Cut to the Quick… In This Family, Everyone Was Out for Themselves Dad Alex had a wife at home, but also a string of girlfriends—never the same one for long. Mum Jenny turned a blind eye to her husband’s infidelity, yet she wasn’t exactly a model of virtue herself, enjoying after-work escapades with a married colleague. Their two sons were virtually left to fend for themselves; nobody really bothered to raise them, so they mostly just drifted about. Jenny insisted that school was completely responsible for her children’s upbringing. This family only gathered in the kitchen on Sundays for a silent, rushed meal before quickly scattering to their own worlds. They kept muddling along in their own flawed, sinful, oddly sweet reality—until one day, something irreversible happened. …When the younger son, Danny, was twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage for the first time to help out. While Danny pottered about with tools, Alex nipped off to chat with mates tinkering with their cars nearby. Suddenly, black smoke gushed from Alex’s garage, followed by flames. (Later it turned out Danny had accidentally knocked a lit blowtorch onto a petrol can.) People froze, confused. The fire raged. Someone threw a bucket of water over Alex, who dashed into the inferno. Seconds later, he stumbled out, carrying his limp son. Danny was badly burned—only his face untouched, likely protected by his hands. His clothes had melted away. Firefighters and paramedics arrived. Danny was rushed to hospital—alive, but just. He was taken straight to surgery. After agonising hours, the doctor emerged and said flatly: “We’re doing all we can. Your son is in a coma—his chances of survival are one in a million. If Danny finds an extraordinary will to live, perhaps there may be a miracle. Be strong.” Without hesitation, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church. The heavens opened in a torrential downpour, but they barely noticed the storm—or anything else. They had to save their boy! Soaked through, Alex and Jenny stepped inside the chapel for the first time in their lives. Spotting the priest, they timidly approached. “Father, our son’s dying—what do we do?” sobbed Jenny. “I’m Father Simon. So—it takes a crisis to bring you here?” the priest replied, getting straight to the point. “No, not really. We haven’t killed anyone,” Alex muttered, eyes down under Father Simon’s piercing gaze. “But you’ve killed love, haven’t you? It’s lying cold between you. Where true husband and wife once stood as one, now you could lay a cedar log between you—no connection left! Ah, people… Go and pray to Saint Nicholas for your son’s recovery! Pray earnestly! But remember, everything is in God’s hands. Sometimes the Lord wakes the careless with tragedy. Otherwise, you’d never understand! Save your souls—through love, all is redeemed!” Alex and Jenny, dripping rain and tears, stood like two miserable ducklings before Father Simon, hearing truths too bitter to ignore. Father Simon pointed them to the icon of Saint Nicholas. Kneeling before the image, Alex and Jenny sobbed, prayed desperately, vowing to change their ways, abandoning all affairs and reviewing every thread of their past lives… The next morning, the doctor called: Danny had woken from his coma. Alex and Jenny sat at their son’s bedside. Danny opened his eyes and tried to smile at his parents, but the expression was etched with suffering. “Mum, Dad—promise me you’ll never split up,” he whispered. “What makes you say that? We’re together,” Jenny replied, gently stroking his hand. Danny winced. She quickly pulled back. “I saw it, Mum! And when I have children, they’ll bear your names too,” Danny murmured. Alex and Jenny exchanged worried glances. Their son must be delirious, they thought: what kids? He’s bed-bound—just surviving would be a miracle. …But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All resources were poured into his treatment; the family sold their holiday home. It was a pity the garage and car were lost to the flames—but most important, their son survived. Grandparents rallied around, doing everything they could. The family was drawn together by shared tragedy. …Even the longest day comes to an end. A year passed. Danny was in a rehabilitation centre, walking and managing on his own. There, he met a girl named Molly—his age, also a burn victim. Molly’s face had been scarred in a fire. After multiple surgeries, she avoided mirrors, afraid of what she’d see. Drawn to her quiet light, Danny found himself protective of this wise, gentle girl. They spent all their free time together, united by shared pain, courage, and favourite conversations. They had endured the same agonising treatments and now found solace in each other’s company. Time went on… Danny and Molly celebrated a modest wedding. They had two beautiful children: a daughter, Charlotte, and three years later, a son, Jack. At last, when the family seemed to find peace, Alex and Jenny decided to part ways. The ordeal with Danny had drained them; they could no longer stay together. Worn out, each yearned for their own space and some quiet. Jenny moved to her sister’s in the countryside, but visited the church to seek Father Simon’s blessing before leaving. Over the years, she had come to thank him for saving her son, but Father Simon would only say: “Thank God Himself, Jenny!” He didn’t approve of her leaving. “If you must, go and rest. Solitude is sometimes needed for the soul. But come back—husband and wife are one!” Alex stayed alone in an empty flat. Their sons, now with families, lived apart. Even visits to the grandchildren were scheduled so the former spouses wouldn’t run into each other. In short, everyone finally found their own kind of comfort…

