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And That’s When She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t So Awful After All—The Emotional Turning Point One Cold December in Twelve Years of Marriage for Nadia, Who’d Spent Yet Another New Year’s Eve Alone While Her Husband Was Away Hunting

You know, it finally dawned on her that her mother-in-law wasnt really as bad as shed always thought.

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Grandad It was summertime. I was walking home after evening football practice when I spotted an elderly gentleman—really quite frail—fallen on the pavement, unable to get up. People were giving him a wide berth, apparently assuming he was drunk, while he muttered to himself and reached out for help. My mum taught me from a young age to help others whenever I can, so I went over and asked, “Do you need a hand?” He couldn’t answer coherently; he just made sounds and kept stretching his arms out towards me. A passing woman scolded me: “Don’t go near him! Can’t you see he’s drunk? You’ll catch something! And he’s filthy, you’ll get yourself dirty!” Looking closer, I saw the man’s hands were covered in blood, and a wave of pure dread washed over me. I asked what had happened, but again only got murmurs in reply; then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up a plastic carrier bag lying beside him. Inside were shards of broken beer bottles. He bent down, grabbed a few more pieces from the ground, and put them in the bag. That’s why his hands were bleeding. I started cleaning his hands with wet wipes so I could help him up and walk him home (call me selfish, but I didn’t want to get blood on my football kit…). Once his hands were as clean as I could manage, I helped Grandpa to his feet. I asked for his address but he just mumbled and gestured. Realising I wasn’t understanding, he pointed towards a nearby block of flats, then indicated two numbers with his fingers—his flat number, I guessed. I pressed the right button on the entryphone and soon a woman’s anxious voice answered. Grandpa murmured again. Within moments, a man and woman dashed outside—both immediately fussed over Grandpa, checking he was okay. The man thanked me and scooped Grandpa up to carry him inside. The woman kept asking how she could thank me. I refused, about to leave, when she suddenly asked me to wait, as if she’d remembered something. She rushed back inside and soon reappeared with a huge basket of raspberries. “Home grown,” she beamed. I thanked her, but tried to refuse. “Go on, take them,” she insisted. “We nearly lost our minds when we came back from the allotment and Grandpa was missing. Here’s the thing: he was captured by the Germans in the war. Because he held an important post, he injured his own tongue so he wouldn’t speak under interrogation. There wasn’t exactly much hygiene in those camps, so by the time he escaped, the infection was so bad half his tongue had to be removed. That’s why he can’t talk, only makes sounds. Local teenagers have taken to drinking beer in our playground in the evenings, smashing the bottles everywhere. We’ve filed police complaints, but nothing gets done. Children get glass in their hands and feet—my own daughter, Sophie, cut her foot badly once. That’s why Grandpa started sweeping up after those hooligans—so the little ones wouldn’t get hurt. But he’s old now, his legs barely hold him. We’ve tried everything, even hiding his keys, but he keeps going out. Once, when I was on shift, he fell and lay in the cold for five hours—no one helped. We were just about to go searching when you called up on the entryphone. Thank you.” After that story, I was speechless. She pressed the raspberry basket into my hands and I gave her a grateful bow—honestly, there were no words. Halfway home, I broke down in tears. Why is our country like this? Why does everyone only think of themselves? Please, if you ever see someone who has fallen and can’t get up, don’t just assume they’re a drunk. Go over and ask! They might need your help. And especially—young people—let’s remember that we are HUMANS, not PIGS!

Granddad Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman

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CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THAT MUTT’S SMELL! — SHOUTED HER HUSBAND. SHE CHOSE HIM AND DROPPED HER OLD GERMAN SHEPHERD IN THE WOODS… BUT THAT EVENING, HE TOLD HER HE WAS LEAVING FOR ANOTHER WOMAN

CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER YOUR DOG OR ME! I CAN’T STAND THE SMELL OF THAT MONGREL ANYMORE!

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Gently Brushing Shoulders Together

Slightly brushing sleeves As the calendar turned toward NewYear, Emily felt a nervous thrill.

