Love Isnt for Show I stepped out of our cottage with a heavy bucket of pig feed, fuming, and marched
You wanted them both, now you can raise them both. Ive had enoughIm leaving, said her husband, his voice
My husband never cheated on me, but years ago he quietly stopped being my husband. Seventeen years wed
You Were My Teenage Mistake
A young girl gave birth at sixteen, the child’s father was also just sixteen. Leaving the scandalous details aside, the couple broke up soon after their son was born. When the girl realized the boy wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, she immediately lost all interest in her child. The son was raised by his grandparents—her own parents.
At eighteen, the girl moved to a nearby city with a new boyfriend, never called, never wrote. Her parents didn’t seek her out. Shame and pain lingered—how could she abandon her child? They raised their grandson, who still considers them his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, education, and everything.
At eighteen, the boy’s cousin got married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters—one ten years old and the other just one and a half. The boy was nervous and excited to meet his mother and sisters—and of course, to ask, “Mum, why did you leave me?”
No matter how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even keeping her only surviving photo. His grandfather had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted cheerfully about her wonderful daughters.
“And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked.
“You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right, I should have had an abortion,” she replied nonchalantly, turning away.
Seven years later, living in his comfortable two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he got a call from an unknown number.
“Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister attends. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family, the dorm is awful, rent is expensive, my husband left, things are hard—one daughter’s a student, one’s just starting school, the littlest one’s off to nursery soon,” she said.
“You’ve got the wrong number,” he replied and hung up.
He picked up his son, held him close, and said:
“Right, let’s get ready—first we’ll meet with Mum, then afterwards, a visit to Grandma and Grandpa, shall we?”
“And can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?” his little boy asked.
“Of course we can. Family traditions are too important to break!”
… Some relatives criticised him for not helping his sister, but he believes his loyalty belongs to his grandparents, not to the woman for whom he was just a mistake. You know, there’s this story about a girl named Emily Taylor who had a baby when she was just sixteen.
Margaret Turner sat at her kitchen table, watching the milk simmer quietly on the hob. She had already
I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem — that I was a bad mother, a bad wife, and that something was wrong with me, because even though I kept everything running at home and at work, inside I felt empty and had nothing left to give. I woke up every day at 5:00am, packed school lunches, ironed uniforms, got the kids ready, tidied the house, and went to work, sticking to schedules and always smiling, so no one noticed the exhaustion and invisible pain. At home, I cooked, helped with homework, mediated squabbles, and made sure everything looked fine on the outside, while inside I was desperate and afraid I was failing everyone, thinking perhaps my children would be better off without me. Even my partner didn’t notice, brushing off my fatigue—so I stopped talking. Nights alone in the bathroom became my refuge. And when the day came when I finally couldn’t function—I sat on the kitchen floor unable to move—nobody came to help. It wasn’t until therapy that someone finally told me: this doesn’t mean you’re a bad mum. Asking for help was slow, awkward, and guilt-ridden, but it saved me. Now, I still raise my children and work, but I’ve stopped pretending to be perfect, and I know I was never a bad mother—I was just utterly exhausted. I’m 38 now, and for the longest time, I thought the problem was me. I believed I was a terrible
The wedding was only a week away when she told me she didnt want to get married. Everything had already
You Can’t Turn Back the Clock:
When Tanya Showed Off Her Wedding Photos, She’d Laugh and Say,
“Oh, I suffered in that dress! So beautiful, but heavy and clumsy! Next time I get married, it’ll be in something light and airy.”
Everyone thought she was joking—after all, Tanya and her husband had married for love.
It began as a classic holiday romance: Tanya, 21; Alex, 28.
August on the English coast, sparkling wine, starlit skies, seaside romance… ending with papers at the registry office.
In the decade that followed, ‘London–Brighton–London’ became Tanya’s well-worn path—her second home.
But that came later. At first, they had to find a place to live.
Alex gifted his flat to his dramatic second wife (who had threatened outlandish revenge if left), and Tanya moved to Brighton with him.
Tanya’s life seemed charmed: bouquets of flowers, three fur coats, a new pair of shoes for every day, trips to Paris and the Lake District… All preparing to welcome their first child.
Daughter Molly was born, and Alex lovingly set up a cosy home for his girls.
Tanya, however, longed for her old life in London—her friends, her mum, and the city’s comforting lime trees.
While she studied psychology at university, Molly was left with her adoring grandmother. Tanya’s returns home became ever more frequent—and Alex became suspicious and jealous.
Eventually, Tanya confessed: she was bored and yearned for freedom. Despite Alex’s pleas, she left—chasing her dreams, her freedom, and even starting her own tailoring business.
Alex, desperate to save his family, moved with Molly to London—but Tanya’s mind was made up. Their marriage ended.
Years passed. Alex found quiet happiness with a down-to-earth woman and became stepdad to her boys, finally welcoming another daughter. No Parisian trips, no designer shoes—just rubber boots, a warm coat, and a simple life.
Tanya, meanwhile, lived with her mum again. Her business failed, her admirers vanished—but her studies paid off; she became a school psychologist. Regrets? Maybe, in the silent depths of her soul.
And Molly? All grown up, she married in Odessa—wearing a light, airy bridal dress, just as her mother once dreamed. WHAT YOU CUT AWAY, YOU CAN’T PUT BACK When Alice showed her wedding photos to friends, shed always
I live with my mum. Mum is eighty-six years old now. Life worked out in a way I never expected.
My husband never betrayed me, yet years ago he stopped being my husband. Seventeen years we shared together.
