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Why Did Fate Deal Her Such a Hand? As each year passed, Lucy grew more certain that she never wanted to live like her mother, Barbara—a woman worn down far beyond her years by her perpetually drunk husband, Simon. At seventeen, Lucy chose not to go off to college after finishing school, too afraid to leave her mother alone. She’d long ago have run away, but she couldn’t abandon her mum; their father’s anger was unpredictable, and someone needed to tend to bruises and fetch water after his rages. One evening, Simon stumbled home drunk once again, slumping at the kitchen table. When Barbara placed his soup in front of him, he hurled the bowl across the room, narrowly missing her, and muttered angrily about going fishing the next morning, ordering Lucy along. She hoped he would forget, but before dawn, he woke her, determined to head out to the river. As they left, Barbara pleaded with Simon, warning of an impending storm, and blocked Lucy’s way, terrified for her daughter’s safety. Simon shoved Barbara, knocking over a milk pail and dragging Lucy out into the swirling wind. As they rowed, the sky blackened, waves rose, and Lucy clung to the boat’s edge in fear. Suddenly, Simon lost his balance and tumbled overboard, unable to fight against the current. Lucy tried to help, but the boat capsized, and something struck her head. When she awoke, Lucy found herself in a damp, unfamiliar room, watched over by a bearded man who insisted she was his wife, Valerie, though she remembered nothing. Confused, weakened by injury and illness, she was forced to accept this stranger’s version of her life—and endure his cruelty and demands. Time dragged on in this isolated wooden house—days of chores and nights of dread—until, one cold November day, an old friend from her childhood village spotted her by the river. Startled, he exclaimed, “Lucy? Is that really you?”—and with his help, she escaped back to her mother, who had believed her lost forever. As Lucy slowly recovered her memories, she confided in her family, terrified of her captor’s return. Thanks to the support of a kindly neighbour, Barbara and Lucy fled to a quiet village, where a simple house offered fresh hope. Though the memories would haunt her, especially with her little son Nicholas as a reminder, Lucy found love and the promise of happiness with Gregory, a neighbour who was already dreaming of proposing to her. Why did fate deal her such a cruel card? And yet, against all odds, Lucy found her way back to warmth, safety, and the hope she never thought she’d have.

Why Was This My Fate With each passing year, Lucy became more certain that she never wanted to live as

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Now You’ll Have Your Own Child, So It’s Time for That Girl to Go Back to the Orphanage

Now that youll finally have a child of your own, its high time she goes back to the orphanage.

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“Mum, Please, We Just Need to Stay Here for a While: A Mother and Daughter’s Journey Through Heartbreak, Hope, and Finding Home in Grandma’s Cottage”

June 13th Mum knelt down in front of me, her eyes full of worry. Ellie, darling, please listen to me

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What If She’s Not Really My Daughter? The DNA Test That Shattered a Family—Nikita’s Ordeal with Doubt, Scandal, and the Consequences of Distrust

What if shes not really my daughter? I need a DNA test. Lately, I cant shake these uneasy thoughts.

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Spring 1992, A Small English Town: Each Morning, a Quiet Man Sat by the Train Station with a Wicker Bag at His Feet—Not Begging, Not Speaking, Just Staring at the Tracks. Once a Train Driver Before British Rail Restructured, He Was Known Only as “The Rail Man.” One Day, a Nervous Teen Arrived, Dreaming of University in Manchester but Lacking Fare Money. The Man Quietly Gave Him His Old Rail Card and Some Notes, Saying, “I’ve Reached My Stop—It’s Your Turn Now.” Years Later, the Young Man Returned, Successful, and Sat Beside His Former Benefactor, Now Disabled After an Accident, to Repay the Kindness with a Wheelchair—Proving That So Long as We Don’t Break the Chain of Kindness, Good Deeds Travel On.

It was the spring of 1992 in a quiet English town, many years ago. Each morning, a man would sit on a

