La vida

A Life-Changing Realisation That Swept Me Away Up until the age of twenty-seven, Mike lived fast and carefree, full of noise and excitement—much like a lively spring stream. Everyone around knew his reckless, quick ways. He could round up the lads after a hard day’s work and head off miles to the river with fishing rods, then be back by sunrise to lend a hand with a neighbour’s wonky shed. “Mike’s as reckless as they come, never a worry,” the village elders would say, shaking their heads. “He lives with nothing in his head, just pure recklessness,” his mum would sigh. “What’s wrong with that? He’s just living life,” his mates would shrug, having long since settled down themselves. But then twenty-seven crept up quietly for Mike—no thunderbolt, more like the gentle fall of the first brown apple leaf. One morning, woken by the cock’s crow, it hit him not as a call to a day of larking, but as a reproach. The emptiness he’d never noticed began to roar in his ears. He looked around: his parents’ solid but ageing home, in need of a strong pair of hands. His dad, bent by household worries, talking more and more about haymaking and feed prices. The turning point came at a distant relative’s country wedding. Mike, as ever the life of the party, joked, danced till he dropped. Then he saw his father quietly talking to a grey-haired neighbour, both watching his wild antics—not with scorn, but with tired sadness. Suddenly, so painfully clear: he saw himself—not a boy but a grown man, dancing to someone else’s tune as life slipped past. No purpose, no roots, nothing truly his. He felt shaken. The next morning, he woke up changed. His old reckless ease was gone, replaced by a calm heaviness and newfound adulthood. No more pointless wandering. He claimed his late grandad’s abandoned plot at the edge of the village, near the woods. Cut the grass, chopped up dead trees. At first, the locals laughed. “Mike’s building a house? He can barely hammer a nail!” He learned—clumsily, often hitting his own fingers. With permission, he chopped wood, pulled out stumps. Money that used to fly out the window now saved for nails, roofing, glass. He worked from dawn to dusk—silent, stubborn. Collapsing at night, but for the first time feeling his day had meant something. Two years on: a plain but sturdy log cabin stood on that plot, smelling of pine and newness. Next to it—a self-built bathhouse. The vegetable patch had its first crops. Mike had grown lean, tanned, his eyes steady and calm. His dad started coming over, offering help, but was always gently refused. He’d quietly inspect the house, touch the corners, look beneath the roof. Eventually, he praised him: “Solid work…” “Thanks, Dad,” Mike replied simply. “Now it’s time for you to find a bride—a homemaker,” his father said. Mike smiled, looking at what he’d created, and at the woods rising behind his work. “I will, Dad. Everything in its own time.” He shouldered his axe and walked to the woodpile, moving slow and assured. The noise and carelessness of his past were gone, replaced by a life of worry, work, but for the first time—a sense of home, not just beneath his parents’ roof, but in a home he’d built himself. That empty, reckless youth had left for good. The real discovery came one normal summer morning, as Mike was about to head off to the woods for fallen branches. He’d just started up his old Ford, when out the neighbour’s gate she came—Julie. The very Julie he’d remembered as the scruffy girl, always chasing boys around, pigtails flying, knees perpetually scuffed; last seen as a gangly teen heading off to train as a teacher. Out the gate came not a girl, but a beautiful young woman. Sunlight danced in her rye-golden hair cascading down her shoulders. She walked with confidence, simple dark dress hugging her figure, and her big, once mischievous eyes now glowed with a new, warm depth. Lost in thought, fussing with her bag, she didn’t see Mike at first. He was frozen, motor forgotten, lost in the woods of his own heartbeat. “When did you turn into such a beauty? Just yesterday you were a skinny kid…” She caught his stunned stare, stopped, and smiled—no longer a neighbour’s cheeky grin, but something gentle and shy. “Morning, Mike. Car trouble?” Her voice was velvet, not a hint of that old squeaky childhood tease. “J-Julie,” he managed. “Off to school?” “Yep,” she nodded, “Got lessons soon, better not be late.” Down the dusty lane she walked, light-footed, and in his mind—usually filled with timber and nails—a dazzling thought struck: “She’s the one I want to marry.” He never guessed that this morning was one of Julie’s happiest. Because finally, that reckless Mike, who never seemed to notice her, saw her—not through her, but truly, for the first time. “Could it be I’ve waited… I’ve liked him since I was thirteen, but I was always just the kid next door. I even cried when he went off to the army. The older girls were all over him, and I felt so left out. I came back to this village, teaching, just for him.” Her quiet, lifelong crush was finally rekindled with hope. She walked away, barely hiding her smile, feeling his gaze burn at her back. Stunned, Mike never made it to the woods that day. He paced around his cabin, chopped wood frantically, and the same thought kept turning: “How could I not notice? She’s always been here. Grew up right in front of me, while I chased after every other girl…” That evening by the well, he saw her return, tired with her schoolbag. “Julie,” he blurted, surprised at his own courage, “How’s work? The kids all cheeky and wild?” She smiled, leaning on the fence, eyes weary but bright. “Work’s work. Kids are always noisy, but they make my heart glad. I love the bustle; they’re inventive and fun… And your new house—it’s sturdy.” “Not finished yet,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter, anything half-built, you can finish,” she said gently, shy at her own wisdom. “Well, I’ll be off.” “Anything can be finished…” Mike repeated to himself—”not just houses.” From then, life gained new purpose. He wasn’t just building a home for himself—he knew now who he wanted under that roof. With her in mind—the woman he’d love, who’d fill his windows with geraniums instead of jars of nails, who’d share his porch. He took his time, afraid to scare away this quiet dream. Mike kept “accidentally” meeting her, first nodding silently, then asking about her classroom. “So, how are the kids?” He’d pass the school, see her surrounded by giggling children calling, “Goodbye, Miss Julie!” One day he brought her an entire basket of wild hazelnuts. Julie accepted his shy offerings with a warm, knowing smile. She saw how he’d changed, from reckless lad to solid man. And in her heart, the feeling well kept alive found new fire. Dark autumn clouds hung low over the village. One late autumn day, with the house nearly finished and storm clouds ahead, Mike couldn’t hold back any longer. Waiting for Julie by the gate, holding a bunch of the last crimson rowan berries. “Julie,” he said nervously, “I’ve almost finished the house. Only… it’s painfully empty. Would you…come round sometime, have a look? Actually—I want to offer you my hand, my heart. I know now how much you mean to me.” Julie saw the earnest, fearful look in his eyes, finding all she’d waited for. She took the berries from his rough hand, their redness burning. She pressed them to her chest. “You know, Mike,” she said, voice quiet, “I’ve been watching that house since the very first log you laid. Always wondered what it’d look like inside, waiting for you to invite me. I’ve dreamed of this. So…yes, I do.” For the first time in months of shy beauty, a mischievous spark flashed in her eyes—the same one he hadn’t noticed before, waiting all these years to ignite. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing you all the best and happiness!

