Oksana Surprises Her Mum and Little Sister on New Year’s Eve—A Heartwarming Reunion, A French Roast Dinner, and an Unexpected Encounter on the Train That Might Just Change Her Life

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 1

Charlotte arrived at her mothers for New Years Eve. She wanted it to be a surprise, so she hadnt breathed a word about her plans. As she neared the little cottage by the village green, Charlotte knocked on the old blue door with a smile twisting at her lips. Not a moment passed before the door swung open, and her younger sister Molly came bounding out, squealing with delight.

The day shimmered by in a blur of laughter and preparations. While Charlotte and Molly chopped vegetables for the salads, their mother was busy in the kitchen, preparing Charlottes favourite dishbeef and mushroom pie, golden and rich.

I just had a feeling youd turn up, her mother mused, wiping her hands on her apron. Bought an extra dozen eggs only yesterday, and thought, well, what if she brings someone home? You havent been seeing anyone after James, have you?

No, Mum. Lets not get into that again, Charlotte replied, brushing off the question.

Suddenly, Charlottes phone buzzed on the countertop. She glanced at the screen and nearly dropped her knife in shock.

Oh, New Years, she muttered inwardly, how I love you and dread you all at oncewith those endless reports and audits. Tomorrow would finally be the last day before two weeks’ holiday. The thought alone was almost enough to lift the exhaustion that clung to her from a grueling month.

She was hunched over her laptop late into the evening, finalising the year-end report, hoping the auditors would find no faults tomorrow. The office manager had said, if she passed inspection, shed be off duty until January 12th. Shed worked herself to the bone to earn this breaka precious chance to visit Mum and Molly.

She still needed to dash to the shops for Mums present. Shed bought Molly a phone weeks ago, carefully planned and purchased early. Her train ticket was stowed in her handbaga lower bunk, first class, bought at the start of the month just in case. If something came up, shed simply return it.

That night she dreamed a strange, vivid dreama little girl of five or six sat alone on a tree stump deep in an English wood, leafing through a book. Charlotte asked quietly, Are you lost? Where are your parents?

The girl answered, No, I havent been found yet. But youwake up, dont sleep through your fateits coming for you tonight! Up you get, you still have that report to file!

Charlottes eyes flickered open. She stared at the clock. Good heavens, Ive nearly overslept! Of all the mornings to be late

Today of all days, she thought, grabbing her clothes and rushing about her London flat. Fifteen minutes later, she flicked on the light in the bathroom, applying a touch of mascara as quickly as she dared.

Coffee would have to wait for the office. Coat on, scarf wound tight, Charlotte tore down the stairs, breathless as she caught the number 73 bus at the corner. Work was only a five-stop ride away. She found a seat and, after a moment, casually glanced at the passengers. Her hand flew to her mouththe girl from her dream sat right at the front, gave her a knowing wink. In that moment, a young man with a bulky satchel jostled past, nearly hitting her head.

Charlotte glared sternly at him. But when she looked forward again, the little girl had vanished.

Oh, what a ridiculous dream, she murmured. Lack of sleep, thats all.

Work was already buzzing when she slipped through the doors. She dove into the days chaos, barely coming up for air until lunchtime. Miraculously, the auditors found nothing wrong with her report. The boss gave her a thumb up, then beckoned her over.

I promised, Charlotte. Youre free until the twelfth, he grinned, handing her an envelope. For your hard workhappy New Year!

Thank you, Mr. Walker. And happy New Year to you as well, Charlotte replied, genuine relief washing over her.

With her bonus, she bought Mum a lovely shawl and Molly a pretty blouse to go with her new phone. She filled a bag with sweets and mince pies, grabbed a bottle of bubbly, and dashed to Kings Cross just in time. Boarding the train, she tripped over a forgotten rucksack near her compartment and landedsplendidlyflat on the corridor floor.

She nearly burst into tears, mortified, but gentle hands lifted her up.

Im so sorry, I should have stowed my bag sooner. Blame me entirely

He had an easy charm, his eyes warm and his voice disarming.

No harm done, Charlotte muttered, cheeks aflame.

They ended up sharing a compartment. Charlotte sized him up: tall, striking, with a casual, friendly smile. The girls words from her dream echoed in her mind: Youll meet your fate tonight

She shook her head, only half-joking, Could it be him?