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I’ve Done My Share — You might as well have sent him to a kennel, like a kitten. Why not? Pay someone and off you go—enjoy your freedom! — Galina Petrovna sneered with toxic sarcasm. Maria, lips pursed in irritation, yanked the zipper on her suitcase. Useless—it stuck, just like her mother-in-law’s broken-record speech every time they planned a holiday. — Mum, stop it, — Maria’s husband, Andrew, tried to settle his mother. — Timmy’s going on holiday too—just to the countryside. Not to strangers, but to my in-laws. Fresh air, a veggie patch, paddling pool, and fresh milk every day. It’s perfect at his age. — That’s not a holiday, it’s exile! — Galina Petrovna clapped her hands in outrage. — The child’s three! At that age, he needs his parents! And what about you? Off to London for museums! Like your son doesn’t need museums or any cultural development? Maria wrestled the suitcase zipper into place, straightened up, and glared at her mother-in-law. — Not right now, he doesn’t, — she replied icily. — What he needs is routine, an afternoon nap, and a potty within reach. Not a nine-hour flight with a layover, jet lag, and city tours. When’s the last time you, Galina Petrovna, took your grandson for a simple walk in the park? — I’ve done my share with my son! — her mother-in-law huffed, nose in the air. — Took him everywhere. And I made it through. You just want things easy for yourselves. It’s about thinking of others, not just yourself. — Exactly! — Maria nearly shouted. — Others! Like everyone on that plane listening to your grandson scream for two hours. Or the tour group trying to hear the guide over “I’m tired, I’m thirsty, I need a wee, my feet hurt, when are we going home?” A holiday with a three-year-old isn’t a holiday, Mrs Petrovna. It’s torture. For Timmy too. Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together and turned away. — I see. Done with the parenting game. Just want to palm him off. Why not just admit you don’t need your son anymore… If you wanted, you could always fit around your child. Maria shut her eyes, counting to a hundred in her head to calm herself. If only Galina Petrovna knew the hell they’d been through on their last trip, maybe she’d mind her tongue. But how would she, when she was hardly involved in her grandson’s life? Maria remembered it all too well. Her left eyelid had twitched for a month after that trip. …It was last summer. Naive as they were, they’d decided to visit friends in the country. Only sixty miles away. Their friends had a daughter, a playground, a huge garden. Sounded promising. But nothing went to plan. The car wouldn’t start—despite their friends marinating barbecue and waiting for them. They had to scramble for train tickets. And the weather betrayed them—a heatwave of 35°C. No working air con in their carriage, windows open but useless. Packed tighter than sardines—no space to breathe. Timmy lasted just ten minutes before whining. Complained about the heat, the boredom. Then tried to run about the train. — Let me go! — he shrieked while Andrew, red from exertion and embarrassment, tried to hold him still. — Timmy, love, you can’t. People are sitting there, — Andrew hissed. — I don’t want to sit! Aaaah! Timmy’s screams drowned out the clattering wheels. People started staring—first with pity, then with annoyance, and soon with outright loathing. A woman in a white blouse scolded them, and in righteous fury, Timmy wielded his juice box. It splashed on Andrew, Maria, and her. The scandal was epic. The woman raged louder than Timmy. Maria, near tears, apologized and tried to offer money. Timmy bellowed because he’d lost his juice. Andrew gritted his teeth. Ninety minutes in hell. By the time they reached the platform, they had no energy left for holidaying at all. Timmy, traumatized, skipped his nap, misbehaved all evening, nearly knocked over the grill. Getting home was a repeat performance. And that was just an hour and a half of travel. Galina Petrovna wanted to drag a child around on city tours for a week? No, thanks. That’s torture for everyone. — You’re just not raising him properly! — his grandmother loved to declare whenever Maria brought up arguments. Except Galina Petrovna was a Sunday-grandparent: a theoretical expert, she’d drop by fortnightly with bananas or chocolates (to which Timmy was allergic—she’d been told a hundred times), dote for twenty minutes, snap a picture “for Facebook,” and leave. — Why does it even matter to you who Timmy stays with? — Maria once asked during a similar row. — It’s not like he’s staying with you. — Well, I’m not obliged, am I? He’s got parents, let them look after him. If you were in hospital or had work, I’d help. But this… You just treat him like an unwanted pet no one wants to take. They tolerated the bickering, but it slowly wore away at them. Galina Petrovna was concrete-certain of her rightness and refused to hear reason. But life is the best teacher. Four years zipped by. Timmy turned seven. Talking in full sentences, off to school, after-school clubs—the works. Galina Petrovna’s life had changed for the gloomier: widowed, her flat grew silent. Perhaps to fill the emptiness, or