter with a blanket in the evening, thinking no one noticed. One day, in the kitchen, she finally asked him: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It is,” he admitted after a pause. “Very.” He said nothing more. But after that, something sharp seemed to leave the air between them. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But she needed to start with herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” She simply listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to be angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—quieter. Without the constant tension. One day, her daughter told her: “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone decides to stop fighting first. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That never went away. But alongside it, something else lived—something more important: she wished for peace in the family. And every time the old urge—indignation, resentment, the impulse to say something sharp—rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right—or do I want to make things easier for them? The answer, almost always, told her what to do next.

Margaret was sat in the kitchen, watching milk gently simmering on the hob. Shed already forgotten to

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“My Grandkids Only See Fresh Fruit Once a Month While I Buy Expensive Food for My Cats”—My Daughter-in-Law Rants at Me, Accusing Me of Being Heartless… My daughter-in-law decided to shame me because her children only get fruit once a month, while I buy premium cat food for my pets. But the fact is, her children have a mum and dad to care for their nutrition—my cats only have me. When I told my son and daughter-in-law perhaps it was time to slow down their baby boom, I was told to mind my own business. So I do now. I feed my cats and listen to the righteous outrage of my endlessly reproachful daughter-in-law.

The grandchildren only get fruit once a month, and yet she buys that posh food for her cats!

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Vitaly Sat Down Comfortably at His Desk With a Laptop and Cup of Coffee, Ready to Finish Some Work—Until an Unexpected Call from the Maternity Ward Changed Everything: A Stranger’s Death, a Mysterious Baby, and a Conversation With a Grieving Mother That Would Turn His Life Upside Down

Arthur settled himself comfortably at his desk, laptop open, mug of tea steaming away. There were a few

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I Called Out the Window, “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” She Turned, Waving Her Shovel: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones.” The Next Day, Mum Was Gone… Even Now I Can’t Pass Our Garden Without My Heart Breaking: Each Time I See That Path, It Feels Like Someone’s Gripping My Chest. I Took That Photo on the Second of January—Just Passing By, I Saw Mum’s Footprints in the Snow and Stopped. Snapped a Picture Without Knowing Why; Now, It’s All That Remains From Those Days… We Always Celebrated New Year Together as a Family. On the 31st, Mum Was Up Early, Making Her Legendary Fried Cutlets, Calling Me Down in Her Peach-Print Apron. Dad Brought Home a Giant Tree (“Blimey, Dad, Did You Chop Down the Whole Forest?”), Mum Dusted Off Our Old Decorations—Including the Glass Angel She Got Me for My First Christmas. My Brother Showed Up With Champagne, My Sister and I Decorated, and at Midnight We All Went Outside. Sparklers, Mum by My Side, Whispering, “Isn’t Life Wonderful?”—And I Whispered Back, “The Best, Mum.” We Laughed Until We Cried, Mum Dancing in Her Wellies, Dad Spinning Her Round. The Next Morning, Mum Was Back in the Kitchen (“Save Room, It’s Only the Start of the Holidays!”), and On the 2nd, I Saw Her Clearing the Snow-Covered Path, Just Like Always (“Or You Lot Will End Up Trudging Through Drifts Till Spring—Put the Kettle On, Will You?”). That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the 3rd, She Murmured, “Girls, My Chest Hurts a Bit…”—Brushed Off the Ambulance (“Just Tired, Love”), Joked as Always, but Suddenly, Something Was Deeply Wrong—Her Last Words, “I Love You So Much… Hate to Say Goodbye.” Everything Happened in a Blink: One Day She Was Dancing Under Fireworks, and the Next, She Was Gone. I Stood in the Snow, Staring at Her Footprints from Gate to Porch—The Last Path She Cleared for Us, and I Couldn’t Bear to Let the Snow Hide Them. That Photo of Mum’s Final Tracks—I Look at It Every Third of January, Staring at the Bare Path Where Her Footprints Once Were, Realising: Beneath That Snow, She Left Her Last Mark. And Somehow, I’m Still Following Her Steps…

I remember calling out of the window, Mum, what are you doing outside so early? Youll catch your death!