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A Silver Beard and a Beautiful Soul: From a Broken English Romance to Finding True Love with My Longtime Neighbour Nicholas in Yorkshire

THE GREY BEARD, BUT A BEAUTIFUL SOUL You deceived me! Im ending our correspondence here. Im utterly disappointed in women.

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Go Away and Never Come Back — A Heart-Wrenching Tale of Loyalty, Betrayal, and the Long Journey Home of a Boy and His Dog in the English Countryside

Leave and Dont Come Back Go ondo you hear me? Thomas whispers through his tears. Go, and dont ever come back.

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First Love: A Journey of the Heart

First Love I stood by the restaurant door, glancing anxiously at my watch and then back at the entrance.

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— Mr. William Evans, you’ve missed the bus again! — the driver’s voice is genial, but carries a hint of reproach. — Third time this week you’ve been racing after the bus like a man possessed. The pensioner, breathless and in a rumpled jacket, leans against the handrail. His grey hair is wild, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — the old man pants, pulling crumpled notes from his pocket. — My clock must be slow. Or maybe I’m just getting on… Andrew Williams is a seasoned driver, about forty-five, his face tanned by years on the route. He’s been at the wheel for over two decades, knowing many regulars by sight. But he remembers this old gentleman in particular — always polite, quiet, takes the same bus at the same time every morning. — Don’t worry, come on board. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus sets off. Mr. Evans takes his usual seat — third row from the front, by the window, a battered carrier bag clutched in his hands. Few passengers aboard — a weekday morning. Some uni students chatter at the back, a businessman is absorbed in his phone. A typical scene. — Tell me, Mr. Evans, — Andrew calls back through the rear-view mirror — you go there every day? Isn’t it hard? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replies quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been a year and a half. I promised — every day I’d visit. Andrew feels a twinge in his heart. He’s married himself, adores his wife. Can’t imagine… — Is it far from home? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking would take me an hour — my legs aren’t what they were. And my pension just about covers the fare. The weeks go by. Mr. Evans is a fixture on the morning bus. Andrew gets used to him, even looks forward to seeing him. Sometimes the old man runs late — Andrew purposefully waits a couple of minutes. — No need to wait for me, — Mr. Evans says one day, realising Andrew has lingered. — The schedule’s the schedule. — Nonsense, — Andrew waves him off. — A few minutes won’t hurt. One morning, Mr. Evans doesn’t appear. Andrew waits — maybe he’s running late. But still, he doesn’t come. Next day, still no sign. And again. — Have you noticed that old chap who used to always go to the cemetery? He hasn’t been on for days, — Andrew remarks to conductor Mrs. Taylor. — Who knows? — she shrugs. — Maybe some family came, maybe he’s ill… But Andrew can’t shake the feeling. He’s grown accustomed to the quiet nod of thanks, the sad little smile. A week passes. No Mr. Evans. Andrew decides to look for him — on his lunch break he heads to the end of the route, near the cemetery. — Excuse me, — he asks the woman on duty at the gate, — an elderly gent, William Evans — grey hair, glasses, always with a carrier bag. Have you seen him at all? — Oh, him! — she brightens. — Came every day to his wife. — Not lately, though? — Not for a week. Maybe he’s unwell. He once gave me his address — doesn’t live far. Garden Close, number 15. And you are…? — Bus driver. Took him every day. Garden Close, 15. An ageing brick block, paint peeling. Andrew climbs to the second floor, knocks on a random door. A man in his fifties, stern face. — Yes? — I’m looking for William Evans. Bus driver, he’s a regular on my route… — Ah, the old boy from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softens. