La vida

Oh, Not Again—Max, Get Him Away from There! Anna Shot a Disapproving Glance at Teddy, Bouncing Clumsily at Her Feet. How Did They End Up with Such a Nuisance? They Spent Ages Debating Breeds, Consulting Kennel Clubs, Weighing the Responsibility. In the End, They Chose a German Shepherd—Loyal Friend, Watchdog, Protector. All Three in One, Like a Multipurpose Cleaner. Only This ‘Protector’ Needed Saving from the Neighbourhood Cats… “He’s Still Just a Puppy. Wait Until He Grows Up—You’ll See.” “Right. Can’t Wait Until This Beast Gets Any Bigger. Have You Noticed He Eats More Than We Do? How Are We Supposed to Feed Him? And Stop Clomping Around—You’ll Wake the Baby!” Anna Grumbled, Gathering Up Shoes Teddy Had Scattered. They Lived on Churchill Road, Ground Floor of a Stately Old Victorian Block, Low Windows Almost Level with the Pavement. Perfect Place—If Not for One Thing: The Windows Looked Out Onto a Dead-End Courtyard, Where Shadows Would Flit in the Evenings, Men Gathered for a Chat, and Sometimes Fights Broke Out. Almost All Day, Anna Was Alone at Home with Newborn Katie. Max Left Early for His Curator Job at the National Gallery, Spending His Spare Time Haunting Car Boot Sales and Old Book Stalls. Trained Art Historian’s Eye, Diamond-Sharp, Anna Joked, Fished Out Works of Art, Rare Books, and Vintage Curios. He Was a Passionate Collector. Before They Knew It, Their Flat Held a Fine Collection of Paintings, and Their Sixties-Era Cabinet Displayed Delicate Chelsea Porcelain Plates, Socialist Realism Figurines, and Early Twentieth-Century Silverware… Anna Felt Uneasy Alone with All Those Treasures and a Tiny Daughter—Especially Since Burglaries Occurred in Their Building All Too Often. “Anna, When Do You Think Is Best for Me to Walk Teddy? Now or After Lunch?” “I Don’t Know. And Frankly, That’s Not My Dog Business!” At the Magic Word ‘Walk,’ Teddy Bolted Down the Hall—Slid Around the Corner—Snatched Up the Lead, Bounded Back, and Jumped Nearly to the Ceiling. What a Horse, Not a Dog! He Loved Everyone; Brought Every Guest His Ball Except Those He’d Block at the Door. Open Spirit, Right Old Lad—But He Was Supposed to Be Their Protector! He Didn’t Even Chase the Courtyard Cats. He’d Run to Them with His Ball, Just Delighted, Ready to Play, and Had Taken a Couple Smacks from the Local Tomcats for His Troubles. Their Cats Had More Bite Than Their Guard Dog—That’s Who They Needed for Protection! Tomorrow, She’d Be Alone Again. Max Was Off to Brighton for an Arts Festival, and What Was Anna Supposed to Do? Guard the Porcelain and Walk This Floppy-Eared Oaf? As If She Didn’t Have Enough To Do… At Dawn, Her Husband Got Up Quietly, Not Wanting to Wake Her—As If! Anna Heard the Kettle Hissing, the Jingle of the Lead, Max Whispering for Teddy Not to Whine or Stomp About. Those Peaceful Noises Drifted Her Back to Sleep, and When the Baby Woke Her, Max Was Gone. The Day Began as Usual. Just Another Ordinary, Peaceful, Normal Day—But Isn’t That Happiness, in Itself? Her Friends Would Sigh—Anna, Married So Young, Torn Between Husband and Daughter, Always in the Kitchen, Buried in Domestic Chores… But Isn’t There Beauty in the Everyday? Even If Life Wasn’t Quite as She’d Dreamed—She Was Tired of Max’s Frequent Absences, the Cramped Flat, Lack of Funds. And, Most of All, His Fiery Passion for Collecting, into Which So Much Money Disappeared… Now He’d Dragged Home This Floppy-Eared Friend, and Anna Was Left to Cope. But She Knew Love Means Embracing Faults and All—No One Promised Perfection. Realising That, She Decided to Cherish What She Had, Not Pines for What She Didn’t. She Sat in the Nursery Feeding Katie, Who’d Fall Asleep Mid-Feed and Leave Anna Waiting for Her to Wake and Nurse Again. There Was a Knock at the Door, but Anna Didn’t Answer. She Wasn’t Expecting Anyone, and Nobody Would Journey Across London Just to Drop In Unannounced. Those Precious Morning Hours—How She Loved Them! The House Was Quiet, Only the Parlour Clock Ticking, and Through the Window