Harlan Covington

You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious? The Ivy for dinner? That’s at least two hundred pounds per person!” James tossed his keys so hard they rattled against the wall. Kate glanced up from the stove, where she was stirring sauce, and immediately noticed her husband’s knuckles whitening as he gripped his mobile. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore under his breath and abruptly ended the call. “What’s wrong?” Without answering, James slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at his plate of potatoes. Kate turned off the hob, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat down opposite him. “James…” “Mum’s lost it. Completely lost the plot in her old age.” He looked up, and the anger and helplessness in his eyes made Kate’s heart ache. “Remember I told you about… Richard? From ballroom dancing?” Kate nodded. His mum had mentioned the new acquaintance a month ago – shyly, fiddling with the tablecloth, talking about joining the local community centre’s dance club and finding a charming partner who knew how to waltz gracefully. “Well,” James pushed away his plate, “she’s taken him to The Ivy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit for eight hundred quid. Last weekend they went to Bath together – guess who paid for the hotel and tickets?” “Margaret, obviously.” “Bingo.” He rubbed his face wearily. “Mum saved up that money for years. For renovations, emergencies. Now she’s blowing it all on a bloke she’s known for six weeks. It’s insane…” Kate was silent, searching for the right words. She knew her mother-in-law well: hopelessly romantic, open-hearted, almost naive. The sort of woman who still believed in true love after nearly sixty years of life. “Listen, James,” she put a hand over his, “Your mum’s a grown woman. Her money, her choices. Don’t interfere. She won’t listen to anyone now, anyway.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Maybe. But that’s her right. And honestly, I think you’re overreacting.” James shrugged but didn’t pull his hand away. “I just can’t stand watching her…” “I know, love. But you can’t live her life for her,” Kate soothed. “She has to own her decisions, even if we hate them. She’s perfectly capable.” James nodded gloomily. Two months passed quickly. The talk about Richard faded. His mum phoned less and less, sounded evasive – almost as if hiding something. Kate assumed the romance had fizzled out and stopped worrying. So when, on a Sunday evening, the doorbell rang and Margaret appeared on the doorstep, Kate was caught off guard. “Darlings! My dears!” Margaret swept into the flat, trailing flowery perfume. “He proposed! Look, just look!” A small ring sparkled on her finger, cheap but worn like the crown jewels. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s just so… so wonderful!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks, laughing girlishly. “I never thought, at my age… That I’d feel this again…” James hugged his mother, his shoulders suddenly relaxing. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Perhaps Richard really did love her, and they’d imagined the worst. “Congratulations, Mum,” James smiled as he stepped back. “You deserve happiness.” “And I’ve already put the flat in his name! Now we’re truly a family!” Margaret crowed, and everything froze. Kate stopped breathing. James flinched as if he’d hit a glass wall. “What…what did you say?” “The flat,” Margaret waved airily. “So he knows I trust him. It’s love, darlings, real love! And love means trusting each other.” Silence thickened until the tick of the clock in the lounge was audible. “Margaret,” Kate began carefully, “You signed over the flat to someone you’ve known for three months? Before the wedding?” “So what?” Margaret lifted her chin. “I trust him. He’s good, honest – not what you two think. I know you judge him.” “We don’t,” Kate stepped closer, “But… why not at least wait until you’re married? Why rush?” “You don’t understand. It’s a sign of my love,” Margaret folded her arms. “What do you two know about real feelings? About trust?” James finally unclenched his jaw: “Mum…” “No!” She stamped her foot. For a split second, Kate saw not a grown woman but a stubborn teenage girl. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it for me!” Margaret stormed out, clipping the doorframe with her shoulder. The front door slammed, glass trembling in the cabinet. The wedding was small – a simple registry office, a vintage store dress, a little bouquet of Marks & Spencer roses. But Margaret shone as though she was marrying at Westminster Abbey. Richard – stocky, balding, with an oily smile – was the portrait of chivalry: kissing Margaret’s hands, holding out her chair, pouring Champagne. The perfect groom. Kate watched him over her wine glass. Something felt off. His eyes – cold, calculating, whenever he looked at Margaret. Professional tenderness. Practiced concern. She said nothing. What was the point if no one would listen? For months, Margaret rang every week – breathless with delight, listing new restaurants and theatres Richard whisked her to. “He’s so attentive! Yesterday he brought me roses – for no reason at all!” James listened, nodded, then hung up and stared for ages at nothing. Kate didn’t prod. She waited. A year passed in a blink. Then came a knock at the door… Kate opened up to find a woman she barely recognised. Margaret looked ten years older – deeply lined, eyes sunken, shoulders hunched. In one hand, a battered suitcase. The same she’d taken for that trip to Bath. “He threw me out,” Margaret whimpered. “Filed for divorce and threw me out. The flat… it’s his now. On paper.” Kate stepped aside wordlessly. The kettle boiled fast. Margaret sat in the armchair, cradling her tea, and cried – quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so much. Did everything for him. But he just…” Kate didn’t interrupt. She stroked Margaret’s back and waited for the tears to stop. James returned an hour later. He paused in the doorway, saw his mother, and his face turned to stone. “Son,” Margaret stood, reaching for him. “Please, I’ve nowhere to go… Can I stay? Just a room – children are supposed to care for their parents, it’s…” “Stop.” James held up a hand. “Stop, Mum.” “I haven’t any money, not a penny – spent it all on him. My pension’s tiny, you know…” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you,” James sank onto the sofa, as if buckling under a sack of bricks. “Told you: take your time. Get to know him. Don’t sign over the flat. Remember what you said to me?” Margaret’s eyes dropped. “That we don’t know what real love is. That we’re just jealous of your happiness. I remember it all, Mum!” “James…” Kate tried to intervene, but James shook his head. “No. She needs to hear this.” He turned to his mother. “You’re a grown woman. You chose. You ignored everyone who tried to help. And now you want us to fix your mess?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” James sprang up, his voice cracking. “I’m tired, Mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away and then running to me for rescue!” Margaret shrank, pathetic and small. “He fooled me, James. I really loved him, I swear…” “Loved him enough to give your flat to a stranger. Brilliant, Mum. Just brilliant. Need I remind you Dad bought that place?” “I’m sorry.” The tears ran faster now. “I was blind. Please… give me another chance. I’ll never…” “Adults take responsibility for their actions,” James spoke softly now, exhausted. “You wanted independence? Here it is. Find somewhere to live. Get a job. Sort things out yourself.” Margaret left in tears, her sobs echoing down the landing. Kate spent the night at James’s side, in silence, holding his hand. He didn’t cry, just lay staring at the ceiling and sometimes heaved a heavy sigh. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked at dawn. “Yes.” Kate stroked his cheek. “It was harsh. And it hurt. But it was right.” In the morning James phoned his mother and found her a bedsit on the outskirts. He paid six months’ rent in advance. That was the last help he agreed to give. “From now on, Mum – you’re on your own. We’ll help with the court if you’re going to fight it. We’ll pay what’s needed. But you’re not moving in here…” Kate listened and thought about justice. Sometimes, the harshest lesson is the only one that sticks. Margaret got exactly what her blindness had earned. And with that came both sadness and peace. And the feeling that, somehow, things would work out in the end – though she couldn’t guess how.

