La vida

So, why on earth did you use that cheap mayo in the potato salad? I told you, get the proper stuff, the

I Know Best – What on earth is going on? – Dimitri wearily crouched before his daughter, inspecting the rosy patches on her cheeks. – Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and oddly grown-up, already used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, endless ointments and pills. Maria approached and sat beside her husband, gently tucking a strand of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. At all. May as well be giving her water. And the doctors at the clinic… they aren’t doctors, more like who knows what. This is the third new treatment, and it’s made no difference. Dimitri stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside, the world was grey—the day promised to be as dull as all the others before it. They hurriedly packed up—Sophie bundled in her warm coat—and half an hour later, they were seated in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on so many medicines. It’s such a strain on her body, – she perched Sophie on her knee, and the little girl nestled close—familiar comfort. – It’s heartbreaking. – We wish we didn’t have to give them, – Maria sat at the edge of the sofa, fingers intertwined. – But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve eliminated everything—absolutely everything. She only eats the most basic foods, and still, the rash persists. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. We do tests, take samples, and the result… – Maria waved a hand – this result, here, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and smoothed Sophie’s collar. – Hopefully she’ll outgrow it. Kids sometimes do. But for now, no comfort. Dimitri gazed at his daughter. Small and thin. Big, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and memories flickered—snatching pastries from the kitchen as a child, begging for sweets, eating his mum’s jam straight from the jar… But his daughter? Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no treats, no proper children’s food. Four years old, on a diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else there is to cut, – he spoke quietly. – Her diet’s nearly nothing as it is. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the backseat; Dimitri checked her in the mirror every so often. At least she wasn’t scratching. – Mum called, – Maria spoke up. – She wants Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. – Theatre? – Dimitri changed gear. – That’ll be nice. Good distraction. – I thought so too. She could use it. …On Saturday, Dimitri parked outside his mother-in-law’s and carried Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes—woken too early. He picked her up, and she snuggled into his neck, warm and weightless as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor appeared on the porch, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a shipwreck survivor. – Oh, my dear, my little ray of sunshine, – she scooped up Sophie, hugging her close to her vast chest. – So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are hollow. You lot have worn her out with your diets, you’re ruining her. Dimitri thrust his hands in his pockets, holding back irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing it for her sake. There’s a reason, you know. – What sort of sake? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though—just returned from a prison camp. – Skin and bone. Some childhood—she should be growing, not starved. She carried Sophie inside, not looking back, leaving the door to click shut. Dimitri lingered at the gate, a sensation nagging at the edge of his mind, some half-formed hunch that vanished like mist. He rubbed his forehead, waited one more minute listening to the quiet of this foreign yard, then sighed and returned to the car. A weekend without their daughter—a strange, nearly-forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Maria trawled the supermarket aisles, piling up groceries for the week. At home, he spent three hours fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Maria emptied wardrobes and packed old things into bags for the tip. The usual chores, but the absence of Sophie’s voice made the flat feel wrong, too empty. In the evening, they ordered pizza—the mozzarella and basil kind, forbidden to Sophie. Opened a bottle of red, sat talking about nothing much—work, their postponed holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. – It’s nice, – Maria said, then paused, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful. – I know, – Dimitri covered her hand with his. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday, he went to pick up their daughter just before sunset. The garden glowed orange beneath old apple trees. Mrs Taylor’s place, in the evening light, seemed almost cosy. Dimitri stepped from the car, pushed open the gate—its hinges groaned—and stopped short. Sophie was sitting on the porch. Mrs Taylor beside her, radiating sheer happiness. In her hands was a pastry. Big, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was devouring it. Cheeks smeared, crumbs on her chin, eyes sparkling—happier than he’d seen in ages. For a moment, Dimitri simply stared. Then a surge of hot anger swept up from his chest. He strode forward, snatched the pastry away. – What’s this supposed to be?! Mrs Taylor jumped, shrank back, her face turning red from neck to hairline. She flailed her hands, desperate to wave away his fury. – It’s just a tiny piece! No harm done, honestly. Dimitri wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up—she went quiet, clutching his coat in fright—and headed for the car. Buckled her in, hands trembling with rage. Sophie gazed at him, lips quivering, about to cry. – It’s okay, darling, – he stroked her head, forcing his voice to sound calm. – Just wait here for Daddy, alright? He shut the door and marched back to the house. Mrs Taylor was rooted to the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown, blotchy and pale. – Dimi, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he stopped short, exploding. – Six months! Six months, and we couldn’t work out what was wrong with our daughter! Tests, allergy screenings—do you have any idea what it all cost us? The stress, sleepless nights?! Mrs Taylor edged back toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dimitri advanced. – She’s been on boiled chicken and water! We’ve cut out every single possible allergen! And you—you secretly feed her fried pastries? – I was building up her immunity, – Mrs Taylor suddenly bristled, chin raised. – A little at a time, to get her body used to it. One bit more and it would’ve cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing—I’ve raised three kids! Dimitri looked at her, unrecognising. This woman he’d endured for years, for his wife, for peace—she was poisoning his child. On purpose. Convinced she knew better than any doctor. – Three kids, – he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. – Doesn’t mean they’re all the same. Sophie isn’t your daughter—she’s mine. And you won’t see her again. – What?! – Mrs Taylor clutched the rail. – You have no right! – I do. He walked to the car, shouts erupting behind him. But Dimitri didn’t look back. Started the engine. In the rear-view, his mother-in-law’s frantic silhouette flared behind the gate as he pulled away. At home, Maria met them in the hallway. One look—his face, their tearful daughter—and she understood. – What happened? Dimitri explained. Briefly, coldly, all emotion spent outside. Maria listened, face hardening. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?! Dimitri got Sophie into the bath—to wash away the pastry and tears. In the next room, Maria’s voice—sharp, unfamiliar—rang out. She scolded her mother as he’d never heard before. Her words finished loud and clear: “Until we’ve sorted the allergy—no visits, Mum.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. Today, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries sat on the table. And Sophie was eating it herself, big spoon, getting cream everywhere. Her cheeks—perfectly clear. – Would you believe it, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. – Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, – Maria spread butter on her bread. – The moment we cut it out and switched to olive oil—her rash vanished in two weeks. Dimitri couldn’t stop watching his daughter. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally able to eat real food—cakes, biscuits, everything made without sunflower oil. Turns out, that’s a lot. Relations with his mother-in-law stayed chilly. Mrs Taylor called, apologised, cried down the phone. Maria kept her replies short and brisk. Dimitri didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga moved the plate closer. – Go on, love. Eat as much as you like. Dimitri leaned back in his chair. Outside, rain fell; inside, warmth and the scent of baking. His daughter was better. Nothing else mattered.