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke last week. Andrew’s heart sinks. — Which hospital? — St. Mary’s, on Queen’s Avenue. It was touch and go, but they say he’s slowly getting better. That evening, after his shift, Andrew visits the hospital. He finds the ward and asks the nurse. — William Evans? Yes, he’s here. And you are…? — A friend, — Andrew hesitates, unsure how to explain. — Room six. He’s still very weak, though. Don’t tire him. Mr. Evans lies by the window, pale but conscious. At first he doesn’t recognise Andrew, then his eyes widen in surprise. — Andrew? Is that you? How…how did you find me? — Just had to look, — Andrew smiles awkwardly, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — You went missing. I was worried. — You…worried about me? — there’s a glimmer of tears in the old man’s eye. — But I’m no one to you… — What do you mean? You’re my regular passenger. I look for you every morning now. Mr. Evans falls silent, gazing at the ceiling. — And the cemetery… haven’t been for ten days now, — he whispers. — First time in a year and a half. Broke my promise… — Please don’t fret, Mr. Evans. I’m sure your wife would understand. Illness isn’t your fault. — Maybe… — the old man shakes his head. — I’d go every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m here, she’s alone there… Andrew sees how much this weighs on him, and the answer comes on its own. — Would you like me to go? To your wife. Tell her you’re in hospital, that you’re getting better… Mr. Evans turns, hope and disbelief flickering in his eyes. — You’d do that? For someone you barely know? — Aren’t we more than strangers? — Andrew shrugs. — Eighteen months we’ve seen each other every morning. Feels like family. Next day, on his day off, Andrew visits the cemetery. He finds the grave — the headstone shows a youthful woman with kind eyes. “Anne Evans, 1952–2024.” He hesitates at first, but the words come more easily than expected. — Hello, Mrs. Evans. I’m Andrew, the bus driver. Your husband took my bus to see you every day. He’s in hospital now, but recovering. He wanted me to tell you he loves you, and he’ll be back soon… He speaks a little more — of what a good man William Evans is, how much he misses her, how devoted he’s been. He feels rather foolish, but something inside tells him it’s the right thing to do. At the hospital, he finds Mr. Evans at tea. Already stronger, with more colour in his cheeks. — I went, — Andrew says simply. — Told her everything, just as you wished. — And how… how was it? — the voice trembles. — The plot’s neat, there were fresh flowers — probably from nearby families. She’s waiting for you to come back. Mr. Evans closes his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr. Evans is discharged. Andrew meets him outside the hospital, drives him home. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — he asks, as the old man steps from the bus. — You will, — Mr. Evans nods. — Eight a.m., just like always. And sure enough, next morning, he’s back in his usual seat. But something has changed between them — they’re more than driver and passenger now. — Tell you what, Mr. Evans, — Andrew says one Saturday, — why don’t I take you at weekends in my car? No bus, just us. My wife thinks you’re a wonderful chap, says we must help. — Oh no, you needn’t… — Course I do. I’m used to you now — besides, my wife says if someone’s good people, you look out for them. And so it becomes a habit. Weekdays — the regular bus ride, weekends — Andrew takes Mr. Evans in his own car, sometimes with his wife along. They become friends. — You know, — Andrew says to his wife one evening, — at first I thought it was just a job — bus, timetable, passengers. But now I see: every person on that bus has a life, a story. — That’s how it is, — she nods. — It’s good you didn’t just walk on by. And Mr. Evans tells them one day: — After Anne died, I thought that was it — life finished. Who would need me? But it turns out… some people care. That means a lot. *** And what about you — have you ever witnessed ordinary people perform extraordinary deeds?

