Harlan Covington

A man was enjoying his day off and sleeping soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang. Who could be visiting so early? Upon opening the door, he found an elderly woman he didn’t recognise—she was frightened. “Who are you here to see?” he asked. “Son, don’t you recognise your mother?” “Mum? Come in… you!” he stammered. He remembered the day his mother was taken from him. He had waited for years in the orphanage, hoping she would come and bring him home. Eventually the pain faded. He graduated from school, attended university, and started his own business. When asked about his parents, he always said they had died. Independent and successful, no one would have guessed he was raised in care. The woman could not recall when she lost custody of her child. In her youth she drank heavily, and her mind would shut off during her binges. She spent time in prison, where she thought of her son—not with love, but because she felt sorry for him. When her second son was born, maternal instincts awoke. She would do anything for this child—putting him first, forgetting the elder son entirely. Her younger son grew up just like her—moving through care homes, and at 15 receiving his first suspended sentence, then another, and eventually prison. Now, desperate to save him from jail, she searches for her successful older son. She sits in his home, crying and clinging to him, telling him tales of searching, praying for his health, and hoping every day to see him again. He believes her, but something inside him warns him to keep his distance. Despite his reservations, he rents her a flat, gives her money, and promises support—while watching closely to judge her true intentions. Before Christmas, he visits the children’s home where he grew up, regularly donating toys and food. An elderly carer approaches him. “Your mother was asking for your address.” “Thank you for helping her,” he replies. “But be careful. She wants you only for money, to help her younger son. She never loved you—don’t trust her!” “Do I have a brother?” “Yes. Ask her yourself.” His throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe. He cannot believe his mother may betray him again. Pushing through his emotions, he seeks out the truth. The woman faces his questioning, reluctant to admit the existence of the younger brother for fear he would refuse to help. Days later, the man is attacked—beaten severely. When police catch the assailants, they confess—his mother had hired them, hoping to kill her elder son and inherit his wealth to give her younger son an easy life. In court, she feigns remorse and begs for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. “I lived without a mother before, and I’ll keep living without one now!” he whispers through tears.

The man was enjoying a rare day off and snoring away quite contentedly, only to be jolted awake by the doorbell.

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My Husband Works, But I Pay for Everything – How I Became the Breadwinner in My Marriage and Why Love Made Me Blind to Inequality

My husband has a job, but I pay for everything. You ask how I ended up here, how I allowed my life to

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When He Got Home From Work, The Cat Was Gone: How Quiet Patrick Chose His Unlikely Cat Over a Demanding Girlfriend and Found True Loyalty

When he came home from work, the cat was gone. James is a reserved young man without any bad habits.

