La vida

The Empty Bench Sergey Petrovich placed his thermos on his knees and checked the lid—just to make sure it wasn’t leaking. The lid was fine, but habit always won over trust. He sat at the far end of the bench outside the school entrance, in the spot free from bustling parents and swinging backpacks. In one pocket of his jacket was a little bag of dry crumbs for the pigeons, in another, a folded note with his granddaughter’s schedule: after-school club days, music lessons. He’d memorised it all, but the paper calmed his nerves. Beside him, as always, sat Nicholas Andrew. He held a small packet of sunflower seeds, popping them from shell to palm without even watching. He didn’t eat the seeds; just poured them back and forth, as if counting. When Sergey Petrovich arrived, Nicholas Andrew nodded, shifting slightly to make space. They never greeted each other loudly; it would feel wrong, as though disturbing school order. “They’ve got a maths test today,” Nicholas Andrew said, glancing at the upstairs windows. “We’ve got reading,” replied Sergey Petrovich, surprised by his own use of “we.” He liked that Nicholas Andrew never teased him for this. They’d met without any fuss at first—just timing, then recognition by coats, by gait, by the way each held his hands. Nicholas Andrew came precisely ten minutes before the bell, sat on the same bench, and always checked the school gates. Sergey had stood aside at first, but one day, tired, he sat down. From then, the bench was theirs. The school yard never changed, which was oddly reassuring: the security guard in his booth, slipping out for a smoke and back, never raising his eyes; the primary teacher, bustling past with a folder, muttering “Yes, yes, after lessons” into her phone; parents debating activities and homework; children waving from break-time windows. Sergey Petrovich realised he looked forward not just to seeing his granddaughter, but to this daily rhythm. One day Nicholas Andrew brought a second cup and set it beside Sergey’s thermos. “I don’t pour myself any,” he said, almost apologetic. “Blood pressure.” “I’m allowed,” Sergey replied, hesitating before pouring a finger’s worth into the cup. “Would you at least like a sniff?” Nicholas Andrew smiled, just a little. “A sniff’s fine.” After that, their ritual began: Sergey poured the tea, Nicholas held the cup to avoid spills, returning it empty. Sometimes they shared biscuits, sometimes silence. Sergey noticed Nicholas’s silence was comfortable, like a pause in a conversation bound to continue. Grandchildren were discussed gently, like the weather. Nicholas Andrew said his grandson Victor (“Vicky”), disliked PE, always finding an excuse to stay in class. Sergey Petrovich laughed—his granddaughter Anna was the opposite, running so wildly the teacher begged her to slow down. Soon their conversations deepened. Nicholas Andrew admitted, after his wife’s passing, he couldn’t leave the house until the school’s routine pulled him out because he “had to.” Sergey didn’t share his own story right away, but later, washing up, realised he wanted to. He lived with his daughter and granddaughter in a small flat on the city’s edge. His daughter worked in accounting, came home tired, speaking in clipped sentences. Anna was noisy, her noise wholesome and bright. Sergey aimed to help without getting in the way—sometimes he felt like an extra kitchen chair: unobtrusive, yet still a reminder of cramped space. Sitting on the bench, for the first time he felt wanted for more than just his practical use. Nicholas Andrew asked, “How’s your blood pressure?” or “Been to the doctor lately?”