The young man introduced himself; his name was Oliver. He too was headed to her village, just for the day, for a business meeting.

An overnight ride on the train, then straight back. Ill just about get home for New Years, he chuckled. May I ask, what brings you to the countryside?

Im off to see Mum and my little sister. Havent seen them in ages. The office finally gave me a much-needed holiday.

No husband or partner waiting for you? Oliver enquired, kindly.

Charlotte smiled shyly. No, not yet. I havent met anyone Id want to spend New Years with, let alone forever. And you?

He shook his head. Same boat. Havent found the one Id like to never leave.

Charlotte nearly blurted out, Youre my fate, the girl told me so! but managed to restrain herself, blushing furiously instead.

When you blush, youre absolutely radiant, Oliver observed, unable to look away. Like a rosy apple, you truly are lovely.

Charlotte ducked her head. Oh, please. I cant help it. I blush at everything, especially when Im put on the spot.

All right then, lets have a cuppa. My mum baked an apple tart for the journey. She instructed me to share it with my travel companions.

Their tea was momentarily delayed as an older lady entered with a small boyher grandson, as it turned out. She was taking him to his mother, who worked in another city and couldnt get time off. The boys face brightened when offered a slice of tart.

They shared tea and homemade biscuits along the rocking train. Afterwards, Oliver and Charlotte stepped out into the corridor to view the city decked in festive lights as the train trundled through a large station.

Listen, would you mind if we exchanged numbers? Oliver said, nerves fluttering in his voice. If youre not against it, Charlotte.

Id like that, she replied.

When are you heading back home?

The tenthso, not for a while.

He grinned. Its funnyIve felt comfortable with you since we met. Like weve known each other for ages. Isnt that odd?

She nodded, smiling. Its probably just the way of train journeyspeople meet, confide a little, then go their own ways.

Perhaps youre right, Oliver said. Shall we try and get some kip?

She nodded, pulling her blanket over herself as she drifted off to the lull of the trains wheels.

In the morning, the train drew into the little station at ten. Charlotte had kept her arrival secret, planning a proper surprise. She knew exactly where Mum stashed the spare keys, just in case.

She and Oliver said their goodbyes by the village taxi rank. He wished her a wonderful holiday, and she, in turn, hoped hed meet someone special this New Years Eve.

A beautiful wish, and I hope the same for you, he replied, flashing her a hopeful smile. They went off in different directions.

Charlotte liked Oliverliked him more than she cared to admit. Part of her wanted to whisper, Stay, lets ring in the new year together, see what happens. But she pushed the thought away stubbornly, bracing herself for the reunion that awaited.

She slipped quietly up the garden path to her mothers house, knocked, and waited. The door flung open and Molly launched herself into Charlottes arms.

The afternoon melted away amid laughter, chopping veggies, and the delicious aroma of her mothers beef and mushroom pie.

I had a sense youd turn up, her mother said. Picked up extra eggs and all. Though, for a moment, thought you might have brought someone. Have you really not spoken to anyone since James?

No, Mum, and can we leave it at that? said Charlotte, trying to keep things cheerful.

Suddenly, her phone rang again, startling her. She picked it upand her heart gave a small leap.

Oliver.

Hi. Did you make it home all right? she asked, breath catching.

Well no, not quite. Thats actually why Im calling. The truth is, aside from you, I hardly know anyone here. Any chance you might invite a stranded traveller to your celebration?

Charlotte burst out laughing, happiness spilling over.

Let me ask the boss of the house. Mum, would it be all right if my friend joins us for the evening? Hes here on business and cant get a ticket back.

Of course! Hell brighten up our gathering, her mother called cheerfully from the kitchen.

Charlotte relayed the address to Oliver with a huge grin, giving her mother a grateful wink.

The girl from the dream had been rightCharlotte had finished her report, made it to the station in time, and that very evening, met her destiny.