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“Mum, I’m ten years old now, right?” said Michael suddenly as he got back from school. “So what?” Mum stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, so what? Have you forgotten what you and Dad promised I could do when I turned ten?” “Let you do what? What did we promise?” “You promised I could get a dog.” “No!” Mum exclaimed in alarm. “Anything but that! Would you rather have an electric scooter? The most expensive one. But only if you never mention a dog again.” “That’s how it is, then?” Michael pouted. “And you call yourselves parents… You tell me to keep my promises, but don’t keep yours…” Michael locked himself in his room and didn’t come out until Dad returned from work. “Dad, do you remember what you and Mum promised…” he began, but was interrupted. “Mum already called me about your wish! But I don’t understand why you even want this.” “Dad, I’ve dreamed of having a dog for such a long time! You know I have!” “We know, we know! You’ve read too many stories about little boys and their dogs—you’re acting like a child! You know pedigree dogs are expensive, don’t you?” “I don’t want a pedigree,” Michael blurted out. “I’d be happy with any dog—even a rescue. I read online about abandoned dogs. They’re so unlucky.” “No!” said Dad firmly. “What do you mean, not pedigree? Why would we want that? They’re not pretty! All right, here’s the deal: I’ll agree to adopt an abandoned dog, but only if it’s young and a pedigree.” “A pedigree?” Michael wrinkled his nose. “Yes!” Dad winked at Mum. “You’ll need to train her, enter her in dog shows and all that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. So if you can find a beautiful, abandoned young pedigree dog in this town, we’ll consider it.” Michael sighed, knowing he’d never seen an abandoned pedigree on the streets, but hope is the last thing to die, so he decided to try. On Sunday, Michael called his friend Jack and after lunch, they began their search. By evening, they’d walked what felt like half the city, but still hadn’t spotted a single stray pedigree. Although there were plenty of lovely dogs out, all were with owners and on leads. “That’s it,” Michael said wearily. “I knew we wouldn’t find one…” “Let’s visit the shelter next Sunday,” Jack suggested. “They have pedigree dogs there, I’ve read about it. We just need the address. But for now, let’s sit down and rest.” They found an empty bench, chatted about finding the perfect dog at the shelter, and strolled home dreaming of training their new friend. Suddenly, Jack tugged Michael’s sleeve and pointed. “Look, Michael.” Michael glanced over and saw a tiny dirty-white stray puppy wobbling along the pavement. “A mongrel,” Jack said surely, and whistled. The puppy looked over and bounded towards them, but stopped two metres away. “He doesn’t trust people,” said Jack. “Someone must’ve scared him.” Michael whistled softly and stretched out a hand. The puppy crept forward and, when Michael got close, wagged his filthy tail rather hopefully instead of running away. “Come on, Michael,” Jack said nervously. “Why would you even want that dog? You’re looking for a pedigree. You could give a pedigree a fancy name. This one could only be called Button.” Jack turned away and walked quickly off. Michael patted the pup a bit more, then, sadly, started after his friend. Secretly, he would have loved to take the little dog home. Suddenly, there was a startled yelp behind him. Michael froze; the puppy whimpered, and Jack whispered, “Michael, come on! Don’t look back! He’s looking at you!” “How?” “Like you’re his owner—and you’re leaving him. Run!” Jack ran off, but Michael’s feet wouldn’t move. Finally, as he began to run, something tugged gently at his trouser leg. Michael glanced down and saw two trusting black eyes. Right then and there, Michael picked the little dog up and hugged him to his chest. He’d made up his mind—if Mum and Dad said no, he’d run away from home tonight—with this puppy in his arms. But it turned out his parents had kind hearts after all… The next day, when Michael got home from school, Mum, Dad, and a freshly-washed, snow-white, happy Button were all there to greet him. (TITLE:) “You Promised Me a Dog When I Turned Ten, Mum! — A Heartwarming Story of Promises, Friendships, and Finding the Perfect Four-Legged Friend”

Mum, I am ten already, arent I? piped up Michael as he returned from school, dropping his bag with an