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She Stole My Father — Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it? Finally! Oxana pinched her phone to her ear with her shoulder, wrestling with a stubborn lock. The key turned reluctantly, as if testing its new mistress. — Darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is it all right? — her mother’s voice trembled with excitement and concern. — Perfect! Bright, spacious. Balcony facing east, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? — Here I am, here! — Victor’s deep voice came from the speaker. — Mum put it on speaker. Well, has the fledgling left the nest? — Dad, I’m twenty-five, not a fledgling. — You’ll always be a fledgling to me. Have you checked the locks? Windows draft-free? The radiators… — Vicky, let the child settle! — interrupted her mother. — Oxana, be careful there. Newly-built, you never know about neighbours. Oxana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. — Mum, this isn’t a seventies council flat. Decent building, decent people. It’ll be fine. The following weeks became a blur — between DIY shops, furniture showrooms, and her new flat. Oxana fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up thinking about the right shade of grout for her bathroom tiles. On Saturday, she stood in her lounge, staring at swatches for curtains, when her phone buzzed again. — How’s it all coming along? — her father asked. — Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” What do you think? — I think they’re the same colour, but the marketers are different. — Dad, you don’t understand the subtlety of shades! — I do understand electrics. Sockets done properly? The renovations ate up time, money, and nerves, but every new touch turned bare walls into a real home. Oxana picked out creamy beige wallpaper, found a good floor-layer, invented a way to make her tiny kitchen look more spacious. When the last contractor took away the rubbish, Oxana sank to the spotless floor amidst gleaming surfaces. Soft light streamed through new curtains, fresh paint hung in the air. Her very first home… She met her neighbour three days after moving in completely. Oxana fiddled with her keys at the door when the lock opposite clicked. — Oh, the new girl! — A woman in her thirties poked her head out. Cropped hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. — I’m Alison. I live right opposite — guess that makes us neighbours. — Oxana. Lovely to meet you. — If you ever need sugar, salt, or a chat, just pop in. Weird being alone at first in a new build, I remember. Alison proved to be good company. They drank tea in Oxana’s kitchen, swapped stories about the building management and layout details. Alison shared her wisdom: the best Wi-Fi, trusty plumber, and the shop with the freshest groceries. — Tell you what, I have a recipe for apple sponge — out of this world! — Alison flicked through her phone. — I’ll send it over. Done in half an hour, tastes like you’ve slaved all day. — Yes please! Haven’t tried my oven yet. Weeks rolled on, and Oxana was glad for such an open neighbour. They bumped into each other on the stairs, popped in for coffee, exchanged books. On Saturday, Victor came to help with a shelf. No matter how she tried, it wouldn’t stay up. — Wrong wall plugs, — he diagnosed, inspecting the fittings. — These are for plasterboard. Yours’s concrete. All right, I’ve proper ones in the van. Within an hour, the shelf hung firm. Victor gathered his tools, scrutinised his handiwork, satisfied. — There you go. That’ll last twenty years. — You’re the best, Dad! — Oxana hugged him. They headed down, chatting about nothing in particular. Victor asked about work, Oxana griped about her new boss who mixed up deadlines and lost papers. At the entrance, Alison approached with supermarket bags. — Oh, hi! — Oxana waved. — Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison, my neighbour I told you about. — Lovely to meet you, — Victor greeted with his trademark friendly smile. Alison froze briefly, eyes flitting between them. Her smile looked forced, glued on. — Likewise, — she muttered, hurrying inside. Everything changed after that. Next morning, Oxana met Alison on the landing and greeted her — only to receive a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited her for tea. Alison fobbed her off with a hasty excuse. Then, the complaints began… The first time, a community officer knocked at nine in the evening. — Received a noise complaint, — the elderly policeman looked sheepish. — Loud music, banging noises. — Music? — Oxana was baffled. — I was reading a book. — Well, neighbours are complaining… The letters snowballed — management got notes about “unbearable stomping,” “constant racket,” and “late-night music.” The police visit became routine, every time the officer apologetic and helpless. Oxana realised where it was coming from. What she didn’t know was — why. Every morning was a lottery — today it might be eggshell smeared on the door, coffee grounds between the frame and panel, a bag of potato peelings placed beneath her mat. Oxana got up half an hour earlier to clean the mess before work. Her hands stung from cleaning supplies, throat tight with stress. — I can’t go on like this, — she muttered one night, searching online for video door viewers. Installation took twenty minutes. The tiny camera disguised as a peephole recorded everything on the landing. Oxana connected it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At 3 a.m., the screen lit with motion alert. Oxana, incredulous, watched Alison — in a dressing gown and slippers — methodically smearing something dark over her door. Deliberate, precise, like a familiar chore. The next night, Oxana waited up. At half two, there were noises outside. She flung open the door. Alison froze, holding a bag that sloshed with something unpleasant. — What did I do to you? — Oxana’s voice caught, pitiful even to herself. — Why are you doing this? Alison slowly set the bag down. Her features twisted, bitterness distorting her attractive face. — You? Nothing. But your precious father… — What about my dad? — The fact that he’s my father too! — Alison almost shouted, uncaring who heard. — Only, he raised you, spoiled you, loved you, while he left me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called once! Mum and I scraped by while he built his happy family with your mother! So you, you basically stole my father! Oxana backed up, hitting the doorframe. — You’re lying… — Lying? Ask him! Ask if he remembers Marina Solloway and little Alison, the daughter he tossed out like rubbish! Oxana slammed the door and slid to the floor, one thought thundering: it’s not true, it’s not true. Dad couldn’t. Couldn’t. Next morning she drove to her parents. All the way, she rehearsed questions, but seeing her dad, calm as ever with his newspaper, she choked. — Oksy! What a surprise! — Victor looked up. — Mum’s at the shop, she’ll be back soon. — Dad, I need to ask… — Oxana perched on the sofa, twisting her handbag strap. — Do you know a woman named Marina Solloway? Victor froze. The paper slipped from his hands. — Where did you… — Her daughter — my neighbour. The one I introduced you to. She says you’re her dad. Silence hung like a shroud. — Let’s go to her — Victor said abruptly. — Right now. I need to make this right. The drive to the new build took forty minutes. There was no talking; Oxana stared out at passing houses, mind trying to make sense of everything. Alison opened straight away, as if she’d been waiting. She looked them both up and down, then stood aside for them to come in. — Come to confess? — she threw at Victor. — Thirty years later? — I’ve come to explain. — Victor pulled a folded paper out of his jacket. — Read this. Alison took the document suspiciously. As she read, her expression shifted — anger to confusion, confusion to bewilderment. — What… is this? — DNA test results, — Victor replied calmly. — I did them when your mum tried to take me to court for child support. The test says: I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my child. The paper fluttered to the floor… Oxana and her dad left Alison’s flat. At home, Oxana stepped towards Victor and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his coat. — I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry for even doubting you. Victor stroked her hair, just like he did when she was a little girl who’d had a fight with friends. — There’s nothing to forgive, love. Other people made this mess. Relations with Alison never recovered. But Oxana didn’t want them to. After everything, she had lost all respect for that neighbour forever…

