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Ready to Forgive and Take Back – Not a Chance

26October2025 Ive been turning the same thoughts over in my head all day, and writing them down feels

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A Sweet Taste of Revenge: When a Loving Wife Outsmarts Her Cheating Husband in the Game of Love

A Message from a Wife Love, could you pick me up from work? Emily had called her husband, hoping she

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I Thought My Marriage Was Thriving Until My Friend Posed a Devastating Question

I thought my marriage was finally on steady ground, until my best mate dropped the question that ripped

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The Road to Humanity Max sat behind the wheel of his brand-new car—the very one he had dreamed about for the past two years. After saving every penny and denying himself small pleasures, he finally relished this long-awaited moment. The dashboard glowed softly in the dusk, casting a warm, inviting light, and the steering wheel seemed to beckon for his touch, ready to respond to his every move. He ran his hand along the cool, smooth leather, unable to hide a smile. This wasn’t just a car—this was the embodiment of his hard work and determination. He turned on the radio, and the cabin instantly filled with a light, rhythmic tune. He found himself singing along, his fingers drumming the dashboard to the beat. In that moment, Max felt truly happy. He was headed home, where his friends were already waiting to celebrate his long-awaited purchase. He imagined telling them how he’d scrimped and saved, how he’d worked weekends after his regular job, how he’d skipped out on café visits and new clothes. But right now, none of that seemed to matter. Now, he just wanted to savour the drive and the freedom it represented—his dream finally realised. The road wound through a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Rows of houses glowed with warm lights, promising comfort and peace. Lamp posts cast soft patterns along the pavement, painting shifting shadows across the tarmac. A few late walkers hurried home, bundled in coats and scarves against the evening chill. Max slowed as he approached an intersection, carefully watching the road. Suddenly—a child darted out onto the street, seemingly from nowhere. Max didn’t have time to think. His instincts kicked in as he slammed the brakes. The car fishtailed, tyres screeching across the tarmac, leaving dark skid marks. Seconds stretched into eternity, but at last the car shuddered to a halt—just inches from the boy. Max’s heart hammered so wildly he thought it might burst from his chest. Cold sweat stung his eyes, and a ringing in his ears drowned out the rest of the world. He took a deep breath, struggling to still his trembling hands, and only then realised just how narrowly disaster had been averted. One moment more, and it could have ended in tragedy. He had almost hit a child… For several moments, Max sat motionless, trying to calm his racing pulse. His hands shook as he clenched them into fists to collect himself. Over and over, he thought: “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But a wave of hot, searing anger rose within him, demanding an outlet. He threw open the door and jumped out, his knees weak. He strode towards the boy, who stood nearby, hunched over and head bowed. Max seized him by the shoulders, not realising his grip was too tight. “What on earth are you doing?!” he hissed, keeping his voice low, but unable to hide his panic. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know there are easier ways!” The boy didn’t try to break free. He only bowed his head lower and mumbled, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t mean to… I just…” “Just what?!” Max tightened his grip but instantly eased when the boy flinched. “Maybe you don’t care about yourself, but what about your mother? How do you think she’d feel burying her son? I almost couldn’t stop in time!” Max’s voice was laced not just with anger, but with fear—the same fear that had gripped him for those endless seconds. He understood now how close he had come to disaster. The realisation turned his anger to something else entirely. The boy let out a sob, tears glistening in his eyes. He looked up at Max, and in that gaze was such confusion and despair that Max’s anger began to ebb. “Please help…,” the boy whispered, his voice shaking. “My brother fell ill and nobody stopped. I had to run into the road.” Max froze. The fury that had raged within a moment before vanished, leaving only confusion and a strange emptiness. He looked at the boy—thin, tear-streaked, lips trembling—and suddenly saw not a troublemaker, but a frightened child, desperate to save his brother. “Your brother’s ill?” Max repeated, trying to keep his voice steady despite the rising anxiety. He searched the child’s face for any sign of deception but saw only genuine fear. “Where is he?” “There,” the boy pointed towards a small park across the road, his hand shaking. “We were just playing and suddenly he collapsed. He says it hurts a lot!” Max didn’t pause to worry about leaving