Came Those Familiar City Sounds: Distant Buses, Cars Puffing, a Broom Scraping Pavement, Children’s Voices… And Where Was the Oaf? Strangely Absent for Ages Now. Mind You, No One Could Really Call Teddy ‘Floppy-Eared’—His Ears Stood Up Properly; It Was Just His Character: Silly, and That’s That. Now She Was Stuck with Him—Feeding, Walking, and What Did He Actually Do? Might as Well Have Got a Pekingese. Anna Gazed Fondly at Katie, Who, Sated as a Leech, Had Unlatched from the Breast. What a Little Treasure They’d Made! “My Little Golden Girl,” Anna Whispered, Nestling Her Daughter. Grow Up—What More Could They Want? Just Then, a Strange Noise Came from the Lounge—a Crack, or Maybe a Squeal. Anna Listened. The Noise Came Again. Not Breathing, She Slipped Off Her Slippers and Glide to the Lounge. The First Thing She Saw Was Teddy’s Back—Crouched Behind the Curtain Dividing the Front Hall from the Lounge. Four Feet Bent, He Was Frozen, Tense, Tongue Lolling, Eyes Fixed Deep into the Room. Anna Followed His Gaze and Went Cold: There, Halfway Through the Window, Was a Man—Or Half of Him. Typical Thug—Shaved Head, Arms and Shoulders Already in the Room, Grunting and Straining to Force His Lean, Sinewy Body Through. Anna Couldn’t Believe This Was Happening. It Couldn’t Be! What To Do—Shout? The Man Was Almost Fully Inside! Another Second and— She Jumped at a Yell. A Black Shadow Darted to the Window; Only Afterward Did She Register: It Was Teddy. He Leapt onto the Sill and Sank His Teeth into the Burglar’s Neck! “Aaaahhh!!” the Man Roared, Eyes Bulging with Fear. Anna Ran onto the Landing, Shouted for the Neighbours—After That, It Wasn’t So Frightening. People Rushed In, the Police Came. Everyone Tried to Help, Though There Was Little to Do—their Presence Itself Was Comforting. What Would She Have Done Alone? Summoning Her Courage, Anna Edged Closer: What If Teddy Tore the Man’s Throat Out? That Was All She Needed! But Clever Teddy Had Clamped Firmly onto the Collar, Not the Flesh—Held the Man Tight, Not Drawing Blood! Only When the Burglar Struggled Did Teddy Grip Harder. If He Went Still—It Was, “All Right, Guv, Message Received”—and Teddy Would Ease His Hold. How Did He Know to Do All This? This Ball-Chasing Clown Acted Like a Trained Professional. He’d Heard Something, Gone to Check Quietly, Laid in Ambush Behind the Curtain, Let the Burglar Crawl Halfway in (So He Got Stuck and Couldn’t Bolt) Before Pouncing, Holding Him in a Professional, Controlled Way—Not Choking, Not Hurting. “Our Job Is Just to Hold,” You Could Almost Hear Him Think, “Let Justice Take Care of the Rest.” Even the Oldest Police Veterans Couldn’t Recall a Burglar So Happy to Be Arrested. The Man, White with Terror from Teddy’s Teeth, Surrendered Eagerly—whereas the Dog Was Reluctant to Relinquish His Prize. Teddy Was So Proud, So Deep in His Role, That Only the Arrival of a Police Dog Handler Convinced Him to Let Go. At the Officer’s Command—He Released, Spitting Out the Burglar, and Sat by the Window, Gazing Up Devotedly, Awaiting Orders—Ready for Review, Practically Saluting. “You’ve Got a Good Dog There,” the Officer Said Admiringly, Ruffling Teddy’s Ears. “We Could Use One Like Him in the Force…” Max Came Home Late That Evening, Tiptoed in—and Froze. There Was Plenty to Be Surprised About. First: Teddy Lolling on the Sofa—Strictly Forbidden, Never Allowed. Second: Lying in Utterly Contented, Outrageously Sprawled Pose, While Anna Scratched His Tummy, Patted and Stroked Him and Nearly Kissed Him, Murmuring, “My Delight, Little Lamb, Our Darling Pony—Grow Up Big and Strong for Mum and Dad! How Unfair I’ve Been to You—Don’t Be Cross…” This Story Was Told to Me at One of the Brighton Art Festivals by the Man Himself—the Curator. Teddy Might Have Told It More Vividly: How He Stalked, How He Tackled, How He Handed Over the Suspect to the Police. It Was Long Ago, but the Story Lived on in Memory—I Felt Teddy’s Paw Scratching, Yearning to Be Set Down on Paper. Now I’ve Shared It with You…

