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My Son Called to Say, ‘Mum, We Just Relocated to a New County. My Wife Feels She Needs Space.’ I Paused for Five Seconds and Responded, ‘That’s Alright, Son. Wishing You the Best.’

My son calls me. Mum, weve just moved to another county. My wife says she needs her own room.

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While Asking for Food at an Opulent English Wedding, a Young Boy Named Elliot Stands Frozen Elliot was ten years old. He had no parents. He could only remember that, when he was around two, Mr Bernard—a kindly homeless man living under a London bridge near Regent’s Canal—had found him floating in a plastic tub after a heavy rainstorm. The boy could not yet speak. He could barely walk. He cried until he lost his voice. Around his tiny wrist, he wore just one thing: —a tattered, braided red bracelet; —and a damp scrap of paper, faintly inscribed: “Please, let a kind-hearted person care for this child. His name is Elliot.” Mr Bernard had nothing: no home, no money, no family. Only tired feet and a heart that still knew how to love. Against all odds, he took the child and raised him however he could: stale bread, free soup, returned bottles. He often said to Elliot, “If you ever find your mother, forgive her. No one leaves a child without deep pain.” Elliot grew up among market stalls, Tube station entrances, and frosty nights under the bridge. He never knew his mother’s face. Mr Bernard told him only that, when found, the paper had a trace of lipstick—and a long, black hair tangled in the bracelet. He believed Elliot’s mother was very young…perhaps too young to raise a child. One day, Mr Bernard fell ill with pneumonia and was admitted to a public hospital. With no money, Elliot had to beg more than ever. That afternoon, he overheard talk of a lavish wedding at a manor near Windsor—a spectacle for that year. Hungry and parched, he decided to try his luck. He lingered shyly near the entrance. Tables were loaded: roast meats, fine pastries, chilled drinks. A kitchen porter spotted him, pitied him, and handed him a hot plate. “Stay here and eat quickly, lad. Don’t let anyone notice you.” Elliot thanked him and ate in silence, observing the room. Classical music. Tailcoats and sparkling dresses. He wondered, Does my mother live somewhere like this…or is she poor, like me? Suddenly, the master of ceremonies declared, “Ladies and gentlemen…here comes the bride!” Music changed. All eyes turned to the flower-draped stairs. She appeared. A flawless white dress. A serene smile. Long, rippling black hair. Magnificent. Radiant. But Elliot was transfixed—not by her beauty, but by the red bracelet on her wrist. Exactly the same. Same wool, same colour, same weathered knot. Elliot rubbed his eyes, stood up, and stepped forward, trembling. “Madam…” he whispered, voice breaking, “that bracelet… Is… are you my mother?” Silence swept over the room. Music played, but no one breathed. The bride stopped, glanced at her wrist, then looked into the child’s eyes. She knew that gaze. Her knees buckled. She knelt before him. “What’s your name?” she asked, trembling. “Elliot…my name is Elliot,” he answered, weeping. The master of ceremonies dropped his microphone. Murmurs rippled: “Is that her son?” “Could it be?” “Oh my God…” The groom, a composed gentleman, approached. “What’s happening?” he asked quietly. The bride broke down. “I was eighteen…I was pregnant…alone…with no support. I couldn’t keep him. I left him, but never forgot. I kept this bracelet all these years, hoping I’d find him again one day…” She clutched the child tightly. “Forgive me, my son…please forgive me…” Elliot hugged her in return. “Mr Bernard told me not to hate you. I’m not angry, Mum…I just wanted to see you again.” Her white dress stained with tears and dust. No one cared. The groom stayed silent. No one knew what he’d do. Cancel the wedding? Take in the boy? Pretend nothing happened? He approached… And instead of helping the bride to her feet, he crouched by Elliot’s side. “Would you like to stay and eat with us?” he asked gently. Elliot shook his head. “I just want my mum.” The man smiled. And wrapped them both in his arms. “Well then…if you’d like…from today, you’ll have a mother…and a father.” The bride looked at him, desperate. “Aren’t you angry with me? I hid my past from you…” “I didn’t marry your past,” he murmured. “I married the woman I love. And I love you even more knowing all you’ve endured.” This wedding stopped being grand. It ceased to be a society affair. It became sacred. Guests applauded, tears in their eyes. It was no longer just a union—but a reunion. Elliot took his mother’s hand, and then the man’s. There were no rich or poor anymore, no barriers or differences. Just a whisper in the child’s heart: “Mr Bernard…see? I’ve found her—my mum…”

While asking for food at a lavish wedding, a boy freezes in place. His name was Oliver. He was ten years old.