I know better Honestly, what is going on, David muttered as he crouched down beside his daughter and

La vida

010

Came Home Early: When My Husband Chose a Spotless House Over His Pregnant Wife’s Wellbeing – A British Wife’s Unexpected Homecoming Turns into a Domestic Drama

Came Home Early Are you at the bus stop? My husbands voice leapt to a high pitch. Right now?

La vida

010

Don’t Unpack That Suitcase – You’re Moving Out Tonight: Lev Catches His Wife’s New Year’s Lie, a Holiday Betrayal Unfolds, and a Cheating Spouse Gets the Boot After a Festive Double Life Comes to Light

Dont bother unpacking youre moving out. Whats going on? Jessica demanded, authoritative as ever, as she

La vida

My Sister Megan Went on a Three-Day Business Trip—So I Looked After Her 5-Year-Old Daughter Lily, and Everything Seemed Fine Until Dinner: I Served Beef Stew, But She Just Stared, Then Whispered, “Am I Allowed to Eat Today?”—She Burst Into Tears, Revealing a Heartbreaking Family Secret. Now I’m Faced with an Impossible Choice: Confront My Sister, Report It, or Find Another Way to Protect Lily—What Would You Do?

My sister Emily had to dash off for a work trip, so I was in charge of my five-year-old niece Ruby for

La vida

0300

My Husband’s Relatives Turned Up at My Countryside Cottage Expecting a Holiday—So I Handed Them Spades and Rakes Instead

“Come on, love, will you open that gate? Guests are waiting!” Barbaras voice, sharp and clear

La vida

025

My Husband’s Relatives Turned Up at My Countryside Cottage Expecting a Holiday—So I Handed Them Spades and Rakes Instead

“Come on, love, will you open that gate? Guests are waiting!” Barbaras voice, sharp and clear

