I Travelled Abroad to See My Ex-Fiancé Three Months After He Broke Up with Me—It Sounds Crazy, I Know. I Packed the Engagement Ring, Our Photos, and a Foolish Hope He’d Regret Leaving Me. I Waited for Him at His Hospital, Returned the Ring, and Cried My Heart Out on a Bench—Until a Kind British Doctor Sat Beside Me, Listened Without Judgement, and Invited Me to Join His Friends So I Wouldn’t Be Alone. That Unexpected Encounter Led to Late-Night Chats, a Visit to My City, an Honest Confession, and—Eventually—My Happily Ever After with the Man Who Became My Husband.

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 1

Years ago, I travelled across the Channel to another country, all for the hope of seeing my former fiancé three months after hed left me. Looking back, it sounds mad, I know. But in those days, my heart always overruled my better sense. I packed his ring carefully in my suitcase, kept our photos saved on my phone, and held onto a foolish hope that if he saw me, hed change his mind.

I knew precisely where he worked; he was a doctor at a hospital in the city. I arrived alone, clutching a modest case and knotted with nerves. I took a seat in the foyer, trying my best to look as though I was waiting to ask after a patient. When I saw him striding down the corridor in his white coat, looking weary and hurried, my breath seemed to stop. He was exactly as I remembered.

I walked up to him and told him, quite simply, that we needed to talk. He looked surprised but led me down the hall. I tried to keep my voice steady as I explained that Id come all this way because I didnt want our story to end like this, that I still loved him and wanted us to try to salvage what once was.

He didnt hesitate, not for a moment. He told me his mind was made up, that his focus was on his work now, and that it was time I moved on with my own life. He wasnt angry, but his tone was cold, even frostier than Id prepared myself for.

I clenched my jaw so I wouldnt cry in front of him. I nodded, rummaged in my purse for the ring Id kept, handed it back to him, and muttered a hurried goodbye. Stepping outside, I sat on a concrete bench near the hospital entrance. The control Id managed to maintain shattered; I buried my face in my hands and sobbed in a way I hadnt in months. I grieved for the journey, my illusions, the rejection, and the love that was never truly returned.

What I hadnt noticed was that another doctor sat on the bench opposite, taking his break. He waited, hearing me cry for some minutes. When my tears began to subside, he approached gently and said, Sorry to intrude, but if you need anything, Im here. Are you alright?

I bowed my head and managed only, “No my hearts been broken for a second time, by the very same person.”

He looked at me with genuine concern and asked if he might sit with me. He didnot as a stranger but as a quiet presence. He offered me a bottle of water, asked if I had anyone in the city, whether I was alone. Gradually, I told him everything: that Id travelled for a last chance, that wed planned a wedding, that Id been left three months prior and still couldnt reconcile myself to it.

He never judged me. He listened, speaking softly, telling me I shouldnt beg for someone’s affection, that it was natural to feel broken right nowbut that I ought not to remain there forever. He wasnt flirting; he spoke like someone who sincerely wanted to help a stranger crying outside a hospital.

We began talking then we began messaging. I admitted I didnt want to stay abroad for long, that I wished to leave soon. He asked me when my return flight was. I confessed the truthI hadnt booked a ticket, clinging to the hope of reconciliation. He suggested, Stay for a few days at least. Get out into the city with me and my friends. Dont stay holed up in that hotel, crying alone.

So I agreed. We went out to eat, strolled through the city, and I met his colleagues from the hospital. I was utterly lost in heartbreak, but nothing happened between usno kissing, no flirting. Just long talks and hesitant smiles that gave me short reprieve from pain.

A week later, I returned to England, certain it would all end there. But we kept in touch. Every day. Six months of long messages, late-night calls, voice notessimple recountings of the day. And, almost without realising, our bond grew.

Then, out of the blue, he came to my city. He messaged, Im here. I need to see you. I met him at the airportthere he was with his suitcase, looking as nervous as Id ever seen him. He took me in his arms and said, straight out, Im in love with you. I dont want our words confined to screens. I came to look you in the eyes to see if you feel the same.

