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“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Want to Leave Home!” – My Daughter Told Me My daughter became pregnant at 15, keeping it secret for months. My husband and I only discovered the truth when she was five months along. There was never any question of an abortion. We never did find out who the father was. My daughter said they’d only dated for three months, then broke up. She wasn’t even sure how old he was. “Maybe 17, maybe 18, or even 19!” she would say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked at the news of her pregnancy. We knew it would be extremely tough on all of us. Even so, our daughter insisted she wanted the baby and wanted to be a mum. I realised she didn’t understand what being a mother really meant. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful, healthy baby boy. But the labour was difficult, and she needed four months to recover. There’s no way she could have coped without my help, so I left my job to care for her and my grandson. Once her strength returned, she didn’t want anything to do with her son. She slept at night and refused to look after him during the day. I did what I could. I pleaded, explained, begged, even shouted at her for not helping. That’s when she said, “You love him. Why not adopt him? I’ll just be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go clubbing! I want to have fun!” I thought maybe she had postnatal depression, but it turned out she simply didn’t love her baby. Eventually, my husband and I arranged to get legal custody of our grandson. Our daughter became utterly unpredictable, ignoring us completely. She’d leave the house at night and come home in the early morning, never caring for her son. That’s how we lived for a few years. We thought things would never change. Our grandson grew up, getting smarter all the time. In two years he changed a lot: walking, talking, and always smiling. He was always thrilled when my daughter came home – running to her, hugging her, chatting away. And, quite suddenly, her heart melted: she became a wonderful mum. Now she spends all her free time with her son. Always hugging, always kissing him. She often says, “I’m so happy to have my son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I’ll never give him up!” My husband and I are incredibly happy that peace has finally returned to our family.

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I dont want to be a mum! I just want to get out of this house! These were the words my daughter flung at me.

My daughter fell pregnant when she was just fifteen. For a long while, she kept it a secret from us. My husband and I only found out when she was already five months along. At that point, the idea of an abortion wasnt even up for discussion.

We never learned who the father was. She told us theyd only been seeing each other for about three months before they broke it off. She wasnt even sure how old he was. He might have been seventeen, maybe eighteen. Or perhaps even nineteen, she would shrug.

Of course, my husband and I were shell-shocked to discover our daughter was expecting. We knew it was going to be an enormous challenge for all of us, especially her. To make things more complicated, she kept insisting that she wanted the baby, that she wanted to be a mother. Secretly, I knew she hadnt the faintest idea of what motherhood truly entailed.

Four months later, she delivered a wonderful little boy healthy and strong. But the labour was very hard on her, and it took her four months just to recover. Theres no way she could have coped on her own, so I gave up my job to look after both her and my grandson.

Once she regained her strength, she started pulling away from the baby. She would sleep through the night and didnt want to go near him during the day. I tried everything I could I talked, pleaded, reasoned, and sometimes even lost my temper, desperate for her to help out. Thats when she turned to me and said:

I can see that you love him. So why dont you just adopt him? Ill just be his sister. I dont want to be a mum I want to go out with my friends, listen to music, have fun, go clubbing!

At first, I thought she might be suffering from postnatal depression. But it wasnt that. She simply didnt love her own child.

Eventually, my husband and I realised we had to act, and we were able to secure legal guardianship of our grandson. My daughter became impossible to reason with she stopped listening to us altogether. Shed be out until all hours, sometimes coming home just as the sun came up. She wanted nothing to do with her son.

We lived like this for several years. I honestly believed things would never change. Meanwhile, my grandson thrived: he grew, he learned to walk and talk, and he was always smiling, always full of joy.

Whenever my daughter did come home, hed run to her, wrapping his little arms around her and chattering away. After a while, something shifted. My daughters heart finally softened to her son, and she became a wonderful mother. Now, she spends every spare moment with him hugging, kissing, showering him with affection. She often says,

Im so happy to have my son! Hes the most precious thing in my life. I wouldnt give him up for anything.

At last, my husband and I feel at peace. Our family has found its happiness again.

