Harlan Covington

I Stopped Speaking to My Husband After His Birthday Antics—For the First Time, He Was Truly Scared – Right, let’s raise a glass to the birthday girl! Forty-five and still in her prime—well, in our case, maybe a dried fruit, but still good for your digestion! – Oleg’s voice boomed across the small restaurant’s banquet hall, overpowering even the background music. The guests at the long table froze. Someone gave a nervous laugh, trying to smooth over the awkwardness; others buried their gaze in their salads as if hunting for an olive was suddenly the most urgent task. Elena, sitting at the head of the table in her brand-new dark blue dress she’d carefully chosen over two weeks, felt the blood drain from her face. The smile she’d worn since the evening began twisted into a painful grimace. Oleg, utterly pleased with his joke, knocked back a shot of vodka, flopped down next to his wife, and flung his heavy, clammy arm around her shoulders. – Why the long faces? My Lena’s got a sense of humour—right, love? – he slapped her back like a mate at the pub. – She’s thrifty too. That dress—how old is it now, three years? Looks good as new! Which wasn’t true. The dress was brand new, bought with money Elena earned through freelance translation work. But to argue now, in front of friends, colleagues, and relatives, would have turned the evening into a circus. She gently removed her husband’s hand from her shoulder and took a sip of water. Deep inside, somewhere near her solar plexus, an icy lump began to form. Once upon a time she’d have made a joke—something like “Let’s just hope you don’t get mouldy, darling”—but tonight it was as if something inside her fuse box had finally blown. The party rolled on, out of habit. Oleg drank more, got rowdier, tried to invite Elena’s young colleagues to dance, and pontificated loudly about politics and how “it’s the women who broke this country.” Elena accepted gifts, thanked guests for their toasts, made sure everyone got their hot food, but she did it all on autopilot like a wind-up doll. In her head, there was nothing but silence. Absolute, ringing silence that drowned out her husband’s drunk rambling. When they got home, Oleg barely managed to tug his shoes off before heading to the bedroom. – Good night out, eh? – he grumbled, unfastening his shirt. – Only Sasha, your boss, he’s a shifty sort. Kept staring at me. Probably jealous he doesn’t have such a patient wife. Oi, Lena? Bring us some sparkling water, would you? Been drinking all night. Elena stood in the hallway and looked at her tired reflection in the mirror. Smudged mascara. Exhausted eyes. She quietly took off her heels, neatly placed them back on the rack, and went to the kitchen—but not for sparkling water. She poured herself a glass, drank it slowly while staring out at the dark street below, then went to the lounge, took out a spare duvet and pillow, and made up the sofa for the night. – Lena? Where’ve you gone? Bring me some water! – came his shout from the bedroom. Elena turned off the hallway light, crawled under the blanket on the sofa, and pulled it up over her head. Night came, but sleep didn’t. She didn’t think about revenge or starting a row. There was only one thing: a calm, crystal-clear certainty. That was the last time. The limit was reached. The balance was zero. Morning didn’t begin with the usual sound of the coffee grinder. Normally Elena got up half an hour before her husband—to make his breakfast, iron his shirt, and pack him a lunch for work. Today, Oleg woke only to his alarm and silence. No coffee, no frying eggs. He shuffled to the kitchen, scratching his belly. Elena was already at the table, fully dressed, reading her tablet. In front of her: an empty cup. – Where’s breakfast? – he yawned, opening the fridge. – I thought you were making pancakes, there was still cottage cheese left? Elena didn’t look up. She turned the page on the screen, sipped her cold tea, and kept reading. – Lena! I’m talking to you! – Oleg turned around, clutching a stick of salami. – Have you gone deaf after last night? She stood, quietly picked up her bag, checked for her keys, and headed to the door. – Hey! Where do you think you’re going? My blue shirt isn’t ironed! The front door slammed. Oleg was left standing in the kitchen in his pants, salami in hand, totally lost. – Fine then, be like that, – he muttered, slicing off a chunk. – PMS or she’s sulking over a joke. She’ll simmer down by evening—women love the drama. That evening, Elena didn’t come home until he was asleep. She slipped quietly in, made up the sofa again in the lounge. The same