—and it wasn’t just politeness. Sergey replied, and caught himself speaking honestly. One morning Nicholas Andrew brought birdseed. “The pigeons are used to us now,” he said. “Look how close they come.” Sergey spread a handful on the pavement. The pigeons gathered as if awaiting command. Their feet shuffled in the grit, and Sergey felt a strange relief: a simple act that made someone’s day a little better. Soon, he counted their meetings—not as “while Anna’s in class,” or “when there’s time,” but an essential part of his day. He even stopped cutting it close, started arriving early to claim his spot and watch Nicholas sit, remove his gloves, gaze up at the windows. Then one Monday, Sergey arrived as usual—and the bench was empty. He stopped, unsure he hadn’t entered the wrong courtyard. Rain had left the bench damp; a single yellow leaf clung to the wood. Sergey wiped the seat, settled down, thermos at his side, pigeon crumbs in his lap. The security guard, absorbed in his phone, didn’t notice. “He’s just late,” Sergey thought. Nicholas sometimes got held up at the chemist. Sergey poured himself some tea, sipped, and waited. When the bell rang, Nicholas hadn’t come. Next day, the bench was still vacant. Sergey didn’t bother wiping it down, sat on the dry spot, using a newspaper as protection. He watched every older man in a dark coat, hoping. No one arrived. By day three, frustration crept in—not at Nicholas Andrew, but at being left without explanation. “Maybe I don’t need it after all,” he thought, almost ashamed at his own expectation. But he couldn’t stop expecting. Nicholas Andrew had a simple old phone; Sergey had seen him squint, searching for numbers. He’d jotted down Nicholas’s number while arranging a taxi for Victor once. At home, he found the note and dialled. Ringing, then a brief beep, then silence. He tried again—same result. On the fourth day, Sergey approached the security guard. “Excuse me, Nicholas Andrew… Victor’s grandfather, he always sat here. Have you seen him?” The guard looked up as if Sergey had asked for a password. “Lots of grandads here,” he shrugged. “Don’t keep track.” “He’s tall, has a moustache…” Sergey realised how pathetic he sounded. “No idea,” the guard was already back to his phone. Sergey tried the woman at the gates, usually complaining about homework. “Do you know Nicholas Andrew?” “I don’t know anyone,” she snapped. “I’ve got my own to worry about.” He asked a young mum with a buggy who sometimes smiled at him. “Sorry, do you know Victor, in Year 3?” “Victor?” she said, thinking. “Quiet boy, yes. Why?” “His grandfather… stopped coming.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s ill. Everyone is, these days.” Sergey returned to the bench, feeling anxiety rising. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t his business, but each glance at the empty spot felt like betraying something important by just sitting and pretending nothing was wrong. That evening he told his daughter as she chopped salad. “Dad, who knows?” she said, not looking up. “Maybe he went to relatives.” “He’d have told me,” Sergey replied. “You never know,” she sighed. “Don’t stress. Your blood pressure.” Anna listened, notebook open. “Granddad Nick?” she asked. “He’s nice. He once said I read faster than he thinks.” Sergey smiled, but it hurt. “See?” said Anna. “Maybe he just… has things to do.” Sergey nodded, but lay awake that night, listening to his daughter’s quiet phone call in the next room. He wanted to get up and dial the number again, but feared hearing a stranger—or nothing at all. The next afternoon, waiting for Anna, he spotted Victor. The boy left school last, backpack oversized. Alongside walked a stern woman, about forty, short hair—Victor’s mother, Sergey realised. He waited, then caught up with them. “Excuse me, are you Victor’s mum?” She tensed. “Yes. And you are?” “I… I waited for the children with your father, Nicholas Andrew. He hasn’t been here, I’m worried.” She studied him carefully, deciding if he was trustworthy. “He’s in hospital,” she finally said. “Stroke. Not too bad… well, as much as it can be. He’s on the ward. No phone—so he doesn’t lose it.” Sergey felt his knees buckle, clutching his bag strap. “Where?” he asked. “The City Hospital, up on Woodland Road,” she replied. “But you can’t just visit, there are rules.” “I understand,” Sergey said, though he didn’t. How could anyone block a visitor to someone all alone? “Thanks for asking,” she added, gentler now. “It’ll mean a lot to him, knowing he’s remembered.” She led