Miss, when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table—I haven’t got time to waste! I’m feeling generous today, so put his bill on me. But the humble old man would put the wealthy snob in his place in the most unexpected way! In that little English bistro, nestled in a quiet corner of Britain, time seemed to move differently. It was a simple, cosy spot, filled with the scent of fresh bread and steaming soup—where people came not just to eat, but to feel at home… And every day, at the same hour, he would appear. An old man in worn clothes, hands roughened by years of work, with that weary look only a hard life leaves behind. He never asked for extras. Never complained. Never disturbed anyone. He took his usual seat in the corner, pulled off his flat cap, warmed his hands against the cold, and always said the same gentle words: — A soup… if you please. The waitress knew him by heart. Everyone did. Some glanced at him with pity. Others, with disdain. Most, though, simply saw him as part of the place: a man with nothing left to lose, but a dignity he never let go. Then, one day, the door swung open and the whole air changed. A man strode in, sharp suit, gleaming watch, the look of someone used to getting what he wants—immediately. That was Mr. Smith. Richard Smith. A businessman, well-heeled and “somebody.” Everyone knew who he was. As he sat at the prime table near the window, tossing his coat over the chair as if the café belonged to him, he caught sight of the old man. The old fellow was sipping his soup slowly, as if every mouthful was a small victory. Smith laughed, short and derisive, and motioned the waitress over. — Miss… when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table. I can’t afford to waste my time. I’m feeling generous today—just put his bill on me. The waitress froze. Not because it was a “charity.” But because his tone wasn’t kind. It was humiliating. The old man heard. Everyone heard. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t argue. No fuss. Just put his spoon down and looked up at the man in the suit. His eyes held not anger, but something far deeper: Memory. After a pause, his voice gentle and calm, he said: — Glad to see you’re well, Richard… Smith stiffened. The diner fell silent. The old man spoke on, never raising his voice: — But remember… when you had nothing, it was I who gave you a bowl of soup. You came from a poor family… used to run to my house at noon for a meal. Smith’s jaw dropped, his mask of “important man” yanked away in a heartbeat. The waitress stared. People began whispering. Smith tried to laugh—but the laugh wouldn’t come. — No… it can’t be… he murmured. The old man smiled sadly. — Oh, it can. I was your mother’s neighbor. I remember you hiding behind the fence—you were ashamed to be hungry. Smith’s eyes darted desperately, searching for a way out. But it wasn’t at the door anymore. It was inside. — You forgot me, the old man said. And I understand. Success makes us forget fast. But I never forgot you. You were the child who shivered in the cold and treated every bowl of soup like a gift from Heaven. Smith clutched his glass, his fingers trembling. — I… I didn’t know… he whispered, not really knowing what he meant. Not “didn’t know”—just “didn’t want to remember.” The old man rose slowly. Before leaving, he simply said: — You had everything today… yet chose to mock a man for eating soup. Don’t forget, Richard… Life can put you right where you once pointed your finger. And he left. No one breathed normally in the café. The waitress had tears in her eyes. The owner stared at the floor. And Richard Smith—the man who seemed to have the world at his feet—was, for the first time in years, small. So very small. He hurried after the old man, catching him at the door. — Sir… he said, voice breaking. Please… forgive me. The old man studied him. — It’s not me you need to ask forgiveness from. It’s the child you were—and buried, just to feel grand. Smith bowed his head. Then quietly said: — Come tomorrow… and the next day… and as long as God allows… Your soup will never be “cheap” again. The old man smiled. And for the first time in years, his eyes showed peace. Because sometimes God doesn’t punish us with loss. He punishes us with memories. To bring us back… to our humanity. If you’ve read this far, leave a ❤️ and share—someone out there might need to remember today that a person’s worth isn’t counted in money, but in soul.

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 3

Miss, once this old man finishes slurping his cheap soup, please give me his table. I havent the whole day to waste! Im feeling generous today, so put his bill on me.

Yet the humble old man was about to teach the wealthy gent a lesson hed never forget.

In that small restaurant, tucked away in a quiet corner of York, time seemed to pause. It was a humble, cosy place, filled with the comforting scent of freshly-baked bread and steaming stew, where people came not just to eat but to find a sense of home.

Each day, at precisely the same hour, he arrived. An elderly man, worn down by life, dressed in shabby clothes with work-roughened hands and the tired eyes of someone whod seen far too much sorrow. He never asked for more. He didnt grumble. He never disturbed anyone. Hed take his seat in the corner, pull off his old woollen hat, rub his hands together against the cold, and always asked in the same gentle voice:

A bit of soup if you please.

