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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? I Need a DNA Test Nikita couldn’t shake off a nagging suspicion as he watched his wife, Olivia, cooing over their newborn daughter. He seriously doubted the baby was his. Just last year, Nikita had to go away for a month-long business trip. A couple of weeks after he returned, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news: they were expecting a baby. At first, Nikita was thrilled. But then Olivia’s sister visited and casually dropped a story about having had a DNA test done for her own son—just to reassure her partner about paternity. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test, too. Just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. His wife’s reaction was immediate—a raging argument broke out, with things flying and the neighbours banging on the walls. “What’s the big deal?” Nikita insisted, now more convinced than ever of his suspicions. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “How could you even think that?” Olivia shouted, tossing another pillow his way. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” “I was away for a month,” Nikita retorted with a crooked smile. “How do I know what happened here while I was gone? Let’s do the test—I’ll see the result and never bring it up again. So, when are we going? We can use your sister’s clinic.” “In your next life,” Olivia spat, slamming the door as she left for the nursery. *************************************************** “You know,” Nikita complained to his mother over coffee, “I’m not asking for anything extraordinary. So why is she so upset?” “She must have a guilty conscience,” his mum, Anne Peterson, replied. “Mark my words, she had that daughter with someone else and is scared you’ll find out. Besides,” she hesitated, “when you were away, there was something that happened…” “What was it?” Nikita’s interest was piqued. “I try not to meddle, but I came over to discuss your father’s birthday. She took forever to answer the door—even though I knew she was home. When she finally opened up, she looked disheveled. And there were men’s shoes in the hallway.” “What did she say?” Nikita demanded, outraged. “Said it was a burst pipe,” his mother rolled her eyes. “Could’ve come up with something better, really.” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” “I never got inside the flat, so there’s no proof,” she retorted. “Didn’t want to cause trouble unnecessarily.” “You should have!” Nikita exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee. “Really should have! So what now?” “Make sure you do the DNA test,” Anne said, hiding a smirk. She’d never liked Olivia. “Or do it yourself. You’re the father, you have the right.” ************************************************ “You can relax,” Nikita dropped the now-unnecessary envelope delivered by courier. “Ari is my daughter. Like I promised, I’ll never bring it up again.” “I don’t get it,” Olivia said, eyeing the opened envelope with suspicion. “Did you do that damned test without asking me?” “Yeah,” Nikita replied casually. “Stopped by the clinic while I was out with our daughter. Didn’t take long. She’s mine, so it’s all good.” “There is a problem,” she said quietly. “And it’s a shame you can’t see it.” The next morning, Nikita left for work as usual. That evening, he came home to an empty flat. His wife and daughter were gone, and all Olivia’s belongings with them. Only a handwritten note sat on the coffee table: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything between us. I refuse to live with a traitor, and I’m filing for divorce. I don’t want anything from you—no flat, no alimony. I just want you out of our lives.” Nikita was furious. How dare Olivia leave him—and take his daughter with her! He grabbed his phone and started calling around. A man answered, listened silently to Nikita’s outburst, and asked him not to call again. “I knew she was cheating on me!” Nikita fumed. “She couldn’t wait to run to some other man! Good riddance!” He never considered that Olivia might have gone to her parents’, and it was her brother who answered, simply protecting his sister who had just gotten Ari to sleep. Nikita had made up his mind. The divorce was quick and mutual. Little Ari stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again…

What if she isn’t my daughter? I need a DNA test. Michael gazed thoughtfully at his wife, Emma