to prove herself to the world (or especially her in-laws), she decided on a display of unexpected generosity. — Bring the boy to me, — she announced magnanimously. — He’s not a baby anymore, we’ll get along. — Are you sure? — Maria asked cautiously. — Timmy’s active, needs lots of attention. Or at least a computer. — Don’t try to teach your grandmother! — his grandmother snorted. — I raised a son, I can handle this. We’ll read books, play ludo, manage fine without computers. Bring him! With fingers crossed, they packed Timmy off—for two whole weeks! And off they went for a weekend break, feeling that time was short. Maria’s intuition didn’t fail her. Grandma imagined idyll—her neat, brushed grandson poring over an animal encyclopedia while she calmly knitted socks, offering occasional pearls of wisdom. Later, soup, then a dignified stroll, hand-in-hand. That dream shattered within half an hour of their departure. — Gran, I’m bored! — Timmy declared. — Have you got a tablet? — No. Why would I? — Then let’s play zombie apocalypse. You be the zombie, I’ll be the survivor! — What apocalypse? — Galina Petrovna was bewildered. — Timmy, why don’t you draw? Here, I bought a colouring book. — Don’t want to, that’s for babies! — Timmy began circling the sofa. — Let’s play! Please, graaaan! Play with me! Look at me! Look! LOOK! You’re not looking! He didn’t still for a second. Pretended to be a plane, banged saucepan lids, dragged Grandma into his wild games. He cared for neither Chekhov’s stories nor the box of old Lego. He wanted an audience, a playmate, an entertainer in one. Every three minutes: “Gran, why…?”, “Gran, let’s…?”, “Gran, look!” Galina Petrovna, used to a peaceful pace, by lunchtime felt as if she’d unloaded a train carriage full of coal. But that was the easy bit. The real fun began at lunch. Galina Petrovna proudly served beef soup—a treat she’d made just for Timmy. He peered into the bowl like it held garbage, wrinkled his nose. — I’m not eating that. — And why not? — It’s got boiled onion. Don’t like it. — What?! — Gran was indignant. — It’s healthy! Eat up, and stop fussing! — I won’t! — Then what will you eat? — Pasta with cheese. And a sausage—cut into an octopus, please. His gran’s eyebrows shot up. That she couldn’t do. — I’m not a flipping restaurant! — she replied. Timmy shrugged and went off to build a den with chairs, cushions, and the standard lamp. By evening, Gran’s blood pressure was like a rollercoaster. She couldn’t rest—Timmy would leap on her, bouncing and shrieking, “Get up, the enemy’s advancing!” She couldn’t watch the news—he demanded cartoons because “It’s boring!” And cartoons just wound him up more, not less. Meanwhile, Andrew and Maria had a lovely evening—watching the sunset from their cottage veranda, listening to the peaceful crackle of the barbecue. — Listen to that… silence, — Maria sighed contentedly, eyes closed. — Maybe we were too harsh on your mum? Just then, Andrew’s phone rang. — Hello, Mum? — Come home at once! — Galina Petrovna screamed. — Fetch your son this instant! — Mum, what’s happening? Is everything alright? — It’s a nightmare! Your son’s impossible! He’s destroyed half my flat, won’t eat proper food, bounces on me like a kangaroo! My heart’s about to give out! If you’re not here in an hour, I’m calling 999—they can take both of us away! I can’t take it! I’m waiting! She hung up. Maria put her glass down, her wine unfinished, barbecue ungrilled. — Pack up, — Andrew said morosely. — Our break’s over… They drove in silence, bitter and close to tears: she had insisted on this, now she was throwing a tantrum. At the door, Galina Petrovna opened up instantly. She was pale and smelled strongly of heart medicine. She looked fresh out of a warzone. Timmy, however, ran to his parents bright-eyed and beaming. — Thank heavens, — his gran sighed, pushing her grandson out. — Take him. And never ask me again! What have you raised? He’s not a child, he’s a monster! Onions aren’t right, everything’s boring, he has to bounce on poor grandma! — He’s just a child, Mum, — Andrew replied coolly, taking Timmy’s hand. — A normal, energetic kid. We warned you. You said you could handle it. — I thought he was normal! But he… He needs a doctor! — Galina Petrovna clutched her heart. — Go. I need to lie down or I’ll drop dead. …Back in the car, Timmy, settling in, asked: — Mum, when are we visiting Granddad John and Granny Liz again? — Soon, love. We’ll go soon. — That’s good… — he murmured, falling asleep. — Because Granny Gally… she’s weird. Shouts all the time, can’t play, and her food’s nasty. From that night, Galina Petrovna never raised the subject of childcare again nor asked why she wasn’t included in holidays. Now when they went away, she simply wished them a happy trip. Timmy spent every holiday with Maria’s parents—digging worms with Granddad, playing soldier, eating Granny Liz’s soup. No onions—because she knew her grandson’s tastes. Relations with the mother-in-law didn’t exactly improve, but that suited Maria fine. At least no one lectured her on parenting anymore. And Galina Petrovna was left alone with her unassailable rightness—and all those untouched encyclopedias nobody ever needed…

