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I’ll Make a Proper Man of Him – “My grandson will not be left-handed!” Tamara Margaret huffed with indignation. Denis turned to his mother-in-law, his eyes darkening with irritation. “And what’s wrong with that? Elijah was born left-handed. That’s simply who he is.” “A ‘quirk’!” Tamara Margaret snorted. “It’s not a quirk, it’s a defect. It’s not how things are done. The right hand has always been the right hand for a reason – the left is from the devil.” Denis barely stifled a laugh. The twenty-first century, and still his mother-in-law reasoned like a medieval villager. “Mrs. Margaret, modern medicine has proven—” “I don’t care about your medicine,” she interrupted. “I retrained my own son and he’s perfectly normal. Retrain Elijah, before it’s too late. Trust me – you’ll thank me one day.” She swept out of the kitchen, leaving Denis alone with his cooling coffee and a sour aftertaste from their conversation. At first, Denis dismissed it. His mother-in-law and her outdated views—so what? Every generation clings to its baggage of prejudice. He watched Tamara Margaret gently correct her grandson at the table, shifting Elijah’s spoon from his left hand to the right, thinking, It’s no big deal. Children are resilient. Granny’s oddities can’t do lasting harm. Elijah had been left-handed since birth. Denis remembered, even as a toddler of eighteen months, his son always reached for toys with his left hand. As he grew, he started drawing—awkwardly, clumsily, but always with his left. It just felt right, part of who Elijah was. Like his blue eyes or a birthmark on his cheek. But Tamara Margaret saw it differently. In her worldview, left-handedness was a flaw—a mistake of nature to be quickly fixed. Every time Elijah picked up a pencil in his left hand, his grandmother pursed her lips as if he were committing something indecent. “Right hand, Elijah. Use your right. No lefties in our family and none will start now.” “I retrained Roger and I’ll retrain you too.” Denis overheard her telling Olga the story of her “accomplishment”—how little Roger was “wrong” too, until she took matters into her own hands: tying his left hand down, policing every movement, punishing disobedience. The result? A “normal” man. The pride, the unshakeable confidence in her method made Denis feel uneasy. He didn’t see changes in Elijah immediately—only small things, at first. Elijah began hesitating before picking up something, his hand hovering uncertainly as if he faced a tough puzzle. He started glancing sideways—quick checks to see if Granny was watching. “Dad, which hand am I meant to use?” Elijah asked at dinner, fearfully eyeing his fork. “Whichever’s comfortable, son.” “But Granny says—” “Don’t mind Granny. Do what’s comfortable for you.” But comfort was gone. Elijah grew fumbling, hesitant, freezing mid-action. The self-assuredness of childhood was replaced by a painful awkwardness, as if he no longer trusted his own body. Olga saw it all. Denis noticed her lip bitten every time her mother shifted Elijah’s spoon. The downward glance whenever Mrs. Margaret launched into her lectures about “proper upbringing”. His wife, who’d grown up under her mother’s steamroller will, had learned to survive by not arguing—by simply waiting the storm out. Denis tried to talk about it. “Olga, this isn’t right. Look at him.” “Mum only wants what’s best.” “Is this really best? Can’t you see what’s happening?” Olga just shrugged and deflected. The lifelong habit of yielding ran deeper than motherly instinct. Each day it got worse. Tamara Margaret, emboldened, didn’t just correct Elijah—she narrated his every motion. Praised him when, by accident, he used his right hand. Sighed extravagantly at any slip to the left. “See, Elijah? You can do it! You just have to try. I made your uncle a proper man, and I’ll do just the same for you.” That’s when Denis decided to confront his mother-in-law. He waited until Elijah was off playing, then spoke directly. “Mrs. Margaret, please leave the boy alone. He’s left-handed. It’s perfectly normal. Don’t try to ‘fix’ him.” Her reaction was even stronger than expected. She puffed up as if gravely insulted. “Are