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No More “Shoulds”: When Anton walked into the kitchen and saw three plates of dried-up pasta, an overturned yoghurt pot, and an open exercise book, he was too tired to tell Vera or Kostya off. Instead, he just started tidying up. Vera didn’t look up from her phone, Kostya’s rucksack was in the middle of the hallway, and Anton was worn out from work and his mother’s demands. The family drifted through their routines—homework, chores—but no one talked about what mattered. But that evening, Anton chose honesty over duty. He called everyone to the kitchen—not to nag, but to talk. They sat together: Vera defensive, Kostya wary, Anton uncertain. For once, they spoke not about “what needs to be done” but about how they were actually feeling. Anton admitted his fears: money problems, job cuts, his mother’s health, and most of all, the worry that his children were struggling and he didn’t even know it because he was too busy pretending all was well. Kostya confessed he was being teased at school and couldn’t sleep. Vera admitted she didn’t want to go to college and felt lost, but everyone around her seemed to have their lives planned out. Anton told them he didn’t always cope either. For a while, they just sat with the truth in the silence. Then, together, they washed the dishes—not out of duty, but because they chose to share the work. That night, for the first time, the silence in their home felt full of possibility, not emptiness. Anton realised you don’t have to have all the answers to be a good parent. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply show up, be honest, and face the unknown together—without the weight of “shoulds” hanging over you.

Without must David walked into the house and saw three plates with dried-up pasta on the kitchen table

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084

A New Family Takes Precedence Over the Old One

– Mum, this is Emily, my fiancée Arthur announced as soon as he crossed the threshold, wrapping