A Revelation That Swept Him Off His Feet Until he turned twenty-seven, Mike lived rather like a burst

La vida

We Didn’t Let Our Daughter In: — But why didn’t you let her in? — Veronica finally voiced the question that had been haunting her. — You used to, always… Her mother gave a bitter smile. — Because I’m scared for you, Nicky. Do you think we don’t see how you cower in the corner when your sister barges in after midnight? How you hide your textbooks so she doesn’t ruin them? She looks at you and she’s angry. Angry because you’re normal. You’ve got another life ahead, and she’s already drowned hers in a bottle… Veronica shrank into her chair, frozen above her open textbooks — next door, the shouting had started again. Dad hadn’t even taken his coat off — he stood in the hallway, phone gripped tight, shouting. — Don’t try and spin me a story! — he roared. — What did you waste it all on? It’s only been two weeks since payday! Only two weeks, Larissa! From the kitchen, Tania peered out. She listened to her husband’s monologue for a minute, then asked, — Again? Valery just waved her away and put the phone on speaker — instantly, the sobbing came through. Veronica’s older sister was a natural at wringing pity — even from stone. But after years of torment, her parents had grown armour. — What do you mean “he threw you out”? — Valery started pacing the narrow hall. — He did right. Who’d put up with you being in that state all the time? Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You’re thirty and look like a battered dog. Veronica carefully cracked open her door just a little. — Dad, please… — the sobbing suddenly stopped. — He threw my things out into the stairwell. I’ve got nowhere to go. It’s raining out, it’s cold… Let me stay with you for a few days. Just to get some sleep. Mum lunged forward, wanting to grab the phone, but Valery turned away sharply. — No! — he cut in. — You’re not coming here. We agreed last time, remember? After you pawned the TV while we were away at the cottage, you’re barred from this house! — Mum! Mum, talk to him! — the phone shrieked. Tania buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. — Larissa, how could you… — she said flatly, not looking at her husband. — We took you to the doctors. You promised. They said the last treatment would last three years. You didn’t even make it a month! — Those treatments are rubbish! — Larissa snapped, her tone shifting from pitiful to vicious. — They just want your money! I feel awful, don’t you get it? Everything inside me’s on fire, I can’t breathe! And you’re on about the television… That’s what you care about! I’ll get you a new one! — And how would you pay for it? — Valery stared at the wall. — With what money? Blew it all again, didn’t you? Begged more off those mates of yours? Or nicked something from that boyfriend of yours? — Doesn’t matter! — Larissa shouted. — Dad, I have no place to go! You want me living under a bridge? — Try a shelter. Go where you like, — his voice was chillingly calm. — You’re not coming here. I’ll change the locks if I see you at our door. Veronica sat on her bed, hugging her knees. Usually, when her sister pushed her parents to breaking point, their anger ricocheted back at her. — Why are you just sitting there? On your phone again? You’ll turn out useless like your sister! — words she’d heard for three years. But today, they’d forgotten all about her. No one yelled, no one nagged. Dad cut the call, hung up his coat, and both her parents moved to the kitchen. Veronica crept carefully into the hall. — Val, you can’t, — her mother pleaded. — She’ll end up lost. You know what she’s like… when she’s like this. She can’t even control herself. — And do you expect me to control her? — Dad slammed the kettle down. — I’m fifty-five, Tanya. I just want to come home and sit in my chair. I’m tired of hiding my wallet under the pillow! I’m tired of neighbours complaining they saw her in the stairwell with unsavoury types, or that she mouthed off at them! — She’s our daughter, — mum whispered. — She was our daughter up to twenty. Now she’s just draining the life from us. She’s a hopeless drunk, Tanya. That can’t be cured unless she actually wants it. And she doesn’t. She likes living this way. Wake up, find a little bottle, polish it off and pass out! The phone rang again. The parents went quiet, then Dad answered. — Hello. — Dad… — Larissa again. — I’m sitting at the train station. Cops are walking around, they’ll pick me up if I stay. Please… — Listen carefully, — Dad cut her off. — You’re not coming home. That’s it. — So I should just top myself? — there was a challenge in Larissa’s voice. — Is that what you want? A call from the morgue? Veronica froze. This was Larissa’s classic. When nothing else worked, she’d play this card. It used to work. Mum would break down, Dad would clutch his chest, and soon there’d be money, food, or a place to stay. But today Dad was having none of it. — Don’t threaten, — he said. — You care too much about yourself for that. So. Here’s what we’ll do. — What? — there was hope in