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Towards a New Life: “Mum, how long are we going to be stuck in this backwater? We’re not even in a proper town – this is the middle of nowhere!” groaned my daughter as she walked in from the coffee shop, humming her favourite song. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Masha: this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” Mum replied, stretching out on the sofa with her legs propped on a cushion – her so-called ‘Churchill at rest’ pose. “Oh, you and your roots! Give it ten years and you’ll have wilted, with another hopeless fella turning up for you to call Dad.” Stung, Mum got up and checked herself in the built-in wardrobe mirror. “My roots are fine!” “Well, they are for now. Another year or two and you’ll have to choose: turnip, pumpkin or sweet potato – pick a vegetable you fancy as a chef.” “Darling, if you want to leave, go. You’re old enough to do anything that’s legal. Why do you need me?” “For my conscience, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “I’ve got my insurance, a steady wage, broadband – and I’m sure I’ll end up with some bloke, as you point out. It’s easy for you to move, you’re young and modern and teenagers don’t drive you nuts yet. Me? I’m halfway to Valhalla already.” “Ha! You joke like my mates, and you’re only forty…” “Why say it out loud? Ruin my day, why don’t you?” “In cat years, that’s just five,” Masha grinned. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, let’s just go before it’s too late. There’s nothing holding us here.” “I fought to get our surname spelled right on the gas bill, and our GP surgery is round the corner,” came Mum’s final protest. “You can register anywhere, and we don’t have to sell the house. If it doesn’t work, we can come back. I’ll show you how real life is lived!” “The sonographer did warn me you’d never let me rest. Thought he was joking – no wonder he won bronze on Britain’s Psychic Challenge. Right then, let’s go. But if it doesn’t work out, you promise you’ll let me come home with no drama?” “Scout’s honour!” “Your co-author in the registry office gave me the same line – and you two have the same stubborn streak…” *** Masha and Mum skipped the nearest city and headed straight for London. Draining three years’ savings, they rented a studio flat wedged between a street market and a bus station, paying four months upfront. The money ran out before they knew it. Masha was calm and full of energy. Instead of unpacking, she threw herself into city life – creative, social, even nightlife. She was instantly at home: quick to make friends, picked up local slang and dress codes, and acted as though she’d never lived anywhere else. Meanwhile, Mum rode a daily cycle of calming tea in the morning and sleeping pills at night. Ignoring Masha’s pleas to explore, she plunged into job hunting, only to find London’s wages and rent were a bad joke. A quick calculation (no clairvoyant needed) told her they’d last six months, max. Sticking to what she knew, Mum got work as a cook at a private school, then evenings as a kitchen porter at the local café. “Not this again, Mum! Chained to the stove as always – what’s the point of the big city? You could retrain – be a designer, a sommelier, a brow-tech! Ride the tube, sip posh coffee, live a little.” “I’m just not up for retraining, Masha. You don’t worry, I’ll settle in eventually. Just make sure you do.” Masha sighed about her mother’s lack of ambition, but got on with ‘settling’ herself – hanging out in cafés on others’ tabs, forging mental and spiritual bonds with the city like some Instagram runes guru advised, chasing circles of people who talked of ‘success’ and ‘making it’. But she didn’t land a job or a boyfriend: girl and city had to suss each other out first. Four