My mothers unwell and shell be staying with us. Youll need to look after her for a while, Tom announced
“Well, That’s Settled!” Exclaimed Alex. “Of Course, the Man Should Always Have the Final Say!”
One Morning, the Effingham’s Grown-Up Grandson Arrived from London—Just Recently Married, the Family Having Attended His Wedding. Alex Came Round for Potatoes, as He Always Helped His Beloved Nan and Granddad Plant and Dig Them Up.
“So, Alex, Tell Me,” Nan Asked as She Bustled in the Kitchen, “How’s Life With Your Svetlana?”
“It’s a Mixed Bag, Nan…” Alex Replied Reluctantly. “Sometimes Good, Sometimes Not So Much…”
“Wait—What Do You Mean By That?” Granddad John Looked Concerned. “You Two Arguing Already?”
“Well, Not Exactly, Granddad. We’re Still Figuring Out Who’s the Boss in Our Home,” Alex Confessed.
Nan Sighed With a Chuckle, “Oh, Bother! That Should Be Obvious.”
Granddad Laughed, “Of Course It’s Obvious—the Lady of the House Always Calls the Shots!”
“Oh, Really Now…” Came the Response from the Kitchen.
“Granddad, Are You Serious?” Alex Looked at Him in Amazement. “You’re Not Just Joking?”
“Not at All,” John Responded Firmly. “If You Don’t Believe Me, Ask Your Nan. Well, Catherine, Who Always Has the Last Word in Our Home?”
“Don’t Be Silly,” Nan Answered Fondly.
“No, Go On—Who Decides in the End, You or Me?”
“Well, I Suppose I Do…”
“How’s That?” Alex Said in Disbelief. “I’ve Never Noticed That Before. And Frankly, I Think the Man Should Always Be the Head of the House.”
“Oh, Give Over, Alex,” Granddad Chortled. “In a Real Family, It’s Not Like You Imagine. Let Me Tell You a Few Stories and You’ll See for Yourself.”
A Story
“Here We Go,” Nan Grumbled. “He’ll Be on About His Motorbike Now.”
“What Motorbike?” Alex Asked in Surprise.
“The Rusty One in the Shed,” Granddad Confirmed Cheerfully. “It’s Nearer a Hundred Years Old Than Not. Guess How Your Nan Made Me Buy It?”
“Nan? Made You?”
“Yes. She Gave Me the Money Herself, Out of Her Own Savings. But There’s Another Story Before That.”
One Time I Earned Enough for a Motorbike With a Sidecar. I Told Catherine—Your Nan—I Wanted to Buy It, So I Could Bring Potatoes Home From the Field. Used to Get Allotments Out in the Countryside for Our Potatoes.
Your Nan Was Dead Set Against It. She Said, “Let’s Get a Colour TV Instead.” They Were an Arm and a Leg Back Then. “You Always Managed to Bring The Potatoes Back On Your Bike—Keep Doing That.”
Sack on the Crossbar and Off You Go. “Alright,” I Said, “You’ll Have the Final Word, as Usual.” So We Bought the TV.
“And the Motorbike?” Alex Asked, Confused.
“We Got the Motorbike Too,” Nan Sighed. “But Much Later. Granddad Hurt His Back So Badly I Had to Lug the Potatoes Myself. Did Almost All of It Alone.
Then, Come November When We Sold the Pigs for Meat, I Gave Him Every Penny and Said, ‘Off to Town—Go Get Your Motorbike With the Sidecar.’”
“And the Next Autumn We Had Some Money Again,” Granddad Continued. “I Said, ‘Let’s Build a New Shed—with the Old One Rotting and Falling to Bits.’ But Your Nan Started Again: ‘Let’s Buy Proper Furniture, Make It Like Other People’s Homes.’ Fine, I Said, You Always Get the Final Word. We Bought the Furniture.
“And Come Spring, the Old Shed Collapsed Under the Heavy Snow,” Nan Finished the Tale. “Roof Gave Out Completely. Since Then, I Decided: We’ll Do It as John Says, Every Time.”
“Well, There We Are!” Alex Exclaimed. “Just as I Said! The Man Always Gets the Last Word!”
“No, Alex, You’ve Got It Wrong,” Granddad Laughed. “Before I Do Anything, I Go Up to Your Nan and Say—‘I Want to Rebuild the Fireplace. What Do You Think?’ If She Agrees, We Do It. If Not, We Don’t—Her Word Is Final.”
“After All That, I Always Say—‘Let’s Do Whatever You Think Best,’” Nan Chimed In.
“So Really, Alex, In Every Family, It’s the Wife Who Has the Final Say,” Granddad Concluded. “D’you See What I Mean?”
Alex Thought It Over, Then Burst Out Laughing. After a Moment’s Reflection, His Face Lit Up.
“Now I Get It, Granddad. I’ll Go Home and Tell Sveta: ‘Alright, Love, Let’s Holiday in Turkey Like You Want. The Car Can Wait for Repairs. If It Breaks Down, We’ll Take the Bus All Winter—We’ll Just Get Up an Hour Earlier for Work. Not the End of the World, Is It?’ That Sound About Right, Granddad?”
