Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I just can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tommy, a Year 2 pupil, sadly poking his paintbrush at the stubborn, curling-the-wrong-way green leaf on the flower he’d drawn. “Not so hard, love, be gentle with your brush – like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. There, that’s it! Beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky one getting your lovely picture?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy replied, grinning now that he’d tamed the awkward leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His pride at the teacher’s praise was clear in his voice. “Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paints dry a little or they’ll smudge. Then, when you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. Trust me, your mum will love it!” The teacher glanced one last time at the boy’s tousled head bent over the paper, then returned to her desk, smiling at her thoughts. What a gift for his mum! Bet it’s been years since she’s had something so lovely. Tommy’s got real talent for art—maybe I should call his mum about art school. Talent shouldn’t go to waste. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask my former pupil if she liked the present. I can’t take my eyes off those flowers Tommy painted; they look ready to rustle their living green curls. Oh, he takes after his mum! No doubt about it. Lorna was a brilliant young artist herself at his age… * “Miss Mary, it’s Lorna—Tommy Cottam’s mum,” came the strict voice of a young woman over the phone that evening. “Just letting you know, Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna! Is everything alright?” “No, it isn’t! That little rascal ruined my whole birthday! And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left.” “Hang on, Lorna, what do you mean fever? He left school happy, bringing you his—” “You mean those splotches?” “Splotches? No, Lorna! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call to suggest art school for him…” “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy mess for a gift!” “Soggy mess? What on earth happened?” Miss Mary was lost for words as Lorna rambled on, tense and upset, and her frown deepened with every explanation: how Tom came home late, drenched in mud and water… How he pulled a soaking-wet puppy from under his coat—the stench! He’d climbed into a thawing puddle to rescue it after bigger boys threw it in. Ruined books, splotched sketchbook, and a fever nearly touching 39… The party ruined, guests left before the cake came out. The doctor scolded her for not watching her child… “After Tom fell asleep, I took that puppy straight back to the dump. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator, but the water’s made a mess of everything, not just the flowers!” Lorna grumbled. She didn’t seem to notice how the elderly teacher’s expression grew grimmer with every word, especially when she heard what happened to the rescued puppy. Miss Mary looked sternly at Lorna, stroked the ruined sketchbook gently, and spoke softly… About green swirls and living flowers. About the care of a child and his brave heart, unwilling to look away from injustice. Of the bullies who threw the little animal into that pit. Then she stood, took Lorna by the hand, and led her to the window. “There’s that pit,” she pointed. “Tom could have drowned, not just the puppy. Do you think he gave that a thought while he was rescuing it? Or was he thinking about those flowers on the page and trying not to breathe on them, so he wouldn’t spoil his gift?” “Or have you forgotten, Lorna, how—you in the nineties—sobbed bitterly on the school bench, hugging a stray kitten you’d rescued from the local boys?” “How we all stroked it, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home when your parents tossed your ‘scruffy flea bag’ out… Luckily, they changed their mind in time.” “Well, let me remind you! And your cat, Tigger, you never wanted to part with! And floppy-eared Max, that puppy who went everywhere with you right up to uni, and the rook with the broken wing you took care of at school…” Miss Mary fetched an old photo from her album: a tiny girl in a white pinafore holding a furry kitten, smiling at her classmates. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “I’ll remind you of the kindness in your heart, the kindness that bloomed in spite of everything, bright as paint on a child’s page.” A faded drawing tumbled out after the photo: a girl, clutching a fluffy kitten and gripping her mum’s hand. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary added more sternly, “I’d have kissed that puppy and Tom together! And put those splotches in a frame! There’s no better gift for a mother than raising her child to be a good person!” Lorna didn’t seem to notice how her face changed with every word. She cast worried glances at Tom’s bedroom door, clutching the ill-fated sketchbook with whitening fingers. “Miss Mary! Please, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? I’ll be right back, I promise!” Under her teacher’s gentle gaze, Lorna threw on her coat and rushed out. She ran straight for the distant dump, not caring that her feet got soaked, calling and searching under boxes and bags, glancing anxiously homeward… Would she be forgiven? * “Tom, who’s got their nose buried in the flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does! There’s that white star on his paw—how I remember washing those muddy paws with your mum.” The teacher chuckled fondly. “And now I wash them every day! Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even bought a special doggy tub for it!” Tom said proudly. “You’ve got a wonderful mum,” nodded Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another picture, then?” “Yep! This one’s for a frame. The splotches are up on the wall now, and she always smiles at them. Why would you smile at splotches, Miss Mary?” “At splotches? Maybe you would, if they came straight from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school?” “It’s brilliant! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait—she’ll love it! But for now—look, I’ve got something for you, from Mum. She draws too.” Tom pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag, and Miss Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly. On the paper, a brightly painted Tom beamed, his hand resting on Duke’s head, the dog gazing at him adoringly. Next to them, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress hugged a fluffy kitten… To the left, behind a teacher’s desk piled with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling with bottomless, wise kindness in her lively gaze at her happy students. In every brushstroke, in every mark, she could feel the proud love of a mother. Miss Mary brushed away her tears and, suddenly beaming, noticed—right in the corner, drawn in flowers and curling green spirals—one single word: “Remember.”