you lecturing me? I raised three children, and you dare instruct me?” “I’m not instructing. I’m asking you: leave my son be.” “Your son? He’s Olga’s son too, isn’t he? That makes him my grandson, and I won’t let him grow up… like that.” The disgust she put in those two words stung. Denis knew there’d be no peaceful resolution. The next days became a cold war. Tamara Margaret ignored Denis, addressing him only through Olga. Denis responded in kind. Silence hung over the house, splitting occasionally into pointed little quarrels. “Olga, tell your husband there’s soup on the stove.” “Olga, tell Mum I’ll sort it myself.” Olga dashed between them, pale and exhausted. Elijah retreated to a lonely spot on the sofa with his tablet, trying to disappear. Denis’s idea struck on a Saturday morning as Tamara Margaret prepared her legendary roast. She sliced potatoes with her usual experienced efficiency. He positioned himself behind her. “You’re cutting them wrong.” She didn’t even look up. “Excuse me?” “The slices should be thinner. And cut lengthwise, not across.” She snorted and kept going. “I’m serious,” Denis pressed. “Nobody does it the way you do. You’re doing it wrong.” “Denis, I’ve been making roast like this for thirty years.” “And doing it wrong for thirty years. Let me show you.” He reached for the knife. She pulled her hand away sharply. “Have you lost your mind?” “No, I just want to help you do it the right way. Look—too much water, too much heat, the carrots go in at the wrong time—” “I’ve always done it this way! It’s how I like it!” “That’s no argument. You need to retrain yourself. Let’s start from scratch.” She paused, knife held mid-air, now visibly confused and offended. “What are you on about?” “The same thing you tell Elijah every day,” Denis leaned closer. “Retrain yourself. This way is wrong. It’s not how things are done. Use your other hand.” “That’s not the same thing at all!” “Isn’t it? Looks identical to me.” She set down the knife, face reddening with fury. “You dare compare my cooking to—! I’ve always done it this way because it’s comfortable!” “And Elijah finds it comfortable to use his left hand. But you still insist on changing him.” “That’s different! He’s a child, he can still change!” “And you’re a grown woman with stubborn habits. If no one changes you now, surely you’ll be as you are forever. So what right do you have to change him?” Her lips thinned. Anger flashed in her eyes. “How dare you? I raised three children! I retrained Roger, and he turned out just fine!” “And is he happy? Confident? Sure of himself?” Silence. Denis knew he’d hit a nerve. Roger, Olga’s elder brother, lived in another city and phoned their mother only twice a year. “I just wanted the best,” Tamara Margaret’s voice trembled. “Always.” “I believe you. But ‘the best’, in your eyes, means ‘what I decide is best’. Elijah is his own person. Small, but his own. With his own ways. And I won’t let you crush those out of him.” “Don’t you lecture me!” “I will, if you don’t stop. I’ll comment on every move you make—every habit, every little thing. We’ll see how long you last.” They faced off in the kitchen, mother-in-law and son-in-law—both at the end of their patience. “That’s petty and childish,” she bit out. “It’s exactly what you’re doing.” There was a crack in her composure. Denis saw it—a core of certainty fractured. Suddenly, Tamara Margaret seemed older, smaller, human, vulnerable. “I just… wanted to help.” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “I know. But it’s time to stop helping like this, or you won’t see your grandson anymore.” The roast started to boil over. Nobody moved. That evening, with Tamara Margaret in her room, Olga joined Denis on the sofa, curling up quietly by his side. “No one ever fought for me like that as a child,” her voice wavered. “Mum always just knew best. I… just accepted it.” Denis put his arm around her. “Not anymore. Not in our family. Your mother doesn’t get to force her views on anyone here. Ever again.” Olga nodded, squeezing his hand gratefully. From the children’s room, the soft sound of pencil on paper drifted in. Elijah was drawing. With his left hand. No one told him that was wrong ever again.