Mr. William, missed the bus again! The bus drivers voice, cheerful but with a teasing reproach, echoed

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Go Away and Never Come Back — A Heart-Wrenching Tale of Loyalty, Betrayal, and the Long Journey Home of a Boy and His Dog in the English Countryside

Leave and Dont Come Back Go ondo you hear me? Thomas whispers through his tears. Go, and dont ever come back.

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And Then She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t Nearly as Difficult as She’d Always Thought: The Morning of December 30th Started Like Any Other in the Twelve Years Nadine and James Had Spent Together—He Was Out Hunting, Their Son Was at Grandma’s, and Nadine Was Home Alone, Until an Unexpected Night with Her School Crush and Her Mother-in-Law’s Surprising Help Changed Everything

And I also realised that my mother-in-law isnt quite the old battle-axe Id always thought she was.

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Granddad on the Pavement: An Evening After Practice, the Power of Kindness, and a Basket of Raspberries—Why Helping a Stranger Matters More Than Judging Them

Granddad It happened in the summer. I was walking home after football practice one evening when I spotted

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“Mum, I’m ten years old now, right?” Mishka suddenly asked after coming home from school. “So what?” Mum stared at her son in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘so what’? Have you forgotten what you and Dad promised to let me do when I turned ten?” “Let you do? What did we promise?” “You promised I could get a dog.” “No!” Mum cried anxiously. “Anything but that! How about an electric scooter? The fanciest one – as long as you never mention a dog again.” “So that’s what you’re like…” Mishka pouted. “And you call yourselves parents… Teaching me to keep my word, but forget your own… Fine, whatever…” He locked himself in his room until Dad came home. “Dad, do you remember what you and Mum promised…” he began, but Dad interrupted. “Mum already rang me and told me about your wish! I just don’t get why you want one.” “Dad, I’ve dreamed of a dog for so long! You both know that!” “We know, we know. You’ve been reading too many stories about boys and their dogs! You know breed dogs cost a fortune, right?” “I don’t need a pedigree,” Mishka said quickly. “Any dog will do, even a stray. I read on the Internet about abandoned dogs. They’re so sad.” “No!” Dad cut him off. “What do you mean, a stray? Why would we want that? They’re not even nice-looking! I’ll make you a deal, Mishka: if you can find a young, pedigree, abandoned dog in this city, your mum and I might just give in.” “Really?” Mishka frowned. “Yes! You’ll have to train it, enter it in dog shows, the whole lot. And you can’t train a grown dog, can you? So if you find a young, good-looking pedigree stray, fine.” Dad exchanged a sly wink with Mum. Mishka sighed, knowing well he’d never seen a pedigree stray on the streets – but hope dies last, and he’d give it a go. On Sunday, he and his friend Billy set off to search. By evening, they’d scoured half the town but hadn’t found a single abandoned pedigree dog – every nice-looking pup was with its owner, on a lead. “That’s it,” Mishka said, tired. “I knew we’d find nothing…” “Let’s try the animal shelter next Sunday,” Billy suggested. “There could be pedigree dogs there – I’ve read about it. We just need to find the address. For now, let’s sit and rest.” They sat on a bench, and dreamed about picking the prettiest dog from the shelter, training it together. After dreaming and resting, they trudged home. Suddenly Billy tugged Mishka’s sleeve and pointed. “Mishka, look.” Mishka saw a tiny, dirty, white puppy wobbling along the pavement. “A mongrel,” Billy declared, and whistled. The puppy turned and scampered towards them, but stopped two metres short. “He doesn’t trust people,” Billy noted. “Someone’s probably scared him badly.” Mishka gently whistled. The puppy leaned towards him; and when Mishka got close, the little dog just anxiously wagged its grubby tail. “Let’s go, Mishka,” Billy said. “What do you want with a mutt? A pedigree dog deserves a fancy name. This one – only something like ‘Button’ would suit.” Billy turned away and walked on. Mishka stroked the puppy a little more, then sadly followed Billy. Truthfully, he would’ve happily taken even this little dog home. Suddenly, a yelp sounded behind him. Mishka froze as the puppy whimpered. “Quick, come on, Mishka! Don’t look back – that puppy’s looking at you! Like you’re his owner, leaving him… Run!” Billy called. Billy ran, but Mishka couldn’t move his feet. When he finally turned to go, he felt a gentle tug at his trouser leg. Looking down, he saw those bright black eyes. And at that instant, Mishka forgot everything else and scooped the puppy in his arms. If Mum and Dad wouldn’t let him keep her, he’d run away. Together with her. Turns out, his parents had kind hearts too… Because the next day, when Mishka came home from school, not only Mum and Dad were waiting – but so was a clean, snowy-white, cheery Button. (Note: Mishka becomes “Mishka” or “Mikey” in English. “Vovka” becomes “Billy”. “Knoopka” is “Button”, a common cute pet name in English.)

Mum, Im ten years old now, arent I? Oliver announced the moment he wandered in from school.