Youre just jealous Mum, are you being serious right now? The Savoy? Thats at least a few hundred quid

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If Only Everyone Got This Kind of “Help”: When Family Interference Turns a Mother’s World Upside Down

If only everyone got help like this Polly, Ill be around today. Ill help with the grandchildren.

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Just a Childhood Friend — Are you really planning to spend your whole Saturday sorting out junk in the garage? All day? — Helen speared a bit of cheesecake with her fork, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the tall, ginger-haired man. John leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on a mug of cooling cappuccino. — Helen… It’s not junk, it’s the hidden treasures of my childhood. I’ve still got a ‘Love Hearts’ sweet wrapper collection stashed somewhere. Can you imagine the riches? — Oh please. You actually kept sweet wrappers? Since when? Helen snorted, her shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. This café, with its battered plum-coloured sofas and forever-misted windows, was long ago claimed as their spot. The waitress, Marina, didn’t even ask for their order anymore—she’d just set cappuccino down for him, latte for her, and the dessert of the day for them to share. Fifteen years of friendship had turned this into their own automatic ritual. — Alright, I’ll admit, — John saluted her with his mug, — the garage can wait. The treasures too. Harry’s invited us round for a barbecue on Sunday, just so you know. — I am aware. Yesterday, he spent three hours on Amazon picking out a new grill. Three hours. I thought I’d die of boredom. Their laughter mingled with the whirr of the coffee machine and the low hum of conversations at neighbouring tables… …There were never awkward silences or unfinished sentences between them—they understood each other as well as their own hands. Helen remembered when skinny year-seven John, shoelaces always untied, had been the first to talk to her in a new class. John remembered how, of all the kids, she was the only one who never laughed at his thick glasses. Harry had always accepted their friendship, right from day one. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with a calm understanding that only comes from people sure of themselves and those they love. On their Friday game nights with Monopoly and Uno, Harry laughed the loudest when John lost yet again to his wife at Scrabble, topping up their tea while the two of them bickered about the rules of Charades. — He cheats, that’s why he wins, — Helen had once declared, scattering playing cards at Harry. — It’s called strategy, darling, — Harry had replied with a straight face, collecting the cards. John watched them with a warm, fond smile. He liked Harry—solid, dependable, with a dry wit you barely noticed at first. Helen came alive around him, softer, happier, and John was glad for her in a way only a true friend could be. But their balance was upset the day Faith barged into their close-knit world… …Harry’s sister showed up at their flat a month ago, eyes red, determined to start over. Divorce had drained her, leaving only bitterness and a gaping emptiness where stability used to be. The first evening John popped by for a board game, Faith put down her phone and regarded him with keen interest. Something clicked in her, like an old mechanism springing back to life. Here stood a man—calm, kind-eyed, with that easy smile you couldn’t help but return. — This is John, my old friend from school, — Helen introduced. — And this is Faith, Harry’s sister. — Nice to meet you, — John offered his hand. Faith held on just a touch longer than politeness required. — Likewise. From that moment, Faith’s “coincidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at their favourite café right when Helen and John were there. She’d sweep into the lounge with a plate of biscuits whenever John visited. She’d sit so close at game nights their shoulders touched. — Could you hand me that card? — Faith would lean across John, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oops, sorry. John shifted away politely, muttering an apology. Helen would catch Harry’s eye—he just shrugged; Faith had always been a bit much. The flirting became more blatant. Faith’s gaze lingered, she complimented John often, inventing any excuse for physical contact. Her laughter at his jokes was so loud