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 2

ILL REMIND YOU

Miss Maple, the curls not working here, whispered the forlorn second-former, Tom, jabbing his paintbrush at a disobedient, oddly curving green petal on the flower hed just painted.

Dont squash the brush, lovegently, thats it glide it as though youre stroking a feather along your palm. See? Well done! Thats not a curl, thats a masterpiece! smiled the elderly teacher. Whos the lucky recipient of this masterpiece then?

Its for my mum! Tom beamed, positively glowing with pride now that the truculent leaf had surrendered. Its her birthday today! This is my present! His voice became noticeably richer after such lavish teacherly praise.

Isnt your mum lucky, Tom? Hold on, dont close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paint dry so it doesnt smudge. When you get home, you can carefully tear out the sheet and present it. Youll seeshell absolutely love it!

Miss Maple cast a last fond glance at Toms dark head bent intently over his page, then, smiling to herself, returned to her desk.

Gracious, a present for Mum! She hasnt received such lovely gifts in ages. Tom clearly has a talent for painting. I really must ring his mum and suggest she pop him down for art school. Would be criminal to waste such a gift.

And Ill have to ask my former pupil whether she liked her present. Miss Maple herself could barely tear her gaze away from the vibrant, animated petals Tom had conjured up with his brushshe half expected them to rustle to life right there.

Definitely takes after his mum, she mused. Laura was ever so good at drawing at his age too…

*****

Miss Maple? Its Laura, Tom Cottons mum, came the evening call in the teachers flat, the voice of a young woman crisply efficient. Just wanted to let you knowTom wont be coming in tomorrow.

Hello Laura! Is something the matter? Miss Maple queried, all concern.

Oh, plenty, Lauras voice snapped. Hes ruined my whole birthday, the little horror! And now hes come down with a feverambulance just left.

How on earth? He left school right as rain, bringing you his present…

What, that mess of ink-blots?

Ink-blots? Laura, really! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call you about signing him up for art school

No clue what flowers youre on about, but I certainly wasnt expecting a bedraggled, flea-bitten lump!

A lump? What are you talking about? Miss Maple was flummoxed, her brow creasing as she tried to follow Lauras rattling explanation. Look, Laura, would you mind if I pop over? Im just round the corner, wont be long

Five minutes later, having obtained her former pupils consent (how time does fly!), Miss Maple slipped out, a battered album of faded school photographs and crumpled childhood sketches under her arm.

Laura ushered her into the bright but dishevelled kitchen, where the evidence of a foiled birthday party lingeredcake half-eaten, dirty plates piling up in the sink. She launched into her list of grievances: How Tom had arrived late from school, coat and trousers caked in filth, dripping everywhere…

How hed pulledof all thingsa sopping wet puppy from under his jumper, reeking to high heaven. Hed apparently gone chasing it into a ditch full of half-melted rubbishwhere some older boys had tossed it! His ruined books. The so-called art in his sketchbook, now just a chaotic mess of stains. His temperature, climbing to nearly forty.

The guests packed up before the cake was even sliced, the paramedic gave her a stern talking-to about not looking after her son, and

So I carted the puppy straight back to the tip once Tom fell asleep. The sketchbooks by the radiatortheres not a flower left in it, not after that dunking! Laura sniffed, utterly disgruntled.

All the while, Laura missed how Miss Maples expression grew steadily darker. When she learned the fate of the puppythe one Tom had rescuedMiss Maple looked positively thunderous.

