Harlan Covington

Another Man’s Bride Val Vickers Was the Toast of the Town—The Go-To Host for Concerts, Weddings, and Even Pre-School Graduations, His Name Passed Privately from One Client to the Next. From Filling in for a Missing Toastmaster at a Friend’s Wedding to Becoming a Sought-After Singer-DJ, His Charisma and Talent Won Over Every Crowd—Except When It Came to Finding True Love Himself. Despite His Success, Val Longed for Lasting Happiness, But His Search Took an Unexpected Turn When a Stunning Woman Named Katherine Hired Him to Host a Wedding—A Bride Who Wasn’t What She Seemed, Leading Val Down a Hilarious and Heartfelt Path of Misunderstandings, Jealousy, and Ultimately a Love Story That Surprised Everyone.

Someone Elses Bride Charlie was always in demand. He never needed to advertise in the paper or on the telly;

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When Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to Our Housewarming Feast, I Closed the Fridge Door “Are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder is enough, Steve? Last time they devoured everything, even mopping up the bread with sauce. And Lucy asked for a takeaway ‘for the dog,’ then posted a photo of my roast on Instagram like it was her own masterpiece.” Julia anxiously fiddled with the kitchen towel, surveying the war zone her kitchen had become. It was only midday and she was already shattered. Up at six: a trip to the farmers’ market for the freshest meat, then the supermarket for premium booze and nibbles, followed by endless slicing, boiling, and roasting. Her husband Steve was peeling potatoes at the sink, his silent aggravation mounting along with the pile of peels, though he tried not to show it. “Jules, it’s half a kilo of meat each for four guests—and us. That’s plenty. You’re going all out: red caviar, smoked salmon, salad bowls the size of bathtubs. We’re not throwing a wedding—just finally celebrating our move! Late, but still.” “You don’t understand,” Julia said, stirring a thick sauce. “It’s Sarah and Mark, and Lisa and Tom—our oldest friends. We haven’t seen them in years, and they’re coming all the way from another side of town. I’d die if the table looked meagre. People would think we’ve gotten snobby since buying this flat and started scrimping.” Julia was always this way. It was in her bones, inherited from her gran, who could rustle up a feast from nothing. For her, an empty table was a personal insult. If you’re having guests—host a banquet! If it’s a party—the table should be groaning under the weight. She’d spent a week planning the menu, hunting recipes, squirreling away cash for the posh cognac Mark liked, and that fancy French wine Sarah always preferred. “Would be nice if they brought something for once,” Steve grumbled. “Last time at Tom’s birthday, we brought a nice gift, our own booze, and you baked a cake. And them? Remember just popping by their place? Builder’s tea and stale digestives.” “Oh, don’t be petty, Steve,” Julia chided gently. “They had a tough time then—mortgage and renovations. Things are fine for them now. Mark just got promoted, Lisa’s got a new fur coat. Maybe they’ll actually bring something. Cake or fruit? I hinted to Sarah that dessert should be theirs, so I didn’t bother making one.” By five the place sparkled and the dining room table looked like the window of an upscale food hall. Centre stage: gleaming homemade terrine, circled by dishes of prawn cocktail, luxury Olivier salad (with real roast beef and crayfish, not cheap ham!), and a spread of home-cured meats. That famous pork shoulder was slow-roasting in the oven with country potatoes and mushrooms. In the fridge: a bottle of “Finlandia” vodka, expensive cognac, and three bottles of wine chilling. Julia, exhausted but content, donned her best dress, fixed her hair, and waited for the doorbell. “I’m nervous,” she admitted to Steve. “First gathering in the new flat—I want everything to be perfect.” The bell rang—five o’clock, on the dot. Punctual, as ever. Julia opened the door to a lively crowd. Sarah in that infamous new mink, Mark in a designer leather jacket, Lisa loud with makeup, Tom already somewhat tipsy. “Congrats, homeowners!” Sarah whooped, bursting inside in a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume. “Show us the palace!” They bustled in, flinging coats at Steve, who scrambled to hang them up. Julia smiled, eyeing their hands—completely empty. No gift bag. No cake box. Not even a token bottle of wine or a bar of chocolate. “Where’s—” Julia