A few months ago, I started sharing bits of my life on social media. Not for fame, or because I was chasing

ARE YOU REALLY MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, marriage was never part of my plans. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s relentless wooing, I’d still be flying free as a bird. Artem was like a lovesick butterfly — fluttering endlessly around me, never letting me out of his sight, doing his best to please, treating me like I was made of glass… Eventually, I gave in. We got married. Artem instantly felt like home — comfortable, familiar, like a favourite pair of slippers. A year later, our son Stanley was born. Artem worked in another city, coming home only once a week, always bringing tasty treats for little Stan. During one visit, I prepared to wash his clothes, routinely checking all his pockets (I’d once washed his driving licence by accident!). This time, a folded paper slipped out of his trousers — a lengthy list of school supplies (it was August), with a childlike scrawl at the bottom: “Dad, please come home soon.” So, that’s how my husband entertains himself elsewhere! Bigamist! I didn’t make a scene — just packed a bag, took Stan (not yet three) by the hand, and went off to my mum’s for an extended stay. Mum gave us a spare room: “Live here till you make up.” Vengeful thoughts emerged against my thankless husband. I remembered my old schoolmate Rob — why not have a “romance” with him! Rob never gave me a moment’s peace, back in school or after. I phoned him. “Hi, Rob! Not married yet?” I began, playing it cool. “Nadine? Hey! Does it matter? Married, divorced… Shall we meet?” My unscheduled fling with Rob lasted half a year. Artem delivered child support to my mum in silence every month, then left. I knew he was living with Cathy Yates now. She had a daughter from a previous marriage. Cathy made her call Artem “Dad.” They all lived in Artem’s flat. When Cathy found out I’d left, she moved in with her daughter from another city straight away. Cathy worshipped Artem — knitted him woolly socks and warm jumpers, cooked fancy meals. I learnt about all this later, and I’ll forever tease my husband about Cathy Yates. Back then, though, it felt like our marriage was done — like it had hit a dead end and crashed. But when Artem and I met for coffee to discuss the upcoming divorce, warm memories swept over us both. Artem confessed his undying love and remorse, admitting he had no idea how to get rid of clingy Cathy. I felt unbearably sorry for him. We got back together. For the record, Artem never found out about Rob. Cathy and her daughter left town for good. Seven blissful years passed. Then Artem got into a car accident — operations, rehab, walking with a stick. The recovery took two years, left him drained, and he began drinking heavily. He completely withdrew from life. It was torture watching it all. Trying to talk him round didn’t help — he wore himself and us down and refused all help. But at work, I found a shoulder to cry on — Paul. He listened to me during smoke breaks, strolled with me after work, offered comfort and encouragement. Paul was married, with his wife expecting their second child. I can’t fathom how we ended up in bed together. Madness. He was a head shorter than me, not my type at all! Still, Paul whisked me off to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. When his wife gave birth to a daughter, he stopped all amusements, quit our company, found another job. Maybe he thought — “out of sight, out of mind”? I never laid claim to him, so let him go easily. Paul had only dulled my pain for a while; I never meant to interfere in someone else’s love. Meanwhile, my husband drank himself senseless. Five years later, I’d bump into Paul by chance — he’d seriously propose marriage. I found it funny. Artem rallied briefly, left for work in the Czech Republic. I became the model wife and doting mum, heart focused solely on my family. He returned half a year later. We renovated the flat, splurged on new appliances. Artem finally fixed his car. Life should’ve been peachy. But no — he lost control and started drinking again. The cycle of hell repeated. His mates had to carry him home; he couldn’t walk by himself, only crawl at best. I scoured our neighbourhood looking for my errant husband, usually finding him asleep on a bench, pockets turned out. I’d drag him home. It was always something. One spring, I stood sadly at the bus stop as birds sang and the sun smiled. Suddenly, a suave voice whispered in my ear: “Perhaps I can ease your troubles?” I turned. My word — what a handsome, fragrant gent! And I was 45! Could I become a rose again? But I blushed like a schoolgirl. Thankfully, my bus arrived, and I hopped on, far away from temptation. He waved as I left. All day, I could only think about him. I played hard to get for two weeks… to keep up appearances. But Egor (the mysterious stranger) pressed his advantage — waiting every morning at the same bus stop. Soon, I was checking from afar if my charmer was there. Egor would beam and blow air kisses when he saw me. One day, he brought a huge bunch of red tulips. “Where am I supposed to take flowers to work?” I laughed. “I’ll be exposed in no time — guilty with nothing I’ve done!” Egor grinned: “Didn’t consider the ‘terrible’ consequences.” He handed the bouquet to an old lady watching our drama closely. Her eyes sparkled! “Thank you, love! May you find a passionate girlfriend!” I blushed. At least she didn’t wish him a young girlfriend — I’d have vanished into thin air with shame! Egor turned to me: “How about we share the blame, Nadine? You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the idea was tempting and timely. There was nothing left of my marriage then anyway. Artem was an immovable log, lost in a drunken stupor. Egor was a tee-total, ex-athlete (57) and a captivating conversationalist. Divorced. He had a magnetic charm! I plunged headlong into a love affair — a whirlpool of passion, for three years torn between home and Egor. My soul was in turmoil. When I finally wanted to end it, I couldn’t find the strength. Egor had a hold on me — mind, body, and soul! He’d stand next to me and I’d lose my breath — it was madness! Still, I knew it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t love. After heated rendezvous, I’d come home longing to cuddle my husband — even drunk, unkempt, but so familiar and dear. My own crust seemed sweeter than any stranger’s cake. That was my truth. Passion? It comes from “to suffer.” I wanted to finish suffering, leave Egor behind and return to my family, not just drift along in pleasure. My mind thought so, but my body kept falling into the sweet abyss. My son found out about Egor when he saw us in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I introduced them. They shook hands politely. Later, Stan looked at me over dinner, expecting an explanation. I joked it was a colleague meeting about a new project. “Uh-huh… in a restaurant,” Stan nodded knowingly. He didn’t judge, but begged me not to divorce his dad. “Don’t rush — maybe Dad will come to his senses.” I felt lost, astray, a black sheep. My divorced friend insisted: “Dump those scruffy lovers and settle down!” I listened. After all, she was working on her third husband. But I only managed to break it off when Egor tried to strike me. That was it. Just like my friend warned — “The sea is calm until you leave the shore…” The scales fell from my eyes. I was free. Three years of torment! At last, peace. Egor chased after me for ages everywhere, begging on his knees for forgiveness. I never wavered. My wise friend gifted me a mug: “You did the right thing!” As for Artem, he knew everything about my wild escapades. Egor phoned and told him. Egor believed I’d leave my family. Artem admitted: “When I listened to your admirer’s tales, I wanted to quietly die. It was all my fault! I lost my wife to the bottle. Idiot. What could I say to you?” Ten years have passed since then. Now we’ve two granddaughters. One day, Artem and I sat at the table drinking coffee. I gazed out the window. Artem gently took my hand: “Nadine, stop looking elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? If Im honest, marriage was never really on my to-do list. And if it hadnt been