happened the next morning. No breakfast, no “Good morning,” no packed lunch. She just got herself together and left. By the third day, it was really getting to him. – Come on, stop playing the silent game! – Oleg barked, catching her lacing up her shoes. – I crossed the line, so what? We had a drink, unwound, that’s all. Who do you think you are—the Queen of England? Sorry, alright? Let’s move on. Where are my black socks, not a single pair in the drawer! Elena looked at him—calm, almost as if she was looking not at the husband she’d shared twenty years with, but at a patch of mould on the wallpaper. Unpleasant, but not the end of the world. She turned away, took her umbrella, and left. By week’s end, the flat started to look different. Oleg’s things, which used to magically appear clean and ironed, now amassed in heaps. No ready meals in the fridge; just eggs, milk, vegetables, but no homemade favourites. The dirty dishes he left in the sink piled up, growing hard crusts. Oleg tried to play hardball. “If she can stand the mess, she’ll give in and clean it.” But Elena calmly washed a plate and fork for herself, ate, washed them again, and put them away. His mountain of dishes grew. On Saturday he tried a new tactic—bought a cake and a bunch of chrysanthemums. – Come on, don’t sulk anymore, – he placed the cake on the kitchen table where she sat with her laptop. – Let’s have some tea. I know you’re still here. She raised dead eyes from the screen, calmly shut the laptop, stood, and left. A moment later, the bathroom door clicked, the shower went on. In a rage, Oleg dumped the flowers in the bin. – Well, fine! You think I can’t cope on my own? I lived on my own before you! Manipulator, that’s what you are! He loudly ordered pizza, opened a beer, and turned the football on at full blast. Elena walked past in her pyjamas with earplugs in, lay down on the sofa, and pulled the duvet over her head. A month passed. Oleg went through every stage—anger, trying to provoke a row, bribery, and then silent treatment of his own. But ignoring someone who acts as if you don’t exist turned out to be surprisingly hard—it was like playing tennis against a brick wall. The ball just kept bouncing back. He realised his life was falling apart in the everyday sense. He had to iron his own shirts, and they ended up crumpled. Takeaway food was costing him a fortune and his stomach. The flat grew dusty, as Elena only cleaned her own areas and he refused to touch a duster. But then, on Tuesday night, came the real shock. Early home from work after his boss had a go at him, he tried to pay his car loan—his pride and joy, still almost new. The banking app flashed: “Insufficient Funds.” Oleg blinked. How? His salary went in yesterday. He checked the history and went cold. He usually sent his half to the joint account, from which food, bills, and the car loan were paid, and spent the rest himself. Elena always topped off the account to cover everything. Now, only his own transfer sat there. Not a penny more. And this month, after forking out for a bumper repair and some nights at the pub, the payment wasn’t enough. He stormed into the living room, waving his phone. – What’s this meant to be?! Why hasn’t the money gone through? The payment’s tomorrow! She slowly put her book down. – Where’s your money, Lena? Why haven’t you paid in? The bank will slap a penalty! Elena sighed, pulled out a paper from her folder, and silently handed it to him. It was a divorce application. Oleg stared at the page—“joint household no longer maintained… marital relationship ended…” – You’re joking, right? – his voice cracked, shrill. – Over a joke? Over a bloody toast? Lena, are you insane? You’d throw away twenty years over nothing? She wrote quickly in her notebook and turned it to him: *It’s not about the joke. It’s about your lack of respect. For a long time. The flat’s mine, inherited from my nan. The car’s in your name, bought in the marriage, but you pay the loan. I’m filing for division of assets. You can keep the car, but will owe me half of what’s been paid. I’m moving to Mum’s cottage for the proceedings. You’ve got one week to find somewhere to live.* Oleg read it and felt the ground drop away. The flat—of course. He’d always thought of it as theirs, but the deeds were hers, inherited before the wedding. – What do you mean, cottage? Where am I going to go? My salary… there’s the loan, and child support for Vicky from my first marriage—how will I manage rent too? Elena looked at him—not triumphant, just tired. She wrote again: *You’re a grown man. You’ll cope. You said at the party I’m “past it.” So go find yourself a young, lively one. I want peace.