The waitress knew his order by heart. Everyone did. Some looked on with pity, others with disdain, but most treated him as a fixturepart of the placesomeone life had stripped of everything but his dignity.

One afternoon, the door burst open and you could feel the change in the room. In strode a man in an immaculate suit, a flashy watch on his wrist, the air of someone whod grown used to getting whatever he fancied without question.

It was William. William Barrow. A businessman, loaded, one of the local somebodies. Everyone knew him. As he entered, people straightened up, the waitress forced a polite smile, and the owner stepped out from the kitchen to greet him in person.

William seated himself at the best table by the window, slung his coat over the chair as if he owned the place, and gazed about. Then he caught sight of the elderly man, slowly sipping his soup, as if every spoonful were a small victory.

William let out a short, mocking laugh and beckoned the waitress over.

Miss once that old chap finishes his bargain soup, bring me his table, would you? I havent got all day. And Im feeling generousadd his bill to mine.

The waitress frozenot because of the generosity, but because his words were heavy with condescension, not kindness. The old man heard; everyone did. Yet he did not rise, argue, or cause a scene. He simply placed his spoon down and looked up at the well-dressed mannot with resentment, but with something far more cutting: memory.

He sat in silence for a moment, then, with a soft, almost warm tone, replied:

Good to see you, William

Barrow stiffened. The restaurant fell silent. The old man continued, voice unwavering:

But dont forget when you had nothing, it was I who gave you a bowl of soup. You came from a poor familyused to run to my place at noon just to get a meal.

Williams jaw dropped, as if someone had ripped away his mask of invincibility. The waitress stared, wide-eyed. People nearby began to whisper. William tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat.

N-no it cant be, he stammered.

The old mans smile was tinged with sadness.

Oh, it can. I was your mothers neighbour. I remember how youd hide behind the hedge, hoping no one would see you, so ashamed of your hunger.

Williams eyes darted around in panicno longer searching for an escape at the door, but within himself.

Youve forgotten me, the old man said quietly. And I understandfolk quickly forget kindness when their fortunes rise. But I did not forget you. You were the shivering boy who devoured that hot stew as though it were heaven-sent.

William gripped his glass with trembling fingers.

II never realised he whispered, half to himself, not sure what he wanted to say. It wasnt that he didnt knowit was that he hadnt wanted to remember.

The old man stood slowly. Before leaving, he spoke simply:

You have everything today yet you chose to mock a man for eating his soup. Dont forget, Williamlife has its ways. One day, you may find yourself in the very spot you once pointed at.

And with that, he left.

No one in the restaurant breathed normally. The waitress blinked away tears, the owner stared at the ground, and William Barrowthe man who seemed to have the world at his feetsuddenly felt very small indeed.

He hurried out after the old man, catching him by the door.

Sir he called, voice trembling. Please forgive me.

The old man regarded him quietly.

Its not me you need to forgive.
Its the boy you once werethe one you buried so deep whilst growing up.

William hung his head. Then, softly:

Come back tomorrow and the next day and whenever you wish. Your soup will never again be cheap.

The old man smiled, and for the first time in a long while, there was peace in his eyes.

Because sometimes, lifes lessons arent in what we lose, but in the memories were forced to confrontto bring us home again, to kindness.

If youve read this far, pass it onsomeone may need to remember: a person is not measured by wealth, but by warmth of heart.