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CHOOSE: YOUR DOG OR ME! I’m Sick of the Smell of That Mutt! — Demanded Her Husband. She Chose Her Husband, Abandoned Her Loyal Dog in the Forest… But That Evening He Told Her He Was Leaving for Another Woman Natasha adored her husband, Igor, to the point of madness. They’d been together for five years—no children yet, but they had Rex, an old German Shepherd Natasha had rescued as a puppy, before she ever met Igor. Rex was family. Intelligent, loyal—he understood everything without words. But time took its toll: the dog’s joints began to ache, his coat shed in clumps, and he started to smell bad. Igor put up with it for a long time. But when Rex couldn’t hold it until his walk and peed in the hallway—right on the new laminate flooring—Igor snapped. “That’s it! Enough!” Igor shouted, pushing the old dog’s nose into the puddle. “I live in a kennel! The stink, the hair in my food, and now this! Natasha, decide: me or that wreck of a dog!” “Igor, what am I supposed to do? He’s twelve years old…” Natasha sobbed, hugging the guilty dog. “Put him in a shelter! Take him to the woods! Have him put down! I don’t care!” barked her husband. “If he’s not gone by this evening, then I’m leaving. I want a clean home, not to clean up after your flea-bitten ‘son’!” Natasha was weak. She panicked at the thought of being alone. She was afraid to lose Igor, who provided for the family, who she had holiday plans and a mortgage with… She chose her husband. She drove Rex out of town. The dog struggled to climb into the car, whimpering in pain from his joints, but he licked her hand—thinking they were headed for a walk. Natasha cried the whole drive. She let him out in the woods, twenty kilometres from the city. She tied his lead to a tree so he couldn’t chase after the car. “Forgive me, Rex… forgive me…” she whispered, unable to meet his loyal, age-clouded eyes. Rex didn’t fight. He just sat and looked at her. He understood. Natasha left a bowl of food, got back in the car, and sped off. In the rear view mirror, she saw Rex, forgetting his aching legs, lurch for her—straining the lead and barking, raw and desperate. That bark echoed in her ears the whole journey home. Natasha came home broken. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Igor was at home. He was packing. “You… what are you doing?” she stammered. “I did what you asked—Rex is gone. I took him away…” Igor looked at her with a cold smirk. “Well done. Quick work. But, you know…I’m leaving anyway.” “What do you mean? Where?” “To Lena. You know her, from Accounts. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. She’s pregnant.” Natasha sank onto a chair. The world spun. “But… you gave me an ultimatum… The dog or you…Why?!” “I was testing you,” Igor sneered. “To see if you had any backbone. I thought maybe you’d show some character. And you…you betrayed your friend for a pair of trousers. Frankly, it scares me to live with someone like you. If you could dump a dog who loved you for ten years in the woods, I dread to think what you’d do to me if I ever got sick.” He zipped his suitcase. “Goodbye, Natasha. And, by the way…Rex was the real man of this house. And you’re just a traitor.” When the door slammed behind her husband, Natasha howled. She realised what she’d done. For a man who never loved her, she’d destroyed the soul of one who’d worshipped her. She grabbed her car keys and raced back to the forest. It was night. The rain poured. She drove to the tree. The lead was chewed through. The food bowl overturned. Rex was gone. “Rex! Rex! My boy!” she screamed, stumbling through the wet woods, her face scratched by branches. She searched for three days—hanging posters, posting on animal rescue pages. She didn’t sleep or eat. On the fourth day, her phone rang. “Did you lose a German Shepherd? We found one on the motorway. Hit by a lorry.” Natasha went to identify the body. It was him. Rex must have bitten through his lead and set off to find her. He was running home. On aching legs, through pain, through fear. Running back to the one who betrayed him. He died by the roadside, never to arrive. Natasha buried Rex. Two years have passed. She lives alone. She never remarried—she can’t trust people, not even herself. Igor is happy with his new wife and child. He forgot Natasha like a bad dream. For him, it was just a “test”—an excuse to leave without blame. As for Natasha…she now volunteers at a shelter for elderly dogs. She cleans their cages, tidies up after them, tends their wounds. She tries to atone for her guilt. Every night, she dreams the same dream: she stands by the tree, and Rex looks at her. She calls him, but he doesn’t come. He just gazes, not angry, just infinitely heartbroken. In his eyes, lies her judgment. MORAL: Betrayal is never forgiven. Never sacrifice your loyal friends for those who set ultimatums. Someone who loves you would never force you to choose. If they do, the betrayal’s already happened—you’re only delaying the inevitable by making a terrible mistake.

ITS EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! IVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS MUTTS STENCH! MY HUSBAND SAID. SHE CHOSE HIM, DROVE