* – But it was a joke! – he wailed. – Just a joke! Everyone jokes like that! Lena, forgive me, please! I’ll do anything, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll stop drinking. I’ll get help, I promise tomorrow! She didn’t turn around. The suitcase snapped shut with a click like a gunshot. – Where are you going at this hour? – he blocked the door. – At least stay till morning. We’re family. Let’s talk this over sensibly. For the first time in a month, he saw some emotion in her eyes—compassion. A humiliating, calm pity, the kind given to a wounded pigeon that can’t be saved. She wrote on her phone, then showed him: *Family don’t degrade each other in public. Or trample on the people who look after them. I put up with your rudeness for ten years and thought it was just your way. But it’s not. It’s just laziness. Anyone would think I’d never leave, but you were wrong. Please move.* She firmly eased him aside and rolled her suitcase to the front door. – I’m keeping the car! And the money! – he yelled after her, trying to wound, to protect himself. Elena paused, pulled on her coat, looked straight at him, and, for the first time in a month, spoke out loud in her slightly husky voice that made Oleg’s skin crawl: – You’ll pay, Oleg. By court order. And for the legal fees too. My lawyer’s good—expensive, too. I used the work bonus you wanted for fishing gear to pay him. Drop the keys in the letterbox when you move out. You’ve got till Sunday. The door shut behind her. The lock clicked. Oleg was left standing in the dark hallway. The silence wasn’t just oppressive now—it was overwhelming. He could hear the fridge humming. The tap, which he’d promised to fix six months ago, was dripping. He sat in Elena’s usual seat at the kitchen table. On it still lay the divorce form, with seal, signature, date—all real. His phone pinged—a bank alert: “Reminder: car payment due tomorrow.” Oleg buried his face in his hands and, for the first time in his fifty years, wept. Not for love lost, but for pity at himself, and for the total, irreversible disaster he’d brought on by running his mouth. The next three days passed in a daze. Elena had blocked his number. Her mother answered him only once: “Made your bed, now lie in it, son. Leave Lena alone—her blood pressure can’t take it.” By Thursday, Oleg started packing. He discovered he owned very little—just clothes, a few fishing rods, a toolbox, a laptop. Anything that made the flat warm or homely—curtains, vases, artwork, cushions—Elena had bought and picked out. Without her, the place was just a lifeless concrete box. Rummaging for socks, he found an old photo album: them on a seaside holiday ten years ago. Elena was laughing, hugging him; he looked proud and content. Back when she looked at him adoringly. When had it changed? When had he stopped seeing her as a woman, and started seeing her as, simply, “fetch this, do that, be quiet”? – Idiot, – he said out loud. – What a stupid old fool. On Sunday, he left with the last bag. As instructed, he dropped the keys in the letterbox. Looking up at their—her—flat, he saw only darkness in the windows. He climbed into his car, almost out of petrol, bank account nearly empty. With nowhere to go except his mother’s. He pictured her tiny, smoky kitchen and the nagging that would meet him at the door: “I told you she wasn’t right for you…” He smashed his fist against the steering wheel. The pain sobered him a little. He scrolled through his contacts—no one to call who might actually listen, without judgement or gloating. He pulled away from the curb. Ahead—an empty, lonely life. He’d have to learn to cook, iron his shirts, and maybe even mind his tongue. But that wasn’t the worst part. The true horror was knowing he’d destroyed the only place in the world he was ever loved—for nothing. Meanwhile, Elena was sitting on her mother’s cottage porch, mug of mint tea in hand, swaddled in a blanket. Her heart felt empty, yes, but peaceful. She’d switched off her phone. Uncertainty awaited, court battles, dividing assets, but one thing was clear: she would cope. The hardest thing—living with someone who made her feel alone—was finally behind her. Somewhere in the garden, a robin sang, and the air smelt of lilacs and freedom. For the first time in years, that smell wasn’t drowned by her husband’s boozy breath. She breathed deep and, for the first time in a month, smiled for real. If this story moved you and you understand the heroine, please like and subscribe to the blog. Let me know in the comments what you would have done in Elena’s place.