Helen’s ears rang. — You have such elegant hands, John, such long fingers, very aristocratic—are you a musician? — Um… programmer. — Still beautiful hands. John carefully withdrew his hand, suddenly absorbed in his cards. His ears tinged pink. After the third “coffee, just for a friendly chat” invitation, John gave in. Faith was attractive—vivid, energetic, full of life. Maybe, he thought, it would work between them. Maybe she’d stop watching him hungrily and things would go back to normal. The first weeks of dating were fine. Faith glowed, John relaxed, and family evenings became simply family evenings again. Until Faith noticed what she’d rather not see. She saw John light up when Helen arrived. How his face changed—open, warm. How they finished each other’s jokes and sentences, linked by a bond Faith couldn’t touch. Jealousy bloomed in her chest, poisonous and wild. — Why are you always seeing her? — Faith blocked John’s way at the door, arms crossed. — Because she’s my friend. Fifteen years, Faith, it’s— — I’m your girlfriend! I am! Not her! Arguments rolled in waves. Faith accused, demanded, sobbed. John explained, pleaded, apologised. — You think about her more than you think about me! — Faith, that’s absurd. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Every time John met Helen, his phone rang. — Where are you? When are you coming back? Why didn’t you answer? Is she with you again? He learned to silence the phone—so Faith started turning up at the café, the park, outside Helen’s house—breathless, teary with rage. — Please, Faith, — John rubbed his forehead, exhausted. — This isn’t normal. — What’s not normal is you spending more time with another man’s wife than with me! Helen was worn out too. Every childhood catch-up with John became a test—when would Faith show up, with what accusations, what scene next? — Maybe I should come round less… — Helen started one day, but John cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life because of her tantrums. None of us are. But Faith had already made up her mind. If she couldn’t win fair? Then she’d cheat. Harry was at the kitchen table when Faith drifted in. — Harry… I need to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you ought to know the truth… …She fed him lies in careful doses, sobbing at just the right moments. Secret meetings. Lingering glances. How John held Helen’s hand when nobody was looking. Harry listened in silence, face unreadable. When Helen and John walked into the flat an hour later, the living room felt thick as fog. Harry lounged in his chair, the expression of a man anticipating a show. — Sit down, — he said, gesturing to the sofa. — My sister has just regaled me with a fascinating story about your secret affair. Helen froze mid-step. John’s jaw tightened. — What the— — She says she’s seen some very compromising things. Faith ducked her head, not meeting anyone’s eye. John spun round to face her so sharply she flinched. — Enough, Faith. I’ve put up with your antics for too long! He was white with anger—the calm, patient John entirely vanished. — We’re finished. Right now. — You can’t… Real tears welled in her eyes this time. — It’s her! — Faith stabbed a finger at Helen. — You always choose her, always! Helen paused, letting Faith’s venom spill. — You know, Faith, — she said evenly, — if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t created drama from thin air, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were desperate to keep. Faith grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. And then Harry laughed—a deep, genuine laugh, head thrown back. — Good grief, finally. He got up and wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Helen buried her nose in his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like brother and sister squabbling over who ate the last biscuit. John let out a sigh—the tension finally leaving him. — Sorry I dragged you into this circus. — Don’t be. Faith’s an adult; her choices are her own. Now—let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold, and I’m not microwaving it for anyone’s drama. Helen laughed—quiet, relieved. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with John was safe. And her husband had proven, yet again, that his trust was stronger than any rumours. They headed to the kitchen, the golden crust of lasagne shining in the lamplight. Outside, the world settled back into its usual shape. Just a Childhood Friend

