Oh, girl, you greet him in vain – he’ll never marry you Vera had just turned sixteen when her mum passed away. Her father had left for the city to look for work seven years earlier and was never heard from again—no letters, no money. Nearly everyone in the village attended the funeral and helped as best they could. Aunt Mary, Vera’s godmother, often stopped by, reminding her what needed doing. Vera finished school and got a job at the post office in the neighbouring village. Vera was a strong girl—people said she was the picture of health, with a rosy round face, a button nose, sparkling grey eyes, and a thick honey-coloured braid down to her waist. The most handsome boy in the village was Nick. Two years home from the army, he had girls flocking around him. Even city girls who came for the summer took notice. He should have been acting in Hollywood films, not driving trucks in a village. Nick wasn’t ready to settle down—choosing himself a bride wasn’t on his mind. This summer, Aunt Mary asked Nick to help Vera fix her fence—without a man’s strength, life is tough in the countryside. Vera managed the garden on her own, but not the house. Nick agreed right away, looked over the fence, and started giving orders: ‘Fetch this, run over there, bring, hand me that.’ Vera did as he asked, cheeks growing redder as her braid whipped behind her. When Nick got tired, Vera would feed him hearty soup and strong tea, watching as he bit into black bread with strong white teeth. Three days Nick worked on the fence, but on the fourth, he came by just to visit. Vera fed him supper, and after a chat, he stayed the night. Soon, Nick was dropping by regularly, leaving before sunrise so no one saw. But in a village, nothing stays secret for long. “Oh, girl, you greet him in vain—he’ll never marry you. And if he does, you’ll suffer for it. When summer comes and city beauties appear, what will you do? You’ll burn with jealousy. You need a different sort of boy,” Aunt Mary would say. But when does youth in love ever listen to wisdom? Soon Vera realised she was expecting. At first, she thought she was ill, but then it hit her—she was carrying Nick’s child. She thought of giving it up—it was too soon for a baby. But then she decided she’d manage; better not to be alone. Her mother raised her, and she’d cope too. Her father had hardly helped, always gone or drinking. People would gossip, then quiet down. Come spring, Vera took off her coat, and the whole village saw her round belly. They shook their heads, saying trouble had come to the girl. Nick stopped by to ask what she’d do. “What else? I’ll have the child. Don’t worry—I’ll raise him myself. Carry on,” she said, busying herself at the stove. Only the blush of fire played on her cheeks and eyes. Nick admired Vera, but left. She’d made up her mind. Summer came, and with it, city girls—Nick forgot about Vera. She tended her garden quietly, with Aunt Mary helping out—hard work with a belly so big. Vera hauled buckets from the well, and village women predicted a strong boy. “Whoever God gives,” Vera joked. One September morning, Vera woke in pain. The labour had begun. She rushed to Aunt Mary, whose eyes told her she understood at once. “Is it time? Sit—I’ll fetch help.” Aunt Mary ran to Nick, who was only just awake after a late night. She roused him, and when he realised, he shouted, “Ten miles to the hospital! If we wait for a doctor, she’ll have the baby before they get here. I’ll drive straight away—get Vera ready!” “But in a truck? You’ll shake her to bits!” Aunt Mary protested. “You’d better come too, just in case,” Nick retorted. They crawled the battered road, Aunt Mary sat on a sack in the back. On the asphalt, the drive went faster. Vera writhed in pain on the passenger seat, clutching her belly to keep from crying out. Nick sobered up quickly, pale-knuckled at the wheel, thinking of his own life. They got Vera to the hospital in time. Aunt Mary scolded Nick the whole way back: “Why did you ruin the girl’s life? Alone, without parents—just a child herself, and you’ve given her more worry. How will she cope with a baby?” Before they reached the village, Vera was already the mother of a healthy, strong baby boy. The next morning, the nurse brought him to her. Vera didn’t know how to hold or feed her baby. She stared fearfully into his wrinkled red face, biting her lip as she did what she was instructed. Yet Vera’s heart trembled with joy. She marvelled at him, blowing on his fine hair and smiling, awkward and happy. “Will anyone come to pick you up?” a stern doctor asked as Vera was about to be discharged. Vera shrugged and shook her head. “Probably not.” The doctor sighed and left. The nurse wrapped Vera’s baby in a hospital blanket for the journey home, instructing she return it. “Fred will drive you and the little one back in the hospital car. You can’t use the regular bus with an infant,” the nurse said, kindly if gruff. Vera thanked her, head down, face reddening with embarrassment as she made her way down the corridor. On the drive home, Vera hugged her son, anxious about life ahead. Maternity payments would barely be enough—she felt sorry for herself and her innocent baby. But gazing at her sleeping son, Vera’s heart filled with tenderness, brushing away her worries. Suddenly, the car stopped. Vera looked anxiously at Fred, a short man in his fifties. “What’s wrong?” “Two days of rain—look at these puddles. I can’t drive through, and if I try, I’ll get stuck. Only a truck or tractor could make it.” “Sorry—you’ll have to walk. It’s only a couple of miles left,” he said, nodding at the flooded road. Her baby slept as she struggled to hold him. The only word for him—strong. But how to walk that road? Vera carefully climbed out, cradled her son, and picked her way along the edge of the puddle, mud clutching at her ankles, each step threatening a slip. Her worn shoes squelched. She wished she’d worn wellies. One shoe was claimed by the mud. Vera stopped, considered, then left it behind, pressing on. By the time she reached her village, dusk had fallen, her feet numb from cold, exhaustion overriding any surprise at seeing light in her windows. She stepped onto the dry porch, shivering yet drenched in sweat. Vera opened the door and froze. By the wall stood a baby cot, a pram filled with smart baby clothes. At the table, Nick lay sleeping, head resting on his arms. Whether he heard her or felt her gaze, Nick looked up. Vera, red-faced and dishevelled, barely stood in the doorway with her baby. Her dress was soaked, her legs muddy up to her knees and minus a shoe. Seeing her like this, Nick rushed over, took the baby and laid him in the cot. He stoked the stove, drawing hot water. He sat her down, helped her undress and wash her feet. While Vera changed behind the stove, Nick set out boiled potatoes and a jug of milk. Then the baby cried. Vera hurried over, picked him up and, unselfconsciously, began to feed him. “What did you name him?” Nick asked, his voice rough. “Sergei. Is that alright?” Vera looked up at him with clear, shining eyes. There was so much longing and love in them, Nick’s heart ached. “A lovely name. Tomorrow we’ll go register our lad and get married too.” “You don’t have to…” Vera began, watching her son nurse. “No—my son should have a father. I’ve had my fill of fun; I don’t know what sort of man I’ll be, but I won’t abandon my boy.” Vera nodded, head bowed. Two years later, they had a daughter, Hope, named for Vera’s mother. It doesn’t matter what mistakes you make at the start of life—what counts is that you can always make them right… That’s how life goes. Tell us in the comments what you think? Give us a like.

