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“Mum, I’m ten years old now, right?” Mishka suddenly asked after coming home from school. “So what?” Mum stared at her son in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘so what’? Have you forgotten what you and Dad promised to let me do when I turned ten?” “Let you do? What did we promise?” “You promised I could get a dog.” “No!” Mum cried anxiously. “Anything but that! How about an electric scooter? The fanciest one – as long as you never mention a dog again.” “So that’s what you’re like…” Mishka pouted. “And you call yourselves parents… Teaching me to keep my word, but forget your own… Fine, whatever…” He locked himself in his room until Dad came home. “Dad, do you remember what you and Mum promised…” he began, but Dad interrupted. “Mum already rang me and told me about your wish! I just don’t get why you want one.” “Dad, I’ve dreamed of a dog for so long! You both know that!” “We know, we know. You’ve been reading too many stories about boys and their dogs! You know breed dogs cost a fortune, right?” “I don’t need a pedigree,” Mishka said quickly. “Any dog will do, even a stray. I read on the Internet about abandoned dogs. They’re so sad.” “No!” Dad cut him off. “What do you mean, a stray? Why would we want that? They’re not even nice-looking! I’ll make you a deal, Mishka: if you can find a young, pedigree, abandoned dog in this city, your mum and I might just give in.” “Really?” Mishka frowned. “Yes! You’ll have to train it, enter it in dog shows, the whole lot. And you can’t train a grown dog, can you? So if you find a young, good-looking pedigree stray, fine.” Dad exchanged a sly wink with Mum. Mishka sighed, knowing well he’d never seen a pedigree stray on the streets – but hope dies last, and he’d give it a go. On Sunday, he and his friend Billy set off to search. By evening, they’d scoured half the town but hadn’t found a single abandoned pedigree dog – every nice-looking pup was with its owner, on a lead. “That’s it,” Mishka said, tired. “I knew we’d find nothing…” “Let’s try the animal shelter next Sunday,” Billy suggested. “There could be pedigree dogs there – I’ve read about it. We just need to find the address. For now, let’s sit and rest.” They sat on a bench, and dreamed about picking the prettiest dog from the shelter, training it together. After dreaming and resting, they trudged home. Suddenly Billy tugged Mishka’s sleeve and pointed. “Mishka, look.” Mishka saw a tiny, dirty, white puppy wobbling along the pavement. “A mongrel,” Billy declared, and whistled. The puppy turned and scampered towards them, but stopped two metres short. “He doesn’t trust people,” Billy noted. “Someone’s probably scared him badly.” Mishka gently whistled. The puppy leaned towards him; and when Mishka got close, the little dog just anxiously wagged its grubby tail. “Let’s go, Mishka,” Billy said. “What do you want with a mutt? A pedigree dog deserves a fancy name. This one – only something like ‘Button’ would suit.” Billy turned away and walked on. Mishka stroked the puppy a little more, then sadly followed Billy. Truthfully, he would’ve happily taken even this little dog home. Suddenly, a yelp sounded behind him. Mishka froze as the puppy whimpered. “Quick, come on, Mishka! Don’t look back – that puppy’s looking at you! Like you’re his owner, leaving him… Run!” Billy called. Billy ran, but Mishka couldn’t move his feet. When he finally turned to go, he felt a gentle tug at his trouser leg. Looking down, he saw those bright black eyes. And at that instant, Mishka forgot everything else and scooped the puppy in his arms. If Mum and Dad wouldn’t let him keep her, he’d run away. Together with her. Turns out, his parents had kind hearts too… Because the next day, when Mishka came home from school, not only Mum and Dad were waiting – but so was a clean, snowy-white, cheery Button. (Note: Mishka becomes “Mishka” or “Mikey” in English. “Vovka” becomes “Billy”. “Knoopka” is “Button”, a common cute pet name in English.)

Mum, Im ten years old now, arent I? Oliver announced the moment he wandered in from school.