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We’ll Live for Each Other After his mother’s death, George slowly started to recover. His mother had spent her last days in the hospital, where she eventually passed away. Before that, she was bedridden at home, with George and his wife, Vera, taking turns to care for her. Their houses stood side by side. He had offered for his mother to move in with them, but she had stubbornly refused. “Son, your father died here, and this is where I want to die. It’s easier for me,” she sobbed, and George couldn’t go against her wishes. It would have been easier for George and his wife to care for his mother if she’d lived with them, but their daughter, Kate, was only thirteen. They didn’t want her to see her grandmother fade away. George worked in shifts, Vera was a primary school teacher, so they managed by taking turns staying the night at his mother’s house. “Mum, is Grandma going to die soon?” Kate once asked. “It’s a shame, she’s so lovely.” “I don’t know, sweetheart, but everyone’s time comes. That’s life.” When Grandma’s condition worsened, she was taken to hospital. George had a younger sister, Rita, three years his junior, with a son, Tony, who was mainly looked after by Grandma and Vera, since Rita was always “away on business trips,” as she claimed. She’d long been divorced, had little interest in caring for their mother, knowing her brother and sister-in-law took care of it all. Rita was George’s polar opposite: hard, selfish, and confrontational. Three days later, their mother passed in hospital. After the funeral, they decided to sell her house, as it needed constant attention or it would soon fall to ruin. Their mother had long since left the house to her son in her will—there had never been a real relationship with the daughter. Rita knew and didn’t even speak to their mother because of it. But after the sale, George’s wife urged him: “As soon as the money’s in your hands, split it fifty-fifty with Rita.” “Vera, Rita’s got her own flat—her ex-husband left her that when he left with nothing. She’ll only squander it anyway.” “Doesn’t matter, George. Our conscience will be clear. Otherwise she’ll just bad-mouth both of us.” George agreed, and handed over half to his sister, who responded, “Is that all? Where’s the rest?” Time passed. Kate turned fifteen, when misfortune struck again—this time, Vera fell seriously ill. She had been feeling unwell, blaming tiredness from work, until she collapsed in the garden. She was hospitalized, but it was already too late: the dreaded disease had taken hold. “Isn’t there anything you can do for my wife?” George pleaded with the doctor. “We’re doing everything we can, but she came to us too late,” the doctor shook his head. George brought Vera home, cared for her alongside Kate; her condition worsened every day. He even took time off work to be by her side, but eventually his leave ran out—while he was at work, Kate took care of her mother, feeding and washing her. One day, Rita turned up: “George, my washing machine’s broken—can you have a look?” “Alright, I’ll drop by,” he promised, and mended it after work. As he was leaving, he said, “You should come by and help us now and then, so Kate’s not left alone with Vera. She’s just a child, and it’s exhausting work even for an adult.” “Oh please, don’t go bringing up favours from years ago. Vera helped me with Tony, yes, but I was away working. Anyway, I gave her a gold ring for all that.” “Yes, you did, but she gave it straight back and you took it.” “If she didn’t want it, I’ll keep it. And anyway, it’s not the same as looking after a dying person. Don’t expect it from me.” Rita turned and left without even a thank you. George was done. “Don’t ask me for anything again. You’re heartless.” He put his sister out of his mind after that. Vera faded quickly. One day, Kate saw her father coming down the road and rushed out. “Dad, Mum’s really bad—she’s turned to the wall and won’t eat or talk.” “It’s alright, love, we’ll get through this. We will,” he reassured her, but that night Vera passed away. Father and daughter were now alone in the world. Oddly, George felt a little relief: Vera didn’t have to suffer anymore, and Kate was spared seeing it. He loved his wife, but the cruel illness had worn him and Kate down to the bone. After Vera’s funeral, grief overwhelmed George—he missed her smile, her kindness, her care. Kate mourned, but tried to comfort her father: “Dad, we did everything we could, and even though Mum’s not here, we’ll get used to it in time. The main thing is we have each other.” He was taken aback by his daughter’s maturity. She devoted herself to her father—cooking, managing the house, and sharing their daily news over dinner. Not long after, George came home and Kate told him, “Aunt Rita dropped by for Mum’s old fur coat and some other things. She said you knew.” “I never told her that. Don’t let her in again,” George told her, “lock the door as soon as you’re home. She’s no business here.” Then, George fell ill at work—severe chest pain, struggling to breathe. His colleague called an ambulance; he was rushed to hospital. Kate rushed to his bedside, brokenhearted, but a doctor comforted her: “Don’t cry, your dad just needs rest and treatment—he had a pre-heart attack.” With school, home, her father in hospital, Kate had to step up, stretching herself thin. She visited George daily, even cooking for him. One day Rita turned up with a pie. “Kate, I baked this for your dad in hospital. I won’t visit—he can’t stand me. Take it for him, don’t say it’s from me.” Soon after, Tony arrived—he sometimes helped Kate out, being her cousin. “Forgot my keys at home, just popping in. Wow, did you bake this pie?” “No, your mum did—for my dad. Let me cut you a piece, after school and all.” They shared pie and tea, then set off for the hospital together. Suddenly Tony went pale, gripped the handrail, and collapsed on the hospital steps—the doctors discovered he’d been poisoned. “What did he eat?” the doctor asked Kate. “The pie Mum baked for my dad,” Kate replied. “Don’t give your father any,” the doctor said, and took it away to investigate. Rita was called to the hospital. “Oh my God, Tony, what happened? How could you get so ill?” “It was your pie, Aunt Rita!” Kate blurted, and Rita went white as a sheet. Soon after, Rita was taken away by the police. It turned out she’d poisoned the pie, planning to kill her brother and sell his house; she assumed Kate would go to uni and live in halls. But she hadn’t reckoned on Tony eating it. When George was released from hospital, he visited Rita with Kate and Tony. “Forgive me, George, please Tony, please Kate… I see what I’ve done. Forgive me,” she sobbed. George withdrew the charges, Rita was released. Tony couldn’t forgive her—their relationship shattered—he spent more and more time with George and Kate. “Uncle George, I can never forgive my mother. I hate her—how could she?” “Tony, you can’t choose your parents. What your mum did was terrible, but she sincerely regrets it. Everyone can make a mistake. Give her a chance, forgive her—she’s suffering.” Slowly, things began to mend. Tony got into university, Kate finished school and was also planning to study—she hated the thought of leaving her father alone. “It’s fine, love, I’ll manage. You need to get your degree. We’ll live for each other—you’ll come home for weekends and holidays. Your mother always wanted you to go to teacher’s college.”