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 2

Oh, lass, youre wasting your greetings on himhell never marry.

Martha had only just turned sixteen when her mother passed away. Her father had gone off to London for work seven years ago and simply vanishedno letters, no pounds sent home.

Nearly everyone in the village turned out for the funeral, helping as best they could: casseroles, spare hands, kind words. Aunt MaryMarthas godmothercame by often, reminding her about washing, cooking, lifes little tasks. She finished at the village school and got herself a job at the post office in the next village over.

Martha was a sturdy girl, the sort the old folks called apple-cheeked. Her face was round and rosy, her nose buttonlike, but her grey eyes sparkled. Thick, sandy braid trailing down her back.

The handsomest lad in the village was Nicholas. Hed been home from the army for two years, and the girls hadnt given him a moments peace. Even the London girls who visited in summer tried to catch his eye.

He ought not be driving tractors in the countryside, but strutting in West End films, the old ladies joked. Nicholas hadnt settled down yet, hadnt bothered searching for a bride.

One day, Aunt Mary appeared at his door and asked him to help Martha mend her fenceit was listing by the lane. Without a man around, it was hard to get by. Martha could manage the veg patch, but the house was another story.

He didnt argue. He turned up, inspected the fence, and started barking orders: fetch this, nip over there, bring that, hand it here. Martha always hurried to do what he asked, cheeks flaming, her plait swishing furiously.

When he tired, shed feed him rich beef stew and brew strong tea. Martha watched, enchanted, as he bit into the dense brown bread with his straight white teeth.

Nicholas worked on the fence for three days, but on the fourth, he simply dropped by for a visit. Martha fed him dinner, one word led to another, and he spent the night. After that, it became habithe left before sunrise so no one would see. But, in a village, secrets stay hidden no longer than the mist.