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Borrowed Happiness Anna was tending to her garden plot—a rare, early spring in England this year, with March not yet out but all the snow already melted. She knew the cold would return, but for now the sun was warm enough to coax her outside, propping up the sagging fence and patching the wood shed. She made plans—she’d get some chickens, maybe a piglet, a dog and a cat. Enough, she laughed to herself. She’d done her wandering, her playing. It was time to dig over the garden, to feel the earth like when she was a girl—shoes off, running barefoot across freshly turned, warm, soft soil. “We’ll go on living yet,” Anna said aloud, to no one in particular. “Excuse me?” Anna started. By the gate, a slight girl stood—mid-teens at most. She wore a plain grey coat, the sort Anna knew was given out at the local vocational colleges, flimsy shoes, tights too thin for the weather. “Far too early for those,” Anna thought, “She’ll catch her death. Those shoes barely have soles—rubbish.” The girl picked at the ground with her toes. “Hello,” Anna called, curtly. “Sorry, could I use your loo?” “Ah—go on, then. Straight ahead and round the corner.” Anna watched her scurry off. “Thank you! You’ve saved me. I’m looking for a room to rent—you don’t happen to have one, do you?” Anna blinked. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why do you need one?” “I wanted somewhere quiet, not a hostel. It’s wild there—boys everywhere, drinking and smoking.” “And what could you pay?” “Five quid a week. That’s all I’ve got.” “Come in, then. Go on.” “Can I use the toilet again, just quickly?” “Go ahead…” “What’s your name?” Anna asked, ushering her in. “Ollie,” squeaked the girl. “Well then, Ollie. What brings you here, really?” Anna said, fixing her in place with her gaze. “I… I just want a room…” “Don’t fib to me. Who sent you?” “No one. I came myself. You—are you Anna Samuels?” “That’s me, yes…” “You don’t recognise me, do you, Mum? It’s me, Ollie. Your daughter.” Anna sat ramrod-straight, her weathered face unmoving. “Ollie… my girl… Ollie…” “Yes, Mum! It’s me. Back at the care home, they never let me have your address—said it wasn’t allowed. But my teacher, Miss Stevens, helped. We found your name, and then your address—and here I am.” Anna sat in silence, tears streaking her cheeks. “Ollie, my girl… my little one…” “Mum, oh Mum,” Ollie sobbed, flinging her arms around Anna’s neck, “I searched for you so long, Mum. I wrote letters—they laughed, said you’d just abandoned me, gave me away. But I believed in you, Mum. I always believed.” Anna embraced her, rough hands holding tight to Ollie’s chunky-knit jumper—her girl, her daughter, her Ollie. For a long time, they just sat, neither wanting to break the spell. Later, Anna, recalling her Nan’s wisdom and her own hard years, bustled around—boiling water, steeping fennel, fussing over her foundling beauty. Ollie. Daughter. Life’s new purpose. She had a reason to live, a reason after all. God had pitied her. She wasn’t lost… The garden, a piglet, a new coat. There was money put aside. She’d thought she was ready for the end, but here was her daughter—her Ollie. *** “Mum?” “Mmm?” “Mum… I’m in love.” “Well now!” “He’s called Jack—he’s wonderful. He wants to meet you…” “I… I don’t know…” Anna thought—so soon, the happy days are over. What’s given is taken, too. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, my love. You’ve grown up so fast… I didn’t get enough time. Forgive me, Ollie.” “Mum! You mustn’t… You’re my mum, you know how much I love you, how long I searched… We’ll give you grandkids, Mum. You’re my mum, always.” Jack was sturdy, kind, dependable—a country lad. Anna approved. Times were hard—some went hungry while others’ dogs ate better than people. But Anna, Ollie, and Jack managed. Anna sewed well; when the factory closed, she joined a co-op, got on fine, dressed her girl and son-in-law as though they were royal. Jack was indefatigable—raised a fence, fixed the house, mended the