months in, Mum was paying rent from her earnings, quit her evening job, and started catering for another school. Masha had dropped a few courses, tried out for local radio, acted in a student film (payment: pasta and tinned beef), and had brief dalliances with two “musicians”: one was a total donkey, the other a tomcat with more kids than sense. *** “Mum, fancy pizza and a film tonight? I’m wiped – can’t face going out,” Masha yawned, doing her best impression of Churchill-at-rest while Mum powdered her nose. “You order it, I’ll transfer the money – don’t keep any for me, I doubt I’ll be hungry when I’m back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up, frowning at her mum’s back. “I’ve been invited for dinner,” Mum giggled, suddenly shy. “By whom?” Masha scowled. “Some bloke from the school inspection team. I fed him your favourite chicken burgers, he asked to meet the head chef, we shared a laugh – head chef at a school! Anyway, we had coffee, and now he’s having me round for dinner.” “Are you mad? Going to a strange man’s HOUSE? For DINNER?” “Why not?” “Don’t you get it? He’s not after your food!” “I’m forty and single, darling – he’s forty-five, clever, not married. Honestly, whatever he’s after, I’ll enjoy it.” “You sound like a hopeless small-towner, as if you’ve no choice.” “I don’t recognise you! You dragged me here so I’d live, not just exist.” You can’t argue with that logic. Masha realised they’d switched places, and it threw her. She ordered a giant pizza and spent the evening comfort eating. Mum returned around midnight, glowing in the dark hallway. “Well?” Masha grumbled. “A lovely guy, nothing like a potato beetle, proper local,” Mum giggled, heading for the shower. Mum started dating: theatre, stand-up, jazz concerts, a library card, a tea club – even a new GP. In six months, she’d enrolled in upskilling courses, earned certificates, and mastered new dishes. Masha didn’t sit idle either: she tried for top companies, but the ‘dream jobs’ chewed her up and spat her out. Friends vanished when she stopped being fun-for-free. In the end, she became a barista, then a night bartender. Life blurred into exhaustion and rings under her eyes. The punters chatted her up, but none were likely candidates for ‘true love’. It all grew unbearable. “You were right, Mum. There’s nothing for us here. Sorry for dragging you along. We need to go home,” Masha blurted after another tough night. “Go? Where to?” Mum was packing a suitcase. “Home! Where they spell our name right and the GP knows us.” “I’m settled here now, love – don’t want to leave,” Mum replied, searching Masha’s teary face. “But I’m not! I want to go back. All this – the rubbish tube, overpriced coffee, snobby bar customers – it’s not for me. At least you’re packing…” “I’m moving in with Eugene,” Mum casually revealed. “What do you mean? Moving IN?” “I figured you’re grown up, have a job, can handle the rent. I’m giving you a gift: life in the capital, beautiful and independent, with everything ahead of you. You’ve given me so much! If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be wilting in that dump. Here, life’s in full swing. Thank you!” She kissed Masha’s cheeks, but Masha wasn’t ready for thanks. “Mum, what about ME? Who’ll look after me?” cried Masha. “You’ll have your insurance, your pay, the Internet – and maybe meet a nice guy,” Mum quoted herself. “So you’re just leaving me?” “Not leaving, just holding you to your no-drama promise.” “Fine… House keys?” “In my bag. But one thing: Gran’s thinking of moving, too. I’ve sorted it with her – can you help her pack?” “Granny’s coming to London?!” “Yep. I sold her the London dream just like you did me. There’s a post job going, and your gran knows mail better than anyone – she’ll risk it before her ‘roots’ give up.”