I wept thennot from sorrow, but from fear, excitement, surprise, everything all at once. I said yesthat without realising, Id fallen for him too. From that day, our relationship became real.

Its now been three years together. Were engaged. We married in August and have begun giving out invitations. Sometimes I wonder: if I hadnt journeyed abroad to chase after someone whod rejected me, I might never have met the man who is now my husband.

Even though it all began with desperate tears on a bench outside a hospital, somehow it became the most unexpected love story of my life.

I don’t know how to write this without it sounding like a cheap drama, but this is the boldest thing anyone’s ever done to me. I’ve lived with my husband for years, and the second person in this story is his mother, who’s always been far too close to our marriage. Until now, I thought she was just one of those interfering mums, but “with good intentions.” Turns out, her intentions weren’t good at all. A few months ago, he convinced me to sign papers for a home. He told me we’d finally have something of our own, that renting was pointless, and that if we didn’t do this now, we’d regret it later. I was thrilled because I’d long dreamed of having a home, not living out of suitcases and boxes. I signed without a second thought, believing this was a family decision. The first red flag was when he started running errands at banks and offices by himself. Every time he’d say it wasn’t worth my time, that it was easier for him alone. He’d come back with folders and leave them in the hallway cupboard, but never wanted me to look inside. If I asked questions, he’d toss out complicated words, as if I was a child and couldn’t understand. I told myself men just like to be in control of these things. Then the “little” financial games began. Suddenly, bills were harder to pay, even though his salary hadn’t changed. He kept persuading me to pitch in more because “right now, it’s what’s needed,” and that soon he’d make it up to me. I started covering the shop, part of the mortgage, repairs, furniture, all because we were “building our future.” Eventually I stopped buying anything for myself, convinced it was all worth it. Then one day, as I was cleaning, I found a printout in the kitchen, folded into quarters under the napkins. It wasn’t an electricity bill or anything ordinary. It was a stamped document with a date, stating clearly who owned the property. It wasn’t my name. It wasn’t his. It was his mother’s name. I stood by the sink, reading those lines over and over because my brain refused to accept it. I was paying, we’d taken out a loan, fixed up the flat, bought furniture, and the owner turned out to be his mum. In that moment, I felt hot—humiliated, not jealous. When he came home, I didn’t make a scene. I just put the document on the table and looked at him. No gentle asking, no pleading for explanation, just stared because I was done being played. He wasn’t even surprised. Didn’t ask “What is this?” Just sighed, like I was causing trouble by finding out. Then began the boldest “explanation” I’ve ever heard. He said it was “more secure” this way, that his mum was the “guarantor,” and that if anything ever happened between us, the home wouldn’t need to be split. He said it calmly, as if explaining why we bought a washing machine instead of a dryer. I almost laughed at the helplessness. This wasn’t a family investment. It was a plan for me to pay and, in the end, leave with just a bag of clothes. The worst part wasn’t just the document. The worst part was that his mum clearly knew everything. That same evening she rang me up, lecturing me like I was the one out of line. Explaining that she’s “only helping,” that the home must be “in safe hands,” that I shouldn’t take it personally. Imagine it—I pay, make sacrifices, compromise, and she talks about “safe hands.” After that, I started digging—not out of curiosity, but because I no longer trusted anyone. I checked statements, transfers, dates. And then I discovered something even uglier. The mortgage wasn’t just “our loan” as he’d told me. There was an extra debt being paid, using my money, and when I looked closer, I saw that some payments were going towards an old debt—his mother’s debt, not ours. In other words, I wasn’t only paying for a home I didn’t own. I was paying off someone else’s debt, disguised as a family need. That was the moment the scales fell from my eyes. Suddenly every scenario from the past years made sense. How she meddles in everything. How he always defends her. How I’m always “the one who doesn’t understand.” How we’re supposed to be partners, yet decisions are made between them, and I’m just there to fund it. The most painful part was realising I’d simply been convenient. Not loved. Convenient. The woman who works, pays up, and doesn’t ask too many questions because she just wants peace. But the peace in this home was clearly theirs, not mine. I didn’t cry. Didn’t even shout. I sat in the bedroom and started doing the maths. What I’d given, what I’d paid, what was left. For the first time, I saw in black and white how many years I’d hoped and how easily I’d been used. It hurt less about the money than about how I’d been made a fool of with a smile. The next day I did what I never imagined I’d ever do. I opened a new account in just my name and transferred all my personal income there. I changed all my passwords and took away his access. Stopped contributing “for us,” because “us” apparently meant just my effort. And most importantly—I started gathering documents and proof, because I don’t believe in stories anymore. Now we still live under one roof, but I’m alone in reality. I don’t chase him out, don’t beg, don’t argue. I just look at a man who’s chosen me for my wallet, and a mum who now thinks she owns my life. And I wonder how many women have gone through this and told themselves “keep quiet, or it’ll get worse.” But honestly, I don’t know if anything is worse than being used while someone smiles at you. ❓ If you found out that for years you’ve been paying for a “family home,” only to discover the deeds are in his mother’s name and you’re just the convenient one, do you walk out immediately or fight to get everything back?