Well Live for Each Other After my mother died, I began to come to terms with it. Shed been in hospital

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042

Couldn’t Hold Out Any Longer “I’m filing for divorce,” Vera said calmly, handing her husband a mug of tea. “Actually, I’ve already filed.” She said it as casually as if she were announcing, “Chicken with veg for dinner tonight.” “If I may ask, since when—well, never mind, not in front of the kids,” Arthur said, softening his tone when he saw his sons’ anxious faces. “What did I do wrong? And let’s not forget, kids need a father.” “Do you think I can’t find them another one?” Vera rolled her eyes dramatically and smirked. “What did you do wrong? Pretty much everything! I thought life with you would be like a calm lake, not a raging river!” “Alright, boys, finished eating?” He didn’t want to continue this conversation with the kids around. “Off you go, play. And no eavesdropping!” Arthur called after his sons, well aware of their restless curiosity. “Right, now let’s carry on.” Vera pursed her lips with displeasure. Even now he manages to be bossy! Playing ‘Father of the Year’… “I’m tired of living like this. I don’t want to spend eight hours a day at work, grinning at colleagues and tolerating clients… I want to sleep in, shop at expensive boutiques, get pampered in beauty salons. And you can’t give me that. I’ve given you the best ten years of my life—enough!” “Can we drop the theatrics?” Arthur cut her off dryly. “Wasn’t it you, ten years ago, who moved heaven and earth to marry me? I wasn’t exactly dying to settle down.” “My mistake, it happens.” The divorce was quick and quiet. Arthur reluctantly agreed to leave the boys with their mother, providing he had them every weekend and for holidays. Vera accepted without complaint. Six months later, Arthur introduced his sons to his new wife. Cheery, vivacious Lucy won their hearts at once, and the boys started looking forward to weekends with their dad—a fact that thoroughly infuriated their mother. What irritated Vera even more: Arthur had inherited a substantial sum from some distant uncle, bought a large country house, and was living the good life. He still kept his job, paid modest child support, but took pleasure in clothing his boys himself and showering them with gadgets. And he managed those child support payments with an eagle eye! If only she’d waited just six more months! Had Vera known how things would turn out… Well, she’d have played things differently! Or perhaps it wasn’t too late? ***** “How about a nice cup of tea? Like old times,” Vera flirted, twirling a strand of her hair. Her short dress showed off her figure, her expertly applied makeup easily took off a few years. She’d made an effort and looked stunning. “I haven’t got time,” Arthur replied with a cold glance. “Are the boys ready?” “They can’t find something—give them ten minutes, I know them. Maybe we could celebrate New Year together? The boys spent all afternoon decorating the tree.” “We already agreed in court: holidays are mine. We’re heading to a lovely little village for skiing and snowboarding. Lucy’s organised it all.” “But it’s a family holiday…” “Exactly. We’ll spend it—family style. Make a fuss and I’ll take the boys permanently.” As the door closed behind her ex-husband and their joyful children, Vera smashed the expensive wedding china in fury. Lucy. Always Lucy! Acting as though she’s delighted to see the boys, counting the days until they’re gone—Vera knew what monsters their kids could be! But maybe this could work… Vera smiled slyly. She hadn’t lost yet. Soon Arthur’s money would be under her control again… ***** “What’s all this?” Arthur asked, eyebrows raised at the suitcases on the doorstep. “What do you mean? Kieran’s and Jamie’s things,” Vera nudged the bulging case. “You’ve got your life sorted, so it’s my turn. Let’s face it, there aren’t many men who’ll step up for another bloke’s kids, so from now on, the boys will live with you. I’ve been to the authorities, they’re in the loop—it’s just paperwork now. I’m off on holiday with an exciting new man.” She left a stunned Arthur in the driveway as she sauntered to her waiting taxi. How long would saintly Lucy last—a week? Maybe two? And Arthur would choose the boys over his new wife—get him back, and his money with him. A fortnight passed. Then a month. Then two. No call came asking her to collect the children. And judging by the boys’ chatter, Lucy hadn’t even raised her voice! Could it be? The two little devils had become angels? Impossible! “How are the boys? Not worn out by them yet?” Vera couldn’t resist phoning her ex. “They’re brilliant, no trouble, they listen, always helping,” Arthur’s voice warmed at the mention of the boys. “Real golden lads.” “Really?” Vera was astonished. “They always made trouble for me…” “That’s because you have to spend time with children,” Arthur scoffed. “Instead, you lived on your phone. By the way, just so you know—we’re moving. I’ll bring the boys down for the holidays if you want.” “But… They’re my children too!” “You signed over all rights—you remember? Some mother you are,” Arthur laughed, and hung up. Vera was left gnashing her teeth. She hadn’t won her husband (or rather, his money) back, her new fling was a bust, and even her children would soon be far off. Not that she’d really miss them—she quite liked having her time to herself. Is this fair? Ten years of patience, only to trip just months before the good life… So Unfair…