“Absolutely Spot On,” Granddad Nodded. “And Give It a Year or Two, Everything Will Sort Itself Out.
And Honestly, the Wife Should Always Be Head of the Family. Makes Life Easier for Us Chaps—I Should Know…” Well, there you are! I exclaimed. Its just as it should be! The last word should always be the mans!
“Late from Work Again?” he Snapped Jealously—“I Know Everything Now”
Lena froze, hand on the cold door handle, damp with melting snow, as her husband, Andrew—still in his dressing-gown and wrinkled tee—confronted her in their airless, tension-filled London flat. The scent of fried onions mingled with the heavy, stale anger that had haunted their home for weeks, burrowing into the curtains and her skin.
Clutching her bag, Lena mumbled her usual excuse: the Tube delays, snow and rush hour on the North Circular. But Andrew cut her off, fury rising—he’d called her work, spoken with security. She’d left hours ago. So, where had she really been? Was there someone else—a new, younger colleague, perhaps, or that old friend she’d once mentioned?
Their nineteen-year-old son, Chris, pale and sleepless, poked his head out of his room, nervously pleading with his parents not to shout, only to be sent away. Cornered, Lena tried to explain: job cuts at work, visiting her mum, popping to the chemist. Andrew, unconvinced, flung her pawn shop receipt in her face—a sale of the gold bracelet he’d given her for their anniversary.
Desperation mounting, Lena left, taking a bag and a mysterious envelope. Out in the blizzard, she wandered the empty streets, ultimately taking shelter in a grimy railway café, clutching last year’s family holiday photo as the true weight of her secret pressed in: after their son’s hit-and-run, she’d done anything to hide his guilt—even sell their belongings and borrow from friends, all to meet the blackmailing demands of the grieving father.
But Andrew, following her secret rendezvous, arrived just as Lena handed over the money. The whole grisly truth spilled out—Chris, their son, was the driver. Andrew, devastated, refused to buy a conscience with money. Together, father and son walked out into the snow towards the police station, leaving Lena alone to weep—not out of fear, but for the irretrievable loss now hanging over all their futures.
Truth Hurts Deeper than Betrayal: When a Mother’s Desperation, a Father’s Integrity, and a Family’s Darkest Secret Collide on a Snowy London Night Late from work again, are you? John barked jealously. I get it now. He didnt even let her remove her
Come In, Jamie…
— “Miss, but we don’t have any money…” the boy said timidly, eyeing the bag full of everything.
After Christmas, the town felt sadder. Lights still dangled from lampposts but warmed no one. People rushed about, shops were almost empty, and homes were heavy with too much leftover food and too much quiet.
In the big Evans family house, tables had been lavishly set, as always. Christmas puddings, roasts, salads, oranges—far more than needed.
Mrs Evans gathered plates slowly, looking at the food with a lump in her throat, knowing some would be thrown away. The thought pained her.
On a sudden impulse, she went to the window.
That’s when she saw him.
Jamie.
Standing by the gate, small and silent, woolly hat pulled down, thin coat buttoned up. He didn’t gaze longingly at the house, just waited… without the courage to knock.
Her heart tightened.
A few days before Christmas, she’d seen him staring through shop windows at the displays of Christmas feasts. He never begged, never bothered anyone—just looked, eyes full of quiet hunger and resignation. She’d never forgotten that look.
Suddenly she understood.
She put down the plates and grabbed a large bag, filling it with bread, fruit cake, roast meat, fruit, sweets. Another bag, and another—everything left from the festivities.
She opened the door quietly.
— Jamie… come in, love.
The boy startled, shuffled closer, uncertain.
— Take this home, she said gently, holding out the bags.
Jamie froze.
— Miss… we… we haven’t got money…
— You don’t need money, she replied. Just eat.
His hands shook as he took the bags, clutching them to his chest like something fragile, something sacred.
— Thank you, he whispered, tears in his eyes.
Mrs Evans watched him leave—slower than he’d come, as if he wished the moment would never end.
That night, in a small house, a mother cried with gratitude.
A child ate his fill.
And a family felt less alone.
In the big house, the tables were empty, but the hearts were full.
Because true richness isn’t what you keep,
It’s what you give, when no one is watching.
And maybe Christmas isn’t just for a day—
Maybe it begins every time you open the door…
And say, “Come in.”
💬 Type “KINDNESS” in the comments and share this story—sometimes a small act changes a life. – Come along, Timothy… – Maam, but we havent any money… the child replied, eyeing
At our wedding, my husband declared, This dance is for the woman I have loved in secret for ten years.
People these days have all sorts of posh gadgets. Fridges that remind you about the milk. Cars that beep
Well, there you are! cried Alex. I knew it! The last word should always belong to the man. That morning
When my mother-in-law told me, This flat belongs to my son, I was already holding the keys to a place
These arent my children. If you want to help your sister, be my guest, but dont expect it to be at my expense.
On the way home for Christmas, I was involved in a serious car crash. If she dies, let me know.
