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Temporary Houseguests Listen, love, theres something I need to talk to you about Sophie braced herself

CAN’T WAIT TO BE WED Alla Was Desperate for a Happy Marriage—Her First Ended in Betrayal. Now a 40-Year-Old Doctor and University Head, She Faces Suitors, Single Parenthood, and a Romantic Twist with a Former Algerian Student—All While Her Mother, Son, and Ex-Husband Complicate Her Quest for Real Love

IMPATIENT FOR MARRIAGE Alice had always dreamed of a happy marriage. Shed already been unlucky onceher

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The Truth That Tightened Every Nerve Inside As Tatiana hung fresh laundry on the back garden line, she heard quiet sobs and peered over the fence. There, at the boundary, sat Kate—her neighbour’s eight-year-old daughter. Though already in Year Two at school, Kate seemed so tiny and frail, more like a six-year-old. “Kate, have they upset you again? Come along,” called Tatiana, sliding back the loose board in her fence—a passage for the girl, who often sought refuge here. “Mum kicked me out, said ‘get lost,’ then shoved me through the door. She and Uncle Colin are having fun,” Kate said, wiping tears away. “Never mind, come inside. Lizzie and Mike are at the table, I’ll make sure you’re fed too.” Tatiana had often shielded Kate from her mother’s rough ways. Living just over the fence, she’d take Kate in until Anna, her mother, cooled off. She refused to send the girl home until the storm had passed. Kate always envied Lizzie and Mike, the neighbour’s children—Auntie Tanya and her husband adored their kids, never scolded them. Their home was full of calm warmth, and kindness. Kate understood this. She envied that gentle family life so much that it ached inside, like a stone settling on her chest and a lump tightening her throat. She loved it here, feeling safe and accepted. Her own home held only rules. Her mother made her fetch water, sweep the barn, weed the garden, scrub the floors. Anna had Kate alone, with no husband, and from day one, she’d seemed to resent the child. Back when Anna’s mother was alive—Kate’s granny—they still lived together in granny’s house. Granny doted on Kate and tried to protect her, since Anna hardly paid her any attention. Life was better with granny there, but when she died just after Kate turned six, everything grew harder. Anna, embittered by her single life, was always on the lookout for a man. She worked as a cleaner at the bus depot, mostly surrounded by men. Soon a new driver arrived—Colin, recently divorced and paying child support to his own son. Anna wasted no time inviting him to live with her. Colin, delighted with a roof over his head, let Anna dote on him. Kate didn’t bother him. “Let her scurry around, she’ll be useful soon enough,” Colin mused. Anna poured all her affection into Colin, neglecting Kate, making her work and sometimes hitting her. “If you don’t listen, I’ll send you to care,” Anna threatened. Kate was too small to manage the barn chores and often ended up crying quietly under the neighbour’s currant bushes. Tatiana would spot her and bring her inside. Kate grew up withdrawn, shy and unsure. Neighbours whispered about Anna’s treatment of Kate—everyone in the village knew one another. Especially Tatiana, who didn’t hold back her concerns. Anna spread a rumour to defend herself— “Don’t listen to that Tanya! She just wants my Colin, that’s why she says I mistreat Kate.” Anna and Colin often drank themselves silly at holidays. Whenever they were partying, Kate would sneak out to the neighbours and stay overnight. Only Tatiana truly understood Kate’s heartache. Time passed, Kate did well in school. Eventually she finished Year Eleven and dreamed of going to the city for medical college. Her mother was blunt— “You’ll get a job instead. You’re grown now; can’t keep freeloading,” Anna snapped. Kate, forbidden to cry in the house, rushed outside in tears. After she calmed down, Kate visited Tatiana, whose own children now studied in the city. This time Tatiana had enough. She marched over to Anna’s house. “Anna, you don’t act like a mother! Most mums try their best, but you push your own child away. It’s cruel. She deserves an education—look at how well she’s done in her classes. Someday, you’ll come