his new car unattended. He quickly slammed the door, clicked the fob, and hurried after the boy. His thoughts spiraled: “What if it’s serious? What if the child needs urgent help?” The urgency pressed him on. They crossed the street, Max picking up the pace to keep up with the boy, who glanced back anxiously to make sure the adult was following. “Where are your parents?” Max asked, trying to sound calm, though his voice still wavered. “It’s not exactly safe to be out here alone.” “Mum and Dad are at work—they always are, they have to earn money,” answered the boy, Serge, as he hurried on. “Our gran is supposed to watch us, but she’s poorly. Anyway, we’re not babies; we can play by ourselves.” Max nodded, something tightening in his chest. He knew what it was to struggle and save, but the idea of kids alone unsettled him. “You take care of each other?” he prompted, then added gently, “And what’s your name?” “I’m Serge,” the boy replied, glancing back with a trace of pride despite the tears. “Gran keeps an eye on us, but we mostly manage on our own.” They reached the park, Serge confidently leading Max down a narrow path deeper in. The growing anxiety nagged at Max with every step. Ahead, beneath a spreading tree, a small figure lay curled on the grass. Serge rushed over, voice trembling as he called, “Dima, are you okay?” He touched his brother’s shoulder with a gentleness that made Max’s heart ache. Max knelt at the bench, not caring as dew dampened his trousers. All his attention was on the child—about six, pale and clutching his belly. “Where does it hurt?” Max asked, making his voice as soft as possible. “My tummy… it really hurts…” whispered Dima, barely audible. Max’s heart clenched. He wasn’t a doctor and didn’t know what was wrong—but it was clearly serious. Dima needed more than a comforting word. An ambulance would take ages to arrive… “All right, let’s get you to hospital,” Max said, steady and calm. He gently scooped Dima into his arms—Dima whimpered, but didn’t resist. “Serge, can you call your parents?” Max asked as they walked. “I left the phone at home,” Serge admitted, looking down anxiously. “But my aunt works at the hospital—she can call Mum!” “Thank goodness for that,” said Max, trying not to sound too relieved. He got Dima into the car, gently strapped him in, and Serge climbed in beside his brother, squeezing Dima’s hand. The younger boy relaxed a little at his brother’s touch. Max started the engine, turned up the heating, and set off for the hospital, stealing anxious glances in the rearview mirror. Dima’s face was still drawn, but Serge murmured reassurance and kept stroking his hand. To relieve the anxiety, Max put on the radio—a calm instrumental, just quiet enough to calm rather than distract. “How are you holding up, Dima?” Max called, not turning around. “We’re nearly there.” “Okay…” murmured Dima—his voice was still thin, but a little steadier. “Good lad. We’ll be there soon.” As the hospital lights appeared, Max praised Serge, “You were so brave, helping your brother. But let’s agree—don’t ever run out into the street again. Today, you nearly got yourself killed, and imagine what your brother would have done without you.” Serge nodded, tears springing up again—not from fear, but understanding how close he’d come to disaster. “All right, I won’t,” he whispered. Max smiled, resting a reassuring hand on Serge’s shoulder. “That’s good. Now let’s look after Dima.” At the hospital, Max helped carry Dima to admissions, where a nurse quickly assessed him and whisked him away. Serge stayed on the hard bench, white-knuckled and staring ahead. Max paced nearby, constantly glancing at the doors. A half-hour later, a breathless woman burst in—Serge’s mother, panic in her eyes. Serge flung himself into her arms, sobbing. Max explained what happened, omitting the details of just how close the call was. “Thank you,” the mother said, shaking Max’s hand. “Not many people would have stopped. Most just look the other way these days…” “It’s all right. I just hope Dima’s okay.” She smiled through her tears, then hurried to speak with the doctor as relief spread across her face. Max slipped out quietly into the cool evening, the sense of nervous energy finally ebbing away, replaced by a deep calm. Leaning on his car, he started to text his friend to say the party was postponed—but stopped. Instead, he stared up at the starlit sky, the brisk air clearing his mind. Today, he’d managed to help. And though it happened accidentally—he’d simply driven home, noticed a boy in the street, and couldn’t just pass by—the impact was greater than he ever could have planned. Maybe tomorrow, someone would help him… The thought comforted him. He breathed in, started the car, and set off towards home, the warmth growing inside him. Even though his celebration was postponed, he felt no disappointment. This day mattered not because he’d bought a new car or planned a night with friends, but because he’d made a difference. That feeling was worth more than any party. He watched the city lights, the passersby, the shop windows—understanding that life goes on, and there’s always room for small but meaningful acts of kindness.