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The Only Man in the House At breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, looked up from her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s so special about it?” Instead of answering, she turned her phone around: on the screen was an unbroken string of ones—11.11.11. In other words, November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number—11! And today, it’s three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Valery grinned. “Yeah, Dad,” chimed in Nadya, the youngest, her eyes still fixed on her phone. “The horoscope says Scorpios are in for a pleasant surprise and a life-changing gift today.” “Brilliant. I bet some long-lost relative in Europe or America has popped his clogs, and we’re the sole heirs. Naturally, a millionaire…” “Billionaire, Dad,” Vera played along. “A millionaire’s pocket change for you.” “Too right! What would we even do with all that money? First, a villa in Italy or the Maldives? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” joined in Nadya. “I want my own helicopter!” “No problem. A helicopter it is. And what about you, Vera?” “I want to act in a Bollywood film with Salman Khan.” “Oh, easy! I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort that in no time… All right, dreamers, enough, finish your food, we need to leave soon.” “Oh, you can’t even let us dream,” sighed Nadya. “Why not? Dreaming is essential,” Valery took his last sip of tea and got up from the table. “Just don’t forget about school…” This morning table chat flashed through his mind now, at the end of a long day, in the supermarket, as Valery transferred groceries from his trolley to shopping bags. The day hadn’t been brilliant at all—quite the opposite, he’d had to work late and was exhausted. No pleasant surprises. No lifelong gifts. “Happiness just flew right past me, like a paper plane over Paris,” he smiled wryly as he left the store. Outside, a boy was circling his battered Moskvich, which had been faithfully serving the family for 25 years. A street kid by every sign—wearing tatty clothes, mismatched shoes (a battered trainer on one foot, an ancient army boot with an electric wire for a lace on the other), and a grubby, worn-out ushanka hat, one of its earflaps burned to a crisp. “Mister, I’m… hungry, could you… spare some bread?” the boy whimpered as Valery approached the car. The sentence sounded oddly stilted. It wasn’t just the boy’s sad appearance or his Dickensian request that struck Valery, but something about his delivery. It brought back memories of acting classes at the local theatre in his youth, where the pause in an actor’s line spoke volumes—was the emotion truth or pretence? This pause, he knew, was the litmus test for honesty. The boy was pretending. The slight stutter was a giveaway. Instantly Valery saw the scene in a different light—this was a performance. But for whom? Somehow he knew, for him. Well, two can play at that game. And his girls would love it—better than any detective game they could play. “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of borscht, some potatoes, a bit of herring, and maybe a hot prune compote with some fresh pastries. Sound good?” The boy was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly regained his composure, giving Valery a wary look from beneath his brows. “Nice going,” Valery thought. “He’s in character now. Let’s see where this goes.” “What’s the matter? Yes or no?” “Yes,” the boy mumbled. “Great. Here, hold this.” This was Valery’s test. True street kids had a habit: if you handed them a bag of food, they’d bolt before you could blink. Valery had learned to be one step ahead, often catching them in seconds and giving a gentle scolding—“You’re not an animal, you’re a child…” He made a show of looking for his keys, fiddled with his phone, deliberately turned his back. But the boy didn’t bolt—he just stood looking at the ground, clutching the bag tightly. “Thank you, lad,” Valery thought. “No sprinting for me tonight.” Keys found, groceries loaded, Valery opened the passenger door. “Your carriage awaits, my good man—dinner’s cooking as we speak.” The boy heaved a sigh and climbed in. For the seven-kilometre drive to their village, they rode in silence. Valery, widowed and single, was raising two girls alone and working as a welder. An orphan himself, he never turned away a child in need. He’d brought many home, and if it weren’t for the endless red tape and heartless officials, he’d have adopted every last one. But always, they said—your housing isn’t good enough, your finances aren’t enough, you’re a single father, and so on. As if children were somehow happier in state care! Love is what matters, Valery knew. Always. The boy sat hunched in silence, his hat pulled low. Valery guessed he wasn’t a born street kid—perhaps just new to the streets, still nervous. “I may have been too quick to judge him a liar,” Valery mused. “Maybe he’s just in shock. Never mind, friend, we’ll get you fed, cleaned up, and then you’ll tell us everything, in good time.” His girls were waiting on the porch, dashing to meet the car. “And who’s this, Dad?” they finally noticed the boy. “This? This is the pleasant surprise and lifelong gift you predicted this morning,” Valery grinned. “Epic, Dad,” Nadya, peering under the boy’s hat. “Maybe you picked up the wrong parcel?” “If only—he practically glued himself to my leg,” Valery laughed as the girls hauled the boy inside between them. “Well—shall we figure out what this Unknown Walking Object actually is?” In the kitchen, right away, the girls set to unmasking the newcomer. Nadya sniffed him, then showed her palm, smudged with dark stains. “Greasepaint, Dad. He put it on to look filthy. I asked his name, he said ‘Bugai’—a proper street nickname, means ‘the bull’. But it doesn’t add up—he smells of soap, not the street.” Soon, the boy broke down. He confessed: his name was Spartacus Bugayev, and he had a sister, Sophia. Their mother had died just before he was born; their elder sister kept the family together. Sophia had fallen in love—with none other than Valery himself, though she was too shy to tell him. Spartacus explained that, as the only man in his family, he had to make sure any man who wanted his sister’s heart was the right sort. So he created this ruse to observe the Zvyagintsev family from within—to see if Valery would love his sister and give her the happiness she deserved. “Please,” Spartacus said, “take my sister as your wife. She’s wonderful—kind, gentle, the best of us…” Valery, the girls beaming hopefully, paused to wipe a tear. “Well, girls?” he said at last, “Shall we go ask the bride?” “YES!” they cheered, hugging him tight. Spartacus solemnly extended his hand. “As the only man in our family, I give you my sister,” he said gravely. Valery shook his hand, then embraced him. At last, the circle felt complete. “Dad,” Nadya beamed, “you see? You got a new friend and a lifelong gift—a big, happy family. You always wanted that, didn’t you, Daddy? Well, now you’ve got it…”