Took My Father Mum, Ive finally moved in! Can you believe it? At last! Sophie cradled her mobile between

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She Gave Birth Silently and Prepared to Give Up Her Baby: A Midwife’s Tale of a Student Mother, an Absent Businessman Father, and the Fight for a Happy Ending in an English Hospital

She gave birth quietly and was about to give her baby away I’ve been a midwife for more years than I’

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Five Homes in the Family, Yet We Still Have to Rent – How Our Parents’ Attitude Is Forcing Us to Struggle Despite Their Property Wealth

Five flats in the family, and yet were forced to rent Im so used to it now that nothing surprises me anymore.

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A Promise Denis steered the car calmly and confidently along the highway, his friend Kirill riding shotgun as they headed back home after a two-day business trip to a nearby city. Their boss had sent them to clinch a major deal. “Kir, we really nailed it! Signed a huge contract, the boss will be thrilled,” Denis grinned. “Absolutely, mate, we’re lucky,” Kirill agreed. They were close friends and colleagues from the same London office. “It’s great to head home when someone’s waiting for you,” Denis said thoughtfully. “My Arisha is pregnant and struggling with morning sickness. I feel for her—but we wished for this baby so much, she’s determined to endure it all for our little one.” “Having a child is wonderful. Marinka and I haven’t had much luck, she can’t carry a pregnancy. We’re preparing for our second round of IVF, the first failed,” Kirill confided. He and Marina had been married for seven years, desperately hoping for a child. Denis had married late, at thirty-two. He’d had relationships, but none swept him off his feet—until he met Arina. From then on, no one else existed for him. When Denis introduced Kirill to Arina and later invited him to be his best man at their wedding, Kirill couldn’t help but envy his friend’s luck. Arina was beautiful and gentle—anyone would fall hard for a woman like her. Outside, a fine October rain spattered the windscreen, the wipers flicked occasionally as the friends chatted. Suddenly, Denis’s phone rang—it was Arina. “Hello, Arisha, yes, we’re on our way, should be home in about two hours. How are you? Still the same? Don’t lift anything heavy, I’ll do everything once I’m home. Kisses, see you soon, love.” Kirill listened and pictured Arina waiting anxiously. He thought, “Marina isn’t like that, she never worries about me. She always thinks I’m just devoted—work, home, everything tidy. So different from Arisha.” Suddenly, Denis swerved—their car headed straight toward a delivery van, collision was imminent. At the last second, Denis veered into a lamp post on his side, sending them off the road. Kirill came to, head throbbing, blood on his arm. The car was upright, door open on his side. Denis wasn’t moving. Bystanders rushed over, cars stopped on the shoulder. Kirill found himself lying on wet grass, waiting for an ambulance. Denis was pulled from the wreck and put on a stretcher. Kirill bent over him—Denis whispered weakly: “Look after Arisha…” They were rushed to hospital. Kirill had a fractured arm and concussion, but was conscious, continually asking about Denis. Hours later, a nurse delivered the news: “Denis passed away…” Kirill was devastated, unable to attend the funeral. Marina told him how Arina sobbed, unable to accept her husband was gone, barely able to stand by his coffin. After hospital, Kirill and Marina visited Denis’s grave. Standing silently, Kirill made a promise: “Don’t worry, my friend—I’ll look after your wife, just as you asked…” A few days later, he visited Arina. She broke down in tears. “How can I live without him? I just can’t accept Denis is gone.” “Arisha, I promised Denis I’d help you. We’ll get through this together. Call me whenever you need, and I’ll come by.” Time passed. Arina slowly steadied herself, terrified that her grief would affect her pregnancy. Doctors warned her. Kirill visited twice a week, brought groceries, vitamins, sometimes drove her to the clinic. Arina never took advantage—she reached out only when she really needed help. “Kirill, I