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The Only Man in the Family Over breakfast, Vera, the eldest daughter, stared at her phone screen and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” he replied. Instead of answering, she turned her mobile so he could see: a neat string of digits—11.11.11—meaning November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number, 11—today there are three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “If only your words brought honey,” Val, her father, chuckled. “Yes, Daddy,” chimed in little Nadia, her eyes glued to her own phone. “Horoscope says Scorpios will have a fateful meeting and a once-in-a-lifetime gift today.” “Well, maybe a mysterious European or American relative we’ve never heard of has died—left us their entire fortune…” “Billionaire, Dad!” Vera giggled. “Millions are small fry for you.” “True,” he agreed, “what would we do with all that money? Buy a villa in Italy or the Maldives, a yacht next…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” Nadya joined the fantasy. “I want my own helicopter…” “No problem. You’ll get your helicopter. And you, Vera?” “I want to star in a Bollywood movie with Salman Khan.” “No sweat. I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort it out… All right, dreamers, finish your breakfast, we have to leave soon.” “In this house, you’re not even allowed to dream,” Nadya mock-sighed. “You should always dream,” Val said, finishing his tea and standing. “But don’t forget about school…” He remembered that breakfast conversation at the end of a long, tiring day, in the supermarket as he bagged groceries. The promised “amazing day” had not come true: instead of happiness, only more work and fatigue. There had been no significant acquaintance, let alone a gift for life. “Happiness flew by, like a plane over Paris,” he smirked, leaving the supermarket. Outside, a scruffy boy was circling his faithful old Ford Escort, which had served the family for over twenty-five years. A runaway, by the look of him: unkempt, dressed in tatters, mismatched shoes—on the left, a murky trainer; on the right, a worn-out boot laced with a blue electric wire; on his head, a battered trapper hat, the right ear-flap burnt a third off. “Mister… I’m hungry, please… could I have some bread?” The boy’s voice was timidly hesitant as Val approached. It wasn’t the boy’s pitiful look or the Dickensian phrase, borrowed straight from Oliver Twist, that tugged at Val’s heart, but the slight stammer—a lesson from his amateur theatre days: a real feeling, or just an act? The kid was lying. The stammer was a dead giveaway: all theatre, all pretense. But why? If there is a sixth sense, Val felt it then: this drama was staged just for him. Why? “All right, mate,” thought Val, “let’s play along. My girls will love this; they’d be detectives if they could.” “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of stew, some potatoes and herring, and a mug of fruit compote with hot Chelsea buns?” offered Val. The child faltered, surprised, but quickly regained composure and nodded: “Yes.” This was Val’s standard test. Real street kids, when handed a bag crammed with food, bolted. Val could always catch them; he’d give them a playful clip on the head and say, “Don’t be wild—you’re a human child.” He deliberately fumbled for his keys, called home to announce his imminent return, back turned to the boy. The imposter didn’t run. He just stood there, clutching the shopping bag, head down, toe digging at the tarmac. “Thank you, kid,” Val grinned inwardly. “Didn’t fancy a sprint tonight.” When they arrived at the house, the girls rushed outside. Bags were grabbed, doors flung open. “What’s this, Dad?” Nadya finally noticed the boy. “This,” Val smiled, “is that fateful acquaintance and once-in-a-lifetime gift you predicted this morning.” “Awesome, Dad,” Nadya grinned, peering under the boy’s hat, “the best present ever. Are you sure he’s ours?” “Absolutely. Clung to my leg, screaming, ‘I’m your present!’ There was no shaking him off.” “What’s his name?” Vera joined in. “No label. No price tag,” he shrugged. Nadya grabbed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly: “Hello? Anyone home in there?” No answer. “Line must be bad out here. Let’s get inside—maybe it’ll improve,” Vera smiled meaningfully at her father. Val and his daughters spoke volumes with their eyes—they’d been through this before. He gave her five minutes, fingers spread wide. Vera winked: “We only need three.” “Drag our present inside, Nadya. Let’s investigate this Mysterious Walking Object.” Within moments, Nadya had the boy in hand and escorted him inside, joking about weird noises in his stomach and “loose screws” while Vera suggested they might need Dad’s toolbox to fix up the ‘robot.’ After parking the car and making everything ready for morning, Nadya burst out: “Dad, he’s lying!” “How do you know?” “Elementary, Watson. He doesn’t smell like a street kid—he’s completely ‘home-grown.’” “You sniffed him?” “Trust me, I did. Want to know what he smells like?” “Chelsea buns? Baby soap? Warm milk?” “You’re out of guesses. Here’s what,” she said, showing him her sooty hand. “Makeup?” Val asked after sniffing. “Bravo! Stage makeup. Laid it on thick so we’d think poor thing was filthy.” “His name’s Bull—only street kids get names like that. I asked Google. ‘Bull’ is a stud cow…” “We’ll fatten him up, auction him,” Val joked. “But seriously, Nadya?” “Dad! Jokes aside. He deliberately targeted you—dressed up in rags, smeared on makeup, took the stage. One-Man Theatre. Why?” Before Val could answer, Vera shouted from the door: “Do we have any sulphuric acid left?” “Half a can. Bringing it,” Nadya answered, grabbing a random canister. “We dissolve them in acid now, right down the drain…” “Monsters,” Val grinned. “Monsterettes,” Nadya corrected, dashing inside. “Dad, wash up, everything’s ready!” they called from the kitchen. “We’re starving, ready to gnaw on our ‘Bull,’” joked Vera. “Milk-fed—I’d crunch his little bones,” Nadya added with a wink. Val smiled, going to wash up: “What a pack of pigs—poor lad, hold on, I’m coming!” The ‘Bull’ sat sheepishly at the kitchen table. Clean and changed, he looked more ten than miserable. Gingersnap hair (as the poet said, ‘red as a fox’), a striped vest marked ‘USSR,’ torn blue jeans, bare feet tucked under his stool. He sat tall, calm, as though this was his own family table. The girls noticed the transformation, exchanging glances. “Something’s up with you, my friend,” thought Val, still watching him. “Your performance was all to get here. Why? Nadya’s right—you look like a clever, well-raised boy, not a thief. So what’s your real goal?” “Dad, you with us?” Vera tugged at his sleeve. “Thanks, I’m stuffed. Bless the cooks.” “You were out forever—daughters grew up, married. Hello granddad, meet your grandkids!” “And this chap’s your boyfriend?” Val nodded at the boy as Vera handed him tea. “He’s our house Bull. Cute, isn’t he?” Nadya teased, ruffling his hair. “We’re fattening him up—come summer, beef prices soar.” “Enough!” the boy cried suddenly, then softer, more nervously, “Vera, Nadya, stop…I surrender. Val…Mr. Zvyagin… I’m sorry, I went about everything wrong…” “Sit, sit,” said Val. “Take your time. Start from the beginning.” “Yes, but tell the truth,” insisted Nadya. “No lies—I’ll sniff them out.” “I won’t. I hate lying…” The truth stunned the Zvyagins. Spartacus ‘Bull’ Bugayev (he even showed his birth certificate), just one day older than Nadya, eleven years old. His father had died in the last Chechen war before Spartacus was born; his mother, seven months pregnant, went into labor from the shock, and only his baby sister survived. Their elder sister, not quite adult, fought to keep the family out of care homes. They grew up, four siblings; the ‘babies’ were Nadya and Lyuba. In October, Spartacus realized his middle sister, Sophia, was love-struck. She finally confided: she was madly in love… with Valery Zvyagin, local welder, divorcee, raising two daughters after his wife ran off to Argentina. He sometimes took in stray kids and found them real homes because he himself was from a care home—that’s why Sophia admired him. So Spartacus hatched a plan: disguise himself, break into the Zvyagin home, and see for himself if Val and the girls were genuinely good. Could they love his sister, make her happy? He had not counted on the girls’ uncanny detective skills. “You’re wonderful, really. Vera, Nadya—you’re amazing. Mr. Zvyagin, please, marry my sister. You’ll love her. She’s the kindest soul… She was afraid to ask—thought you wouldn’t want ‘a girl with a brood of kids.’” Nadya snorted, “Brood of kids? We’ll sort out your upbringing!” “We will,” she nodded. “Dad, are you in shock from the proposal? Or are we going on a proper proposal ourselves?” “It’s like a soap opera,” Val chuckled. “I’d noticed Sophia, too… My ex couldn’t handle two kids, so she flew away. Now, could a young woman handle a whole bunch?” “She’s twenty-three, Dad—only ten years younger than you. No big deal,” Nadya said. “You’ll be her rock and inspiration—and we’ll help too, won’t we, Spartacus?” “Yes!” he agreed. “Dad, please?” The girls crowded him, smiling. “Yes… but we have to ask the bride…” “She says yes!” Spartacus shook Val’s hand, solemnly. “As the only man in her family, I give you my sister’s hand.” Val hugged the boy. Tears stung his eyes—Vera sniffled, too. “See, Dad?” Nadya crowed, “You never believed it, but you did get your once-in-a-lifetime gift today: a big, happy family!” The Only Man at the Heart of a Family—A Fateful Encounter, a Mysterious ‘Gift,’ and the Unexpected Beginning of a New Life Together

The Only Man in the Family This morning at breakfast, my eldest daughter Emily was scrolling on her phone