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CHOOSE: YOUR DOG OR ME! I’m Sick of the Smell of That Mutt! — Demanded Her Husband. She Chose Her Husband, Abandoned Her Loyal Dog in the Forest… But That Evening He Told Her He Was Leaving for Another Woman Natasha adored her husband, Igor, to the point of madness. They’d been together for five years—no children yet, but they had Rex, an old German Shepherd Natasha had rescued as a puppy, before she ever met Igor. Rex was family. Intelligent, loyal—he understood everything without words. But time took its toll: the dog’s joints began to ache, his coat shed in clumps, and he started to smell bad. Igor put up with it for a long time. But when Rex couldn’t hold it until his walk and peed in the hallway—right on the new laminate flooring—Igor snapped. “That’s it! Enough!” Igor shouted, pushing the old dog’s nose into the puddle. “I live in a kennel! The stink, the hair in my food, and now this! Natasha, decide: me or that wreck of a dog!” “Igor, what am I supposed to do? He’s twelve years old…” Natasha sobbed, hugging the guilty dog. “Put him in a shelter! Take him to the woods! Have him put down! I don’t care!” barked her husband. “If he’s not gone by this evening, then I’m leaving. I want a clean home, not to clean up after your flea-bitten ‘son’!” Natasha was weak. She panicked at the thought of being alone. She was afraid to lose Igor, who provided for the family, who she had holiday plans and a mortgage with… She chose her husband. She drove Rex out of town. The dog struggled to climb into the car, whimpering in pain from his joints, but he licked her hand—thinking they were headed for a walk. Natasha cried the whole drive. She let him out in the woods, twenty kilometres from the city. She tied his lead to a tree so he couldn’t chase after the car. “Forgive me, Rex… forgive me…” she whispered, unable to meet his loyal, age-clouded eyes. Rex didn’t fight. He just sat and looked at her. He understood. Natasha left a bowl of food, got back in the car, and sped off. In the rear view mirror, she saw Rex, forgetting his aching legs, lurch for her—straining the lead and barking, raw and desperate. That bark echoed in her ears the whole journey home. Natasha came home broken. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Igor was at home. He was packing. “You… what are you doing?” she stammered. “I did what you asked—Rex is gone. I took him away…” Igor looked at her with a cold smirk. “Well done. Quick work. But, you know…I’m leaving anyway.” “What do you mean? Where?” “To Lena. You know her, from Accounts. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. She’s pregnant.” Natasha sank onto a chair. The world spun. “But… you gave me an ultimatum… The dog or you…Why?!” “I was testing you,” Igor sneered. “To see if you had any backbone. I thought maybe you’d show some character. And you…you betrayed your friend for a pair of trousers. Frankly, it scares me to live with someone like you. If you could dump a dog who loved you for ten years in the woods, I dread to think what you’d do to me if I ever got sick.” He zipped his suitcase. “Goodbye, Natasha. And, by the way…Rex was the real man of this house. And you’re just a traitor.” When the door slammed behind her husband, Natasha howled. She realised what she’d done. For a man who never loved her, she’d destroyed the soul of one who’d worshipped her. She grabbed her car keys and raced back to the forest. It was night. The rain poured. She drove to the tree. The lead was chewed through. The food bowl overturned. Rex was gone. “Rex! Rex! My boy!” she screamed, stumbling through the wet woods, her face scratched by branches. She searched for three days—hanging posters, posting on animal rescue pages. She didn’t sleep or eat. On the fourth day, her phone rang. “Did you lose a German Shepherd? We found one on the motorway. Hit by a lorry.” Natasha went to identify the body. It was him. Rex must have bitten through his lead and set off to find her. He was running home. On aching legs, through pain, through fear. Running back to the one who betrayed him. He died by the roadside, never to arrive. Natasha buried Rex. Two years have passed. She lives alone. She never remarried—she can’t trust people, not even herself. Igor is happy with his new wife and child. He forgot Natasha like a bad dream. For him, it was just a “test”—an excuse to leave without blame. As for Natasha…she now volunteers at a shelter for elderly dogs. She cleans their cages, tidies up after them, tends their wounds. She tries to atone for her guilt. Every night, she dreams the same dream: she stands by the tree, and Rex looks at her. She calls him, but he doesn’t come. He just gazes, not angry, just infinitely heartbroken. In his eyes, lies her judgment. MORAL: Betrayal is never forgiven. Never sacrifice your loyal friends for those who set ultimatums. Someone who loves you would never force you to choose. If they do, the betrayal’s already happened—you’re only delaying the inevitable by making a terrible mistake.

