La vida

“WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HE’S A VEGETABLE! YOU’LL BE CHANGING HIS BEDPANS FOR LIFE, BUT I’M YOUNG—I NEED A REAL MAN!” SCREAMED THE BRIDE IN INTENSIVE CARE. DR. LIDA REMAINED SILENT, KNOWING THIS PATIENT WAS NO ‘VEGETABLE’—HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HEAR HER. Dr. Lydia Smith was a neurosurgeon, 38 years old, living in the operating theatre. No private life at all. Her husband had left five years earlier for a bubbly fitness instructor, telling Lydia as a parting shot: “You’re like a scalpel, Lida—cold and sharp. It’s always chilly with you.” But she wasn’t cold. Just focused. You can’t afford emotions when you’re working in someone’s brain. That shift, a young man—rider in a horrific motorbike accident—was brought in. Skull fracture, coma. Odds of survival—one in a million. Colleagues shook their heads: “Lydia, he won’t make it. If he does—he’ll be severely disabled. A vegetable.” “We’re operating,” Lydia snapped. For six hours, she pieced his skull together and stitched up shattered vessels. She fought as if he was her own. Why? She couldn’t say. She caught sight of his face before the swelling—a young, stubborn, handsome face—and decided: not today. His name was Tom. He was 29. He survived, but didn’t wake. The coma slipped into a vegetative state. Tubes everywhere—he breathed through a ventilator. Then came his fiancée: a flashy blonde with plumped-up lips. She wrinkled her nose when she saw Tom. “Ugh… That’s him?” “Yes,” Lydia said, checking the monitors. “His condition is stable but serious. Too early for predictions.” “What predictions?!” the young woman shrieked. “Can’t you see? He’s practically a corpse! Our wedding’s in a month! The honeymoon in Bali’s booked! And he’s just… lying here!” “Miss, please—have some respect,” Lydia replied quietly. “He can hear you.” “Hear? His brain’s mush! Look, can’t you, I don’t know… switch him off? Why make him—and me—suffer? I didn’t sign up to play nursemaid to a cripple!” Lydia kicked her out. Hard. “Get out. If I see you here again, I’m calling security.” The girl stalked off, heels clicking. She never came back. Tom was alone. He had no family—grew up in care. Lydia began staying late after shifts—checking his stats at first, then speaking to him. “Hello, Tom. It’s raining today. Horrible weather, but the air’s fresh. You know, I saved an old lady today—she had an aneurysm…” She read him books. Told him about her cat, her ex-husband, her loneliness. It was strange, pouring her heart out to someone lying there motionless, gazing at the ceiling with empty eyes. Still, Lydia felt him there. She massaged his hands so his muscles wouldn’t waste away. Put rock music on his headphones—using the playlist from his phone that came in with his things. Colleagues shook their heads. “Lydia’s lost it. Fallen for a ‘vegetable.’” But she saw how his heart rate changed when she entered the room. Four months went by. One night while filling in files by his bed, Lydia spoke aloud: “You know, Tom—They want to promote me to Head of Department. I’m scared. It’d mean paperwork, management stuff… I just want to treat people.” Suddenly, she felt a touch—weak, barely there. His fingers squeezed her hand. Lydia froze. Tom was looking at her. With recognition. He tried to speak, but the tracheostomy got in the way. His lips moved silently: “T… h… a… n… k… y… o… u…” It was a miracle—medical and human. Recovery was hell. Tom had to relearn everything. Lydia was there—his therapist, psychologist, friend. When he finally spoke, he whispered, “I remember your voice. You read Remarque to me. And told me about Barley—the cat.” Lydia cried. For the first time in years, the “iron lady” wept. Tom was discharged after six months—wheelchair-bound, but with hope to walk again. Lydia took him in. Not as a patient—but because he had nowhere else to go. Their life was strange: her, a doctor; him, her charge. But something more began to grow. Tom was a programmer—soon working remotely from his chair. “I’ll buy you a new coat, Lyds. The blue one you wanted.” “Nonsense! Save up for your rehab.” A year later, Tom walked—with a cane, limping, but up on his feet. And then the ex-fiancée reappeared, having seen Tom’s photo on social media—standing strong, handsome. She came to Lydia’s house. “Tommy! Darling! I suffered so much! Doctors terrified me—you’d die! Forgive me, silly me! I love you!” She clung to him, smelling of pricey perfume. Lydia waited in the hall, fists clenched. Tom calmly but firmly removed her hands. “Christina, I heard everything—in intensive care. Every word—about being a ‘vegetable,’ about unplugging the machines.” “Tom, it was shock! I was in a state!” “No. That was the real you. Leave.” “But—” “Out.” Christina left, cursing the “ungrateful freak.” Tom turned to Lydia. “You know why I came back?” he asked. “Why?” “Because you called me. In the darkness, I followed your voice. You were my lighthouse.” He limped over and hugged her. “Lydia, you aren’t cold. You’re the warmest person I’ve ever known.” They married quietly, without fuss. Tom fully recovered. Now they’re raising their adopted son—the same boy Lydia once operated on after an injury, whose alcoholic parents abandoned him. Lydia became head of her department. She still stays late with her sickest patients, knowing sometimes a kind word works better than the sharpest scalpel—even when the body is silent, the soul can hear you. Moral: Too often we write people off based on diagnoses or circumstances. But love and faith are the strongest tools of recovery. Betrayal in a crisis is never forgotten—it shows someone’s true face. And real love is proven not on a beach in Bali, but at a hospital bedside, carrying bedpans and holding hands in the dark…

WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HES JUST A SHELL OF A MAN! NOW YOULL BE EMPTYING CHAMBER POTS FOREVER, AND IM YOUNGI

La vida

073

“I Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Left Three months – that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights with baby Max screaming so loud the neighbours banged on the walls. Three months of Marina stumbling around like a zombie, red-eyed and shaky-handed. And Igor would stalk through the flat, grim as a raincloud. “Can you imagine how I look at work? Like a tramp,” he threw out once, scrutinising himself in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina stayed silent. Feeding, rocking, feeding again. An endless cycle. And somewhere nearby, Igor – her husband – moaning instead of helping. “You know, maybe your mum could come over?” he suggested one evening, stretching after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking, I might pop down to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week?” Marina froze mid-bottle. “I need a break, Marina. Seriously.” Igor started packing his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she has? Her eyelids stick together, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying again. For the fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “I get it’s hard,” he waved off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s important, lots of responsibility. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina suddenly saw them from the outside: her, in a grubby dressing gown, wild hair, baby screaming in her arms; Igor, packing his case, bolting away. “I want to live for myself and finally get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood in the middle of the flat with her crying son and felt everything inside crumble. A week passed. Then another. Igor rang a handful of times, asking how things were. His voice distant, like talking to someone he barely knew. “I’ll be back at the weekend.” He didn’t come. “Definitely tomorrow.” Again, nothing. Marina rocked the screaming baby, changed nappies, mixed formula. Snatched half-hour naps between feeds. “You’re doing alright?” asked her mate. “Brilliant,” she lied. Why does she lie? She’s ashamed. Ashamed her husband left. That she’s alone with a baby. You’d think it couldn’t get worse. But it got more interesting at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s colleague. “Where’s your hubby?” Lena asked. “Busy with work.” “I see. Men are all the same—start working overtime as soon as kids arrive.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor go on business trips often?” “What trips?” “He just went up to Manchester for that seminar! Showed us pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was ‘busy’. Lied, wasn’t busy—he was in Manchester. Igor showed up on Saturday, with flowers. “Sorry I’ve been gone so long. Lot of work.” “Went to Manchester, did you?” He froze with the bouquet. “Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter. What matters is, why are you lying?” “I’m not. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere. “Igor, I need help. Do you understand? I haven’t slept for weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what? You don’t give me any money.” “What do you mean? I pay the mortgage, the bills…” “And food? Nappies? Medicine?” He went quiet. Then: “Maybe you should go back to work? Even part-time? Why stay at home? We’ll get a nanny.” Staying home, as if it’s a holiday! At that, Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and realised: this man doesn’t love her. Not at all. He never did. “Get out.” “Where to?” “Out. And don’t come back till you decide what matters: family or ‘freedom.'” Igor grabbed his keys and left. For two days. Then he texted: “Thinking.” Marina didn’t sleep. She thought too. Imagine being alone with your thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How’re you doing, Marina? Igor not home?” “He’s away for work.” Lied. Again. “Shall I come help?” “I’ll manage.” But that wasn’t it. Her mum came anyway. “What’s going on here?” she looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina looked in the mirror. Rough shape. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s happening?” Marina started crying. Loud, like a child. Desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Her mum stayed quiet. Then: “Bastard. Absolute bastard.” Marina was shocked. Her mother never used foul language. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much?” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I should have understood?” “Is it hard for you, Marina?” At that bluntness, Marina realised: she’d only ever thought about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. About herself—not a word. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned, clearly ‘thinking’ at the cottage. “Can we talk?” “Yes.” They sat at the table. “Marina, I get it’s hard for you. But it’s tough for me too. Maybe we agree? I’ll help with money, visit. But for now I’ll live separately.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, a couple hundred quid?” Two hundred pounds. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. And don’t come back.” “Marina, I’m making an offer here!” “Offer? Want your freedom? What about mine?” Then Igor said the line that made everything clear: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mum!” Marina looked at him: there he was, the real Igor. Infantile, selfish—thinks motherhood is a prison sentence. “I’ll apply for support. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I will.” He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt like she could breathe. Max cried. But now she knew: she would cope. A year passed. Igor tried to come back twice. “Marina, let’s try again?” “Too late.” Igor spread rumours Marina was cold-hearted. Unconvincing. Marina found a nanny, got a job as a nurse. At work, she met Dr Andrew. “Do you have kids?” “A son.” “And his dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought Max a toy car. They played and laughed together. Soon, they often walked together in the park. Igor found out. Called up: “The boy’s only one, and you’re already with another man!” “What did you expect? For me to sit around waiting for you?” “But you’re a mum!” “Yes, I am. So?” He stopped calling. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he showed up straight away. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his country house. Now Max is two. Calls Andrew ‘Uncle.’ Doesn’t remember Igor. Igor remarried. Pays support. Marina doesn’t hold a grudge. Now she’s living for herself, too. And it’s wonderful.