started, but bit her lip. Maybe something was waiting in the car? Hidden in a pocket? “Wow, Jules, you’ve lost weight!” Lisa kissed her on the cheek, wandered in without removing her shoes, then eyed the living room critically. “Decor’s, well… a bit basic, but clean. Paintable wallpaper? Gosh, makes it look like my office. Should’ve gone with silk finish!” “We like minimalism,” Steve said diplomatically. “Table’s ready—come through.” They paraded into the lounge. Mark’s eyes lit up. “Wow, what a spread!” he grinned mischievously. “Julia, you are a legend. Knew we’d be fed right. We’ve starved ourselves all day for your roast!” Everyone took a seat. Julia dashed off to fetch hot starters. In her mind, one thought whirred: Maybe they’re giving us money? In a card? That’s why their hands are empty? Returning with the tray, she found her guests already elbows-deep in salads, not even holding back for a toast. “Mmm, top-notch salad!” Tom smacked his lips. “Steve, let’s get the glasses filled—thirsty work, this.” Steve poured vodka for the men, wine for the women. “To the new flat!” Mark toasted. “May your walls stay up, your neighbours behave. Cheers!” He downed his shot, used his sleeve as a napkin (never mind the linen ones provided), and stabbed at the smoked salmon. “Oi, Jules,” he added through a mouthful, “vodka’s a bit warm—should’ve stuck it in the freezer.” “It’s from the fridge, Mark—five degrees, just as it should be,” Julia replied, already seething inside. “Come off it—it should be ice cold! Never mind, it’ll do. Got any cognac? Fancy a chaser.” “I do,” Julia replied. “But maybe eat first?” “One doesn’t stop the other!” Tom guffawed. They got stuck in with gusto, food vanishing at an alarming rate. They ate as if they’d spent the week surviving on water and dry toast. And the critique kept coming. “This fish pie’s a bit dry,” Sarah sniffed, piling her third helping. “Skimped on mayo, or what?” “I made it myself, so it’s not as fatty,” Julia explained. “Oh, why bother! Buy a tub from the shop. Brilliant, quick, job done! And this caviar’s tiny—pink salmon? Should’ve gone for king.” Julia exchanged a look with Steve, whose knuckles were white around his fork. “So, tell us your news,” Steve tried. “Sarah, didn’t you just get back from Dubai?” “Oh, it was a dream!” Sarah gushed. “Five-star hotel, all you can eat, mountains of lobster, rivers of Champagne. I bought a real Louis Vuitton—two grand! Mark moaned, but hey—you only live once.” “Women, eh? Spend and spend,” Mark agreed, helping himself to more cognac. “I’m about to buy a new car. Saving up. We don’t waste money on things like renovations.” “What do you mean, ‘waste’?” Julia blinked. “Well, walls are walls, aren’t they?” Lisa explained. “We moved in ten years ago, never redecorated—just keep it all granny-style. But we go abroad every year, have proper meals out, wear branded gear. You lot, always obsessed with concrete. Boring lives.” “Talking of restaurants,” Tom interrupted, wiping greasy lips on a napkin and tossing it onto the tablecloth, “we went to The Ivy last night—amazing! The bill was a whopper, but worth it. Not like home cooking. Jules, will the roast be much longer? Salads don’t count as proper food!” Julia stood to clear plates, shaking inside. They boasted of designer bags and thousand-pound dinners, but arrived at her door empty-handed—not even a potted plant or a Dairy Milk. She retreated to the kitchen. Sarah slipped in behind, feigning helpfulness, really after a gossip. “Jules, you’ve outdone yourself…” she whispered. “But I can tell you’re a bit… stretched. This wine’s a bit average, isn’t it? Only have stuff like this at barbecues. Could’ve got something better for your guests.” “It’s French, twenty quid a bottle,” Julia said through gritted teeth, stacking the dishwasher. “Twenty?! You were robbed! Sour as vinegar. Listen—have you got some food for us to take home? Hangover city tomorrow, can’t be bothered to cook. Cold meat, salads—whatever. There’s so much, no way you’ll finish it before it goes off.” Julia froze, a plate in her hand. Slowly, she turned to Sarah. “You want me to pack you a doggy bag?” “Yeah, why not? Everyone does that—it’s budget-friendly! By the way—is there pudding? Kinda fancy something sweet. Did you bake a cake?” “You were bringing dessert, remember?” Julia reminded her quietly. “Me?! I never said that! I’m on a diet—don’t buy treats. Thought you’d make your Napoleon, you’re the pro. Or at least buy something decent. We came empty-handed ‘cos