Saturday, 22nd April Am I really going to spend all of Saturday sorting out the junk in my mum’

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Every Love Has Its Own Shape Ann walked outside and instantly shivered; the bitter wind crept right under her thin jumper. She’d gone out into the garden without a coat, stepped through the gate and simply stood there, glancing around, not even noticing the tears running down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” She jumped at the sound, seeing Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a little older than her, hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, I just…” Ann lied. Michael watched her for a moment, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, just don’t tell anyone or the others will be here in a second. Go inside,” he instructed. She obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But I’m not hungry… I just…” But Michael already knew, nodded, and walked on. In the village, everyone knew Ann’s dad, Andy, drank too much. He was always popping into the corner shop, the only one in the village, asking Val for a bit of credit until payday. She scolded him, but always gave in. “How’ve you not been sacked yet?” she’d mutter after him. “You owe me a fortune!” But Andy just hurried away, spending everything on drink. Ann went back inside. She’d just come home from school—she was nine. There was never really anything to eat at home, but she didn’t like to tell anyone she was hungry, or she’d be whisked off to a care home. And she’d heard they were dreadful. Plus, how would Dad cope without her? No, it was better to stay here, even if the fridge was empty. Today she got home early—teachers were off sick. It was late September and the wind chased yellow leaves down the road. This autumn had come in cold. Ann’s old coat and boots weren’t much good; if it rained, she ended up with wet feet. Dad was asleep. He’d crashed on the sofa, fully dressed and snoring, with two empty bottles on the kitchen table and another under it. She opened the cupboard—bare. Not even a crust of bread. She wolfed down the sweets Michael had given her and tried to start her homework. Perched on a stool, legs tucked under her, she stared at the maths sums. But counting seemed impossible. She gazed out the window: wind scuttled round the yard, leaves spinning everywhere. The view showed what used to be the garden—once lush and green, now dead. The raspberries shrivelled, strawberries vanished, weeds everywhere. Even the old apple tree had given up. Her mum had loved that garden, cared for every shoot, baked sweet apple pies from that very tree. But this past August, Dad had picked the apples early and flogged them at the market. “Need the cash,” he’d grumbled. Andy, her dad, hadn’t always been this way. He used to be jolly and kind, going for woodland walks with Mum and Ann, watching TV, drinking tea and eating the scrumptious pancakes Mum made for breakfast, or apple jam tarts. But one day, Mum got sick. She was taken to hospital and never came home. “Something with her heart,” Dad said, crying. Ann cried too and clung to him. “Now your mum’s watching over you from above.” After that, Dad spent hours staring at Mum’s photo until, finally, he turned to drink. Their home was invaded by rough strangers, loud and laughing. Ann would retreat quietly to her tiny bedroom or out to the bench behind the house. She sighed and forced herself to do her homework—she was a clever girl and finished quickly. She tucked her exercise books away, stretched out on her bed, and cuddled her old stuffed bunny—Timmy—Mum’s birthday gift years ago. He wasn’t white anymore, but he was still her Timmy. Ann hugged him. “Do you remember Mum, Timmy?” Timmy just sat there; Ann was sure he remembered too. She closed her eyes, letting the memories dance in: Mum in her apron, hair tied up, rolling dough for baking. “Let’s make magic