ITS EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! IVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS MUTTS STENCH! MY HUSBAND SAID. SHE CHOSE HIM, DROVE

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The Only Man in the Family Over breakfast, Vera, the eldest daughter, stared at her phone screen and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” he replied. Instead of answering, she turned her mobile so he could see: a neat string of digits—11.11.11—meaning November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number, 11—today there are three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “If only your words brought honey,” Val, her father, chuckled. “Yes, Daddy,” chimed in little Nadia, her eyes glued to her own phone. “Horoscope says Scorpios will have a fateful meeting and a once-in-a-lifetime gift today.” “Well, maybe a mysterious European or American relative we’ve never heard of has died—left us their entire fortune…” “Billionaire, Dad!” Vera giggled. “Millions are small fry for you.” “True,” he agreed, “what would we do with all that money? Buy a villa in Italy or the Maldives, a yacht next…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” Nadya joined the fantasy. “I want my own helicopter…” “No problem. You’ll get your helicopter. And you, Vera?” “I want to star in a Bollywood movie with Salman Khan.” “No sweat. I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort it out… All right, dreamers, finish your breakfast, we have to leave soon.” “In this house, you’re not even allowed to dream,” Nadya mock-sighed. “You should always dream,” Val said, finishing his tea and standing. “But don’t forget about school…” He remembered that breakfast conversation at the end of a long, tiring day, in the supermarket as he bagged groceries. The promised “amazing day” had not come true: instead of happiness, only more work and fatigue. There had been no significant acquaintance, let alone a gift for life. “Happiness flew by, like a plane over Paris,” he smirked, leaving the supermarket. Outside, a scruffy boy was circling his faithful old Ford Escort, which had served the family for over twenty-five years. A runaway, by the look of him: unkempt, dressed in tatters, mismatched shoes—on the left, a murky trainer; on the right, a worn-out boot laced with a blue electric wire; on his head, a battered trapper hat, the right ear-flap burnt a third off. “Mister… I’m hungry, please… could I have some bread?” The boy’s voice was timidly hesitant as Val approached. It wasn’t the boy’s pitiful look or the Dickensian phrase, borrowed straight from Oliver Twist, that tugged at Val’s heart, but the slight stammer—a lesson from his amateur theatre days: a real feeling, or just an act? The kid was lying. The stammer was a dead giveaway: all theatre, all pretense. But why? If there is a sixth sense, Val felt it then: this drama was staged just for him. Why? “All right, mate,” thought Val, “let’s play along. My girls will love this; they’d be detectives if they could.” “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of stew, some potatoes and herring, and a mug of fruit compote with hot Chelsea buns?” offered Val. The child faltered, surprised, but quickly regained composure and nodded: “Yes.” This was Val’s standard test. Real street kids, when handed a bag crammed with food, bolted. Val could always catch them; he’d give them a playful clip on the head and say, “Don’t be wild—you’re a human child.” He deliberately fumbled for his keys, called home to announce his imminent return, back turned to the boy. The imposter didn’t run. He just stood there, clutching the shopping bag, head down, toe digging at the tarmac. “Thank you, kid,” Val grinned inwardly. “Didn’t fancy a sprint tonight.” When they arrived at the house, the girls rushed outside. Bags were grabbed, doors flung open. “What’s this, Dad?” Nadya finally noticed the boy. “This,” Val smiled, “is that fateful acquaintance and once-in-a-lifetime gift you predicted this morning.” “Awesome, Dad,” Nadya grinned, peering under the boy’s hat, “the best present ever. Are you sure he’s ours?” “Absolutely. Clung to my leg, screaming, ‘I’m your present!’ There was no shaking him off.” “What’s his name?” Vera joined in. “No label. No price tag,” he shrugged. Nadya grabbed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly: “Hello? Anyone home in there?” No answer. “Line must be bad out here. Let’s get inside—maybe it’ll improve,” Vera smiled meaningfully at her father. Val and his daughters spoke volumes with their eyes—they’d been through this before. He gave her five minutes, fingers spread wide. Vera winked: “We only need three.” “Drag our present inside, Nadya. Let’s investigate this Mysterious Walking Object.” Within moments, Nadya had the boy in hand and escorted him inside, joking about weird noises in his stomach and “loose screws” while Vera suggested they might need Dad’s toolbox to fix up the ‘robot.’ After parking the car and making everything ready for morning, Nadya burst out: “Dad, he’s lying!” “How do you know?” “Elementary, Watson. He doesn’t smell like a street kid—he’s completely ‘home-grown.’” “You sniffed him?” “Trust me, I did. Want to know what he smells like?” “Chelsea buns? Baby soap? Warm milk?” “You’re out of guesses. Here’s what,” she said, showing him her sooty hand. “Makeup?” Val asked after sniffing. “Bravo! Stage makeup. Laid it on thick so we’d think poor thing was filthy.” “His name’s Bull—only street kids get names like that. I asked Google. ‘Bull’ is a stud cow…” “We’ll fatten him up, auction him,” Val joked. “But seriously, Nadya?” “Dad! Jokes aside. He deliberately targeted you—dressed up in rags, smeared on makeup, took the stage. One-Man Theatre. Why?” Before Val could answer, Vera shouted from the door: “Do we have any sulphuric acid left?” “Half a can. Bringing it,” Nadya answered, grabbing a random canister. “We dissolve them in acid now, right down the drain…” “Monsters,” Val grinned. “Monsterettes,” Nadya corrected, dashing inside. “Dad, wash up, everything’s ready!” they called from the kitchen. “We’re starving, ready to gnaw on our ‘Bull,’” joked Vera. “Milk-fed—I’d crunch his little bones,” Nadya added with a wink. Val smiled, going to wash up: “What a pack of pigs—poor lad, hold on, I’m coming!” The ‘Bull’ sat sheepishly at the kitchen table. Clean and changed, he looked more ten than miserable. Gingersnap hair (as the poet said, ‘red as a fox’), a striped vest marked ‘USSR,’ torn blue jeans, bare feet tucked under his stool. He sat tall, calm, as though this was his own family table. The girls noticed the transformation, exchanging glances. “Something’s up with you, my friend,” thought Val, still watching him. “Your performance was all to get here. Why? Nadya’s right—you look like a clever, well-raised boy, not a thief. So what’s your real goal?” “Dad, you with us?” Vera tugged at his sleeve. “Thanks, I’m stuffed. Bless the cooks.” “You were out forever—daughters grew up, married. Hello granddad, meet your grandkids!” “And this chap’s your boyfriend?” Val nodded at the boy as Vera handed him tea. “He’s our house Bull. Cute, isn’t he?” Nadya teased, ruffling his hair. “We’re fattening him up—come summer, beef prices soar.” “Enough!” the boy cried suddenly, then softer, more nervously, “Vera, Nadya, stop…I surrender. Val…Mr. Zvyagin… I’m sorry, I went about everything wrong…” “Sit, sit,” said Val. “Take your time. Start from the beginning.” “Yes, but tell the truth,” insisted Nadya. “No lies—I’ll sniff them out.” “I won’t. I hate lying…” The truth stunned the Zvyagins. Spartacus ‘Bull’ Bugayev (he even showed his birth certificate), just one day older than Nadya, eleven years old. His father had died in the last Chechen war before Spartacus was born; his mother, seven months pregnant, went into labor from the shock, and only his baby sister survived. Their elder sister, not quite adult, fought to keep the family out of care homes. They grew up, four siblings; the ‘babies’ were Nadya and Lyuba. In October, Spartacus realized his middle sister, Sophia, was love-struck. She finally confided: she was madly in love… with Valery Zvyagin, local welder, divorcee, raising two daughters after his wife ran off to Argentina. He sometimes took in stray kids and found them real homes because he himself was from a care home—that’s why Sophia admired him. So Spartacus hatched a plan: disguise himself, break into the Zvyagin home, and see for himself if Val and the girls were genuinely good. Could they love his sister, make her happy? He had not counted on the girls’ uncanny detective skills. “You’re wonderful, really. Vera, Nadya—you’re amazing. Mr. Zvyagin, please, marry my sister. You’ll love her. She’s the kindest soul… She was afraid to ask—thought you wouldn’t want ‘a girl with a brood of kids.’” Nadya snorted, “Brood of kids? We’ll sort out your upbringing!” “We will,” she nodded. “Dad, are you in shock from the proposal? Or are we going on a proper proposal ourselves?” “It’s like a soap opera,” Val chuckled. “I’d noticed Sophia, too… My ex couldn’t handle two kids, so she flew away. Now, could a young woman handle a whole bunch?” “She’s twenty-three, Dad—only ten years younger than you. No big deal,” Nadya said. “You’ll be her rock and inspiration—and we’ll help too, won’t we, Spartacus?” “Yes!” he agreed. “Dad, please?” The girls crowded him, smiling. “Yes… but we have to ask the bride…” “She says yes!” Spartacus shook Val’s hand, solemnly. “As the only man in her family, I give you my sister’s hand.” Val hugged the boy. Tears stung his eyes—Vera sniffled, too. “See, Dad?” Nadya crowed, “You never believed it, but you did get your once-in-a-lifetime gift today: a big, happy family!” The Only Man at the Heart of a Family—A Fateful Encounter, a Mysterious ‘Gift,’ and the Unexpected Beginning of a New Life Together