begging to her yourself.” “Who do you think you are?” Anna shot back. “Mind your own!” “Calm down, Anna. Colin sent his son to study, and you torment your daughter. Open your eyes!” Anna yelled, then collapsed on the settee, drained. “Yeah, I’m strict. I do it for her own good—to make sure she doesn’t end up like me. Fine. Let her move to the borough and study, let her go,” she finally huffed. Kate was accepted into medical college. She was ecstatic, though self-conscious—her clothes were modest, making her stand out. No one judged her; there were other village girls just like her. Kate rarely came home. She hated visiting Anna and Colin, but on breaks she had to return, always stopping at Tatiana’s first, who would welcome her, feed her, and listen. Tatiana and her husband made her feel at home. Meanwhile Anna faced her own troubles—Colin had run off with a younger woman. Anna was angry and difficult when Kate came home for holidays. “What are you doing here? No time for you. Go work!” One day, Colin came home, packed his things. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not leaving!” Anna shouted. “Rita’s expecting my child, and I’ll care for my own. Your daughter is like a stranger to you, but mine will know love and kindness,” he replied, and left. The truth in his words stunned Anna. She couldn’t scream or cry; it just squeezed her insides tight. Kate had overheard—the pictures flashed: every time she’d been belted for making noise, every time she’d been thrown outside. Colin never defended her, just watched and smirked. On her final year, Kate worked at the hospital, supporting herself. She stopped going home—her mother drank, looked rough, just scraping by. From a timid girl, Kate blossomed into a capable nurse, kind to patients. She earned respect, and people even praised Anna as a mother—but Kate only smiled. “What upbringing?” she thought. “It was all Tatiana—her protection, care, and encouragement gave me everything, especially my beloved job.” Anna filled her house with drinking friends, and even on Kate’s rare visits, she was appalled by her mother’s decline. Anna had lost her job ages ago. Kate had no words left: nothing would change her. She only wished she could clear out the house, renovate, start fresh, reconnect. But Anna refused, sinking further. Kate held back tears of resentment After graduating, she returned home. Anna sat alone, glaring coldly. “What brings you here? Not staying, are you? There’s no food; fridge’s off. Give me money; my head hurts.” A lump rose in Kate’s throat, but she blinked away the tears. “I’m not staying, don’t worry… I passed with distinction, moving to the county now, working in the hospital. Won’t visit much, but I’ll send some money. Goodbye, Mum.” Anna barely registered the words—she just wanted a drink, demanded money. “Just give me the cash. Can’t you spare some for your own mother… What kind of daughter are you?” Kate placed a small sum on the table, closed the door gently, lingered, hoping Anna might call out and embrace her. Nobody came. She walked slowly to Tatiana’s. Tatiana beamed, sat her at the kitchen table. “Join us, Kate! We’re just about to eat. Oh, I have a present for you—it’s for earning top marks, and a little money for a start.” Kate sobbed with thanks. “Auntie Tanya, why is it like this? Why does my mum treat me as if I’m not hers?” “Don’t cry, Kate,” Tatiana hugged her, “don’t cry. There’s nothing you could change… Anna’s just that way. Maybe you came at the wrong time—but you’re smart, beautiful, and you will be loved and happy.” Kate moved to the regional city, took a post as a surgical nurse. There she met her future—Paul, a young surgeon, fell head over heels. Soon they married, with Tatiana by Kate’s side instead of Anna. Anna received money from her daughter and boasted to her drinking mates: “I raised a daughter like that—she sends money, thanks me. I taught her well. Shame she shut me out of her wedding, never visits, never even showed me the grandkids. Never met her husband, not once.” Not long after, Tatiana found Anna dead on her kitchen floor. How long she’d lain there in silence, no one knew—Tatiana had grown concerned when the yard grew eerily quiet. Kate and her husband paid for the funeral, sold the house soon after, and only visited Tatiana now and then.