Ive had enough of it, honestly. You might as well just put him in kennels, like a stray kitten!

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Everything Should Be Split Down the Middle: When Your Husband Turns Marriage into a Calculated Account and What Happens When You Take Him at His Word

Everything Should Be Split Evenly Emily, we need to talk about spending. Your spending, to be precise.

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A New Family Matters More Than the Old One

Mum, I want you to meet Sophie, my fiancée, declared Arthur as he swept into the hallway, his arm tenderly

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You’re Not Welcome: How a Daughter Rejected Her Mother Because of Her Appearance I’m sorry, Mum, could you not come over right now, please? — my daughter said quietly, almost as an afterthought, while tying her trainers in the hallway. — Thank you for everything, really, but for the time being… it’s probably best if you stay at home and rest. I already had my bag in hand and was putting on my coat, ready—as usual—to go watch my granddaughter while my daughter went to her yoga class. It had always been so routine: I’d arrive, look after the baby, and then head back to my little studio flat. But today something felt different. After her words, I stood there rooted to the spot. Had I done something wrong? Put the baby down incorrectly? Picked out the wrong baby grow? Fed her at the wrong time? Or simply looked the wrong way? But no—it was much more trivial and much more hurtful. It was about her in-laws. Wealthy, influential, in high-flying careers—they had suddenly decided to swing by for daily “visits” with the baby. With solemn faces, they unwrapped presents and took their seats around the dining table—the same one they’d bought themselves. The flat, too, had been their gift to the young couple. The furniture, the tea—everything was from them. They’d brought an expensive tin of rare tea and more or less moved in. And apparently, the grandchild was now “theirs” too. I… I was simply surplus to requirements. Me, the railway worker with 30 years of service, an ordinary woman—no titles, no jewellery, no high-end styles or fashionable dresses. — Just look at you, Mum, — my daughter said. — You’ve put on weight. Your hair’s gone grey. You look… messy. That jumper’s tasteless. And you smell like trains. Don’t you see? I was silent. What could I possibly have said? After she left, I went to look in the mirror. And yes, the woman looking back at me had tired eyes, little wrinkles around her mouth, a saggy jumper, and cheeks blushing in shame. I felt disgust at myself—like a storm out of nowhere on a clear day. I walked outside for some air and felt a tightness in my throat as tears pricked my eyes. Hot, bitter tears ran down my cheeks. Then I returned to my little flat—my studio in the suburbs. I sat on the sofa and scrolled through my old phone, flicking through the pictures. There was my daughter—a child, her first day at school with a bow, her graduation, her wedding, and the baby—smiling out from her crib. My whole life in those photos. Everything I lived for. Everything I’d poured myself into with every last ounce I had. And now if I was being told “don’t come round”—well, maybe that’s how it should be. My time had passed. I’d played my part. Now I just had to stay out of the way. Not be a burden. Not clutter up their life with my unsightly appearance. If I was needed, I’d be called for. Maybe they’d call. Some time went by. Then one day, a phone call. — Mum… — my daughter’s voice sounded strained. — Could you come over? The nanny’s left, the in-laws… well, showed their true colours. And Andrew’s gone out with his mates—I’m totally alone. I paused. And then I answered calmly: — I’m sorry, love. But right now, I can’t. I need to look after myself. Become “presentable”, as you put it. If I manage that—maybe I’ll come round then. I hung up and smiled for the first time in ages. Sad, but proud.

Sorry, Mum, could you not come over right now, please? my daughter said quietly, almost offhand, as she

