Claim Your Husband Back

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

Emily hurried away from the parentteacher evening, her thoughts a tangled mess. Once again Mrs. Whitaker had scolded her son, Jamie, for unfinished homework and a cheeky attitude. Lately the boy seemed distant, his mind elsewhere, and Emily could feel something unsettling in the air around him. She needed Ian, his father, to step inafter all, he was the head of the household.

She rounded the corner of the school grounds and froze. Parked by the curb was Ians sleek black sedan, its engine still warm. A flicker of hope sparkedhad he come to meet her? She quickened her pace, heart pounding, and stopped short as the car door opened.

Ian stepped out, a bouquet of red roses clutched in his hand, and walked toward a striking woman shed never seen before. The strangers dark hair fell in glossy waves over a short, tight skirt; she was tall, confident, the exact opposite of Emilys own modest, shortcropped blonde look. The woman wrapped her arms around Ian, took the flowers, and they slipped back into the car, driving off without a word.

Emilys breath hitched. Who was she? A stranger with an air of power, the very picture of everything Emily was not.

Earlier that day Ian had mentioned hed be late after worknew project, strategy meeting with colleagues. Working with her, hed muttered, as if that explained the sudden delay. Had this woman been the reason? In thirteen years of marriage Emily had never once doubted Ians fidelity. Their love had begun at university, a whirlwind romance that led to a wedding right after graduation. Ians prosperous family had gifted them a comfortable flat in Kensington; his parents had welcomed Emily with open arms, treating her as one of their own.

When Ians fathers health forced his retirement, Ian took over the family firm. It was a tough start, but he grew into the role, earning respect from staff and a solid income. They bought a modest cottage in the Surrey countryside, spending weekends there with friends and family, often escaping abroad for a brief holiday. Ian had once suggested Emily leave her cardiology post to raise their son, but she refused. She loved her work, saving lives, and would not become a stayathome mother.

Now, with the revelation of a lover, Emily felt the ground crumble. Tears of hot, raw pain streamed down her face. What did I lack? she whispered to the empty hallway. We were friends, we shared everything, our marriage was solid. How could he

She entered the house, her voice trembling as she tried to discipline Jamie.

Jamie, stop it! Enough of your lectures, the boy shouted back, his cheeks flushed. Mrs. Patels angry with you. The school terms just begun, and youre already acting up.

Ill do as I please, just like Dad! Jamie retorted, his tone sharp. Now I see why you have another womanmaybe youve always pushed him away.

What woman? What are you on about? Emilys voice cracked, hoarseness creeping in.

I saw Dad at the café with a pretty girl. He didnt even notice me walking by. What do you think that means? he demanded.

Emily sank onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands, sobbing. Jamies voice softened, Mum, dont cry

He had never liked seeing his mother weep. He tried to comfort, Things happen, Mom. I still love Dad, but if he treats you like this, maybe he should go. Im twelve now, I can manage.

Emilys composure shattered. Everything is falling apart, she whispered.

Jamie offered a napkin, which she used to wipe her cheeks before pulling him into a tight hug. Ill speak to him. Hell have to be honest.

Two hours later Ian returned, looking weary, eyes rimmed with shadows.

Emily, I wont be having dinner, he said abruptly. I ate with the team, now Im heading for a shower and then to bed. Im exhausted.

Emilys voice trembled, I saw you you gave her flowers, then you left. I passed by the school.

Ian froze, surprise flashing across his features. You saw? I didnt know how to bring it up. Ive started seeing my new secretary, Sophie. I cant explain how it happened.

Everything feels like a nightmare, Emily replied, anger and hurt intertwining. What will you do? Leave us?

I dont want to leave, Emily, Ian confessed, eyes pleading. But Im drawn to her like a spell. I cant stop thinking about her. I still love you, though it sounds absurd. Im changed, caught in a whirl of new feelings, as if Im fifteen again. She was the first to reach out, asked me to drop off some documents at her flat. I met her mother, they fed me dinner. Then they invited me over for tea and a cake. I didnt realize I was falling.

Emilys voice cracked, How could you on our cottage, on our bed?

I’m sorry. We should part ways. I wont abandon Jamie. Ill keep providing for him, leave the flat to you, take the car and the cottage for myself.

Ians words hung heavy, a cold calculation of assets. Shes young, shell tire of you. You should have thought with your head, not your heart. Youve ruined a family.