The Only Man of the House Friday, 11th of November 2011 Breakfast was well underway when my eldest, Grace

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There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val struggled to unlatch the garden gate, tottered up to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock for ages, then finally entered her chilly, unheated cottage and sank onto a rickety chair beside the cold stove. The house smelled empty and unlived in. Although she’d only been away for three months, cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the antique chair let out a mournful creak, and the wind whistled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her with a grumpy, “Where’ve you been, mistress? Who’d you leave me with? How are we supposed to get through winter like this?” “Just a minute now, my dear,” she murmured, “let me catch my breath… I’ll light the stove, we’ll warm up…” Just last year, Granny Val bustled briskly about her old place: whitewashing, painting, fetching water. Her tiny, sprightly figure would bow before the icons, then take charge of the stove, then whirl through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house rejoiced with her—the floors creaked with her lively steps, doors and windows eagerly swung open at the gentle press of her work-worn hands, and the oven baked splendid pies. They belonged together: Val and her timeworn cottage. She buried her husband early. Raised three children, educated each one, set them up in life. One son was a sea captain; the other, a colonel in the army—both living far away and rarely visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village, now the chief agronomist—but she worked all hours, visiting her mother only on Sundays with a soul-restoring pie, then away again for another week. Her consolation was her granddaughter, little Svetlana, who had practically grown up at Granny’s side. And goodness, how lovely she’d become—with big grey eyes, waist-length golden hair that shone even on cloudy days, and a willowy figure. Wherever did a village girl get such poise, such beauty? Granny Val herself had once been a looker, but comparing an old photo to Svetlana’s—well, it was shepherdess and queen… And clever, too: Svetlana finished university in a nearby city and returned home as an agricultural economist, married a local vet, and thanks to a scheme for young families, they were given a brand-new brick house—a real showstopper for those parts. The only thing missing was a garden—at Granny Val’s there was riotous colour and growth, but at Svetlana’s, just three timid green shoots. Svetlana, gentle by nature and always coddled by Granny against draughts and hard chores, wasn’t one for growing things. And then baby Vasya came along—no time for gardens now. So Svetlana invited her grandmother to move in: “Come on, Granny, live with us—it’s a big, comfortable house, no need to light the stove.” When Granny Val turned eighty, her sturdy legs suddenly refused to cooperate, and at last—reluctantly—she agreed. But after just a couple of months, she overheard: “Granny, you know I love you so much! But why do you just sit around? You’ve always been so active, always working, and now you’ve settled in—see, I wanted to start a little farm and was counting on your help…” “But I can’t, my dear, my legs just don’t work anymore… I’m getting old…” “Hmph… Funny how you got old the moment you moved in with me…” And so, not living up to expectations, Granny Val was quietly packed off back to her own place. Upset at not being able to help her beloved granddaughter, she soon took to her bed. Her worn-out legs barely moved anymore: getting from her bed to the table was a feat; making it to her beloved church? Impossible. Father Boris visited his loyal parishioner—once such an energetic helper at the old church. He surveyed the cold, draughty cottage. Granny Val sat at the table, laboriously penning her usual monthly letters to her sons. It was chilly—the stove barely warm, the floor icy. Even her best jumper and a scruffy old headscarf couldn’t keep her, once the tidiest of housekeepers, comfortable. Father Boris sighed: She needs help. But whom to ask? Maybe Anna, who lived nearby and was still hearty—twenty years younger than Val. He got bread, ginger cakes, and half a hot fish pie (a kind gesture from his wife Alexandra), then rolled up his sleeves, cleared the old ashes, chopped and carried in wood for