Oh, hes licking himself again! Tom, can you get him off? Emily huffed, watching Charlie, their clueless

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“Forgive Me, Son, There’s No Dinner Tonight,” Cried the Mother… a Millionaire Overheard “Mummy… I’m hungry.” Lucy pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. Four-year-old Matthew only knew a language no child should ever learn: that hunger nothing can comfort. She stroked his hair with one hand, the other gripping a bag ridiculously light with empty plastic bottles collected all day. “We’ll eat something soon, sweetheart,” she murmured. But the lie burned her throat. She’d lied too many times that week, not out of habit but in desperation. Because telling a child the truth is tossing them to the ground without a mattress. The supermarket sparkled with Christmas lights: golden garlands, cheerful music, people pushing overflowing trolleys. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon—a luxury to Lucy. London was beautiful that night as if the city wore a festive gown… but she walked in worn-out shoes, deliberately, so Matthew wouldn’t see her fear. Matthew stopped in front of a mountain of sweet bread wrapped in shiny paper. “Can we get one this year? Like last year with Grandma…” Last year. Lucy felt the blow in her chest. Last year, her mother was alive. Last year she had a stable cleaning job and at least a table to eat at, a roof not fogged inside like the borrowed car they’d slept in for two weeks. “No, my love… not this year.” “Why?” Because the world can break apart without warning. Because your child’s fever matters more than any shift. Because a boss can sack you for missing a day, even if your child burns in your arms at A&E. Because rent won’t wait, food won’t wait, nor will sorrow. Lucy swallowed and forced herself to smile. “Because tonight we’re doing something different. Come help me return the bottles.” They walked aisles where everything promised ‘yes,’ but really whispered ‘not for you.’ Fizzy drinks, biscuits, chocolates, toys. Matthew gazed at everything wide-eyed. “Can I have some juice tonight?” “No, darling.” “What about chocolate biscuits…?” “No.” “And plain ones…?” Lucy replied sharper than she meant to and saw Matthew’s face fall, a little light flickering out. Her heart broke again—how many times can a heart be broken before it disappears? They reached the recycling machine. Lucy fed in bottle after bottle. Mechanical sounds, creeping numbers. Ten bottles. Ten tiny chances. The machine spat out a voucher. Twenty-five pence. Lucy stared at it as if it was mocking her. Twenty-five. Christmas Eve. Matthew clung to her hand with painful hope. “Now we’ll get food, won’t we? I’m really hungry.” Something inside Lucy broke. Until that moment she’d clung to life with her teeth, but her son’s trusting gaze shattered her last defense. She couldn’t lie anymore. Not tonight. She led him to the fruit and veg section. Shiny red apples, perfect oranges, tomatoes like jewels. Surrounded by someone else’s abundance, she knelt before him and took his little hands. “Matthew… Mummy has something very hard to tell you.” “What is it, Mummy? Why are you crying?” Lucy hadn’t even noticed the tears, they fell freely—her body knew before she did that she couldn’t keep going. “Son… forgive me. This year… there is no dinner.” Matthew frowned, confused. “But… aren’t we going to eat?” “We don’t have money, sweetheart. We don’t have a home. We sleep in the car… and Mummy lost her job.” Matthew looked around at all the food as if the world had betrayed him. “But… there’s food here.” “Yes, but it’s not ours.” Then Matthew cried—not yelling, but with that silent sob that burns more than tantrums. His small shoulders shook. Lucy hugged him desperately, as if squeezing him could bring a miracle. “Forgive me… forgive me for giving you so little.” “Excuse me, madam.” Lucy looked up. A security guard watched, awkward, as if poverty stained the floor. “If you’re not buying anything, you’ll need to leave—you’re disturbing other customers.” Lucy wiped her face, embarrassed. “We’re leaving…” “Not now, madam—she’s with me.” A voice from behind called out, firm, calm. Lucy turned and saw a tall man in a dark suit, grey at the temples, with an empty shopping trolley and an imposing manner. He looked at the guard—not raising his voice, but with authority. “They’re my family. I came to find them so we can shop together.” The guard hesitated, looking between Lucy’s worn clothes, Matthew’s hungry face, and the smart man… then finally yielded. “Very well, sir. Apologies.” When the guard left, Lucy stood unsure whether to be grateful or to flee. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, standing upright, “and we don’t need—” “Yes, you do.” His voice wasn’t cruel. It was simply true. He met her eyes. “I heard you. No one should go hungry at Christmas—especially a child.” He knelt to Matthew’s level with a gentle smile. “Hello. My name’s Sam.” Matthew hid behind his mother’s leg but peeked out. “What’s your name?” Silence. Sam didn’t push. He just asked: “Tell me—if you could eat anything for dinner tonight, what would it be?” Matthew looked at Lucy for permission. He didn’t understand it all, but there was no mockery, no dirty pity, no intrusive curiosity in the man’s eyes—just humanity. “You can answer, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Breaded meatballs… with mashed potatoes,” Matthew said, barely audible. Sam nodded like he’d received the world’s most important order. “Perfect. That’s my favourite dinner, too. Come, help me.” He started pushing the trolley. Lucy followed, her heart hammering, expecting a catch, a condition, hidden humiliation—but there was none. Sam filled the trolley with meat, potatoes, breadcrumbs, salad, juice, fruit. Whenever Matthew pointed, Sam added—no counting, no sighing at prices. At the till, he paid as if for a coffee. Lucy saw the final number and reeled—it was more than she’d earned in two weeks of work. “We can’t accept this,” she stammered, shaking. Sam looked seriously at her. “What you told your son… no one should ever have to say that. Please let me do this.” In the car park, Lucy headed for her battered old Ford. It looked sad beside Sam’s black BMW. He understood instantly—the mess of blankets, small bag of clothes. “Where will you go after this?” he asked. Silence. “Nowhere,” Lucy admitted. “We sleep here.” Sam laid the shopping bags down, ran a hand through his hair at the weight of reality. “My hotel has a restaurant. It’s open tonight. Come have dinner with me. Afterwards… we’ll see. But at least tonight, you won’t be stuck in the car.” He handed her a business card: The Emperor Hotel. Lucy gripped the card as if it burned. When Sam left, Matthew tugged her sleeve. “Let’s go, Mum. We’ll have breaded meatballs.” Lucy looked at her son, at the car, at the card. She had no choice. And, without knowing it, accepting that dinner began something huge—a door that could save her, or hurt her even more if it was just an illusion. The restaurant was another world: white linen, warm lights, gentle music, fresh flowers. Matthew clung to his mother’s hand. In worn clothes, Lucy felt everyone staring, though no one