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As a Child, I Was Curious to Discover Who My Father Was. Growing Up in a Children’s Home, His Absence Became My ‘Normal’. At Fourteen, I Met My Children’s Father and Didn’t Even Think to Search for My Own—Life Simply Continued. Years Later, After a Breakup, Fate Led Me to My Real Dad Just as I’d Stopped Looking. I Helped Support Him, Spoiled Him, and Tried to Make Up for Lost Time, Only to Discover His Other Children Kept Him Isolated and Feared Anyone Getting Close for the Sake of His Wealth. When He Gave Me His Surname, Family Tensions Escalated—But My Bond with His Caring Partner Grew Stronger. After Encouraging Them to Marry in Secret, I Learned the Truth: My Father Was Generous with His Kids, Yet Stingy with the Woman Who Cared for Him. In the End, Surrounded by Family Who Only Sought His Money, He Drove Away the One Person Who Truly Loved Him—And Our Relationship Has Never Been the Same.

As a child, I was always curious about who my father was. I grew up in a boarding school, and over the

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Another Whole Year Together… Arkady Ivanovich hadn’t gone out alone lately—not since the day he wandered to the clinic, forgot his address and even his own name. He’d wandered aimlessly until, by chance, he spotted the familiar clock factory where he’d worked nearly fifty years. He knew the building for certain, but his own identity escaped him, until a friendly tap on the shoulder snapped him back— “It’s you, Ivanich! Uncle Arkady, missing us? We were just reminiscing about our great mentor. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Yura Akulov—thanks to you, I turned out alright!” With those words, memory flooded back, gratefully so. Yura, delighted, offered Arkady a lift home, and from that day on, Natalia Lvovna never let her husband out alone. They walked together to the park, the clinic, and the shop—always side by side. But then Arkady fell ill—fever, fierce cough—and his wife, feeling poorly herself, ventured out alone for medicine and groceries. The simple shopping trip felt like a daunting trek; the weight of the bags heavier than ever. Natalia paused for breath and, finally, set her groceries down in the snow, sinking gently onto the path home. Her last thought: “Why did I buy so much? Old minds don’t think ahead!” Luckily, neighbours came outside, saw Natalia collapsed, called an ambulance, and helped. Natalia was taken to hospital, while neighbours, worried, brought her bag home and knocked at their door. “Arkady must be inside, maybe ill—I haven’t seen him for days,” guessed Nina Mikhailovna. Arkady, feverish, heard their ringing but couldn’t answer, drifting into a strange sleep, longing for his Natasha. Suddenly, she was there—her voice guiding him up, her cold, weak hand supporting him. “Open the door, quickly!” she urged. Confused, Arkady unlocked the door—only to find neighbour Nina and Yura outside. “Ivanich, we rang and knocked—what happened?” “But Natasha was just here…” Arkady muttered, lips pale. “She’s in hospital, love—intensive care,” Nina replied. “He’s delirious,” Yura realised, catching Arkady as he fainted. They called an ambulance—heatstroke, exhaustion. Two weeks later, Natalia came home, cured. Yura drove her; Nina helped Arkady meanwhile, and he recovered too. The important thing: they were still together. At last, alone, husband and wife fought back tears. “Good thing there are kind souls in the world, Arkady. Remember how Nina’s kids came over after school? We fed them, helped with homework, until she finished work.” “Not everyone remembers kindness—but she hasn’t hardened, and it means so much,” Arkady agreed. “And Yura, once a lad—I guided him, and he hasn’t forgotten old friends.” “New Year’s is coming, Arkady—we’re together again,” Natalia whispered, snuggling close. “Natalia, tell me—how did you manage to visit me from hospital and help me open the door to my rescuers? I might have died without you,” Arkady finally asked. He feared she’d think his mind was lost, but instead, she wondered, “So, that really happened? They said I’d died briefly—clinical death—but in that time, I dreamt I visited you. I remember leaving my body in intensive care and coming to you…” “What miracles old age brings! I love you as much as ever—more, even,” Arkady murmured, holding her hands, as they gazed at each other, afraid the world might separate them once more. On New Year’s Eve, Yura visited with homemade pies, and Nina stopped by—they sipped tea, feeling warmth and gratitude. When Natalia and Arkady celebrated New Year’s alone, she confided, “I made a wish—that if we greet this New Year together, it’ll be ours. We’ll have another year yet.” They laughed in happiness. Another whole year of life together—that’s everything. That’s pure joy.