01

I Made the Decision to Stop Taking My Daughters to Family Gatherings—After Years of Not Realising What Was Really Happening. My daughters are 14 and 12. From an early age, they’d hear the “supposedly normal” comments: “She eats too much.” “That doesn’t look good on her.” “She’s too old to dress like that.” “She should watch her weight while she’s young.” At first, I brushed it off as just the blunt way my family talks. I’d think, “Oh, that’s just how they are…” When my girls were younger, they didn’t know how to defend themselves. They’d stay quiet, look down, sometimes force a polite smile. I could see they felt uncomfortable, but I convinced myself I was exaggerating. That it was just how family gatherings go. And sure, there was a full table, laughter, photos, hugs… But there were also lingering looks. Cousin comparisons. Unnecessary questions. “Jokes” that weren’t funny. At the end of the day, my daughters came home quieter than usual. Over time, the comments never stopped—just changed shape. It wasn’t just about food—it was bodies, appearances, development. “She’s really filling out now.” “The other one’s much too skinny.” “No one will fancy her looking like that.” “If she keeps eating like that, she can’t complain later.” No one asked how they felt. No one realised these were girls listening—and remembering. Everything changed when they hit their teens. One day, after a gathering, my eldest said, “Dad… I don’t want to go anymore.” She explained that for her, these events were awful: getting dressed up, going, sitting through the comments, forcing a polite smile—then coming home feeling awful. My younger daughter just nodded. That moment, I realised they’d felt this way for years. So I started to really pay attention. I remembered scenes. Comments. Looks. Gestures. I listened to other stories—of people raised in families where everything’s said “for your own good.” I realised how deeply this can wound a child’s confidence. So, together with my wife, I made a decision: Our daughters would no longer go places where they didn’t feel safe. We wouldn’t force them. If one day they want to go, they can. If they don’t, nothing bad will happen. Their peace of mind is more important than family tradition. Some relatives have started to notice. The questions began: “What’s going on?” “Why aren’t they coming?” “You’re overreacting.” “It’s always been like this.” “You can’t treat kids like they’re made of glass.” I didn’t explain. I didn’t cause a scene. I didn’t argue. I just stopped taking them. Sometimes silence says everything. Now my daughters know their dad will never put them in situations where they have to endure humiliation disguised as “opinion.” Some people may not like it. Maybe we’re seen as troublemakers. But I’d rather be the father who draws the line… than the one who looks away while his daughters learn to hate parts of themselves just to “fit in.” ❓ Do you think I did the right thing? Would you do the same for your child?