The Truth That Tightened Everything Inside Today Im hanging the laundry out in our back garden when I

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Is the Orchid to Blame? “Polly, please take this orchid or I’ll just throw it out,” Kate said, handing me the transparent pot with its wilting bloom from her windowsill. “Oh, thanks, love! But what’s wrong with this orchid? It seems fine to me,” I wondered, glancing at her other three thriving orchids. “That flower was a wedding gift for my son,” Kate sighed heavily. “And you know what happened in the end…” “I do: your Dan got divorced after less than a year. I won’t ask why, I can guess it was serious. After all, Dan adored Tanya,” I tried not to stir old wounds for my friend. “One day, I’ll tell you the real reason, Polly, but not now—it still hurts to talk about.” Kate’s voice wavered, and her eyes filled with tears. I brought the “rejected” orchid home. My husband looked at the sad plant with pity. “Why bother with that poor thing? Even I can tell there’s no life left in it.” “I want to bring it back to life,” I replied. “I’ll give it a bit of love and care. I promise, you’ll end up admiring this orchid.” He just winked and teased, “Who could refuse a bit of love?” A week later, Kate called. “Polly, can I come over? I can’t keep this all bottled up—I need to talk about Dan’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Kate, come any time,” I replied. Kate had always supported me—through my first painful divorce, and the second marriage that also fell apart. We’d been friends for ages. Within an hour, she arrived. We settled in the kitchen with a glass of wine, a fresh coffee, and some dark chocolate, and she began her long story. “I never imagined my former daughter-in-law could be so heartless. Dan and Tanya were together for seven years before they married. Dan left Annie for her, and I really liked Annie; she was so homely and sweet, I used to call her my daughter. “But Tanya—gorgeous, like a model—completely bewitched Dan. He doted on her, followed her everywhere, hovered like a bee around honey. Their love seemed so intense. There were no children in all those years together—I suppose Dan wanted to do things properly, get married, then start a family. He never talked much about personal matters, and we never pried. “One day, Dan simply announced: ‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry office. No expense spared.’ We were over the moon—he was thirty, time to settle down. “But the wedding date had to be moved twice: Dan was poorly, then I got back late from a work trip. I had a bad feeling about it, but Dan was so happy, I kept quiet. He even wanted to have a church blessing, but the vicar was away for months. Nothing seemed to go smoothly—there were warning signs everywhere. “Anyway, we finally had the wedding—big party and all. Look at this photo, Polly: see how lush that orchid was? Standing tall, full of bloom. Now it’s just ragged leaves. “Dan and Tanya planned a honeymoon in Paris, but right at the airport, Tanya was stopped over some massive unpaid fine. Dan just brushed off all the bad luck; he was head in the clouds, dreaming of family life. “Then Dan fell seriously ill—hospitalised, very grim. Doctors were stumped. “Tanya visited for a week, then told him, ‘Sorry, but I can’t be married to an invalid. I’ve filed for divorce.’ “Can you imagine, Polly, what my Dan felt, powerless in his hospital bed? Still, all he said was, ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t make this difficult.’ “They split. But Dan pulled through—we found a brilliant doctor who got him back on his feet in six months. The doctor had a lovely young daughter, Maddy. At first, Dan was utterly uninterested—‘Too short, not even that pretty.’ “‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. Your ex-wife was beautiful, but happiness matters more than appearances.’ “Dan couldn’t forget Tanya, but Maddy fell for him completely, always calling, never giving up. We tried to bring them together—took them on an outing. Dan was silent, miserable, immune to even Maddy’s hopeful glances. “I told my husband, ‘A mistake, this matchmaking. Dan still loves Tanya. She’s a thorn he can’t shake.’ “Three or four months later, Dan showed up at home with the notorious orchid. ‘Here, Mum, leftovers from past happiness. Do what you like with it—I don’t need it anymore.’ “I took the orchid without enthusiasm, almost resenting it, as if it were to blame for his misfortune. Shoehorned it at the back, never watered it. “Then a neighbour said, ‘Kate, I saw your Dan with that little Thumbelina girl. His ex was far more glamorous, though.’ “I couldn’t believe it—Dan and Maddy really an item? “Soon after, Dan arrived, holding Maddy’s hand and said, ‘Meet my wife.’ “‘But what about the wedding, the party?’ “‘No need for a fuss. Been there, done that. We had a quiet registry office wedding, then the vicar blessed us. Maddy and I belong together now.’ “I asked, ‘Do you love her, son? Or is this revenge on Tanya?’ “‘No, Mum, I’m not out to get Tanya. I’ve moved on. Maddy and I just fit—simple as that.’ “That’s the story, Polly,” Kate finished, pouring out her heart. Years passed. Life swept us along, so we didn’t see much of one another. But the orchid I rescued has come alive, flowering as never before. Plants know how to say thank you for care. Then, one day, I saw Kate at the hospital. “Hi, Polly! What brings you here?” “Maddy’s just had twins—they’re being discharged today,” Kate beamed. Over by the entrance, Dan and Kate’s husband waited with red roses. Maddy appeared, pale but happy, with a nurse cradling the sleeping bundles. And there, following, my own daughter with my newborn granddaughter. Tanya wanted Dan back, called, begged forgiveness, pleaded for a second chance. …You can glue a broken cup together, but it will never hold tea the same way again…

IS THE ORCHID REALLY TO BLAME? Polly, please take this orchid, or Ill just chuck it out, Katie said carelessly

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Happy Women Always Look Fabulous: Lily’s Journey from Heartbreak to a Glamorous Reunion and New Love After Divorce

Happy women always look their best Emily had struggled deeply after her husband betrayed her.

