Harlan Covington

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A Spring Miracle That Wasn’t: Tanya Leaves the Maternity Ward Alone, Only to Find Family Where She Least Expected

So, picture this: Emma walked out of the hospital with her newborn son, hoping for some kind of miracle.

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My Husband’s Cousin Came to Visit: Am I Old-Fashioned for Expecting Guests to Bring a Gift?

My husbands cousin came to visit. Perhaps Im a bit old-fashioned, and maybe things have changed nowadays

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He Left Me Alone at Our Beautifully Set Table to Dash Off and Celebrate with His Mates in the Garage

He just left me sitting there at the set table and ran off to help the lads at the garage. Are you really

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Two Blokes Living Off Her

Right, thats it! Make your choiceeither me, or your brother and his parade of women! Youve absolutely

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Everything Happens for the Best Margaret Bennett was a strong-willed, successful mother determined to mould her daughter, Emily, in her own image. Margaret believed unwaveringly in her own path, insisting Emily follow her advice in all things, no exceptions. “Emily,” Margaret would declare sternly, “if you want to achieve as much as I have, you must stick to the path I set for you. Not a single step off it—is that clear?” “Yes, Mum,” Emily always replied. Emily loved her mother and wanted to please her, so she obeyed. Margaret, meanwhile, dreamed of her daughter becoming a picture of perfection. But the older Emily grew, the harder that became. Children will be children—Emily spilled things, tore things, fell, and broke things. But she was always top of the class, knowing a single ‘C’ would be a disaster at home. “Emily, that’s disgraceful—a ‘C’! Don’t you respect your father and me? Fix it, and don’t bring shame to the family,” Margaret would admonish. “Okay, Mum… it was just one ‘C’…” “It doesn’t matter. You must always be the best.” Worried but dutiful, Emily always made up for mistakes, and finished school with straight A’s—there was simply no other option. Margaret beamed when her daughter easily got into university. “Well done, darling—I’m proud of you. Keep it up.” Margaret ran her own construction business—tough in a man’s world, but she was sharper than many businessmen. No doubt her daughter would join the family business after university. Emily longed to be free of her mother’s control, maybe even attend university in another city—but that wasn’t going to happen. “You’ll study here where I can keep an eye on you,” Margaret insisted. “There’s a perfectly good university in Brighton.” Of course, Emily didn’t argue. But on her third year at university, she met Tom—a charming, blue-eyed classmate in a different group. He wasn’t as academic, and loathed coursework, so one day he asked her for help. “Emily, could you help me with my coursework? I’m swamped…” “Of course,” she agreed eagerly. She ended up writing Tom’s coursework, and he repaid her in affection, letting her love him. Their romance blossomed: dates, cinema, cafes. Margaret soon sensed something was up. “Are you in love, Emily?” “How did you know?” “It’s written all over your face. Bring him round—I want to know what kind of boy he is.” Emily brought Tom home; her parents welcomed him, and Margaret held back her criticism. But after he left, Margaret couldn’t help herself. “That boy is using you. He’s not very bright—what do you see in him?” “That’s not true, Mum,” Emily protested for the first time. “Tom is ambitious and well-read—just because he’s not like you doesn’t mean he’s not special.” “He’s not right for you,” Margaret insisted. “Sorry, Mum, but no matter what you say, I’m going to keep seeing him. I love him.” Margaret looked at her daughter, disgruntled. “You’ll see—one day you’ll realise he’s nothing special.” Emily stood her ground, and after graduation, married Tom. She was glad her mother was wrong about him. Life, as it happens, showed that even “average” students can excel. Tom quickly found a great job, while Emily remained working under her mother’s wing. Tom had his own flat—his parents’ gift—so Emily was delighted to have her own space. But Margaret made sure Emily continued working for her. One day Tom came home and shared, “Emily, I’ve been promoted to department head! Probationary for now, but I’ll prove myself.” He soon got the job permanently. Tom hated, though, that Emily with her shiny degree still worked for her mum. “You’ll never get anywhere working for your mother, Emily. It’s time to break free. Otherwise, you’ll always be under her thumb. She’s a tyrant, and you’re just letting it happen.” It hurt to hear, but Emily knew he was right. Eventually, Tom stopped reprimanding her, but became withdrawn. Emily didn’t mind—he was still there. Another year passed, then one day Tom quietly said, “I’ve met someone else. I love her. I’m leaving you. She’s everything you’re not…” For the first time, Emily snapped. She shouted, sobbed, smashed a plate, and even hurled Tom’s phone at the wall. Then she calmed down. Tom, watching silently, muttered, “So you do have a backbone—I wish I’d seen it sooner.” Then he left. “I hate you,” she whispered, gathered her things, rented a flat, and left. She told Margaret nothing, dreading her mother’s response. For over a month, she kept up the charade, but Margaret soon noticed something was wrong. “What’s the matter? You look lost. Is it Tom?” “No more Tom, Mum.” “I knew it—he’s left you. When did it happen?” “April.” “And you never said a word?” Emily sighed and endured her mother’s tirade about Tom and her own shortcomings. “At least you’re not his servant anymore. Lucky you don’t have a child. Next time, listen to my advice, alright?” “Mum, everything happens for the best,” Emily replied, and added, “And I’m done working for you. I’ve had enough,” before walking out, leaving Margaret stunned. Emily decided to put serious distance between herself and her mother, knowing she’d never escape Margaret’s “mentoring” otherwise. Walking aimlessly, she caught a tram, and on alighting, tripped into a pothole. “Just what I need,” she thought wryly as she sat down in pain. A passing young man hurried over, “Are you alright?” He helped her up; her ankle hurt. “Need a lift to the hospital?” he offered. “I’m Jack, by the way. And you?” “Emily.” At the hospital, they learned it was only a sprain—no fracture. Jack stayed the whole time, drove her home, and asked for her number, “In case you need anything.” She gave it. The next day, Jack called. “Need anything from the shops? How’s the ankle?” “Juice, some fruit… oh, and some bread, please.” Soon, the doorbell rang—Jack arrived with two big bags. “Why so much?” “Well, we’ve got to celebrate our meeting! If you don’t mind, I’ll sort the food, and shall we ditch the formalities…?” Emily burst out laughing, completely at ease. Jack prepared a nice meal, heated up some food, poured the juice (he didn’t drink alcohol), and they had a wonderful evening. Four months later, Emily married Jack. A year after that, baby Chloe was born. When people asked Emily where she found such a great husband, she laughed and said, “He picked me up off the street! Don’t believe me? Ask him!” Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you the very best in life.

Everything Happens for the Best Margaret was the mother of Emily and had always moulded her daughter

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We Meet the Wrong Ones, Marry the Wrong Ones: The Life Journey of Vera From a Matriarchal Home to City Hopes, Lost Love, and Finally Finding the Right Man

We Meet the Wrong Ones, Marry the Wrong Ones Lifes path is rarely a straight, gentle road, and you cant

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You do realise Dads got sciatica, dont you? He cant manage on the sofa; hell seize up for days.

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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

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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