03

I’m Not Sure How to Write This Without It Sounding Like a Cheesy Soap Opera, But This Is Honestly the Most Brazen Thing Anyone Has Ever Done to Me: I’ve Been Living with My Husband for Years, but the Real Second Main Character Here Is His Mother, Who’s Always Been Far Too Involved in Our Marriage. Until Recently, I Thought She Was Just One of Those Overbearing “Helpful” Mums. Turns Out That Wasn’t the Case. A Few Months Ago, My Husband Convinced Me to Sign Papers for a Home. He Explained That We’d Finally Have Our Own Place — Renting Is Pointless, and We’d Regret It Later If We Didn’t Buy Now. I Was Over the Moon, Dreaming of a Home and No More Suitcases or Cardboard Boxes. I Signed Without Suspecting Anything, Trusting This Was a Family Decision. The First Odd Red Flag Was Him Suddenly Handling All the Bureaucracy Alone. He’d Say There Was No Point in Me Going Along — I’d Just Waste Time, It Was Easier for Him. He’d Come Back with Folders and File Them Away, Never Wanting Me to Look at Them. If I Asked, He’d Toss Complicated Explanations My Way Like I Was a Kid Who Didn’t Get It. I Just Thought Men Liked Dealing with These Things. Then Came the “Little” Money Games. Suddenly Our Bills Were Harder to Pay, Even Though He Hadn’t Lost His Job. He’d Pressure Me to chip in more, claiming, “That’s just how it has to be right now” and promising it’d get better soon. I started covering groceries, loan instalments, repairs, furniture — after all, we were building “our” future. Before I knew it, I stopped buying things for myself, thinking it was worth the sacrifice. Then One Day, Cleaning the Kitchen, I Found a Printed Document Folded Under Some Napkins — Not a Utility Bill, Not Anything Ordinary. It Had an Official Stamp and Date, and Listed the Owner. It Wasn’t My Name. Or My Husband’s. It Was His Mother’s Name. I Stood There at the Sink, Reading Those Lines Over and Over Because My Brain Refused to Accept It. I Was Paying, Taking Out Loans, Renovating, Buying Furniture — Yet His Mum Was Legally the Homeowner. And In That Moment, I Felt Heat and Headache — Not Out of Jealousy, But Humiliation. When He Got Home, I Didn’t Kick Off or Scream. I Just Put the Document on the Table and Looked at Him. I Didn’t Ask Sweetly or Beg for an Explanation. I Simply Stared, Because I Was Done Being Played. He Didn’t Ask “What’s That?” He Just Sighed — Like I Was the Problem for Finding Out. Then Came the Most Audacious “Explanation” I’ve Ever Heard. He Said It Was “Safer” This Way, His Mum Was the “Guarantor,” and If Anything Happened Between Us, the House Wouldn’t Get Split. He Explained it as calmly as you’d choose a washing machine over a tumble dryer. I just wanted to laugh from desperation. This Wasn’t a Family Investment — This Was a Plan Where I Pay, Only to Leave with a Bag of Clothes. The Document Wasn’t Even the Worst Part. The Worst Was Realizing His Mum Clearly Knew Everything. That Same Evening She Called, Speaking To Me Like A Schoolteacher, Chastising Me, Explaining She Was Only “Helping,” That the Home Needed to Be “In Safe Hands,” and That I Shouldn’t Take It Personally. Imagine That — I’m Paying, Sacrificing, Compromising, and She’s Talking About “Safe Hands.” Then I Started Digging, Not Out of Curiosity, But Because Trust Had Completely Gone. I Checked Statements, Transfers, Dates. And Found Even Messier Truths — The Loan Repayments Weren’t Just “Ours,” Like He Told Me. There Was an Additional Debt — Covered Partly by the Money I Gave. And Looking Even Closer, I Found Some Payments Were Going to an Old Debt That Wasn’t Our Mortgage. A Debt Belonging to His Mum. So Not Only Am I Paying for a Home That Isn’t Mine, I’m Also Paying Off Someone Else’s Old Debt, Disguised as a Family Need. That Was When the Scales Fell From My Eyes. Suddenly, All Those Moments Over the Past Years Fell Into Place. How She Interfered in Everything. How He Always Defended Her. How I Was Always the One Left Out. We Were Supposed to Be Partners, But the Decisions Happened Between Them, I Just Provided the Money. The Most Painful Realization Was Seeing I Was Never Cherished — Just Useful. The Woman Who Works, Pays, and Doesn’t Ask Many Questions Because She Wants Peace. But Peace In This House Seemed to Mean Peace for Them, Not Me. I Didn’t Cry. I Didn’t Even Yell. I Sat In The Bedroom And Started Calculating. What I’d Given, Paid, And What Was Left. For The First Time, I Saw in Black and White Just How Many Years of Hope I’d Poured In and How Easily I’d Been Used. My Hurt Wasn’t Even About The Money — It Was About How They’d Made Me A Fool, With A Smile. The Next Day I Did Something I Never Thought I’d Do: Opened a New Account in Just My Name and Moved All My Income There. Changed All My Passwords, Locked Him Out of Everything That Was Mine. I Stopped Contributing to the “Home,” Because Clearly, “Our Home” Meant Just My Money. Most Importantly, I Started Gathering All My Proof and Documents — Because I Don’t Believe Fairy Tales Anymore. Now We Live Under One Roof, But I’m Alone. I Don’t Kick Him Out, Beg, Or Argue. I Just Look at This Man Who Chose Me for My Wallet, and His Mum, Who Seems to Think She Owns My Life. And I Wonder How Many Women Have Been Through This, Whispering: “Stay Quiet, Don’t Make It Worse.” But Honestly, I Can’t Imagine Anything Worse Than Being Used While Someone Smiles at You. ❓ If You Discovered After Years That You’ve Been Paying for a “Family Home,” Only to Find the Deeds Are in His Mother’s Name and You Were Just Convenient, Do You Walk Out Immediately or Fight to Take Back What’s Yours?