Author Walton MerrittReading 7 minViews 3

RAW NERVE…

In this household, everyone went their own way.

Matthew, the father, had a fondness for women other than his wife, and often not the same one for long. His wife, Deborah, suspecting her husband’s affairs, was hardly an example of virtue herself. She enjoyed stepping out with a married colleague from work. Their two sons, left largely to their own devices, drifted through their days with little supervision. Deborah felt the school was fully responsible for whatever the boys did or didnt do.

The family only gathered in the kitchen on Sundays, sitting around the small table, eating their lunch quickly and in silence before retreating to their separate corners of the house.

And so, they would have continued in their dysfunctional, frail but strangely comforting bubble, if not for a calamity that would change everything.

When the younger son, Daniel, was twelve, Matthew took him to his garage for the first time to help out. While Daniel was distracted by a collection of odd tools, Matthew popped next door to chat with his fellow motor enthusiasts.

Suddenly, thick black smoke billowed out of Matthews garage, followed by the hungry tongues of flame.

No one grasped what had happened. (It was later discovered that Daniel had accidentally knocked over a lit blowtorch onto a petrol can.) People stood rooted in place, panic rising, as the fire raged out of control. Someone doused Matthew with a bucket of water and he lunged, dripping, through the inferno. Everyone froze. Seconds later, Matthew emerged from the burning garage carrying his unconscious son. Daniels body was covered in burns, his face miraculously untouchedhed shielded it with his hands. His clothing had burned away entirely.

The fire brigade and ambulance were already on their way. Daniel was rushed to hospitalhe was alive!

They took him straight into theatre. After agonising hours, a doctor appeared before the anxious parents and spoke matter-of-factly:

Were doing all we can. Your son is in a coma. His chances of surviving are a million to one. Theres nothing more medicine can do. If Daniel can somehow find an extraordinary will to live, there might be a miracle. Be strong.

Without hesitation, Matthew and Deborah dashed to the nearest church as a torrential rain began to fall. Soaked to the skin, both parents charged through the doors, desperate for anything that might help save their son.

The church was nearly empty and quiet. Spotting the vicar, they approached him timidly.

Vicar, our boy is dying! Please, what can we do? Deborah pleaded through tears.

My names Father Simon, he replied, Funny how people remember God when theyre desperate. Tell me, have your lives been good and honest?

Nothing too terrible, Matthew mumbled, eyes cast down beneath the vicars piercing gaze.

But what of your love? Youve let it die. The love between husband and wife should be inseparable, but you two theres a chasm between you a mile wide! Father Simon shook his head. Pray, both of you, pray hard for your sons health. Ask for St Nicholass intercession. And remember, all is in Gods hands. Sometimes hard lessons are the only way people will listen. Dont lose your soul and forget to notice. Try to put things rightlove can heal much.

Matthew and Deborah, still dripping from the storm and their own tears, listened in shame. They knelt before the icon of St Nicholas, praying, weeping, vowing to leave affairs and betrayals behind, picking through their lives thread by thread.

By morning, a call came from the hospital: Daniel had woken from the coma.

Matthew and Deborah sat beside his bed. Daniel opened his eyes and tried to smile at his parents, though pain shadowed his young face.

Mum, Dad, pleasedont separate, he whispered.

Why would you say that, darling? Were together, Deborah protested, gently stroking Daniels limp but fever-hot hand. Daniel grimaced in pain and Deborah recoiled.

I saw it, Mum. When Im older, my children will have your names, Daniel continued, his words dreamlike.

Matthew and Deborah exchanged worried glances, dismissing it as delirium. He was too frail to even move a fingerhow could children of his own be part of any reality?