Ill make a proper person out of him! My grandson will not be left-handed! declared Margaret Simmons

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Never Let Her Go. A Short Story.

My stepdad never treated us badly. At least, he never made us feel guilty for eating, and didnt yell

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Three Lives, Broken by Pride: A Family’s Hidden Heartache Discovered in an Old Photo Album

Three Shattered Fates Well now, lets have a look. Theres bound to be something fascinating here!

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The Long Road to Compassion: How a Dream Car, a Sudden Emergency, and a Chance Encounter Taught Max the True Meaning of Humanity

The Path to Humanity Thursday, 4th May I was sitting in the drivers seat of my brand new car the very

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German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep The Grand Theatre of London sparkled beneath the city’s evening lights. It was the opening night of the International Festival of Classical Music, where the world’s most prestigious musicians gathered. Among the elegantly dressed audience, murmurs in several languages filled the air with anticipation. On stage, organisers had planned a night devoted exclusively to European classical music—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. Klaus Friedrich Simmerman, a celebrated 60-year-old German pianist, had just concluded his masterful performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. Thunderous applause echoed through the theatre. Klaus, dapper in his impeccable black suit and perfectly combed grey hair slicked back, bowed with the confidence of a man who’d conquered the world’s greatest concert halls—Vienna, Berlin, Carnegie Hall. But in the last row, almost hidden in the shadows, sat Lucy Bennett, a young 25-year-old woman from Devon. She wore a traditional English white dress with colourful embroidery, and in her hands she held something that seemed quite out of place in this temple of classical music. A tiny English mandolin—the heart of British folk tradition. No one could have imagined that tonight, perceptions about real music would be forever changed. Lucy had come to the theatre at the invitation of the local organisers, who wanted to include a brief tribute to England’s folk music at the end of the event. It was more a political gesture than an artistic one—a token 5 minutes after three hours of ‘serious’ music to show that Britain had culture too. Lucy had grown up in a small village on Dartmoor, where folk music wasn’t just entertainment—it was the way people lived, loved, celebrated, and grieved. Her grandfather, Mr Arthur Bennett, was one of the region’s most respected folk musicians. He had taught her to play since she was a toddler sitting on his lap, guiding her fingers over the strings. “You don’t play the mandolin with your fingers, my dear,” he’d always say, “you play it with your heart.” Each strum tells a story—a story of our people, our land, our ancestors who came from Africa, Europe, and the British Isles. Arthur had passed away six months ago, and on his deathbed had handed Lucy his mandolin—the very one she now gripped with trembling hands. “Take it out into the world, sweetheart. Show them our music isn’t lesser. It’s different, but just as worthy.” Lucy watched Klaus Friedrich Simmerman greet the crowd again and again… German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep

The Grand Theatre in Liverpool sparkled under the evening lights. It was the opening night of the International

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“If you can fix this engine, I’ll give you my job,” said the boss with a chuckle.

If you fix that engine, Ill give you my position, the manager chuckled. Mrs. Teresa Harper, unlike the

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Love or Enchantment

“Love or magic,” my old granny Morley used to say, handing down her witchcraft to my niece, Morgan.

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Jen’s Mate

It was the end of September, and I found myself shuffling behind a mahogany coffin at Ashford Cemetery.

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How I Pretended to Be Happy for Nine Years, Raised Another Man’s Son, and Prayed My Secret Wouldn’t Be Discovered—Until the Day My Child Needed His Real Father’s Blood, and I Saw My Husband Cry for the First Time

The evening sun melted like honey over the rolling hills, dressing the small houses of the village in

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A Lesson for a Wife: When Housework, Parenting, and Marriage Reach Boiling Point—How Egor’s Ultimatum Shook Up Anfisa’s World and Forced Her to Rethink What it Means to Be a Modern Wife and Mother in England

A Lesson for a Wife I’ve had enough! Geoffrey flung his spoon across the kitchen, his gaze fixed