After Abandoning Her Twin Babies at Birth, the Mother Returned Over 20 Years Later… but She Wasn’t Ready for the Truth On the Night the Twins Were Born, His World Was Torn Apart It Wasn’t Their Crying That Frightened Him, but Her Silence—a Heavy, Lonely Quietness. Their Mother Watched from a Distance, Eyes Lost, as if They Were Strangers from a Life She No Longer Knew. “I Can’t…,” She Whispered. “I Just Can’t Be a Mum.” Her Leaving Wasn’t Dramatic—No Arguments, No Harsh Words. Just a Signature, a Closed Door, and a Void That Would Never Quite Heal. She Said the Weight of Motherhood Suffocated Her—She Needed to Breathe. So She Left… Leaving Behind Two Newborns and a Father Who Had No Idea How to Be a Single Dad. In the Early Months, He Slept Upright More Than in Bed. With Shaking Hands, He Learned to Change Nappies, Warm Bottles at Midnight, and Sing Softly to Soothe Their Tears. He Had No Manuals, No Help—Just Love. A Love That Grew With Each Passing Day. He Became Both Mum and Dad—Their Embrace, Their Shield, Their Answer. He Was There for First Words, First Steps, First Heartbreaks; There for Illnesses, Tears for Things They Didn’t Understand. He Never Spoke Ill of Her. Never. Just Said, “Sometimes People Leave Because They Don’t Know How to Stay.” They Grew Up Strong, United—Twins Who Knew the World Could Be Unfair, but That True Love Never Leaves. Over 20 Years Later, on an Ordinary Afternoon, There Was a Knock at the Door. It Was Her. Older, More Fragile, With Tired Eyes and Guilt Etched Into Her Face. She Said She Wanted to Know Them—That She Thought of Them Every Day, That She Regretted It, That She’d Been Young and Afraid. Their Father Stood in the Hallway, Arms Open but Heart Clenched. The Hard Part Wasn’t for Him… It Was for Them. The Twins Listened in Silence, Watching Her Like a Story Told Too Late. No Hatred in Their Gaze. No Revenge. Just a Quiet, Grown-Up Pain. “We Already Have a Mum,” One Said Quietly. “Her Name Is Sacrifice—and It Belongs to Our Dad,” the Other Added. They Didn’t Need to Reclaim What They’d Never Had—Because They Never Grew Up Without Love. They Grew Up Loved. Entirely. And, Perhaps for the First Time, She Understood That Some Goodbyes Can Never Truly Return. Because Real Love Isn’t About Giving Birth… It’s About Staying. A Dad Who Stays Is Worth a Thousand Promises. 👇 Tell Us in the Comments: What Does “True Parent” Mean to You? 🔁 Share for Everyone Who Grew Up with Just One Parent… But Everything They Needed.

GRANDMA, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never knew her parents. Her father left her mother while she was pregnant, and Lena never heard from him again. Her mother passed away from cancer when Lena was just a year old. From then on, Lena was raised by Granny Dot—her mum’s mum—who had lost her own husband young and devoted her life entirely to her daughter and granddaughter. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a unique, unbreakable bond. Granny Dot always knew exactly what Lena needed, and there was nothing but understanding between them. Everyone loved Granny Dot, from the neighbours to the teachers at school. She would often attend parents’ evenings bearing a basket of homemade scones—after all, nobody should sit hungry at meetings after a long day’s work. She never gossiped or spoke ill of others; people regularly came to her for advice. Lena felt so lucky to have such a wonderful grandma. Lena’s own romantic life, however, wasn’t so fortunate. School, university, and work kept her constantly rushing about; she dated now and then but never found the right person. Granny Dot worried about it: — “Why are you still single, darling? Surely there’s a nice lad out there for a beautiful, clever girl like you!” Lena would laugh it off, but deep down, she knew it was time to settle down—she was nearly thirty, after all. Then, suddenly, Granny Dot was gone: her heart simply stopped one night as she slept. Lena was beside herself, unable to accept what had happened. She went through the motions—work, shopping—on autopilot, and at home, only her cat Molly awaited her. The loneliness was sometimes unbearable. One day, on the train home, Lena was reading a book when a pleasant-looking, well-dressed man about forty sat opposite her. He watched her for a while, and, strangely, she didn’t mind. Eventually, he struck up a conversation about books—something Lena could discuss for hours. It felt like a scene from a romantic film. When her stop came, the man—Alex—invited her for coffee. Lena agreed, heart fluttering. Thus began a whirlwind romance. They spoke on the phone and messaged every day, though met in person less often because Alex was always busy with work. He never spoke about his past, family, or job, but Lena didn’t mind—she’d never been happier with a man. One day, Alex invited Lena to a fancy restaurant and hinted at a special occasion—surely, he was going to propose! Lena was thrilled. Finally, she was about to have the family she’d always wanted. If only Granny Dot were there to see it. That night, browsing online shops for the perfect dress, Lena fell asleep. In her dream, Granny Dot appeared, dressed in her favourite frock, and gently stroked Lena’s hair. — “Gran, you’re gone… how are you here?” — “My sweet Lena, I never truly left. I’m always by your side, seeing and listening, even if you can’t see me. I’ve come to warn you: don’t see this man again—he’s not good for you. Please, trust your granny.” Then she vanished. Lena woke, unsettled, but decided it was just a dream—though a niggling worry remained. Why would Granny Dot warn her about Alex? Granny had never met him. Still, she couldn’t decide what to wear for the big day; everything seemed to go wrong. Saturday came, and Lena arrived at the restaurant in an old dress, feeling flat. Alex noticed at once and tried to cheer her up. At the end of the meal, like a scene from a film, he got down on one knee and produced a sparkling ring. Suddenly dizzy, Lena thought she glimpsed Granny Dot’s reflection in the window—watching intently. This was the sign she needed. — “I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t…” — “But why, what have I done?” — “Nothing. I just… always trusted my granny.” She rushed out. He followed, enraged, and shouted, “Fine! Stay with your precious cat, then—nobody else will have you, you silly thing!” and stormed off. Lena was reeling. How could this smart, loving Alex turn into someone so cruel? The next day, she visited her old classmate Andy—now head of the local detective unit—and asked him to run a check on Alex. A day later, Andy called: — “Lena, I’m sorry, but your Alex is a serial conman. He befriends lonely women, marries them, gets them to put him on the property deeds or take out massive loans for his ‘business’, then tosses them out and divorces them. He’s got several convictions. You had a lucky escape.” Lena was stunned. How could Granny Dot have known Alex wasn’t right? It was a miracle—perhaps she really was watching over her. Lena bought groceries and cat food on her way home, walking briskly with a newfound confidence. She knew she wasn’t alone: Granny Dot would always be nearby. People say lost loved ones become our guardian angels, watching and protecting us from harm. And perhaps—just perhaps—they’re right.