The Road to Humanity It was many years ago now, but sometimes I can still see it all as if it were yesterdaythe

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THE CURIOUS COUPLE NEXT DOOR New Neighbours Move into Flat 222, Number 8, Shakespeare Avenue: A Fifty-Something Married Pair—He with a Beard and Grey Coat, She in a Long Skirt and Colourful Beret—Who Seem the Perfect, Quiet Neighbours… But Weeks Later, the Smiths from 221 and the Harrisons from 223 Find Dinner Conversations Turning to What Goes On Through Those Walls. As the Smiths—Forty, Married Half Their Lives—Blush Over Adult Escapades Echoing from Next Door, and the Young Harrisons—Five Years Wed and Expecting Their First—Wonder at the Neighbours’ Romantic Gestures and Enticing Kitchen Aromas, Both Couples Start Looking at Their Own Marriages Anew. Soon, the Effects Ripple Out: Rekindled Old Flames, Surprise Gifts, Candlelit Dinners, and Rendezvous Away from the Kids—As if the Whole Building Catches the Spirit of Young Love. But Behind It All, the Mystery of the Unusually Vibrant Pair in Flat 222 Deepens, Their Quiet Influence Spreading Joy—and Curiosity—Throughout Number 8, Shakespeare Avenue. Who Will Be Their Next “Project” in This Surprising Tale of Marital Mischief and Neighbourhood Transformation?

ODD NEIGHBOURS Its been years now, but I still remember when new tenants moved into flat 222, number

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I Turned a Blind Eye to Betrayal and Regretted It

Again, you were with her, Zina said, the pain clear in her eyes as she looked at me. I choked on my words

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This Isn’t Up for Debate: When My Husband Moved His 12-Year-Old Daughter In Without Asking, Ignoring Our Plans for a Family, and Turned My Life Upside Down

Thats not up for discussion. Emily will be living with us; its simply not up for debate, said Henry