we reckoned you’d have everything. You’re loaded now—with a flat and all.” Julia set the plate down, the clink sharp as a gunshot. “So you thought we have everything. That we’re flush with cash.” “Of course! You’ve got a mortgage, fancy place—must be rolling in it. We’re the poor relations, saving for the Maldives. Anyway, hurry up with that roast—the men are banging cutlery for it.” Julia recalled lending Sarah money for a “last-minute holiday,” only to wait months for repayment (no thanks ever). How Steve had helped Mark move flat, putting in petrol—and how the hospitality was never returned. They’d come to every celebration, eating her out of house and home, but hosted rarely—in which case you’d get supermarket sausage rolls. She glanced at the oven—her masterpiece roast, golden and fragrant, half a day’s labour. At the fridge—the mammoth berry meringue cake, five times the price of a supermarket dessert. She closed the oven; switched off the gas. Walked over to the fridge and pressed the door shut. “There’ll be no roast,” she said loudly. “What? Burned it, did you?!” Sarah gawked. “No. It’s perfect. But you’re not having any.” Julia strode into the lounge. The men were pouring another round, debating politics. Steve looked utterly miserable. “Dear guests,” Julia announced, voice steely, “the party is over.” Everyone fell silent. Mark paused mid-toast. “What do you mean?” he asked. “We haven’t even had the main! You promised roast!” “I did,” Julia nodded. “But I’ve changed my mind.” “How’s that?” Lisa blustered. “We’re starving! Salads are just garnish—bring the meat!” “The roast is in the oven, and there it will stay. Now, kindly gather your things and see yourselves either home or to The Ivy—where you can spend a fortune and be properly fed.” “You pissed?” Tom bellowed. “Steve, sort your wife out! We’re your guests!” Steve slowly stood, glanced first at Julia, then at their “friends.” He saw the trembling in his wife, the unshed tears. And he understood. “She isn’t drunk,” Steve said firmly. “She’s just had enough. You came to our home empty-handed, drank my cognac, trashed Julia’s cooking, called our wine vinegar, and our home an office. And now, you demand more?” “Oh, we were joking!” blurted Sarah. “Just forgot the cake, that’s all! But at least we brought the party!” “Partying at our expense?” Julia retorted. “No, thanks. I stood at the stove for hours. Spent half my salary on this meal. I wanted you to feel special. But you… You’re leeches. Freeloaders. Swanning around Dubai—but can’t be bothered with a £2 bar of chocolate.” “So that’s how it is? Choking on your roast, are you?” Mark snapped, upending a chair. “Come on, let’s get out of this miserly dump! I’ll never set foot here again!” “Off you go,” Steve said, opening the door wide. “Don’t forget your empty Tupperwares.” They thundered out, cursing and moaning. Sarah shrieked that she’d never speak to Julia again; Lisa griped about a ruined evening; the men swore all the way down the stairs. As the door clicked shut, silence settled on the battered table—wine stains, crumpled napkins, messy plates. Steve slipped his arm round Julia’s shoulders. “You alright?” he whispered. “My hands are shaking,” she admitted. “Am I really a miser? Should I have just fed them and kept quiet?” “You’re not stingy. You finally started respecting yourself. I’m proud of you. Honestly, I’d have kicked them out myself, if you hadn’t. They crossed a line, Jules.” She sighed, relaxing into him. “And the roast?” Steve ventured, eyes twinkling. “Because it smells so good I could eat right now…” Julia laughed—truly, for the first time all evening. “It’s ready. And the cake’s here too—huge, with berries.” They sat down, pushed aside dirty dishes, and served themselves: slow-roasted pork, luscious cake, that ‘sour’ Bordeaux wine. “To us,” Steve said, raising his glass. “And to our home—may it welcome only those who come with open hearts, not empty hands.” That meal, in the quiet, was the best of their lives. An hour later, Julia’s phone buzzed—Sarah, from McDonald’s: “Enjoy your roast, you miserable cow! We’re choking down burgers thanks to you. You should be ashamed!” Julia smiled, pressed “block,” then did the same for Lisa, Mark, and Tom. Her contact list was four names shorter. But her world felt lighter—and her fridge was full of good food, now destined only for those who truly deserved it. This story reminds us: friendship is a two-way street, and sometimes a closed fridge door is the best way to preserve your own self-respect.