A few months ago, I started sharing bits of my life on social media. Not for fame, or because I was chasing

I’m 89 Years Old. A Scammer Tried to Fool Me Over the Phone—but I’m an Engineer.

I’m 89 years old. They tried to scam me on the phone. But I used to be an engineer. It was one

I’m 70 Years Old and Became a Mother Before I Ever Learned to Think About Myself: Married Young, Devoted My Life to My Family, and Now I Feel Forgotten and Alone – What Advice Do You Have for Me?

Im seventy now, and I became a mother long before I ever learned how to think of myself. I married young

The Flat Was Bought by My Son: Mother-in-Law Declared Owner

The flat was bought by my son: declared my mother-in-law I met my husband at university. We were both

Divorce Next Door: Why My Husband Left Our 20-Year Marriage for the Single Mum from Down the Street—And Why I Refused to Take Him Back

Divorce Because of the Neighbour Just tell me, Mark, of all the women in England, why her? Why did you

Lucky Number 13 Spanner He Called That Morning Like It Was Nothing: A Grown-Up Son, His Retired Dad, and the Afternoon They Fixed an Old Bike—Nuts, Bolts, and All the Words Left Unsaid in a Third-Floor English Flat

The Key for Thirteen He rang me up in the morning, his voice casual, as if it was no big deal.

I Made the Most Romantic Financial Mistake of My Life: I Built My Dream Home on Someone Else’s Land When I got married, my mother-in-law smiled and said, “Why bother paying rent, dear? There’s space above the house—build yourselves a flat upstairs and live peacefully.” At the time, it felt like a blessing. I trusted her. I believed in love, too. My husband and I put every penny we had into that future home. We didn’t buy a car. We skipped holidays. Every bonus, every bit of savings went towards materials, builders, windows, tiles. We built for five years. Slowly. With hope. We turned an empty shell into a real home— A kitchen I’d always wanted, Big bright windows, Walls painted with my vision of “our home.” I’d say proudly, “This is our home.” But life never waits for you to be ready. Our marriage began to crack— Arguments, Shouting, Differences we couldn’t overcome. And on the day we decided to part ways, I received the most costly lesson of my life. As I packed my things through tears, I looked at the walls I had sanded and painted and said, “At least give back some of what we invested. Or pay me my share.” My mother-in-law—the same woman who told us to “build upstairs”—stood in the doorway, arms crossed, icy-eyed: “There’s nothing here that belongs to you. The house is mine. The deeds are in my name. If you’re leaving, you go with what you brought. Everything else stays.” That’s when I understood. Love doesn’t sign legal papers. Trust isn’t ownership. All the work in the world means nothing without your name on the deed. I walked out with two suitcases and five years of life turned into bricks and mortar that no longer belonged to me. I left with no money. No home. But a new clarity. The most wasted money isn’t what you spend on pleasures. It’s what you pour into something that never bore your own name. Bricks don’t care about your feelings. Words fade. But paperwork endures. If I could give one piece of advice to every woman: Never, however deep your love, build your future on someone else’s land. Because sometimes “saved rent” can cost you your whole life.

I made the most romantic financial mistake of my life: I built my own paradise on someone elses land.

I’m 70 Years Old and Became a Mother Before I Ever Learned to Think About Myself: I Married Young, Built My Life Around Others, and Now My Family Hardly Calls – From Sleepless Nights and Selfless Sacrifice to Feeling Forgotten in My Own Home. What Would You Advise Me?

I am seventy years old, and only now do I realise that I spent a lifetime caring for everyone else before