Larissa’s voice. — I’ll find you a room. Cheapest I can, on the edge of town. I’ll pay for the first month. And buy you some groceries. That’s all. After that—you’re on your own. Get work, sort yourself out, you’ll be fine. If not—you’re out on the street and I won’t give a damn. — A room? Not a flat? Dad, I can’t do it alone. I’m scared. And the neighbours could be awful. I haven’t even got bedding, that bastard kept everything! — Mum’ll pack some sheets. We’ll leave them with the warden for you. Don’t come up to the flat, I warned you. — You’re heartless! — Larissa screamed again. — Kicking your own daughter out! Into some dump! You’re in your big flat and I’m left to skulk like a rat? Mum couldn’t take it, grabbed the phone. — Enough, Larissa! — she yelled so loud Veronica jumped. — Your father’s right! This is your only chance. Room or street. Decide now, because tomorrow you won’t even get the room! There was silence. — Fine, — Larissa muttered at last. — Send me the address. And some money… my card, now. I’m starving. — No money, — Valery cut her off. — I’ll get the food and give it to you in a bag. I know what you’d spend cash on. He ended the call. Veronica figured now was the time. She went to the kitchen, acting like she wanted a drink. She braced herself for the usual blast of pent-up resentment. Dad would look at her t-shirt and tell her she looked scruffy. Mum would complain she didn’t care—the family had problems and she didn’t even notice. But neither parent even looked at her. — Veron, — mum called softly. — Yes, mum? — In the cupboard, top shelf, there are some old sheets and pillowcases. Pack them into that blue bag in the closet, okay? — Sure, Mum. Veronica set about her task. She wondered: how will Larissa manage? She can’t even cook pasta. And her habit… Veronica just knew her sister wouldn’t last two days sober. She came back into her parents’ room, climbed a stool, pulled out the linens. — Don’t forget towels! — Dad called from the kitchen. — Already packed them, — Veronica called back. She saw Dad go to the hallway, put on his boots and leave, saying nothing. Guess he’s off to find that “dump,” she thought. Veronica went into the kitchen. Mum was still sitting, unmoving. — Mum, want me to get your tablets? — Veronica asked quietly. Mum looked up. — You know, Nick… — she started in a hollow tone. — When she was little, I thought she’d be my helper when she grew up. We’d talk about everything, just us. But now I just sit here and hope… she doesn’t forget that address. Just—makes it there… — She’ll make it, — Veronica perched on the chair. — She always lands on her feet. — Not this time, — mum shook her head. — Her eyes are different now. Empty. Like there’s nothing left inside, just a shell that needs that poison to keep going. And I see how you’re afraid of her… Veronica was silent. She’d always thought her parents had never noticed her fear, too caught up saving “lost cause” Larissa. — I thought you didn’t care about me, — she whispered. Mum stroked her hair. — We do care. But we can’t go on. You know how, in planes, they say put your oxygen mask on first, then your child’s? We spent ten years putting her mask on. Ten years, Nicky! We tried clinics, churches, specialists. And we almost suffocated ourselves. The doorbell rang. Veronica flinched. — Is it her? — she asked, frightened. — No, Dad’s got the keys. Probably grocery delivery, he ordered some bits. Veronica opened the door. The delivery man handed over two heavy bags. She unpacked them on the kitchen table: pasta, tins, tea, oil, sugar. The basics. — She won’t eat this, — Veronica said, putting aside the packet of buckwheat. — She only eats ready meals. — If she wants to live, she’ll cook, — her mum snapped, old firmness in her voice. — We’ve spoiled her enough. Our pity’ll be the death of her. An hour later, Dad came back. He looked like he’d worked three back-to-back shifts. — Found it, — he announced. — Keys are here. Landlady’s strict, retired teacher. Told me straight: the first smell of drink or a single row, she’s out without a word. I told her, “Throw her out right away if you have to.” — Oh, Valery… — mum sighed. — What? No point lying. She deserves to know. Dad grabbed the bag and groceries, headed out. — I’ll leave them with the warden. I’ll text her the address. Veronica, lock up tight behind me. Don’t answer the phone if it rings. Dad left, and Mum went and cried, locked in the kitchen. Veronica’s heart ached. How can it be? She doesn’t live, just stumbles from drink to drink, and won’t let Mum and Dad live either… *** Their hopes were dashed — a week later, Valery got a call from the landlady: their daughter had been chucked out with the police after bringing three men to the flat for an all-nighter. Once again, the parents couldn’t abandon her — Larissa was sent to a rehab centre. A secure one, where they promised to cure even the worst. Maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope… ***(Adapted for an English cultural context and idioms, while retaining names, details, and specifics of the original.)***