I just want to live for myself and finally get some sleep, my husband announced as he left.

La vida

Anna sat weeping on a bench in the hospital garden. Today she turned 70, but neither her son nor daughter came to see her or offered any birthday wishes. Her ward-mate, Mrs. Jenkins, was the only one who congratulated her, even bringing a small gift. The kindly cleaner, Mary, gave her an apple for her birthday. The care home was well-kept, but most of the staff were indifferent. Everyone knew that the elderly were left here by children to live out their days, as they’d become a burden. Anna’s own son had brought her here, saying it was just for a rest and some medical care, but in truth, she’d simply become a nuisance to her daughter-in-law. After all, the flat belonged to Anna, until her son convinced her to sign it over to him. He promised she’d live just as before, but the reality was different: the whole family moved in, and life became a battleground with her daughter-in-law. She was never satisfied—complaints about Anna’s cooking, about the bathroom, about everything. At first, her son defended Anna, but he stopped, and soon began to shout at her too. Then Anna noticed them whispering together and stopping abruptly when she entered the room. One morning, her son told her she needed to rest, to have treatment. Bitterly, Anna asked him straight to his face: “Are you putting me in a care home, son?” He flushed and fidgeted, replying guiltily: “No, Mum. It’s just a nice nursing home. Just a month of rest and then back home.” He delivered her, swiftly signed the papers, and hurried away, promising to come back soon. He only visited once, bringing two apples and two oranges, asking how she was before leaving again in a rush. She’s been here nearly two years now. After a month passed with no sign of her son, she phoned the family flat. Strangers answered—the flat had been sold, and her son’s whereabouts were unknown. Anna wept for a few nights, but knew by then she’d never go home, so what was the point in tears? Her greatest regret was pushing aside her daughter for her son’s sake. Anna was born in a village, married Peter, her school sweetheart. They had a large house and a smallholding—never rich, but never hungry either. One day a friend from the city visited, tempting Peter with promises of city life and good wages. He persuaded Anna to sell all and move, and they were given a flat and bought an old car, a battered Ford. But Peter died in a car accident. Left alone with two children, Anna worked evening cleaning jobs to scrape by. She thought her children would help her once they grew up—it didn’t turn out that way. Her son got into trouble; Anna borrowed to keep him out of jail and spent years repaying the debt. Her daughter Daisy got married and had a baby, but the child was often ill and Daisy left her job to care for him. After much searching, doctors finally diagnosed a rare disease that only one London specialist could treat, and the waiting list was endless. Daisy’s husband left her, though she kept the flat, and she eventually met a widower whose child suffered from the same illness. They became a couple, but five years later he fell ill and needed surgery. Anna had savings she’d meant to give her son for a house deposit—but when Daisy asked for help, Anna refused, wanting to save the money for her own child instead of “an outsider.” Daisy was deeply hurt, telling her mother to never ask for help again, and they stopped speaking for twenty years. Daisy eventually cured her husband and they moved to live by the sea with their children. Anna always wished she could change the past, but it was all too late. Anna slowly stood from the bench and turned for the care home. Suddenly, she heard: “Mum!” Her heart leapt. Slowly turning, she saw her daughter—Daisy. Her knees buckled, but Daisy rushed over and caught her. “At last, I’ve found you… My brother wouldn’t give me your address, but I threatened court over the illegal flat sale and then he finally gave in.” They sat together in the entrance hall. “I’m so sorry, Mum, for not speaking for so long. First, I was angry, then ashamed, and kept putting it off. But last week I dreamed of you, wandering the woods and weeping. I woke up feeling so heavy-hearted. I told my husband everything—he said, ‘Go, make peace.’ I came, but strangers were living in your flat. It took a while, but I finally got your address. Now I’m here. Pack your things, you’re coming with me. We have a beautiful house by the seaside, you know. My husband insisted, if my mum ever needed help, I should bring her home.” Anna hugged her daughter tearfully—but these were tears of happiness at last. Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long on the land the Lord your God is giving you.