I Can’t Be Your Mum and I Can’t Love You the Way You Want, But I’ll Take Care of You—Please Don’t Be Upset. Life with Us Will Be Better Than in a Children’s Home It Was a Difficult Day Today. John Was Burying His Sister—Wayward as She Was, She Was Still Family. They Hadn’t Seen Each Other for Five Years, and Now This Tragedy. Victoria Did Her Best to Support Her Husband, Taking On Most of the Responsibilities. Yet After the Funeral, Another Important Matter Awaited Them. Irene—John’s Sister—Had Left Behind a Young Son. All the Relatives Who Had Come to Say Goodbye to Irene Immediately Placed the Responsibility on Her Younger Brother. Who Else but His Uncle Should Take Care of the Boy? It Wasn’t Discussed—Everyone Just Assumed This Was the Only Right Solution. Victoria Understood, and She Wasn’t Really Against It, But There Was One Thing—She Had Never Wanted Children of Her Own, Let Alone Someone Else’s. She’d Made That Decision Long Ago, and Had Told John Honestly Before Their Wedding. He’d Brushed It Off, Not Worrying—Who Thinks Seriously About Kids in Their Early Twenties Anyway? “No Kids—We’ll Just Live for Ourselves,” They Had Agreed Ten Years Ago. And Now She Had to Take In a Child Who Wasn’t Her Own. There Was No Choice. John Would Never Let His Nephew End Up in a Children’s Home, and Victoria Couldn’t Bring Herself to Suggest It. She Knew She’d Never Love This Boy, or Be Able to Replace His Mum. The Boy Was Wise Beyond His Years, Clever and Perceptive, So Victoria Decided to Be Completely Honest with Him. “Will, where would you rather live—with us or in the children’s home?” “I want to live at home—by myself.” “But you can’t stay alone—you’re only seven. You have to choose.” “Then with Uncle John.” “Alright, you’ll come with us, but I must tell you something. I can’t be your mum, and I can’t love you the way you want, but I’ll take care of you—and you mustn’t be upset. Life with us will be better than in the children’s home.” Some of the formalities sorted, at last they could return home. Victoria figured, after that talk, she wouldn’t have to pretend to be a doting aunt—she could just be herself. Cooking, washing, helping with homework was fine, but pouring out her feelings was not. And little Will never forgot that he wasn’t loved—and that, if he behaved, he wouldn’t be sent away. At home, Will was given the smallest room, and Victoria immediately threw herself into transforming it for him—choosing wallpaper, furniture, décor—her favourite things. She let Will choose the wallpaper, but handled everything else herself. She spared no expense; she wasn’t stingy, just not fond of children. The room turned out beautifully. Will was happy! If only his mum could see it. If only Victoria could love him. She’s kind and good—she just doesn’t love children. Will often lay thinking about that before he fell asleep. He found joy in everything—a circus outing, the zoo, fun at the park—his delight was so sincere that Victoria began to enjoy these trips herself. She enjoyed surprising him, then basking in his reactions. That August, Victoria and John were supposed to go to the seaside, with a close relative taking Will for ten days. But at the last minute, Victoria changed her mind. She suddenly wanted Will to see the ocean. John was surprised, but deep down he was glad—he’d grown attached to the boy. And Will was almost happy! If only someone loved him. Never mind—he’d see the ocean! The trip was wonderful—the sea was warm, the fruit was sweet, everyone’s spirits were high. But all good things must end, and so did the holiday. Ordinary life resumed: work, home, school. But something in their little world had shifted—a hint of new joy, of hope, of something magical beginning. And then the miracle happened—Victoria came back from the seaside expecting a baby. How had it happened, after all these years of careful planning? She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell John, or decide everything herself? After Will’s arrival, she wasn’t sure John was truly committed to a child-free life. He loved spending time with Will, taking him to football matches, helping him with school. Victoria had faced one challenge; she wasn’t ready for another. She’d made her decision. Victoria was sitting at the clinic when she got a call from school—Will had been rushed to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Everything would have to wait. She rushed to the hospital—Will lay pale and shivering. Seeing Victoria, he burst into tears. “Victoria, please don’t go—I’m scared. Just for today, can you be my mum? Please—only for one day, I’ll never ever ask again.” He clutched her hand, sobbing as if his heart would break. Victoria had never seen him cry, except the day of the funeral. Now, he was inconsolable. Victoria pressed his hand to her cheek. “My boy, hang in there—a doctor will be here soon. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” How she loved him in that moment! This boy with the shining eyes—he was her world. Child-free? What nonsense. Tonight she would tell John about their coming baby. She made her decision then, as Will squeezed her hand in pain. Ten years passed. Today is almost a milestone for Victoria—it’s her 45th birthday. There’ll be guests and celebration, but for now, she sits with her coffee, swept away by memories. How quickly time has flown. Youth, young adulthood—gone. Now she’s a woman—a happy wife and mother of two beautiful children. Will is nearly eighteen; Sophie is ten. And she regrets nothing. Well—except one thing, deeply. Those words about not loving Will. How she wished he’d forget them, that they’d never hurt him. Ever since that day at the hospital, she’d tried to tell him as often as possible that she loved him, but she never dared ask if he remembered her first confession.