Couldnt Hold On Im filing for divorce, Mary said calmly as she handed her husband a cup of tea.

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024

Leave, Chris

Plates of lukewarm dinner still stood untouched on the kitchen table. Eleanor stared through them as

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An Arrogant Woman Ripped Her Dress, Thinking She Was Just a Waitress, Unaware That Her Millionaire Husband Was Watching It All Unfold.

Hey love, you wont believe what went down at the gala last night. Emma, whod been looking stunning in

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072

A New Family Matters More Than the Old One

Mum, this is Alice, my fiancée, declared Peter as soon as he walked through the door, gently holding

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The Last Summer at Home When William arrived on Wednesday, the sun had already climbed high, baking the roof until the tiles cracked. The garden gate had fallen off its hinges three years before; he stepped over it and stopped at the porch—three steps, the bottom one completely rotten. Testing the second for strength, he carried on inside. Inside, the air was stale and musty. Dust settled thick on the sills; an old cobweb stretched from the beam to the worn sideboard. William managed the window open with effort and was immediately hit by the scent of hot nettles and dry grass from the garden. He walked through all four rooms, making a silent checklist: wash the floors, check the fireplace, fix the summer kitchen plumbing, throw out everything rotten. Then call Andrew, Mum, the nephews. Tell them: come in August, let’s spend a month here, just like we used to. Used to—twenty-five years ago, when Dad was alive and every summer saw the whole family gathered here. William remembered making strawberry jam in a copper pan, lugging buckets of water from the well with his brothers, Mum reading aloud on the veranda in the evenings. Then Dad died, Mum moved to the city to live with the youngest, and the house was boarded up. William visited once a year, checking no one had broken in, then left again. But that spring, something clicked inside him: maybe it was time to try and bring everyone back, just once. He worked alone the first week: cleared the chimney, stripped and painted two porch boards, scrubbed the windows. He drove to the local market town for paint and cement, arranged for an electrician to look at the wiring. The parish council chairman, bumping into him by the shop, shook his head. “Why bother, Will? You’ll end up selling anyway.” “I won’t sell before autumn,” William replied, heading off. Andrew came first, Saturday evening, with his wife and two kids. Climbing out, he winced at the garden. “You really think we can last a month here?” “Three weeks,” William said. “The kids need the fresh air. So do you.” “There’s not even a shower.” “There’s a sauna. I’ll fire it up tonight.” The kids—an eleven-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl—shuffled off to the swings William had hung from the old oak. Andrew’s wife, Sarah, silently took a bag of groceries inside, William helping unload the car. His brother still seemed tense, but said nothing more. Mum arrived Monday, driven by the neighbour. She paused in the old living room, sighing, “Everything feels so small. I remember it being bigger.” “You haven’t been here for thirty years, Mum.” “Thirty-two.” She stroked the cold worktop. “It was always freezing in here. Dad wanted to fit central heating, but never got around to it.” William heard the weariness in her voice, not nostalgia. He brewed her tea, sat with her on the veranda. She gazed out over the garden, talking of hard winters and gossiping neighbours, of backaches from carrying water. William listened, realising to her this wasn’t a nest but an old wound. That evening, when Mum went early to bed, William and Andrew sat by a fire in the garden. The kids slept. Sarah read by candlelight—electricity only worked in half the house. “Why