Do I Remember? I Can’t Forget! “Polly, we need to talk… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Nancy?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Hmm… Do I remember? I could never forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing myself for trouble. He hesitated. “Nancy is begging us to take her daughter—my granddaughter.” “Why on earth, Alex? Where’s Nancy’s husband—living in dreamland?” Now I was intrigued. Alex explained: “Nancy doesn’t have long left. Never had a husband. Her mother married an American and moved to the States—massive falling out, no contact. No other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex looked embarrassed. “So?” I pressed. “What are you going to do?” I already knew my answer. “I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, we’ll do,” Alex finally met my gaze. “Very clever—you sowed your wild oats, and now, Polly, you want me to take responsibility for someone else’s child? Is that right?” I was furious at his weakness. “Polly, we’re a family. We decide together,” Alex protested. “Oh! Now you remember. But when you were fooling around, did you ask my advice? I’m your wife!” I burst into tears and left the room. …Back in school, I dated my classmate, Val, but when new boy Alex showed up, I forgot everyone else. We became inseparable; within a week, I was in love. When Alex was drafted into the army, I cried my eyes out on the train platform. For a year, we wrote letters—until he confessed he’d met someone else. By then, I was already pregnant, thanks to Alex’s fleeting promises. Old Val stepped up and helped; truth be told, we became close. I never expected to see Alex again—until he turned up at my door, and Val had to let him in. After some awkwardness, Alex said, “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” I let him back. My son needed his father—not just a stepdad. Val moved on, too, and found happiness of his own. Years passed. Alex could never quite love our son as a father should—certain he was Val’s child. Meanwhile, Alex strayed constantly, but I couldn’t stop loving him. The one who loves is always happily oblivious. I forgave everything. When we argued and Alex left, months later, I tracked him down at his new girlfriend’s flat. Turns out she had his daughter, Nancy. I always blamed myself for driving him away then—perhaps that other woman wouldn’t have swooped in if I hadn’t sent Alex away. We never mentioned Nancy. I pretended her existence didn’t threaten our family. With time, Alex settled down. Our son married young and gave us three lovely grandchildren. Then, out of the blue, Nancy resurfaced, asking us to take in her little daughter. Hard questions followed—how to explain her to our son, who never knew about his father’s past? In the end, we became guardians to five-year-old Alice. Nancy died at thirty—her journey over. Alex spoke honestly to our son, who said, “What’s past is past. The girl is family—she belongs with us.” We breathed easier, grateful for our kind-hearted son. Now Alice is sixteen, adores Granddad Alex, shares secrets with him, and calls me Nan—saying she’s the spitting image of me in my youth. And I can’t help but agree…

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

DO I REMEMBER? I CANT FORGET!

Polly, I have something to tell you My husband spoke in riddles, his uncertainty hanging thickly in the air.

What is it? Of course, I remember. How could I possibly forget? I replied, perching warily on the edge of the dining chair, instinctively bracing myself for another family crisis.

He hesitated, staring at his hands. Its about my estranged daughter, Emily. Sheswell, shes desperately asking if we can take in her daughter. My granddaughter.

Why on earth should we? I said sharply. And wheres Emilys husband in all this? Run off to join the circus? Now I was intrigued despite myself, curiosity sharp as a knife.

My husband, Alex, looked ashamed. Emily hasnt long left. Shes very ill. She was never married, and her mother remarried some American businessman years ago and moved to the States. Theyve not spoken since their blazing rownor does Emily really have any other family. So shes asking if we can take her daughter.

And? What do you intend to do? I already knew my own resolution in my heart.

I wanted to talk to you, Polly. Whatever you decide, Ill do, Alex finally looked at me, his eyes pleading.

How convenient for you, I bristled. You sow your wild oats, and now, Polly, its your job to clear up the mess? My patience was spent. Honestly, the way you shirk responsibility infuriates me.

Were a family, Pollydont families decide things together? Alex tried, almost desperate.

Oh, suddenly you remember that! Where was this team spirit when you were out gallivanting around? My voice broke, tears welling up and spilling over. I couldnt bear it. I rushed to the next room, the weight of it all almost crushing.

Back in my school days, I used to date a classmate, David. But then Alex, the new lad, turned up in our class, and I forgot the whole world in a heartbeat. Poor David was history. Alex started walking me home, pressing stolen kisses to my cheek, picking flowers from the neighbours border. Within a week, hed swept me into his bed. I didnt protest; I was hopelessly, stupidly in love.

We finished school. Alex was called up for National Service. I sobbed my heart out at the platform, watching my beloved disappear. We wrote constantly for a year, and when Alex finally came home on leave, I was flustered and giddy, doing my best to dazzle him. He coaxed a promise from me: Polly, Ill be back in a year and well wed. Frankly, youre already my wife in my heart.

Those words warmed me through, made me melt like ice cream on a summers day.

Alex left again, and every day until his return felt interminable. I thought I was basically a fiancée. Six months on, a letter arrived. Alex wrote that hed met his true love at the barracks and he would not be coming back.

I was guttedand carrying Alexs child. So much for wedding vows. As Gran used to say: Never trust the blossom, mind whats growing in the store.