really did. “They’re my guests,” Sam told the waiter. “Order anything you like.” At first Matthew ate slowly, afraid someone might take away his plate. Then faster, with an old hunger that won’t heal overnight. Lucy watched, throat tight: her son called it “the most delicious meal ever,” which, to her, was tragic in disguise. Sam didn’t probe immediately. He talked about simple things, asked Matthew about dinosaurs. Matthew pulled out a battered toy T-rex from his pocket, with worn claws. “He’s called Rex,” Matthew said proudly. “He protects me at night.” Sam looked at him with restrained sadness. “T-rexes are the strongest,” he replied. Later, after chocolate smeared his cheek from dessert, Sam finally asked gently: “Lucy… how did you end up here?” And Lucy told her story—her mother’s passing, lost jobs, hospital visits, eviction, a father who vanished when Matthew was a baby. Sam listened quietly, as if every word confirmed something. “My hotel needs cleaners,” he eventually said. “Legal contract, fixed hours, all above board. There are staff flats—small but decent.” Lucy eyed him warily, because even hope is frightening. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I need staff,” he replied, then added softly, “and because no child should live in a car.” The next day, Lucy returned. The manager, Patricia Miles, ran a normal interview—nothing remarkable. Three days later, Lucy and Matthew entered an apartment with real windows for the first time. Matthew ran from room to room like he’d discovered a new planet. “It’s ours, Mum? Really?” “Yes, sweetheart… it’s ours.” That first night, Matthew slept in a bed… but woke often crying, checking his mother was still there. Lucy found biscuits tucked under his pillow—her son stocking up in case hunger came back. Poverty doesn’t vanish when you move—it lingers inside for a while, a background noise. Sam visited often. He brought books, talked openly with Matthew, played football in the park. On his birthday, he appeared with a dinosaur-shaped cake. Matthew made his wish aloud, no shame: “I wish Uncle Sam would stay forever! Never leave!” Sam knelt, eyes wet. “I’ll do everything I can to make that come true.” Then trouble arrived—in the form of a rumour in the building. Rumours spread to the one person who shouldn’t have heard. Rob, the biological father, turned up at the hotel lobby smelling of lager, wearing a fake smile. “I’m here to see my son,” he said. “I have rights.” Lucy could barely breathe. Sam stood guard. Rob shouted, threatened, promised court action—and delivered: paperwork followed demanding visitation, joint custody. The documents called Lucy “a woman of questionable circumstances.” Sam was “the employer confusing the boy.” It all sounded dignified on paper; it was poison. The first supervised visit was a disaster. Matthew clung to Sam’s leg. Rob tried to grab him; Matthew screamed. That night, the boy had nightmares, crying that he’d be taken away, never see Mum or “Daddy Sam” again. “I wish you were my dad,” Sam confessed one early morning, sitting on the boy’s bed. “More than anything.” “So… why can’t you be?” No easy answer—only a hard decision. The lawyer was clear: as a married couple, Sam could adopt. The family would look stable to the judge. Lucy’s fear was huge, but the truth was there, quietly growing—Sam didn’t stay out of duty. He stayed out of love. “It wouldn’t be a lie,” he said one afternoon, voice trembling. “I fell for you watching you be a mum. And I love him… because you just do.” Lucy, who had survived for years without dreaming, said “yes” through tears—not of defeat, but something new: relief. The wedding was simple. Civil. Patricia was witness. Matthew, in a tiny suit, carried the rings, serious as a treasure guard. “We’re a real family now!” Matthew shouted as they were declared husband and wife—and everyone laughed through tears. The hearing was revealing. Rob, in a suit, played the penitent victim. Sam described that Christmas Eve in the supermarket—Lucy kneeling, begging forgiveness for no dinner, how he couldn’t close his eyes. Lucy spoke of four years of absence and silence. The judge considered everything—papers, letters, medical records Rob was absent from. Testimonies from nursery, hotel, videos of simple routines: bedtime stories, laughter, breakfasts. Then, the judge asked to speak with Matthew privately. Lucy nearly fainted with panic. In the judge’s office, they were given juice and biscuits. Matthew spoke the purest truth: “Before, we lived in a car and it wasn’t nice. Now I have my own room. We have food. Mum laughs.” “Who’s your dad?” asked the judge. Matthew didn’t hesitate. “Sam. My dad is Sam. The other man… I don’t know him. He makes mum cry. And I never want mum to cry again.” When the judge pronounced their fate, time seemed to freeze. Full custody to Lucy. Supervised visits, only if the child wanted—and only for a limited period. Sam granted permission to start adoption. Rob left screaming threats, fading down the corridor. He never returned. Never asked for visits. He didn’t want a child—he wanted control, advantage, money. When that failed, he vanished. On the courthouse steps, Matthew stood between both his parents, held in an embrace that finally knew no fear. “So… I get to stay with you forever?” he asked. “Forever,” they both replied. Months later, the adoption certificate arrived stamped with official seals that only confirmed what his heart already knew. Matthew Oliver Miles. Sam framed it and hung it on the wall like a medal won in the fiercest battle. They swapped the flat for a house with a garden. Matthew chose his room and set Rex in a special place, though sometimes he still carried him “just in case.” Not because he doubted his family, but the little boy he’d been hadn’t vanished—he was learning, slowly, that safety could be real. One Saturday, Sam proposed a trip to the supermarket—the same one as Christmas Eve. They entered hand in hand, Matthew bouncing between them, talking non-stop. He picked oranges, apples and dinosaur-shaped cereal. Lucy watched her son and felt something she’d thought impossible: peace. At the fruit aisle, Matthew stopped at the spot where she’d once knelt and wept. He took an apple, set it carefully in the cart, and announced: “For our house.” Lucy blinked back tears. Sam squeezed her hand. They said nothing—sometimes the best things aren’t spoken, they’re felt. That night, the three dined at their table. Matthew told silly jokes about the garden, Sam pretended they were the best, and Lucy laughed with all her heart—because her body was no longer on guard. Later, as always, Sam read bedtime stories. Three. Matthew fell asleep halfway through the second, Rex peaceful at his chest. Lucy stood, watching from the doorway—thinking of the woman she’d been: apologising for no dinner, sleeping in a borrowed car, believing life was just survival. And she understood: sometimes, at the darkest moment, a single act of humanity sets off a chain of miracles. Not movie miracles. True ones. Work. A roof. Fresh bread. Bedtime stories. A helping hand. And, above all, a child who was no longer hungry or afraid—because at last, he had what he’d always deserved: a family who would never leave.

