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“Well, Rusty, shall we?” muttered Val, adjusting the homemade lead fashioned from an old rope. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and shivered. February this year had been particularly vicious—sleet and biting winds that cut straight through. Rusty—a scruffy mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye—had come into his life a year ago. Val was just coming home from the night shift at the factory when he spotted the dog by the bins: beaten, starving, his left eye clouded over. A voice rattled his nerves. Val recognised it at once—Steve Squint, the local “top lad,” barely twenty-five, with three teenage lads swaggering at his side—his “crew.” “Out for a stroll, eh?” Val replied, eyes fixed on the pavement. “Oi, mister, you got a license for that mutt?” one lad jeered. “Ugly thing, innit—look, his eye’s all funny!” A stone hurtled and smacked Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered, pressing himself to Val’s leg. “Sling your hook,” Val said softly, but there was steel in his voice. “Oi, listen to this! Granddad MacGyver’s giving us orders!” Steve strolled closer. “You forget whose patch this is? Dogs walk round here if I say so.” Val tensed. He’d been taught in the army to solve problems swiftly and firmly. That was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a knackered, retired mechanic desperate to avoid trouble. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time, your freak won’t be limping—he’ll be gone for good!” At home, Val couldn’t sleep a wink, replaying the scene. The following day, sleet pelted down. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty perched patiently by the door, eyes brimming with hope, and Val relented. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts—Steve’s crew were nowhere to be seen, probably sheltering from the sour weather. Val was just starting to relax when Rusty froze by the derelict boiler house, one ear cocked, nose sniffing at the damp air. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whimpered, tugging towards the rubble. Strange noises drifted out—half cry, half moan. “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Silence, only the wind howled reply. Rusty insisted, pulling hard on the rope. In his one good eye was pure worry. “What is it?” Val crouched by him. “What have you found?” Then, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped the rope and followed Rusty through the shattered entry. Behind a pile of broken bricks, a boy lay crumpled—about twelve, face battered, lip split, clothes torn. “Good lord!” Val dropped to his knees. “What happened?” “Mr. Val?” the boy croaked, barely opening an eye. “Is it you?” Val peered closer—Andy Mason, his neighbour’s quiet lad from number 5. “Andy! What on earth happened?” “Steve and his lot,” the boy sniffed. “Wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell the copper. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val stripped off his coat, wrapped the shivering boy. Rusty pressed close, covering Andy with his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg… hurts. Bad.” Val felt it—sure enough, broken. Who knew what else was wrong inside. “Have you got a phone?” “They took it.” Val pulled out his ancient Nokia, rang for an ambulance. Help would be there in half an hour. “Hang on, lad. They’re coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy whimpered. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t hurt you again,” Val promised, voice firm. “Not anymore.” Andy looked doubtful: “But last night you ran from them…” “That was different. It was just me and Rusty then. Now…” He left it hanging. How to explain thirty years back, he’d sworn to defend the weak? That in Afghanistan they taught him—a real man never abandons a child? The ambulance arrived faster than expected. Andy was whisked away. Val remained with Rusty in the drizzle, thinking. That night, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came by in tears. “Mr. Grant,” she sobbed, “the doctors said if he’d stayed another hour in the cold… you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val stroked Rusty. “He found your boy.” “What now?” she whispered, eyes darting to the door. “Steve’s not finished. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word isn’t enough.” “It’ll be all right,” Val said, though he hadn’t a clue how. He barely slept, the questions looping—how to protect Andy? And not just him; how many kids here put up with Steve and his gang? By morning, he had his answer. Val donned his old military dress uniform—the lot, medals and all. He checked himself in the mirror—a proper soldier, if a bit battered. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve a job to do.” Steve’s lot lounged outside the corner shop. Seeing Val march over, they cackled. “Oi, Grandad, off to the Cenotaph, are ye?” one jeered. Steve stood, smirking: “Run along, old timer. Your day’s over.” “The day’s just starting,” Val said calmly, stepping up. “What’s up with the fancy dress?” “Serving my country. Protecting the weak from scum like you.” Steve’s grin faded. “Andy Mason—remember him?” “Why bother with that loser?” “Because he’s the last kid you’ll ever hurt round here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “Let’s see who runs things, grandad!” Val didn’t move an inch. Thirty years gone, but the soldier was still there. “The law runs things now.” “What law? You a copper?” “I don’t need a badge—I’ve got my conscience.” Then something wholly unexpected happened. Rusty, who’d sat at Val’s side quietly, rose. The hair on his hackles bristled, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “And your mutt—” Steve began. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in. “Afghan war, bomb squad. He can sniff out a villain from a mile off.” It wasn’t true—Rusty was just a scrappy stray. But Val sounded so convincing, everyone believed it. Even Rusty seemed to believe, straightening proudly, baring his teeth. “He’s found twenty terrorists—tied up every single one,” Val carried on. “Think he can’t handle one junkie?” Steve backed off. His mates froze. “Listen well,” Val stepped forward. “From now on, these streets belong to everyone. I’ll be out every day, every alley, every playground. And Rusty will sniff out any trouble. Then we’ll see…” He left it unsaid. But they understood. “You trying to scare us?” Steve tried bravado. “I make one call—” “Go ahead.” Val nodded. “Just remember—I know more people in prison than you ever will. Plenty owe me favours.” That wasn’t true either. But Steve bought it. “The name’s Val the Para,” Val said. “Remember it. And keep your hands off the kids.” He turned to go. Rusty trotted proudly at his side. Silence settled behind them. Three days on, Steve and his crew vanished from sight. And Val truly did start walking the neighbourhood every day—with Rusty, head held high and chest out. Andy was discharged a week later. His leg hurt, but he could walk. He showed up at Val’s door. “Mr. Val, can I help with your patrols?” Andy asked hopefully. “You’ll have to check with your mum first.” Mrs. Mason couldn’t have been more pleased—at last, her son had a role model. So every evening, you’d see them: the battle-scarred old gent in uniform, a quiet boy, and a scruffy ginger stray. Everyone adored Rusty. Even the mums let the kids stroke him, rough as he looked—there was something proud in his bearing. Val told tales of his army days, of true friendship. The children listened, wide-eyed. One evening, heading home with Andy, the boy asked, “Mr. Val, were you ever scared?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Of not being strong enough.” Andy patted Rusty. “I’ll grow up and help you, Mr. Val. I’ll have a dog just like him—clever, brave.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Of course you will.” Rusty just wagged his tail. And everyone round those streets knew: “That’s Val the Para’s dog. He can spot a hero from a villain in a second.” Rusty bore the title proudly—no longer just a stray. He was the neighbourhood’s protector.