06

Even now, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and wonder how my dad managed to take everything from us. I was 15 when it happened. We lived in a small but tidy house—furniture in every room, food in the fridge after our weekly shop, and the bills were almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10 and my biggest worry was passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I desperately wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without a word, fling his keys onto the table and go straight to his room, glued to his phone. My mum would say, “Late again? Do you think this house runs itself?” He’d answer curtly, “Leave me be, I’m tired.” I’d listen from my own room, headphones in, pretending nothing was wrong. One evening, I saw him talking on the phone in the garden. He was quietly laughing, saying things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he spotted me, he hung up right away. I felt uneasy but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school to find his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood at the bedroom door, eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me, just said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted, “A while with who? Tell the truth!” That’s when he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m done with this life!” I burst into tears and cried, “What about me? And my school? And our home?” He just replied, “You’ll manage.” He shoved his documents in his bag, grabbed his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, Mum tried taking out cash from the ATM, but her card was blocked. Next day, at the bank, she learned the account had been emptied—he’d taken every penny they’d saved together. We also found out he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan Mum had unknowingly co-signed. I remember Mum sitting at the table, running through receipts on an old calculator, crying and repeating, “There’s just not enough… it’s never enough…” I tried to help her sort the bills but barely understood half of what was happening. A week later, our Internet was cut off, and soon after, our electricity was nearly disconnected. Mum started working as a cleaner in people’s houses. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing at break with a bag of chocolates, but I did it because we didn’t have enough for even the basics at home. One day, I opened the fridge and found only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried alone. That night, we ate plain rice. Mum kept apologising for not being able to give me what she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook: my dad and the other woman at a restaurant, raising glasses of wine. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was the last time we spoke. He never called again. Never asked if I finished my GCSEs, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He just vanished. Now I work, pay my own way and help Mum whenever I can. But this wound still aches. It’s not just about the money—it’s the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us drowning and kept on living as if nothing happened at all. And yet, many nights I still wake up with the same question gnawing at my chest: How do you survive when your own father takes everything, leaving you to learn how to fend for yourself while you’re still just a kid?