Didnt Let the Daughter Cross the Threshold – Why didnt you let her in? I finally asked my mum a

La vida

013

The Day I Lost My Husband Wasn’t Just the Day I Lost Him—It Was the Day I Lost the Marriage I Believed In. It All Happened So Quickly: From His Early Morning Route as a Rural Vet Across English Villages to the Rain-Soaked Accident That Changed Everything, and Then, Amid Grief, the Heartbreak of Discovering the Double Life He Led Through Public Tributes From Other Women. Five Years On, I’m Rebuilding from Betrayal and Loss—Learning to Forgive, Live, and Love Again, Piece by Piece.

The day I lost my husband was not simply the day he vanished from my life. It was the day I lost the

La vida

The Country House Confrontation – A Daughter Reclaims What’s Rightfully Hers

Country Retreat A Daughter Reclaims Her Own Lucy, try to see sense, the situation is desperate, Bernard

La vida

Hand Over the Spare Key to Our New Flat

Return the Key to Our Flat “We’ve made up our minds,” said Philippa, gently placing

La vida

A Grandson’s Place: When Grandma Chooses Favourites and Family Loyalties Are Tested

Grandson Not Required Mum reckons that Emilys the fragile one, my husband finally blurted out.

La vida

Black Widow Charming and clever Lily, just before graduating from university with a journalism degree, meets Vlad—a man much older than herself. Unsurprisingly, it was Vlad Romanov who first noticed the graceful and delicate Lily. Vlad was well-known in town as a songwriter whose tunes were popular and often heard around the city. He was everybody’s friend, familiar with almost everyone at the local TV station, so it was easy for him to get Lily a job as the host of her own show once she finished her studies. Soon after, Lily’s first programme, “Heart-to-Heart Conversations”, aired, featuring a well-known psychologist and several other guests in a format of questions, answers, and real-life stories. “Well done, Lily,” Vlad praised her after watching the show. “We must celebrate this.” At forty-five, Vlad had been married three times. His boundless energy and countless friends made family life impossible. He was creative—a self-declared distinguished composer—and he could often be found in restaurants, cafés, and saunas, drinking heavily. Time passed and Lily became a local celebrity, married Vlad, and her show became a hit. She dressed with taste, was always polite and cheerful, and had nothing remotely devilish about her—just the beautiful woman from TV, as people called her. But she soon realised she hadn’t married the right man, especially after Vlad was perpetually drunk. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Vlad,” his friend Simon once told him when Vlad, drunk, tried to humiliate Lily. “This girl will put you in your place.” “I’ve never chosen clever wives,” Vlad replied, seeing himself as the only smart one, then pinched Lily’s cheek as they sat in a café. When Vlad was courting Lily, he behaved like a gentleman—flowers, gifts, writing two songs for her, and listening with attention. But once she became his wife, all his interest faded, and he barely gave her more attention than the household cat. “I naively thought I’d become a star thanks to him,” Lily thought. It turned out differently. She’d studied French at university—hardly the most useful language for travel. Vlad constantly nagged her: “Learn English. Abroad, you look like a country bumpkin. Skip the gym, stop wasting time, and focus on English.” Out of spite, Lily refused to study English—until Simon, Vlad’s well-read friend, said at dinner, “English is as essential to an elegant woman as wearing heels.” Lily signed up for English classes the next day. “Well done, Simon—you’ve inspired my wife. She’s bought textbooks, takes lessons, and in the car she listens to English, not music!” Vlad joked. Lily and Vlad lived in a large flat inherited from his grandfather, a professor of medicine. Their housekeeper, Vera, a lonely forty-three-year-old woman, was skillful at hiding her envy and bitterness. All day, she saw everything. One morning, Lily woke to find Vlad missing again—passed out drunk on the sofa in his study. In the kitchen, Vera held an empty cognac