Oh, lass, youre smiling for nothinghell never wed you. And if he does, youll have no end of heartache. Just wait till the city girls arrive for summerwhat then? Jealousy will eat you up. Hes not the type for you, Aunt Mary said, shaking her head.

But youth in love never heeds wisdom.

Soon she realised she was expecting. At first, she thought shed caught a chill or eaten something offweakness, nausea rolling over her. Then, the realisation struck as if someone had rung the church bell in her skullshe was carrying Nicholas child.

Sinful thoughts cameshe was far too young for motherhood. But then she reckoned it was better than living alone. Her mother had raised her; surely she could do the same. Her father hadnt been any use, rarely sober. Folk would talk, then settle.

Come spring, Martha shed her winter coat, and her swelling belly became the villages silent news. Their heads shookpoor Martha, what trouble shes gotten into. Nicholas turned up, looking worried, asking what shed do.

What else? Ill have it. Dont fret, Ill raise the child myself. Go about your life, she said, puttering at the stove as the flashes of fire danced over her cheeks and eyes.

Nicholas admired her, but left. Shed made her choice as easily as rain runs from a ducks back. Then summer came and sleek city girls arrived; Nicholas visits ceased.

Martha kept busy with her vegetables; Aunt Mary lent a hand weeding. It was hard to bend with her belly. She toted water in half-buckets from the well. The village women predicted a strapping boy.

Whoever God gives, Martha laughed.

One morning in mid-September, she woke to stabbing pain, like her middle was being split open. The pain faded, returned again. She rushed to Aunt Mary, who understood in a glance.

Is it time? Sit stillIll sort it, she cried, bolting out the door.

She dashed to Nicholas. His lorry stood outside, daffodil yellow and splattered with mud. Holidaymakers had all gone home. Nicholas, of course, had drunk himself silly the previous night.

Aunt Mary shook him awake. He blinked in confusion, grasping at reality, and when he understood, he cried:

Its six miles to the hospital! By the time the doctor comes and goes, shell have the child in the hedgerow. Ill drive her myself. Get her ready!

In the lorry? Youll shake her to bits, and the baby will tumble out on a bump, Mary wailed.

Then come with us, just in case, Nicholas declared.

He crept along two miles of rutted road, swerving round one pothole only to careen into another. Aunt Mary crouched on a sack in the back. When they reached tarmac, he sped up.

Martha writhed on the passenger seat, biting her lip, clutching her belly. Nicholas sobered up within minutes. Glancing sideways, he saw Martha pale and defiant, his knuckles whitening on the wheel, mind whirring.

They reached the hospital in time. Martha stayed; he and Mary rode home. Mary scolded Nicholas grimly all the way:

Look what youve done, ruining a young girls life! Shes got no parents, still a child herself, and now saddled with trouble. How will she cope?

They hadnt reached the village before Martha was mother to a hefty baby boy. The next morning, she was handed him for a feedshe didnt know how to hold him or guide him to her breast.

She stared at the tiny, red, scrunched-up face, doing what she was told, lip chewed in worry. Her heart, meanwhile, fluttered with wild joy. She blew gently on the fuzzy brow, wonderstruck.

Will anyone fetch you home? asked the stern, grey-haired doctor at discharge.

Martha shook her head.

Doubt it.

The doctor sighed and left. The matron wrapped her baby in a hospital blanket, strict about its return.

Fredll drive you home in the hospital car. You cant ride the bus with a baby, the nurse said, reproachful.

Martha thanked her, walking down the corridor, head low, cheeks scarlet. She rode home, clutching her son, fretting about how theyd manage.

Maternity pay was barely enough to keep the kettle warm. She pitied herself and her innocent boy. One look at his wrinkled sleeping face, and her heart flooded with tenderness, pushing aside the dark thoughts.

Suddenly, the car stopped. Whats wrong? Martha asked.

Fred, a stout man of fifty, nodded out the window.

Rains been pouring for two dayslook at those puddles, nothing but a lake. Ill get stuck. Only the lorry or a tractor could make it.

Sorry, its only another mile or so. Can you walk? He gestured at the flooded lane stretching ahead.

The baby was heavy; her legs already tired from sitting. One wordstrong as an ox. How could she wade through this?