shed. The little cottage thrummed with life, singing even more than when Ollie returned. Anna’s heart melted, thawed. At last, she wanted to live for real, to make up for lost and shameful years. Some nights, the old pain still caught her unawares… “Mum, are you alright? Does it hurt?” “No, sweetheart. Go to sleep, my darling.” “Mum, can I stay here with you?” “Of course,” Anna moved, making space so her daughter could nestle in beside her. Her little girl. Her heart near burst with love. So this was maternal love. Thank you, God, she thought. They had a wedding. The young couple stayed on. Anna blossomed, cheeks apple-pink, so even her workmates said she was all smiles now—Anna Samuels, of all people. “A grandchild, I reckon!” she whispered at lunch, anxious. “A lucky girl, that Ollie—Mum adores her.” A grandson was born—Anthony, named for Anna’s own mum. “A strict woman, but fair,” Anna would say, laughing, “What a little darling—I can hardly stand it!” She’d never held a newborn since Ollie, not in all those years. Holding Anthony, her heart drummed in her head—this was it: happiness. Life revolved around Anthony. The best and brightest. He wouldn’t budge from his granny. Jack built on, made the house big, gave Anna her own place in it—how could they do without her? He and his brothers started up a building firm. They even opened a hardware shop. Then—a new joy—a girl, Mary. Anna made her dresses, kitted her out pretty as a princess. Children’s laughter rang through the house. Things were good. Except the burning in Anna’s chest grew more frequent. “Mum, my darling, why didn’t you say anything? Where does it hurt?” “All’s fine, sweetheart, all’s well…” *** “…I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” “Doctor… That was my mother…” “I know. I’m very sorry.” *** “Ollie, love… It’s time. Forgive me. I lasted longer than you all expected. But you saved me, all those years ago. “Mum, please…” “Listen, darling… It’s heavy to say, but—I’m not really your mother. Sorry…” “Mum! Never say that, to anyone. You’re my mum. My only mum. Do you hear me?” “Yes, sweetheart. I hear you. There’s a diary, on my shelf. Forgive me, Ollie. I love you.” “I love you, too, Mum… Mum…” *** “Have something to eat, Ollie…” “Yes, Jack… In a minute… Go on without me.” Ollie sat in her mum’s room, reading her—her mother’s—notebook. There was her life, Anna’s: tough, ugly and, sometimes, happy. Her mum had been strict—Tony, a war widow, strict but fair. Anna, Annie, Annie-flower. She’d loved a wrong-un—life wild and reckless. Ended up with nothing in the end. No child, nothing but the old cottage. Doctors said to wait—it could go either way. She found faith, went to church, hoped. Then, a miracle. She’d thought: at least let me try, let me feel what it is to be a mum. She became Ollie’s mum, moved heaven and earth to make it true. Didn’t believe she deserved it, not until the end. Forgive me, dear God, for my theft—let me live to see my grandchildren, help my girl… She’d worried at first—that Ollie would discover the truth: a bureaucratic mix-up, not her birth mother. But fear faded. She just lived—a plain, English life. Believed at last: I’m worthy. Forgive me, my darling, for stealing you from your real mother. This is my stolen happiness… *** “Mum,” Ollie wept at the beautiful grave, “my dearest Mum. I hope you can hear me. I knew, I nearly always knew. They told me—my real Mum, Anne, Ivanova, I found her out of curiosity. She wanted nothing to do with me after all. You’re my real mum, and I thank God for that each day.” *** “Granny, was Granny Anna kind?” “The kindest, darling.” “And beautiful?” “The most beautiful. That’s why you’re called Anna too.” “Really? Was that your dad’s or your mum’s idea?” “Maybe both, darling. Your dad loved his Granny.” “Can she see me?” “Of course—she’s always watching, always helping.” “I love you, Great-Granny Anna,” says the little girl, laying a dandelion wreath on Anna’s grave. “And I love you, my dear,” whispers the birch tree, and the wind carries it far.