Victor to the bus stop. Sergey remained at the gate—relieved at the explanation, yet anxious because it was so grave. At home, he told his daughter. She frowned. “Dad, you’re not going there,” she said. “They’ll have you on the security list. Anyway, who is he to you?” Sergey heard not anger, but fear: fear that he’d lose himself to new worries. “No one,” Sergey said. “Still…” The next day, he visited his local clinic, where he’d seen a poster for a social worker before. The corridor smelled of bleach and wet shoe covers. People lined up with files, grumbling. Sergey took a ticket, waited his turn. The woman behind the desk listened quietly, her face tired. “Are you family?” she asked. “No,” Sergey admitted. “Then I can’t give you patient information,” she replied evenly. “It’s private data.” “I just want to send a note,” Sergey’s voice sharpened. “He’s alone, you see? We… we met every day…” “I understand,” the woman softened a little. “You could send a note through his relatives. Or the ward, if permitted. But I need their consent.” Sergey left, sitting on the waiting-room bench, feeling ashamed, like he’d come begging. “That’s it. Silly old man, interfering,” he thought. He wanted to go home, shut himself away, never come back to school. But then he remembered Nicholas Andrew holding the tea cup, passing birdseed, brightening each day with small acts. Now it was Sergey’s turn to do something, anything. He called Victor’s mum, after approaching her again at school for her number. She refused at first, but gave in, seeing his persistence. “But no fuss,” she warned. “Strict routines there.” Sergey called in the evening. “This is Sergey Petrovich. I… I’d like to send Nicholas Andrew a few words. Could you…” There was a pause. “He can’t speak much now,” she said. “But he hears. I’m visiting tomorrow. What should I tell him?” Sergey glanced at his notebook, where he’d drafted some phrases—but they felt wrong. “Just tell him the bench is waiting,” he said quietly. “And I’m here. I’ll bring tea when I can.” “All right,” she replied. “I’ll let him know.” After, he sat in the kitchen a long while. His daughter washed dishes, pretending not to listen. Then she put the plate to dry and said, “Dad, if you want, I’ll go with you. When they let visitors in.” Sergey nodded. What mattered wasn’t her company, but that she’d said “with you” instead of “Why bother?” A week later, Victor’s mum met him again at school. “He smiled when I mentioned the bench,” she said. “Waved his hand, like this, inviting. The doctor says rehab will take a while. We’ll bring him to ours afterwards. Can’t leave him on his own.” Sergey felt something cinch inside. Daily meetings would likely never resume. The emptiness was like a coat missing from its hook. “May I write a letter?” Sergey asked. “You can,” she replied. “Keep it brief. It’s hard for him to focus long.” That evening, Sergey wrote in large letters for easy reading: “Nicholas Andrew, I’m here. Thank you for the tea and sunflower seeds. I’m waiting for when you’re ready. Sergey Petrovich.” After thinking, he added, “Victor is doing well.” He read it over, then left it unchanged. He folded the sheet, marked the surname from an old utility bill Nicholas had once shown him. Next day at school, Sergey handed the envelope to Victor’s mum. The envelope was dry, crisp—he carried it as if fragile. When the bell rang and the children streamed out, Anna hugged him and launched into her stories. Sergey listened, glancing at the bench. It was empty; and it no longer angered him. It had become a place where something mattered, even if that something was now absent. Before leaving, Sergey scattered bread crumbs for the pigeons. They swooped down, as if knowing the schedule as well as the children. Watching them, Sergey realised he could come not just to wait, but to stay open. “Granddad, what are you thinking?” Anna asked. “Nothing,” he replied, taking her hand. “Let’s go. We’ll come back tomorrow.” He said it not as a promise to someone else, but as a decision for himself. And his steps felt steadier because of that.