La vida

— Whose little girl are you, love? ..— Come on, let me carry you home, you’ll warm up. I lifted her in my arms and brought her to my cottage. Before I knew it, the neighbours gathered round—news travels fast in an English village. — Good grief, Anna, where did you find her? — And what are you going to do with her? — Anna, have you lost your senses? What will you feed the child with? The floorboard creaked underfoot—reminding me yet again to fix it, though I never got round to it. I sat at my kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tapped the window, as if asking to come in. — What’s all the commotion, then? — I said to it. — Patience, spring will come soon enough. It’s funny to talk to trees, but when you live alone, the world around you feels alive. After those awful times I was left a widow—my dear Stephen lost to war. I still keep his last letter, creased and faded from countless readings. He promised he’d return soon, said he loved me, that we’d be happy… But a week later, I learned the truth. We never had children, perhaps just as well—there was nothing to feed them with back then. The village head, Nicholas Evans, always comforted me: — Don’t fret, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again. — I won’t. — I replied firmly. — I loved once, that is enough. I worked at the farm from dawn till dusk. Foreman Peter would shout: — Anna Evans, off home with you! It’s late as it is! — I’ll manage, — I’d say. — As long as my hands still work, my spirit stays young. My little home was modest—a stubborn goat called Maggie, five hens to do a better job of waking me than any rooster. My neighbour Claudia would often joke: — Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your hens always start up before everyone else’s? I kept my garden—potatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything from the land itself. In autumn I’d preserve pickles, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar felt like bringing summer into the house. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was wet and cold. The drizzle lasted all morning, and by evening it froze. I went to the woods for firewood—needed fuel for the stove. After the storms, there was plenty of deadfall, just waiting to be gathered. Arms loaded, I headed home past the old bridge, when I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But no—it was a child, sobbing. I scrambled down beneath the bridge, and there she was—a little girl, muddy and soaked, dress torn, eyes full of fear. When she saw me she fell silent, shivering like a leaf. — Whose little girl are you? — I asked quietly, so as not to scare her more. She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, lips blue and hands swollen red from cold. — Frozen stiff, — I muttered. — Let’s get you home and warm you up. I scooped her up—lighter than a feather—wrapped her in my old scarf, held her close. And all the while, I wondered what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge. I couldn’t fathom it. The wood I’d gathered was abandoned—it didn’t matter now. All the way home, the girl stayed silent, clutching my neck with her icy fingers. I carried her inside, and the neighbours were there in a flash—news spreads like wildfire in our village. Claudia was the first to burst in: — Oh heavens, Anna, where did you find her? — Under the bridge, — I replied. — Clearly abandoned. — Dear God… — Claudia gasped. — What are you going to do? — What else? She’ll stay with me. — Anna, have you gone mad? — Old Maude croaked. — How will you provide for a child? — Whatever God gives, I’ll make do, — I said. First thing, I stoked the stove and set water to heat. The girl was covered in bruises, skin-and-bones, her ribs sticking out. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in my old jumper—no children’s clothes in my house. — Are you hungry? — I asked. She nodded shyly. I gave her leftover vegetable stew and thick slices of bread. She ate hungrily, yet her manners showed she wasn’t a stray, but rather raised in a home. — What’s your name? She stayed silent. Either afraid or unable to speak. I put her in my bed to sleep, curling up myself on the bench. I woke several times through the night to check on her. She slept, curled tight, whimpering in her dreams. At first light, I went to the parish hall—to report my find. The head, John Stephens, just spread his hands: — No word of any missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her… — What do we do now? — By law, she belongs in an orphanage. I’ll ring the council today. My heart ached: — Wait, John. Give me time—perhaps her parents will turn up. Meanwhile, let her stay here. — Anna Evans, think carefully… — There’s nothing more to think about. It’s decided. I named her Mary—after my mother. I hoped her real parents might turn up, but no one ever did. Perhaps that’s for the best—I grew to love her with all my heart. It was hard at first—she never spoke, only her eyes searching my home as if looking for something. She woke up screaming, trembling