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“I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Whispered Nick. “Do You Understand? I Just Couldn’t. Nick Was Fourteen, And It Felt Like The Whole World Was Against Him—Or At Least No One Wanted To Understand Him. “Here Comes That Troublemaker Again!” Grumbled Auntie Clare From Number Three As She Hurried Across The Estate. “Raised By A Single Mum—And Here’s The Result!” Nick Walked Past, Hands Stuffed In The Pockets Of His Ripped Jeans, Pretending Not To Hear—But He Heard. His Mum Was Working Late Again. On The Kitchen Table: A Note—“Meatballs In The Fridge, Heat Them Up.” And Silence. Always Silence. He Was Coming Home From School, Where The Teachers Had Yet Another “Talk” About His Behaviour. As If He Didn’t Know He Was The Problem Child. Oh, He Knew. But So What? Suddenly Uncle Victor, The Neighbour From Downstairs, Called Out: “Oi, Kid! You Seen A Lame Dog Around Here? We Should Chase Him Off.” Nick Paused And Looked Closer. Near The Wheelie Bins, Sure Enough, Lay A Dog. 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02
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Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…
06
I Once Accused My Husband of Living in “My” House—One Weekend He Packed His Bags and Left for Good
05
“Dad, please meet my future wife and your daughter-in-law, Barbara!” Boris beamed with happiness. “Who?!” exclaimed Professor Dr. Roman Fillimore, incredulous. “If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny!” Roman eyed the rough hands and dirty fingernails of his supposed new daughter-in-law with distaste, convinced this country girl had never seen soap or water. “My goodness! How lucky my dear Laura didn’t live to see this disgrace! We tried to teach Boris good manners,” he thought in dismay. “It’s not a joke,” Boris challenged. “Barbara is staying with us, and in three months we’ll be married. If you don’t want to support your son, I’ll manage without you!” “Hello!” Barbara smiled and strode confidently into the kitchen. “I’ve brought pies, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms…” she listed off the items from her tattered bag as Roman watched in horror; a splatter of jam ruined the pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth. “Boris! Wake up! If you’re doing this to spite me, it’s awfully cruel. Which village did you find this uncouth girl in? I won’t let her stay in my home!” the professor shouted in despair. “I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live here,” Boris replied mockingly. Roman realized his son was taunting him and retreated in silence to his study. Their relationship had changed since Laura’s passing. Boris became unruly, dropped out of college, disrespected his father, and lived carelessly. Roman still hoped Boris would return to the thoughtful, kind boy he once knew, but every day his son grew more distant. Now, Boris had brought home a country girl, knowing his father would never approve. Eventually, Boris and Barbara married—without Roman’s blessing. The professor refused to attend the wedding, unwilling to accept this unrefined daughter-in-law. It irked him that Barbara, so uneducated and awkward, replaced the wonderful Laura as mistress of the house. Barbara seemed oblivious to his hostility and tried her best to please him, only making things worse. Roman saw nothing good in her, only bad manners and ignorance. Boris, after his brief stint as a model husband, returned to his old drinking and carousing. Roman often overheard their heated arguments and secretly hoped Barbara would leave for good. One day, Barbara burst in, sobbing. “Professor Fillimore! Boris wants a divorce, he’s kicked me out—and I’m pregnant!” “Out on the street? Surely not—go back to your village,” he replied lightly. “Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship,” he added cheerfully, pleased to finally be rid of his bothersome daughter-in-law. Barbara wept and gathered her things. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or how Boris could toss her aside so carelessly. She was from the countryside, yes, but she had a heart and feelings, too… *** Eight years passed. Roman Fillimore now lived in a care home, his health rapidly declining. Boris wasted no time placing him there, eager to avoid extra responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other choice. After a lifetime teaching thousands the virtues of love and respect—letters of thanks still arrived from former pupils—he’d failed to raise his own son right… “Roman, you’ve got guests,” his roommate said, returning from a walk. “My son? Boris?” Roman blurted, though he knew that was wishful thinking—Boris would never visit; his resentment ran too deep. “Dunno. The nurse said I should fetch you. What are you waiting for? Go on!” his friend encouraged. Roman took his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. As he descended the stairs, he immediately recognized her—eight