One more year together Lately, Arthur Bennett hadnt gone out on his own. Not since that day he wandered

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Divorce Over the Girl Next Door: Why Did You Leave Me for Her? Maria Faces Betrayal, Unwanted Advice, and the Relentless Pressure to Forgive a Cheating Husband After Twenty Years of Marriage

Divorce Over the Neighbour – Just explain it to me, William of all the women in the world, why her?

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A Twist of Fate: The Heartwarming Journey of Dina and Oleg—A Story of Lost Love, Second Chances, and the Long-Awaited Gift of Family

A Stroke of Fate Richard arrived at his mothers house late in the evening. She wasnt surprisedher son

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Spanner Number 13 He called me in the morning, as if it were nothing at all: “Can you pop over? Need a hand with the bike. Don’t fancy wrestling with it alone.” The words “can you” and “don’t fancy” sounded odd together. Dad used to say “has to be done” and “I’ll sort it myself.” An adult son, now with silver in his hair, catching himself searching this invitation for a catch, like he always used to. But there was no catch, just a simple request—making it feel all the more awkward. He arrived by lunchtime, climbed up to the third floor, dawdling on the landing as the key turned. The door opened at once, as if Dad had been standing behind it, waiting. “Come in. Shoes off,” Dad said, stepping aside. Everything in the hallway was in its place: the mat, the shoe cabinet, the neat pile of newspapers. Dad looked just the same, only his shoulders seemed narrower, and when adjusting his sleeve his hands trembled for a second. “Where’s the bike?” asked the son, to avoid asking anything else. “On the balcony. I got it out the way in there. Thought I’d tackle it myself, but you know…” Dad waved a hand and led the way. The balcony was glazed, but freezing, crammed with boxes and jars. The bike was upright by the wall, covered with an old sheet. Dad took the sheet off like he was unveiling something precious, and softly laid his palm on the frame. “It’s yours,” he said. “Remember? We got it for your birthday.” The son remembered. Remembered riding in the courtyard, the falls, how Dad would silently pick him up, brush sand off his knees, check the chain. Dad rarely praised him, but always looked at things as if they were alive, as if he was responsible for them. “The tyre’s flat,” the son noted. “That’s nothing. There’s a crunch in the hub too, and the back brake’s useless. Took a spin yesterday, about had a heart attack,” Dad quipped, but the smile was brief. They carried the bike to the “workshop”— not a real one, just a corner: a desk by the window, a mat, lamp, toolbox. On the wall: pliers, screwdrivers, spanners, everything sorted. The son took it in automatically, as always: Dad kept order wherever he could. “Can you spot the thirteen mil spanner?” Dad asked. The son opened the box. The spanners were lined up, but thirteen was missing. “There’s a twelve, a fourteen… no thirteen here.” Dad arched an eyebrow. “What? It should…,” he trailed off, as if the word “always” wouldn’t come. The son rummaged through, pulled out the drawer—nuts, washers, tape, sandpaper. Found the spanner under a bundle of rubber gloves. “Here we are,” said the son. Dad took it, held it in his palm like testing the weight. “So I tucked it there myself. Memory,” he grunted. “Right then, hand us the bike.” The son laid the bike on its side, putting a rag under the pedal. Dad crouched down, slowly, with caution, as if wary his knees might fail. The son noticed, but acted as if he hadn’t. “Let’s get the wheel off first,” Dad said. “You hold it while I loosen