Stolen Happiness March, and despite it still being early in the year, the last remnants of frost had

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WE ALL JUDGED HER Mila Stood Crying in the Church for Fifteen Minutes and I Was Shocked—The Glamorous Woman from My Street with Three Dogs, Who Everyone in Our Community Gossiped About, Wasn’t at All Who We Thought She Was

WE ALL JUDGED HER Millie stood in the church, softly weeping. She must have been there for fifteen minutes or more.

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My Daughter-in-Law Forgot Her Phone at Our House – When It Rang, I Saw My Late Husband’s Photo on the Screen

My daughterinlaw left her mobile in my house. It buzzed, and a picture of my late husband appeared on

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My Story Is Unlike Any Other: My Mother-in-Law Knew Her Son Was Cheating on Me With the Neighbour, Hid It From Me, and the Truth Only Came Out When She Fell Pregnant—The Day My Husband’s Family Could No Longer Cover Up the Betrayal. After Six Years of Marriage, I Lost Not Just a Husband but the Family I Thought I Had, When I Discovered Their Collective Deception at the Sunday Lunch Table Where I Had Always Believed I Truly Belonged.

My storys a little out of the ordinary. You see, my mother-in-law was well aware her darling son was

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My Husband Invited His Ex to Celebrate New Year’s Eve with Us — His Biggest Mistake Yet

My husband brought his ex over to celebrate New Years Eve with us. That was his mistake. It all began

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My Brother-in-Law Asked to Borrow My Flat While They Renovate — I Said No!

14March Todays lunch turned into a fullblown family showdown, and Im still trying to sort out the mess.

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Olga Spent the Entire Day Preparing for Her First New Year’s Eve Away from Her Parents—Cleaning, Cooking, and Setting the Table to Celebrate with Her Beloved. For Three Months, She’d Lived with Tony, Fifteen Years Her Senior, Twice Divorced, Fond of the Bottle, Penniless and Mean—But When You’re in Love, None of That Seems to Matter. Everyone Wondered What She Saw in Him: He Was No Prince Charming, Grumpy, Tight-Fisted, and Used His Money Only on Himself. Yet Olga Believed Her Kindness, Hard Work, and Patience Would Convince Him to Marry Her—After All, He’d Said, “You Have to Live Together First to See What Kind of Woman You Are. My Ex Was Awful, You Know.” Wanting to Prove Herself, Olga Spent Her Own Money on Groceries, Didn’t Complain When He Drank, Did All the Cooking and Cleaning, and Even Bought Him a Brand New Phone for Christmas. But When New Year’s Eve Arrived, Tony Came Home Drunk, Brought Over a Group of Rowdy Friends She’d Never Met, and Didn’t Even Introduce Her—Joking to His Friends That She Was Just His “Flatmate with Benefits.” They Mocked Olga, Ate Her Food, and Praised Tony for Finding Himself a “Free Housekeeper.” As Midnight Struck, Tony Laughed Along with Them. Heartbroken, Olga Packed Her Things and Went Home to Her Parents, Where She Finally Saw Tony for Who He Was. A Week Later, When Tony’s Money Ran Out, He Showed Up at Her Door Complaining the Fridge Was Empty and Accusing Her of Being Just Like His Ex. For the First Time, Olga Finally Shut the Door on Him—for Good. That’s How Olga’s New Year Marked the Start of a New Life.

31st December I spent the whole day preparing for New Years Evecleaning, cooking, setting the table just right.