04

How Could I Burden You with Such a Responsibility? Even My Father and Tanya Refused to Take Him In – “Marina, daughter, come to your senses! Who have you chosen to marry?” wailed Mum, adjusting my veil. “Explain, at least—what’s wrong with Sergei?” I was completely lost amid her tears. “Well, his mother works as a shop assistant and snaps at everyone. His father’s vanished, and when he was young, all he did was party and drink.” “But Granddad was the same—and chased Grandma through the village. So what?” “Your granddad was a respected man, ran the parish.” “Didn’t make it any easier for Grandma. I was just a child but I remember how frightened she was of him. Mum, with Sergei things will be different—we shouldn’t judge people by their parents.” “Wait till you have children—you’ll understand!” Mum exclaimed, and I could only sigh. Life wouldn’t be easy if Mum didn’t change her mind about Sergei. But we had a cheerful wedding and settled into family life. Luckily, Sergei inherited a house in the village from his grandparents—his own father, the vanished party boy, nowhere to be found. Sergei gradually rebuilt that house, and soon it became a real modern home, as I call it, with all the comfort and happiness we could wish for. My husband turned out wonderful—why did Mum speak so ill of him then? A year after the wedding, our son John was born, and four years later, our daughter Mary. But every time the children got sick or caused some trouble, Mum would appear, saying: “See? I warned you! Small children, small problems—just wait, the big ones will come!” Of course, I tried not to let it get to me; Mum was just grumbling out of habit. After all, I’d gone against her wishes when I married Sergei without her approval. That’s just Mum—she likes things done her way. In her heart she’d accepted my choice, even admitted (deep inside, never out loud!) that Sergei was gold. But to say it aloud would mean admitting she’d been wrong—and that would never happen! She didn’t mean bad things about the grandchildren, just worried for them. In truth, she loved them fiercely—if anything happened she’d be the first to leap off a bridge, tearing her hair for those very words. Sometimes, though, those “big problems” did start to worry me, thinking of all the troubles that come with children growing up. Inevitably, the years passed, and soon our son finished college and was about to start adult life at a prestigious university in the nearest city—just 89 miles away. But for a mother’s heart, those miles felt like travelling from Earth to Mercury! Far away indeed. I spent the first four nights unable to sleep, worrying about my boy—what if someone hurt him? What if he didn’t eat properly? What if the city changed him, and he was such a good lad! At first John lived in the university dorm, allocated for country kids. But I couldn’t bear that, so convinced Sergei to rent him a flat in the city. John agreed to pay part of the rent himself, and started an internet job. He’s such a clever boy! I commuted every weekend to see him, help around, tidy, cook—even though his place was cleaner than his old bedroom ever was. And he managed his food too, cooking healthy meals—a smart cookie! Pretty soon, my constant trips began to annoy Sergei. “Marina! Stop keeping John at your apron strings! Let him breathe! You never have time for me—maybe I’ll go off with Lorraine the postie, she’s welcoming enough!” He was joking, but it scared me—what would I do without him? He was right though; time to let our son grow up. I fussed a while longer like a mother hen, then gradually learned to live with the idea that John had grown up. I gave him the freedom, stopped hovering—and, as I soon discovered, maybe I shouldn’t have. One day, the university rang: my son was skipping lectures and dangerously close to expulsion! I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t this my John? Impossible! I dropped everything and rushed to the city. Even Sergei couldn’t stop me—I can be a bit of a tank sometimes. John didn’t expect me. Worse, he hadn’t even hidden the reason for his absence from uni. The reason was a girl—Anna. She seemed sweet as an angel. But alongside her in the flat was a toddler! A one-year-old boy. I immediately understood: this girl with a baby wanted