years on, yet unchanged. “Hello, Barbara,” he said softly, guilt lingering for his past refusal to support this honest, simple woman. “Dr. Fillimore?” Barbara gasped, surprised. “You’ve changed so much… Are you ill?” “Yes, a bit…” he answered with a sad smile. “How did you find me?” “Boris told us. He won’t see his son at all, but the boy keeps begging to visit his dad, or his grandad… Ivan isn’t at fault that you don’t acknowledge him. He’s lonely without family. We’re alone together…,” Barbara’s voice trembled. “Sorry if this was a bad idea.” “Wait!” said Roman. “How’s Ivan now? I remember last time you sent a photo, he was just three.” “He’s at the entrance—shall I call him?” Barbara offered nervously. “Of course, dear—call him!” Roman replied, delighted. Ivan, a ginger-haired boy who resembled Boris, came shyly to meet his grandfather for the first time. “Hello, son! You’ve grown so much…,” Roman said, moved to tears as he hugged his grandson. They spent the day walking through the autumn park, Barbara sharing her struggles: her mother’s early death, raising Ivan and managing the farm alone. “Forgive me, Barbara. I’ve been so wrong. Despite thinking myself clever and educated, I’ve only just realized people should be valued for their sincerity and kindness, not just their intellect and manners,” Roman confessed. “Dr. Fillimore, we have a proposal,” Barbara said, smiling nervously. “Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’d be wonderful to have family close.” “Grandad, come on! We’ll go fishing, pick mushrooms in the woods… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room in our house!” Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go!” Roman said, smiling. “I missed my chance to raise Boris well, but maybe I can give you what I didn’t give him. Besides, I’ve never lived in a village—I think I’ll like it!” “You’ll love it!” Ivan replied, bursting with laughter.
09
My Husband Left Me After Eleven Years of Marriage—His Reason Was Shockingly Simple: He Said I’d Stopped Taking Care of Myself. At First, He Never Mentioned It, But Looking Back, I See the Signs—He Missed the Woman He’d First Met, Not the Mum Raising Kids, Running the House, and Keeping Everything Together While He Watched TV. When He Left, He Told Me Straight: He Needed Someone to Be Proud Of. Days Later, I Learned He Was With a Younger Woman Without Kids, With Time for the Gym and Getting All Done Up. Now, I Take Care of Myself on My Own Terms—For Me, Not for Anyone Else. He Didn’t Leave Because I Changed; He Left Because I Wasn’t What He Wanted Anymore.
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“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Want to Leave Home!” – My Daughter Told Me My daughter became pregnant at 15, keeping it secret for months. My husband and I only discovered the truth when she was five months along. There was never any question of an abortion. We never did find out who the father was. My daughter said they’d only dated for three months, then broke up. She wasn’t even sure how old he was. “Maybe 17, maybe 18, or even 19!” she would say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked at the news of her pregnancy. We knew it would be extremely tough on all of us. Even so, our daughter insisted she wanted the baby and wanted to be a mum. I realised she didn’t understand what being a mother really meant. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful, healthy baby boy. But the labour was difficult, and she needed four months to recover. There’s no way she could have coped without my help, so I left my job to care for her and my grandson. Once her strength returned, she didn’t want anything to do with her son. She slept at night and refused to look after him during the day. I did what I could. I pleaded, explained, begged, even shouted at her for not helping. That’s when she said, “You love him. Why not adopt him? I’ll just be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go clubbing! I want to have fun!” I thought maybe she had postnatal depression, but it turned out she simply didn’t love her baby. Eventually, my husband and I arranged to get legal custody of our grandson. Our daughter became utterly unpredictable, ignoring us completely. She’d leave the house at night and come home in the early morning, never caring for her son. That’s how we lived for a few years. We thought things would never change. Our grandson grew up, getting smarter all the time. In two years he changed a lot: walking, talking, and always smiling. He was always thrilled when my daughter came home – running to her, hugging her, chatting away. And, quite suddenly, her heart melted: she became a wonderful mum. Now she spends all her free time with her son. Always hugging, always kissing him. She often says, “I’m so happy to have my son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I’ll never give him up!” My husband and I are incredibly happy that peace has finally returned to our family.