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Stolen Happiness Anna was pottering in her garden—spring had come early this year. It was only the end of March, but the snow had already melted. She knew the cold would return, but for now the sun was warm enough that she stepped outside to fix the sagging fence and patch up the woodshed. She thought about getting some chickens and maybe a piglet, a dog, and a cat. “That’s enough, you’ve wandered far enough,” she chuckled to herself, “enough is enough.” She longed to dig over her vegetable patch, to tend the earth and breathe in the smell of home, just as she did as a child—shoes off, running barefoot across the newly-turned, soft-as-down soil. “We’ve still got some living to do,” Anna said aloud, to nobody in particular. “Hello?” Startled, Anna looked up. At the gate stood a girl—barely more than a child, in a thin, grey raincoat that Anna recognised from the local college; flimsy shoes, sheer nylon tights—not fit for this nippy weather. “She’ll catch her death in those,” Anna noted. The girl shifted from foot to foot. “Hello,” Anna said, curtly. “I’m sorry, may I use your loo?” the girl asked. “Oh, well, go on then. Straight ahead and round the back,” Anna replied, watching as the girl dashed off. “Thank you, you’ve saved me. I’m looking for a room to rent – do you have one?” “I wasn’t planning to let a room. What for?” Anna asked. “I just want a room of my own. I don’t want to live in the hostel—there’s too much drinking and boys coming and going.” “And what do you have to pay?” “Five pounds… that’s all I have.” “Well, come inside, then. Go on.” “Actually, can I nip to the loo again?” “Go on.” “What’s your name?” Anna asked as she led the girl inside. “Olya,” she piped, barely a squeak. “Well, Olya, why are you here really?” Anna demanded, eyeing her intently. “I… I want to rent the room—” “Don’t lie, Olya. Why are you really here?” “Er, loo, please…?” “Honestly? Girl, what’s wrong with you?” “I don’t know…” The girl was in tears. “I just can’t wait…” “Go, then…” Anna followed the girl out. “Are you just bursting for a wee? Or…?” “No, just that—hurts when I go…” “We’ll sort it out. Now talk—why are you here?” The girl was silent, gathering resolve. “Well? Out with it. I’ve nothing worth stealing here. Who sent you?” “No one. I came myself. Are you Anna Samoilova?” “Yes, that’s me…” “You… you don’t recognize me… Mummy? It’s me, Olya… your daughter.” Anna’s back was ramrod straight; not a single muscle in her weather-beaten face so much as twitched. “Olya,” she breathed, “daughter… Olyushka…” “Yes, Mum, it’s me. They wouldn’t give me your address at the orphanage, can you imagine? Said it wasn’t allowed. But my teacher in college, Anastasia Sergeyevna, she helped me. We sent off a request, found your name and address—and here I am.” Anna didn’t move, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Olya… my little Olya, my daughter…” “Mother! I’ve looked for you for so long. I wrote letters, and they laughed, said you abandoned me like an old shoe. But I believed in you, Mum, I always believed…” Anna tentatively embraced the sobbing girl; her coarse, callused hands clinging to Olya’s chunky-knit cardigan—her daughter, little Olya. They sat hugging, nothing more to be said; everything was clear. Afterwards, remembering her granny’s wisdom and her own bitter experience, Anna fetched hot water, made dill tea, fussed over Olyushka, her darling daughter—the very reason to live. There was a reason to go on—God had shown mercy. She had her garden to tend, a piglet to care for, a coat to mend, some cash tucked away just in case. She’d nearly given up, ready to die—and then her Olya turned up. *** “Mum…” “Oh?” “Mum…” “Come on, out with it, you little flatterer.” Olya grabbed a homemade pasty from the table, cheeks rosier by the day; her mother had dressed her up like the little doll she’d missed raising, and seemed herself to grow younger. “Mummy—” “What?” “Mum, I’ve fallen in love.” “Well, I’ll be—” “Yeah. He’s so lovely, Mum. His name’s Ivan. He wants to meet you…” “I… I don’t know…” But Anna thought: So, the happy days are ending—God gave, and now He’s taking away. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, love, nothing. You just grew up so fast… I barely had time to enjoy it… Forgive me, Olyushka…” “Mum, oh what silly things you say—how could I not forgive you? You know how much I love you. I searched so long… We’ll give you grandkids, me and Ivan—just you wait.” The meeting went well; Ivan, a village lad—hardworking, steady—won Anna’s approval. Times were hard for many—some could barely feed themselves while others pampered dogs—but Anna, Olya, and Ivan got by. Anna sewed for a cooperative after her factory closed, earning enough to dress them immaculately in “designer” clothes head to toe. Ivan never sat idle—he built a new fence, fixed the house with his brothers, rebuilt the barn, and the home seemed happier than ever—especially after Olya, her clever, beautiful girl, was found. Anna’s heart melted; she wanted to live all the more, to make up for the shadowy years of her past—her secrets surfacing only in sleepless nights, when memories crashed over her like waves. “Mum, you alright?” “Yes, love, go to sleep, sweetheart.” “Mum, can I stay with you?” “Of course,” Anna shifted, hugging