to hook my son and marry him. I’m a modern mum, times have changed, but still! John wasn’t old enough for marriage—let alone raising someone else’s child. Though Anna looked at most eighteen—when did she become a mother?! I kept the storm inside, and greeted Anna politely, then shut myself and John in the kitchen for a serious talk. “So, you’re in love?” I asked, trying (and probably failing) to smile. “Very much, Mum,” John smiled too. “And what about your studies?” I tiptoed around the topic. “I know I let things slip, Mum, but it’s just a period. Don’t worry—I’ll fix it.” “What kind of period? Will you share with me?” “I can’t, Mum. It’s not my secret. Maybe later, once you get to know Anna better.” I didn’t want to push and risk him shutting me out, so I went home. “This is all YOUR fault!” I snapped at Sergei, “Freedom for our son? See what that’s done! What do we do now?!” “What’s really wrong?” asked Sergei. “What’s wrong with a ready-made child? If John already loves him, then he’s not a stranger.” “You’re ready to be a granddad?” “Why not? I knew once we had kids, I’d become a granddad one day.” “But not to a stranger’s child!” “Marina, I swear, I don’t know you. No child is ever a stranger—just think about it.” He went to sleep in the spare room while I wandered the empty bedroom half the night, angry at everyone. At life, Anna, my son, Sergei—for taking their side. Gradually I calmed down and saw Sergei was right. The child wasn’t to blame. Anna probably wasn’t either—circumstances happen. By morning, after plenty of tears, I snuck into bed with Sergei in the lounge. “Sergei, forgive me! I see things clearer now. I just love you all so much!” “Come here, you silly woman!” He lifted the duvet, and I curled up beside him. We fell asleep together, and I smiled in my dreams. So I’d be a granny now—why not? That little boy in John’s flat was adorable—his name’s Michael. But of course, things weren’t that simple. Soon John announced he was switching to evening classes, and he and Anna planned to marry. This time I took a breath before reacting, then Sergei and I visited the city that weekend. I knew Sergei would help us find the best solution—though I was tempted to “make firewood enough for a whole British winter,” as we say. Anna greeted us, teary-eyed: “I’m sorry—I don’t want John to do this, but he’s so stubborn. You know that, I guess!” “Stubborn, yes,” Sergei agreed, swapping shoes, “but he’s not dim. If he’s decided, then he means it. Cheer up, Anna, let’s just talk it through.” We headed to the kitchen. John wasn’t home. “He’s gone for milk, will be back soon,” Anna explained. “Why do you keep apologising?” Sergei asked. “You’ve done nothing wrong—we haven’t figured out anything yet. Will you make tired guests some tea? I’ve just driven nearly ninety miles.” “Oh—I’m sorry,” Anna fussed. Sergei rolled his eyes, and Anna grinned; I realised he’d already accepted her. When the tea was made and Sergei munched his third homemade cookie—rare among today’s young women—I knew John hadn’t baked those! John returned, serious-faced, loaded down with groceries. Yet I saw a new glint in his eyes—something grown-up, manly. Suddenly, I didn’t feel I could tell this man, my son, what to do anymore. “So, you’ve decided to get married?” Sergei started when we sat down. “Yes—and it’s not open for debate,” John replied stubbornly. “Okay. Just tell me—why the rush? Is Anna expecting another?” “No—never!” Anna shook her head fiercely and blushed. A wild thought crossed my mind—maybe nothing physical had happened yet between them! Couldn’t be, but… “Why the rush, then?” “Otherwise, Micky will be put in care,” Anna said quietly. “Why would that happen?” Sergei asked sternly. “Because his mum… passed away,” Anna’s lips trembled. “Anna, you don’t have to explain,” John stood up. “Mum, Dad, just accept what I told you. The rest is between us!” “Wait, John,” Anna hesitated. “If I’m with you now, then your family is my family. I can’t hide my life from you—it isn’t right.” She fell silent; Sergei and I exchanged glances. “Anna, isn’t Micky your son?” I ventured. “No—he’s my little brother. Same mum, different dads.” I could have hugged everyone—but I kept calm. Anna continued her story: “My mum passed away in prison—she had a heart