The Elderly Gentleman Struggled from Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Shuffled into the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Peered with Dim Eyes at His Sleeping Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away? – He Sank to His Knees. – Seems She’s Still Breathing.” He Stood, Shuffled into the Kitchen, Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Returned to His Room. He Lay Down, but Sleep Wouldn’t Come: “We’re Both Ninety—Lena and I. What a Long Life! We’ll Die Soon, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter, Natasha, Passed Before She Hit Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, but She’s Been Living in Germany for Over Twenty Years. She’s Forgotten Her Grandparents Completely. She Must Have Grown Children by Now.” He Didn’t Realise When He Drifted Off. He Woke to a Hand Touching His Face: “Are You Alive, Kostya?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Bent Over Him. “What is it, Lena?” “I Saw You Weren’t Moving. I Got Frightened, Thought You’d Gone.” “Still Alive! Go Back to Bed!” There Were the Shuffling Footsteps, the Click of the Kitchen Light. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Went to the Loo, and Headed to Her Own Room. She Lay Down: “One Day I’ll Wake and He’ll Be Gone. What Will I Do? Or Maybe I’ll Go First. Kostya’s Already Arranged Our Funerals. Never Thought You Could Organise Your Own Send-Off. Then Again, Who Would Bury Us? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us. Only Polina, the Neighbour, Pops In—She Has a Key. Grandpa Gives Her Ten Thousand from Our Pension Each Month. She Buys Our Groceries and Medicines. What Else Would We Spend Our Money On? We Can’t Even Get Down From the Fourth Floor by Ourselves Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sun Peeped Through the Window. He Stepped Out onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Cherry Tree Treetop. A Smile Broke Across His Face: “We’ve Made It to Another Summer!” He Went to See His Wife, Who Sat on Her Bed, Lost in Thought. “Lena, Stop Brooding! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve Barely Any Strength Left!” Grumbled the Old Lady, Hauling Herself from Bed. “What Are You Planning Now?” “Come On, I’ll Help You!” Supporting Her by the Shoulders, He Led Her Out to the Balcony. “Look, the Cherry Tree’s Green! You Said We’d Never See Another Summer, and Here We Are!” “Oh, So True! The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Side by Side on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Took You to the Pictures for the First Time? Back in School. The Cherry Tree Had Just Budded that Day Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago That Was?” “Seventy-Plus… Seventy-Five.” For a Long Time, They Sat, Reminiscing. So Much Slips Away in Old Age, Sometimes Even What Happened Yesterday, but Youth Never Fades from Memory. “Oh, We’ve Chattered Away the Morning!” His Wife Shook Herself. “We’ve Not Had Breakfast Yet.” “Make Some Proper Tea, Lena! I’m Fed Up with All These Herbal Brews.” “We’re Not Supposed To.” “Just Make It Weak—Add a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Diluted Tea, Eating a Little Cheese Sandwich, and Remembered When Breakfast Meant Strong, Sweet Tea with Pasties or Meat Pies. Their Neighbour, Polina, Popped In. She Smiled in Approval: “How Are You Both Doing?” “What Business Can Two Ninety-Year-Olds Have?” He Quipped. “If You’re Joking, All Is Well. Need Me to Pick Anything Up?” “Polina, Buy Us Some Meat!” Requested Konstantin Leonidovich. “You’re Not Supposed To, Are You?” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Cook You Chicken Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Pick Up Something For My Heart?” Asked His Wife. “Elena Ivanovna, I Only Got You Some Recently.” “I’ve Run Out.” “Shall I Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Cleared the Table, Washed Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Out on the Balcony,” Suggested Her Husband. “Let’s Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! No Point Sitting in This Stuffy Flat.” Polina Returned, Stepped onto the Balcony: “Missing the Sunshine, Are You?” “It’s Lovely Here, Polina!” Elena Ivanovna Beamed. “I’ll Bring You Some Porridge and Then Start Soup for Lunch.” “She’s a Good Woman,” Said Konstantin as She Left. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And All We Give Her Is Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, The Flat’s Willed to Her—The Notary Confirmed It.” “She Doesn’t Know That.” They Stayed on the Balcony Until Lunch. The Chicken Soup Was Delicious, with Finely Cut Meat and Mashed Potatoes. “That’s How I Made Soup for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Small,” Elena Ivanovna Recalled. “And Now, In Our Old Age, Strangers Cook for Us.” Sighed Her Husband. “It’s Just Our Lot, Kostya. When We Die, Nobody Will Even Cry.” “Enough, Lena, Let’s Not Dwell. Let’s Have a Nap!” “Kostya, They Say: ‘Old Folk Are Like Little Ones.’ We Have Pureed Soup, Nap Time, an Afternoon Snack…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed but Soon Woke; He Couldn’t Sleep—Maybe It Was the Weather? He Stepped Into the Kitchen. On the Table, He Found Two Glasses of Juice, Thoughtfully Set Out by Polina. He Picked Them Up and Headed Carefully to His Wife’s Room. She Was Sitting on the Bed, Staring Out the Window. “Why So Glum, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice.” She Took a Sip: “You Can’t Sleep Either?” “The Weather—My Blood Pressure’s Up.” “I’ve Felt Off All Day,” Elena Ivanovna Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Much Time Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off.” “Don’t Be Silly, Lena. What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Will Go First, Either Way.” “That’s Enough! Let’s Go to the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Syrniki for Supper. They Ate and Watched the Telly as Usual, Only Old British Comedies and Cartoons These Days—Anything New Was Hard to Follow. Tonight, They Managed Just One Cartoon. Elena Ivanovna Got Up: “I’m Off to Bed—So Tired Tonight.” “Then I’ll Join You.” “Let Me Have a Good Look at You First!” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “Just Because.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time—Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Was Still Ahead. “I’ll Walk You to Your Bed,” She Said, Taking His Arm, and Slowly Led Him Off. He Tucked Her In, Went to His Own Room, But His Heart Was Heavier than Ever. He Thought He Didn’t Sleep, but the Digital Clock Read Two in the Morning. He Rose and Went to His Wife’s Room. She Was Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open. “Lena!” He Took Her Hand. It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened? Le-e-na!” Suddenly, He Himself Struggled for Breath. He Barely Made It to His Room, Put Their Prepared Documents on the Desk, Then Returned to His Wife. He Gazed at Her Face for a Long Time, Lay Down Beside Her, and Closed His Eyes. He Saw Lena, Young and Beautiful as Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant, Shining Light. He Rushed After, Caught Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered Their Bedroom. They Lay Side by Side, Identical, Contented Smiles on Their Faces. When She Came to Her Senses, She Rang for an Ambulance. The Doctor Examined Them and Shook His Head in Amazement: “They Passed On Together. Must Have Loved Each Other Deeply.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank, Exhausted, onto a Chair by the Table—and Then Spotted the Burial Agreement and… a Will in Her Name. She Buried Her Head in Her Hands and Burst Into Tears.