are you doing this?” Andrew asked, staring into the flames. “I wanted us all together.” “We see each other at Christmas.” “It’s not the same.” Andrew smirked. “Bit of a sentimental dream, Will. Three weeks here won’t change everything.” “I just wanted to try.” After a pause, Andrew softened. “I’m glad you did all this. But don’t expect miracles.” William hadn’t expected them. But he hoped. Much of the week passed in a blur of chores. William fixed the fence, Andrew helped re-roof the shed. The boy, Arthur, started exploring with an old fishing rod he’d found. The girl, Sophie, helped Grandma weed the veg patch William dug hastily along the sunny wall. One afternoon, while painting the veranda together, Sarah laughed, “We’re like commune volunteers or something.” “At least they had a plan,” grumbled Andrew, but even he smiled. William saw the tension ease. Evenings saw the family around the broad table on the veranda, Mum making soup, Sarah baking village cheese pies. They discussed mosquito nets and lawnmowers, asking if the pump was fixed yet. Then, one night after the children were asleep, Mum said, “Your father wanted to sell this house. A year before he died.” William froze, mug raised. Andrew frowned. “Why?” “He was tired. Called it an anchor. He wanted a flat in town near the hospital. I fought him. Said this was our home, for the family. We argued. In the end, he never sold—and then he was gone.” William set down his mug. “Do you blame yourself?” “I’m not sure. I just… I’m tired of this place. It only reminds me how I insisted—and he never got his peace.” Andrew leaned back. “You’ve never said that before.” “You never asked.” William saw his mother—years heavy on her shoulders—and realised for her, the house wasn’t treasure but a burden. “Maybe we should have sold it,” he whispered. “Maybe,” Mum agreed. “But you boys grew up here. That has to mean something.” “What does it mean?” She met his eyes. “It means you remember who you were, before life pushed us all apart.” He didn’t believe it at first. But the next day as he, Andrew, and Arthur walked by the river and the boy caught his first perch, he saw his brother’s laughter—easy, genuine. That evening, as Mum showed Sophie where she once taught their father to read, there was something softer than pain in her voice. Maybe forgiveness. They set departure for Sunday. The night before, William fired up the sauna, the family enjoyed it together, then sipped tea on the veranda. Arthur asked if they’d return next year. Andrew glanced at William but said nothing. The next morning, William helped load the cars. Mum hugged him: “Thank you for inviting us.” “I hoped for more.” “It was good, in its own way.” Andrew clapped his shoulder. “Sell it if you like. No objections.” “We’ll see.” William watched the cars disappear, dust settling on the lane. He returned through the silent house, packed the last bits, took out the old iron padlock from the shed and hung it on the gate. Heavy, rusted, but strong. Standing by the garden wall, he gazed back: roof straight, porch sturdy, windows clean. The house looked alive. But William knew it was all an illusion—a house lives only while there are people. For three weeks, it truly had. Maybe that’s enough. He got into the car and drove away. In the mirror, the roof flashed, then the trees hid it. William drove slowly down the rutted lane, thinking he’d call the estate agent in the autumn. For now, he’d remember the meals, the laughter, Arthur’s caught fish. The house had done its job—it had brought them together. And maybe that was enough to let it go, without sorrow.

The Last Summer at Home William arrived on a Wednesday, just as the sun was tilting toward noon and heating

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017

Time to Stand Up: When the Mother-in-Law’s Criticism Pushed Natalie Too Far in Her Own Home – And Her Husband Finally Took Her Side

Completely Unravelled Daisy, have you completely given up on hoovering? My eyes are streaming with all