Careful, Martha eased out, settled her son more securely and picked a path along the rim of the great puddle. Her shoes sank ankle-deep in mud, slippery as soap.

Her battered boots sloshed and squelched. If only shed worn her wellies to hospital. One shoe stuck, hopeless; with the baby in her arms, she left it behind.

It was dusk by the time she reached the village, numb with cold. Her feet had lost sensation, yet she was sweating with exertion. Lights shone in her cottage window.

Up the stepsher feet freezing, sweat trickling as she strained. She opened the door and froze.

By the wall, a cot and a pram stood, laden with dainty baby clothes. At the table, Nicholas slept, head tucked in his arms.

Whether he heard or simply sensed her, Nicholas looked up. Martha stood red-faced, hair wild, clutching the baby in the doorway, dress soaked, legs caked in mud and missing a shoe.

Seeing her shoeless, Nicholas leapt up, took the baby to the cot, rushed to the hearth to fetch a pan of hot water.

He seated her, helped her wash and change. By the time she emerged from behind the stove, potatoes bubbled on the table, a jug of milk beside.

The baby cried. Martha darted over, scooped him up, sat down and, shamelessly, began to feed.

What have you named him? Nicholas asked, voice thick.

Samuel. Do you mind? Marthas clear eyes found his.

A mix of sorrow and love caught him, squeezing his heart.

A fine name. Tomorrow, well register him and get married straight away.

Its not necessary Martha began, watching her son nurse.

My boy needs a father. Im done playing around. I dont know how good Ill be, but I wont abandon him.

Martha nodded, silent.

Two years later, they had a girl as well, named Hope in honour of Marthas mother.

No matter what mistakes you make at the beginning, you can always try to put things right

And so thats how life spun out, curiously and unexpectedly. What do you make of it all? Leave your thoughts below, and give it a like if you please.

After Speaking with the Adopted Girl, I Realised Not Everything Was as It Seemed Beside me on a park bench sat a five-year-old girl, swinging her legs as she told me about her life: “I’ve never seen my dad because he left me and Mum when I was very little. Mum died a year ago. The grown-ups told me she’d passed away. The girl looked at me and continued her story: “After the funeral, Auntie Liz—Mum’s sister—came to live with us. They said she was doing the right thing not sending me to a children’s home. They explained that now Auntie Liz was my guardian and I’d live with her. The girl fell silent, stared under the bench, then continued: “After I moved in, Auntie Liz started tidying the house: she put all my mum’s belongings in a corner and wanted to throw them away. I started crying and begged her not to, so she let me keep them. Now I sleep in that corner. At night I lie on top of Mum’s things and feel warm there—it’s like she’s with me. Every morning, Auntie gives me something to eat. She’s not the best cook—Mum was better—but she always asks me to finish everything on my plate. I don’t want to upset her, so I eat it all. I know she’s made an effort to cook. It’s not her fault if she can’t cook like Mum. Then she sends me out to play, and I’m not allowed back until it starts to get dark. Auntie Liz is very, very nice! She loves to boast about me to her friends. I don’t know these friends but they visit our house often. Auntie sits with them over tea, tells funny stories, says nice things about me, and treats us both to sweets. After these words, the girl sighed and went on: “I can’t just eat sweets all the time. Auntie’s never scolded me for anything. She’s always kind. Once she even gave me a doll—of course, the doll is a bit poorly, her leg is bad and one of her eyes squints a lot. My mum never gave me a poorly doll. The little girl jumped off the bench and started hopping on one foot: “I have to go because Auntie told me her friends are coming today, and I have to dress nicely before they arrive. She promised me a delicious cake afterwards. Goodbye! The girl hopped off the bench and hurried away to do her errands. I sat for a long time thinking, my thoughts circling around “kind” Auntie Liz. I wondered: what was really going on with this well-meaning aunt? Why did she want everyone to believe she was so noble? How could anyone turn a blind eye to a child sleeping on the floor, wrapped in her late mother’s clothes…