The Only Man in the Family This morning at breakfast, my eldest daughter Emily was scrolling on her phone

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Grandma, My Guardian Angel: An Orphan’s Journey, An Unbreakable Bond, and the Life-Saving Warning from Beyond

GRANDMOTHER, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL My parents are just shadows in my memory, for I never really knew them.

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There’s Still Much to Do at Home… Granny Val Opened the Garden Gate and Struggled Up the Path, Fumbling with the Rusted Lock Before Entering Her Cold, Untended Cottage and Taking a Seat Beside the Chilly Hearth, Where the Scent of Emptiness Hung in the Air—She’d Only Been Gone Three Months, but Cobwebs Now Clung to the Ceilings, the Old Chair Creaked in Complaint, and the Wind Moaned Down the Chimney, Greeting Her with a Stern “Where Have You Been, Mistress? How Are We to Survive the Winter?”

Theres always something that needs doing at home, isnt there Old Nan Edith managed to open the garden

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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a heavy pail of pig feed, marching irritably past her husband, George, who had been fussing with the well for three days straight. A carved well—just for the sake of beauty, as if there weren’t real work to do! While his wife busied herself around the house and tended the animals, there he stood, chisel in hand, covered in wood shavings, smiling at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? Never a tender word, never a fist pounded on the table in passion—just quietly toiling away, and now and then, he’d come over to look her in the eyes and run his hand through her thick honey-coloured braid—that was the extent of his affection. And how she wished for more, to be called “darling” or “my swan”… Pondering her woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog, but in an instant George was there, catching her by the arm and scolding the pup: “Why are you always underfoot? You’ll get the mistress hurt.” Buster tucked his tail and slunk away to his kennel, while Annie marvelled—once again—at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d once asked George about it, and he’d simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Annie too dreamed of love—a husband who would sweep her off her feet, whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and leave flowers on her pillow every morning… But George was a man of few affections, and Annie was starting to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called over the fence Charlie, their neighbour. “George, still up to your old tricks? Who needs all those fancy carvings on a well, eh?” “I want my children to grow up as good people, with something beautiful to look at,” George replied. “You’ll need to have some children first!” Charlie laughed, winking at Annie. George looked at her sadly, and Annie, flustered, hurried back inside. She wasn’t in a rush to have children—still young, still pretty, wanting to live for herself a bit longer. And George—neither here nor there. But the neighbour! Tall, broad-shouldered… Charlie was a real looker. And when he met her at the garden gate, his words were tender and warm as a summer rain: “My dewdrop, my sunshine…” Her heart would flutter and her knees would weaken, but Annie always ran away from him; she wouldn’t give in to his overtures. She’d promised fidelity when she married, and her parents, who’d lived in harmony for years, always taught her to protect her family. Yet why did she yearn so to glance out the window, hoping to catch Charlie’s eye? The next morning, Annie was driving the cow out to pasture when she bumped into Charlie at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I can’t take my eyes off you—I’m dizzy every time I see you. Come visit me at sunrise. When your George is off fishing, come see me—I promise you more tenderness than you’ve ever known; you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed fiercely, her heart skipped, but she said nothing—just hurried on past. “I’ll wait for you,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t get him out of her head. Oh, how she longed for love and affection, and Charlie was hard to resist, with those sultry looks—but she couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. Not yet… the sunrise was still some hours away, and perhaps… That evening, George heated the bathhouse and even invited Charlie to join him—a welcome excuse for Charlie, who could save himself the chore at home. They laid into each other with birch branches, sighing with pleasure as the steam built up. After their bath, they sat to cool down, and Annie brought out a decanter of homemade gin and laid out snacks—but remembered there were pickles in the cellar. As she went to fetch them, voices drifted through the half-open door, so she paused to listen. “Why so shy, George?” Charlie murmured. “Come on, mate, you won’t regret it. There’s widows out there who’ll shower you with affection, real stunners! Not like your Annie—just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” she heard her husband’s soft but certain voice. “I don’t want anyone else. Wouldn’t even think of it. My Annie’s no grey mouse. She’s the most wonderful woman on earth, more beautiful than any flower or berry. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—just those lovely eyes, her slender waist. My love for her is more than a river in spring—only trouble is, I can’t find the words to let her know how much I love her. She gets upset—I know she does—and I’m to blame, but I’m terrified of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her. Couldn’t draw breath…” Annie stood motionless, heart pounding, a tear slipping down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the bathhouse and declared, “Charlie, off you go—go chase around with widows if that’s what you want. We’ve got more important things right here. There’s still no one to admire George’s handiwork, and I’ve wasted enough time not seeing the happiness I had in my hands. I’m sorry, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness. Let’s not waste another moment…” At dawn the next morning, George did not go fishing.