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ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Honestly, I never planned on getting married. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s persistent courtship, I’d still be living like a free spirit. Arthur was like a lovesick butterfly, fluttering around me, never letting me out of his sight, eager to please, treating me like I was made of glass… In short, I caved. We got married. Arthur instantly became a homebody—a familiar, warm soul. Life with him was easy, comfortable, like slipping into your favourite slippers. A year later, our son, Steven, was born. Arthur worked in another city, only coming home once a week, always bringing us delicious treats. One time when he was home, as usual, I got ready to wash his clothes and checked all the pockets, just in case. (Once I’d already washed his driving licence!) After that, I always double-checked before laundry. This time, a piece of paper fell out of his trousers—folded four times. I opened it. It was a long list of school supplies (it was August), with a child’s handwriting at the end: “Dad, please come home soon.” So, that’s how my husband spends his time away! A two-timer! I didn’t kick off a tantrum, didn’t pack my bag, grab Steven (not even three years old) by the hand, and head off to my mum’s house—indefinitely. Mum gave us a room: “Stay here until you sort things out.” I started thinking about revenge on my thankless husband. I remembered an old schoolmate, Rob. Now Rob, he was always chasing me—back in school, and even after. So I called him. “Hi, Rob! You married yet?” I asked playfully. “Nadine? Hey! What does it matter—married, divorced… Maybe we should meet up?” Rob perked up. And so began my impromptu fling. It lasted six months. Arthur paid child support, handing it over to my mum each month before leaving silently. I learned Arthur was living with Katie Evans—she had a daughter from her first marriage. Katie insisted her daughter call Arthur “Dad.” They all lived in Arthur’s flat. As soon as Katie heard I’d left, she and her daughter moved straight in from out of town. Katie worshipped Arthur—knitted him woolly socks and warm jumpers, cooked hearty meals… I only learned all this later. I’ll always bring up Katie Evans when my husband’s around. Back then, though, I thought our marriage was over, a complete disaster… …But, meeting over coffee to discuss divorce, Arthur and I were suddenly swamped with fond memories. Arthur confessed his undying love, repented, admitted he didn’t know how to get rid of clingy Katie. I couldn’t help but pity him. We reunited. And Arthur never found out about Rob. Katie and her daughter left town for good. …Seven happy years passed. Then Arthur was in a terrible car accident. Operations, rehab, walking with a stick—it took two years. The ordeal wore him down. Arthur began drinking heavily, losing all sense of himself, shutting out the world. It was agony, watching him destroy himself and wear us down. Pleas didn’t help. He refused all support. At work, I found a shoulder to cry on—Paul. He’d listen to me during smoke breaks, stroll after work, comfort and encourage. Paul was married; his wife was expecting their second child. To this day, I’m not sure how Paul and I ended up in bed together—madness! He was a head shorter than me, nothing like my type! Suddenly, Paul swept me off to galleries, concerts, ballets. When his wife had their daughter, the fun stopped. Paul quit our company and took another job. Maybe he thought: out of sight, out of mind? I didn’t hold it against him and let him go back to his family. For me, he was just a bandage for my soul. I never wanted to break up his marriage. Meanwhile, Arthur kept drinking. …Five years later, I bumped into Paul. He earnestly proposed to me. I had to laugh. My Arthur did manage to pull himself together—for a bit. He went to work in Prague. I played the devoted wife and caring mum, focused on family. Arthur came back after half a year. We renovated the flat, bought gadgets, fixed up his car. Life should have been great. But no—instead, Arthur relapsed and drank even more. Hell started all over