JUST IN CASE Vera glanced at her tearful colleague, turned indifferently back to her computer, and began typing rapidly. “You’re heartless, Vera,” came the voice of Olga, their manager. “Me? What makes you say that?” “Well, just because your personal life is all sunshine and rainbows doesn’t mean it’s the same for everyone else. You see the poor girl’s beside herself—you could at least show a bit of sympathy, offer some advice, maybe share your experience. Things are going so well for you, after all.” “Me? Share my experience? With her? I doubt our dear Nadia would appreciate that. I did try, you know—about five years ago, when she started showing up to work with black eyes ‘to help her see the road in the morning,’ as she claimed. You weren’t here yet back then. And no, it wasn’t her boyfriend beating her up—she just had a knack for ‘falling over’ at just the right angle. Funny thing, once he rode off into the sunset, the bruises vanished, and he was the third guy to do so. That’s when I decided to try supporting her, to offer a bit of wisdom, as it were. And guess what? I was the villain in the story. Later, my other colleagues clued me in—supporting Nadia is a lost cause. She always ‘knows best’ and hates anyone who meddles in her happiness. She used to run to fortune-tellers, casting love spells; now she’s moved with the times and goes to therapists to ‘work through her trauma.’ She doesn’t realize she’s living the same story over and over—only the names change. So please forgive me, but I won’t be weeping or passing out tissues.” “Still, Vera,” Olga said, “that’s not right.” At lunch, as everyone sat around the same table, all anyone could talk about was Nadia’s ex—the rogue, the cheater. Vera quietly ate her lunch, poured herself a coffee, and retreated to a corner, scrolling through her socials to clear her mind. “Vera,” cheerful, plump Tanya sidled up, her usually bubbly face looking glum today, “don’t you feel even a little bit sorry for Nadia?” “Tanya, what do you want from me?” “Oh, leave her be,” said passing Irina, “Vera’s got her dear Vasily, lives like a queen—she wouldn’t know what it’s like to be left alone with a child, to have no help from anywhere, to fight tooth and nail just to get child support from some deadbeat dad.” “Well, she shouldn’t have had a kid with God-knows-who at her age, pardon me girls,” chimed in Tatiana Ivanovna, the eldest at the office, known as Granny Tanya. “Vera’s right, Nadia’s cried over that guy for ages, he made her life hell even when she was pregnant.” The women all circled the ceaselessly sobbing Nadia, offering every kind of advice under the sun. So, our strong, independent Nadia decided to turn things around. She summoned her mother from the village to help with her son—and her ‘thankless’ ex. Nadia began to heal: she grew bangs, microbladed her eyebrows, glued on lashes, nearly got a nose ring but was talked out of it by the whole department. And suddenly, she was back. “It’s alright, Nadia,” her colleagues cheered, “he’ll regret it, he’ll cry soon enough!” “He won’t cry at all,” Vera muttered, hardly above a whisper, but the tipsy girls heard her. “What do you mean, he won’t cry?” “He just won’t. And he won’t have any regrets. As for Nadia, she’ll find another just like him before long.” “That’s easy for you to say, your Vasily is probably nothing like that…” “Nothing like that. Vasily is the best man in the world—doesn’t cheat, drink, or raise a hand, adores me to bits.” “Yeah, right. All men are dogs.” “Careful, Vera, or we’ll steal him.” “No chance, he wouldn’t go anywhere.” “I wouldn’t be so sure.” “You should be.” Wine-fueled, the girls soon argued as fiercely as wildcats. “Let’s go round to yours and see if Vasily can resist all this beauty! Bet you wouldn’t dare invite us—you’re scared one of us will steal your precious.” “Alright, let’s go.” “Alright, girls, let’s go to Vera’s and see if we can win Vasily over! Granny Tanya, you coming?” “No, I’ve got Mikhail waiting for me at home… You go ahead,” grinned Tatiana Ivanovna. Off