And yet, from that day, Daniel began to recover. Every penny, every ounce of effort went toward his care. Matthew and Deborah even sold their cottage.

It was a pity the garage and car had been utterly lost to the firethey could have sold those too for Daniels sake. But most important of all, their son was alive. Grandparents pitched in to help as best they could.

The family, for the first time, held together through their common struggle.

Even the longest day draws to a close.

A year passed.

Daniel was staying at a rehabilitation centre. He could walk again and look after himself. There, he became friends with Alice, a girl his own age, who had also survived a fireher face bore the scars.

After many surgeries, Alice shied away from mirrors, always afraid of what she would see. Daniel felt a deep tenderness for her. Something radiant emanated from Alice; she was wise beyond her years, and there was a vulnerability about her that made Daniel want to protect this friend.

Between treatment sessions, they were inseparable. So much in common bound themunbearable pain, hopelessness, endless medicines, learning not to fear sharp needles or white coats. They talked for hours, never running out of things to say.

Time rolled on.

Eventually, Daniel and Alice had a small but beautiful wedding.

They would welcome two lovely childrena daughter, Charlotte, and, three years later, a son named Henry.

No sooner had the family found peace than Matthew and Deborah quietly parted ways. The long ordeal with Daniel had drained them so much that staying together no longer seemed possible. They both sought calm and closure in separation.

Deborah moved in with her sister in the countryside. Before leaving, she visited Father Simon at the church for his blessing, grateful as ever that her son had survived. The priest would always gently correct her:

Thank God, Deborah. Not me.

He did not approve of her move. But if you must have a break, take it. Solitude can be good for the soul. But rememberhusband and wife are one. Together, youre whole, he said warmly.

Matthew was left alone in the empty flat. The sons had their own families by now. Former spouses took care to visit their grandchildren at different times, each determined to avoid running into the other.

In the end, everyone finally found a quiet corner to call their own.

And thus, the family discovered: sometimes, it takes a mighty blow to remind us that love, when neglected, withers away, but with forgiveness and care, new life and hope can always be born from the hardest of trials.