Towards a New Life Mum, how much longer are we going to rot in this backwater? groaned her daughter as

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Igor, the Boot! The Boot’s Opened—Stop the Car! – Marina Cried Out, Realising It Was Too Late as Their Belongings and Precious Gifts, Including Red Caviar, Smoked Salmon, and a Luxurious Throw, Fell Out Onto the Busy Motorway During Their Holiday Journey to Igor’s Gran’s Village, While Other Cars Obliviously Sailed Past and the Children Sobbed in the Back Seat

James! The boot! The boots popped open, stop the car! Olivia was shouting while already realising it

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Not Everything Comes Easy for Me,” Helena Replied. “My Stepfather is Always Putting Me Down.

“Nothing’s going perfectly for me,” Mabel sighed. “My stepdad keeps on nagging me.

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Why Did You Bring Your Son to the Wedding? We Didn’t Invite Children!

Hey love, youve got to hear what went on at Emmas wedding. So, I told you my little boy, Oliver, is nine

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When Secrets and Chances Collide: Svetlana Faces a Young Woman Claiming to Be Pregnant by Her Husband and Offering an Unthinkable Deal

I shut down my computer at the end of another busy day, gathering my things and preparing to leave.

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Towards a Fresh Start: “Mum, how long are we going to rot in this backwater? We’re not even in a proper town—we’re in the back of beyond,” my daughter groaned, returning from the café with her favourite song on her lips. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Masha: this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere.” Mum lay back on the couch, her tired legs propped on a cushion—her so-called “Churchill-relax” pose. “There you go again with the ‘roots, roots, roots’. Mum, if you stay here another ten years, you’ll have withered, and then another random, potato-loving chap you’ll want me to call Dad will come along.” Wounded, Mum got up and peered into the mirrored closet. “My roots are just fine, thank you very much…” “That’s what I’m saying—for now. But a bit longer and it’s all over—parsnip, turnip, or butternut squash—take your pick, chef’s choice.” “If you want to move so much, go ahead. You’ve been an adult for two years now—you can do anything that’s legal. Why do you need me?” “You know, for my conscience. If I run away to a better life, who’ll look after you?” “I’ve got an insurance policy, a steady salary, WiFi, and I’m sure I can find another ‘chap’—you said so yourself. It’s easy for you to pack up—you’re young, hip, understand memes, and don’t mind moody teens. Me? I’m halfway to Valhalla already.” “Oh, come on! You joke like my mates, and you’re only forty—” “Did you have to say it out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s just five,” my daughter quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum. Before it’s too late—let’s just jump on a train and go. There’s nothing keeping us here.” “A month ago, I got them to finally print our surname right on the gas bill—and what about our GP registration?” Mum fired her last arguments. “We can see a doctor anywhere, and you don’t have to sell the house—you’ll always have a nest to come back to. Let’s get you out, show you what life is like!” “The sonographer did warn me you’d never let me rest. I thought he was joking—turns out he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’ later. Alright, let’s go—but if it doesn’t work, promise me you’ll let me come home without a meltdown.” “Scout’s honour!” “That’s what your co-parent promised in the registry office, and you two have the same blood type.” *** They skipped the county town and aimed straight for London. After cashing in three years’ savings, they splashed out on a studio flat between a market and a coach station, paying four months’ rent up front. The money ran out before they’d even unpacked. Masha was buzzing and dived headfirst into city life—artist circles, nightlife, social whirl. She fit in instantly: mixing with the locals, picking up the accent and the dress, as if she’d materialised straight from London air and pure confidence. Mum lived between doses of camomile tea in the morning and valerian at night. The job search started on day one, even though Masha coaxed her to get out and explore. London’s job ads offered salaries and expectations that didn’t quite add up. Mum did a quick calculation (no psychic required) and guessed: six months, max, then we’ll go back. She ignored her progressive daughter’s pleas and stuck with what she knew—got a job as a cook at a private school and in the evenings washed up at a local café. “Mum, you’re stuck at the stove again! You might as well not have moved. Try something new—designer, sommelier, even a brow artist. Have coffees, ride the Tube, adapt!” “I’m not ready for retraining, love. Don’t worry about me, I’ll settle. Just you focus on what you want.” While Masha sighed over her