While Asking for Food at an Opulent English Wedding, a Young Boy Named Elliot Stands Frozen Elliot was ten years old. He had no parents. He could only remember that, when he was around two, Mr Bernard—a kindly homeless man living under a London bridge near Regent’s Canal—had found him floating in a plastic tub after a heavy rainstorm. The boy could not yet speak. He could barely walk. He cried until he lost his voice. Around his tiny wrist, he wore just one thing: —a tattered, braided red bracelet; —and a damp scrap of paper, faintly inscribed: “Please, let a kind-hearted person care for this child. His name is Elliot.” Mr Bernard had nothing: no home, no money, no family. Only tired feet and a heart that still knew how to love. Against all odds, he took the child and raised him however he could: stale bread, free soup, returned bottles. He often said to Elliot, “If you ever find your mother, forgive her. No one leaves a child without deep pain.” Elliot grew up among market stalls, Tube station entrances, and frosty nights under the bridge. He never knew his mother’s face. Mr Bernard told him only that, when found, the paper had a trace of lipstick—and a long, black hair tangled in the bracelet. He believed Elliot’s mother was very young…perhaps too young to raise a child. One day, Mr Bernard fell ill with pneumonia and was admitted to a public hospital. With no money, Elliot had to beg more than ever. That afternoon, he overheard talk of a lavish wedding at a manor near Windsor—a spectacle for that year. Hungry and parched, he decided to try his luck. He lingered shyly near the entrance. Tables were loaded: roast meats, fine pastries, chilled drinks. A kitchen porter spotted him, pitied him, and handed him a hot plate. “Stay here and eat quickly, lad. Don’t let anyone notice you.” Elliot thanked him and ate in silence, observing the room. Classical music. Tailcoats and sparkling dresses. He wondered, Does my mother live somewhere like this…or is she poor, like me? Suddenly, the master of ceremonies declared, “Ladies and gentlemen…here comes the bride!” Music changed. All eyes turned to the flower-draped stairs. She appeared. A flawless white dress. A serene smile. Long, rippling black hair. Magnificent. Radiant. But Elliot was transfixed—not by her beauty, but by the red bracelet on her wrist. Exactly the same. Same wool, same colour, same weathered knot. Elliot rubbed his eyes, stood up, and stepped forward, trembling. “Madam…” he whispered, voice breaking, “that bracelet… Is… are you my mother?” Silence swept over the room. Music played, but no one breathed. The bride stopped, glanced at her wrist, then looked into the child’s eyes. She knew that gaze. Her knees buckled. She knelt before him. “What’s your name?” she asked, trembling. “Elliot…my name is Elliot,” he answered, weeping. The master of ceremonies dropped his microphone. Murmurs rippled: “Is that her son?” “Could it be?” “Oh my God…” The groom, a composed gentleman, approached. “What’s happening?” he asked quietly. The bride broke down. “I was eighteen…I was pregnant…alone…with no support. I couldn’t keep him. I left him, but never forgot. I kept this bracelet all these years, hoping I’d find him again one day…” She clutched the child tightly. “Forgive me, my son…please forgive me…” Elliot hugged her in return. “Mr Bernard told me not to hate you. I’m not angry, Mum…I just wanted to see you again.” Her white dress stained with tears and dust. No one cared. The groom stayed silent. No one knew what he’d do. Cancel the wedding? Take in the boy? Pretend nothing happened? He approached… And instead of helping the bride to her feet, he crouched by Elliot’s side. “Would you like to stay and eat with us?” he asked gently. Elliot shook his head. “I just want my mum.” The man smiled. And wrapped them both in his arms. “Well then…if you’d like…from today, you’ll have a mother…and a father.” The bride looked at him, desperate. “Aren’t you angry with me? I hid my past from you…” “I didn’t marry your past,” he murmured. “I married the woman I love. And I love you even more knowing all you’ve endured.” This wedding stopped being grand. It ceased to be a society affair. It became sacred. Guests applauded, tears in their eyes. It was no longer just a union—but a reunion. Elliot took his mother’s hand, and then the man’s. There were no rich or poor anymore, no barriers or differences. Just a whisper in the child’s heart: “Mr Bernard…see? I’ve found her—my mum…”