The next morning Ian packed his belongings and slipped out while Emily and Jamie were away. He left a letter in Jamies room, attempting to justify his betrayal.

Emily stared at the empty coat hooks where Ians jackets once hung, the hollow space echoing his absence. She had loved him always, and the pain now cut deeper than any financial loss. Money had never been her priority; family, health, and love had.

She refused to be the one to file for divorce first. Hell handle it, she told herself, well survive.

Later that evening, her motherinlaw, Olivia, called. Emily, Ian told me everything. How could this happen? A midlife crisis? What does Sophie want? Hes always been a good husband, a great father. Were devastated, taking calming pills that do nothing.

Emily sighed, Olivia, Ian is an adult; he knows what hes doing. Jamie accepted his choice but is hurt. Well manage.

Two weeks later Ian returned, standing at the door, looking gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, his frame thinner.

Jamie isnt answering my calls, Ian admitted. I understand hes angry. Maybe time will heal it.

Emilys sarcasm slipped out, Looking pale, huh? Is the young woman draining you?

He winced, I feel sick, weak, apathetic. I dont want to live like this.

Emily raised an eyebrow, Strange. Men usually thrive with youthful companions, not with older wives.

I get your sarcasm, he muttered, but Im genuinely ill, both body and mind. Sophies presence torments me; I dont love her, yet I cant let go.

Emily gestured to the bag, Take your things and go. What about the divorce?

I dont want a divorce. I want nothing, Ian whispered, collapsing onto a chair, clutching his head.

The scene lingered, raw and aching, as Ians sobs filled the room. Emily stood, her heart torn between fury and pity.

At work, she confided in her nurse friend Claire, who had become a close confidante over the years. Emily, theres something odd about this. My neighbour, old Mrs. Greene, claims she can see auras. Lets go see her. Bring a photo of Ian, just in case.

Emily scoffed, Im a cardiologist, not a believer in folk magic.

Claire persisted, Just for curiosity. Take the picture, it wont hurt.

That night, they drove to the modest cottage of Mrs. Greene in a quiet lane of Surrey. The woman, draped in a plain cardigan, greeted them with a gentle smile. She lifted a candle, placed it over the photograph, and whispered, eyes closed.

His heart is bound by a love charm, placed through food, Mrs. Greene murmured. Someone is siphoning his will. Its a cheap trick for money, but the spell keeps him tethered.

Emily laughed, a nervous chuckle, A love potion? Hes just hormonal, stressed. Thats all.

Mrs. Greene shook her head, The mother of the girl paid for it. She wants him, not love. Hell fall into despair, maybe even worse. The curse must be broken, or hell ruin himself.

What can we do? Emily asked, dread creeping in.

The charm must be removed, away from its source. Ill give you a prayer, read it before the icon of the Virgin. Keep his picture safe. In a week, the effect should lift, the old woman instructed.

Emily exhaled, feeling the weight of desperation. She agreed, hoping for any chance of saving Jamies father.

Ian ignored her calls, his silence forcing Emily to drive to the cottage in a hired taxi, her hands trembling on the wheel she rarely used. The old memories of picnics, barbecues, dancing under the summer sky flooded back as she approached the weathered gate.

She knocked, and the door swung open to reveal Sophie, her eyes widening in surprise.

Emily? I didnt expect you, Sophie said, trying to sound composed.

Emily stepped inside, her gaze falling on Ian, slumped against the wall, a gaunt figure wrapped in a thin blanket. Ian, youre ill. Jamie needs you. Why wont you answer his calls?

Ian tried to sit up, his voice hoarse, I I feel nothing. My body aches, my mind is foggy. I cant I cant leave.

Sophies composure cracked, You think I cursed you? It was never a spell. I was lonely, I wanted a career boost, I thought Im sorry.

Emilys fury erupted, You think you can ruin a family for your ambition? You stole my husband, my life!

Ian, eyes filled with tears, whispered, Im sorry, Emily. I was a fool.

Sophie fled the room, leaving a stunned Emily and a broken Ian. They embraced, his sobs shaking his shoulders, her fingers trembling as she held his head.

Two weeks later, Emily attended Sunday service, lighting a candle before the Virgins icon, reciting the prayer Mrs. Greene gave her. The weight in Ians chest lifted; his health improved day by day. Claire visited, smiling, I told you there was something. Miracles do happen.