Forgive me, love, theres no supper tonight, cried his mother And a gentleman overheard. Mummy Im hungry.

La vida

The Kidnapping of the Century: All I Wanted Was to Have Men Chasing After Me and Crying They Couldn’t Catch Up! Instead, I Woke Up After a Wild New Year’s Party to Find Myself Surrounded by a Mystery Husband, Four Mischievous Children, and a Family Holiday I Couldn’t Remember—Was This the Start of My Dream Life, or Had I Just Been Abducted?

The Kidnapping of the Year I just want men chasing after me, crying because they cant catch up!

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My Mother-in-Law Used to Mock My Mum for Cleaning Other People’s Houses… Today She’s the One Cleaning Mine

My mother-in-law used to mock my mum for cleaning other peoples homes Now she cleans mine. Ill never

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One Fateful Day: My Wife Unexpectedly Crossed Paths with a New Woman. How Did That Meeting Unfold?

27 March 2023 My marriage ended a few months ago, and I’ve since moved into a modest flat in Croydon.

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“When Was the Last Time You Truly Looked at Yourself in the Mirror?” he asked. His Wife’s Surprising Response Changed Everything Alex sipped his morning coffee, stealing glances at Marina. Her hair was tied back with a child’s hairband, decorated with cartoon kittens. Next door, Ksenia always seemed vibrant and fresh, her expensive perfume lingering in the lift. “You know,” Alex put his phone down, “sometimes I feel like we live together… well, more like neighbours.” Marina paused, cleaning rag frozen in her hand. “What do you mean?” “Oh, nothing. Just… when did you last really look at yourself in the mirror?” She looked at him closely. Alex realised things weren’t going as he expected. “When was the last time you looked at me?” Marina replied softly. An awkward pause hung between them. “Marina, don’t make this a drama. I just mean—a woman should always look amazing. It’s basic! Look at Ksenia, and she’s your age.” “Ah,” Marina said. “Ksenia.” Her tone made Alex uneasy, as if something important had suddenly dawned on her. “Alex,” she said after a moment, “let’s do this. I’ll move in with Mum for a bit. Think about what you said.” “Fine. We’ll live separately, think things through. But I’m not throwing you out!” “You know,” Marina hung the rag carefully on a hook, “maybe I really do need to look in the mirror.” She went to pack her suitcase. Alex sat in the kitchen, thinking: “This is what I wanted.” But somehow, it didn’t feel satisfying—more empty than anything. For three days, Alex lived in a kind of holiday: coffee in the morning, no rush, evenings doing what he liked. No melodramatic TV shows. Freedom, right? Real, man’s freedom. One evening, Alex bumped into Ksenia by the block entrance. She carried bags from Waitrose, tottering in heels and a perfect dress. “Alex!” she smiled. “How are you? Haven’t seen Marina lately.” “She’s at her mum’s. Taking a break,” he lied easily. “Ah.” Ksenia nodded knowingly. “Women need a respite now and then. From housework, from routine.” She spoke as if she’d never set foot in household drudgery herself, as if dinner just materialised. “Ksenia, maybe we could grab coffee sometime? Just as neighbours.” “That’d be lovely,” she smiled. “Tomorrow night?” Alex spent the night planning. Which shirt? Jeans or chinos? Don’t overdo the aftershave. In the morning the phone rang. “Alex?” Came an unfamiliar voice. “It’s Ludmila, Marina’s mum.” His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, I’m listening.” “Marina asked me to say she’ll pick up her things on Saturday when you’re out. She’ll leave the keys with the concierge.” “Wait, she’s picking up her things?” “What did you expect?” There was steel in the mother-in-law’s voice. “My daughter isn’t going to spend her life waiting for you to decide if you need her.” “I didn’t say anything like that—” “You said quite enough. Goodbye, Alex.” She hung up. Alex sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone. What the hell? He wasn’t getting divorced! He’d just asked for a break—to think. They’d decided everything without him. Coffee with Ksenia felt strange. She was pleasant, chatted about her banking job, laughed at his jokes. But when he tried to take her hand, she gently pulled away. “Alex, understand—I can’t. You’re married.” “But we’re… well, living apart now.” “For now. What about tomorrow?” Ksenia looked at him, searching. Alex walked Ksenia home and went back to his quiet, bachelor-smelling flat. Saturday. Alex deliberately left, to avoid drama or tears. Let her take her things in peace. By three o’clock he was jittery with curiosity. What did she take? Everything? Just essentials? And how did she look? At four he couldn’t stand it and went home. Outside was a car with local plates. At the wheel, a man around forty, good-looking, in a nice jacket, helping someone load boxes. Alex sat on a bench and waited. Ten minutes later, out stepped a woman in a blue dress. Her dark hair was in a beautiful clip—no childish hairbands. Her makeup highlighted her eyes. Alex stared in disbelief. It was Marina. But different. She carried the last bag. The man instantly helped her, gently seating her in the car—handling her like crystal. Alex couldn’t help himself. He walked up to the car. “Marina!” She turned. Her face was calm and beautiful. Not tired as he remembered. “Hello, Alex.” “Is that… you?” The man at the wheel tensed, but Marina softly assured him it was fine. “Yes,” she answered simply. “You just haven’t really looked at me in a long time.” “Marina, wait. Can we talk?” “About what?” No anger in her voice, just surprise. “You said a woman should look amazing. So I listened.” “But that’s not what I meant!” Alex’s heart was pounding. “What did you want, Alex?” Marina tilted her head. “For me to become beautiful, just for you? Interesting, but only at home? To love myself, but not so much that I’d leave a husband who couldn’t see me?” He listened, and with every word, something inside him shifted. “You know,” Marina said gently, “I realised I’d stopped caring for myself. But not because I was lazy—because I’d got used to being invisible in my own house, my own life.” “Marina, I didn’t mean—” “You did. You wanted an invisible wife—who does everything, but doesn’t get in your way. And when you’re bored, you trade up for a brighter model.” The man in the car said something quietly. Marina nodded. “We have to go, Alex. Vladimir’s waiting.” “Vladimir?” Alex’s mouth went dry. “Who’s that?” “A man who sees me.” Marina answered. “We met at the gym—Mum’s flat is near a fitness centre. Imagine, at forty-two I went to my first ever workout class.” “Marina, don’t. Let’s try again. I get it now—I was an idiot.” “Alex,” she looked at him carefully, “do you remember the last time you said I was beautiful?” He fell silent. He couldn’t remember. “The last time you asked how I was?” And Alex realised—he’d lost. Not to Vladimir, nor circumstances. To himself. Vladimir started the engine. “Alex, I’m not angry. Really. Thanks to you, I understood something important: if I can’t see myself, no one else will.” The car drove away. Alex sat on the bench and watched his life leave—not just his wife, but the last fifteen years he’d considered routine, and now understood was happiness. He just hadn’t realised it before. Six months later, Alex bumped into Marina at the shopping centre—by chance. She was picking out coffee beans, reading labels carefully. Next to her, a young woman—about twenty. “Let’s get this one,” she said. “Dad says arabica’s better than robusta.” “Marina?” Alex approached. She turned and smiled easily. “Hello, Alex. Meet Nastya, Vladimir’s daughter. Nastya, this is Alex, my ex-husband.” Nastya nodded politely—pretty, probably a uni student. She looked at Alex curiously, with no hostility. “How are you?” he asked. “Good. And you?” “Not bad.” An awkward pause. What do you say to an ex-wife who’s changed so much? They stood amidst the coffee shelves, and Alex looked at her—tanned, new haircut, light blouse. Happy—genuinely happy. “And you?” she asked. “How’s your love life?” “Not much happening,” he admitted. Marina looked at him thoughtfully. “You want a woman—beautiful like Ksenia, quiet like I used to be. Smart, but not so smart she’ll notice the way you look at others.” Nastya listened wide-eyed. “That woman doesn’t exist,” Marina said calmly. “Marina, let’s go?” Nastya chimed in. “Dad’s waiting in the car.” “Yes, of course.” Marina grabbed the coffee. “Good luck, Alex.” They walked off. Alex stood amid coffee shelves, thinking: Marina was right. He was searching for a woman who didn’t exist. That evening Alex sat in his kitchen, drank tea. Remembered Marina, who she’d become. Sometimes, losing something is the only way to realise how valuable it was. Maybe happiness isn’t about finding the ‘perfect wife’. It’s about learning to see the woman beside you.