mother’s inability to be “progressive,” she made herself comfortable: in cafés where boys from out of town paid for coffee, in “networking” circles full of success talk, and on the mental plane, forging spiritual connections with London per her favourite blogger’s tips. She didn’t rush into work or relationships—she and the city needed time to get acquainted. After four months, Mum paid rent from her own wages, quit dishwashing, and began cooking at another branch of the school. Masha had ditched several courses, auditioned at a radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film (where her pay was pasta and tinned stew), and briefly dated two ‘busking musicians’: one was a real donkey, the other a multi-dad tomcat not ready to settle down. *** “Mum, do you want to do something tonight? Pizza, movie?” Masha yawned one evening in the “Churchill-relax” pose while Mum fussed with her hair. “Order whatever, I’ll transfer you the money. Don’t hold dinner back for me—I may not need it when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up, staring at her mum’s back. “I’ve got a dinner invite”—Mum giggled like a schoolgirl. “Who from?” Masha sounded decidedly unthrilled. “There was an Ofsted inspection at school. I made those meatballs you loved as a kid. The head of the inspection asked to meet the ‘head chef.’ We joked, had coffee—and tonight, well, I’m cooking him dinner.” “You’ve lost your mind! Going over to some random man’s house? For dinner?!” “So what?” “Haven’t you thought that he might not be after your food?” “Darling, I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, smart, and attractive. Honestly, I’ll be happy with any of his expectations.” “You—You sound like some hopeless villager with no options.” “I don’t recognise you. You dragged me here to *live*, not exist.” Hard to argue with that. Masha suddenly realised they’d swapped roles, and that stung. She ordered the largest pizza she could and self-soothed with cheese until midnight, when her mother came in, glowing with happiness. “So? How was it?” Masha asked bleakly. “A lovely chap, definitely not a dodgy spud—local through and through.” Mum giggled and went to shower. Soon Mum was out on dates: theatre trips, a stand-up night, a jazz concert. She got a library card, joined the local tea appreciation club, re-registered with the local GP and, six months later, enrolled in professional courses, earning certificates and picking up gourmet cooking skills. Masha wasn’t wasting time, either. She tried for jobs at fancy firms. None worked out—each new “perfect” role slipped away. She lost most of her city friends once they stopped footing her bills, and so she became a barista, then quickly moved to a night shift bartender. Routine set in: dark circles, time lost, energy sapped, and no love life to speak of. The only suggestive remarks came from drunken clientele, who were nowhere near the English definition of a ‘pure romance’. In the end, Masha had had enough. “You know what, Mum? You were right—there’s nothing for us here. Sorry I dragged you—let’s go home,” Masha blurted after another rough bar shift. “What? Go where?” Mum asked, packing a suitcase. “Home, obviously—the place where our surname is finally correct on the gas bill, where our GP knows us. You were right from the start.” “I’m registered here now, and I don’t want to leave,” Mum stopped her and looked into her teary eyes to figure out the real problem. “Well, I do! I want to go home! I hate it here—the Tube’s daft, coffee costs more than steak, and everyone in the bar is so snooty. I have friends back home, a flat—there’s nothing keeping me here. Besides, you’re packing your stuff too!” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum replied, matter-of-fact. “You’re what—moving in with Jeff?!” “Well, you’re sorted, paying your own way in the city—Masha, this is a gift! Strong, beautiful, with a job and a London flat. Your opportunities are endless—honestly! Thank you for making me leave. I’d have rotted in that bog if not for you. Here—life’s actually brimming! Thank you!” Mum kissed both her cheeks, but Masha wasn’t feeling it. “Mum, what about *me*? Who’ll look after me?!” she sobbed. “Insurance, salary, WiFi—and I’m sure you’ll find a nice ‘chap’ too,” Mum echoed her earlier words. “So you’re just abandoning me? Just like that?” “Not abandoning—you promised no drama, remember?” “Yeah… Alright, give me the keys.” “They’re in my bag. But, just one thing.” “What?” “Your gran wants to move too. I’ve sorted it all with her on the phone. Pop over and help her pack?” “Gran’s moving here?!” “Yep— I sold her the same story: better life, nice chaps, escape the bog. The post office nearby wants a new clerk, and after forty years in that ‘business’, she can send a letter to the North Pole without a stamp—and it’ll still get there! She should give it a go before her roots start wilting too.” A New Chapter: How Mum and Daughter Left Small-Town Stagnation for London’s Wild Ride, Swapped Roles, Faced Failures and Found Themselves—With Gran Soon to Follow