bottle. “It was full last night. What should I give him for breakfast?” she asked. “Pickle juice,” Lily grumbled, heading to the shower. After seven years of marriage, Lily had no children—Vlad didn’t want any, already having a son from his first marriage. Lily, disillusioned with family life, focused on her career. After breakfast, she sent Vera to check on Vlad, who lay face down, a red stain on the pillow. “Lily!” Vera cried out. “Call an ambulance!” Fifteen minutes later, Lily rode in the ambulance with her husband. Vlad went straight to intensive care, and the doctors said, “It’s complicated. We can’t promise anything.” That evening, she got the call: “Your husband has died.” “I… I can’t believe it,” she whispered, shaken. “He wasn’t that old.” The funeral was lovely; Simon gave a touching speech: “Let’s not mourn—Vlad lived a full, exciting life and earned his rest. He’s free now.” After the funeral, Lily struggled to adjust to life without Vlad. The house felt empty; Vera watched her anxiously, unsure if she’d be dismissed. Colleagues said, “Lily, don’t be sad. You’re young, free, and financially secure.” Money from Vlad’s accounts was split between his son and Lily, but she earned well herself. She met friends or visited cafés to avoid being alone. One day, after filming her show, Lily stopped at a nearby café. She sipped Spanish wine, lost in thought, when a big man approached with a friendly smile, asking if he could join her. “Of course,” she nodded. “I’m Kenneth,” he said. “Why so glum? Someone as lovely as you shouldn’t be sad.” Kenneth was in his forties—burly, dark-haired, and with teddy-bear features that instantly amused Lily. “Let me treat you. Wine? Cocktail? Dessert?” he offered. “Just some cake, thank you,” she replied. Kenneth, though not handsome, was charming—warm and funny, full of fascinating stories. Lily laughed and enjoyed his company; he walked her home and they arranged a date. The next day, Lily told Vera, “I don’t need your help anymore. I can take care of myself.” “But Lily dear, I’ve been loyal all these years. Where will I go?” “You’ll find another family or become a porter somewhere.” “You’re throwing me out?” Vera cried, then wiped her tears. “Oh, I’ll be fine. At least I won’t have to wash windows and toilets,” Lily mused. But seeing Vera so upset, Lily relented. “Alright, if you insist, you can stay.” Vera cheered up and even kissed Lily’s cheek. “I’ve come to love you and Vlad as if you were my own,” Vera explained. Life went on, and Kenneth—Kenny, as Lily affectionately called him—became a frequent guest. He adored Lily, and within three months, they married. Lily insisted on a modest wedding, but Kenneth whisked her off to the Maldives for their honeymoon—a luxury he could afford as a businessman. Lily expected a typical holiday: direct flight, decent hotel, standard tourist attractions. But Kenny’s idea of a dream vacation was quite different: first-class travel, a private yacht to their island, greeted as VIPs with fireworks, cocktails, and dancing. Their villa was gorgeous—four bedrooms, two baths, a private pool, and a secluded beach. “Goodness, how much did my teddy bear spend?” Lily wondered. She’d never cared about Kenneth’s wealth, just knew he had money. He was incredibly caring—making sure she ate a proper breakfast, tucking her in at night. “Vlad was a nightmare—always belittling me, insisting I owed my success to him. Kenny may not be a looker, but he lives for me and always listens. I like that,” Lily thought. Vera praised Kenneth and was happy living with them in his grand country house. The only downside: Lily once saw Kenneth inject himself. “What’s that?” she asked, alarmed. “Just insulin—I’m diabetic, but it’s nothing. I live a full life.” Lounging in the Maldives, Lily mused, “Did I just win the happiness lottery?” She loved the luxury, though she sometimes wished for a muscly husband instead of a cuddly bear. She suggested Kenny work out, but he admitted, “I’ll try if you want, but my metabolism is a problem. I’m insulin-dependent—I’ll never be an Adonis.” “That’s fine,” Lily decided. Back to work, Lily often felt unfulfilled, wondering if she’d ever feel true passion. She wanted to