I stopped speaking to my husband after his behaviour at my birthday, and for the first time, I saw real

La vida

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before an age-yellowed envelope arrived in her life, Natalie Sutherland stood on the balcony of her London studio flat. The night was thick, black, starless. Down below, the lights of Regent Street burned. Inside, behind the glass door, Mark was discussing deal details with someone on speakerphone. Natalie pressed her palm against the cold windowpane. She was exhausted—not from work (she handled that brilliantly), but from the very air she’d breathed these last few years. The predictable rhythm where even a marriage proposal had become a logical bullet point in a five-year plan. A lump of either longing or mute fury lodged in her throat. Natalie pulled out her phone, opened WhatsApp, and started a message to an old friend she hadn’t seen in ages. The friend had just given birth to her second child and now lived in a whirlwind of little ones and chaos. The message was short, urgent, nearly nonsensical from the outside: “You know, sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like. Not this city’s chemical fog, but proper rain that hits the earth and smells of dust and hope. I want some kind of miracle. Something simple, made of paper. Something I could hold in my hands.” She never meant to send it. It was a soul’s cry, hurled into the digital void—a small ritual for self-soothing. She deleted it before sending; her friend would have thought she was having a crisis or that she’d drunk too much. Within a minute, she was back in the lounge with Mark, who was finishing up his call. “Are you alright?” her fiancé asked, throwing her a quick glance. “You look tired.” “Yeah, I’m fine,” Natalie smiled. “Just getting some air. I just want… you know, something fresh.” “In December?” Mark chuckled. “Try the seaside in May—if this quarter ends well, we might get away then.” He turned back to his tablet. Natalie grabbed her phone from the coffee table. There was just one new alert: a client had confirmed a meeting. No miracles. With a sigh, she went to get ready for bed, mentally mapping tomorrow’s to-do list. *** Three days later, sifting through the post, her finger snared the corner of an unfamiliar envelope. It fluttered to the hardwood floor: thick, rough, the colour of old parchment. No stamps, just an ink stamp of a pine branch and an address. Inside was a New Year’s card—not some glossy print job, but warm, textured card stock, embossed, with gold flecks that fell onto her fingers. “May your boldest dreams come true this year…” read the handwriting, which made something skip under Natalie’s ribs. The handwriting was familiar. It was Sasha’s. The same boy from that little seaside village where she’d spent every summer with her nan. Her childhood sweetheart: the boy who’d built dens with her by the river, set off fireworks in August, and exchanged letters between terms. Then Nan had sold the cottage, she and Sasha went off to different universities, and they lost touch. The address on the envelope was hers—her current one. But the card was dated 1999. How was that possible? A postal glitch? Or had the universe heard her silent cry for a simple miracle, something you could actually hold? Natalie cancelled two calls and a meeting, told Mark she was checking a venue (he just nodded, nose buried in his tablet), and got in her Mini. Three hours’ drive to the seaside village. She had to find the sender. Google told her the place had a little print shop. *** Snowflake Printworks turned out nothing like she’d pictured—not a kitschy gift shop, but a quiet haven. The door opened with a low groan and let her into a large room where the air was thick, sweet—almost fruity. The scent of wood, metal, something spicy-bitter—old paint, maybe varnish. And unmistakably: fire from a wood stove. Its heat lapped at Natalie’s cold cheeks. The owner stood with his back to her, bent over a chunky antique press. The clink of tools was the only sound. He didn’t turn at the jingle of the door. Natalie coughed. He straightened, slowly, like unsticking each vertebra, and turned around. Stocky, check shirt sleeves rolled, regular-looking but very calm eyes. Not curious or eager—just watching, waiting. “Is this your card?” Natalie placed it on the counter. Alex took his time. He wiped his palms on his jeans—leaving blue streaks—picked it up and held it to the light like a coin. “One of ours,” he confirmed. “Pine stamp. ’99 batch. Where’d you get it?” “It came to my flat. In London. Probably a mix-up at the post office,” Natalie’s voice was clipped and businesslike, though she was crumbling inside. “I need to find the sender. I know this handwriting.” His gaze grew more direct. It skimmed