again. His mates carried him home—he couldn’t walk, only crawl. I’d rush around our neighbourhood looking for my out-of-it husband, dragging him home from park benches, empty-pocketed… Anything could happen. …Then, one spring afternoon, I was standing sadly at a bus stop. Birds chirping, the sun glowing—April in full bloom, but I didn’t care. Someone whispered softly in my ear: “Maybe I can help with your troubles?” I turned around. My, what a handsome, well-groomed man! And here I am, 45! Am I going to be ‘ripe fruit’ again? I blushed like a schoolgirl. Thankfully, my bus arrived—I jumped on quickly, away from temptation. The man waved me off. All day, I daydreamed about him at work. Sure, I played hard to get for a couple of weeks… But Igor (that was his name) was relentless, like a tank. He’d wait for me every morning at the bus stop. I didn’t dare be late—would peek ahead to see if my heartthrob was waiting. Igor would flash me a smile and send flying kisses. One morning, he brought a bunch of red tulips. “What am I supposed to do with flowers at work?” I snorted. “The girls’ll figure me out and I’ll be in trouble for nothing.” Igor grinned, handed the bouquet to a little old lady watching our drama. The lady absolutely beamed! “Thank you, love! Wishing you a passionate lover!” I blushed at her words—at least she didn’t wish me a younger one! Igor turned to me: “Nadine, let’s be ‘in trouble’ together! Trust me, you won’t regret it.” Honestly, his offer was tempting and very timely. Arthur and I were on different planets then—most days, he was a lifeless plank, lost to drink. Igor didn’t smoke or drink, used to be an athlete (he was 57), and a brilliant talker—divorced, with a magnetic charm. I plunged headlong into a whirlwind affair! It was a pool of wild passion. For three years, I was torn between home and Igor, utterly muddled inside. I couldn’t stop—even when I wanted to. As they say, “a girl drives away the lad, but he doesn’t go.” Igor had total control over my body and soul! When he stood near, I couldn’t breathe. Pure madness! But deep down, I knew this couldn’t end well—I didn’t love Igor. After every steamy encounter, I wanted nothing more than to snuggle up to my husband—drunk, reeking, yet familiar and dear! Your own crust is tastier than someone else’s cake, I thought. Passion comes from ‘suffering’—I was ready to be done with Igor and come home, instead of foolishly chasing pleasure. That was my logic. My body, though, kept falling headfirst. My son knew about Igor. Once he spotted us at a restaurant, out with his girlfriend. I had to introduce them. They shook hands, exchanged glances. At dinner, Steven watched me, waiting for answers. I joked it off—“just a colleague, talking about a new project.” “In a restaurant, Mum?” he smirked. Steven didn’t judge—he just begged me not to divorce Dad: “Maybe Dad will come round.” I felt like a lost sheep. My divorced friend kept urging me, “Drop those useless lovers and calm down.” I listened; she had plenty of practice (on her third husband). But in the end, I only stopped with Igor when he tried to raise a hand against me. That was the final straw. My friend used to say: “It’s all calm till you step off the shore…” The fog lifted—I’d been stuck in darkness three years! Freedom at last! Igor kept chasing me, pleading at every chance—even on his knees, in public… But I stood firm. My friend kissed me in congratulations and gave me a mug with “You’re Right!” on it. As for Arthur, he knew all about my affair—Igor had called and told him everything. Igor was convinced I’d leave my marriage. Arthur later told me: “When I heard your admirer’s serenades, I just wanted to die quietly. It was all my fault—I lost my wife to the bottle. Idiot. What could I possibly say?” …Ten years have passed since. Arthur and I have two granddaughters. One day, sitting together over lunch, sipping coffee, I gazed out the window. Arthur took my hand gently: “Nadine, don’t go looking elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course, I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, Id never planned on getting married. If it wasnt for the determined

