La vida

Drifts of Chance Matthew, a thirty-five-year-old solicitor, loathed New Years Eve. To him, it wasnt a

You Don’t Deserve It “I thought I’d never trust anyone again after my divorce,” Andrew turned an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice cracking so convincingly that Kate couldn’t help but lean in. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a piece of yourself. She left me scarred for life. I didn’t think I’d recover…” Andrew sighed heavily as he talked at length—about his ex-wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t go away, and his fear of starting over. Each word landed softly on Kate’s heart, and she pictured herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. Together, she would heal his wounds. He’d see that real happiness was only possible with her. Andrew mentioned Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee… “I’ve got a son, by the way. Seven years old. He’s with his mum, but spends every weekend with me. That’s how the court arranged things.” “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She could already see it: Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She’d be a second mum—not a replacement, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on… “Are you sure you’re okay with that?” Andrew looked at her with a strange half-smile she mistook for distrust. “Most women run away when they find out about the kid.” “I’m not most women,” she replied, proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently went through his maths book, explained the sums in plain English, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was tucked up by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew once, smoothing his hair as he lounged on the couch, remote in hand. “I can handle this.” He nodded gratefully—or so she thought. Now she realized it was the nod of a man accepting what he felt was owed to him. Months blended into years. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out of the house by eight, back by seven. Decent salary—by London standards, at least. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “Another delay on the site,” Andrew would sigh, as if lighting struck every time. “The client’s let us down. But there’s a big contract coming soon, I promise.” The “big contract” had been on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes closer, sometimes further away, never materializing. But bills were reliable. Rent, utilities, groceries, maintenance, school supplies, new trainers, child support for Andrew’s ex. Kate paid everything quietly. She cut costs, packed leftovers for work, walked in the rain rather than pay for a cab. It had been a year since she’d afforded a manicure—she filed her nails herself now, trying not to remember when a salon wasn’t a luxury. In three years, Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each awkward bunch—cheap roses from the Tesco outside their block, wilted and with snapped stems, half-price specials. The first time: as apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second: after a row about her friend dropping in unannounced. The third: for missing her birthday because he stayed too long with mates—he’d simply forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t need expensive gifts,” she tried to choose her words gently. “But sometimes, I’d like to know you think of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted. “All you ever care about is money, isn’t it? Presents? What about love? What I’ve been through?” “That’s not—” “You don’t deserve it.” He flung the words at her like mud. “After everything I do for you, you’ve the nerve to complain.” Kate went quiet. She always did—it was simpler. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Meanwhile, Andrew always found money for pub nights with mates. Watching the game, cafés on Thursdays. He’d roll home, half-drunk, stinking of beer and sweat, flopping onto the bed without even noticing Kate was awake. She convinced herself this was normal. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change. He had to. She’d just give more, love harder—after all, he’d suffered so much… Talk of marriage was a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why bother with a certificate?” Andrew swatted the subject away like a fly. “After what I went through with Melissa, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pushing me. You’re always pushing!” He’d storm out, the conversation going nowhere. Kate wanted children. Her own. She was twenty-eight and her biological clock was getting louder every month. But Andrew had no plans to become a dad again—one son was enough, in his view. That Saturday, she asked for just one day—a single day. “The girls have invited me over. It’s been ages. I’ll be back in the evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d announced plans to move continents. “And what about Max?” “You’re his dad. Spend the day together.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was counting on time to relax?” Kate blinked. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Not once asked for a free day. She cooked, cleaned, tutored, washed, ironed—all on top of a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. A few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can manage one day?” “You’re supposed to love my son like you love me!” he suddenly yelled. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got an attitude?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid for both, with her own salary. Three years she’d supported a man who shouted because she dared to ask for a day off. She looked at Andrew—at his distorted face, the vein throbbing at his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him, truly, for the first time. Not a wounded soul. Not a casualty of circumstance. But an adult who’d mastered the art of exploiting someone else’s kindness. Kate wasn’t his beloved, nor his future wife. She was a financial donor and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Melissa’s, Kate reached for her overnight bag. Her hands moved steadily—no trembling, no hesitation. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. She could buy the rest later. None of it mattered. She didn’t bother with a note. What would be the point—explaining herself to someone who never truly saw her? The door shut quietly behind her, no fuss, no drama… The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a relentless barrage—her phone buzzing with Andrew’s fury. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I get home and you’re gone! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? Unbelievable—” She listened to his voice—angry, entitled, self-righteous—and almost laughed. Even now, Andrew only thought of inconveniences to himself. Who’d cook his dinner. Not one “sorry.” Not even, “Are you alright?” Only: “How dare you?” Kate blocked his number, his messaging app, his social media—anywhere he could reach her, she put up a wall. Three years. Three years with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness up. Who’d convinced her sacrifice equalled love. But that wasn’t love. Love doesn’t mean humiliation. Love doesn’t turn a human being into a servant. Strolling through London in the evening, Kate breathed easier than she had in years. She made a promise—never again to confuse love with self-abandonment. Never again to save those who trade on sympathy. To always choose herself. Only herself.

“I thought, after my divorce, Id never be able to trust anyone again,” James murmured, rolling

La vida

Even the Good Ones Get Left Behind

In the mirror, Alice gazed at her own reflection: a beautiful thirty-five-year-old woman with melancholy eyes.

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I’m a Tired Single Mum Working as a Cleaner.

Im a exhausted single mum working as a cleaner. On my way home I spot a newborn abandoned on a cold bus stop.

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As Long As There’s Life, It’s Never Too Late: A Heartfelt Story of Family, Second Chances, and Finding Happiness at Any Age

As long as you’re alive, it’s never too late. A Story Well then, Mum, as we agreed, Ill pick

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A Long-Awaited Granddaughter For two restless days now, I havent been able to sleepafter everything my

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You Don’t Need a Wife, You Need a Housekeeper

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I Promise to Love Your Son as My Own. Rest in Peace…

I promise to love your son as if he were my own. Rest in peace Harry Hart was a man who seemed to have it all.

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As Long As There’s Life, It’s Never Too Late: A Heartfelt English Story of Family, Second Chances, and Rediscovering Happiness

While theres life, its never too late. A Story Well then, Mum, just as we agreed, Ill come by tomorrow

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I’m 45 and I No Longer Host Guests in My Home: Why I Swapped Stressful House Parties for Celebrating Birthdays in Restaurants and Finally Put My Own Comfort First

Im 45 years old, and I no longer entertain guests in my home. Some people simply forget theyre guests