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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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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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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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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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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

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The Default Break-Up: When Meeting the Parents Means Choosing Sides — “Everything will be fine,” whispered Will quietly, trying to sound confident. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be a challenge—how could it be any other way? Meeting the parents was always a milestone… The door opened almost immediately. Mrs. Alice Preston stood on the threshold. She looked immaculate—her hair neatly styled, a sharply tailored dress, a hint of make-up. Her eyes lingered on Laura, paused at the basket of homemade cookies, and her lips pursed ever so slightly. The gesture was fleeting, almost invisible, but Laura caught it. “Come in,” said Mrs. Preston, her voice lacking warmth as she stepped aside to let them pass. Will entered, avoiding his mother’s gaze; Laura followed, stepping cautiously over the threshold. The flat greeted them with soft lighting and the scent of sandalwood. It was cozy, but almost too perfect. Not a stray item, not a book left askew, not a misplaced scarf. Everything was in its place, every detail screaming order and control. Mrs. Preston led them into the lounge—a spacious room with a large window and thick cream curtains. In the centre stood a massive sofa upholstered in expensive fabric, next to a low dark-wood coffee table. She gestured towards the sofa, inviting them to sit. “Tea? Coffee?” she inquired, still not meeting Laura’s eyes. Her voice was even, emotionless—a formality more than hospitality. “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Laura replied politely, her voice steady and friendly. She placed the cookie basket on the table, neatly untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. The scent of fresh biscuits quickly filled the room. “I brought some cookies. Baked them myself. Please, help yourself…” Mrs. Preston gave the basket a moment’s glance, then nodded. “Very nice,” she said, making for the kitchen. “I’ll just get the tea.” Once she left, Will leant toward Laura and whispered, “I’m sorry. Mum’s always… reserved.” “Don’t worry,” Laura smiled, squeezing his hand. “I get it. As long as you’re with me, that’s what matters.” While Mrs. Preston prepared the tea, the room fell silent. Laura looked around—the decor was posh and tidy, but felt cold and uninviting. As if this were a showroom, not a home. Mrs. Preston returned with a tray: delicate porcelain cups with a floral pattern, a silver teapot and a plate with the cookies set in a perfect circle. She poured the tea unhurriedly and settled in an armchair opposite, arms crossed. “So, Laura,” she began, scrutinizing the young woman. Her eyes took in every detail—hair, eyes, even how Laura held her cup. “Will tells me you’re in university? Studying to become a nursery teacher?” “Yes, I’m in my third year,” Laura nodded, forcing her hands to stay steady as she put her cup down. “I really enjoy working with children. It’s important—to help them grow, to see them learn.” “Working with children,” Mrs. Preston repeated with faint irony, raising a brow. “Admirable, of course. But you’re aware nursery teachers aren’t exactly well paid? These days, it pays to think ahead—about your future, stability.” Will bristled. “Mum, why always about money? Laura loves her work, that’s what matters. Money will come with time. Supporting each other is more important.” Mrs. Preston turned her head to her son, but made no reply. She sipped her tea slowly, weighing her words. “Passion for your job is wonderful,” she finally said, addressing Laura again. “But the reality is, love alone doesn’t pay bills. Have you thought about where you’ll work after graduation? Any plans for the next few years?” Laura took a deep breath, composing herself. She realised this was more test than conversation. “Yes, of course,” she answered smoothly. “I’m hoping to start in a local nursery, get experience, maybe later take some specialist courses—to work with children with special needs. It won’t be easy, but I feel it’s my calling.” Mrs. Preston nodded silently, gaze unreadable. “I’m not planning to rely on Will,” Laura added. “I want to work and be independent, and believe that we can build a strong relationship—supporting each other not just with money, but by doing things that matter.” “Interesting view,” Mrs. Preston replied, tilting her head. “But have you considered a more lucrative career? With your attributes you could go far in sales, marketing. The pay’s much better.” Will moved to protest, but Laura stopped him with a gesture. She felt it was important to stand her ground. “And what do you do for work?” she asked Mrs. Preston directly. There was a beat of surprise—Mrs. Preston momentarily thrown, then composed herself. “I… I don’t work,” she said after a pause. “My husband provides for us. I manage the home, help him where I can—that’s work too, albeit unpaid.” “I understand,” Laura nodded, growing more resolute. “But if you chose not to work, why insist I must pursue a higher-paid job—giving up what I love—for the sake of money? I’m not asking Will to provide for me.” A heavy silence descended. Mrs. Preston stared at Laura, reassessing her. “My husband wanted me to give up work. He could support us, you see. But Will…” Will shifted uneasily, the tension settling in. “Laura, you know… Mum just wants the best for us, to avoid problems down the line.” Laura looked at him in disbelief. Moments ago he’d defended her; now, he seemed to waver. Her chest tightened—he was doubting her right when she needed him most. “So you agree with her?” she asked evenly. “You think I shouldn’t do what I enjoy? That I should force myself—just for a better salary?” “Well… not exactly…” Will hesitated, fingers twisting nervously. “But Mum’s right about our future. We can’t just live for today. We need to be responsible.” Mrs. Preston