with fear. I held her close, stroked her head: — It’s alright, sweetheart. Everything will be alright now. I stitched clothes for her out of old dresses—dyed in all colours, blue, green, red. Not fancy, but cheerful. Claudia was amazed: — Anna, you’ve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a spade. — Life teaches you both sewing and mothering, — I replied, secretly glad for her praise. Not all in the village were understanding, especially old Maude—whenever she saw us, she’d cross herself: — No good can come of this, Anna. Bringing in a foundling—asking for trouble. No doubt her mother was bad—that’s why she abandoned the child. The apple never falls far from the tree… — Enough, Maude! — I snapped. — Other people’s sins aren’t for you to judge. That child is mine now, end of. Even the farm head frowned at first: — Think about it, Anna Evans, maybe she’d be better off in the orphanage? They’d feed and clothe her properly. — Who will love her, though? — I challenged. — There are enough orphans there already. He shrugged but soon helped—sometimes sent milk, sometimes grains. Bit by bit, Mary grew brighter. At first one word at a time, then sentences. I remember her first laugh—I was reaching up to hang curtains and toppled off my chair. Sitting there rubbing my back, she burst out laughing—clear and bright. My pain vanished instantly in her joy. She started helping in the garden. I’d give her a little hoe—she’d step beside me, copying everything, more stamping down weeds than pulling them. But I never scolded, just delighted to see her full of life. Then tragedy struck—Mary came down with a terrible fever. Burning up, raving. I ran to our local medic, Simon Peters: — For heaven’s sake, help! He only spread his hands: — Medicine? All I’ve got for the whole village are three aspirin. Wait—they may send more next week. — Next week? — I cried. — She might not last till morning! I ran to the town—nine miles of mud. Shoes ruined, feet sore, but I made it. The young doctor there, Michael Alexander, looked at me—filthy and soaked: — Wait here. He brought out medicine, explained how to use it: — No pay needed, — he said. — Just get the girl better. For three days I never left her bedside, mumbling prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke and she quietly said: — Mum, I want water. Mum… She called me mum for the first time. I wept—joy, relief, everything at once. She wiped away my tears with her little hand: — Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt? — No, — I replied. — I’m just happy, sweetheart. After her illness, she was changed—loving, chatty. Soon she started school—the teacher couldn’t praise her enough: — Such a bright girl, picks up everything instantly! The villagers grew used to her; even old Maude thawed, dropping off pies for us. She grew fond of Mary after the child helped stoke her fire during a bitter cold snap. The old woman was laid up and hadn’t prepared wood. Mary volunteered: — Mum, let’s go to Maude’s? She must be so cold alone. They became friends—the old grump and my little girl. Maude shared stories, taught her knitting, never spoke again of foundlings or bad blood. Time passed. Mary was nine when she first mentioned the bridge. We sat together in the evening; I was darning socks, she rocking her homemade doll. — Mum, do you remember how you found me? My heart jumped, but I kept calm: — I remember, love. — I remember it a bit too. It was cold, and frightening. There was a woman crying, and then she left. My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she went on: — I don’t know her face, only her blue scarf. And she kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me…” — Mary… — Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t upset me now. I just recall sometimes. And you know what? — she suddenly smiled. — I’m so glad you found me that day. I hugged her tight as my throat tightened. How often I’d wondered—who was that woman in the blue scarf? What drove her to leave her child under a bridge? Hunger, a drunken husband? So many things can happen in life. It’s not mine to judge. That night I lay awake, thinking how fate turns. Used to be, I felt cheated by life, condemned to loneliness. Yet it was all preparing me for the greatest task—to shelter and warm an abandoned child. From then on, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, always trying to cushion the truth: — You know, child, people sometimes face choices with almost no way out. Maybe your mother suffered terribly deciding what she did. — Would you have ever done that? — she peered into my eyes. — Never, — I said firmly. — You are my joy, my blessing. Years flew by. Mary was top of her class, sometimes bursting home— — Mum, Mum! I read my poem in front of everyone today, and Miss Maria said I have a real gift! Her teacher, Maria Potter, often spoke to me: — Anna Evans, your girl must go on with her studies. Such a rare talent for words and language. You should see her work! — Where could she study? — I’d sigh. — We’ve no