hate to take up your time…” “It’s fine, I promised Denis.” Kirill had conflicted feelings. Arina was the type of woman he’d always dreamed of, but felt thrown by the situation. While Arina endured her struggles, Kirill and Marina continued their journey through IVF—more tests, charts, disappointment. Childlessness was their ever-present pain. Marina didn’t know her husband was helping Arina. He kept Arina in his phone under “Charity”—knowing Marina might check who was calling. A second failed IVF attempt put their marriage under strain. Marina blamed Kirill, while he simply felt lost. She noticed his unusual behaviour—distracted, irritable, leaving often. Infidelity seemed unlikely; their bond, physically at least, hadn’t faded. Work was the only area thriving for Kirill. He took charge of the project he’d started with Denis, securing a successful contract. As Arina’s pregnancy advanced, she grew more vulnerable. Her parents lived far away, up in Newcastle. In London, she had no family. She suffered headaches, swollen ankles—but rarely complained. Once, Kirill arrived to find Arina climbing a step ladder to hang new curtains. “I’ve just cleaned the windows—hanging up fresh curtains,” she said cheerfully. “Get down, Arina,” he said sternly, eyeing her bump. “If you fall, the baby’s at risk!” He helped her down, finding himself trembling with concern. “Thanks, Kir,” but she dashed off to the bathroom, sick again. Kirill wiped sweat from his brow, thinking, “Does Denis see from wherever he is now? Well, this is what he asked for.” Next, Arina asked: “Denis, could you help me set up the nursery? I found some lovely wallpaper for it.” Kirill took charge of the nursery renovations, refusing to let the pregnant Arina exert herself. They worked together—or rather, she encouraged him while he did the heavy lifting. Renovation finished, Kirill felt torn: his wife depressed over infertility, while Arina was nearing her due date. Marina realised she needed to save their marriage, threw herself into her writing. Soon, a prominent magazine asked her to write a column. Delighted, she landed a generous fee, bringing home luxury groceries and wine to celebrate. “Wow, what’s the occasion?” Kirill asked, returning from work. “I got paid well—they finally gave me a contract!” Their favourite film played on TV as they sipped wine and enjoyed the spread. Suddenly, Kirill’s phone rang—Marina peered over his shoulder and saw “Charity” on the screen. He hurried to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” Kirill asked quietly. “Kir, sorry, I think I’m about to have the baby… I called an ambulance,” Arina said. “But it’s too early?” “Seven months—it’s possible,” she grimaced with pain. “I’ll come to the hospital.” He quickly dressed while Marina looked on anxiously. “Are you leaving?” “Yes,” he muttered, inventing a story as he dashed out. “Who was that?” “The boss called late, needs to discuss charity work—I’ll explain later. Please, trust me.” But Marina wasn’t fooled. “Charity work at this hour? Boss calling? He’s lying to me.” Kirill raced to the hospital. Arina was already admitted. After two tense hours, a nurse informed him: Arina had given birth to a son. Relieved, Kirill returned home exhausted. Marina was wide awake, her eyes sharp. “So, your ‘Charity’ wore you out tonight?” she asked sarcastically. Kirill sank onto the sofa, replying honestly: “Yes, Marina. Arina just gave birth to a son. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s all alone.” “I see. The puzzle pieces fit,” said Marina quietly. “Next step, you’ll help Arina with her baby, right?” “Yes,” Kirill replied sincerely. “Well, you know me—I won’t tolerate this. Not spending your time on someone else’s child—especially since we can’t have one and likely never will. So I’ll file for divorce. Maybe I’ll still meet a man and have my own.” Kirill looked at her in surprise, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “That’s your choice, Marina. I won’t make excuses. I have to help Arina and her son.” Time passed. Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Arina, caring for little Daniel. Eventually, they married—and two years later, welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing you all the best in life!