Let Me Remind You “Mrs. Mary Stevens, the curl just won’t go right here,” sighed little Year Two pupil Timmy, prodding at the stubborn, wayward green leaf on the flower he’d tried so hard to paint. “Try not to press so hard, sweetheart. Glide the brush as gently as if you’re stroking a feather across your hand. There you go — wonderful! That curl’s a true delight!” The elderly teacher smiled. “And who’s this masterpiece for, then?” “For Mum!” Timmy beamed, triumphant at last. “It’s her birthday today — this is my present!” Pride rang clearly in his voice after her praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Timmy. Be patient, though — don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry, so you don’t smudge it. When you get home you can carefully tear it out. She’ll just love it, you’ll see!” Mrs. Stevens gave one last fond glance to the boy’s determined, lowered head, and, smiling at her thoughts, returned to her desk. A gift for Mum — she hadn’t seen such pretty gifts in years. Timmy clearly had talent for art. She ought to call his mum and suggest signing him up for art school, such gifts shouldn’t go untended. And she’d ask her former pupil, now a mother herself, whether she’d liked her son’s present. Mrs. Stevens herself could hardly tear her eyes away from those flowers blooming on paper — as if their living, rustling leaves might suddenly stir. Just like his mum, that Timmy! Definitely just like her… Larissa at his age drew beautifully too… ***** “Mrs. Stevens, it’s Larissa, Timmy Carter’s mum,” came a call that evening in the teacher’s flat. “I’m ringing to let you know Timmy won’t be in tomorrow,” the voice of a young woman declared curtly. “Hello, Larissa! Has something happened?” Mrs. Stevens asked gently. “It has! That rascal ruined my whole birthday!” snapped the reply. “And now he’s lying there with a temperature — ambulance left just now.” “What do you mean, Larissa? He left school perfectly well, with your present…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh no, Larissa! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was going to ring you myself — to recommend art school—” “I don’t know about flowers — but I certainly didn’t expect a mangy little lump!” “A lump? What do you mean?” Mrs. Stevens was bewildered by the nervous, muddled explanation from the other end. Her frown deepened as she listened. “Tell you what, Larissa — mind if I come round for a bit? I live just nearby…” Moments later, having gained consent from her former pupil — now, in the blink of an eye, her pupil’s mum too — Mrs. Stevens took from her drawer a thick album of faded photos and precious childhood drawings from her first ever class, and set off. In the bright kitchen where Larissa welcomed her, chaos reigned. Tidying away the cake and piling dishes in the sink, Timmy’s mum began to tell her tale: How he arrived home late from school, dripping with muddy water from backpack and clothes; how he pulled a sopping puppy from under his coat, smelling of the rubbish tip — he’d gone in after it himself when bullies tossed it in a ditch. The ruined textbooks, the ‘blotched’ art book not fit to look at. And now the fever high as nearly 102… The guests had left before tasting any cake, and the paramedic had scolded her for not keeping better watch… “So I took him back, that puppy, to the very dump when Timmy had fallen asleep. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator — as for flowers, there’s nothing left at all,” Larissa scoffed, not seeing how Mrs. Stevens’ face darkened with each word. And when she mentioned the pup’s fate — rescued, then returned to the dump — the teacher grew black as thunder. Stroking the damaged album gently, she spoke softly. Of green swirls and painted flowers, of diligence and courage, of a boy’s heart that couldn’t bear unfairness — and the bullies who tossed a helpless creature in a ditch. Then she stood, led Larissa to the window: “There’s the ditch — Timmy could’ve drowned, never mind the puppy. But do you think he paused to think? Or was he thinking instead about the painted flowers, not wanting to spoil his gift for you?” “Have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once sat weeping on the school bench, clutching a stray kitten you’d saved from the toughs? How we all stroked it and waited with you for your mum? How you dreaded going home when they threw that ‘mangy lump’ out — until, thank heavens, they let you keep him in the end? Let me remind you… Tishka the kitten, who you adored; and floppy-eared Max, the mutt who walked by your side all the way to college; even the jackdaw with the broken wing you nursed in our class menagerie…” From her yellowed album Mrs. Stevens drew a large photo: a slender little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she cradled a fluffy kitten, surrounded by classmates. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your own heart, as vibrant and colourful as any paint.” After the photo, a faded childhood drawing floated down — a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand, tightly holding her mother’s palm in the other. “If I had my way,” Mrs. Stevens spoke more sternly, “I’d kiss that puppy’s nose and Timmy’s too! And those ‘blotches’ I’d frame, for no mother ever received a finer gift than raising her child to be a true person.” Larissa’s face changed with every word. Anxious glances darted toward Timmy’s closed bedroom. Her white knuckles tightened on the ruined sketchbook. “Mrs. Stevens! Please, watch Timmy for just a few minutes — I’ll be right back. Please!” The teacher watched as Larissa hurriedly tossed on her coat and dashed out the door. Out into the night she ran, toward the distant rubbish tip, heedless of muddy shoes, calling and searching beneath dirty boxes, rooting through litter, her worried eyes ever flicking back toward home… Would Timmy forgive her? ***** “Timmy, who’s that burying his nose in the flowers — is that your friend Duke?” “That’s him, Mrs. Stevens! Does it look like him?” “It certainly does! See that white star on his paw — just like when your Mum and I were scrubbing out those muddy paws, remember?” “And now I wash his paws every day!” Timmy declared with pride. “Mum says if you have a friend, you should look after him. She even got us a special tub for his baths!” “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Mrs. Stevens. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Yep, I want to put this one in a frame. She’s got those blotches up in a frame, but still keeps smiling at them. Is it normal to smile at blotches, Mrs. Stevens?” “At blotches?” the teacher chuckled. “Well, maybe — if they were made with love. Now tell me, how’s art school going?” “Oh, I’m doing great! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait! She’ll really love that! But for now…” Timmy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a folded sheet. “This is from Mum — she paints too.” Mrs. Stevens unfolded it and touched the boy’s shoulder gently. Across the page, a bright, happy Timmy smiled, his hand resting atop his beloved black-and-white mongrel, gazing up at him in adoration. Beside them stood a tiny, fair-haired schoolgirl in an old-fashioned uniform, cuddling a fluffy kitten; and, off to the side, peering from behind a desk piled with reading books, Mrs. Stevens herself — smiling kindly, ageless wisdom shining in those eyes. In every stroke of the painting, in every colourful mark, Mrs. Stevens felt that secret, boundless pride only a mother could feel. Wiping away a tear, she suddenly brightened, noticing a single word, spelled out in blossoms and curling green vines at the very corner: “Remember.”