they trooped to Vera’s, laughter filling the kitchen as they bustled about. “Let’s whip up something quickly for Vasily. He’s out now, right?” “He’s picky with food and won’t eat much—but yes, you’re right, he’ll be home soon.” The bravado faded, everyone remembered their chores and left, except Nadia, Olga, and Tanya, who stayed for tea and girl chat, feeling awkward while waiting for the mysterious Vasily. At last, someone arrived. “Vasily, my darling boy!” crooned Vera as she went to the hall. The women fell silent, shuffling awkwardly, when in strode a tall, handsome young man. Ah, so that’s it—they all realized at once. Vera’s man was much, much younger. “Ladies, meet my son, Denis. How’s Vasily, Den?” “He’s fine, Mum—just needs some rest after the op. He’ll be running around tomorrow. Don’t let him lick his…” The women blushed. “We… we’ll be off then?” “Wait, you haven’t met Vasily yet—shh, he’s just had surgery. Denis and Lena took him while I was at work… for his, um, snip, since he kept spraying the curtains. Come on in.” Here he is—my Vasily, fast asleep. The ladies nearly burst out laughing—it was a cat. “Vera—it’s a cat!” “Of course it’s a cat—what did you think?” “But… your husband?” “Oh, I’ve not got one. You all leapt to conclusions when I once said I had a wonderful man in my life called Vasily—you made up the rest all by yourselves. I got married young, first love, all that—dropped out of college, had Denis. Three rough years, and we split. Parents helped out as much as they could. Married again closer to thirty—a nice, stable man, made big plans. Wanted an heir, a princess… as for Denis, oh, send him off to military school or dump him on my mum. Sent that husband back to his mother soon enough. She blamed me for being a fool, said, ‘No one wants someone else’s child’—pretty rich coming from a woman whose husband wasn’t Denis’ father, either. Back to just Denis and me. Third time, I knew the odds were against me. ‘Third time lucky,’ as they say. But early on, this one blackened my eye—all in the name of passionate love, apparently. Luckily, Denis took up martial arts at six and I often sparred with him; I learned a few things. Gave that Othello a taste of his own medicine, and that was that. Denis got married, I got bored—so I got myself Vasily the cat. It’s great: I have company for the cinema, for holidays, and no one owes anyone anything, no one nags or demands. Sometimes I cook a nice dinner and invite Denis—he leaves happy, and there’s no drama. Denis used to ask why we didn’t live together. I told him: we’re adults, with our own lives and habits. If we’d been together since youth, like my brother or my parents—maybe. They’ve fused into one after thirty years. I didn’t, so why should I force myself, just to say ‘I’m married’? No, thanks. Vasily and I do just fine. Right, darling, open your eyes—like I warned you, keep on yowling and spraying, and you’ll lose more than dignity.” The girls left deep in thought, especially Nadia. But Nadia couldn’t do it Vera’s way. Within a month, she was gushing about her new beau, accepting bouquets at work. Vera and Granny Tanya quietly smiled. “How’s Mikhail? How’s his leg?” “All healed, Vera, thank goodness—a splinter, most likely, but he’s back to normal. My grandkids said we should show him at dog shows, but why torture him? We’re happy as we are… Looks like things have worked out with Nadia, too.” “Yes, Tatiana Ivanovna—some get a pet, some get a husband…” “Well, everyone to their own.” “Maybe she’ll have better luck this time?” “Let’s hope so.” “What’s all the whispering?” “About you, Nadia—we’re hoping for the best.” “Girls, I know how it looks, but I just can’t be alone, honestly.” “That’s your business—stop making excuses. Everyone has their own life…” “Vera,” Nadia called, catching up to her at the parking lot, “if I need tips on looking after cats, will you help? Which is better, a tom or a queen?” “Go on, they’re waiting for you… We’ll see about that if the time comes…” Vera laughed. “I just want to know—just in case.”