Empty Bench John Whitmore put his flask on his knees and double-checked the lid just in case, you know.

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I’m 89 Years Old. They Tried to Scam Me over the Phone—But I Used to Be an Engineer.

I’m 89 years old. Someone just tried to scam me on the phone. But they didn’t know I used

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The Cupboard and the Scales She reached into the cupboard, not in search of memories, but for a jar of pickled cucumbers for her salad. On the top shelf, behind a box of Christmas lights, the corner of a case stuck out—one that was never meant to be in her flat anymore. The fabric had darkened, the zipper got stuck. She tugged, and from the depths emerged the long, narrow body of a violin case, like a stretched-out shadow. She placed the jar on the stool by the door so she wouldn’t forget, then crouched right down, as if that made it easier not to decide. The zipper gave way on the third try. Inside lay a violin. The varnish had dulled in places, strings hung loose, the bow looked like an old broom. But the shape was unmistakable, and something clicked inside her chest, like a light switch. She remembered how, back in Year Nine, she’d carried this case across the entire neighbourhood, embarrassed by how silly she thought she looked. Then there was college, work, a wedding—and one day she just stopped going to lessons. Life was busy elsewhere. The violin was sent for safekeeping to her parents, then it came with her things when she moved, and now it lay here, in the cupboard among bags and boxes. Not offended, just forgotten. She lifted the instrument carefully, as if it might fall apart. The wood grew warm under her palm, though it was chilly in the cupboard. Her fingers found the fingerboard immediately, and then—awkwardness. Her hand didn’t remember how to hold it, as if it was a stranger’s thing she’d borrowed without permission. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen. She stood up, closed the cupboard, but didn’t put the case back. She left it in the hallway, propped against the wall, and went to turn off the hob. She could make the salad without cucumbers. She caught herself already looking for an excuse. That evening, once the dishes were done and nothing remained on the table but a plate of bread crumbs, she brought the case into the living room. Her husband sat in front of the TV, flicking through channels without really listening. He looked up. “What have you found there?” “The violin,” she said, surprised by her own calm. “Oh. Still alive?” He smirked, not meanly, just with that familiar, domestic irony. “Don’t know. I’ll check.” She opened the case on the sofa, slipping an old towel under it to save the upholstery. She took out the violin, the bow, a tiny box of resin. The resin was cracked, like ice on a puddle. She ran the bow across it; the hairs barely caught the surface. Tuning turned into its own humiliation. The pegs were stiff, the strings squeaked, one popped straight away and slapped her finger. She swore softly enough not to alert the neighbours. Her husband grunted. “Maybe better let the repair shop have at it?” he suggested. “Maybe,” she replied, though inside she felt the sting—not at him, at herself for not knowing even how to tune it. She found a tuner app on her phone, set it beside her. The screen showed letters, the needle wandered. She twisted pegs, listened—some notes slipped low, others went sharp. Her shoulder ached, fingers grew tired from unfamiliar effort. When the strings finally stopped sounding like telephone wires in the wind, she brought the instrument under her chin. The chin rest was cold; her neck felt thin and exposed. She tried to straighten, as she’d once been taught, but her back protested. She chuckled to herself. “So, concert time?” Husband asked, eyes still on the screen. “For you,” she said. “Brace yourself.” The first sound made her flinch—not a note, a complaint. The bow trembled; her hand couldn’t draw a straight line. She paused, breathed, tried again. It was better, but still shameful. The shame was adult—different from the adolescent kind where you think the whole world is watching. Here, the world wasn’t. Just the walls, her husband, and her own hands, oddly foreign. She played the open strings, slowly, counting to herself. Then attempted a D major scale, and her left fingers got jumbled. She couldn’t recall where the second finger went, or the third. Her fingers were thicker than before, fingertips too soft, no familiar pain—just a dull sense that her skin was unprepared. “It’s okay,” her husband said unexpectedly. “Well… you won’t get it all in one go.” She nodded, not sure who it was meant for—him, her, or the violin. Next day, she visited the workshop near the station. It wasn’t romantic: glass door, counter, walls hung with guitars and violins, the air smelled of varnish and dust. The technician—a young guy with an earring—handled the instrument confidently, as if it was simply a tool. “Strings need changing,” he said. “And the pegs greased, bridge sorted. Bow could use rehairing, but that’s pricier.” She heard “pricier” and tensed. Thoughts of bills, medications, a birthday gift for her granddaughter. She almost said, “Never mind, then.” Instead, she asked: “What if we just do the strings and the bridge for now?” “That’s fine. It’ll play.” She left the violin, took her receipt, slipped it into her wallet. Walking out felt like she’d handed not just an object for fixing, but a piece of herself to be returned in working order. At home, she opened her laptop and typed “adult violin lessons UK.” She chuckled at the phrase—adult. As if adults were a special breed needing things explained slower, gentler. She found some adverts. Some promised “results in a month,” others spoke of “individual approach.” She closed the tabs—words got her anxious. Then she reopened them and messaged a female teacher in the next borough. Brief: “Hello. I’m 52. Want to regain some skills. Is it possible?” She regretted it instantly. Wanted to delete the message—it felt like an admission of weakness. But it was sent. That evening her son visited. He stepped into the kitchen, kissed her cheek, asked about work. She put the kettle on, found biscuits. He spotted the case in the corner. “Is that a violin?” he asked, genuine surprise in his voice. “Yes. Found it. Thinking… of giving it a go.” “Mum, you’re serious?” He smiled, more puzzled than mocking. “You haven’t… not for ages.” “Ages,” she agreed. “That’s why I want to.” He sat, turned a biscuit over in his fingers. “What do you want it for?” he finally said. “You’re tired enough already.” She felt the old reflex rise—explain, justify, prove she had a right. But explanations always sounded feeble. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I just want to.” He looked at her closely, as if seeing not the always-capable mum, but a woman wanting something just for herself. “Well… alright then,” he said. “Don’t overdo it. And spare the neighbours.” She laughed. “They’ll survive. I’ll practise in the daytime.” When he left, she felt lighter. Not because he’d permitted, but because she hadn’t gone in for excuses. Two days later, she collected her violin. The strings were shiny, the bridge set straight. The tech showed her how to adjust, how to store. “Don’t leave it by the radiator,” he said. “Keep it in the case.” She nodded, like a pupil. At home, she set the case on a chair, opened it, stared at the instrument, afraid to ruin it again. For her first exercise, she chose the simplest: long bow strokes on open strings. As a child, it had felt like punishment. Now it was a lifeline. No tune, no judgment—just sound and the attempt to keep it steady. After ten minutes her shoulder hurt. Fifteen and her neck was stiff. She stopped, placed the violin in its case, zipped it shut. Inside, anger flared—at her body, her age, the difficulty of everything now. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, stared out the window. On the playground, teens whizzed on scooters, laughing loudly. She envied them—not for their youth, but their shamelessness. They fell, got up, tried again; it never occurred to them it was too late to learn balance. She returned to the room and opened the case again—not because she had to, but because she didn’t want to end on anger. Reply from the teacher came that evening: “Hello! Of course it’s possible. Come along, we’ll start with holding and simple exercises. Age isn’t a barrier, but patience is needed.” She read that twice. “Patience” felt honest, which made her calm. For the first lesson, she travelled with the case in hand, clutching it like something precious and fragile. On the tube, people glanced, some smiled. She caught their gaze and thought: let them. Let them see. Her teacher was a petite woman in her forties, cropped hair and kind eyes. In the room stood a piano, music on a shelf, a child’s violin on a chair. “Let’s have a look,” she said, and asked her to hold the instrument. She did, and instantly it was clear she held it wrong. Her shoulder lifted, chin pinched, her left hand wooden. “No trouble,” the teacher said. “You haven’t played. Let’s just stand together first. Feel that it’s not the enemy.” She smiled at that and felt a bit silly: learning how to hold a violin at fifty-two. But the feeling was liberating. No one expected her to be good—only to be present. After the lesson, her hands shook like after PE. The teacher wrote out a list: ten minutes a day on open strings, then scales, no more. “Less but regular,” she advised. At home, her husband asked, “Well, how was it?” “Tough,” she replied. “But alright.” “Are you pleased?” She thought. Pleased wasn’t quite it. She felt anxious, amused, embarrassed—and, oddly, light. “Yes,” she said. “Feels like I’m doing something with my hands again, not just working and cooking.” A week later, she dared play a tiny tune she remembered from childhood. She’d found the notes online, printed them at work, hiding them among papers so colleagues wouldn’t ask. At home she set the music up on a makeshift stand—book and box. The sound was wobbly, the bow scratched other strings, her fingers missed. She stopped, started over. At one point, her husband poked his head in. “You know… it’s kind of lovely,” he said, cautious, as if not wanting to scare it away. “Don’t lie,” she told him. “I’m not. It’s… recognisable.” She smiled. “Recognisable” felt almost like praise. At the weekend, her granddaughter visited—six years old, she spotted the case instantly. “Gran, what’s that?” “The violin.” “Can you play?” She thought of saying “Once.” But for a child, “once” makes no sense. There’s only now. “I’m learning,” she said. Her granddaughter perched on the sofa, hands folded neatly like at a school recital. “Play something!” She felt something shrivel inside. Playing for a child was scarier than for adults—a child hears honestly. “Alright,” she said, and took the violin. She played the tune she’d laboured over all week. On the third bar, the bow slipped, the note came out squeaky. Her granddaughter didn’t grimace. She tilted her head. “Why does it squeal like that?” “Because Gran’s bow isn’t straight,” she said, laughing at herself. Her granddaughter giggled too. “Try again!” she asked. She played again. It wasn’t better, but she didn’t stop out of shame. She played right to the end. Later, when everyone was busy elsewhere, she was left alone. Music printouts on the table, a pencil for marking trouble spots. The violin was in its case; the case closed, but left beside the wall—not back in the cupboard. It stood there, a reminder that this was now part of her day. She set a ten-minute timer on her phone—not to force herself, but not to burn out. She opened the case, took out the violin, checked the resin, tightened the bow. Lifted it under her chin, exhaled. The note was softer than in the morning; then it squeaked again. She didn’t scold herself. Just readjusted and pulled the bow, listening to the note holding on and trembling. When the timer chimed, she didn’t stop straightaway. Finished the last stroke, settled the violin in its case, zipped it up. Then placed it by the wall—not in the cupboard. She knew tomorrow would be the same: a bit of embarrassment, a bit of fatigue, a few clear seconds worth opening the case for. And that was enough to keep going.