Raw and Real… In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Life Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife — he often had another woman by his side, sometimes more than one. Mum, Jenny, suspected her husband’s affairs but wasn’t exactly a saint herself; she enjoyed spending time with a married colleague outside the home. The two sons were left to fend for themselves, neglected and often wandering about with nothing to do. Their mother insisted that it was entirely the school’s job to raise her kids. The only time the whole family gathered was on Sundays, quickly and silently munching lunch in the kitchen before rushing off in all directions. They might have spent the rest of their days in their broken, sinful, but oddly sweet world, if not for the tragedy that changed everything… When the younger son, Danny, turned twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage as his helper for the first time. While Danny was exploring the tools, Alex popped out to chat with some car-enthusiast mates working nearby on their motors. Suddenly, thick black smoke billowed from Alex’s garage, followed by flames. No one knew what had happened. (It would later come out that Danny accidentally knocked a lit blowtorch onto a can of petrol.) People froze, panicked. Fire raged. Water was thrown over Alex, who rushed into the inferno. Seconds later, he emerged carrying his lifeless son. Danny was burned all over, save for his face — protected by his hands. His clothes had been reduced to ashes. Firefighters and an ambulance arrived. Danny was alive but barely. Surgeons worked desperately, while his parents waited in agony. A doctor emerged at last: “We’re doing all we can. Your son is in a coma. His chances are one in a million. Medicine can do no more. If Danny fights with everything he’s got, maybe a miracle will happen. Be strong.” Without thinking, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church, drenched by a wild downpour, desperate to save their boy. For the first time in their lives, they entered the sanctuary. There, in the hushed gloom, they found Father Simon. “Our son’s dying! Please, what should we do?” Jenny sobbed. “Ah, so in need you come to God? Are you very sinful?” the priest asked bluntly. “Don’t think so. Never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, avoiding Father Simon’s piercing eyes. “But you killed your love for each other — it lies dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass. Between you, you could lay a tree trunk and it wouldn’t touch a soul! Pray for your son’s life, children. Pray hard. But remember, it’s all God’s will. Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise you’d never learn. Love saves all.” Soaked through and through, Alex and Jenny knelt before the icon of St. Nicholas, sobbing out their prayers, making promises, vowing to end all their affairs. The next morning, the phone rang. Danny had come out of his coma. His parents rushed to his bedside. He tried to smile through his pain. “Mum, Dad, please don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Why do you think we would, sweetheart? We’re together,” Jenny soothed, stroking his hot hand. Danny winced. “I saw it, Mum. And when I have children, I’ll name them after you.” Alex and Jenny exchanged glances, thinking Danny was talking nonsense — children? He couldn’t even lift a finger, barely clinging to life! But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s efforts went into saving him; the holiday home was sold. The garage and car, lost in the fire, could have helped too — but the only thing that mattered was that their boy survived. Grandparents chipped in however they could. The family rallied together in their shared grief. Even the longest day must end. A year passed. Danny was now at a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. There, he met Mary, a girl his own age, also a burns survivor, her face terribly scarred. She was shy, never looking in mirrors. Danny was drawn to her gentle spirit and inner wisdom, wanting to protect her. They spent every free moment together. Both had known unimaginable pain and despair, learned to swallow bitter medicine, grow unafraid of needles and white coats. Time passed… Danny and Mary had a quiet wedding. Two beautiful children followed — a daughter, Charlotte, and, three years later, a son, Eugene. At last, the family seemed settled and at peace. Yet, at this point, Alex and Jenny decided to part ways. Everything with Danny had left them empty and weary. Both craved freedom and calm. Jenny moved in with her sister in the suburbs, but first stopped by the church for Father Simon’s blessing. She often thanked him for Danny’s life, but he always reminded her: “Thank God, Jenny!” He wasn’t pleased she was leaving, but said gently, “If you must, go and rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex remained alone in their empty flat. The sons, now with families of their own, lived separately. Even the former couple visited their grandchildren at different times, careful not to cross paths. In short, now everyone was comfortable…