the nuts.” He took up the spanner, twisted. The nut resisted, and Dad tensed, lips pressed tight. The son took over, and the nut yielded. “I would’ve managed,” Dad muttered. “I just…” “I know. Hold it so it doesn’t drop.” They got on with the job, barely speaking: “hold this,” “don’t pull,” “here,” “mind the washer.” The son realised he found it easier this way—words, limited by the job, with no need to second-guess. Wheel off, on the floor. Dad produced the pump, checked the hose. Old, battered handle. “The tube’s probably fine. Just dry,” Dad said. The son wanted to ask how he knew, but let it go. Dad always sounded sure, even when he wasn’t. While Dad pumped, the son checked the brake. Pads worn, cable rusty. “Needs a new cable,” he said. “Cable… there’s a spare somewhere.” Dad rummaged under the table, got out one box, then another—each with parts labelled on scraps of paper. The son watched him sort through, seeing not just neatness, but a fight to keep time in order. As long as everything’s labelled and in place, nothing unravels. “Can’t see it,” said Dad with irritation, slamming the box shut. “Maybe it’s in the cupboard?” the son suggested. “Cupboard’s chaos,” Dad said, as if confessing a crime. The son grinned. “You? Chaos? That’s a first.” Dad shot him a look, but the eyes held a glimmer of gratitude for the joke. “Go on, check. I’ll just…” Dad went back to pumping. The cupboard was tiny, crammed with boxes. The son flicked the light on, pushed aside bags. Top shelf—cable reel, wrapped in newspaper. “Got it!” he called. “There you go! Told you so,” came Dad’s reply. The son brought the cable. Dad inspected the ends. “Looks good. Just need to find the right caps.” He found the tiny metal sleeves. “Let’s sort the brake.” The son held the frame, Dad undid the fixture. Dad’s fingers were dry, cracked, nails clipped short. The son remembered, as a boy, thinking those fingers strong and unbreakable. Now they had a different strength: patient, economical. “What are you staring at?” Dad asked, eyes down. “Just…wondering how you remember all this.” Dad snorted. “I remember. Not always where I put stuff. Funny, isn’t it?” The son wanted to say “not funny,” but understood Dad wasn’t joking. He was afraid. “It’s normal,” the son said. “Happens to me too.” Dad nodded, as if accepting permission not to be perfect. When they broke down the brake, a spring was missing. Dad stared at the space for a long time, before meeting his son’s eyes. “I was tinkering yesterday, might’ve dropped it. Looked on the floor, couldn’t see it.” “Let’s look again,” the son said. On their knees, hands sweeping along the floor, peering under the table. The son found the spring by the skirting, next to a chair leg. “Here it is.” Dad took it, peered closely. “Thank God. I’d started to think…” He didn’t finish. The son knew he wanted to say “I’d started to think I couldn’t remember anything anymore.” But he didn’t. “Fancy a cuppa?” Dad asked brusquely, as if tea might cover the pause. “Go on, then.” In the kitchen, Dad set the kettle, got out two mugs. The son sat, watching Dad’s movements between stove and cupboard. They were the same old movements, just a bit slower now. Dad poured the tea, put a plate of biscuits in front of him. “Eat. You’re looking thin.” The son wanted to say he wasn’t, just a bulky coat, but left it. In that sentence was all the care Dad knew how to show. “How’s work?” Dad asked. “All right.” Then, to fill the gap: “They shut down the project, so starting a new one.” “Mm. Long as they pay you on time.” The son smiled. “You always think about money.” “What else d’you reckon I should worry about?” Dad looked him straight in the eye. “Feelings?” The son felt something tighten inside. He hadn’t expected Dad to use *that* word. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Dad was quiet, then cupped the mug with both hands. “Sometimes…I wonder if you come round out of duty. You know. Sign in, then off you go.” The son set the mug down. The tea steamed, burning his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. “You think it’s easy coming here? It’s all…like I’m a kid again. And you always know best.” Dad smiled, not unkindly. “I *do* think I know better. Habit.” “And you never—” the son exhaled, “—you never really asked how I am. Not really.” Dad stared into his mug, as if answers might be at the bottom. “I was scared to ask. If you ask, you have to listen. And I…,” he looked up, “I don’t always know how.” The son felt lighter, as though the plain words made space in his chest. No “I’m sorry” or justifications, just honesty. It was closer to the truth than any big speech. “Me neither.” Dad nodded. “We’ll learn. Through the bike,” he added, with a wry smile, as if surprised by his own words. They finished the tea, and went back to the room. The bike lay there, wheel detached, cable on the desk. Dad set to work with new determination. “Right. You thread the cable, I’ll line up the pads.” The son did as told, fingers less deft than his father’s, frustrated at himself. Dad saw. “Don’t rush. It’s patience, not strength, that matters.” The son glanced up. “Talking about the cable, or…?” “About everything,” Dad answered, turning away as if he’d said too much. They set the pads, tightened the bolts. Dad pressed the brake lever a few times, testing. “That’s better.” The son pumped up the tyre, listening for hissing. The tube held. They put the wheel back, tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the thirteen spanner; the son handed it over wordlessly. It fit his palm as if it belonged there. “That’s that,” said Dad, when they were done. “Let’s give it a try.” They took the bike downstairs. Dad held the handlebars, son by his side. The courtyard was empty bar a neighbour with shopping, who gave them a nod. “Hop on. Try it out,” said Dad. “Me?” “You. I’m not the acrobat I once was.” The son sat on the bike. The saddle felt low, like childhood, knees high. He rode a couple of circuits around the flower bed, tried the brake. The bike stopped on a dime. “Working,” he said, climbing off. Dad tried walking it himself, slowly, no rush. Then stopped, foot to the ground. “Good. Worth the fuss.” The son looked at Dad and suddenly realised it wasn’t about the bike. It was about calling him over. “Keep the toolkit,” said Dad unexpectedly. “You’ll use it more than I will. You do everything yourself these days.” The son wanted to object, but understood this was Dad’s way—his way of saying “I love you” was “take it, you’ll need it.” “All right. I’ll keep it. But don’t lose the thirteen spanner. That’s the king.” Dad grinned. “I’ll put it where it belongs from now on.” They went back up. In the hall, the son took his coat. Dad lingered nearby. “Will you pop by next week?” he asked, casually. “That… top cupboard door’s squeaky. Needs oiling. My hands aren’t what they were.” He said it calmly, no excuses. The son knew it wasn’t a complaint, but an invitation. “I’ll come. Call first, so I don’t barrel in, yeah?” Dad nodded and, as he shut the door, added quietly, “Thanks for coming.” The son walked down the stairs, holding a few of Dad’s wrenches and screwdrivers, wrapped in a cloth. They felt heavy, but didn’t weigh him down. Outside, he glanced up at the third-floor window. The curtain shifted slightly—Dad, watching. The son didn’t wave. He just walked to his car, knowing he could now come not only “to do a job,” but because of what really mattered—the job they’d finally agreed was worth it.