buns, darling.” “How are buns magic, Mum?” asked Ann, wide-eyed. “Oh, they’re magic all right,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll shape them like little hearts, and if you eat one and make a wish, it’s bound to come true!” Ann loved baking heart-shaped buns with Mum even when they came out wonky, and Mum always smiled: “Every love has its own shape.” Ann would wait for the buns to finish baking, hot and fragrant, the whole house filling up with the scent. Then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Ann wiped away new tears from those happy memories. That was then. The clock ticked in the corner, but all she felt was the ache of missing her mum. “Mummy,” she whispered, clutching Timmy, “I miss you so much.” It was the weekend—no school—so, after lunch, Ann decided to take a walk. Dad was still on the sofa. She put on a warm jumper and headed for the woods, past old Mr. Edgar’s cottage. He’d died two years ago, but his orchard remained—apples and pears. She’d been there before, climbing the fence for fruit that had dropped—telling herself it didn’t count as stealing. She remembered old Mr. Edgar, his cane, his white hair. He’d always handed out apples and pears—or a sweet if he had one. She climbed the fence and picked an apple, rubbing it on her coat and biting in— “Oi, who’s there?” She jumped. A woman in a smart coat stood on the porch. Ann dropped the apples in fright. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Ann… I’m not stealing, just picking up what’s fallen… I thought nobody lived here…” “I’m Edgar’s granddaughter. Arrived yesterday. I’ll be living here now. Have you been coming here long?” “Since… since my mum died,” Ann stammered, eyes filling. The woman hugged her. “There now, don’t cry. Come in for a visit. I’m Anne. Anne Carter, just like you. When you’re older, people will call you Anna, too.” Anne Carter immediately realised Ann was hungry and her life was a rough one. She invited her in, asked Ann to take off her shoes, and offered her homemade chicken soup and warm bread in her tidy kitchen. Ann’s stomach growled—she’d not eaten that morning. She ate eagerly at the checkered tablecloth, the warmth of the home enveloping her. Anne Carter smiled, fetched a basket covered with a towel, and revealed—heart-shaped buns, the scent of vanilla filling the kitchen. Ann took one, bit in, and squeezed her eyes shut. “They’re just like the buns my mum used to make,” she whispered. Afterwards, with rosy cheeks and a full belly, Anne Carter asked gently about Ann’s family. “I can walk back on my own—it’s only four houses down,” Ann tried, embarrassed about her own house. “No, I insist,” said Anne firmly. They arrived to find Andy still sleeping among the empty bottles, the house a shambles. Anne Carter looked around, nodded. “I see…” she said, then started clearing up—sweeping, binning bottles, airing the rooms. Ann pleaded, “Please don’t tell anyone what it’s like here. Dad’s lost, but he’s not a bad person. He just misses Mum, that’s all. If people find out, they’ll take me away…” Anne hugged her. “I’ll never tell a soul—I promise.” Time went by. Ann rushed to school, her hair neatly braided, wearing a new coat and smart boots. “Annie, is it true what Mum said? That your dad got remarried?” asked Mary, her classmate. “You look so pretty these days!” “It’s true!” Ann replied proudly. “Now I have Auntie Anne for a Mum!” Andy had stopped drinking, with Anne Carter’s support. Now they walked arm in arm—tall, handsome Andy, smartly dressed, and Anne, elegant and confident, always smiling. They doted on Ann. Years rushed by. Ann became a university student, returning on holidays, bursting through the front door— “Mum, I’m back!” Anne would run to greet her, hugging tightly: “Hello, my little professor, hello!” And they would both laugh happily. Later, Andy would come in from work, content and proud. Every Love Has Its Own Shape