The memory still brings a rueful smile to my face, all these years laterthe day when a table heaving

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The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering—either from fear, or from the cold.

Wheres my daughter? repeated Alice, her teeth chattering from fright as much as from the chill in the air.

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Two Pink Lines on a Test Became Her Ticket to a Fresh Start—And Plunged Her Best Friend Into Heartbreak. She Married to the Cheers of Betrayers, But the True Ending Was Written by the One Everyone Thought Just a Foolish Pawn

Two blue lines on a test: her passport to a new life, and the ticket to hell for her best friend.

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The Letter Dennis walked home from work, the snow crunching pleasantly under his boots, memories of childhood filling his mind—sliding down hills on his school bag, snowball fights, eating icicles, those golden days… Suddenly, he heard a child crying. Looking around, he spotted a boy in a brown coat and grey hat, sobbing loudly on a bench, tears streaming down his cheeks. Dennis approached him. “Are you lost? Why are you crying?” “I lost my letter… I was carrying it in my pocket, then looked—and it was gone,” the boy wailed again. “Don’t cry, let’s look for it together. What letter is it? Did your mum give you something to post?” “No, I wrote it… to Father Christmas. Mum doesn’t know…” “Oh dear… But don’t worry, you can always write another.” “But it won’t get there in time now…” “Tell you what, you run home—it’s getting dark—and I’ll look for your letter. Deal?” “Alright… If you find it, will you really post it?” “I promise! And don’t worry—Father Christmas always knows what children write to him. Even if I can’t find it, I’m sure he’ll still bring you something…” The boy wiped his face on his coat sleeve and ran off. Poor lad. He’d tried so hard, only for this to happen… Dennis smiled, remembering the days he’d find gifts under the Christmas tree, convinced Father Christmas had read his letters. That was so long ago… Soon his own son would be writing Christmas letters—though for now, at just four, he couldn’t write yet. Dennis walked on, peering carefully at the ground, but there was no sign of the letter. Poor kid, he must have been hoping for something… Then he spotted the corner of an envelope poking from a snowdrift. He pulled it free—it was the letter! The paper was wet, but carefully, Dennis tucked it into his bag to avoid tearing it. At home, his wife Valerie was making dinner, and little Max played with his toy cars. Dennis cherished his family, so happy to come back to their warm home. “Valerie, you’ll never believe this,” he began. “I was walking just now and saw a boy, about eight, sobbing his heart out on a bench. He lost his letter to Father Christmas. And I found it! Let’s take a look…” Dennis pulled the envelope from his pocket. In a child’s handwriting it read: To Father Christmas, from Alex Leonard. “Shall we open it and see what he’s wishing for?” “Let’s, it never would have made it past the post anyway…” Dennis gently opened the envelope and unfolded a squared exercise paper, reading aloud: “Dear Father Christmas! It’s Alex Leonard, living at 97 Churchill Road. I’m nine and in Year 4. I love playing football and running around with my friends. I live with Mum Vera and Granny Lydia. We just moved into a little old cottage, kindly lent to us by people who wanted to help. We used to live with Dad in another town, but he drank vodka and hit Mum—a lot, and sometimes me, too. Mum and Granny (who’s Dad’s mum) would always cry, and so would I. It was awful with Dad, so we ran away and brought Granny with us. Father Christmas, please help Mum find a new job. She cleans floors, but she really shouldn’t be bending—her back’s bad. And please, give her a new dress, hers is all torn now. Mum’s tall, slim and so beautiful! For Granny, please bring medicine for her knees—she struggles to walk, though she’s not very old. Granny always dreams of a warm thick dressing gown, she gets cold a lot. My gran’s tiny and thin. And for me… I just wish for a beautiful Christmas tree, with lights and colourful baubles. Mum always put one up before, and we celebrated—until Dad got too drunk and knocked it over… I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear Father Christmas. Alex Leonard” Dennis finished and glanced at Valerie, who had tears in her eyes. “Oh, how moving… That poor boy—ran from a drunken father, and now they’ve nothing left. What a truly lovely request, you hardly ever hear children wishing for gifts for Mum and Gran these