experience love; instead of a teddy bear, she wished for a handsome, athletic man. At work, colleagues teased, “Don’t you ever cheat on your bear? Are you really so virtuous?” But she wasn’t all that moral—she just didn’t want to hurt her kind husband. That New Year’s Eve at the office party, after a few drinks, her colleague Chris called his friend Archie to take her home. “Lily, need a lift?” Chris asked, drunk. She accepted. Archie, a handsome man with an expensive car, couldn’t take his eyes off Lily. He offered a lift, got her phone number, and outside her house, pinned her against his jeep with a fierce kiss. She didn’t resist—she liked his roughness and strength. Archie turned out to be the perfect lover. With Kenny, she was affectionate; Archie wasted no time, passionately sweeping her off her feet. It suited them both. Kenny, busy with his business, never suspected a thing. One day Lily arrived at Archie’s flat, ready for a rendezvous, when someone buzzed the door bell persistently. “Who’s calling now?” Archie grumbled, heading to the door. Lily recognised two voices: Kenny and Archie’s. Terrified, she scrambled to get dressed as Kenny silently appeared in the doorway. It would have been easier if he’d shouted. “Kenny… this isn’t… what it looks like…” Archie stood by, not defending her. “Who betrayed me?” Lily wondered. “What’s the point now? Though I didn’t believe it, I had to check.” Kenny looked dreadful, pale and sweating, then collapsed. Lily checked—he was breathing heavily. “Call an ambulance, quick!” Archie called for help. Lily found Kenny’s insulin pen, injected him—but he didn’t improve. The paramedics arrived: “He’s gone.” Lily was stunned. Archie drove her home. Vera greeted her, asking, “Lily, what happened? You look ill!” Suddenly Lily suspected Vera had tipped off Kenny—Vera disliked Archie and had been nosy about him. She kept quiet; Vera would never confess. After her second husband’s funeral, Lily took a long time to recover. Kenny’s heart attack was ruled the cause of death. Afterward, his daughter from his first marriage—now married to a lawyer—evicted Lily, threatening legal action and handing over a thick envelope of cash as severance. Lily, uninterested in inheritance battles, moved back into her spacious flat with Vera—the one that had belonged to Vlad Romanov. Time passed. Archie was her support and companion, but never proposed. She knew he wasn’t husband material. Then one day, her colleague Chris gave her shocking news: “Lily, brace yourself… Archie died in a car accident. Instantly.” It hit her hard. “Why do all my men die? Am I a black widow—doomed to be called that? Is there something cursed about me?” Some time later, Lily hosted a young man named Matthew on her show. She sensed he was utterly captivated by her, and after filming, he invited her to a café. “Alright,” she agreed—it was time to move on. Matthew swept her off her feet; Lily fell for him deeply, plunging into happiness. “So this is love,” she thought. “I can’t breathe without Matthew, let alone live.” She feared for his safety, though. Matthew reciprocated, and their days together were joyful. Lily didn’t know much about his background, only that he had no family save a distant father. Matthew lived with Lily, and one afternoon, out of curiosity, she looked him up online. What she found stunned her: Matthew, her sweet and unassuming love, was listed among the country’s wealthiest. She was in shock. “I can’t believe my eyes! Incredible!” Then she panicked, “What if something happens to him too?” She calmed down and went to work. Later, when she rang Matthew’s mobile and his office, the secretary informed her, “He’s been taken to hospital.” Rushing to the hospital, Lily demanded, “What’s wrong with him?” The doctor reassured her, “Nothing serious—a slight heart scare. He’ll be fine.” “May I see him? Please…” “Ten minutes.” Lily entered Matthew’s room; he was waiting, smiling. She sat beside him, and he took her hands. “All will be well. I love you! Once I’m out, let’s get married. Will you?” “Of course!” she cried, kissing him. “There’s a whole life and real happiness ahead.” Thank you for reading, subscribing, and your support. Best wishes!