Towards a New Life Mum, how much longer are we going to rot in this dead-end? Were not even in a proper

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The Kidnapping of the Century — “I want men to chase after me and weep because they can’t catch up!” Marina read her wish aloud and set the paper aflame, shaking the ashes into her sparkling wine and finishing her glass to the laughter of her friends. The Christmas tree twinkled brighter, the music swelled, glasses clinked, faces blurred together in a festive whirl. Suddenly, the tree showered golden dust—or so it seemed at the time… “Muuum… Mum, wake up!” Marina forced open one eye and found herself facing what looked like a football team of kids. “Who are you? Do I know you, children?” Giggling, the kids introduced themselves while tilting their heads: “Mum, remember—Matthew, 9 years old; Alex, 7; Sam, 5; David, 3!” The whole squad, full of mischief and determination. Not quite the kind of crowd of men Marina had wished would run after her on New Year’s Eve… “And where’s your coach… I mean, your dad?” she croaked. “Give your mum some water…” No sooner had she closed her eyes than—“Mu-um!”—two glasses of water, a clementine, and a mug of pickle juice appeared in her hands. At least the eldest already knew how to resuscitate mum after the holidays. They’re growing up. “Mum, get up. You promised…” the little ones begged. Marina tried to remember how she’d ended up here—and what exactly she had promised. “A film?” “No-oo!” “McDonald’s?” “No!” “The toy store?” “Come on, mum! You’re not fooling anyone! We’re nearly ready to go, but you won’t get up!” “Where are you all going? Can someone please tell your mother?” she finally surrendered. “Sweetheart, get up,” came a low male voice. Into the room walked a tall, dark-haired man with mischievous hazel eyes sparkling with gold flecks. Well now, what a dreamboat! “We’re ready, I’ve packed the car. We’ll stop at the supermarket on the way—then off we go!” Marina valiantly tried to recall who this man was, and why these children called her “mum.” Nothing. Not even a guess. “Mum, don’t forget our swimming trunks! And yours!” yelled someone from the children’s room. So, there’s even a pool? What kind of magic life is this—and why can’t I remember any of it…? Marina glanced around the unfamiliar room. The only familiar thing: a red Christmas poinsettia in a white pot with tiny pearl beads—her gift from last night. She began to retrace the thread of yesterday: a girls’ night out at a restaurant to celebrate New Year’s, Secret Santa like the good old student days—only now with pricey handbags, elaborate hairstyles, and not enough time. Married friends glowing with freedom for a change, while single, independent Marina, “the last of the bachelorettes,” as they call her, had no obligations. She remembered receiving that exact poinsettia, and a bottle of rare sparkling wine straight from a French château. She’d read out a wish or toast from a slip of paper—then…nothing. Blank. As the saying goes: ‘came—fell—woke up—in a cast!’ Looking in the mirror, she saw the same young woman as always—New Year’s makeup still perfect. But whose husband was that? Whose children? She didn’t remember giving birth, never-mind raising any of them. And though she somehow knew all the kids’ names, she didn’t know the husband’s. Something was off… Out in the hall: matching grown-up luggage and three sporty children’s rucksacks on wheels. Not a picnic then, but a proper trip? To where? Her “husband” reappeared; effortlessly hoisted the suitcases—muscle memory—and gently ushered her toward the door. “We’ll be late,” he said. She checked her hand and froze: no wedding ring—on either of them! One more oddity. Or…? The children piled into a big comfy minivan, seatbelts clicking into place with practiced familiarity. Her husband at the wheel, Marina’s heart pounded as she sat up front. He handed her a cup of coffee—white, with milk, which she despised. Oddly, that unsettled her most of all. “Let’s go!” he said cheerily, winking at the kids. As they left the city, Marina grew increasingly anxious. The family felt wrong—like strangers, even as she knew the children’s names! He had kidnapped them! No, they’d kidnapped her! But why could she name all the children? She was completely lost—but decided the only logical explanation was: “This man is a stranger. He’s kidnapped me. I need to act!” She stiffened in her seat, clutched her coffee, and put on her game face—ready for survival. Half an hour later, the kids revolted: “Dad, we need the loo!” “I’m hungry!” They stopped at a service station; everyone piled out. Here was her chance! Heart racing, Marina slipped away and darted to the car—only to find no keys in the ignition. “There you are! We were looking for you,” the man said cheerfully. “Come on then, let’s keep moving.” And off they went. An hour on, the airport loomed: glass, concrete, swarms of people. The “husband” parked, the family spilled out. Marina lagged behind—plotting escape. Suddenly she dashed away: “Help! I’m being kidnapped!” she cried, running to security. Within moments she was tackled, handcuffed, surrounded by guards. The “husband” hurried over. “Wait! It’s just a New Year’s prank—a joke! We’re not armed! It’s not a real kidnapping!” Voices blurred, and suddenly, like a film, she saw them: her friends hiding behind an advert board, giggling, sheepish, nervous and delighted. “Mum!” cried the kids—who promptly ran to one of the other women. Her friends rushed to the guards, overlapping each other with apologies, explanations, laughter: “Let her go!” The handcuffs came off. Her world stopped spinning. She was not a kidnap victim after all—just the subject of an elaborate, collective New Year’s prank with a dash of criminal drama. Her friends started chattering, breathless: they’d long wanted to introduce Marina to “a really nice bloke”—one who’d clearly had his eye on her for years, but never dared approach; he knew what she was like, always independent. So the idea was born, not to set them up, but plunge her straight into “family life”—kids, a calm but attentive man, even the morning coffee she hated. “We wanted you to feel, not overthink,” they confessed. Marina found herself unable to stay angry. Yes, it was drastic; yes, she almost had a heart attack—but it was a true experiment! Sometimes it takes one morning, three children, and a cup of coffee from your “kidnapper” to know if a man is right for you. There he was now: “Her romantic hero,” with that lopsided “Shrek Cat” grin and sparkling hazel eyes. The “kids” were revealed to be his nephews, thrilled to take part in Uncle’s big prank. “Oh, you’ll miss your flight!” the friends cried, bustling her along. “What, another kidnapping?” flashed through her mind. “And where were they planning to take me? The seaside? The Med? Mangoes and swimming?” He offered his hand. “Let’s try this again. I’m Vlad. Permission to ‘kidnap’ you?” he smiled, warm and inviting. Her friends watched, hopeful; the luggage waited. One last glance at those eyes, then the decision— “Let’s go!” said Marina, realising this “kidnapping” was the happiest adventure she could have wished for. And, almost in a whisper, she added: “But only if the kids stay home…” Laughter erupted, the airport blurred, and a new, funny, warm chapter began. Sometimes life doesn’t steal us away. It just whisks us, a bit too roughly, to exactly where we’re meant to be.