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Emily steps outside and immediately shivers, a biting wind slipping underneath

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To See With Her Own Eyes After a devastating tragedy in which she lost her husband and six-year-old daughter in a car accident, Catherine struggled for months to recover. She spent almost half a year in a clinic, refusing visitors, with only her mother patiently at her side. One day, her mother gently said: “Kitty, your husband’s business is on the verge of collapse. It’s only barely holding on, and Edward is struggling. He called me, asked me to let you know. It’s good he’s an honest man, but still…” Those words seemed to bring Catherine out of her shell. “Yes, Mum, I need to get back to life. I think my Denis would be glad to know I’m continuing what he started. At least I understand something about the business—he must have sensed this, he was teaching me at his office.” Catherine returned to work and managed to save the shaky family business. Yet no matter how successful she was with work, she missed her little girl unbearably. “Darling, I want to suggest you consider adopting a girl from the children’s home—someone who’s having an even harder time than you. You’ll be saving her life, and I promise you’ll see that in helping her, you’ll be saving yourself, too.” After thinking long and hard about her mother’s words, Catherine realised she was right. Soon, she found herself visiting the local children’s home, fully aware that nothing could ever replace her own daughter. Ariana had been born with almost no sight. Her parents, both well-educated and from respectable backgrounds, abandoned her as soon as they learned about her diagnosis. Fear and cowardice apparently spare no one. And so, Ariana ended up at the children’s home, where they named her and raised her. She grew up mostly in darkness, recognising only faint shadows, but she learned to read and adored fairy tales—always believing one day her own fairy godmother would come. When Ariana was nearly seven, her fairy arrived: radiant, wealthy, beautiful, and deeply sad. Ariana couldn’t see her properly, but she sensed kindness. The director was curious why Catherine wanted a disabled child, but Catherine gave only polite, evasive answers. A carer led Ariana over by the hand. The moment Catherine saw her—angelic, with golden curls and large, deep, blind blue eyes—she knew: she was meant to be hers. “Who is this?” Catherine asked, unable to look away. “That’s our Ariana—she’s wonderful, gentle and sweet,” replied the carer. “She’s mine, Ariana is mine,” Catherine decided on the spot. The bond between Catherine and Ariana grew quickly and deeply, transforming both their lives. Under medical advice, Catherine learned that Ariana might regain her sight with surgery, though she’d need glasses. Before Ariana started school, they went through with the operation, but the results were limited. There might be another chance, but patience was needed. Meanwhile, Catherine devoted herself to her daughter, letting business thrive but keeping her personal life on hold. Ariana blossomed into a stunning young woman and graduated from university. She was grateful, unspoiled, and began working for Catherine’s company. Catherine guarded her closely, wary of opportunists who might take advantage of Ariana’s innocence and future inheritance. Then, Ariana fell in love. Catherine met Anthony and approved of him. Soon, Anthony proposed, and wedding preparations began. Half a year after the wedding, Ariana was due for her final eye operation. Anthony was loving and attentive, but Catherine sometimes felt there was something artificial about him—though she quickly dismissed the thought. One day, the couple visited a countryside restaurant to arrange wedding decorations. When Anthony’s car alarm went off, he left Ariana at the table. His phone, left on the table, rang persistently. Hesitant, Ariana finally answered—just in time to hear her future mother-in-law, Mrs. Ingrid Sutton, say: “Son, I’ve got an idea how we can be rid of that blind Ariana quickly. My friend at the travel agency set aside two tickets. After the wedding, take your little hen to the mountains, say you’re dying to enjoy the scenery. Make sure you’re alone—get her to trip and fall. Then come back and tell the police she disappeared after you argued; act devastated but stay calm. Once they find her, it’ll just look like a tragic accident. Don’t miss this chance, son—once she gets her surgery, it’ll be too late. We can’t let that money slip away. Think about it, I’m hanging up.” Ariana dropped the phone as if it had burned her. So, his mother wants to kill me—and Anthony, too? Her thoughts raced in horror. Just moments earlier, Ariana had been a blissful bride-to-be. Now, she realised those she thought of as family were plotting against her. Anthony never heard the call. She tried to steady herself as he returned and nonchalantly explained about the car alarm and an urgent call from work. “Go,” Ariana replied softly, “I’ll wait for Mum—she’ll help me with the plans.” Left alone, Ariana called Catherine. “Mum, come to the restaurant now,” she managed through tears. When Catherine arrived, Ariana told her everything she’d heard—the mountain plot, Ingrid’s voice, and how she’d quickly hung up before they realised it was her. Catherine was stunned. Could they really have been deceived by Anthony? They sat together, strategising their next steps, until Anthony called: “So, Ariana—did you and your mum decide about the decorations?” Taking the phone, Catherine responded: “Hello, Anthony. Good thing we found out about your plans with your mother just in time. Listen closely about your little mountain getaway…” Anthony either didn’t understand or was a brilliant actor: “What trip? What plans?” “You know—the trip where Ariana was supposed to have a tragic accident, and you’d come back a rich widower. You should also know that even deleted call recordings can be recovered by the police.” After a pause, Anthony replied, “It wasn’t me, it was my mother…” “You’re a coward and a disgrace, hiding behind your mother. Goodbye, Anthony.” The very next day, Anthony fled town with money taken from his mother. Mrs. Sutton also left for another city. She Experienced the Miracle: Seeing the World for Herself At the eye clinic, Ariana underwent her final operation. With her bandages still on, she and Catherine would sit on a bench outside, watched over by the kind young doctor, Dr. Derek Palmer, under the supervision of an experienced surgeon. Derek was clearly smitten, making Catherine nervous but warming Ariana’s heart. When the day came to remove the bandages, Derek brought Ariana a huge bouquet of roses. She was overwhelmed—she could see, truly see, for the first time. The flowers, the handsome young doctor with the gentle grey eyes—it was a dream fulfilled. “I’m so happy—I can see everything!” Ariana wept, and Derek gently calmed her. Glasses would always be a part of Ariana’s life, but that was a small price compared to what she’d gained. Time passed, and Ariana and Derek had a beautiful wedding. A year later, they welcomed a lovely baby daughter with her father’s grey eyes. Surrounded by love and protection, Ariana finally had her happy ending. Thank you for reading, for subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

To See with My Own Eyes After the devastating accident that took my husband and our six-year-old daughter

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My Husband and I Arrived in the Countryside to Meet His Parents for the First Time: From Mother-in-Law’s Big Hugs, Generous Feasts and Outrageous Country Tales, to Spending the Night atop the Warm Family Stove—An Unforgettable Weekend with the Smiths in Rural England

My husband and I arrived at his parents cottage in the English countryside, ready to meet his family