Borrowed Happiness Anna was tending to her garden plot—a rare, early spring in England this year, with March not yet out but all the snow already melted. She knew the cold would return, but for now the sun was warm enough to coax her outside, propping up the sagging fence and patching the wood shed. She made plans—she’d get some chickens, maybe a piglet, a dog and a cat. Enough, she laughed to herself. She’d done her wandering, her playing. It was time to dig over the garden, to feel the earth like when she was a girl—shoes off, running barefoot across freshly turned, warm, soft soil. “We’ll go on living yet,” Anna said aloud, to no one in particular. “Excuse me?” Anna started. By the gate, a slight girl stood—mid-teens at most. She wore a plain grey coat, the sort Anna knew was given out at the local vocational colleges, flimsy shoes, tights too thin for the weather. “Far too early for those,” Anna thought, “She’ll catch her death. Those shoes barely have soles—rubbish.” The girl picked at the ground with her toes. “Hello,” Anna called, curtly. “Sorry, could I use your loo?” “Ah—go on, then. Straight ahead and round the corner.” Anna watched her scurry off. “Thank you! You’ve saved me. I’m looking for a room to rent—you don’t happen to have one, do you?” Anna blinked. “I wasn’t planning on it. Why do you need one?” “I wanted somewhere quiet, not a hostel. It’s wild there—boys everywhere, drinking and smoking.” “And what could you pay?” “Five quid a week. That’s all I’ve got.” “Come in, then. Go on.” “Can I use the toilet again, just quickly?” “Go ahead…” “What’s your name?” Anna asked, ushering her in. “Ollie,” squeaked the girl. “Well then, Ollie. What brings you here, really?” Anna said, fixing her in place with her gaze. “I… I just want a room…” “Don’t fib to me. Who sent you?” “No one. I came myself. You—are you Anna Samuels?” “That’s me, yes…” “You don’t recognise me, do you, Mum? It’s me, Ollie. Your daughter.” Anna sat ramrod-straight, her weathered face unmoving. “Ollie… my girl… Ollie…” “Yes, Mum! It’s me. Back at the care home, they never let me have your address—said it wasn’t allowed. But my teacher, Miss Stevens, helped. We found your name, and then your address—and here I am.” Anna sat in silence, tears streaking her cheeks. “Ollie, my girl… my little one…” “Mum, oh Mum,” Ollie sobbed, flinging her arms around Anna’s neck, “I searched for you so long, Mum. I wrote letters—they laughed, said you’d just abandoned me, gave me away. But I believed in you, Mum. I always believed.” Anna embraced her, rough hands holding tight to Ollie’s chunky-knit jumper—her girl, her daughter, her Ollie. For a long time, they just sat, neither wanting to break the spell. Later, Anna, recalling her Nan’s wisdom and her own hard years, bustled around—boiling water, steeping fennel, fussing over her foundling beauty. Ollie. Daughter. Life’s new purpose. She had a reason to live, a reason after all. God had pitied her. She wasn’t lost… The garden, a piglet, a new coat. There was money put aside. She’d thought she was ready for the end, but here was her daughter—her Ollie. *** “Mum?” “Mmm?” “Mum… I’m in love.” “Well now!” “He’s called Jack—he’s wonderful. He wants to meet you…” “I… I don’t know…” Anna thought—so soon, the happy days are over. What’s given is taken, too. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, my love. You’ve grown up so fast… I didn’t get enough time. Forgive me, Ollie.” “Mum! You mustn’t… You’re my mum, you know how much I love you, how long I searched… We’ll give you grandkids, Mum. You’re my mum, always.” Jack was sturdy, kind, dependable—a country lad. Anna approved. Times were hard—some went hungry while others’ dogs ate better than people. But Anna, Ollie, and Jack managed. Anna sewed well; when the factory closed, she joined a co-op, got on fine, dressed her girl and son-in-law as though they were royal. Jack was indefatigable—raised a fence, fixed the house, mended the shed. The little cottage thrummed