Black Widow So, let me tell you this story, mate. There was this clever, pretty girlher name was Emily

La vida

The Day I Lost My Husband Wasn’t Just the Day I Lost Him—It Was the Day I Lost My Faith in Our Marriage Too. Everything Changed in an Instant: From His Early Morning Goodbye as the Village Vet to the Tragic Phone Call, the Unbearable Reality at the Hospital, and the Shattering Discovery of His Secret Life Through Social Media, I Faced Grief and Betrayal All at Once. Five Years On, After Therapy, Tears, and Healing, I’m Slowly Rebuilding My Life—Piece by Piece—Knowing It Will Never Be the Same.

The day I lost my wife wasnt just the day I lost herit was the day I lost the marriage I thought I had.

La vida

“My Son Needs Fifty Thousand, Stepan—Fifty, On Top of Thirty Thousand in Child Support: When Family Savings Become a Battleground Between Responsibility and Betrayal”

Fifty thousand, Simon. Fifty. On top of the thirty grand in maintenance already. Eleanor threw her phone

La vida

I Know Best – What’s going on here? – Dmitry sighed, crouching in front of his daughter and studying the pink patches on her cheeks. – Not again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely serious for a child. She’d already grown used to these check-ups, to her parents’ worried faces, to endless creams and tablets. Mary came over and knelt beside her husband, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. Not at all. It’s like giving her water. And the NHS doctors… honestly, who are they? Third time they’ve changed her prescription and it’s made no difference. Dmitry stood up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the morning was grey, and the day promised to be as bleak as the last. They got ready quickly – wrapped Sophie up warm – and within half an hour were sitting in Dmitry’s mum’s flat. Olga was tutting, shaking her head, stroking her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on all these medicines. What a strain on her little body, – she settled Sophie on her lap and the girl immediately snuggled into her grandma. – It’s heartbreaking. – We’d be happy to stop them, – Mary perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers locked tight. – But the allergy isn’t going away. We’ve cut out everything. Absolutely everything. She eats just basic foods – and the rash still appears. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing specific. They can’t pinpoint it. Blood tests, allergy testing, but the only result… – Mary waved a hand – is this, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and adjusted Sophie’s collar. – I just hope she outgrows it. Sometimes kids do get better as they get older. But for now, it’s just so tough. Dmitry gazed at his daughter. Small, thin, big watchful eyes. He stroked her hair, remembering his own childhood – sneaking pies from the kitchen when mum baked on Saturdays, begging for sweets, eating jam straight from the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled chicken. Water. No fruit, no treats, none of the things normal children eat. Four years old – and her diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else to cut out, – he murmured. – Her diet’s already… there’s barely anything left. They drove home in silence. Sophie dozed off in the back seat, and Dmitry watched her in the mirror. At least she’s sleeping. Not itching for once. – Mum called, – Mary spoke up. – She wants us to bring Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for a puppet show, wants to take her out. – The theatre? – Dmitry changed gears. – That’s good. She needs a distraction. – That’s what I thought too. She could do with a break. …On Saturday Dmitry parked outside his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily and rubbed her eyes – dragged out of bed early, not fully awake yet. He picked her up and she pressed her nose to his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor swept out onto the porch in a flowered dressing gown, hands thrown up like she’d spotted a castaway. – Oh my darling, sunshine, – she scooped Sophie to her ample bosom. – So pale, so thin, cheeks all hollow. You’ve wasted her with your diets, you’re ruining the child. Dmitry shoved his hands in his pockets, suppressing his irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing this for her own good. Not by choice, trust me. – What good is that? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though she’d just staggered back from a war zone. – Skin and bones. She needs to grow, and you starve her. She carried Sophie inside without a glance back, door snicking shut behind them. Dmitry stood for a long moment, something sharp flickering at the edge of his mind – a suspicion, refusing to fully form, dissolving away like morning fog. He rubbed his forehead, lingered by the gate, listening to the quiet, then turned and walked to the car. Having the weekend without his daughter was strange, an almost forgotten feeling. On Saturday he and Mary drove to the supermarket, pushing the trolley down aisles and stacking up groceries for the week. At home, Dmitry wrestled with the leaking bathroom tap for three hours while Mary sorted the cupboards, old clothes packed up in bags for donation. Normal household busyness, but without a child’s voice the flat felt wrong, too empty. That evening they ordered pizza – the one with mozzarella and basil that Sophie couldn’t have. Opened a bottle of red. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing and everything – work, holiday plans, the never-ending renovation. – It feels good, – Mary started, stopping herself, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Restful. – I get it, – Dmitry put his hand over hers. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday he went to collect Sophie around sunset. The house glowed in the orange light, tucked behind old apple trees and, just for a moment, looked almost inviting. Dmitry climbed out, pushed the gate – hinges squeaked – and stopped dead. On the porch sat his daughter, Mrs Taylor beside her, blissful grin plastered on her face. In her hands was a pie – huge, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was eating it, crumbs smeared on her cheeks and chin, eyes sparkling with joy like Dmitry hadn’t seen in months. For a few heartbeats he simply watched. Then a wave of anger surged through him, hot and fierce. He strode forward, snatched the pie from Mrs Taylor’s hands. – What is this?! Mrs Taylor flinched, recoiling, her face flushing from chin to hairline. She fluttered her hands at him, as if to fling away his fury. – It’s just a tiny bit, honestly! It’s just pie, what’s the harm… Dmitry didn’t listen. He scooped Sophie into his arms – she shrank away, clutching his jacket, eyes scared. He strapped her into the car seat, hands shaking, voice taut. – You’re alright, sweetheart. Just sit tight. Daddy’ll be back in a minute. He shut the door and stalked back to the house. Mrs Taylor was still on the porch, worrying the edge of her gown, blotchy-faced. – Dmitry, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he halted two steps away, rage spilling out. – Half a year! Six months we’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with our daughter! Tests, appointments, allergy checks – do you have any idea what it’s cost? The nights we haven’t slept? Mrs Taylor backed toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dmitry advanced – Water and boiled chicken for months! We cut out everything! And you sneak her fried pies? – I was building up her immunity! – she suddenly squared her shoulders. – Little by little, so she’d get used to it. A bit more and she’d have recovered, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three kids! Dmitry stared, barely recognising her. The woman he’d tolerated for years, for the sake of his wife and family peace, was poisoning his child, convinced she knew better than the doctors. – Three kids, – he repeated coldly. Mrs Taylor paled. – But all kids are different. And Sophie is my daughter, not yours. You won’t be seeing her again. – What?! – She clung to the railings. – You can’t do that! – I can. He turned and walked away. She shrieked after him but Dmitry didn’t look back. He got in the car, started the engine. In the rear-view mirror he saw Mrs Taylor running after them, waving furiously. He pressed the accelerator. Back home, Mary met them in the hall. Saw Dmitry’s face and Sophie’s tears, and understood instantly. – What happened? Dmitry told her. Brief, emotionless – he’d already let it all out at the house. Mary’s expression turned to stone. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, Dmitry told me. How could you? He led Sophie to the bathroom, washing away the pie and tears. Behind the door Mary’s voice rang out, sharp and unfamiliar, scolding her mother like Dmitry had never heard before. There was one clear line at the end: “Until we get this allergy sorted – you won’t see Sophie again.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was already a tradition. Today there was cake: a sponge, topped with cream and strawberries. And Sophie was eating it. On her own, with a big spoon, covered in cream. Not a pink spot on her cheeks. – Who would have thought, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil allergy. So rare. – The doctor said it’s one in a thousand, – Mary spread butter on bread. – Once we cut it completely and switched to olive oil, her skin cleared up in two weeks. Dmitry watched his daughter, couldn’t stop smiling. Pink cheeks, sparkling eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally allowed normal food. Cakes, biscuits, anything made without sunflower oil – so much more than he’d ever guessed. His relationship with Mrs Taylor stayed frosty. She called, apologised, cried. Mary was curt, never warm. Dmitry never spoke to her. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga slid the plate closer. – Eat up, darling. Enjoy every bite. Dmitry leaned back. Rain pattered outside, but inside it was warm and sweet with the smell of baking. His daughter was well again. Nothing else mattered.

I swear, I know whats best Oh, for goodness sake, Tom sighed and crouched in front of his daughter, studying