several stoves, stoked the fire, fetched water, and set a big blackened kettle to boil. “Dear boy—oh, I mean, dear Father, please help me with the addresses for the envelopes. My handwriting’s so wonky it’ll never get there otherwise!” Father Boris glanced at the shaky scrawl—big, wobbly letters: “I’m doing very well, darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!” But the letters about Granny Val’s “good life” were all blurry with ink—and, it seemed, with salty tears. Anna came to look after her, Father Boris checked on her often, and for big church holidays, Anna’s husband Uncle Pete, an old sailor, would bring Granny Val to church on his motorbike. Life gradually brightened. Her granddaughter stopped visiting, and before long fell gravely ill. Svetlana, always plagued by stomach pains, put it down to an old complaint—it turned out to be lung cancer. She passed away in just six months. Her husband, devastated, all but lived at her grave, drinking day and night. Four-year-old Vasya was left dirty, hungry, and neglected. Tamara took him in, but busy as she was, she couldn’t look after her grandson—and Vasya was soon lined up for the local children’s care home. It was well run, with a lively headmaster, proper food, even home visits at weekends—but nothing like family. One day, in Uncle Pete’s battered old “Ural” bike with a sidecar, Granny Val appeared at Tamara’s. Uncle Pete, barrel-chested and tattooed all over with anchors and mermaids, looked ready for a fight. Granny Val announced briefly: “I’m taking Vasya to live with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk! How can you handle a little one? He’ll need feeding, washing…” “As long as I live, Vasya won’t be sent to a home,” Granny Val declared. Astonished by her usually gentle mother’s determination, Tamara fell silent and started packing Vasya’s things. Uncle Pete delivered them both back to the little cottage, nearly carrying them inside himself. Nosy neighbours shook their heads: “Lovely old dear, bless her, but she must’ve lost her marbles—she can’t care for herself, never mind a child! He needs so much attention… What’s Tamara thinking?” After Sunday service, Father Boris braced himself for the worst: would he have to remove poor, hungry Vasya from a weak, ailing old lady? Instead, he entered a warm, welcoming cottage. Vasya, clean and content, listened to a scratchy old record of “The Gingerbread Man.” And that frail old lady? She was flitting around the kitchen, greasing baking trays, kneading dough, mixing eggs into cheese. Her tired old legs were suddenly working just like they used to. “Dear Father! I’m just making cheese buns… Wait a tick—hot ones for Alexandra and little Koozie…” Father Boris went home still reeling and told his wife what he’d seen. Alexandra paused, fetched a thick blue notebook from the bookcase, found a marked page, and read aloud: “Old Mrs. Egorova had lived her long life. Everything had passed by, flown away—hopes, dreams, all asleep beneath the snowy drifts. It was time to go where there’s no pain, no sorrow, no sighing… One February evening, Egorova prayed long before her icons, then lay down and said to her family, ‘Call the priest—I’m ready to pass.’ Her face became pale as the snow. The priest came, she made her confession, took communion, and lay for a whole day—taking neither food nor water. Only her faint breath showed a soul not yet departed. Suddenly, the front door burst open—a gust of cold air, a baby’s wail. ‘Hush now, Granny’s dying here.’ ‘I can hardly stop a baby—she’s just been born!’ Grand-daughter Nastya had come home from hospital with her newborn, and, all alone, felt helpless—her milk hadn’t come, she didn’t know how to soothe the baby, who screamed, disturbing dying Egorova. Somehow Egorova roused herself, sat up, put pale feet on the floor, and groped for her slippers. Hours later, when the family returned—expecting a death—they found Egorova brisk, alive, pacing the room with the now-contented baby, while the exhausted young mother recovered nearby.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and said: “That was my great-grandmother, Vera Egorovna. She loved me so fiercely, she simply refused to die, saying, as the song goes: ‘Oh, it’s much too soon for me to go—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived for ten more years after that, helping my mother, and raising me, her favourite great-grandchild.” And Father Boris smiled back at his wife.