The Kidnapping of the Century I wish men would chase after me and weep because they cant catch up!

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My Son Isn’t Ready to Be a Father… “Shameless! Ungrateful Pig!” screamed the mother at her daughter Natalie, not holding back. The sight of Natalie’s rounded belly did nothing to calm her mother’s wrath—if anything, it made it worse. “Get out! And don’t come back! I never want to see you again!” Her mum really did throw her out—she’d done it before for other things, but for getting pregnant, she meant it. With tears streaming down her face and a small suitcase, Natalie wandered to her boyfriend—the bewildered Nazar. Turns out, Nazar hadn’t even told his parents that Natalie was having his child. Nazar’s mum immediately asked if it was too late to “do something”; of course, it was—her belly was clearly showing. Natalie was so shocked and desperate she was ready for anything, even ideas she’d once protested. “My son’s not ready to be a father,” Nazar’s mother said firmly. “He’s too young, you’ll ruin his whole life. Of course we’ll help where we can, but for now I’ve found you a place at a centre for girls like you—unwanted pregnant fools.” At the centre, Natalie finally got a room to herself, some peace, and help from a psychologist as she prepared for the birth. When the big moment came, and her baby girl was placed in her arms, panic set in—but then she began to adjust, slowly getting to know her miracle daughter. Christmas drew near, but instead of joyful news, Natalie was told she’d need to find somewhere else—her room had a waiting list. With baby Eva in her arms, barely a month old, Natalie sat in her room, not knowing how they’d survive or who would help. Her mother’s heart never thawed—she wouldn’t even look at her granddaughter, erasing them both from her life. “How sad our Christmas Eve is, little one…” Natalie whispered to her daughter. She’d always loved the holiday, going carolling as a child and earning a bit of money. She desperately wanted that feeling back—the joy of singing door-to-door. Why not try, she thought? Her baby was quiet, she could bundle her up and go carolling. The next day, Natalie picked a quiet residential street for carols. Most households were reluctant to open the door to such an unusual caroller—they expected men, by tradition. But where she got in, she sang so beautifully and sincerely that people rewarded her with money and treats, especially moved by the sight of her baby. It was hard going, but with a decent sum in her pocket, she decided to try one more house—a fancy villa. “Rich folks, maybe I’ll get something good,” she thought. “May I sing you a Christmas carol?” she said as the man opened the door. But his reaction startled her—he stared at her face and the baby, turned pale, and slumped onto the sofa. “Nadine?” he whispered. “What? No—I’m Natalie…you must have me confused with someone else.” “Natalie… you look just like my wife. And is she—your baby—a girl?” “Yes.” “I had a little girl too. But they died…in a car crash. I dreamt just a few days ago they would come back to me. And now you’re here… Can it really be?” “I…I don’t know what to say…” “Please come in. Don’t be shy—tell me your story…” Natalie was nervous at first with the stranger’s emotional reaction, but she had nowhere else to go. Inside the spacious house, she saw a photo of the man’s late wife and child—they really did look like her and Eva. Then, for the first time, Natalie shared her whole story. She couldn’t stop, describing everything, every detail. Finally, someone cared to listen. And as she spoke, the man simply listened, glancing from time to time at the baby, who slept sweetly in his living room—as if she truly sensed she had finally come home to a place that, very soon, would become her own…

Shameless! Ungrateful pig! screamed her mother at her daughter, Emily, the moment she caught sight of her.

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Valerie Was Washing Up in the Kitchen When John Came In and Turned Off the Light: A Story of a Miser’s Marriage, Penny-Pinching, and the Day She Finally Chose to Live Her Own Life

I was washing up in the kitchen when William walked in, flicking the light switch off before entering.