days—except for a Christmas tree, he asked for nothing for himself…” “They’ve clearly suffered a lot… And she took her mother-in-law with her, didn’t leave her behind. Good people, I’d say. Valerie, what if we make Alex’s Christmas wish come true? What do you think?” “That would be wonderful, Dennis. You know I grew up in a family like that; my father would terrorise us when he was drunk… My mum never found the courage to leave, not till he died did we have any peace…” “My work’s looking for an admin staff, we could offer the job to Vera—decent pay and no floor cleaning,” said Dennis. “Let’s ask the Simmons for their Father Christmas and Snow Princess costumes, pay Alex a visit. Let him believe in miracles… Let’s give them a real Christmas! I’ll buy Nana’s arthritis tablets—same as Mum’s—and find a soft pink dressing gown and a new dress for Vera; she’s about my size I think, shouldn’t be expensive, it’s sale season with Christmas coming…” “We’ve got a bit of money, no reason not to do a good thing, right, Dennis?” “I’m with you! You’re such a kind soul, Val…” Dennis hugged his wife. What happiness, to share these thoughts and so much understanding. The next day, Valerie bought a simple but beautiful dark green dress, a soft pink dressing gown, Nana’s medicine, chocolates, satsumas, ornaments, and fairy lights. Dennis added a cheap but cheerful smartphone—surely Alex didn’t have one. They borrowed the costumes, bought a little Christmas tree, and loaded the gifts into a big red sack. Dennis and Valerie dressed up and set off for the address from the letter, while their son Max stayed with his granny. An ancient, crooked cottage, a wonky garden fence. Lights on inside—they were home… Dennis took the tree, Valerie the sack, and they quietly knocked on the door. “Who is it?” called a tall, fair-haired woman in her mid-thirties—Vera, surely. Seeing Father Christmas, she hesitated. “Oh, we haven’t booked any visits… You must have the wrong address.” “Does Alex Leonard live here?” “Yes, he’s my son…” “Mum, who is it?” cried a boy, dashing from the living room. “Oh—Father Christmas!” “Hello, Alex! I got your letter, and here we are—with my granddaughter, the Snow Princess! May we come in?” “Mum, he got my letter! The man found it and posted it like he promised! Brilliant! Come in!” cheered Alex. Vera smiled, showing them inside. Granny, a petite, slim woman, peeked into the hall. Alex’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Christmas tree. “That’s ours? It’s beautiful, it smells like Christmas…” “That’s for you, Alex. Every child should have a beautiful tree. And here are the decorations and fairy lights. Now, I’ve got presents—but you’ll need to tell us a poem or sing a song. That’s my rule as Father Christmas…” Dennis spoke in a jolly, deep voice. Alex was too excited to think of anything, gazing at Father Christmas’s red suit and white beard in wonder. “Alex, I know you’re a good lad; the birds have told me so. You love your mum and gran and are good at school. Now, help yourself—take the gifts from the sack.” Alex looked at his mum for permission. She nodded, and shyly he reached in: a boxed, ribbon-tied dressing gown for Granny. Excitedly, he handed it over. “Granny, this is for you! I wrote for it in my letter!” “For me? Oh my—It’s beautiful!” said Granny, slipping it on, beaming. Next, Alex handed his mum the new dress, then Granny her medicine. Both women looked on in disbelief. Then, a huge bag of sweets and satsumas, and—on top—a box with a new smartphone. “For me? My own phone? Wow… Father Christmas, thank you so much for the presents! I knew—I believed you were real, and you didn’t let me down!” Alex cried overjoyed. “Wishing your family health and happiness! Now, we must go…” Dennis and Valerie packed the empty sack, ready to leave. Alex inspected his new phone. In the hall, Vera and Granny appeared. “Please—tell us, who are you? How do you know Alex?” “I found his letter—and my wife and I wanted to bring some Christmas cheer to your boy. He’s a wonderful lad. Here’s his letter back, and a business card—if you’re interested, do give me a call, we’re looking for an admin at my office, and you sound perfect for the role.” “Thank you so much… This is all so unexpected… Alex is over the moon, he believed so much, and thanks to you, his miracle came true…” Dennis and Valerie drove home in silence, hearts full of joy for the Christmas magic they’d brought this lovely boy and his family. Giving gifts is so often more rewarding than receiving—especially when you see that pure joy sparkling in a child’s eyes. The money spent meant nothing—they’d earn more soon enough. But the emotions, those are priceless…