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Like a Songbird Drawn to the Call – Girls, Marriage Is for a Lifetime: My Grandmother’s Wise Words, My Parents’ Fifty Years of Love, Sisterly Rivalry, a Doomed First Marriage, and How I Finally Found True Happiness (After Heartbreak, Temptation, and Becoming a Stepmum)

LIKE A BIRD TO THE CALL Girls, you should marry once and for all. Stay with your beloved for life, right

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The Syndrome of a Life Forever on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old English Woman Helen: This year, I turned 60, and none of my family even phoned to wish me a happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even an ex-husband still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious London universities. Both are clever and successful. My daughter is married to a high-ranking civil servant; my son’s wife is the daughter of a major London businessman. Both have prosperous careers, several properties each, and their own businesses alongside their government roles—everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son graduated university, saying he was tired of the pace of life. He’d always had a quiet job, spent weekends with friends or on the sofa, and went away for a whole month’s holiday every year to relatives down south. I never took holidays—I juggled three jobs at once: factory engineer, cleaner in the management offices, and on weekends packing shelves at the local supermarket from 8am to 8pm, plus cleaning storerooms and other workspaces. Every penny I earned went to our children—London is expensive, and studying at prestigious universities meant good clothes, decent food, and entertainment. I got used to wearing old clothes, repairing shoes, and patching things up. Always tidy and clean—that was enough for me. My one escape was my dreams, where sometimes I saw myself young and happy, laughing. My husband, once he left, immediately bought a flashy new car. Clearly, he’d managed to save up. The reality of our marriage was odd—I paid for everything except the rent; he paid that, and that was his whole contribution. I educated the children… The flat we lived in was inherited from my nana—a solid, comfortable two-bedroom with high ceilings, converted to three rooms. There was a storeroom (8.5 square metres with a window) which I renovated so it could fit a bed, desk, wardrobe, and shelves. My daughter had this space. My son and I shared a room—I’d only come home to sleep. My husband had the lounge. When my daughter left for London, I moved into her old storeroom, my son stayed in the other room. Our marriage ended without drama—no arguments, no property battles, no blame. He wanted to live, not just exist, and I was so worn out I was actually relieved. No more need to cook full dinners, wash his clothes and sheets, iron and put away; I could actually rest. By then, I had loads of health problems—back, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nervous exhaustion. I finally took a real holiday from work and focused on getting treatment, keeping up my other jobs to pay for it. I hired a brilliant tradesman who, with his mate, did a wonderful bathroom renovation in two weeks—that was my personal happiness, just for me. All these years, I’d sent money instead of gifts to my grown children for birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Later, for my grandchildren too. So I couldn’t stop working; there was never money left for myself. I was rarely congratulated on holidays, and hardly ever received gifts. The biggest hurt was that neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter told me honestly: “Mum, you wouldn’t fit in with the crowd, there’ll be people from the Cabinet Office there.” I only found out about my son’s wedding from my daughter after it was already over. Well, at least they didn’t ask for money for the weddings… Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says there’s nothing for her in our ‘backwater’ (a million-person city in the Midlands). My son always says, “Mum, I’m too busy!” There are seven flights a day to London! It’s just two hours… What would I call that period of my life? Probably ‘a life of suppressed emotions’. I lived like Scarlett O’Hara—”I’ll think about it tomorrow.” I swallowed back tears and pain, stifling everything from bewilderment to despair. I was a robot set to work. Then London investors bought our factory, began reorganising, laid off all us older staff, and I lost both jobs. But it meant I could retire early, and my pension is just £850 a month… Try living on that. Luckily, a cleaning post came up in our five-storey block—so I started cleaning the stairwells: another £850. Kept up weekend packing work at the supermarket—good pay, £120 a shift, though it’s hard being on my feet all day. Began fixing up the kitchen little by little, did it myself—neighbour fitted new cupboards affordably and well. Once again, started saving. Wanted to update the bedrooms, freshen the furniture. But never did I actually make plans for myself! What do I spend on myself? Food, the simplest kind—I’ve never eaten much. And medicine, which costs a lot now. Rent just keeps going up. My ex-husband says, “Sell the flat, it’s a good area, you’ll get a decent price. Buy yourself a studio.” But I can’t. It’s my nana’s place. I have no memory of my parents—my grandmother raised me—and the flat holds my whole life’s story. My ex and I stayed on good terms. Sometimes we chat like old friends; he’s doing well, never discusses his personal life. Once a month, he brings heavy groceries—potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. Won’t take money for it. Says not to use delivery—”you’ll just get rubbish, rotten stuff”. I agree. Something inside me feels frozen—a hard lump. I just keep going. Work a lot. I have no dreams, want nothing for myself. I only see my daughter and grandkids through her Instagram. My son’s life flashes by on his wife’s Instagram. I’m glad they’re well, healthy, enjoying holidays and fancy dinners. Maybe I didn’t give enough love, and now there’s no love for me. My daughter sometimes asks how I am—I always say I’m fine, never complain. My son sends occasional WhatsApp voice notes: “Hi Mum, hope you’re alright.” Once, my son said he didn’t want to hear about family problems—negativity gets him down. So I stopped sharing anything, always just say, “Yes, son, I’m fine.” I want to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know they have a living grandmother—a pensioner-cleaner. Maybe in the family story I’m long gone… I cannot recall the last time I bought myself anything, apart from the occasional underwear or socks—the cheapest. Haven’t been to a beauty salon, manicure, or pedicure… Once a month a haircut at the local barbers. Colour my hair myself. At least I wear the same dress size at sixty as I did at twenty—16/18, no need to update the wardrobe. More than anything, I fear one day I won’t be able to get out of bed—my back hurts all the time. I’m terrified of being left helpless. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way, forever working, never resting, never allowing small joys, always waiting for ‘later’. But where is ‘later’? It’s gone… My soul feels empty… my heart, completely indifferent… and all around me, nothing but emptiness. I don’t blame anyone. Nor can I blame myself. I’ve always worked, and still work. I’m building up a safety cushion—just in case I can’t work. It won’t be much, but it’s something… Though, honestly, if I become bedridden, I wouldn’t want to live—don’t want anyone to have trouble because of me. And you know what’s saddest? No one has ever given me flowers—not once in my life. Never. Wouldn’t it be ironic if someone finally brought fresh flowers for my grave… That would be a real joke.