defect. She lived longer than expected, they say. Her life was hard; she was… fiery.” Anna sipped her tea, sighing. She struggled, but kept going, though John and we tried to stop, seeing how hard it was. “Mum first went to prison after a fight with my dad—she hit an old lady at a crossing. It got in the papers. When they sent Mum to prison, Dad took me to live separately. Before Mum got out, Dad remarried. I don’t blame him; Mum was difficult. His new wife, Tanya, is gentle—we get along well. Perhaps my happy life is due to his decision. Tanya and Dad raised me, and they’re my real family.” Anna paused again. I saw her and John holding hands under the table. This was only the start, I realised. “Three years ago, Mum fell hard in love with Dennis—ten years younger. That’s when Micky was born. I was delighted, always visited. No rows when I was there, but neighbours claimed otherwise in court, hearing shouting and smashing dishes. One day, I later learned, Mum and Dennis fought badly—Mum got jealous. She shoved Dennis; he tripped on a blanket, fell, and hit his head on the table. Two days later, Dennis died in hospital, and Mum was arrested. She… passed away in remand, before any trial. Her heart just stopped. Please, don’t judge her harshly! She was like a hummingbird—bright, restless, uncontrollable. But I loved her, still do.” “Now you must forgive us, Anna,” said Sergei, once she finished. “We’re sorry you had to go through that. You’re right—we’re family now, so we support each other.” Truthfully, I wanted to shout: “What are you doing, son?! John, don’t! We don’t need such family ties! We’ve never had criminals in our family!” But I stopped myself, picturing my wedding day, Mum in tears begging me not to marry Sergei. I mentally slapped my own cheeks—“Don’t judge people by their parents, Marina! You should know better!” That self-scolding worked a miracle. A mad, but marvellous idea popped into my head. I saw Sergei’s smile—he’d had it too, and agreed! Sergei nodded and said: “How about this, friends? Mum and I become Micky’s guardians—then you two can wait before marrying and carry on with your studies.” “But how?” Anna asked. “Dad, stop!” John protested. “Micky would do well in the countryside—think of your own childhood, John. And if you want, you can always take him later.” “It’s gone quiet with just us here—Mary’s more into boys these days.” “Anna,” I gazed at her, “the decision is yours.” “But how can I ask that of you? My Dad and Tanya refused to take him in.” Just then, the little boy causing all the fuss awoke, shuffled into the kitchen, and raised his arms—not to anyone but Sergei. “Oof, what a burden!” Sergei joked, picking Micky up. “Sergei, you’re not bad—more like a dad than a granddad!” I laughed. “Wait and see!” he threatened playfully, whispering in my ear, “I’ll show you the granddad at bedtime.” The kids fussed, but agreed to let Micky come live with us. Oddly, formal guardianship was smooth—no red tape. The social worker said it’s common now for families our age to take in little ones; when your own children grow up, there’s still so much love and care to give. Sergei and I felt younger caring for Micky. When I got up in the night to him, I’d shed tears of joy at my unexpected happiness. Mum, as always, scolded us for our decision—but she grew to love Micky most of all, and he adored her. “Oh, Marina! What have you done?” she’d scold, and then coo to Micky, “Who’s tired and wants to sleep? Whose little eyes are closing?” Then again: “Whatever were you thinking, Marina? Whose tiny fingers have got grubby?! I don’t know how you’ll manage—but where’s my Micky gone? Where is he hiding?!”

04

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Travelled Abroad to See My Ex-Fiancé Three Months After He Broke Up with Me—It Sounds Crazy, I Know. I Packed the Engagement Ring, Our Photos, and a Foolish Hope He’d Regret Leaving Me. I Waited for Him at His Hospital, Returned the Ring, and Cried My Heart Out on a Bench—Until a Kind British Doctor Sat Beside Me, Listened Without Judgement, and Invited Me to Join His Friends So I Wouldn’t Be Alone. That Unexpected Encounter Led to Late-Night Chats, a Visit to My City, an Honest Confession, and—Eventually—My Happily Ever After with the Man Who Became My Husband.