A Letter David was walking home from work, the snow beneath his boots crunching pleasantly, and for some

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Julia Waits by the Front Door: The Loyal Dog of Flat 22 and Her Unwavering Hope in a Quiet English Market Town, 1990s It all began one early June morning in a sleepy English town, when the screech of brakes outside the local bookshop revealed a wounded stray dog. The shop girls rallied—Vera, Natasha, and their manager, Mrs. Ellen Victor—and rescued Julia, the dog with lifeless hind legs. Despite bleak odds and a looming family move, Vera couldn’t help but form a deep bond. Through makeshift treatments, country cottage weekends, and the heartbreak of separation, Julia’s devotion endured. Even after Vera’s family left for distant work, Julia settled at the doorway of flat 22, faithfully awaiting their return—cared for by compassionate neighbours and determined to never leave. Reunited at last, the family braved trains, planes, and new adventures, all with Julia by their side. For thirteen unforgettable years, Julia followed Vera wherever life led, embodying hope, loyalty, and the magic of being loved.

Julia sat beside the entrance to the block of flats. All the neighbours knew that the family from number

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Who Slept in My Bed and Left It in a Mess… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Barely Older Than My Daughter — Chubby Baby Cheeks, Naive Eyes, a Nose Piercing (the Same Kind My Daughter Wanted, and He Furiously Forbade). I Couldn’t Even Be Mad at Her — As I Looked at Her Bare, Bluish Legs and Short Jacket, I Wanted to Snark: “If You’re Planning to Have Kids with that Idiot, Get Yourself a Warm Coat and Wear Tights under Your Jeans.” But I Kept Quiet. I Simply Handed Arina the Keys, Grabbed My Two Bags of Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mrs. Harris, What’s That Thing Under the Kitchen Counter?” the Girl Called After Me, “Is it for Storing Dishes?” I Couldn’t Resist and Tossed Back, “I Usually Hide My Husband’s Lovers’ Bodies in There, But You’re Welcome to Wash Plates.” Without Waiting for an Answer or Even Looking at Arina’s Frightened Face, I Walked Down the Stairs Pleased with Myself. Well then — that’s it, twenty years of marriage down the drain. It was my daughter who first discovered that Henry was cheating. She’d skipped classes, expecting nobody to be home, and stumbled upon a young nymph sipping cocoa from her favourite mug. With barely any clothes on the nymph, and Dad splashing in the shower, my clever daughter, Ellie, quickly put two and two together and rang me: “Mum, I think Dad’s got a mistress, and she’s wearing my slippers and drinking from my mug!” Just like in a fairy tale, I thought, remembering Ellie was more upset about her things being touched than Dad’s betrayal. Who slept in my bed and crumpled it… Unlike my daughter, I took it all in stride. Of course my pride was wounded — the girl was young and beautiful, while I had extra pounds, cellulite, and all the not-so-kind badges of a forty-something woman. But really, I felt relief — after all those years of mysterious late-night calls, erratic schedules, coffee shop receipts (never for me!), and not once had I caught him red-handed. Henry was so slick that I ended up feeling guilty for suspecting him. “It’s the first time,” Henry brazenly lied. “I don’t know, some eclipse, like a comet fell out of the sky.” The “comet” turned out to be a hotel worker from Henry’s business trip. She was twenty, with nothing to offer but a pretty face — and apparently not much sense, because she chased Henry to London and rented a grim bedsit with her savings. That’s why they met at our flat — with hot water and the washing machine. No wonder my quick wash was always on instead of “mixed fabrics!” The flat belonged to