When was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? David asked his wife. Catherine responded

La vida

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My Son Isn’t Ready to Be a Father… “You Shameless Girl! Ungrateful Pig!” Natalie’s mother shrieked at her, not caring who heard. Her daughter’s rounded belly did nothing to soften her fury—if anything, it only fueled it. “Get out of my house and never come back! I never want to see you again!” This time, she meant it. Although her mother had thrown her out before over less serious matters, this pregnancy was the last straw. Tear-stained and clutching a small suitcase with her few belongings, Natalie stumbled to her boyfriend—a bewildered teenager who hadn’t even told his parents she was expecting. Nazar’s mother, upon discovering the news, immediately asked whether it was too late to do anything. But it clearly was; Natalie’s pregnancy was undeniable. “You’re just not ready to be a father,” Nazar’s mother declared, her voice firm. “You’re too young, she’ll ruin your whole life. We’ll help, of course, but for now, I’ve organised a place for you at a rehabilitation centre—a shelter for pregnant girls with nowhere to go.” At the centre, Natalie finally found a little peace. She was given a small room, support from a psychologist, and the first opportunity to rest in a long time. When she finally held her baby daughter in her arms, panic struck. But slowly, as Christmas approached, love began to grow. Just as she recovered, the centre warned her that she’d have to move on—a new arrival needed her room. Alone with her month-old baby Eve, Natalie wondered what to do next. Her own mother refused to even look at her or her granddaughter, having wiped both from her life. “It’s so sad, little one—what a gloomy Christmas Eve this is for us,” Natalie whispered, remembering happier days. As a child, she’d loved carolling, darting from house to house, singing Christmas songs and earning pocket money. The thought struck her: maybe she could carol again. Wrapping Eve up warmly, she set off. Knocking on doors, Natalie found few people willing to open up to a lone woman with a baby—most expected groups of children or men. But when she did get inside, her heartfelt carols moved people. They gave her generous tips—and even food—often becoming teary at the sight of the tiny baby in her arms, recognising that she must be desperate to go carolling as a single mum. The streets were cold and the journey tough, but Natalie pressed on. “Just one more house,” she said, eyeing a grand villa that looked promising. She was let in, but the homeowner’s reaction stunned her. He stared at her face, looked at her baby, and suddenly sat down heavily on the sofa, pale as a sheet. “Hope?” he asked quietly. “I’m sorry? I’m Natalie… Perhaps you’ve confused me with someone else?” “You look so much like my late wife… and your baby, is she a girl?” “Yes.” “I had a daughter once… but I lost them both in a car crash. Just the other night, I dreamed they came home. And now—you—you’re here, just like in my dream.” Unsure what to say, Natalie hesitated, but the man gently invited her in and asked to hear her story. Soon, Natalie found herself sharing everything—her troubles, her fears, her daughter’s birth—with someone who truly listened. As the baby slept, occasionally smiling in her sleep, Natalie felt, perhaps for the first time, that they’d finally found somewhere they just might belong—a place that could become home.