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Iris Was His Daughter—Her Mother Vera Was Always at Work, with Gossip Whispering About Backroom Affairs—So He Resented the Child, Leaving Only Grandpa Matthew to Love and Care for His Granddaughter, Ultimately Leaving His Countryside Cottage to Iris in His Will Only Grandpa Matthew Loved Little Iris As a child, Iris was often ill—delicate, small, unlike anyone in Leonard’s or Vera’s families. “She’s a runt, nothing like us,” Leonard grumbled, fueling his doubts and growing coldness, which soon crept into Vera too. Iris’s only champion was Grandpa Matthew, whose cottage stood on the edge of the village by the woods. A retired forest ranger, he was seen as eccentric, even clairvoyant, and villagers visited for his healing herbs and brews. Widowed long ago, he found solace in the woods and in Iris, who spent more time with him than at home, learning about the land and dreaming of healing people. Her mother dismissed her ambitions, but Grandpa always promised to help, even if it meant selling his cow. He Left His Cottage and a Blessing Vera rarely visited her father—until her son, Andrew, lost badly at cards in town and thugs demanded money. She came begging, but Grandpa Matthew, unmoved, refused: “I won’t pay Andrew’s debts. My priority is Iris’s education.” Furious, Vera stormed out, disowning both her father and her daughter. When Iris got into nursing school, only Grandpa helped her, the rest turning a blind eye. Shortly before her graduation, Grandpa fell ill and, sensing his end, told Iris he was leaving her the house—and a wish for a happy destiny. “Don’t forget this house. Its spirit will protect you. Don’t be afraid to stay, for here, your fate will find you,” he prophesied. Matthew’s Prediction Came True After Matthew’s passing in autumn, Iris worked as a nurse in the district hospital, returning to the cottage on weekends, keeping the hearth burning as he’d asked. One snowy evening, a blizzard stranded a stranger outside—Stan. Iris offered him a shovel and, eventually, hot tea inside until the storm passed. Amused by her independence, Stan offered to see her safely to town—and soon, their paths crossed again. They never had a wedding—just genuine love. Stan tried to persuade her at first but honored her wishes. Their bond ran deep, and when their son was born, the staff marveled how such a tiny woman gave birth to such a strapping lad. Asked what they would name him, Iris always said: “He’ll be Matthew, after a truly wonderful man.”