her perfect haircut, her chic but out-of-place beige coat, her face where even perfect makeup couldn’t mask the cracks. “Why do you need the sender?” Alex asked. “Twenty-five years’ a long time. People are born, die, forget.” “I’m not dead,” she heard herself say with unexpected steel. “And I haven’t forgotten.” He watched her, long and thoughtful, as if reading not her words but the shadows behind them. Then he gestured to the kettle in the corner. “You’re freezing. Tea’ll sort you out. Even a Londoner’s brain.” He poured into chipped mugs while she sat in the thawing quiet. And so it began. *** Three days in the village felt like a homecoming for Natalie. From the city’s roar to the stillness of snow sliding off a roof. From screen glare to the warm glow of the stove. Alex asked no probing questions; he just invited her into his world—one with creaking floorboards and the scent of wood fire, jam, and old books. He showed her his father’s printing blocks—copper plates with reindeer and snowflakes—explained how to mix glitter so it sticks, how to emboss so it lasts. He was like his home: sturdy, a little worn, filled with quiet treasures. He shared how his dad, smitten at first sight with his mum, once sent her a postcard to an old address that got lost on the way. “Love into the void,” he mused by the fire. “Romantic—and hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless things?” asked Natalie. “He found her. They spent decades together. Where there’s love, anything’s possible. Otherwise—I only believe in what I can hold. This press. This house. My work. Everything else is smoke.” There was no bitterness in his voice—just a craftsman’s acceptance of his material. Natalie had always battled her material, bent it to her will. Here, the fight was useless; snow fell when it would, and Graf, Alex’s dog, slept wherever he liked. A strange kinship grew: two lonely souls, each finding in the other what they’d lacked—she, calm and authenticity; he, boldness and spark. Alex saw through the city gloss to the girl still afraid of the dark, longing for a little wonder. Natalie saw not a has-been, but a custodian: of time, skill, and peace. Her background anxiety ebbed away. When Mark rang, Natalie was at the window watching Alex split logs with practised rhythm. “Where are you?” Mark’s voice was cold, flat. “Pick up a tree, will you? Our fake one’s collapsed. Bit ironic, isn’t it?” Natalie looked at the real spruce in the corner, decked in old glass baubles. “Yeah,” she replied quietly. “Very.” And she hung up. *** The truth came on the third day, New Year’s Eve. Alex handed her an old yellowed sketch from his father’s album—the original card’s wording. “I found this,” he said, voice oddly dull. “It wasn’t your Sasha. It was Dad. Wrote it to Mum. Never reached her. Funny how history repeats.” The magic had vanished like spilled glitter—no mystical connection, only fate’s irony. Natalie’s escape into the past was nothing but a beautiful delusion. “I should go,” she whispered, eyes averted. “I have… everything. Wedding. Deals.” Alex nodded. He didn’t try to hold her. Just stood in his world of paper and memory—a man who could keep warmth in an envelope but powerless against the cold from beyond. “I get it. I’m not a magician. Just a printer. I make things you can touch, not castles in the air. Sometimes the past doesn’t send us ghosts, just a mirror. To show who we could have been.” He turned back to the press, giving her the space to leave. Natalie took her bag, keys, phone—the only link to the reality waiting for her: business, KPIs, a muted safe marriage to a man who valued only money. She reached for the door but her eyes caught the card on the counter—and a new one, just printed, with the same pine stamp but new words: “May you have the courage.” Then she understood: the miracle wasn’t in a card from the past. The miracle was this moment, this choice. She couldn’t choose his world and he couldn’t enter hers—but she wasn’t going back to Mark, either. Natalie stepped into the cold, star-filled night—without looking back. *** A year passed. Another December came. Natalie never returned to the events industry, ended things with Mark, and started a boutique agency specializing in soulful, intimate events with real, paper invitations—from a little workshop in the village by the sea. Life didn’t slow down, but it made sense. She learned to value silence. Snowflake Printworks now hosts creative weekends. Alex takes online orders—filters them himself, though. His cards are a little better known now, make a solid living, but the process is the same as ever. They don’t write every day—only for business. But the other day, Natalie got a card in the post. This one had a flying bird stamp. It just said: “Thank you for your courage.”