The Son Was Not Ready to Be a Father Harlot! Thankless swine! Margaret shrieked at her daughter, Emily

La vida

015

— You Don’t Need to Sit at the Table. You’ll Serve Us! — My Mother-in-Law Declared. I stood by the stove in the quiet morning kitchen, wrinkled pyjamas on, hair tied up carelessly. The scent of toast and strong coffee filled the air. My 7-year-old daughter was perched on a stool, nose buried in her colouring book, drawing careful swirls with felt tips. “Making those healthy toasts again?” came a voice behind me. I jumped. My mother-in-law stood in the doorway—her face set in stone, voice brooking no argument, curls gathered in a stern bun and lips pursed, her dressing gown immaculate. “I had whatever I fancied for lunch yesterday!” she continued, snapping her tea towel at the edge of the table. “No soup, nothing proper. Can you cook eggs? Proper eggs, not your fancy modern fads!” I turned off the hob and opened the fridge, swallowing my anger. Not in front of my daughter. Not in a space that echoed: “You’re only here temporarily.” “It’ll be ready soon,” I managed, turning so she wouldn’t see how my voice trembled. My daughter didn’t lift her gaze from her pens, but watched Granny from the corner of her eye—quiet, wary, alert. “Let’s Just Stay With My Mum for a Bit” When my husband suggested moving in with his mum, it sounded… rational. “We’ll just stay a little while—two months max. It’s close to work, our mortgage should come through soon. She’s fine with it.” I hesitated. Not because I fought with my mother-in-law—we were always polite. But I knew the truth: Two grown women in one kitchen? That’s a minefield. His mum lived for order, control and moral verdicts. But we had no choice—our old flat sold quickly and the new one wasn’t ready yet. So, all three of us moved into her two-bedroom apartment. “Just temporary.” Living Under Her Rules The first few days, she was pointedly polite—set out an extra chair for our daughter, even served pie. By day three, the rules began. “In my house there is order,” she announced at breakfast. “We get up at eight. Shoes stay on the rack. Every food item is checked with me. And the TV’s quiet—I have sensitive hearing.” My husband just smiled and waved it off: “Mum, we’re only here for a bit. We can cope.” I nodded quietly. “Cope” started to sound more like a sentence. Disappearing Bit by Bit A week passed. Then another. Her regime grew stricter. My daughter’s drawings were cleared off the table: “In the way.” She removed my checkered tablecloth: “Impractical.” My cornflakes vanished from the shelf: “Old—probably off.” My shampoos were “relocated”: “Cluttering the place.” Soon, I felt more like a mute housekeeper than a guest. My food was “not right.” My routines were “unnecessary.” My child was “too loud.” And my husband kept saying: “Just put up with it. It’s Mum’s flat. She’s always like this.” Day by day, I disappeared. I was no longer the calm, confident woman I’d been. Just endless adapting. Endless enduring. Living By Rules That Aren’t Mine Every morning, I got up at six to claim the bathroom, cook porridge, get my child ready and avoid my mother-in-law’s ire. Each evening, I made two dinners: One for us. One “by standard” for her. No onions. Then, with onions. Then only in her saucepan. Then only with her frying pan. “I don’t ask much,” she’d say with sharpness. “Just do things properly. The way they should be done.” The Day the Humiliation Went Public One morning, just after I’d washed my face and switched on the kettle, she marched into the kitchen. “My friends are coming round today. At two o’clock. You’re at home, so you’ll lay the table. Pickled gherkins, salad, something for tea—the usual.” Her “usual” meant a spread fit for a celebration. “Oh… I didn’t know. The ingredients…” “You’ll shop. I’ve made you a list. Nothing complicated.” So I dressed, went shopping. Bought everything: Chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits… Back home, I cooked non-stop. By two, the table sparkled; chicken roasted, salad crisp, pie golden. Three pensioners arrived—hairset and perfumes from another era. Instantly, I knew I wasn’t “part of the company.” I was “the help.” “Come on, sit with us,” my mother-in-law smiled. “To serve us.” “To serve you?” I repeated. “What’s the harm? We’re old, you’re young.” So there I was: Tray in hand, ladles, bread. “Pour the tea.” “Pass the sugar.” “We’re out of salad.” “The chicken’s dry,” muttered one. “Pie’s overbaked,” complained another. I gritted my teeth, smiled, cleared plates, poured tea. No one asked if I wanted to sit. Or take a breath. “How lovely to have a young housewife!” my mother-in-law announced with fake warmth. “Everything depends on her!” And in that moment… something broke inside me. That Night I Spoke the Truth After everyone had left, I washed every dish, packed away leftovers, washed the tablecloth. Then I sat at the edge of the sofa, empty cup in hand. Outside, darkness fell. My child slept, curled up tight. My husband sat beside me, glued to his phone. “Listen…” I said quietly, firmly. “I can’t do this anymore.” He looked up, surprised. “We live like strangers. I’m just here to serve everyone. And you… do you even see it?” He didn’t answer. “This isn’t a home. It’s a life where I constantly bend and stay silent. I’m here with our child. I don’t want to endure months more. I’m done being convenient and invisible.” He nodded… slowly. “I understand… I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner. We’ll start flat hunting. Anything, so long as it’s ours.” We began looking that very evening. Our Home – No Matter How Small The flat was poky. The landlord left old furniture. The floor creaked. But when I crossed the threshold… I felt free. Like I finally had my own voice. “There we are,” my husband sighed, dropping the bags. My mother-in-law didn’t say a word. Didn’t stop us. I don’t know if she was hurt, or just understood. A week passed. Mornings began with music. My daughter drew on the floor. My husband made coffee. I watched it all and smiled. No stress. No rushing. No more “just cope.” “Thank you,” he said one morning, wrapping me in his arms. “For speaking up.” I looked him in the eyes: “Thank you for listening.” Life wasn’t perfect now. But it was our home. Our rules. Our noise. Our life. And it was real. ❓And what about you: If you were in her shoes, would you stick it out “just for a while,” or pack your bags after the first week?

And youve no reason to sit at the table. Youre here to serve us! declared my mother-in-law.