We’re Moving Into Your Flat — Olivia’s got a great city-centre flat. Newly refurbished, nothing to complain about! — It’s perfect for a single girl, — Rusty smiled at Anna, the way you might humour a child. — But we’re planning for two, maybe even three kids. One after another! It’s noisy in the city centre, the air’s rubbish, and you can never park. And it’s only two rooms. Whereas you’ve got three here. Plus, it’s quiet, and there’s a nursery in the courtyard. — It really is a nice area, — agreed Simon, still not grasping where his future son-in-law was going with this. — That’s why we settled here. — Exactly! — Rusty snapped his fingers. — I keep telling Olivia: why squeeze into a tiny flat when we’ve got the perfect solution? There’s only the three of you here: you, your wife, and your little girl. It’s more space than you need. You don’t even use that third room—it’s just a storage dump now! It would suit us perfectly. Anna was trying to shove the carpet cleaner into a cramped cupboard in the hallway. The vacuum seemed to fight back, its hose snagging on the coat rack, refusing to go where it was put. — Simon, help me out here! — she called towards the lounge. — Either this cupboard’s shrunk or I’ve lost my knack for packing things. Simon popped out of the bathroom—he’d just finished tinkering with the tap. Calm, always a bit slow and steady, he was Anna’s opposite in every way. — I’ve got it, Annie. Pass it here. He took the monstrous cleaner with one swoop, tucking it snugly in the corner of the cupboard. Anna exhaled and leaned against the doorframe. — Tell me, why do we never have enough space? It’s a big flat, three rooms, but every time we clean, it feels like we ought to chuck all our stuff on the street. — It’s because you’re a hoarder, — Simon grinned. — Why do we need three dinner sets? We only use one, twice a year! — Let them be, they’re keepsakes. It was Gran’s flat, after all. After the wedding, Simon’s parents divvied up the inheritance fairly: Simon got Gran’s roomy three-bedroom in a quiet area, and his sister Olivia got a central two-bedroom, right in the “golden square”. Moneywise, it balanced out. Five years, everyone got along famously, no jealousy. Anna thought it would always be that way, but… *** Cleaning done, chaos tamed, they sat down for a breather. Just as the telly flickered on, the doorbell rang. Simon went to answer. — Sis and her fiancé are here, — he told his wife, peeking through the spyhole. First in, Olivia practically bounced inside. Rusty followed, heavy-footed. Anna had only met him twice before. Olly found him at some gym six months ago. Rusty rubbed Anna the wrong way immediately—pompous, superior. He looked down on both her and Simon. — Hey there! — Olivia kissed her brother’s cheek and hugged Anna. — We were just passing by—had to drop in. We’ve got news! — Come on in, then. News is always nice, — Simon invited them to the kitchen. — Cup of tea? — Water’s fine, — Rusty plodded after the host. — This is a serious chat, mate. Truth is, they weren’t “just passing by”. They had a mission. No faffing, forget the tea. Sit down. Anna suddenly felt uneasy—Rusty’s tone gave her the creeps. What was this about? — Well, out with it, — Simon shrugged. Olivia pretended oblivious, busy with her phone, letting her fiancé do the talking. Rusty cleared his throat. — Here’s the deal. We’ve filed our notice: wedding in three months. Obviously, I have big plans for us. Family, a home, happily ever after. We’ve thought about our living situation… We’ll move in here, and you’ll move into Olivia’s! Anna was gobsmacked. She stared at her husband, then at her sister-in-law—still scrolling through her socials as if she wasn’t involved. — Rusty, I’m not sure I understand, — Simon frowned. — What are you getting at? — No hints, just a practical solution. Let’s swap! We move in here, you take Olly’s flat. Olly’s in full agreement, we both think it’s totally fair. Anna was stunned again. — Fair? — she echoed. — Rusty, are you serious right now? You come into our home and suggest we leave because you want more kids? — No need to be so harsh, Anna, — Rusty winced. — I’m just being rational. You have one child, and I hear you’re not planning more. So why do you need all this extra space? It’s just not sensible. We, on the other hand, have potential. — Oh, we’ve got potential, have we! — Anna jumped up. — Simon, are you hearing this nonsense? Simon raised a hand, signalling Anna to stay quiet. — Rusty, maybe you forgot: my parents gave us this flat, just as they did Olly with hers. We’ve spent five years fixing this place up, choosing every skirting board. Our daughter’s got her own room, friends on this block, her routines. And you want us to uproot and swap flats just because it suits you? — Calm down, mate, — Rusty reclined lazily. — You’re family. Olly’s your own sister. Doesn’t her future mean anything to you? Anyway, I’m offering you a straight swap. You’d get a place in a prime area. I even crunched the numbers—it’s a good deal. — This is rich, — Simon chuckled. — You haven’t even married my sister yet, but you’re already after my flat! At last Olivia glanced up from her phone. — Oh, don’t start! — she whined. — Rusty just wants the best for us. It really