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Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.

Dads Cottage Its a testament to the power of cosmic mix-ups that Emily Bradshaw learned her dad had sold

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Settling Old Scores with Shameless Relatives on a ‘Family Holiday’ in a Shabby Seaside Hotel: Two Exhausting Weeks, a Dramatic Farewell Dinner, and the Final Showdown That Changed Everything

On Holiday with Brazen Relatives: Time to Lay It All Bare Ive put up with this, Tomtwo whole weeks in

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Knock Knock, We’ve Arrived: When Family Invades Without Asking, and How to Finally Say ‘No’—A Story of Auntie Natasha, Relentless Relatives, and Closing Your Own Front Door

Open Up, We’ve Arrived “Emily, it’s Aunt Patricia!” The voice on the phone had

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I Couldn’t Figure Out Where All the Food My Wife Cooked Was Going—Until My Mother-in-Law Told Us the Shocking Truth

I remember back when I couldnt work out where all the food my wife prepared kept vanishing to.

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I Discovered My Son Had Abandoned His Pregnant Girlfriend—So I Hired a Top Family Lawyer for Her When I Learned What My Son Did, My World Collapsed, Not from Shame, But for the Sake of the Poor Girl Delivering Takeaways on Her Scooter, Exhausted and Heavily Pregnant—So I Decided to Make Things Right Myself I Knocked on Her Door Tuesday Afternoon—Still in Her Work Uniform, Belly Obvious, Eyes Tired—And Said Honestly, ‘I’m the Mother of the Irresponsible Lad Who Left You, and I’m Here to Sort Things Out’ Tears Filled Her Eyes as I Explained, ‘I’m Not Here to Cause Trouble, I’m Here with Solutions—I’ve Already Paid for the Best Family Law Solicitor, Your Appointment Is Tomorrow’ I Told Her, ‘That Boy May Have Come from My Womb, But He Did Not Inherit My Values; He’ll Support This Baby, Even If He Has to Work Three Jobs.’ The Lawyer Did His Job Brilliantly. When My Granddaughter Was Born—Because She Is My Granddaughter, Whether My Son Admits It or Not—I Showed Up at the Hospital with Nappies, Baby Clothes, and a Cot in the Boot ‘Ma’am, You Don’t Have to—’ She Began. ‘Yes, I Do,’ I Interrupted. ‘I’m the Grandma.’ My Son Stopped Speaking to Me, Accusing Me of Betrayal and Interference. I Told Him the Only One Who Ruined Lives Was Him—I’m Simply Repairing the Damage Two Years Later, the Young Woman and My Granddaughter Live With Me—She’s Studying Nights to Be a Nurse, I Mind the Baby, and We’re the Oddest, Yet Closest Family in the Neighbourhood. My Son Still Doesn’t Speak to Me, But He Pays Child Support Without Fail—The Solicitor Is Very Convincing. Yesterday, While I Was Feeding the Baby, She Gave Me a Hug and Whispered, ‘Thank You, Mum.’ ‘Mum.’ And I Wonder: Is There Any Greater Gift Than Gaining a Daughter and Grandchild, Even If It Means Temporarily Losing a Son? Sometimes, Family Isn’t Where You’re Born, But Who You Choose to Stand By. A Story of Responsibility, Conscience, and Unexpected Love

I found out my son had abandoned a pregnant woman. I paid for her solicitor. When I learned what my son

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A Bench for Two: How Chance Meetings in the Local Park Gave New Meaning to Everyday Life for Nadine and Stephen in Their Later Years

A Bench for Two The snow has melted away, but the ground in the park is still dark with dampness, and

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My Aunt Came to Visit with Her Daughter and Son-in-Law, They Brought Expensive Meat and Wine, but My Mum Sent Them Packing

My aunt visited today, bringing along her daughter and son-in-law. They came bearing some expensive wine

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Auntie Comes to Stay, Wife in Tears: Robert’s Nighttime Surprise, Family Turmoil, and the Unwelcome Revelation That Changes Everything

Auntie Visiting, Wife Weeping Robert was woken abruptly by the sound of the doorbell. Beside him, his

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Stepping Inside, Olivia Paused: By the Door, Beside Hers and Ivan’s Shoes, Sat His Sister’s Costly High Heels—But Ivan Hadn’t Mentioned She Was Visiting. Later That Evening, After Refusing a Café Invitation from Her Colleague Paul, Olivia’s World Was Shaken by a Hidden Conversation—Old Rivalries, Family Pressure, and Unresolved Love Echoed through Their Flat, Forcing Her to Confront the Truth about Her Marriage, Ivan’s Past with Vera, and the Life They Were Building in His Sister’s London Apartment.

Entering the flat, Emily paused. There by the doorway, neatly placed next to hers and Davids shoes, stood

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When I Boarded the Plane, I Discovered Our Seats Were Taken: How My Wife and I Handled an Entitled Parent Who Refused to Move and the Flight Attendant Quickly Resolved the Situation

As I boarded the plane, everything felt wrapped in a peculiar haze, like the sky itself had forgotten