the wall so Olya could join her. “My little one, my girl—my heart could burst with love. This is it, real mother’s love—thank you, Lord, for letting me know it.” They got married, and the young couple stayed with Anna—who thrived. Even at work they noticed the severe Anna Pavlovna smiling, her cheeks rosy. “Will it be a grandson or granddaughter?” she whispered during break at work, “I’m so excited.” Anna Pavlovna’s daughter is so happy, her heart is so full, the women would sigh. A grandson! Antoshka—a family name, after Anna’s own mother, Olya’s grandmother: stern but fair. Anna was giddy. “I’ve not held a baby since Olya…” Well, apart from Olya, all those years ago. Holding little Antoshka, Anna’s heart hammered—pure happiness. Now, her thoughts revolved around her grandson; he was the best, the most beautiful, and he stuck to his granny like glue. Ivan got ambitious—he built a huge house, and of course there was always room for Anna. They couldn’t imagine life without Mum. Ivan and his brothers started a construction business, opened a builders’ merchant—life ticked over sweet and steady. Then, more good news: a grand-daughter on the way. Anna fashioned countless dresses for little Marina, her pretty darling. The sounds of children’s laughter filled her home. All was well for Anna, except lately she felt a frequent burning in her chest, sharp and hot. “Mum, my dear, why didn’t you say something hurts? Where? Where is it?” “It’s alright, love, really…” *** “It’s too late, there’s nothing we can do…” “Doctor, please, how can that be? She’s my mum—” “I’m sorry, truly.” *** “Daughter, Olya—it’s my time, forgive me. I’ve lived too long already. They counted me out, but you saved me, that day you came, my own girl…” “Mum, don’t say things like that—” “Love, let me finish—it’s hard…I’m not your real mother, Olya. Forgive me—” “Mum! Never say that to anyone. You’re my mum—mine, and that’s all I care about. Do you hear me?” “Yes, yes, Olya… I hear you, my heart. There’s a notebook, my diary… Forgive me, Olya. I love you, child.” “And I love you, Mum. Mum… Muuuum…” *** “Ol, have something to eat…” “Yes, Vanya… I will… you go.” Olya sat in her mother’s room, reading the notebook, as Anna had called it—her life, Anna’s. Relentless, awkward, rotten, but sometimes cheerful. Her mother—strict Antonina Karpovna—her father killed in the war. Annushka, Anyuta, Annette—so many names. She’d fallen for a thief—what a wild life, there’d been fun, danger, the thrill of it. She left home for the thief… It spiraled on and on, years lost. Old age came upon her suddenly, a grasshopper skipping through life. The thief disappeared in the camps; she was alone in the world. There might have been a child, but she’d caught cold when helping her thief-hero plan a jailbreak, youthful and foolish, she lost everything—even her womanhood. No child, no kitten—her mother’s house was all she had left. There, she thawed a little, endured. The doctors told her to wait it out, “either-or.” She went to church, seeking forgiveness—it was hard. And then a miracle—God sent unexpected joy, and Anna couldn’t let go of the chance. She thought: I’ll get to be a mum for a while, at least see what it’s like. Olya—her darling—became the light of her life. She wrote in third person, “Anna never expected to live so long—such happiness; I work, I live, I have a daughter, my soul, my little heart. Even the illness withdrew for a while.” Forgive me, God, for the request—let me live to play with my grandchildren, to help my daughter. At first, Anna worried Olya would find out the truth: that she wasn’t really her mum, just shared a surname, maybe a muddle at the orphanage. In time, she stopped fretting, began to live a normal, human life; finally believed she was worthy. Forgive me, precious girl, for stealing you from your real mother—my happiness was borrowed, stolen. “Mum,” Olya sobbed, “my dear mum—I do hope you hear me. I knew, I worked it out straight away. When I lived with you, they told me the records were wrong, Anna was Ivanovna, I found her—just to see. She turned me away, remarried, didn’t want me, Mum. “She’s still alive, has her own family, but she didn’t care about me. She was afraid I’d be found, wouldn’t see me, just gave me money. “I ran away, Mum. Remember when I was so sick? Delirious, remember? And you, my darling—you cared for me. I thank God He brought us together. I searched so long for you. You—YOU are my mum. “Maybe it was a mistake after all, maybe it wasn’t. Up there, they know who belongs with whom. How do I live without you again, Mum?” “Olya, Olyushka…” “Let her cry, Vanya. She’s burying her mother.” *** “Grandma, was Grandma Anna kind?” “Very kind, darling.” “And pretty?” “The prettiest, Annushka.” “Who named her that?” “Oh, I don’t know—her father, maybe, or her mum.” “Your granddad or your grandma named her that.” “Yes, granddad or grandma.” “And you named me after her—after your mum?” “I did; and your daddy loved his granny very much.” “Can she see me?” “Of course; she’s watching, always helping you.” “I love you, Grandma Anna,” the little girl lays a crown of dandelions on her great-grandmother’s grave. “And I love you, pet,” the birch whispers; “and we love you,” the wind echoes.

Borrowed Happiness Ann was pottering around her back garden. Spring had come early that year;