will be crowded in my place when there are kids. And your hallway’s big enough for five-a-side football. Mum always said—family comes first. Don’t you remember, Simon? — Mum said help each other, Olly, not evict your brother for your own convenience! — Anna shot back. — Can you hear what Rusty’s saying? — What’s wrong with what he’s saying? — Olivia widened her eyes. — He’s making sense. We need it more. You’ve got a spare room anyway. — It’s not spare! — Anna all but shouted. — It’s my home office! In case you forgot, I work in there! — Work, right — Rusty snorted. — Posting pretty pictures online? Olly says it’s just a hobby. You can work from the kitchen table, no need for a study. Simon stood up slowly. — Right, — he said quietly. — Conversation’s over. Out. Both of you. — Simon, seriously? — Rusty didn’t budge. — We came here to have a proper family talk. — Proper? — Simon stepped closer. — You’re asking for my home and insulting my wife at the same time—telling our daughter where she should live? D’you have any shame? — Shame! — Anna joined her husband. — He’s just after what he can get. He hasn’t even proposed yet and already he’s dividing up our property. Olly, do you even realise who you brought into the family? You’ll be next—he’ll toss you out of your own flat! — Don’t you dare talk about him like that! — Olivia sprang up. — Rusty’s looking after me! Our future! You lot… you’re just greedy. Clinging to your precious rooms like misers. Some brother you are! — The greedy one’s your future husband, — Simon pointed to the door. — For the hard of hearing: get out. And forget about the swap—forever. Try this again and we’re done. Rusty rose, adjusted his shirt collar. Not a flicker of embarrassment—just irritation. — Your loss, Si. I thought we could sort something out. But if you’re that stubborn… Come on Olly, we’re leaving! When the door slammed behind them, Anna collapsed onto the sofa, shaking. — Did you see that? Did you actually see that? — She stared at her husband, wide-eyed. — The nerve! Who does he think he is? Simon was silent, standing at the window, watching Rusty swagger to his car and bark at Olivia outside. — Know what’s really gutting? — he finally said. — Olivia actually believes he’s right. She’s always had her head in the clouds, but this… — He’s brainwashed her! — Anna started pacing. — We have to call your mum—your folks need to know what their new son-in-law’s planning. — Wait, — Simon pulled out his phone. — I’ll ring my sister first. Just her. Without that peacock around. He dialled. It rang for ages. Olivia finally picked up, sniffling. — Hello! — she muttered. — Olivia, listen up, — Simon’s voice was steely. — Are you in the car with him? — What’s it to you? — If he’s there, put it on speaker. I want him to hear. — I’m not in the car, — Olivia sobbed. — He dropped me off outside and drove off. Said he needed to cool down because my family is a bunch of selfish prats. Simon, why are you all like this? He just wanted everything to be perfect for us… — Olivia, wake up! — Simon nearly yelled. — Perfect? He waltzed in and tried to wrangle my flat! Do you even get that it’s your inheritance? And he’s already acting like it’s his. Did he even mention the swap before we all sat in the kitchen? There was silence. — No, — Olivia whispered finally. — He said he had a surprise for everyone. That he’d figured out what would be best. — Nice surprise. Decided both our lives for us. Without asking. Who exactly are you marrying, Liv? He’s just a gold-digger. Today my flat, tomorrow your car isn’t big enough, next your parents’ cottage is too good for you. — Don’t say that… — Olivia’s voice trembled. — He loves me. — If he did, he wouldn’t start drama over nothing! He pit us against each other! Anna still hasn’t recovered. Can’t you see, he wanted to split us up? — I’ll talk to him, — Olivia said, uncertain. — Do that. And think hard before you march down the aisle. Simon hung up and tossed his phone on the sofa. — What did she say? — Anna asked softly. — Didn’t know a thing. Rusty had a “surprise” lined up. Anna gave a bitter laugh. — Picture it: Lord of the Manor, moving people around like chess pieces. Flats this way, families that way. Makes me sick. — Well, — Simon put his arm around her. — He’s not getting our home, that’s for sure. But I feel for Liv. He’ll ruin her. *** Simon and Anna’s worst fears didn’t come true—Olivia never made it down the aisle. Rusty dumped her that same evening. A tear-stained Olivia turned up at her brother’s late at night and spilled everything. Rusty had shown up, started packing his things immediately. Olivia panicked and asked what was going on. Rusty declared that he wasn’t joining such a stingy family. — He said he doesn’t need “relatives” like us, — Olivia sobbed. — He can’t rely on you, apparently. Said you’d never babysit our kids at the weekend. Wouldn’t even give us money if we needed it. — Oh Olivia, love, why are you upset? — Anna retorted. — You don’t need a man like that! He’s unreliable, only out for himself. Forget him! Olivia moped for a couple months, then started to recover. Looking back, she finally saw his true colours. If she’d married him, she’d have been miserable for life. Must have been fate she didn’t.