Ians demeanor softened, his affection for Emily returning, more tender than before. Jamie beamed, seeing his parents smiles again. Sophie vanished from their lives, disappearing into a new city, never to be heard from again.

Emily stood on the porch of their Surrey cottage, the evening sun bathing the garden in gold. The past months had torn her apart, but she emerged stronger, her love for her family reaffirmed. The house, once echoing with betrayal, now sang with laughter, and the future, though uncertain, felt hopeful.

Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Barely Older Than Our Daughter – Chubby Cheeks, Innocent Eyes, a Nose Piercing (He Forbade Our Daughter When She Wanted One). It Was Impossible to Be Angry at Her – I Looked at Her Bare Blue Legs and Cropped Jacket and Wanted to Say, “If You Plan to Have Kids With That Idiot, Buy a Winter Coat and Put Tights On Under Your Jeans.” Of Course, I Said Nothing. I Handed Her the Keys, Grabbed My Bags, and Headed to the Bus Stop. “Excuse Me, Mrs. Johnson, What’s That Thing Under the Kitchen Counter?” She Called After Me. “Is It For Storing Dishes?” Unable to Hold Back, I Shot Over My Shoulder: “I Usually Hide My Husband’s Mistresses’ Bodies There, But You Can Use It For Plates.” Without Waiting for Her Reaction or Looking at Her Shocked Face, I Walked Down the Stairs, Pleased With Myself. Well, That’s It – Twenty Years of Marriage Down the Drain. It Was our Daughter Who First Discovered Her Dad’s Mistress. She Skipped School, Came Home Expecting Nobody, and Found the Young Nymph Drinking Cocoa From Her Favorite Mug – Wearing Nothing But a Few Shreds, With Dad Splashing in the Shower. Smart Girl as She Is, She Immediately Called Me: “Mum, I Think Dad Has a Mistress and She’s Wearing My Slippers and Drinking From My Mug!” Just Like a Fairy Tale, I Thought – My Daughter Was Upset, But More Because Someone Touched Her Things Than Because of Her Dad’s Betrayal. Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… Unlike My Daughter, I Didn’t Take It So Badly. Sure, My Ego Was Bruised – The Girl Was Young and Gorgeous, While I Was Carrying Extra Weight and Cellulite and All The Signs of a Forty-Something. Still, I Felt Relief – No More Night Calls, Weird Work Schedules, Coffee Shop Receipts Where My Husband Never Took Me… He’d Never Been Caught Red-Handed, Always Covering His Tracks And Making Me Feel Like The Guilty One For Suspecting Him. “It Was the First Time,” He Lied. “Like a Comet Fell Out of Nowhere.” That ‘Comet’ Was a Hotel Worker Where He Stayed on Business – She Was Just Twenty, and Apart From a Pretty Face, She Wasn’t Much Else. Not Even Brains – As She Chased Him all the Way to London, Renting a Grubby Room on Savings. So They Met at Our Flat – Easy for Showers and Laundry. No Wonder I Kept Finding the Washing Machine on the ‘Quick Wash’ Setting Instead of ‘Mixed Fabrics’! The Apartment Belonged to My Husband, Inherited From His Father Before Our Wedding, and With Divorce Imminent, My Daughter and I Had to Move Out to My Nan’s Flat on the City’s Edge. My Daughter Complained – How Would She Get to School? “Why Not Stay With Us?” He Suggested – Earning Himself Another Round of Insults. At