The Syndrome of a Life Forever on Hold Confession of a 60-year-old woman Margaret: This year, I turned

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Raw Wounds… In This English Family, Everyone Lived for Themselves Dad Alex had more than just a wife—he often had a favourite woman on the side, rarely sticking to the same one. Mum Jenny, suspecting her husband’s affairs, was hardly a paragon of virtue herself and enjoyed spending time away from home with a married colleague. Their two sons were left to their own devices, largely neglected and left to wander aimlessly. Mum insisted the school was fully responsible for her boys. The family only gathered around the kitchen table on Sundays, eating quickly and in silence before going their separate ways. And so, this family existed in their own spoiled, sinful, yet strangely sweet world—until one day, the irreparable happened. When the younger son, Dennis, was twelve, Dad Alex took him along to the garage for the first time to help out. While Dennis examined the tools, Alex went to chat with his car-loving mates nearby. Suddenly, black smoke and flames erupted from the garage. No one knew what had happened at first (it was later discovered Dennis had accidentally dropped a lit blowtorch onto a can of petrol). People froze in shock. The fire raged. Alex, drenched in water, dashed inside. Seconds later, he emerged from the blazing doorway carrying his unconscious son. Dennis was severely burnt—all but his face, which he’d shielded with his hands. All his clothes were gone. Someone had already called the fire brigade and ambulance. Dennis was rushed to hospital, still alive. He was immediately taken into surgery. After hours of agonising waiting, a doctor approached Alex and Jenny: “We’re doing everything humanly possible. Right now, your son’s in a coma. His chances of survival are one in a million. Medicine can do no more. Still, if Dennis has a fierce will to live, a miracle might happen. Be strong.” Alex and Jenny sped to the local church as a torrential rain began. Desperate, soaked to the bone, they entered the church for the first time in their lives. It was quiet, almost empty. Spotting the vicar, they nervously approached. “Vicar, our son is dying! What can we do?” Jenny sobbed. “My children, I’m Father Richard. Isn’t it often: in times of trouble, we turn to God? Are your souls weighed down with sin?” Father Richard asked without delay. “I don’t think so. We haven’t killed anyone,” Alex replied, but dropped his gaze under the priest’s penetrating look. “Yet you’ve killed your love for each other. It lies dead between you. It should be impossible to slip even a thread between a loving husband and wife, but for you two, an entire log could fit and not touch either of you. Ah, people… Pray, my children, to St Nicholas the Wonderworker for your son’s health! Pray with all your hearts. But remember, everything is in God’s hands. Don’t grumble against Him, for sometimes God uses trials to awaken the lost. Otherwise, you’ll ruin your souls and never even notice. Only love can save.” Soaked by rain and tears, Alex and Jenny stood in front of Father Richard like two ugly ducklings, absorbing a bitter truth about themselves. He pointed to the icon of St Nicholas. Alex and Jenny fell to their knees and prayed, weeping and making solemn promises. All extramarital affairs were ended that day, forgotten and erased for good. Their lives, thread by thread, were picked apart and pieced back together… Next morning, the doctor called to say Dennis had come out of his coma. Alex and Jenny were there at his bedside. Dennis opened his eyes and tried to smile, but pain marred his young face. “Mum, Dad… please don’t divorce,” he whispered. “Darling, what makes you think that? We’re together,” Jenny protested gently, stroking his hot, limp hand. Dennis flinched, and she quickly withdrew. “I saw it, Mum. And when I have children, they’ll be named after you,” Dennis went on. Alex and Jenny exchanged worried glances, thinking the boy was delirious. “What children? You can barely move—you’re so weak! Let’s just focus on getting you well.” But from that day on, Dennis started to recover. Every resource was poured into his treatment. Alex and Jenny even sold their holiday cottage. The garage and car, lost in the fire, could have been sold too, but nothing mattered as long as Dennis survived. Grandparents supported them however they could. The family drew together in the face of tragedy. Even the longest day must come to an end. A year later, Dennis was in a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and care for himself. There, Dennis befriended a girl his age, Martha, also scarred by fire—though in her case, her face was burned. After several operations, Martha was painfully shy and never looked in a mirror. Dennis felt a deep connection and warmth towards her. She radiated wisdom and vulnerability, drawing him in and sparking a protective instinct. The two spent all their free time together, sharing the pain, courage, pills, and hospital routine that had become their world. They had endless things to discuss and were never short of words. Time passed… Dennis and Martha had a modest wedding. They welcomed beautiful children: first a daughter, Charlotte, then three years later, a son, Eugene. At last, when peace returned, Alex and Jenny decided to separate. The trauma of Dennis’s ordeal had exhausted their marriage beyond repair. Both craved release and calm. Jenny moved to her sister’s place in the suburbs. Before leaving, she visited the church for Father Richard’s blessing. In recent years, Jenny often returned to thank the vicar for saving her son; he always corrected her: “Thank God, Jenny!” Father Richard disapproved of her departure: “If you truly must, go. Solitude can sometimes be good for the soul. But come back—husband and wife are one. Don’t forget!” Alex stayed alone in their empty flat. Both sons, now settled with their own families, lived separately. The ex-couple visited their grandchildren at different times, carefully avoiding each other. And so, in the end, everyone managed to find a kind of peace…

A RAW NERVE… In this family, each person seemed to float alone, unmoored. John, the father, hadbesides