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before the faded envelope arrived and turned her life upside

La vida

Absolutely No Magic New Year’s Eve was barrelling towards Lena, fast and unstoppable like an oncoming train. The rush left her breathless; she felt as though she was stranded on the station platform, ticketless—no chance at happiness, no hope for that elusive festive spirit. Why had she even invited guests? Who’d want to ring in the New Year with a loser? *** December 31st started with a disaster: after ten years of loyal service, Lena’s washing machine retired in spectacular fashion, flooding the bathroom in its wake. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve? That’s a quest all on its own. After hours of stress, Lena managed it and breathed a sigh of relief, hoping the worst was over. But… That afternoon, her ginger cat Basil—a self-proclaimed gourmet—ate all the sausage set aside for the salad, leaving Lena only a sad can of peas and some pickled gherkins. That wasn’t enough trouble for him; Basil decided to hunt a passing blue tit that perched at the open window… The giant ficus was knocked off the sill in the chaos, which toppled the Christmas tree and fried the ageing string lights Lena cherished. Pottery shards and Christmas baubles she’d treasured since childhood were now mixed with soil on the floor. Lena was on the verge of tears as she cleaned up the mess. A broken decanter followed, then burnt roast chicken, and the final straw—just as her guests were almost at the door, Lena realised in horror that she’d forgotten to buy a Christmas pudding. In a panic, she rang her sister. “Kate, disaster! I forgot the dessert!” “Calm down!” came Kate’s cheery voice. “I’m right outside. Let’s get it sorted.” “You’re where?” “I’m telling you: at the front door.” Lena went down and was greeted by a scene fit for a Christmas card: Kate’s car was parked outside, and with her stood Lena’s best friend Martha carrying an enormous bag—and Auntie Gail, armed with a massive bowl of trifle. “A trifle? And it’s huge!” gasped Lena. “Just in case!” Auntie Gail announced, with her usual flair for unsolicited advice. “At least someone is prepared! We’ve got the whole night ahead—please tell me you’ve managed a salad?” Lena shrugged noncommittally… While the girls dashed out for Christmas pudding, Martha hung tinsel—only for Basil the cat to get himself hopelessly tangled like an alien from another planet. Rescue fell to Kate’s husband, Ian, who arrived straight from the office and, thankfully, right on time. Basil, not one for resistance, behaved until he saw Lena. Then, in a burst of excitement, he lunged for her, leaving a bloody scratch on Ian’s hand. Ian, brave soul, was patched up and offered to help in the kitchen—which quickly descended into his poetic musings on how “a salad is a state of mind, not just a list of ingredients.” Lena and Kate found his help more than adequate. “Martha, what’s that box?” called Martha from the next room. “Happy New Year! Wait, there’s a note—‘To be opened at midnight. Love, Nan Val.’” Lena rushed over. “Oh, I almost forgot! Kate! Nan left it for us! She said we’re to open it on New Year’s, about two in the morning—a surprise awaits.” “What do you suppose it is?” Kate eyed the box with curiosity. “Shall we look now?” Lena shook her head. “No way! She’ll find out. There’s probably some clever lock—let’s do as she says. Patience, please.” The box’s mystery intrigued everyone. Even Auntie Gail shuffled closer, eyeing it intently. *** They watched the Queen’s Speech, toasted with bubbly, unknowingly nibbled “cat” salad, laughed and argued—until, finally… “Is it two yet?” asked Lena. “Time for Nan Val’s surprise!” Only one man present was permitted to open the box. Ian fiddled with it and lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of cotton wool, were dozens of tiny scrolls, all bound with colourful ribbons. Each had a name label. “What are these?” Ian asked, confused. Lena unrolled the first scroll with her name and read it aloud: “Dearest Lena, darling granddaughter. Did things go off the rails again today? Washer packed in? Cat ate the salad? Don’t fret! Remember—every problem’s just another reason to order a takeaway and watch your favourite show. You can get dessert in the morning! The most important thing is having people who’ll help you eat that takeaway. Love you to the moon and back—your Nan Val.” A hush fell, then the room exploded with laughter. Lena laughed till tears streamed down her cheeks. “How did she know?!” “That’s magic,” whispered Auntie Gail. “Me next!” Kate reached impatiently for her scroll. She read: “Kate, my love. Stop bickering with Ian over silly things. Give him a hug—he’s a good sort, even with his philosophy. If he starts up again, just kiss him. It’s the best weapon against male logic. Love to you both.” Ian went red as a postbox and kissed Kate to everyone’s applause. Martha opened hers, giggling: “Martha, you beauty! Look for love at the library or the Sainsbury’s round the corner, not the pub. That’s where the good ones are—and they don’t wear those ultra-skinny jeans! Oh, and ditch the purple hair—you look gorgeous with your natural colour!” “How did she know about my hair? I only changed it two days ago!” At last, Auntie Gail’s turn. She unfolded her scroll with great reverence: “Gail, my wise one. You always know best—but here’s a secret you don’t know: kindness and advice are good, but sometimes it’s better to just keep quiet and have a slice of cake. Hugging you, dearest.” Auntie Gail’s face flushed pink, and she, for once, said nothing, taking a helping of dessert in solemn silence. For the first time in years, she offered no advice all evening. Laughter and chatter carried on into the dawn. The girls rang Nan Val on video call—she beamed from her armchair up north: “My darlings! I’m so glad the surprise worked! No magic needed—I just know you that well, and love you more!” The morning after, clearing up the festive remains, Lena gathered all the scrolls into a pretty jar and set it front and centre. They were more than wishes—they were her nan’s recipe for happiness: Don’t fear chaos. Laugh at your misfortunes. Treasure those around you. Eat what you like (just don’t overdo it). And remember, the greatest gift is knowing someone, somewhere, loves and understands you. Always.

No Magic Involved New Years Eve was barrelling towards me like an out-of-control train. The speed of

La vida

Echoes in the Night: Spending New Year’s Alone in an English Rehabilitation Centre, Alexandra Finds Unexpected Connection Amid Loneliness

Echoes in the Night A couple of weeks before Christmas, Alexandra White was admitted into the rehab unit.

La vida

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