The Key for 13 His call came just after breakfast, sounding almost casual: Could you pop by today?

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At the Edge of the World: Snow Packed Into Her Boots, Stinging Her Skin, but Rita Refused to Buy Wellies—She’d Rather Have Knee-High Boots (Though She’d Look Silly Here and Her Dad Had Blocked Her Bank Card). “You’re Really Going to Live in a Village?” He Sneered, Hating the Countryside and Everything Rural. He’d Hoped Rita Would Marry Gosha This Summer and Prepare for a ‘Proper’ City Wedding—But Rita Never Cared for Gosha’s Bragging or Their Obsession with Money; She Dreamed of Love and Drama, Not Predictable Comfort. That’s Why She Accepted a Teaching Job at a Village School with No Internet, Hot Water, or Sewers—The Headteacher Hesitated, But Rita Insisted, Armed with Her Qualifications. At First, Her Class of Twelve Seemed Hopeless, Reading Haltingly and Misbehaving, But Rita Fell for Their Unique Talents: Semyon’s Wood Carvings, Anya’s Poetry, Vovka’s Help, and Ira’s Lamb Companion. She Ignored the Official Curriculum, Bringing Books from the Nearest Town, Even as Winter Made Home Life Tough and She Nearly Wanted to Quit—Yet She Persevered, Now Responsible for Her Pupils. Only One Child Stumped Her—And When She Met the Girl’s Father, Vladimir (Gruff as a London Bricklayer, Never Smiling), He Demanded to Know Why Tanya Only Got Failing Marks. Rita Suspected Autism, but the Deputy Head Urged Moving Her to a Special School. Instead, Rita Sought Advice, Visited Tanya’s Home, and Gradually Won Her Trust, Proving the Girl Was Not ‘Hopeless’ After All. Rita Began Tutoring Tanya for Free, Drawing Disapproval from Staff But Determined to Make a Difference. When Vladimir Invited Rita to Spend New Year’s, Rita Was Torn—Especially When Gosha Unexpectedly Arrived with Champagne and Teacher Gifts, Pledging to Stay in the Village for Her. Yet Rita’s Heart Pulled Elsewhere, Especially After Receiving a notebook of Tanya’s drawings and a gold hummingbird brooch—her mother’s keepsake—from Vladimir. On New Year’s Eve, Faced with Gosha’s Proposal, Rita Realized Where She Truly Belonged: She Returned His Ring and Rushed to Find the ones who needed her most—her unexpected new family, at the edge of the world.

At the edge of the world. Snow crept into her boots, searing her feet. Still, buying wellies was out