“It Doesn’t Look Right That Your Children Will Have Homes While My Son Won’t – Let’s Get Him a Flat With a Mortgage!” Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have their own homes, yet his son does not—and now he insists we must figure out how to get his son a flat as well. I should explain that my children are both mine and Anthony’s, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it fall to me to worry about providing his son with a place to live? Sure, I knew Anthony was divorced with a child before we met, and that’s partly why I didn’t rush to marry him. We lived together for three years before tying the knot. I took my time observing his feelings for his ex-wife and son. A year into marriage, I had a son of my own, then, after another two years, a second. I’m completely happy with Anthony as both husband and father—he devotes time to me and the kids and has a good job. Of course, we have the occasional row, but that’s normal in any family. We’d been living in the flat I inherited from my dad. My mum divorced him when I was in nursery, and later remarried, but she had no other children. Anthony and his first wife had always rented, trying for years to save for a mortgage, but never managed it. After his divorce, his ex moved back in with her parents, and Anthony found a place to rent for himself. When we married, he moved into my flat. We never quibbled about ownership—we just lived together, renovated, bought new furniture. But then, about eighteen months ago, both my grandmothers passed away in succession (my mum’s and my dad’s mums). Each flat was willed to me. With our children still young, I decided to let those flats. One rental goes to top up my mum’s pension, the other supplements my salary—after all, extra cash is always handy. Anthony never meddled in my property affairs, as they were never his concern. I’d made it clear from the start that, when our sons were older, each would receive a flat from me. He agreed and that was that—the matter seemed settled. Then suddenly, Anthony said, “My son will finish sixth form shortly. He’s nearly grown up and needs to think about his future now! Your children have flats—but my son doesn’t! Let’s buy my son a flat with a mortgage!” I was stunned and full of questions. First off, I asked why our mutual children suddenly became just “my” children. But Anthony asked me not to split hairs. “But my son will never inherit anything. I just want him to have a place of his own!” “That’s very thoughtful,” I replied. “But your son has both a father and a mother—surely it’s up to both of you to see to that. Why isn’t his mum involved?” Anthony told me his ex doesn’t earn much, so her parents always help out. He can’t cover a mortgage on his own—but if I get involved, everything will work out. Apparently, I was just expected to agree to Anthony getting a mortgage to buy his son a flat—in his son’s name—while we would both be responsible for paying it off. “We both earn good salaries and have the rental income—we’ll manage just fine!” Anthony insisted. But this would require scrimping and saving substantially. Anthony still pays child support, and when his son goes to university, he’ll help out again, as his son’s mum can’t afford to. It turned out that, for the sake of Anthony’s son, my kids and I would have to forego holidays and weekends at the seaside, and pinch every penny—all so Anthony can appear to be the perfect dad! I could understand if Anthony had provided the flats for our children and now wanted to do the same for his eldest. But those properties come from me—Anthony had nothing to do with them. Why should I pay a mortgage for his son? I told Anthony right away, if he’s worried about his son’s housing, his ex-wife should get a mortgage—with the repayments coming out of his maintenance payments. I made it clear I wouldn’t be involved. Now, Anthony is furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me for a week. It’s a shame he can’t see my point of view.