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Oh, Not Again—Max, Get Him Away from There! Anna Shot a Disapproving Glance at Teddy, Bouncing Clumsily at Her Feet. How Did They End Up with Such a Nuisance? They Spent Ages Debating Breeds, Consulting Kennel Clubs, Weighing the Responsibility. In the End, They Chose a German Shepherd—Loyal Friend, Watchdog, Protector. All Three in One, Like a Multipurpose Cleaner. Only This ‘Protector’ Needed Saving from the Neighbourhood Cats… “He’s Still Just a Puppy. Wait Until He Grows Up—You’ll See.” “Right. Can’t Wait Until This Beast Gets Any Bigger. Have You Noticed He Eats More Than We Do? How Are We Supposed to Feed Him? And Stop Clomping Around—You’ll Wake the Baby!” Anna Grumbled, Gathering Up Shoes Teddy Had Scattered. They Lived on Churchill Road, Ground Floor of a Stately Old Victorian Block, Low Windows Almost Level with the Pavement. Perfect Place—If Not for One Thing: The Windows Looked Out Onto a Dead-End Courtyard, Where Shadows Would Flit in the Evenings, Men Gathered for a Chat, and Sometimes Fights Broke Out. Almost All Day, Anna Was Alone at Home with Newborn Katie. Max Left Early for His Curator Job at the National Gallery, Spending His Spare Time Haunting Car Boot Sales and Old Book Stalls. Trained Art Historian’s Eye, Diamond-Sharp, Anna Joked, Fished Out Works of Art, Rare Books, and Vintage Curios. He Was a Passionate Collector. Before They Knew It, Their Flat Held a Fine Collection of Paintings, and Their Sixties-Era Cabinet Displayed Delicate Chelsea Porcelain Plates, Socialist Realism Figurines, and Early Twentieth-Century Silverware… Anna Felt Uneasy Alone with All Those Treasures and a Tiny Daughter—Especially Since Burglaries Occurred in Their Building All Too Often. “Anna, When Do You Think Is Best for Me to Walk Teddy? Now or After Lunch?” “I Don’t Know. And Frankly, That’s Not My Dog Business!” At the Magic Word ‘Walk,’ Teddy Bolted Down the Hall—Slid Around the Corner—Snatched Up the Lead, Bounded Back, and Jumped Nearly to the Ceiling. What a Horse, Not a Dog! He Loved Everyone; Brought Every Guest His Ball Except Those He’d Block at the Door. Open Spirit, Right Old Lad—But He Was Supposed to Be Their Protector! He Didn’t Even Chase the Courtyard Cats. He’d Run to Them with His Ball, Just Delighted, Ready to Play, and Had Taken a Couple Smacks from the Local Tomcats for His Troubles. Their Cats Had More Bite Than Their Guard Dog—That’s Who They Needed for Protection! Tomorrow, She’d Be Alone Again. Max Was Off to Brighton for an Arts Festival, and What Was Anna Supposed to Do? Guard the Porcelain and Walk This Floppy-Eared Oaf? As If She Didn’t Have Enough To Do… At Dawn, Her Husband Got Up Quietly, Not Wanting to Wake Her—As If! Anna Heard the Kettle Hissing, the Jingle of the Lead, Max Whispering for Teddy Not to Whine or Stomp About. Those Peaceful Noises Drifted Her Back to Sleep, and When the Baby Woke Her, Max Was Gone. The Day Began as Usual. Just Another Ordinary, Peaceful, Normal Day—But Isn’t That Happiness, in Itself? Her Friends Would Sigh—Anna, Married So Young, Torn Between Husband and Daughter, Always in the Kitchen, Buried in Domestic Chores… But Isn’t There Beauty in the Everyday? Even If Life Wasn’t Quite as She’d Dreamed—She Was Tired of Max’s Frequent Absences, the Cramped Flat, Lack of Funds. And, Most of All, His Fiery Passion for Collecting, into Which So Much Money Disappeared… Now He’d Dragged Home This Floppy-Eared Friend, and Anna Was Left to Cope. But She Knew Love Means Embracing Faults and All—No One Promised Perfection. Realising That, She Decided to Cherish What She Had, Not Pines for What She Didn’t. She Sat in the Nursery Feeding Katie, Who’d Fall Asleep Mid-Feed and Leave Anna Waiting for Her to Wake and Nurse Again. There Was a Knock at the Door, but Anna Didn’t Answer. She Wasn’t Expecting Anyone, and Nobody Would Journey Across London Just to Drop In Unannounced. Those Precious Morning Hours—How She Loved Them! The House Was Quiet, Only the Parlour Clock Ticking, and Through the Window Came Those Familiar City