Life, Like the Moon: Sometimes Full, Sometimes Waning I believed our marriage was as eternal and unbreakable as the universe—how wrong I was… I met my future husband, David, at medical school; we married in our fifth year. My mother-in-law’s wedding gifts were a trip to the Lake District and keys to a new flat. Life seemed perfect. We moved into a three-bedroom flat, with his parents helping us at every turn. Each year, thanks to their generosity, we holidayed all over Europe. We were young and blissful, with our whole future ahead—David became a virologist, I a GP, and our sons, Daniel and Victor, completed our happiness. But looking back, I realise my life then was a river in full flow—I lived in luxury for a decade. And then, it all collapsed overnight. …The doorbell rang. I opened it to a pretty but troubled-looking young woman. ‘Are you Sophia? I’m here to see you—may I come in?’ she asked, hesitantly. She was slightly pregnant. ‘My name’s Tanya. I’m ashamed to say this, but I love your husband. David loves me, too. We’re having a baby,’ she blurted. She handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a gold ring. ‘Is this some kind of bribe? David isn’t for sale!’ I snapped, returning the ring. Tanya began to cry, pleading for understanding, but I felt only sorrow for myself. This woman had stolen my happiness. I pushed the ‘compensation’ back to her, ushered her out, and from that moment, my life began to unravel… My mother-in-law called: David was leaving. She packed his things, gently telling me, ‘We’ll always be family, no matter what. David and his new girl, well—let them get on with it.’ Within months, David had a new family, including Tanya’s daughter from her first marriage. He never visited our sons, sent only minimal support via his mother; it was the ‘90s. I ended up hospitalised with a breakdown. The boys stayed with their grandmother, spoilt and cared for. When I tried to bring them home after my recovery, they refused—her cooking and lenience were too tempting. What could I say? ‘Let them stay with us,’ my mother-in-law coaxed. ‘You’ll need to downsize the flat, anyway.’ So, I was left alone, soon forced to trade our spacious home for a tiny, shabby bedsit—a far cry from before. I saw my sons only on holidays. ‘Let’s not upset the boys’ contentment,’ my mother-in-law would say. They drifted from me; the connection broke. I longed to disappear into my cold, lonely corner. My gran used to say, ‘Life is like the moon: sometimes full, sometimes waning.’ It couldn’t go on like that. Even my first-class medical degree felt meaningless. …Work sent me to a conference in France, where I had a whirlwind romance with a Serbian doctor, Ivan. For ten days, I came back to life. There were other brief liaisons after, but nothing lasting. Once, my mother-in-law remarked, ‘Sophia, you’re glowing! You look like spring itself!’ Yet I remained alone. When my best friend emigrated to Greece, she introduced me to her ex. ‘Sophia, you take Alexander! He’s all yours now!’ she joked. So, I picked up the pieces of a man left behind. Alexander became my husband, but he had a major flaw: he was a hopeless alcoholic. I couldn’t leave him, no matter the heartbreak, and spent seven years fighting for him—rehab, doctors, tears. At last, he sobered up and now works as a driver at the local mortuary—sobering work, but he comes home quiet and, more importantly, sober. My friend from Greece can scarcely believe it: ‘Alexander isn’t drinking? I don’t believe it!’ I just laugh: ‘No refunds or exchanges!’ My sons are in their thirties now, both bachelors after witnessing so much marital upheaval as boys. I doubt I’ll have grandchildren. As for my ex-husband, David—his second wife, Tanya, drank herself into oblivion, and their daughter is now a single mum. David remarried again, this time to his nurse. Just before the wedding, he even asked our sons, ‘Would your mum want to start over with me?’ I answered sharply, ‘When pigs fly! In other words—never!’