Henry, left to him by his father before marriage, and since I’d decided to file for divorce, my daughter and I moved out to my grandmother’s old council flat on the outskirts. Ellie was appalled — how would she get to college? “Well, why don’t you stay with us then?” Henry suggested, earning fresh insults. At least my daughter could tell him what she really thought now. At first it was a pain — new routes, shops, an hour’s journey to work and school. But we got used to it — I found a new job, Ellie applied to a nearby college, halving her commute. There wasn’t time to dwell on sadness — everyday problems and exams kept us busy, and when life settled down, we didn’t feel like mourning at all. Arina called me several times — to ask about baking settings and the dishwasher tablets. Once, she even came round carrying forgotten photos needed for graduation. Henry couldn’t manage it (or was afraid), I was out with a cold, and Ellie flatly refused to enter the old flat, sure it would wreck her mental health (she still had computer science exams). “It’s rather cosy,” Arina murmured, surveying the faded wallpaper and dated lamps. I smirked — yes, cosy, what else can you say? There, everything was modern and convenient. I spent twenty years building up that home. Let them have it. That visit, though, would come back to bite me. About a year after the infamous day, one night, the door lock clicked. “Expecting anyone?” I asked Ellie. She just stared. Arina stood in the doorway, mascara streaked down her cheeks, clutching a sports bag. “Has something happened with Henry?” I worried. “Something did!” Arina sobbed. “I caught him with the secretary! Wanted to surprise him since he said he was working late…” She broke down, crying like a child, hidden in her hands. “So what do you expect from me?” I asked, eyeing the bulky bag. “Could I stay here tonight? I haven’t any money. I’ll take the train to my mum’s in the morning.” “How will you travel if you’ve no money?” “I hoped you’d lend me some.” I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Ellie made the choice for me. “Why don’t you get out!” she sneered, adding a string of words she’d never used in front of me before. I gave her a stern look. “Come in, Arina,” I said. “It’s late. I’m not about to turn you out on the street.” From there, things got worse. Ellie was so furious she declared — it’s her or me. I shrugged, her choice, she’s an adult now. If she wanted, she could go to her father. “Oh, as if! I’ll stay at Nat’s!” We got her a taxi to her friend’s. Then I played host to a regretful mistress who had no friends, no job, just another piercing — in her tongue this time. I lent Arina money for the train, what else could I do? Even drove her to the station so she wouldn’t get lost. Arina thanked me for ages, asked forgiveness, and promised to sort her life out, go study, stop messing with married men. “Mum says I’m hopeless. She was right, I guess.” I didn’t see her off at the train — it was unnecessary. I reconciled with Ellie soon, though she couldn’t fathom how I could let “the homewrecker” stay. I stroked her soft hair, smiled and said: “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” Henry rang a week later. Said he’d seen the error of his ways, kicked out Arina, and was ready for a happy reunion. “Run out of clean shirts?” I asked, biting back. “Well, yeah…” my ex sighed. “Besides, she can’t wash — I’ve spent a year in greasy ones.” Obviously, I didn’t go back. Nor did I gloat. But I couldn’t help noticing that, after all this, my spirits had lifted: I felt lighter in head and heart, smiled more often. I got a dog, walked him in the evenings. Met a nice neighbour — so what if he’s ten years older, I’m not a girl myself. And life rolled on as it should.

Whos been lying on my bed and crumpled it A Story. My husbands lover was barely older than our daughterround