She gently ran her hand over Toms soggy, abandoned sketchbook as she spoke, voice soft but firm

She talked about the green swirls and the flowers breathing life on paperabout childish diligence and the courage that blinds prudence. About a boys heart that refused to stand idly by while bullies tormented a helpless animal.

Then, rising, she led Laura to the window. Theres the ditch, she pointed out. Not just the puppy, Tom could have drowned in there. But do you suppose he even thought about that? Maybe he was too busy thinking about keeping those flowers on the page safe, so as not to ruin his gift.

And have you forgotten, Miss Maple said, looking sharply at Laura, how you wept near this very school playground back in the nineties, cradling that scraggly kitten youd snatched from the older boys? How the whole class fussed over it while we awaited your mum? How gutted you were when your parents booted that flea-bitten lump outthough at least they came to their senses in time!

Let me remind you then, she pressed on, pulling out from the yellowed album a large photo: a fragile, grinning girl in a white pinafore, cuddling a fluffy kitten. Let me remind you of the kindness that blossomed bold and bright in your heart, come what may.

Next fell out a faded drawinga little girl, one arm around a shaggy puppy, clutching tightly her mothers hand with the other.

If I had my way, Miss Maples tone became brisk, Id have kissed that puppy and Tom both! And framed those colourful splodgesbecause theres no better gift for a mum than bringing up a child whos a decent human being!

Lauras face shifted through a whole colour chart as Miss Maple spoke. She glanced anxiously at Toms bedroom, fingers whitened clutching the battered sketchbook.

Miss Maple! Dear, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? Just for a little while! I wont be long, promise!

Under her teachers knowing gaze, Laura scrambled into her coat and dashed out.

Not sparing a second for wet feet or chilly winds, she ran all the way down to the tip at the edge of the estate, calling out, peering under soggy boxes, rummaging through rubbish bagsconstantly glancing back towards home. Would he forgive her?

*****

Tom, whos that with his nose in those flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?

Thats him, Miss Maple! Does he look the same?

As ever! Look at that white star on his pawreminds me of scrubbing those paws with your mum! Miss Maple chuckled.

I wash his paws every day now! Tom announced with pride. Mum says if you get a mate, youve got to look after him! She even bought us a special bowl for the job.

Youve got a good mum, smiled Miss Maple. Are you drawing a present for her again?

Yep! Going to put it in a frame. Shes got those splodges hanging on the wall in a frame, you know, and she always smiles at them. I dont get why anyone would smile at splodges, Miss Maple

Splodges, you say? the teacher raised an eyebrow. Well, perhaps you wouldif those splodges came from the heart. Tell me, hows art school going? Are you managing?

You bet! Ill be painting Mums portrait soon! Shell be so happy! Andlook Tom rummaged in his rucksack, pulling out a folded paper, this is from Mum. She draws too, you know.

Miss Maple unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed Toms shoulder.

There, in a burst of colourful paint, shone a beaming Tom, hand on Dukes head as the mongrel gazed up in adoration. On one side stood a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten. On the other, behind a staffroom desk stacked with books, Miss Maple smiled out, her eyes twinkling.

And in every brushstroke, Miss Maple felt the secret, boundless pride of a mother.

She wiped away a quiet tear and, suddenly bright, she noticed in one corner, curling among flowers and delicate green swirls, a single, cherished word: Remember….Always.

Miss Maple drew in a deep, trembling breath. For a moment, she simply sat there with Tom at her side, watching Duke out in the garden chase shadows to the fence and back. She gave Toms hand a gentle squeeze.

Isnt it funny, she whispered, how sometimes, the gifts we treasure most start as splodges, or scraggy pups, or distant memories. But they grow, and so do we. Thats the magic, Tom.

Tom grinned, eyes alight. Well remember, Miss Maple, he promised. Mum says it every night nowthank you for reminding us.

In the golden hush of afternoon, Miss Maple closed her eyes and listened: the laughter through the open window, Dukes happy bark, the proud thump as Laura pinned another homemade masterpiece to the crowded wall. She smileda smile that misted her glasses and made her heart feel wonderfully light.

And so, in that sunlit kitchen among muddy paw prints, riotous art, and the warmth of second chances, three generations found themselves painting a new and lasting memoryone that would never wash away.