The Box Room and Scales She didnt go into the box room for nostalgia, but simply to fetch a jar of pickled

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Like a Songbird Drawn to the Call – A Young Woman’s Oath to Lifelong Love, Betrayal, and Lessons from Her Parents’ Fifty-Year Marriage, Tested by Her Sister’s Jealousy, An Absent Husband, and the Temptation of a Married Doctor, Until She Finally Finds True Happiness with a Devoted Second Husband and Blended Family

LIKE A BIRD TO THE DECOY Girls, marriage is meant to be once and for alla true union to the very last breath.

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I Saw It Happen: A Working Mother’s Courage Amid Pressure, Threats, and Isolation After Witnessing a Serious Crosswalk Accident in Her Town

It was as if I had seen it before She was closing up the till in accounts, moving through the half-lit

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My Father-in-Law Thought We’d Keep Supporting Him Forever: How My Husband’s Widowed Dad Ended Up Living With Us for 11 Years and Still Refuses to Move On

My father-in-law always assumed we would continue supporting him. My husband grew up in a warm and loving family.

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I’m 70 Years Old and Became a Mother Before I Ever Learned to Think of Myself — I Married Young, Devoted My Life to My Family, and Now, After a Lifetime of Caring for Everyone, I Find Myself Alone and Forgotten. What Would You Advise Me?

Im seventy years old, and I dont think I ever quite learned to put myself firsteven after becoming a mother.