Theres always still plenty to be done at home, isnt there Old Mary Jones fumbled with the creaky gate

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And They Say He Brings Joy to the People

Im the sort of bloke who likes to watch the world go by from the drivers seat, so when I saw Victoria

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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, scowling as she passed her husband, George, who had been fussing over the well for three days straight—determined to carve ornate patterns, as if there weren’t more important things to do! While his wife bustled about tending to the animals, there he stood with his chisel, covered in wood shavings, just smiling at her. What sort of man had God sent her? Not a tender word, nor a fist to the table—just silent, steady work. Only now and then did he walk over to touch her thick golden braid, his way of showing affection. But Annie longed to hear pet names like “darling” or “my dove”… Lost in thought about her woman’s lot, she nearly tripped over old Buster, their dog. George leapt up, caught her, then scolded the dog with a stern look: “Why are you getting underfoot? You’ll end up hurting your mistress.” Buster dropped his eyes and slunk to his kennel, and once again Annie marvelled at how animals always understood her husband. When she’d once asked him about it, all he’d said was, “I love animals—they give it right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love: being swept up in strong arms, sweet nothings in her ear, flowers on her pillow every morning. But George wasn’t one for grand gestures, and Annie had begun to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours,” called out Bill, popping his head over the fence. “George, you still fiddling with that well? Who needs your fancy carvings, anyway?” “I want my children to grow up to appreciate beauty,” George replied. “First you’ll need some children!” Bill laughed, winking at Annie. George glanced at his wife with sadness, while Annie—embarrassed—quickly returned to the house. She wasn’t in a rush for children, young and beautiful as she was, wanting to enjoy life a bit more, and anyway, George was just so… quiet. But Bill—now there was a man! Tall, broad-shouldered, a real charmer. When he met her by the gate, he made her heart flutter with his gentle, summer-rain whisper: “My dewdrop, my bright sunshine.” Still, Annie always ran from him, loyal to the vows she’d made when she married George—her parents’ marriage had lasted soul-to-soul for decades, and they’d taught her to cherish her family. But then, why did she always find herself gazing out the window, aching to meet Bill’s eyes? The next morning, leading the cow to pasture, Annie met Bill at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you keep dodging me? I can’t get enough of your beauty—it’s simply dizzying. Come to me at dawn. When your fella’s off fishing, slip over to my place. I’ll give you all the tenderness you crave—you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed a furious red, her heart fluttering, but she said nothing, just hurried past. “I’ll be waiting,” said Bill after her. She thought about him all day—she wanted love, wanted tenderness, and Bill’s eyes burned with longing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. At least, not yet. There was still time until dawn… That evening, George fired up the sauna, even invited Bill in for a steam—Bill, always happy to save his own firewood. They lashed each other with birch twigs, relishing the dry heat, then retreated to the anteroom to cool down. Annie brought in a decanter of homemade gin and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers left in the cellar. She ran down, collected the jar, and went to bring it to the men—only to pause as she caught snatches of their conversation through the half-open door. “Honestly, George,” Bill said quietly, “why so hesitant? Come with me—you won’t regret it. Those widows, they’ll spoil you rotten, and some are real beauties! Not like your Annie, she’s just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” Annie heard George reply, voice soft but firm. “I don’t need beauties—don’t even want them. And my wife’s no grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman alive. There isn’t a flower or berry on earth lovelier than her. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—I see only her eyes, her slender waist. Love fills me up like a river in spring, but I just—can’t find the words to tell her how much I love her. She’s angry sometimes, I know it. I know it’s my fault, and I’m scared to lose her. I couldn’t live a day, not even take a breath, without her.” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear tracing her cheek. Then, holding her head high, she strode into the anteroom. “Why don’t you head to those widows, Bill, and leave us to more important matters. We’ve got someone who needs to admire George’s handiwork. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish doubts. I was holding happiness all this time and never even realised. Let’s not waste another moment…” That dawn, George did not go fishing.

Love Is Not for Show I remember Mary stepping out of the cottage with a full pail of pig feed, her face

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It’s Not Our Business

Im writing this in the quiet of my little kitchen in Bramley, the tiny market town that finally shook