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… The Confession of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60—and not a single one of my family even rang to wish me happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even my ex-husband is still around. My daughter’s 40, my son’s 35. Both live in London, both graduated from respected universities. Both intelligent, successful. My daughter’s married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son to the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers, own several properties, and each runs their own business alongside a secure government job. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished uni. He said he was tired of the constant pace, even though his own work was steady, weekends spent with mates or lounging on the sofa, holidays visiting family up north for the whole month. I never took holidays, worked three jobs at once—engineer in a factory, cleaner for management, and at weekends packing shelves in the local supermarket from eight to eight, plus extra cleaning. Every penny I earned was for the kids—London’s an expensive city and studying at top universities meant good clothes, food, and treats. I’d wear old clothes, patch things up, repair my shoes, kept clean and tidy. That was enough for me. My escapes were dreams—sometimes I’d see myself there; happy, young, laughing. When my husband left, he bought himself a fancy car straight away. Must’ve had a decent stash set aside. Our life together was strange—all the costs were mine except the rent, which he paid; that was his only real contribution. I raised our children, paid for their educations myself… The flat we lived in came from my gran—a solid, well-kept Victorian with high ceilings. Two beds, converted to a three. The box room had a window and I renovated it; perfect for a bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves. That was my daughter’s. My son and I shared a room—luckily, I was hardly home except to sleep. Husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her old box room. Son stayed in the other room. Splitting up with my husband was peaceful; no rows, no splitting the furniture, and no blame games. He wanted to LIVE, not muddle through, and I was so worn out I felt relieved… No more slaving over dinners, desserts, and drinks. No more washing his clothes and bedding; I could finally rest. By that stage, I’d racked up plenty of health issues—spine, joints, diabetes, thyroid, exhaustion. For the first time I took a real break and focused on treatment. I kept my side jobs. Got a bit better. I hired a really good tradesman and his mate—they redid my bathroom in two weeks, a proper job. For me that was happiness! Personal, genuine happiness! Happiness for myself! All this time, instead of birthday and holiday gifts, I’d send my successful children money. Then there were grandchildren, so I couldn’t stop working extra. I never saved for myself. My own birthday calls came rarely, mostly in reply to my wishes. No gifts. Worst of all, neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter told me: “Mum, you just wouldn’t fit in the crowd. There’ll be people from the Prime Minister’s office.” And I found out about my son’s wedding from my daughter, after the fact… At least they didn’t ask for money for the weddings… Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says there’s nothing for her in our “backwater” (a busy city, over a million people). My son always says, “Oh, Mum, I’m too busy!” Flights to London go seven times a day, just two hours in the air… How would I name that period of my life? Probably the age of suppressed emotions… I lived like Scarlett O’Hara—”I’ll think about it tomorrow”… I buried all my tears and pain, held back everything from confusion to despair. I worked like a robot pre-programmed to keep going. Later, the factory was bought out by London investors—restructuring followed, all us older staff were let go overnight, so I retired early. The pension’s £250 a week… Try living on that. I got lucky—a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey, four-entrance block… So I started mopping up stairwells—an extra £250 a week. I kept my weekend supermarket job, £35 per shift. Hardest bit was being on my feet the whole day. I slowly started fixing up the kitchen. Did most of it myself; ordered new units from a neighbour—he did a fine job at a decent price. And again, I began to squirrel away a little money. Wanted to touch up the rooms, update some furniture. Those were the plans… except nowhere in those plans was I myself! What did I spend on me? Only basic food, and I never ate much. And medicine—those bills were steep. Rent’s climbed year after year. My ex suggested, “Sell the flat, great area, good price—get yourself a one-bed.” But it breaks my heart. It’s my gran’s memory. I don’t recall my parents. Gran raised me. That flat’s my whole life’s history. I kept things friendly with my ex. We chat now and then, like old mates. He’s fine. Never talks about his personal life. Once a month he comes over, brings potatoes, veg, rice, drinking water—all the heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says if I use delivery, it’ll be rubbish, all rotten. I don’t argue. Inside, something’s frozen—bundled tight. I just keep going. Work hard. Never dream. Never want anything for myself. I only see my daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. My son’s life flashes on his wife’s Insta. I’m glad they’re well; safe and healthy. They holiday in exotic places, dine at fancy restaurants. Maybe I didn’t give them enough love. Maybe that’s why they don’t have love for me. Sometimes my daughter asks how I am; I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son occasionally sends WhatsApp voice notes: “Hi Mum, hope you’re well.” Once my son told me he didn’t want to hear about my problems with Dad—negativity upsets him. So I stopped sharing anything with him, just say: “Yes, love—all’s well.” I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know their living granny exists—the old cleaner on a pension. I guess, according to family legend, granny’s long gone… I don’t recall ever buying anything for myself—all I get is the odd bit of underwear and socks, always the cheapest. Never been for a manicure, pedicure… Once a month I get my hair trimmed at the salon next door, and dye it myself. The one thing I like: even now, I still wear the same size as in my youth—14/16. No need to replace my wardrobe. But I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed—the pain in my spine is relentless. I’m afraid of being trapped. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way—no rest, no little joys, always working and saving everything for “later”? But where is “later”? It’s gone… My spirit is empty… my heart—full of indifference… And around me—only emptiness… I don’t blame anyone. But I can’t really blame myself either. I’ve always worked, still do now. Building a little safety net, just in case I can’t work. Tiny, but still… Though, truth be told, I know if I’m bedridden, I won’t want to live… wouldn’t want anyone to have to deal with me. And you know what’s saddest of all? No one in my entire life has ever given me flowers… Not once… Wouldn’t it be a laugh if someone finally brings fresh flowers to my grave? Seriously, it’d be almost funny…