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Raw Nerves… In this family, everyone lived their own separate lives. Dad, Alex, had more than just his wife; he often had a string of lovers. Mum, Jenny, long suspecting her husband’s affairs, was hardly a paragon of virtue herself—she preferred her evenings with a married colleague from work. Their two sons, left to their own devices, wandered aimlessly as neither parent took much interest in raising them. Jenny insisted the school should take full responsibility for her boys. The only time the family gathered together was for a silent, rushed Sunday lunch in the kitchen, each eager to slip away to their own worlds. That’s how this broken, sinful, yet oddly sweet family might have carried on—if not for a tragedy that changed everything. When the younger son, Dennis, was twelve, Alex took him to the garage as an assistant for the first time. While Dennis fiddled with tools, his dad nipped off to see some motoring mates nearby. Suddenly, thick plumes of black smoke and flames billowed from Alex’s garage. No one understood what happened at first. (It would later come out that Dennis had accidentally dropped a lit blowtorch onto a canister of petrol.) People froze, confused. The fire raged. After someone doused Alex with a bucket of water, he rushed into the inferno. Moments later, he emerged carrying his unconscious, burned son—only Dennis’s face was spared, likely shielded by his hands. The boy’s clothes had been burned away. Emergency services arrived. Dennis was alive, but barely. He was rushed into surgery. After agonising hours, the doctor told Alex and Jenny, “We’re doing everything humanly possible. Your son’s in a coma—his odds are a million to one. Medicine can’t help, but if Dennis has the will to live, perhaps a miracle. Take heart.” Desperate, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church—drenched in a downpour and oblivious to everything except saving their son. For the first time in their lives, they stepped into a church. The vicar, Father Samuel, greeted them. “What’s the matter, my children?” “Our son is dying! What should we do?” sobbed Jenny. Father Samuel replied, “Strange how we turn to God only in trouble, eh? Are you greatly burdened by sin?” “Not really… We’ve not killed anyone,” Alex muttered, lowering his eyes. “But you’ve murdered your love—left it dead between you. You could lay a whole cedar plank between husband and wife and neither of you would notice!” Father Samuel admonished. “Pray to St. Nicholas for your son’s health. Pray fervently. But remember—it’s God’s will. God sometimes wakes the lost this way. Otherwise, you’d never understand. Only love can save.” Soaked and weeping, Alex and Jenny listened to the bitter truth about themselves. Before the icon of St. Nicholas, they knelt, prayed desperately, and made vows. All affairs were abandoned and erased. Their lives were pieced back together, bit by bit. The next morning, the doctor rang with astonishing news—Dennis had come out of his coma. Alex and Jenny sat by his bedside as the boy, eyes open and in pain, whispered, “Mum, Dad. Don’t separate, please.” “We’re together, darling,” insisted Jenny, gently touching his limp hand. Dennis winced. “I saw it, Mum! And, my children will have your names,” the boy went on. His parents exchanged looks, assuming he was delirious—what children? Dennis was bedridden, barely able to move. But from then on, Dennis slowly improved. All family resources went into his care—Alex and Jenny even sold the summer cottage. The garage and car had burned, but the boy survived. Grandparents helped however they could. Adversity brought the family together. Even the longest day has an end. A year passed. Dennis, in a rehabilitation centre, could walk and look after himself. There, he befriended Maddy, a girl his age also injured by fire—her face terribly burned. After numerous surgeries, she was too shy to look at herself in a mirror. Dennis felt a deep warmth towards her—Maddy exuded a wisdom and innocence that drew him in. They became inseparable, sharing time and confiding in one another. Both had endured agony, despair, and the daily routine of hospitals. Time ticked on… Dennis and Maddy celebrated a modest wedding. The couple had beautiful children: first a daughter, Charlotte, then three years later a son, Eugene. At last, when the family could breathe easy, Alex and Jenny made a decision—to separate. Dennis’s ordeal had exhausted them to the core; they could no longer be together. Each craved peace and freedom from the other. Jenny moved in with her sister in the suburbs. Before leaving, she sought Father Samuel’s blessing—he had often guided her since Dennis’s trauma, always correcting her: “Thank God, Jenny!” Father Samuel disapproved of her departure, saying, “If you must, go and rest, but come back. Husband and wife are meant to be together.” Alex stayed alone in the empty flat. The boys, both with families of their own, lived elsewhere. Former spouses visited grandchildren in turn, carefully avoiding each other. And so, everyone finally found their own kind of peace…

RAW TO THE CORE… In the Harris household, everyone rather happily did their own thing.

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Once a Month—For One Neighbor: Nina Finds Community, Help, and Boundaries in Her English Block Flats

Once a month Susan Williams held a bin bag to her chest and stopped by the noticeboard next to the lift.

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When Our Son Got Married, His Mother-in-law Took Him Away from Us: How My Son Chose His Wife’s Family Over His Own and Now Spends All His Time Helping His Mother-in-law Instead of Visiting Us

Ever since our son got married, he hardly visits us anymore. These days, he seems to spend all his time