June 9th I found myself sitting alone on the bench in the hospital gardens, tears blurring my vision.

La vida

We Truly Need Your Help! You Simply Must Assist Us!” – My Mother-in-Law Insisted.

4May2025 Im writing this while the kettle is whistling, trying to make sense of the chaos that erupted

La vida

My Ex-Wife… It happened two years ago. My business trip was coming to an end and I was due to return home, to Alperton. After buying my ticket, I decided to wander around the city, since I still had three hours left before my journey. As I was walking, a woman approached me—and I recognised her instantly. She was my first wife, whom I’d divorced twelve years earlier. Zina hadn’t changed at all, except her face seemed almost ghostly pale. I could see the meeting unsettled her as much as it did me. I’d loved her deeply—painfully so—and that had been our undoing. I was jealous of everyone, even her own mother. If she was late, my heart would race and I’d imagine terrible things. Eventually, Zina left, unable to bear my daily interrogations—where she’d been, who with, why. One day, I came home with a little puppy tucked in my coat, wanting to surprise her with a silly present. She wasn’t there. On the table was a note. She wrote that she was leaving, that she still loved me, but my suspicion had drained her. She begged my forgiveness and pleaded that I never try to find her… And now, after twelve years apart, I’d run into her by chance in the city where work had brought me. We talked for a long time, until I suddenly remembered I might miss my coach home. Finally, I said, “Sorry, but I have to go now, I’m already late for my bus.” Then Zina said, “Alex, could you do me a favour, please? I know you’re in a hurry, but for the sake of the good times between us, don’t refuse. Come with me to an office—it’s really important to me, and I can’t go alone.” Of course, I agreed, but said, “As long as it’s quick!” We entered a large building and wandered from wing to wing, up and down staircases. I thought it took maybe fifteen minutes. People of all ages passed us—children, pensioners, everyone in between. I didn’t wonder why kids or old folks would be in an admin building; all my thoughts were with Zina. At some point, she slipped into a room and closed the door behind her. Before shutting it, she gave me a look—as if saying goodbye—and murmured, “How strange, I couldn’t be with you… but I couldn’t be without you, either.” I stood outside, waiting for her to return. I wanted to ask what she’d meant by those words. But she didn’t come back. Suddenly, I snapped out of it. I realised I absolutely had to catch my bus, and here I was, running late! Looking around nervously, I was terrified. The building was derelict—gaping holes where windows once were. There weren’t even stairs anymore, just scattered floorboards, down which I carefully picked my way. I missed my bus by a whole hour and had to buy a ticket for a later one. When I bought my new ticket, I was told that the earlier coach I’d missed had crashed into the river. No one survived. Two weeks later, I was standing at my former mother-in-law’s doorstep, having tracked her down. Mrs. Allen told me that Zina had died eleven years ago, a year after our divorce. I didn’t believe her—thought maybe she was just protecting her daughter from my jealous obsession all over again. But when I asked to be shown Zina’s grave, she surprised me by agreeing. A few hours later, I stood by a headstone, looking at the photo of the woman I’d loved my whole life—the woman who, in some impossible way, had just saved it. (Adapted Original Title:) My First Wife: A Spooky Encounter in London that Saved My Life Twelve Years After Our Divorce

So, this all happened a couple of years back. Id been away for work for a whilethe project was just about

La vida

0164

Handing Over the Cottage Keys: When Hosting Friends Backfires—How Emma and John’s Generous Holiday Offer to Friends Became a Comedy of Errors, Unexpected Bills, and Strained Friendships

Lend us the keys to your cottage, well stay there for a bit, thats what our friends asked, blissfully

La vida

That Morning, Michael’s Condition Worsened—He Struggled to Breathe. “Nick, I Don’t Want Anything—No More Medicines, Nothing. But Please, Let Me Say Goodbye to My Friend. I Beg You, Unhook All This…” Men from the Ward Gathered. “Nick, Surely There’s Something You Can Do? No One Should Go This Way.” Nick Knew What He Had to Do—Consequences Be Damned. With the Nurse’s Blessing, He Rushed Out to Fetch Michael’s Beloved Dog. The Tearful Goodbye Left the Room in Silence, the Dog Crying Beside His Owner. Afterwards, Nick Sat in the Hospital Courtyard, Ready to Quit His Job—But Anna, Eyes Red from Grief, Called Him the Best of Men. Three Years Later, Nick and Anna, Now a Family, Stroll Down to the River: Their Child in a Pram, Their Loyal Dog at Their Side—Love, Loss, and Loyalty Endure.