Least Our Daughter Could Tell Him What She Really Thought Now. The Early Days Were Tough – New Bus Routes, New Shops, Over an Hour to Work and School. But We Settled In – I Changed Jobs, My Daughter Started College, Closer Than School. No Time to Be Sad – Life’s Practicalities and Exams Kept Us Busy, and Once Things Settled, There Was No Room Left for Regret. That Girl, His Mistress, Rang Me Occasionally – Asked What Setting to Bake Pies, Where to Put Dishwasher Tablets. Once She Even Stopped By, Bringing Forgotten Photos Needed For Prom. My Ex Couldn’t (Or Wouldn’t) Come, I Was Ill, and My Daughter Refused Point Blank to Return to the Old Flat – Bad for Her Mental Health. “Nice Place You’ve Got,” She Said Nervously, Looking at Faded Wallpaper and Dated Lamps. I Just Smiled – Yes, Nice Enough, What Can I Say? It Was Modern and Comfortable Over There – I’d Worked Twenty Years for It. Let Them Enjoy It. But That Visit Came Back to Bite Me – One Evening, About a Year Later, The Door Lock Clicked. “For You?” I Asked My Daughter. She Just Stared. On the Threshold Stood That Girl – Red-Eyed, Mascara Trails Down Her Cheeks, Sporting a Gym Bag. “What’s Happened With Steve?” I Asked. “Something Has! I Caught Him With the Secretary! Thought I’d Surprise Him Since He Was Working Late, and…” She Broke Down, Sobbed Like a Child, Face Buried in Palms. “What Do You Want From Me?” I Asked, Eyeing the Bulging Gym Bag. “Can I Stay Here Tonight? I’ve Got No Money. I’ll Take the Train to Mum’s Tomorrow.” “How Will You Get There With No Money?” “I Thought You’d Lend Me Some…” I Didn’t Know Whether to Laugh or Cry. My Daughter Decided For Me: “Get Out!” She Snapped, Adding a Few Choice Words She’d Never Used Before. I Gave Her a Disapproving Look. “Come In, Love,” I Said. “It’s Night – I’m Not Putting You Out On The Street.” Things Got Worse. My Daughter Was So Furious She Announced: It’s Either Me Or Her. I Shrugged – Your Choice, You’re an Adult. Go to Your Dad If You Want. “As If! I’ll Go Stay With Natalie!” I Ordered Her a Taxi For the Night; Then Spent The Evening Comforting The Hapless Mistress With Tea and Calming Drops. Money? I Lent Her, What Else Could I Do – But Not To Stay With Me. Even Drove Her To The Station. She Kept Thanking Me, Apologizing, Swearing She’d Start Over – Get an Education, Avoid Married Men. “Mum Always Said I Was Hopeless. Turns Out She Was Right.” Putting Her on the Train and Waving Goodbye Was A Step Too Far. My Daughter and I Made Up Quickly, Though She Still Couldn’t Understand How I Let That Homewrecker Stay In Our House. I Hugged Her Hairy Head, Smiled and Said: “You’ll Understand When You’re Older.” My Ex-Husband Called a Week Later. He’d Seen the Light, Dumped the Mistress, Ready for a Happy Reunion. “Run Out of Clean Shirts?” I Asked. “Well, Yes,” He Sighed. “She Never Learned To Do Laundry – I’ve Worn Grubby Ones for a Year Now.” Of Course, I Didn’t Take Him Back. Didn’t Gloat, Didn’t Suffer. But I Had To Admit – Something Had Lifted From Me After That Night; My Heart Felt Lighter, I Smiled More. Got a Dog, Walked It in the Evenings. Met a Nice Neighbor – So What If He’s Ten Years Older, I’m No Spring Chicken. And Life Moved On.