One More Year Together… For the past while, Mr. Arthur Evans hadn’t gone out on his own. Not since the day he left for the clinic, lost his way, and forgot both his address and his own name. He wandered the neighbourhood in confusion until his eyes landed upon a very familiar building: the old clock factory where Mr. Evans had spent nearly fifty years of his working life. He stared at the factory, certain he recognised it, but the reason escaped him, as did his own identity—until someone approached from behind with a friendly pat on the shoulder: “Evans! Uncle Arthur, what brings you here—missing us, perhaps? We were just reminiscing the other day about the best foreman and mentor we ever had. Arthur Evans, you haven’t even recognised me? It’s me—Sam Cooper! You made a man of me, Evans!” Something clicked in Arthur’s mind—his memory returned all at once, thank heavens. Sam grinned and embraced his old mentor, “Recognised me now? Shaved off the moustache, don’t look much like myself, eh? Will you come in, the lads would love to see you?” “Perhaps another time, Sam, I’m feeling rather worn out,” admitted Mr. Evans. “I’ve got my car out front, let me drive you home—I remember your address!” Sam cheerfully replied. He drove Arthur home, and ever since, Mrs. Natalie Evans hadn’t let her husband go out alone, even though his memory seemed fully recovered. They only went out together now—to the park, the clinic, and the shops. One day Arthur fell ill—fever, harsh cough. Natalie hurried alone to the pharmacy and supermarket, although she herself was under the weather. She bought medicine and groceries, not even much, but a strange weakness overtook her, and she was short of breath. Her shopping bag felt impossibly heavy. Natalie paused to catch her breath, then struggled onward toward home. A few steps further, she stopped again, set her heavy bag down on the fresh snow, and gently sank to the path leading to her house. Her last thought—why had she bought so much at once, silly old lady! Thankfully, the neighbours saw her lying on the snow, hurried over, and called an ambulance. Natalie was rushed away, while neighbours took her bags of food and medicine, returned, and rang her doorbell. “Her husband must be home—he’s looked poorly lately, I haven’t seen him outside,” guessed Mrs. Nina Miller. “He’s likely sleeping; Natalie mentioned he’s been quite unwell too—oh, old age is no joy, I’ll check back later…” Arthur Evans heard the bell. But his cough made breathing hard, and when he tried to stand, dizziness from fever nearly caused him to collapse. The cough quieted, and Arthur drifted into a strange half-sleep, halfway between dream and reality. Where was Natalie? Why was she taking so long? He dozed for ages, but then heard light footsteps. Suddenly, his wife appeared—his Natalie, thank goodness she was back. “Arthur, give me your hand, hold on, get up, come now,” she called softly. And so, clutching her curiously cold, frail hand, he rose. “Now open the door, quickly, open up,” Natalie whispered. “Why?” Arthur asked, but opened the door as she asked—and in came neighbour Nina Miller and young Sam Cooper from work. “Evans, why didn’t you answer? We knocked and called!” “Natalie—where’s Natalie? She was just here!” Arthur stammered, lips pale, unable to understand where his wife had gone. “She’s in hospital, in intensive care!” exclaimed Nina Miller. “He’s delirious,” Sam realised, just in time to catch his old friend as he fainted… The neighbours called an ambulance—it was a feverish faint. Two weeks later, Natalie was discharged from hospital. Sam drove her home, having helped Arthur recover in her absence. At last, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were together again. Alone at last, tears were hard to hold back. “It’s good, isn’t it, Arthur—there are still kind people. Nina is such a decent woman—remember how her kids came round after school? We fed them, helped with homework, and she’d collect