In the morning, Michael George was worse. He was struggling to breathe. Nick, I dont want anything.

La vida

My Wife Was Sleeping Beside Me… and Suddenly I Received a Facebook Notification from a Woman Asking to Be Added.

My wife, Emily, lay beside me, the nights hush wrapping the little cottage wed made our own in the Cotswolds.

La vida

055

Yesterday, I Quit My Job—No Resignation Letter, No Two Weeks’ Notice: I Set a Cake on the Table, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “boss” was my own daughter—Caroline. For years, I thought my pay was love. But yesterday, I realized in our family’s economy, my love meant nothing next to a brand new tablet. My name is Anne, I’m 64. On paper I’m a retired nurse living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m a driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, therapist, and on-call “paramedic” for my two grandsons: Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what they call “village”: Remember, “it takes a village to raise a child”? In modern Britain, that “village” is usually one tired granny fueled by tea, painkillers, and paracetamol. Caroline works in marketing, her husband Andrew in finance—nice people, or so I told myself. Always stressed, always rushing. Nursery’s pricey, after-school clubs are tricky. When Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Caroline sobbed. “We trust only you.” So I agreed—I didn’t want to be a burden; I became the support. My day began at 5:45am—off to their house, making actual porridge (not instant, because Daniel won’t eat quick oats), packing the kids, driving to school, cleaning floors and loos I never used, back for pickups, clubs, homework, football, English lessons. I’m the “no” granny, the rule granny. And then there’s Linda—Andrew’s mum: sea-view flat, face-lifts, new car, holidays. She sees the boys twice a year. Doesn’t know Max’s allergies, can’t calm Daniel’s maths tantrums, never wiped sick off a car seat. She’s the “fun” granny. Yesterday was Max’s ninth birthday. With little money, I wanted a real gift—I spent three months knitting a weighted blanket in his favourite colours, baked a proper cake. At 4:15 the door rang—Linda breezed in: perfume, styling, shopping bags—”Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to get to her. “Gran!” She pulled out branded bags—”Didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing.” Two deluxe gaming tablets—no limits, she winked, “Today my rules!” Chaos. Cake forgotten. Guests ignored. Caroline and Andrew beamed. “Linda, you spoil them,” Andrew said, pouring wine. I stood with my blanket. “Max, I’ve a gift, and the cake…” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Gran—I’m levelling up.” “I spend all winter—” He sighed, “Gran, no one wants blankets. Linda got tablets. Why are you always boring? All you bring is food or clothes.” I looked to Caroline, hoping she’d step in. She laughed awkwardly. “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s a kid. Tablets are more fun. Linda’s the ‘fun granny.’ You’re our everyday granny.” Everyday granny—like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I wish Linda lived here,” Daniel piped up. “She doesn’t force us to do homework.” Something snapped inside me. I folded the blanket, put it on the table, took off my apron. “Caroline, I’m done.” “Done with what? Slicing cake?” “No. Done.” I took my bag. “I’m not your home appliance. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My big presentation tomorrow—who’ll take the kids?” “No idea. Sell a tablet, maybe. Or let ‘fun gran’ stay.” “Mum, we need you!” I stopped. “That’s the point. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. Today I woke at nine, made coffee, sat outside. For the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandchildren. But I won’t live as unpaid help disguised as ‘family’ anymore. Love isn’t self-destruction—and Grandma isn’t a resource. If you want a rule granny, you respect the rules. For now…maybe I’ll take up dancing. They say that’s what ‘fun grannies’ do.

Yesterday, I quit. No resignation letter. No two weeks notice. I simply placed the platter holding the

La vida

Night Express: When a Rowdy Gang of Partygoers Takes Over London’s Last Trolleybus, Only to Discover the Chilling Price for Their Wild Ride—A Harrowing Midnight Journey with a Silent Conductor, a Desperate Plea for Escape, and an Unexpected Lesson Waiting at the End of the Line

Night Bus The doors of the night bus folded together with a clatter, letting a burst of warmth and murky