La vida

Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” sighed a downcast second-grader, Tommy, poking at a stubborn, wayward green leaf he’d painted on his picture of a flower. “Not so hard on the brush, sweetheart—gently now, as if you’re touching a feather to your palm—there we are! That’s not just a swirl, that’s a masterpiece!” the elderly teacher beamed. “Tell me, who are you painting this beauty for?” “For my mum!” Tommy’s face lit up with pride after her praise. “It’s her birthday today, and this is my present!” “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let the paint dry a bit so it doesn’t smudge. When you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. I’m sure she’ll love her birthday surprise.” Miss Mary watched the boy’s head bent over his painting, then smiled thoughtfully and returned to her desk. A gift for Mum! It had been a while since she’d seen one so lovely—Tom definitely had a knack for art. She made a mental note to call his mum about enrolling him in Saturday art classes—talent like his mustn’t go to waste. And she’d ask her old pupil precisely what she thought of the gift—Miss Mary herself couldn’t take her eyes off Tommy’s vibrant flowers, half-expecting their painted leaves to rustle with life. Takes after his mum, that boy—definitely after her! When Lottie was his age, she could draw just as wonderfully… ***** That evening, the teacher answered her phone. “Hello, Miss Mary, this is Lottie, Tommy’s mum,” came a brisk young woman’s voice through the receiver. “I’m calling to let you know Tommy won’t be at school tomorrow,” “Hello, Lottie! Has something happened?” Miss Mary asked gently. “Yes—my little scamp has ruined my birthday!” spluttered the voice at the other end. “And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance’s just been!” “With a fever? But he left school quite healthy—he was even bringing you your present…” “Present? If you mean those inkblots—” “Inkblots? What do you mean, Lottie? He painted you the loveliest flowers! I was planning to ring you about art school…” “I’ve no idea what flowers you saw, but what I got was a muddy little bundle I certainly wasn’t expecting!” “A bundle? Lottie, what—?” Miss Mary faltered as she listened to the confused, agitated account unfolding on the phone, her frown deepening. “Tell you what, Lottie—would it be all right if I popped round now? I don’t live far, and I won’t stay long…” With her former pupil’s agreement, Miss Mary slipped her old album of faded class photos and cherished drawings into her bag and hurried to the door. The kitchen she entered was a jumble. Lottie bustled about, tidying away the birthday cake and dirty tea cups, explaining—how Tommy arrived late, dripping muddy water over his bag and trousers, how he pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his coat—a filthy pup he’d climbed into a rubbish tip to rescue after some local boys had tossed it in. The ruined books, the water-stained sketchbook—utter chaos. Then the fever had come on fast. The guests had left early. The doctor had scolded her for not watching her child more closely… “So once he’d fallen asleep, I took the mutt straight back to the dump. And the album’s still drying on the radiator—there’s nothing left of those flowers; not even a splash!” she snapped. Lottie couldn’t see how with every word, every cranky sentence, Miss Mary’s expression grew darker. But when she mentioned what had happened to the puppy, her old teacher looked positively thunderous. Stroking the spoiled sketchbook, Miss Mary spoke quietly—about those green swirls and miraculous flowers, about a young boy’s care, his courage too big for his years. How his heart simply couldn’t let that suffering animal go—despite the risk—which the boys who’d chucked it into the pit clearly hadn’t understood. She led Lottie to the window. “There—the dump, just across the park,” she pointed. “Not just the puppy, your Tommy could’ve drowned saving it. Do you think he was thinking of that then? Or maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about the colours on that page—trying desperately not to spoil the present for his mum?” And do you remember, Lottie—how in the nineties you sobbed on the bench outside school, clutching an alley kitten you’d rescued from the local boys? How the whole class stroked it, and your mum came to fetch you, and you wept when your parents nearly tossed the ‘flea ball’ out, until, thank goodness, they relented? Let ME remind you! Of your beloved Tigger, who you would never part with. Of your floppy-eared mutt, Patches, who walked you to sixth form and home. Of the rook with the broken wing, whom you volunteered to care for… Miss Mary drew a faded photograph from her album—a little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she hugged a fluffy kitten, her friends gathered round. With quiet deliberation, Miss Mary laid the picture on the table. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that blossomed in your heart, that nothing and no one could ever dull…” Then followed a crumpled childhood drawing: a small girl clutching a scruffy kitten in one hand and her mum’s hand in the other. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary’s voice firmed, “I’d shower Tommy and that puppy with kisses right now. And those colourful inkblots? I’d frame them. Because there’s no greater gift for a mother than raising a child who grows into a good person.” Lottie didn’t notice how, with every word, her fingers trembled on the spoiled album. How she now glanced anxiously toward her son’s bedroom… “Miss Mary—please, would you sit with Tommy, just for a few minutes? I’ll be right back. Please…” Throwing on her coat and dashing out the door, Lottie didn’t stop until she’d reached the distant dump. Mud squelched into her shoes as she searched beneath grubby boxes and rubbish, calling for the little lost puppy. Time and again, she glanced over her shoulder at the lighted window—would Tommy ever forgive her? ***** “Tommy, who’s that rooting around in the flowers you’re painting? Is that your friend Spot?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It does indeed! Look at that white star on his paw—how well I remember scrubbing those muddy paws with your mum!” laughed the teacher. “I wash his paws every day now!” Tommy declared with pride. “Mum says if you make a friend, you care for them. She even bought us a special tub for cleaning up!” “Your mum’s a good woman,” Miss Mary smiled. “Are you drawing her another gift?” “Yup, and I’m going to put it in a frame! She keeps the framed inkblot one in her office and always smiles at it. But, Miss Mary, is it possible to smile at inkblots?” “Well, perhaps—if they’re made with a pure heart. Tell me, how’s art school going, my boy?” “Great, really great! Soon I’ll be able to paint a portrait of Mum herself! She’ll love it! For now, though…” Tommy pulled a folded page from his bag. “This one’s from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the paper, resting her hand gently on Tommy’s little shoulder. There on white paper, painted in sprays of vibrant colour, was a smiling Tommy with his hand on the head of a black, adoring mongrel. Beside them stood a petite blonde girl in old-fashioned school uniform, hugging a kitten—and behind the teacher’s desk, bedecked with books, Miss Mary herself, her gaze warm and wise, smiling over her happy little class. And in every detail and brushstroke, Miss Mary could feel an endless mother’s pride. She dabbed her eyes and brightened: in the top corner of the picture, twined with painted flowers and delicate green swirls, a single word gleamed—“Remember.”

ILL GIVE YOU A REMINDER Miss Browning, my curl wont work here, whispered Alfie, a woeful Year Two, poking