Sounds: Distant Buses, Cars Puffing, a Broom Scraping Pavement, Children’s Voices… And Where Was the Oaf? Strangely Absent for Ages Now. Mind You, No One Could Really Call Teddy ‘Floppy-Eared’—His Ears Stood Up Properly; It Was Just His Character: Silly, and That’s That. Now She Was Stuck with Him—Feeding, Walking, and What Did He Actually Do? Might as Well Have Got a Pekingese. Anna Gazed Fondly at Katie, Who, Sated as a Leech, Had Unlatched from the Breast. What a Little Treasure They’d Made! “My Little Golden Girl,” Anna Whispered, Nestling Her Daughter. Grow Up—What More Could They Want? Just Then, a Strange Noise Came from the Lounge—a Crack, or Maybe a Squeal. Anna Listened. The Noise Came Again. Not Breathing, She Slipped Off Her Slippers and Glide to the Lounge. The First Thing She Saw Was Teddy’s Back—Crouched Behind the Curtain Dividing the Front Hall from the Lounge. Four Feet Bent, He Was Frozen, Tense, Tongue Lolling, Eyes Fixed Deep into the Room. Anna Followed His Gaze and Went Cold: There, Halfway Through the Window, Was a Man—Or Half of Him. Typical Thug—Shaved Head, Arms and Shoulders Already in the Room, Grunting and Straining to Force His Lean, Sinewy Body Through. Anna Couldn’t Believe This Was Happening. It Couldn’t Be! What To Do—Shout? The Man Was Almost Fully Inside! Another Second and— She Jumped at a Yell. A Black Shadow Darted to the Window; Only Afterward Did She Register: It Was Teddy. He Leapt onto the Sill and Sank His Teeth into the Burglar’s Neck! “Aaaahhh!!” the Man Roared, Eyes Bulging with Fear. Anna Ran onto the Landing, Shouted for the Neighbours—After That, It Wasn’t So Frightening. People Rushed In, the Police Came. Everyone Tried to Help, Though There Was Little to Do—their Presence Itself Was Comforting. What Would She Have Done Alone? Summoning Her Courage, Anna Edged Closer: What If Teddy Tore the Man’s Throat Out? That Was All She Needed! But Clever Teddy Had Clamped Firmly onto the Collar, Not the Flesh—Held the Man Tight, Not Drawing Blood! Only When the Burglar Struggled Did Teddy Grip Harder. If He Went Still—It Was, “All Right, Guv, Message Received”—and Teddy Would Ease His Hold. How Did He Know to Do All This? This Ball-Chasing Clown Acted Like a Trained Professional. He’d Heard Something, Gone to Check Quietly, Laid in Ambush Behind the Curtain, Let the Burglar Crawl Halfway in (So He Got Stuck and Couldn’t Bolt) Before Pouncing, Holding Him in a Professional, Controlled Way—Not Choking, Not Hurting. “Our Job Is Just to Hold,” You Could Almost Hear Him Think, “Let Justice Take Care of the Rest.” Even the Oldest Police Veterans Couldn’t Recall a Burglar So Happy to Be Arrested. The Man, White with Terror from Teddy’s Teeth, Surrendered Eagerly—whereas the Dog Was Reluctant to Relinquish His Prize. Teddy Was So Proud, So Deep in His Role, That Only the Arrival of a Police Dog Handler Convinced Him to Let Go. At the Officer’s Command—He Released, Spitting Out the Burglar, and Sat by the Window, Gazing Up Devotedly, Awaiting Orders—Ready for Review, Practically Saluting. “You’ve Got a Good Dog There,” the Officer Said Admiringly, Ruffling Teddy’s Ears. “We Could Use One Like Him in the Force…” Max Came Home Late That Evening, Tiptoed in—and Froze. There Was Plenty to Be Surprised About. First: Teddy Lolling on the Sofa—Strictly Forbidden, Never Allowed. Second: Lying in Utterly Contented, Outrageously Sprawled Pose, While Anna Scratched His Tummy, Patted and Stroked Him and Nearly Kissed Him, Murmuring, “My Delight, Little Lamb, Our Darling Pony—Grow Up Big and Strong for Mum and Dad! How Unfair I’ve Been to You—Don’t Be Cross…” This Story Was Told to Me at One of the Brighton Art Festivals by the Man Himself—the Curator. Teddy Might Have Told It More Vividly: How He Stalked, How He Tackled, How He Handed Over the Suspect to the Police. It Was Long Ago, but the Story Lived on in Memory—I Felt Teddy’s Paw Scratching, Yearning to Be Set Down on Paper. Now I’ve Shared It with You…

Oh, hes licking himself again! Tom, can you get him off? Emily huffed, watching Charlie, their clueless