them after work.” “Yes, not everyone remembers kindness, but she’s stayed warm-hearted, it means a lot,” Arthur agreed. “And Sam—a bright young lad; I was his mentor, helped him find his feet. Many young folks forget us oldies, but he didn’t.” “The New Year’s in a few days, Arthur—it’s so wonderful that we’re together again,” Natalie said, nestling close to her husband. “Natalie, tell me honestly—how did you come from hospital and make me open the door for my rescuers? I would’ve died here without you.” He dreaded she’d think his mind was slipping, but Natalie looked astonished, “So it was real? They told me I’d had a clinical death—and during that, in a dreamlike haze, I came to you? I remember it too—seeing myself in intensive care, then leaving and coming to you…” “What strange magic, what blessings as we grow old! And I still love you, more than ever before,” Arthur Evans took her hands in his and they sat for a long time, silent, gazing at one another as if afraid fate might separate them again. On New Year’s Eve, Sam dropped by with a basket of his wife’s homemade pies. Neighbour Nina popped in too; they chatted over tea and pies, feeling content and warm inside. At midnight, Natalie and Arthur welcomed in the New Year together. “You know,” Natalie smiled, “I made a wish—if we see in this New Year together, then it’s ours. We’ll have another year yet.” They laughed with joy at the thought. One more whole year together—it means everything, it is happiness itself.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Irene Was His Own Daughter—Suspicious Rumors About Wife Vera at the Shop Made Him Reject the Fragile Child, Leaving Only Grandpa Matthew to Cherish Her and Bequeath His Countryside Cottage and a Promise of Happiness The Only One Who Truly Loved Irene Was Her Grandfather As a child, Irene frequently battled illness, small and delicate, prompting Leonard to scoff, “Neither my family nor Vera’s ever had such tiny offspring! That’s hardly a daughter of mine.” With time, even Vera distanced herself, leaving Irene unloved—except for Grandpa Matthew, the kindly forest warden whose remote cottage at the village edge became Irene’s safe haven. He taught her about woodland herbs and cures, nurturing both her spirit and ambition to become a healer, promising support for her studies even if he had to sell the family cow. Grandpa Left Irene Both His Home and a Blessing for Her Future Vera rarely visited her father, but when her son lost a poker game in town, she came begging for money. Grandpa Matthew sternly refused, declaring his priority was Irene’s education, not covering his grandson’s debts. Furious, Vera disowned them both. When Irene entered nursing college, only Grandpa Matthew helped her, his encouragement and Irene’s scholarship sustaining her despite her parents’ neglect. Sensing his end, Grandpa Matthew bequeathed Irene the cottage and foretold her happiness: “Find work in the city, but never abandon your home—its spirit lives through you. Don’t fear the woods at night; your destiny awaits here.” Matthew’s Prophecy Came True After Grandpa’s autumn passing, Irene—now a nurse in the district hospital—spent weekends alone at the cottage. One snowy night, a stranger named Stan appeared, stranded outside, seeking a shovel. Their unexpected meeting blossomed; Stan teased her gentle strength, and Irene welcomed him in from the winter storm. Over tea, they found companionship—Stan offered Irene a ride to town, and soon, their friendship grew. “There’s something magical about your herbal tea—I just had to see you again,” he joked after a surprise visit. They never had a big wedding, but a heartfelt love flourished. Stan doted on Irene, disproving the notion that only storybook husbands carry their wives. When their sturdy son was born, the maternity nurses marveled: “How did such a petite woman have such a strong boy?” Irene named him Matthew, honoring the wonderful grandfather who gave her love and a home.