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She Couldn’t Wait “I’m filing for divorce,” Vera announced calmly as she handed her husband his cup of tea. “In fact, the papers are already in.” She said it as casually as if she were serving up a typical dinner—something like, “we’re having chicken with vegetables tonight.” “If I may ask… Well, not in front of the kids,” Arthur lowered his voice, glancing from one worried child’s face to the other. “Did I do something wrong? And let’s not forget, the children need a father.” “Oh, you think I couldn’t find another one?” Vera rolled her eyes extravagantly, a wry smile spreading across her lips. “What did you do wrong? Everything! I hoped life with you would be like a tranquil lake, not a raging river.” “So, boys, all done eating?” Arthur wasn’t about to carry on this conversation in front of their sons. “Off you go, run along and play. And no eavesdropping!” he called after them, well aware of his lively sons’ habits. “Now, let’s continue.” Vera pursed her lips in frustration. He always manages to play the boss! Pretends he’s Father of the Year… “I’m tired of living like this. I don’t want to spend eight hours at work every day, smile at colleagues, impress clients… I want to sleep until noon, shop at fancy places, get pampered at beauty salons. And you can’t give me that. Enough! I gave you the best ten years of my life…” “Can we skip the drama?” Arthur cut in dryly. “Didn’t you spend all those ten years chasing me for a husband when I wasn’t all that keen to marry?” “Mistakes happen. I’m only human.” The divorce went quickly and quietly. Arthur, albeit reluctantly, agreed to let the boys live with their mother—on the condition that he’d have them every weekend and on holidays. Vera accepted easily. Six months later, Arthur introduced the boys to his new wife. Smiling, sunny Lila won over their hearts, and they couldn’t wait for the weekends—much to their mother’s irritation. What bothered Vera even more was that Arthur had inherited a country estate from a distant uncle, bought a big house outside the city, and was living comfortably. True, he hadn’t quit his job, only paid meagre child support, preferring instead to buy the boys clothes and gadgets himself—and kept a tight rein on those support payments too! Why couldn’t she have held on just six more months? If only Vera had known… She would have played her cards so differently! But maybe it’s not too late for a comeback? ***** “Fancy a cuppa? For old times’ sake?” Vera flashed a playful smile, twirling a loose lock of hair around her finger. Her short dress showed off her figure to perfection and expert makeup knocked years off her face. She’d gone all out—and it showed! “I’m busy,” Arthur replied coldly, barely glancing at his ex. “Are the boys ready?” “They’ve misplaced something, so it’ll be ten minutes or so—I know them well,” Vera replied with a slightly forced optimism, but didn’t give up. “How about we celebrate New Year’s together? Nick and Harry have been dressing the tree all afternoon.” “We already agreed in court—the holidays are mine. And this year, we’ll celebrate in a charming little village—lots of snow, mountains for skiing and snowboarding. Lila’s sorted everything.” “But it’s a family holiday…” “And that’s just what we’ll have—a proper family gathering. If you make a fuss, I’ll fight for sole custody.” As soon as the door closed behind her ex-husband and the elated children, Vera angrily smashed the expensive wedding china. Lila… Always Lila! Why does she have to get involved in everything? Pretends to be delighted to see the boys, but probably counts down the days till they go back. Vera knew better than anyone how unruly her boys could be! But—what an idea. A satisfied smile crept onto Vera’s face. Maybe it’s not all lost. Soon, Arthur’s money could be hers and hers alone… ***** “And what’s all this?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at the sight of suitcases crowding his doorstep. “What do you mean? Nick and Harry’s things,” Vera nudged the heaving suitcase until it wobbled. “I’ve decided—since you’ve sorted out your life, it’s time I did the same. Trouble is, not every man wants another man’s kids, so the boys will live with you now. I’ve informed social services; just need to formalise the paperwork. That’s your job now—I’m off on holiday with a rather promising gentleman.” Leaving a stunned Arthur in her wake, Vera strutted to the waiting car. She wondered how “saintly” Lila would cope. A week? Two? Surely no more than that. And Arthur’s bound to pick his sons over his new wife—and return to her, money in tow. Two weeks passed. Then a month. Then two. No desperate calls from Arthur. According to the boys, Lila hadn’t even raised her voice once! How could that be? Had her two terrors suddenly turned into angels? Impossible! “How are the boys? Not tired of them yet?” Vera finally caved and phoned her ex. “They’re wonderful—well-behaved, helpful, a real credit,” Arthur’s voice softened at the mention of his sons. “Absolute stars!” “Really?” Vera said, taken aback. “They were a nightmare for me…” “That’s because children need attention,” Arthur snorted. “But you were always glued to your phone. Oh, and by the way—we’re moving. If you want, I’ll bring the boys round on the holidays.” “But… they’re my children too!” “You gave up your rights willingly,” Arthur laughed outright. “And you call yourself a mother.” All Vera could do was gnash her teeth. She hadn’t won her husband back—or his wealth. The new boyfriend didn’t last, and now the kids would be far away. Not that she’d miss them much—she’d grown too enamoured of living for herself. So unfair. Ten years of patience, and she’d thrown it all away just six months short of the life she’d dreamed of… Unfair…

Didnt Have the Patience “Im filing for divorce,” Emma said calmly, handing Tom his mug of tea.