The Waiter Rushed Over to Take Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot-Tall Gentleman Scooped Up the Crying Fluffy Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Meat!” “Let’s wear something bold—almost like the young nymphs—and head to a swanky restaurant. Time to show ourselves off and size up the men…” So declared one of the three friends—a headteacher of a prestigious, exclusive private school, always armed with the cleverest words her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, in their view, for short skirts and blouses that revealed rather than concealed. Deep necklines, flawless makeup, every piece of battle armor in place. The restaurant matched their expectations: posh, elite, and outrageously expensive, but well within their means. With a reserved table, they settled in, basking in admiring looks from men—and resentful glances from their companions. Of course, conversation turned to the main topic: men. Dreams, desires, and requirements. Each dreamed of her ideal—tall, fit, charming, and decidedly wealthy. The kind who’d carry you, indulge whims, spare you dull chores and chatter. And if noble-born, even better. “Just not like… those.” The friends glanced at a trio of cheerful, slightly pudgy men with thinning hair, surrounded by pints, chips, mountains of steak, and enthusiastic talk of football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, genuine, and utterly unrefined. “Dreadful.” “How gauche.” “Ugh.” The verdict was unanimous: uncouth, rough, clearly lacking sophistication and utterly unfit for such dazzling ladies. But then, something happened that changed the night’s tone in an instant. He arrived—stepping out of the latest model red Ferrari. “Lord Charles Saxon Coburg!” the waiter announced with grandeur. The friends perked up like pointer dogs catching a scent. Tall, athletic, with distinguished silver hair and a suit worth more than most homes. Diamond cufflinks and a blindingly white shirt completed the look. “Ahh…” “Oh wow…” “Mmm…” Necks craned, eyes grew bolder. “This is a real man,” one whispered, “A lord, a stunner, and a millionaire,” said the second. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since childhood, actually.” The third stayed silent, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the Lord’s table. They strode over grandly, casting condescending glances at other guests—especially at the football-and-steak trio. The Lord was charming, a master conversationalist, spinning tales of lineage, stately homes, and priceless art. Tension simmered between the friends—each knew only one would be invited to continue the night. Dinner was an icebreaker: lobsters, platters of seafood, and rare vintage wine. The ladies gazed dreamily at the Lord, imagining a future far beyond the dining room. Rosy-cheeked and glowing, they were at their best. The Lord shone too—cracking high-society jokes and sharing stories of the elite. At this point, it hardly mattered where he’d invite them next. Outside, the restaurant had a small garden. The irresistible aroma wafted out, and soon a tiny, skinny grey kitten tiptoed in—hungry, hopeful, and sitting right at the Lord’s feet. But the Lord’s face twisted in disgust. He callously pushed the kitten away with his shoe. The little one skidded several feet, bumping into the table leg beside the football pals. Silence blanketed the restaurant. “I despise filthy, mongrel creatures,” the Lord declared loudly. “At my estate, we have purebred hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter rushed to appease him: “We’ll sort it out right away, our apologies…” He headed for the football table but one of the men—a giant, nearly two meters tall, red-faced and fists clenched—was already up. His friends tried to restrain him. He silently lifted the kitten onto a chair. “A plate for my furry friend!” he thundered. “Your very best meat. Now.” The waiter paled and sprinted to the kitchen as applause rippled through the room. One of the “nymphs” stood and joined the titan, declaring: “Move over, and get a lady a whisky.” The Lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two friends joined them, bestowing the Lord with icy glares. Not all left together that night. In one group: a man, a woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the giant—now the owner of a major investment firm. Her two friends wed his mates, both renowned solicitors. The three weddings were held the same day. Their lives are different now—nappies, cooking, housework. All have daughters born close together. But to enjoy the old favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call for a babysitter, and meet again—to talk about womanly matters, and men. As for Lord Charles Saxon Coburg—he was arrested a year later, exposed in a high-profile trial as a romance scammer who duped countless women. Real men, thankfully, are a different breed. I’m speaking of those three—chubby, balding, unpolished, and lacking airs, but truly noble-hearted. That’s just how it is. There’s no other way.