turned to Laura, hands still folded, voice softer but insistent. “Laura, do you seriously expect my son to give up his dreams? He’s always wanted to be a journalist, to travel, write—his job is his passion. Will he have to abandon all that, just to provide for a family?” Laura began to reply, but Will jumped in. “Mum, I—” “No, Will. Answer honestly,” Mrs. Preston cut him off. “Are you ready to give up your dreams for this girl? To forget travel, interesting assignments, the work you love?” Will was silent. He looked at Laura, who refused to speak, letting him decide. Inside, he was torn—one part wanted to reassure Laura that together they’d make it, the other feared his mother was right. “I… I don’t want to give up my dream. But I also don’t want to lose Laura. We can find a way for both our careers. We’ll support each other.” Mrs. Preston sighed but gave no further argument. She relaxed back, signalling she’d said her piece. “How funny,” Laura said, not hiding her disappointment. “So Will can keep his dreams, but I must give up mine? I must find a high-paid job while Will just enjoys life? Doesn’t that seem unfair?” Will looked down, hands shaking so the teacup rattled. His thoughts chased each other—they couldn’t please everyone. “Well… maybe you’ll both have to compromise…” he muttered. “Compromise?” Mrs. Preston scoffed. “You know that’s impossible. You either commit to your career or…” She fell silent, her meaning plain. Will bit his tongue; he wanted to protest that people do combine careers and family now, but Mum’s look, as always, made him feel small. “Well, I think that’s enough for today,” Mrs. Preston concluded, standing gracefully. “It’s getting dark and our area gets rough in the evenings. Best you head home, Laura. Will—we need to talk. Now!” It was less suggestion, more decree. Will made a feeble protest. “Mum, maybe I can walk Laura to the bus stop—” “Absolutely not!” she snapped without looking back. “I’ll worry. Stay here.” Will slumped, resigned. Once his mother had decided, there was no point arguing. “Sorry, Laura,” he whispered, eyes lowered. “Maybe Mum’s right. I can’t walk you out. Get a taxi, okay?” Laura just nodded. She put her cup down, collected her things and stood. “Okay,” she said blandly, though inside she seethed with hurt and disappointment. “I’ll go then.” She straightened her cardigan, as if to armour herself. No more forced smiles—she just wanted to leave this house, this perfection that made her feel so out of place. “Thank you for the tea,” she said with measured politeness, and let the icy note show. No more trying to please—only formal courtesy. “Goodbye,” Mrs. Preston replied, still not looking at her. Laura walked to the door, moving calmly despite the tension. At the threshold, she glanced back—Will was slumped, head down, unmoving. He didn’t raise his eyes or try to stop her, or say a word. His silence drew the final line in her mind. Outside, she breathed the cool evening air. Some tension faded. Anger, hurt and disappointment battled inside, but one thing was clear: Will would always choose his mother. Even if it meant choosing against her. She walked, first slowly, then faster, as if she could outrun her thoughts. But they dogged her—”He didn’t defend me. He didn’t stand up for my choices.” She clenched her fists, determined not to cry. At home, she locked herself in, took off her shoes and sat in the hallway. The quiet soothed her. She let herself exhale and allow the storm to subside. She realised—this was not the end of the world. It was just the end of a story, one that perhaps never should have begun. With tomorrow would come new opportunities. And she knew she’d manage. ******************* The next day, Laura ignored Will’s calls. She needed time to decide what she wanted. Even if they stayed together, she’d always have to compete with his mum. And Will… would always hesitate. Every choice, every decision would have to pass through Mrs. Preston’s filter. The future looked bleak. Days went by, Laura drifting through her studies and routines on autopilot. She tried not to think of Will, but the memory of their last conversation, his silence, haunted her. After a few days, coming home from class, Laura spotted a familiar face near her building. “Laura!” She turned. Will stood by the gate, hunched, hands in pockets, avoiding her eyes. “We need to talk,” he began, staring at the pavement. “Mum told me… really, she thinks you’re not right for me.” Laura raised her eyebrows. Inside she braced herself, but kept her voice calm. “And what do you think?” she asked. Will shuffled his feet. “She’s my mum,” he finally said. “I don’t want to upset her.” It sounded less like a conviction than an excuse. “So you agree with her?” Laura asked, though she already knew. “I’m not saying I agree,” Will said quickly, “but she’s family. I can’t just turn my back.” He stopped, hoping Laura would rescue the conversation. She was silent, thinking: What if this never changed? What if every decision always meant choosing between me and his mum? “Do you want to be with me?” she finally asked, meeting his gaze. Will hesitated, mouth opening, but no words came. He sighed and slumped his shoulders, unable to give her the answer she needed. Laura nodded, as if confirming what she’d long suspected. She didn’t demand anything more; she simply turned and headed inside, leaving Will on the pavement. That evening, Laura walked through quiet, autumn-scented streets. For the first time in days, she laughed. The sound was light, almost care-free. Looking up at the scattered lights, she realised: whatever lies ahead, she can face it. She no longer needed to fit anyone’s expectations. She was free. And that was the most important thing of all.

The Default Break All will be well, Harry whispered under his breath, hoping his voice sounded braver

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The Wicked Neighbour Next Door

Every street seems to have that one lady who shouts from her window if anyone lights up a cigarette right

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Let’s Live For Each Other: After a Mother’s Passing, Egor and His Daughter Face Loss, Family Betrayal, and Forgiveness in the Search for Hope

Lets Live for Each Other After his mother passed away, George tried to steady himself. Shed been in hospital