Well then, Rusty, shall we? muttered Walter, fiddling with the makeshift lead hed fashioned from an old

La vida

The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, only to remember too late: the milk would rise, overflow, and she’d wipe the stovetop in frustration. In those moments, she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since the birth of her second grandchild, the whole family seemed to have come off the rails. Her daughter looked exhausted, thinner, spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes went straight to his room. Anna saw it all and thought: how can you just leave a woman to manage alone? So she spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then her son-in-law. And then, she noticed something strange: her words didn’t lighten the atmosphere—they made it heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew sullen, and Anna went home feeling as though she’d done something wrong—again. That day, she went to see Father Matthew—not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. “I must be a terrible mother,” she began, eyes cast down. “I keep getting it wrong.” The priest was seated at his table, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I only wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her carefully, but kindly. “You’re not terrible. You’re tired. And you’re very anxious.” She sighed. It felt true. “I worry about my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different now, since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “He acts like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you see what he does?” Father Matthew asked. Anna thought. She recalled how, last week, he’d quietly done the dishes late at night, believing no one saw. How on Sunday he’d taken the pram out, though he looked like he just wanted to sleep. “He does… things,” she admitted. “But not the way he should.” “And what way would that be?” Anna was ready to answer, but then realised she wasn’t sure. In her mind there was only: more, better, kinder. But what, exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” Anna said. “Then say that,” Father Matthew replied quietly. “But say it to yourself, not to him.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re fighting her husband, not fighting for your daughter. And fighting brings tension. That exhausts everyone—you included.” Anna was silent for a long time. “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words—actions. Not against anyone, but for someone.” On her way home, she turned all this over. She remembered how, when her daughter was small, she hadn’t lectured her—just sat nearby when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day she dropped in, unannounced, bringing soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I’m not staying long,” Anna said. “Just here to help.” She watched the children while her daughter napped. She slipped away without saying how hard things were, or how they “should” live. A week later, she came again. And the week after that. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect—but now she noticed other things: how gently he lifted the baby, how in the evenings he covered her daughter with a blanket, thinking no one saw. One day, Anna couldn’t help but ask him in the kitchen: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It’s hard,” he replied after a pause. “Very.” And said nothing more. But after that, something sharp in the air between them vanished. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what she needed was to begin with herself. She stopped criticising him to her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to check in. None of it came easily. Anger was much easier. But gradually, the home became quieter. Not better. Not perfect. Just—quieter. The ever-present tension faded. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now—instead of against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood one simple thing: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits fault. It’s when someone is first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law were more attentive. That feeling never left. But another, more important wish grew alongside it: that the family be at peace. And each time the old feelings resurfaced—frustration, hurt, the urge for a sharp word—she asked herself: Would I rather be right, or make things easier for them? The answer almost always guided her next steps.

Margaret Turner sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob.

La vida

Excuse Me, Sir, Please Mind the Queue. Oh—Is That Smell Coming from You? — A Chance Encounter in a Village Shop Leads Rita, on the Brink of Renovations, to Hire a Down-on-His-Luck Stranger Whose Sapphire Eyes Hide a Past as a Physics Teacher, Setting Off an Unexpected Romance, Family Drama, and a New Start in Middle Age

– Sir, please, theres no need to push. Good heavens, is that smell coming from you? –

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010

– Sir, please, theres no need to push. Good heavens, is that smell coming from you? –

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“For Four Generations, the Men in Our Family Worked on the Railways! So What Have YOU Brought?” — “Emily,” Anna Whispered, Stroking Her Bump. “We’ll Name Her Emily.” — “Another Girl? Is This Some Kind of Joke?” A Heartfelt Story of Fatherhood, Tradition, and Realising What Truly Matters

Four generations of men in our family have worked for the railway! And what have you brought us?

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019

The Unexpected Brother: How My Late Husband’s Secret Child Became Family – A Heartfelt Story of Forgiveness, Motherhood, and Finding Room for One More

Oh no, its not my son. Hes my neighbours, Kates, lad. Your husband used to pop round hers quite a lot

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011

Oksana, Are You Busy? A Mother’s Last-Minute Holiday Errand, a Chance Encounter on an Icy Winter Night, and the Unpredictable Path of Love and Forgiveness—A New Year’s Eve Tale in London

Emily, are you busy? my mum asked, popping her head into my room. One minute, Mum. Ill send this email

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My Husband Refused to Go to the Coast to Save Money, Only for Me to Find a Photo of His Mother on Holiday

Dear Diary, 13July Mary, what about Brighton? Have you seen the prices? We agreed to tighten our belts

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010

Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.

Ever since his holiday, Frank didnt return Still nothing from your old man? Not a call, not a letter?

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Step Away from Me! I Never Promised to Marry You! In fact, I Don’t Even Know Whose Child This Is!

Dear Diary, Stay away from me! I never promised to marry you, and I dont even know whose child this is