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Do I Remember? I Can’t Forget! “Polly, we need to talk… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Nancy?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Hmm… Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for trouble. He hesitated. “Nancy is begging us to take her daughter—my granddaughter.” “Why on earth, Alex? Where’s Nancy’s husband—living in dreamland?” Now I was intrigued. Alex explained: “Nancy doesn’t have long left. Never had a husband. Her mother married an American and moved to the States—massive falling out, no contact. No other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex looked embarrassed. “So?” I pressed. “What are you going to do?” I already knew my answer. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, we’ll do,” Alex finally met my gaze. “Very clever—you sowed your wild oats, and now, Polly, you want me to take responsibility for someone else’s child? Is that right?” I was furious at his weakness. “Polly, we’re a family. We decide together,” Alex protested. “Oh! Now you remember. But when you were fooling around, did you ask my advice? I’m your wife!” I burst into tears and left the room. …Back in school, I dated my classmate, Val, but when new boy Alex showed up, I forgot everyone else. We became inseparable; within a week, I was in love. When Alex was drafted into the army, I cried my eyes out on the train platform. For a year, we wrote letters—until he confessed he’d met someone else. By then, I was already pregnant, thanks to Alex’s fleeting promises. Old Val stepped up and helped; truth be told, we became close. I never expected to see Alex again—until he turned up at my door, and Val had to let him in. After some awkwardness, Alex said, “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” I let him back. My son needed his father—not just a stepdad. Val moved on, too, and found happiness of his own. Years passed. Alex could never quite love our son as a father should—certain he was Val’s child. Meanwhile, Alex strayed constantly, but I couldn’t stop loving him. The one who loves is always happily oblivious. I forgave everything. When we argued and Alex left, months later, I tracked him down at his new girlfriend’s flat. Turns out she had his daughter, Nancy. I always blamed myself for driving him away then—perhaps that other woman wouldn’t have swooped in if I hadn’t sent Alex away. We never mentioned Nancy. I pretended her existence didn’t threaten our family. With time, Alex settled down. Our son married young and gave us three lovely grandchildren. Then, out of the blue, Nancy resurfaced, asking us to take in her little daughter. Hard questions followed—how to explain her to our son, who never knew about his father’s past? In the end, we became guardians to five-year-old Alice. Nancy died at thirty—her journey over. Alex spoke honestly to our son, who said, “What’s past is past. The girl is family—she belongs with us.” We breathed easier, grateful for our kind-hearted son. Now Alice is sixteen, adores Granddad Alex, shares secrets with him, and calls me Nan—saying she’s the spitting image of me in my youth. And I can’t help but agree…

DO I REMEMBER? I CANT FORGET! Polly, I have something to tell you My husband spoke in riddles, his uncertainty

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Winter had wrapped Andrew’s garden in a soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a giant German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly refused to sleep inside, choosing instead to lie out in the snow. Andrew watched from the window, his heart tightening—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, as Andrew stepped outside, he noticed how Duke eyed him warily. Whenever Andrew approached the kennel, the dog would position himself protectively between him and the entrance, growling softly and staring up as if to plead, “Please, don’t go in there.” Such odd behavior from his longtime friend troubled Andrew deeply—what was his faithful companion hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew crafted a little plan—tempting Duke into the kitchen with a juicy steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked fiercely at the window, Andrew returned to the kennel and knelt to peer inside. His heart nearly stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that left him frozen in shock… …Inside, tucked under a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes flickered weakly open, its body shivering with cold. Somewhere, Duke had found it, and instead of chasing it off or leaving it to its fate, had given it shelter. Duke slept outside so he wouldn’t frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as if protecting hidden treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached out gently, gathered the little creature in his arms, and pressed it to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but calm and ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with so much care found new purpose—a little home for rescued souls.

Winter had wrapped Thomass garden in a thick, soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a towering

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My Son Missed My 70th Birthday Claiming Work—That Evening I Saw Him Celebrating His Mother-in-Law’s Birthday in a Restaurant on Social Media

The phone rang precisely at midday, cutting through the quietly tense air like a knife. I picked up in

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Aunt Rita: The Unexpected Journey of a Cynical London Woman Who Finds Purpose and Belonging Through an Act of Kindness in Her Own Tower Block

Aunt Rita Im 47 years old. Just an ordinary womanreally, I suppose youd call me a bit of a wallflower.