Julia Steps Off the Bus With Heavy Bags and Heads Home – “I’m Back!” She Calls Out as Her Family Rushes to Greet Her Saying They Felt She Was Coming. That Night, While They Sit Around the Big Family Table, a Knock at the Door Brings Unexpected Guests. Julia Looks at the Visitors and Can’t Believe Her Eyes Julia Sat Silently and a Bit Sad, Gazing Out the Window as the Bus Carried Her Away from Her Beloved Village. On Her Lap Was a Large Checkered Bag Packed with Essentials—Plus a Bundle of Warm Pasties from Grandma, Filling the Bus with the Tempting Aroma of Fresh Baking. Unable to Resist, Julia Unzipped Her Bag, Pulled Out Two Golden, Crispy Pasties, and Offered One to a Young Man Nearby Who Had Kindly Given Up His Window Seat for Her. “Want one?” she asked. “Yes, please!” he replied eagerly, swallowing hard. “I’m Julia,” she introduced herself. “And I’m Stephen! Heading off to uni?” he asked. “Yep! There’s no college or uni close to home—only tractor school, and I’m definitely not a tractor driver!” “I’m off to uni too,” sighed Stephen. “But I like the countryside.” It was a four-hour journey to the city. By the time they arrived, the two had chatted and become friends, exchanging numbers before heading their separate ways. *** The hustle of entrance exams passed swiftly—both Julia and Stephen were accepted at their chosen universities and over the moon. Worries and exam nerves were behind them; the future was full of big plans and hope. One day Stephen called Julia: “Julia, fancy celebrating our exams at a café?” Julia was delighted, not least because she liked Stephen—he was easygoing, genuine, and comfortingly familiar, so different from the city types. They met in the city centre at a quirky café called “Hippo.” They watched sightseeing boats cut across the river as tour guides bellowed into megaphones. “I wonder why this café is called Hippo?” Julia mused. Stephen laughed. “Probably because if you keep eating the cakes here, you’ll turn into one!” “Sounds about right!” Julia snorted, munching her cake. Soon “Hippo” became their regular spot, and setting up dates was: “Let’s meet at our table.” That evening, they shared their first, unforgettable kiss—tender and passionate. Time passed; Julia grew closer to Stephen than anyone else, except her parents. One day Stephen suggested, “Julia, move in with me! Let’s marry in summer.” “Is this your proposal?” Julia teased. “Sort of!” “Then I’m supposed to ask, like in that old film, remember? ‘Aren’t you worried I’ll always be in your sight?’” “Flutter around as much as you like!” Stephen grinned, twirling Julia round in the street. Julia returned to the flat she shared with friends glowing with happiness. “You’re radiating joy! Spill!” Vera, her flatmate, asked. “Oh girls, I might move in with Stephen soon!” Julia sang. “Are we invited to the wedding?” Marina cheered. “The wedding’s for summer! We’ll just live together for now.” “Don’t rush it, Julia—lots can happen before summer!” Vera warned. Julia laughed it off. “Vera, you’re such an old soul! Everyone does this now.” “I’m not old—I just don’t trust these informal arrangements. My mum’s a solicitor—I know how they end…” Vera grumped. “Alright, Vera, don’t be mad—I was kidding,” Julia soothed. *** Julia brushed off Vera’s worries as nonsense—who needs a stamp in a passport when love is so rare and true? Yet, the conversation nagged at her, making her hesitate about moving in with Stephen. Eventually, he stopped asking. One December day, Julia and her friends wandered the festive city, shivering in the sparkling snow. Spotting “Hippo,” Julia chirped, “Let’s warm up inside—Stephen and I love it here!” “Look—Stephen’s already there!” Marina remarked glumly, nodding at the window. Julia saw Stephen laughing with a younger girl across “their” table… She turned away, quietly: “I think I’ll head home.” “We’re coming too!” Vera and Marina chorused. Back at the flat, her friends tried to reassure Julia, but the way Stephen looked at the girl stuck in her mind. Their table, their café—it felt like a betrayal. Julia stopped answering Stephen’s calls and asked her friends to turn him away at home. When he finally caught her at uni he asked, “Julia, what’s wrong? Are you seeing someone else?” Julia shot him a furious look. “You’re asking? Nice job flipping it! Let go, I’m late for my exam.” And with that, she slipped into the institute, leaving Stephen baffled. *** Julia finished her exams early and went home for Christmas, sure her family’s cosy house would help her get over the hurt and betrayal. And indeed, her spirits lifted stepping off the village bus, surrounded by diamond-sparkling snow and old trees twinkling in the winter sun. Her arms full of gifts for her family, she smiled at the familiar scene—the old Christmas tree outside was even decorated, just like when she was little. “Happy Christmas!” she called, stepping inside. “Julia, darling!” her family cried, rushing to hug her. “We knew you were coming!” It was a joyful day—though winter nights arrived early, Dad cheered, “Let’s light up the tree!” That evening, as they sat at their big family table, someone knocked at the door. “Probably neighbours dropping in,” Mum shrugged, heading to answer it. But she returned not alone—she was with Father Christmas and his helper. “Stephen?” Julia gasped, peering at Father Christmas and the helper—the same young woman she’d seen at the café. “How did you find me? What is all this?” Stephen burst out laughing, the girl too. “Your friends told me where to find you. Also, let me introduce you—this is my younger sister, Irene!” “My sister?” said Stephen. “Yes, sister!” Irene confirmed. “We do look alike, if you check!” Julia felt relief flood her—she scolded herself for assuming the worst instead of simply asking. Stephen then knelt. “Since your whole family’s here, with my own kin as witness, Julia, will you marry me?” He offered her a little box with a ring. “Yes—yes, of course!” Julia cried, hugging him. “This is the best Christmas ever!” “And there’ll be lots more wonderful Christmases together—just promise we’ll talk through misunderstandings from now on!” Stephen said. “I promise!” Julia beamed.