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The Waiter Rushed Over and Offered to Take the Kitten Away, But the Six-Foot-Tall Man Gently Picked Up the Crying, Fluffy Baby and Set It on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And the Finest Meat, Please!” “Let’s wear something bold, almost nymph-like, and go to an exclusive restaurant—just to show off and size up the men…” declared one of the three friends, a confident headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school. These “nymphs” were thirty-five, the very age—so they believed—for short skirts and stylish blouses that revealed more than they hid: plunging necklines, flawless makeup—the full power look. They picked a fitting restaurant: posh, top-tier, seriously expensive. Booking a table was easy for them. Seated comfortably, they immediately soaked up admiring glances from men and openly jealous ones from their dates. Predictably, all conversation revolved around what mattered most—men. Dreams, expectations, and strict criteria: tall, fit, attractive, well-off, devoted but never dull, someone who would spoil them and take care of everything. Royal lineage? Absolute perfection. “Just not like them…” they exchanged glances and nodded toward three cheerful, slightly portly, balding men. Beer, chips, and mountains of steak filled their table; the talk was football and fishing, and laughter—loud and sincere—filled the room. “Awful.” “So tacky.” “Ugh.” Their verdict was unanimous: rough, unrefined, totally unsuitable for such glamorous ladies. But then, everything in the restaurant changed in an instant. He walked in—a man arriving in a brand-new scarlet Ferrari. “Lord Coburg Cold Saxon!” announced the maître d’ at the entrance. The friends perked up, hunting-dog alert for opportunity. Tall, fit, salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a bespoke suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks; crisp, immaculate shirt. The whole package. “Oh…” “This is it…” “Mmm…” Their necklines dipped a bit deeper, eyes growing bolder. “Now that’s a man,” whispered one. “A lord, a millionaire,” sighed another. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since I was a little girl.” The third’s eyes said what words could not. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lord’s table. They swept over, oozing regal indifference, especially toward the trio of beer drinkers. The lord was charming, fielding witty social conversation, sharing stories from his ancient lineage, ancestral castles, and art collections. But tension rose—all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The mood broke as dishes arrived: lobster, luxury seafood platters, antique wine. The ladies dined, sending longing glances and dreaming far beyond the restaurant. Flushed, radiant, alluring. The lord glowed too—joking, dazzling, the centre of upper-class tales. At that point, no one cared where the night would go. There was a small garden near the restaurant. The mouthwatering aroma had spilled outside, attracting a skinny, hungry little grey kitten who slunk between tables and settled at the lord’s feet, begging for attention. To no avail. The lord’s face twisted in disgust; he kicked the kitten, sending it flying into the leg of the table where the three men sat. Silence fell. “I can’t stand dirty, mongrel animals,” the lord declared loudly. “My estate is for pedigree hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter hurried to smooth things over: “We’ll sort this out right away, apologies…” He walked toward the beer table, but one man—a giant, nearly six feet tall, face red and fists clenched—had already risen, friends trying to restrain him. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and set it into a chair. “A plate for my furry companion!” he boomed. “The finest meat. Now.” The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen. From the tables came a round of applause. One of the “nymphs” silently stood, walked to the giant, and said, “Move over—order a lady a whisky.” The lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two joined them, shooting the lord a disdainful look. People left the restaurant in new groups—three together: man, woman, and kitten. Time passed. Today, the first friend is married—to that gentle giant, owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his friends, renowned lawyers. All three weddings celebrated together. Now life for the former “nymphs” is all nappies, cooking, cleaning—and daughters, born almost at once. And to escape to their favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the nanny, and reunite for a proper girls’ night: to chat about the big topic…men. A year later, Lord Coburg Cold Saxon was arrested—a notorious con artist preying upon naive women. Real men, thankfully, are nothing like that. I mean those three—paunchy, balding, no glamour or pretence, but truly noble hearts. That’s how it is. There’s no other way.

The waiter dashed over and offered to take the kitten away. But a towering man scooped up the whimpering

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Julia Steps Off the Bus, Arms Full of Heavy Bags, and Walks Towards Her Childhood Home—“I’m Home!” She Calls Out as She Opens the Door, and Her Whole Family Rushes to Greet Her, Saying, “We Knew You’d Come!” That Evening, Gathered Around the Large Family Table, There’s an Unexpected Knock at the Door—“Must Be the Neighbours Come to Say Hello,” Her Mum Shrugs, and Goes to Answer It, But She Returns Not Alone, Accompanied by Guests Who Leave Julia Staring in Shock, Unable to Believe Her Eyes

Julia stepped off the coach, her hands aching from the weight of her shopping bags, and made her way

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“So is he living with us now?” he asked his wife, glancing at their son…

And so, is he just going to live with us now? John asked his wife, looking at their son Margaret Smith