In due time, I had my son, Jack. Funny thingDavid, my old sweetheart, offered to help. Alone and desperate, I accepted his help. Yes, we were together. I never expected Alex back. Hed vanished completely.

Then, out of nowhere, he turned up. David opened the door. There Alex stood on the doorstep.

May I come in? Alex looked shocked.

Youre here, so you might as well, David grumbled, standing aside.

The tension was tangible. Jack, sensing the discord, began to cry and clung to David.

David, could you take Jack out for a walk? I whispered, unsure what else to do.

When theyd left, Alexs eyes flickered with jealousy. Your husband?

Whys it any of your business? What are you doing here? I was angry and guard up.

He shrugged, pain in his voice. Just missed you, thats all. I see youre doing well, Polly. Youve a family now. You couldnt wait for me, then. Well, sorry for barging in on your happy ending. He turned to leave.

Wait, Alex. Why have you come backjust to torture me? I tried to sound stern; the feelings inside me were a tempest. Davids only helping, you knowraising your two-year-old son, by the way.

Ive come back, Polly. Will you have me? Alexs hope flickered.

Come on in then, get washed upits nearly dinner, I said quietly. My heart leapt, that old rush of relief and joy overpowering. Hed come back. Why fight it?

David was pushed out once and for all. My Jack needed a real father, not just a stand-in. In good time, David married a lovely widowed lady with two children of her own.

Years sped by. Alex never truly grew to love Jack like his own; he always suspected Jack was Davids son. I felt it in my bonesAlex simply didnt care for him. Some men are like that.

Alex had a wandering eye, that was clear. He fell in and out of infatuationsoften with my friends, or friends of friends! Id sob, week after week, but I kept my family together.

Strangely, I had the easier part. The one who loves doesnt suffer the way the one who lies does. I never had to invent excuses or weave stories. I just loved him. He was my sunshine. Sometimes Id wish I could fall out of love with him, just up and leave. But at night, Id chide myself for such thoughts. Where would I go? Who else could I ever love this way? And Alex would be lost without meI was his wife, his lover, his mother all at once.

Alexs own mother died when he was fourteen, in her sleep. Maybe thats why he always went searching for affection from other women. I forgave him everything, every single time. Once, though, we had a terrible quarrel, and I threw him out. He packed his bags and moved in with his relatives.

A month passed. Id even forgotten what the row was about, but he wouldnt return. I had no choice but to show up at his aunts.

What do you want with Alex? his aunt asked, bewildered. He says youre divorced, that hes seeing someone new now.

Through her, I learned the new girlfriends address. I called round, knocking politely.

Afternoon, is Alex at home? I asked.

His new girl smirked at me and slammed the door in my face. I walked away in silence.

Alex drifted back after a year. By then, the woman had given birth to a girl, Emily. Ive spent years blaming myself for throwing him out that time. If I hadnt, maybe there wouldnt have been another woman, another child. Since then, Ive tried harder than ever, loving him fiercely, indulging his every need.

We never spoke about Emily, his daughter from that affair. It seemed forbiddentouch the topic and the whole family would come crashing down. Better to leave it be.

After all, who hasnt made mistakes? It takes more than a misstep to break a marriage. Let those temptresses keep their hands off other peoples husbands!

That was life with Alex. Over time, he grew quieter, more humble. The flings dried up. Now he spent his days at home watching the telly. Jack got married young and gave us three lovely grandchildren.

And thenafter all these yearsEmily turned up, asking us to take her own little girl in.

It made me stop and think. How on earth do we explain the arrival of this child to Jack? He knows nothing of his fathers escapades.

Of course, we did what was right. We took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alice. Emily passed away, her journey ending at thirty. All wounds heal in time, and life goes on.

Alex decided to have a proper heart-to-heart with Jack. Our boy listened to his fathers confession and shrugged.

Mum, Dadforgive and forget. Its all water under the bridge. Bloods bloodyou cant turn away family.

Alex and I breathed easier. Our son had more wisdom and heart than we could have hoped for.

Now Alice is sixteen. She adores her granddad, tells me all her secrets, calls me Nan, and cheekily says shes the very spit of what I used to be. I smile and agreeno point fighting fate.

Winter had wrapped Andrew’s garden in a soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a giant German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly refused to sleep inside, choosing instead to lie out in the snow. Andrew watched from the window, his heart tightening—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, as Andrew stepped outside, he noticed how Duke eyed him warily. Whenever Andrew approached the kennel, the dog would position himself protectively between him and the entrance, growling softly and staring up as if to plead, “Please, don’t go in there.” Such odd behavior from his longtime friend troubled Andrew deeply—what was his faithful companion hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew crafted a little plan—tempting Duke into the kitchen with a juicy steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked fiercely at the window, Andrew returned to the kennel and knelt to peer inside. His heart nearly stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that left him frozen in shock… …Inside, tucked under a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes flickered weakly open, its body shivering with cold. Somewhere, Duke had found it, and instead of chasing it off or leaving it to its fate, had given it shelter. Duke slept outside so he wouldn’t frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as if protecting hidden treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached out gently, gathered the little creature in his arms, and pressed it to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but calm and ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with so much care found new purpose—a little home for rescued souls.

I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.