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The Secret In an English village that felt more like a sleepy hamlet than a bustling town, there once lived a young girl named Laura. One day, her mother—who had a penchant for the mystical—dragged her off to visit the local fortune teller. The old woman spread her weathered cards and proclaimed, “Your Laura will be happy. Her life will turn out well. I just don’t see a man by her side.” Laura was only about ten then, and while the mysterious old lady’s words echoed in her memory, she couldn’t quite grasp their meaning. Years passed and Laura blossomed into a tall, striking beauty. The village lads were wild about her, but Laura never seemed to settle on anyone. She dated here and there, but nothing ever stuck. Though she did well in school, Laura chose not to leave for university, opting instead to take a job at the local dairy. There were whispers about a romantic involvement with a manager, but no one ever saw them together. The older women at the dairy would caution the new girl, “Don’t get stuck here, Laura. Life will pass you by! With your looks, you’d be snapped up in the city.” Laura would just smile and say nothing. Then, out of the blue, the village was buzzing: Laura was pregnant! The locals wasted no time speculating over who could have “blessed” their most eligible beauty—but the father’s identity remained a mystery. Laura’s mother didn’t dwell on it. “You’ve brought this on yourself—shamed us! You’re on your own now, do you hear? I give you a month to find somewhere else—you’re not staying here.” “Alright, Mum,” Laura answered calmly. “I’ll go. But don’t come looking for me later.” Within two weeks, Laura had bought herself a tiny cottage, fully furnished. The neighbours called it luck—the previous owner’s children had whisked the old lady away to the city and sold the place for a song. Where Laura found even that kind of money, pregnant and all, was another village enigma. Then the miracles began. Her cottage was swiftly transformed, looking bright and modern. A new fence went up, a well was dug. Crafty workmen arrived and took care of everything. Soon, delivery vans were bringing boxes of brand-new appliances and furniture. Laura herself walked about the village happy as could be, all smiles, not looking the least bit like an abandoned woman. In the autumn, Laura gave birth to a son, Anthony. A shiny blue pram appeared in her neat garden. Laura regained her figure quickly, looking even more radiant than before. Well-dressed and upright, she strolled the village lanes with her head held high. It was a busy life, of course: a baby, a vegetable patch, stoking the fire, dashing off to the shops, endless laundry. But Laura managed just fine, never complaining, always quietly getting on with things. The neighbours, seeing how hard she worked and what a good person she was, gradually befriended her—even minding Anthony when Laura had errands. Neighbours would send around a husband to dig her vegetable patches, lend a hand with the weeding—just little things. Mostly, Laura handled everything herself. When Anthony was about two, a neighbour ran to her friend in a tizzy: “Did you see? Laura’s expecting again!” “Nonsense, you must be seeing things.” “I’m telling you, see for yourself!” Once again, Laura was the talk of the village. Theories flew, but no one ever saw her with a man. She simply ignored the gossip, carrying on with her life. A little bathhouse suddenly sprang up in her yard; gas lines were redirected at extra expense to reach her home, and a state-of-the-art greenhouse gleamed in her garden. “And where does a single woman get that kind of money?” people muttered. “Must be a bigwig in the picture.” Yet Laura’s secret held strong. Before long, the same blue pram graced her garden—but this time for a new baby boy, Simon. Two years later: a third son, Michael. Laura raised three sons, and not a soul in the village knew who their fathers were. Some openly laughed at her, called her names. Others, seeing healthy children and a hardworking, sober mother, admired her courage. There were those who pointed fingers and used Laura as an example to scold their own daughters. Her mother was mortified and kept her distance, never seeking to help or meet the grandchildren. But Laura carried on, head high, never caring for what people said. Time rolled on. One day, the entire village stopped in its tracks: a fancy car pulled up to Laura’s door. Out stepped the well-respected dairy director, Mr. George, bearing a huge bouquet of flowers. He went inside, and before long every nosey neighbour was gathered outside. “What’s going on? Why is Mr. George—widowed just a year ago—calling on Laura midday and with flowers?” When Laura escorted him out, there was such a crowd she looked lost for a moment. Mr. George drew her close and, to everyone’s astonishment, kissed her. Then, for all to hear, announced: “Laura has agreed to be my wife. We and our sons invite you all to the wedding.” A stunned silence fell. Only then did the villagers notice how much Laura’s boys resembled Mr. George. And from all sides came congratulations. After a grand wedding, George moved Laura and the children into his home, and the entire village pitched in to help. A year later a long-awaited daughter was born to the family. So much for fortune tellers’ predictions!

The Secret In a small English village that barely qualified as a town, there lived a girl named Emily Parker.

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Leonard Refused to Believe Little Irina Was His Daughter—While Vera Worked in the Shop with Men, Only Grandpa Matthew Loved Her and Left Her a Cottage in His Will

Leonard absolutely refuses to accept that Emily is his daughter. His wife, Claire, works at the local shop.

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I’m 58 and I No Longer Know What to Do About My Neighbour – She Lives Right Across from Us and Seems to Have Made It Her Life’s Mission to Watch My Every Move, Comment on My Deliveries and Rubbish, Criticise My Dog, Gossip About My Family, and Even Keep Tabs on My Teenage Daughter – How Do You Deal With a Nosy Neighbour Like This Without Losing Your Peace or Causing a Big Row?

Im 58 years old now, and honestly, Ive run out of ideas on how to deal with my neighbour across the street.

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My Husband’s Mistress Was Stunning—Honestly, If I Were a Man, I’d Have Chosen Her Myself. You Know That Type: Poised, Confident Women Who Command Respect Without Flash or Fuss. The Complete Opposite of Me—Forever Rushed, Frazzled, Living in Jeans and Sweatshirts Because Ironing a Blouse Feels Like Climbing Everest. And Yet, There She Was—The Woman Even I Would Choose, Seated With My Husband in a Café, While I Sat Powerless, Deciding How an English Woman’s Life Should Move Forward After Catching Her Husband With Someone Beautiful Enough to Stop My Breath—All While Keeping Calm, Running the House, And Pretending Nothing Has Changed.

My husbands mistress was just stunning, honestly. If I were a man, Id probably have chosen her myself.