money… — I’ll help tutor for free; it would be a shame to waste such promise. So Maria tutored Mary—nights bent over books at our table. I’d bring them tea and homemade jam, listening as they discussed Shakespeare, Keats, Austen. My heart swelled—my girl soaked up everything. In her final year, Mary fell in love for the first time—with a new boy come to our village. She was heartbroken at times, scribbling poetry into a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, though my heart ached for her—all first loves are bittersweet. After graduation, Mary sent off papers to teacher training college. I gave her everything I had and sold our cow—dear Daisy, I hated to part with her, but what else could I do? — No, Mum, — Mary protested. — How can you get by without the cow? — I’ll manage, love. There’s still potatoes, and hens laying. You need to study. When the acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm head came to offer congratulations: — Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter and educated her. Now our village has its own scholar. I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting, arms around each other, tears streaming down her face. — I’ll write every week, Mum. And come home every break. — Of course, you will, — I said, heart breaking. The bus vanished over the hill, and I kept standing, unable to move. Claudia came and put her arm round me: — Come on, Anna, there’s plenty needing doing at home. — You know, Claudia, — I said, — I’m happy. Some have blood children, but mine was sent by God. She kept her promise—letters came often, each one a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every word by heart. She wrote of lectures, new friends, the city; between the lines, I read her longing for home. In her second year, she met her own James—a history student. She mentioned him in letters, shyly, but I sensed straight away—she was in love. That summer she brought him home, to meet me. He was serious and hard-working, helped me fix the roof and fence, made friends with neighbours. Evenings he sat on the porch, sharing stories from history that captivated us all. It was clear how deeply he cared for my Mary—never took his eyes off her. When she came for summer visits, everyone came to see what a beauty she’d grown into. Old Maude, now very frail, always crossed herself: — Lord, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, I was a foolish old woman. Just look at the happiness she’s grown to! Now Mary teaches in the city—her own pupils, as Miss Maria taught her. She married James; they live together in love and harmony. They gave me a granddaughter—Annie, named after me. Little Annie is the spit of Mary as a child, only bolder. When they visit, she fills the house with clamour—always exploring, touching, climbing. I delight in her energy—a home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells. So here I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls again. The floorboards still creak, the birch still taps the glass. But now, the quiet carries peace and gratitude—for every day lived, every smile of my Mary, for fate leading me to that old bridge. On my table stands a photo—Mary, James, and little Annie. Beside it, the old scarf I wrapped her in that day. I keep it to remember. Sometimes I stroke it—feeling the warmth of those days return. Yesterday Mary wrote again—she’s expecting another baby, a boy this time. James has already chosen a name—Stephen, for my late husband. So our family goes on; the memories will live. The old bridge is long gone—a sturdy new concrete one stands in its place. I rarely go by now, but each time I stop for a moment. Just thinking—how much life can change in a single day, a chance moment, a child’s cry on a damp March evening… They say fate tests us with loneliness so we learn to cherish those close. But I think otherwise—fate prepares us for the ones who need us most. It doesn’t matter if it’s blood—only that we heed the call of the heart. Mine, that day under the old bridge, did not lead me astray.

Whose little girl are you? I asked Come on, Ill carry you home, warm you up. I lifted her into my arms

La vida

Even the Good Ones Get Left Behind

A beautiful thirty-five-year-old woman stared back at Anna from the mirror, sorrow glimmering in her eyes.

La vida

I Was Eight When Mum Left Home—She Took a Taxi from the Corner and Never Returned. My Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed: Dad Learned to Cook Breakfast, Wash and Iron Uniforms, Clumsily Brush Our Hair Before School, and Never Let Us Go Without. He Never Brought Another Woman Home or Introduced Anyone as His Partner, Never Complained, Took Us Out on Weekends, Made Costumes from Cardboard and Old Fabric, and Filled His Life with Notes to Care for Us—But Was He Ever Happy? Mum Left to Find Her Joy; Dad Stayed and Gave Up His Own So We Wouldn’t Be Alone. Now He’s Gone, and I Wonder If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left home. She walked to the end of the street, caught a black cab