A Promise David steered the car smoothly along the motorway, his friend Chris sitting beside him.

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Antonina Petrovna Walked Through the Rain, Tears Mixing with Drops, Glad the Downpour Hid Her Sorrow—She Blamed Herself, Felt Like an Unwelcome Guest, Laughed Remembering a Joke, Then Cried Again at Home Under a Blanket Where Only Her Goldfish Could Hear—Once Loved by Many, Her Marriage to Nikita’s Father Ended in Jealousy and Violence, Until Her Own Father Threw Him Out—She Raised Her Son Alone, Paid for His Wedding and New Flat, Saved Money for Their Car, but After Being Snubbed by Her Daughter-in-Law During a Storm, She Dreamed of Her Goldfish Telling Her to Live for Herself, Took the Money She’d Saved and Bought a Trip to the Seaside, Came Back Tanned and Happy, Found Love with Her Charming Restaurant Boss, and Told Her Surprised Daughter-in-Law: “Sorry, Nastya, tea isn’t for everyone!”

Antonia Palmer walks slowly through the drizzle, tears streaming down her cheeks and merging with the rain.

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From Mother to Maid: When Evelyn Announced Her Wedding Plans, Her Son and Daughter-in-Law Were Shocked and Worried—But No One Expected She’d End Up Serving a New Family, Until She Finally Returned Home for Good

Became a Housemaid When I decided to remarry, it came as quite a shock to my son and daughter-in-law.

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A Fortunate Mistake… Growing Up in a Single-Parent Home Without My Father, Raised by Mum and Grandma Feeling the Absence of a Dad Even in Nursery, Especially in Primary School, Jealous of Friends with Proud, Strong Fathers Longing for Warmth When I Saw Dads Kiss Their Sons and Daughters While I Only Saw My Father’s Smile in a Photograph Mum Told Me He Was an Explorer Living in the Far North, Sending Birthday Gifts but Never Visiting In Year Three, I Overheard Mum Admitting There Was No Explorer Father, Only a Man Who Abandoned Us I Decided I Didn’t Want Any More Holiday Presents Pretending to Be from My Father—Just My Favourite Bird’s Milk Cake We Lived Honestly on Mum and Grandma’s Modest Salaries, So I Worked Loading Freight and, Later, Became Father Christmas for Extra Christmas Cash As a Student, Father Christmas Jobs at Homes Led to Unexpected Encounters, Including One at Sadovaya Street, Flat 19 There a Little Boy Named Artyom—My Namesake—Showed Me a Home So Familiar, Decorated Not With a Tree but With My Own Photograph Beside His Mum Lena’s Recalling My Summer Romance with Lena on a Student Build Site, Stunned to Discover She’d Raised Our Son in My Absence The Door Opens—Lena Returns, Shocked to See Me Behind the Father Christmas Beard Face to Face with Past Mistakes, Tears, Laughter, and Revelations We Reunite as a Family Thanks to My Accidental Visit to the Wrong Address A Joyful, Fatefully Happy Error—Now We’re Together: Mum, Son, and Father, With Grandma and Great-Grandma Celebrating Little Artyom Artyomovich!

A FORTUNATE MISTAKE… I grew up in a single-parent householdwithout a father. My mother and grandmother