with life, singing even more than when Ollie returned. Anna’s heart melted, thawed. At last, she wanted to live for real, to make up for lost and shameful years. Some nights, the old pain still caught her unawares… “Mum, are you alright? Does it hurt?” “No, sweetheart. Go to sleep, my darling.” “Mum, can I stay here with you?” “Of course,” Anna moved, making space so her daughter could nestle in beside her. Her little girl. Her heart near burst with love. So this was maternal love. Thank you, God, she thought. They had a wedding. The young couple stayed on. Anna blossomed, cheeks apple-pink, so even her workmates said she was all smiles now—Anna Samuels, of all people. “A grandchild, I reckon!” she whispered at lunch, anxious. “A lucky girl, that Ollie—Mum adores her.” A grandson was born—Anthony, named for Anna’s own mum. “A strict woman, but fair,” Anna would say, laughing, “What a little darling—I can hardly stand it!” She’d never held a newborn since Ollie, not in all those years. Holding Anthony, her heart drummed in her head—this was it: happiness. Life revolved around Anthony. The best and brightest. He wouldn’t budge from his granny. Jack built on, made the house big, gave Anna her own place in it—how could they do without her? He and his brothers started up a building firm. They even opened a hardware shop. Then—a new joy—a girl, Mary. Anna made her dresses, kitted her out pretty as a princess. Children’s laughter rang through the house. Things were good. Except the burning in Anna’s chest grew more frequent. “Mum, my darling, why didn’t you say anything? Where does it hurt?” “All’s fine, sweetheart, all’s well…” *** “…I’m sorry. We did everything we could.” “Doctor… That was my mother…” “I know. I’m very sorry.” *** “Ollie, love… It’s time. Forgive me. I lasted longer than you all expected. But you saved me, all those years ago. “Mum, please…” “Listen, darling… It’s heavy to say, but—I’m not really your mother. Sorry…” “Mum! Never say that, to anyone. You’re my mum. My only mum. Do you hear me?” “Yes, sweetheart. I hear you. There’s a diary, on my shelf. Forgive me, Ollie. I love you.” “I love you, too, Mum… Mum…” *** “Have something to eat, Ollie…” “Yes, Jack… In a minute… Go on without me.” Ollie sat in her mum’s room, reading her—her mother’s—notebook. There was her life, Anna’s: tough, ugly and, sometimes, happy. Her mum had been strict—Tony, a war widow, strict but fair. Anna, Annie, Annie-flower. She’d loved a wrong-un—life wild and reckless. Ended up with nothing in the end. No child, nothing but the old cottage. Doctors said to wait—it could go either way. She found faith, went to church, hoped. Then, a miracle. She’d thought: at least let me try, let me feel what it is to be a mum. She became Ollie’s mum, moved heaven and earth to make it true. Didn’t believe she deserved it, not until the end. Forgive me, dear God, for my theft—let me live to see my grandchildren, help my girl… She’d worried at first—that Ollie would discover the truth: a bureaucratic mix-up, not her birth mother. But fear faded. She just lived—a plain, English life. Believed at last: I’m worthy. Forgive me, my darling, for stealing you from your real mother. This is my stolen happiness… *** “Mum,” Ollie wept at the beautiful grave, “my dearest Mum. I hope you can hear me. I knew, I nearly always knew. They told me—my real Mum, Anne, Ivanova, I found her out of curiosity. She wanted nothing to do with me after all. You’re my real mum, and I thank God for that each day.” *** “Granny, was Granny Anna kind?” “The kindest, darling.” “And beautiful?” “The most beautiful. That’s why you’re called Anna too.” “Really? Was that your dad’s or your mum’s idea?” “Maybe both, darling. Your dad loved his Granny.” “Can she see me?” “Of course—she’s always watching, always helping.” “I love you, Great-Granny Anna,” says the little girl, laying a dandelion wreath on Anna’s grave. “And I love you, my dear,” whispers the birch tree, and the wind carries it far.