La vida

011

How Gran Left Her Newborn Grandson Outside the Maternity Hospital

Margaret was sixty and finally ready to retire, though she wasnt in any hurry. After her shift she changed

La vida

Valerie Was Doing the Washing Up in the Kitchen When John Walked In—But Only After Switching Off the Light. “It’s Still Bright Enough, No Need to Waste Electricity,” He Grumbled. “I Was Going to Use the Washing Machine,” Said Valerie. “Do It Tonight, When the Electricity’s Cheaper,” John Replied Sharply. “And Don’t Run the Tap So Hard. You Waste Far Too Much Water—Far Too Much. Surely You Understand You’re Just Flushing Our Money Down the Drain?” He Turned Down the Tap. Valerie Looked at Her Husband with Sadness, Dried Her Hands, and Sat at the Table. “John, Have You Ever Looked at Yourself From the Outside?” She Asked. “Every Day,” He Snapped Back. “And What Do You See?” She Continued. “As a Man?” He Clarified. “As a Husband and a Father.” “Average, I Guess,” He Responded. “Neither Better nor Worse Than the Rest. Why Are You Nagging?” “Do You Really Think All Husbands and Fathers Are Like You?” Valerie Asked. “Are You Picking a Fight?” John Shot Back. Valerie Knew There Was No Turning Back—This Conversation Needed to Happen Until He Finally Understood Living With Him Was Pure Misery. “Do You Know Why You’ve Never Left Me, John?” She Asked. “Why Should I Leave You?” He Retorted. “Because You Don’t Love Me. Or Our Children.” John Tried to Shoot Back, But She Continued. “And Don’t Say Otherwise. You Don’t Love Anyone. And I Won’t Argue—No Point Wasting Time. I Want to Talk About Why You Haven’t Left Me and the Kids.” “Well? Why Not?” “Because of Your Stinginess—Because You’re So Incredibly Tight-Fisted That You See Leaving Us As a Financial Disaster. How Many Years Together? Fifteen? What Have We Achieved? Apart From the Obvious—Getting Married and Having Kids. What Achievements in Fifteen Years?” “We’ve Still Got Our Whole Lives Ahead,” John Said. “No, John. Not Our Whole Lives—Just What’s Left. In All Our Time Together, We’ve Never Once Had a Holiday by the Sea, Not Even in Britain. Always in the City. Not Even a Day Out for Foraging. Why? Because It’s ‘Too Expensive.’” “Because We’re Saving for Our Future!” John Insisted. “We? Or You? Every Month You Take All the Money and Squirrel It Away ‘for the Family.’ Really? Our Account? Let’s Check—Give Me Some Money for Clothes for Me and the Kids. It’s Been Fifteen Years Since I Bought Anything New—Still Wearing My Old Wedding Outfit and Hand-Me-Downs From Your Brother’s Wife. So Do the Kids. And I Want to Rent a Flat—Tired of Living in Your Mum’s Place.” “Mum’s Given Us Two Rooms, You Shouldn’t Complain. And As for Clothes, Why Waste Money? The Kids Can Wear What Their Cousins Outgrew.” “What About Me? Whose Cast-Offs Should I Wear—Your Brother’s Wife’s?” “Who Are You Dressing Up For?” John Sneered. “You’re a Mum of Two, You’re 35! You Shouldn’t Worry About Outfits.” “And What Should I Worry About?” “The Meaning of Life. Your Spiritual Growth is More Important Than Clothes, Flats, or All That ‘Women’s Rubbish.’” “So That’s Why You Keep All the Money to Yourself—for Our ‘Bright Future,’ So We Can Grow Spiritually?” “Because I Can’t Trust You—You’d Spend It All! How Would We Survive if Anything Happened?” “And When Exactly Will We Start ‘Living,’ John? Haven’t You Noticed We Already Live As If the Worst Has Happened—Scrimping on Everything, Even Soap and Toilet Paper, Stealing Hand Cream From Work—‘Every Penny Counts.’ Tell Me, How Much Longer Must We Endure? Ten Years More? Twenty? How Old Do I Have to Be Before We Can Finally Afford Decent Toilet Paper?” John Stayed Silent. Valerie Guessed, “Forty? No, Too Soon! Fifty? Still Too Soon? Sixty, Maybe? Or Will We Just Never Start Living At All?” Still Silence. “You Know What, John? What If We Don’t Make It to Sixty? We Eat So Much Cheap Rubbish Because You’re So Tight, and We’re Always Miserable—Don’t You Know That Miserable People Don’t Live Long? But Even If We Moved Out and Ate Properly, You Couldn’t Save Your Precious Money.” “Exactly,” Said Valerie. “That’s Why I’m Leaving—I’m Done With Constant Saving. I Don’t Want This Any More. You Can Keep Saving—I Won’t.” “How Will You Live?” John Was Horrified. “I’ll Manage—Rent My Own Place, Buy Clothes and Food, and Most of All, I Won’t Have to Endure Your Lectures on Penny-Pinching. I’ll Use the Washing Machine in the Day, Buy Nice Toilet Paper and Napkins, Shop Without Waiting for Sales, and Yes, I’ll Spend Every Penny—Even Your Maintenance Payments. I’ll Drop the Kids at Yours on Weekends and Go to Theatres, Restaurants, and By the Summer, I’ll Have a Seaside Holiday—Haven’t Decided Where Yet, But I Will.” John Felt Terrified—Not for Her or the Kids, But for Himself. What Would Be Left After Child Support? Especially If She Started Travelling and Spending ‘His’ Money? “One More Thing,” Valerie Said. “The Joint Account You Guard So Jealously—We’ll Split It. Half Each. And I’ll Spend My Share, Too. Every Penny. When My Time Comes, I Want My Account at Zero—That’s How I’ll Know I Truly Lived for Myself.” Two Months Later, John and Valerie Were Divorced.

Margaret was washing the dishes in the kitchen when Edward came in, flicking off the lights as he entered.