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A Lesson for a Wife Fed Up! – Tom flung his spoon across the table, glaring at his wife with frustration. Can you even call this edible? Soggy pasta that’s basically mush, and a couple of barely cooked sausages! What did you do all day? Stuck to your phone as usual? How can you say that? – Sarah protested dramatically, quickly hiding the very device in question. I was chasing after Charlie all day! He’s such a handful! Just like his father, she added, watching her husband’s temper rise. It’s hard for me, you know? Ever since I gave birth, nothing’s been easy… Charlie’s two and a half now, Tom said, trying to stay calm. He should be in nursery by now, and you could go back to work. Things would get easier! Why should I put my son in some germ-ridden daycare? Sarah shot back. Do you want us always in hospital? You do realise a child needs to be occupied and properly stimulated, don’t you? We do plenty! Charlie’s doing great for his age, the paediatrician said so! Sarah stood her ground. This argument had come up before; she dreaded Tom actually sending Charlie off to nursery. She wasn’t keen on returning to work—she’d grown used to half-days spent browsing the internet and didn’t want to give it up! And who do we have to thank for Charlie’s progress? Tom lost his patience, slamming his fist on the table so the plates rattled. My mum! She’s the one who comes over and plays with Charlie. You’re either napping or on your phone! Couldn’t you tidy up or make a decent meal for once? Why should I come home from work to THIS? Tom looked at the meal in disgust. I’m not your cook! Or your cleaner! I’m your wife! And as my husband, you should be providing me a comfortable life! Sarah truly believed what she said. After countless daytime talk shows and hours spent on “mums’” forums, she’d changed her mind about what it meant to be a wife. She’d once thought she should care for her husband, do housework, and raise children, but now she saw that as the role of a servant, not a wife. She valued herself too highly for that. So that’s how it is? Tom ground out, after listening to her fiery speech. I’m out working all hours so you can keep the sofa warm? That it? I’m working on self-improvement, Sarah retorted proudly. You’ll be bragging to your mates about how clever your wife is soon enough. I can hold my own in any conversation! Can you? What’s the last book you read? What’s something new you’ve learned? Tom got up, looming over her. Well? Go on, say something! Scrolling through social media doesn’t count as intellectual growth. And those shouty talk shows—what use are they? Be honest: are you going to look after your home and our child or not? No! Like I said, I’m not a maid… Sarah burst out with a torrent of complaints: Tom didn’t earn enough, acted like a domestic tyrant, was never around… Tom listened in silence, then responded with a single word: Divorce. What? Sarah gasped, midway through a new rant. Divorce, Tom repeated coolly. I’ll find a woman who’ll be a good wife and mother to Charlie. He spends more time with his grandmas than with you anyway. You’re not a mother—you don’t deserve that title. And you’re certainly not a wife. Sarah was thrown for a minute, but then dismissed him. He was bluffing—he wouldn’t really divorce her! Surely the court would let Charlie stay with his mum—everyone knows kids belong with their mothers, right? Tom changed. He barely spoke to her. Soon, Charlie and his grandma went to the seaside for a couple of weeks. Sarah was delighted at first—no more interruptions when she wanted to scroll on her phone. But after a while, she started to miss Charlie and called her mother-in-law more often. Then, two weeks after the argument, a court summons arrived. Tom had kept his promise—he’d begun divorce proceedings. And at the hearing, came another shock: Sarah’s own mum sided with Tom. I believe Charlie should stay with his father, she said firmly, eyeing her daughter. Unfortunately, Sarah has neglected her child entirely; all the work has fallen on me and Tom’s mum, Margaret. Tom works long hours, but still manages to spend time with his son. The judge nodded, glancing at Sarah with a faint smile. And rightly so—Sarah had nothing. No home, no job, no real bond with her child. Tom had a good chance of winning custody. I’m asking for more time! Don’t divorce us! Give me a chance! Sarah sobbed. Tom, I swear I’ll change. I’ll forget this nonsense about being a ‘housemaid’ and be the model wife! Just believe me! Alright… *************************** One Month Earlier My daughter is completely spoiled, I’m ashamed of her, said Susan. Tom, I understand—you’re right to question if you need such a wife. She’s home all day and doesn’t even tidy up, never mind taking care of her son. So if you want a divorce, I won’t judge. Just let me see Charlie, that’s all I’ll ask. I love Sarah, faults and all, Tom sighed. But things aren’t working. I want to give her a chance. Why not? And I know just how: file for divorce. Sarah will resist it, so you’ll get the three-month reconciliation period. That’ll sort her head out for sure. *************************** Sarah learnt her lesson. The flat was sparkling, scents of home-cooked meals filled the air, and Sarah herself was welcoming and attentive. At last, she focused on her son—much to Charlie’s delight. He really did love his scatterbrained mum…

A Lesson for My Wife Ive had enough! snapped Edward, tossing his spoon aside and glowering at his wife.

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Now You’ll Have Your Own Child—It’s Time to Send Her Back to the Care Home

Now youll have your own child, and its time for her to go back to the childrens home. When will my son

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Shall I Carry Out the Suitcase of Your Belongings Now? – Suggested My Wife

Will you take that suitcase of yours away now? Eleanor asked, her voice flat as a winter morning. Take it!