Oh, Girl, Don’t Waste Your Greetings on Him – He Won’t Marry You When Vera lost her mother just after turning sixteen, her father had vanished years ago chasing city work and never returned, no word or money. The whole village turned out for her mother’s funeral, each offering help as they could. Her godmother, Aunt Maria, checked in often, showing Vera the ropes of daily life. After finishing school, they found Vera work at the post office in the neighboring village. Vera was sturdy, healthy—a true country girl, rosy-cheeked, round-faced, with a bold potato nose but brilliant grey eyes, and a thick blond braid down her back. Hands-down the most handsome fellow in the village was Nicholas. Back from two years in the army, he was swarmed by girls—village and city vacationers alike. He could’ve starred in Hollywood films, not just driven a truck in the countryside, and he certainly wasn’t planning to settle down anytime soon. One day Aunt Maria asked Nicholas to help Vera fix her weaving fence, which was falling over—life was hard for single women in the village. Vera could manage the garden but couldn’t tackle the house alone. Nicholas agreed without fuss, arriving to inspect and quickly issuing orders: “fetch this, bring that.” Vera did as he asked, cheeks growing redder, braid swinging. When he tired, she fed him rich borscht and strong tea, silently watching him bite into dark bread with white, healthy teeth. Nicholas worked on the fence for three days, and on the fourth, he came for a visit. Vera gave him dinner, and as talk spun on, he ended up staying the night. Soon he became a regular, always leaving before sunrise to dodge prying eyes—but in a village, nothing stays secret for long. “Oh, girl, don’t waste your greetings on him—he won’t marry you. If he does, you’ll suffer. When the city beauties return in summer, what’ll you do? Eat your heart out with jealousy. You need a different kind of man,” Aunt Maria warned. But who ever listened to old wisdom when young and in love? Vera soon realized she was expecting. She thought she was ill at first—then the truth hit hard: she was having Nicholas’s child. Despair tempted her to get rid of it; she felt too young. Yet she remembered her mother’s strength and decided she could do it, even alone. At least she wouldn’t be totally by herself. Her own father hadn’t been much help either—always drinking. People would gossip, but they’d eventually move on. Spring came, Vera shed her winter coat, and the whole village noticed her swelling belly. Nicholas came by to check what she planned to do. “What else? I’ll have the baby. Don’t worry, I’ll raise him myself. Go on living your life,” she said, tending the fire, her cheeks and eyes aglow with its light. Nicholas admired her but left—she’d made her decision. He was like water off a duck’s back. Summer drew in, city girls arrived, and Nicholas’s attention strayed elsewhere. Vera carried on quietly, minding her garden, Aunt Maria helping when she could—being pregnant made everything harder. They predicted a strong baby. “Whoever God gives me,” Vera joked. One morning in September, fierce pain woke her. She rushed to Aunt Maria, who instantly understood—labour had begun. They scrambled to get Nicholas, who’d been drinking the night before. Realizing the hospital was ten miles away, Nicholas insisted on driving her immediately, even if it meant taking the truck over pothole-ridden roads. Aunt Maria rode in the back. Vera wriggled in pain beside Nicholas, who gripped the steering wheel, face drawn with worry. They made it in time. Nicholas and Aunt Maria left her at the hospital, scolded along the way for leaving a young woman alone and with child. By the next morning, Vera held a healthy baby boy. Unsure how to handle him, she followed every instruction, heart trembling with happiness and fear. “Will someone pick you up before discharge?” the stern doctor asked. “Unlikely,” she shrugged. The nurse bundled up her son in a hospital blanket for the journey home, scolding her for the bare means she had. Fedor, the hospital driver, took them as far as he could—floods had made the last two miles impossible by car. Vera climbed out, cradling her son, trudging through ankle-deep mud, losing a shoe along the way, until she reached the village in near-darkness. Inside, she found a cot, a pram, new baby clothes—all ready. At the table, Nicholas slept, his head in his arms. Seeing Vera—disheveled, muddy, holding their baby—he rushed to help, took the child, washed her feet, and set out food. When the baby cried, Vera fed him unashamedly as Nicholas asked, “What did you name him?” “Sergio. Do you mind?” she replied. Nicholas’s heart ached at her sorrow and love. “Good name. Tomorrow we’ll register the boy and get married.” “That’s not necessary…” Vera started. “My son needs a father. I’ve had my fun—done playing the bachelor. I can’t say what sort of husband I’ll be, but I won’t abandon my son.” Vera nodded quietly. Two years later, they welcomed a daughter, Nadia, named after Vera’s mother. It doesn’t matter what mistakes you make at the start of life—what counts is that you can always set things right… That’s how life goes. Share your thoughts in the comments and give us a like!