Love Isn’t For Show Emily steps out of the cottage with a heavy bucket of pig feed and walks past

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“Lynda, Have You Gone Mad in Your Old Age? Your Grandkids Are Already at School—What’s This About a Wedding?”: That’s What My Sister Said When I Told Her I Was Getting Married. But Why Wait Any Longer? Tolly and I Are Registering Our Marriage in a Week, and I Need to Tell My Sister—Though She Won’t Come, We Live at Opposite Ends of the Country. We’re Not Planning a Noisy Bash with ‘Kiss the Bride!’ at Sixty, Just a Quiet Registry and an Evening for Two. We Could Skip It Altogether, But Tolly Insists—He’s a True Gentleman, Opening Doors and Helping Me with My Coat. He Says He Needs Real Commitment. To Me, He’s Still a Boy at Heart, Even with Silver Hair—Respected at Work, But Turns into a Teenager the Moment He Sees Me. I’m Almost Embarrassed When He Dances with Me in the Street! I Worried My Sister Tanya Would Judge Me, Especially After Losing My Husband Last Year—But Who Sets the Rules on How Long You’re Allowed to Be Happy Again? She Says at Least Five Years, But What If That’s All Tolly and I Have Left? For the First Time, I’m Living Life for Myself: Sleeping In, Shopping, Theatre, Even Splashing Through Leaves in the Park—All Thanks to Tolly. My Daughters Objected, but Now They’ve Come Around, and When Tolly and I Walked Out of the Registry Office on Our Wedding Day, They—and Even My Sister—Were Waiting with Flowers. We’ve Just Celebrated Our First Anniversary, and I Still Can’t Believe How Blissfully Happy I Am—It Almost Feels Unseemly!

Lucy, are you out of your mind at your age? Your grandchildren are already in school, what on earth do

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“Mr. William Johnson, You’ve Overslept Again!”—The Bus Driver’s Warm Chide Echoes Gently with a Hint of Reproach—“That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Sprinting for the Bus Like the Clappers Clutching the Rail, the Elderly Man in his Rumpled Jacket Catches his Breath, Silver Hair Untidy, Glasses Perched at the End of his Nose “Sorry, Andrew…” the Old Gentleman Pants, Pulling Out Crumpled Notes—“Either My Watch Is Slow, or I’m Just Not What I Used to Be…” Andrew Stephens—the Veteran Bus Driver, Tanned from Two Decades on the Route, Knows Most Passengers by Sight, but This Polite Pensioner Makes a Lasting Impression—Always Quiet, Always Courteous, Boarding at the Same Time Each Morning “That’s All Right, Hop On. Where To Today?” “To the Cemetery, as Usual.” Settling into His Regular Spot—Third Row from the Driver, by the Window—He Holds a Weathered Plastic Bag in His Lap Only a Few Passengers This Weekday Morning—A Cluster of Chattering Students, a Man Absorbed in his Phone—A Typical Scene “So Tell Me, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Asks, Glancing at Him in the Mirror, “You Go There Every Day? Isn’t It Difficult?” “Nowhere Else I Need to Be,” Comes the Quiet Reply, Gaze Fixed on the Window—“My Wife’s There… Been a Year and a Half Now. I Promised I’d Come Every Day.” Time Passes, and Mr. Johnson Becomes a Fixture of the Morning Journey—Andrew Grows Used to Waiting for Him, Even Sometimes Holding the Bus a Few Minutes “No Need to Wait for Me,” Mr. Johnson Once Insists, Sensing the Truth—“A Schedule’s a Schedule.” “Nonsense,” Andrew Brushes him Off—“A Couple of Minutes Won’t Hurt.” Then, One Morning, Mr. Johnson Doesn’t Appear. Nor the Next. Nor the Day After “Have You Seen the Elderly Man, Always Heading to the Cemetery?” Andrew Asks Tamara, the Conductor. “Hope He’s Not Unwell…” But Andrew Feels His Absence, Missing the Quiet ‘Thank You,’ the Sad Smile A Week Passes; Concerned, Andrew Takes his Break to Visit the Cemetery Gates “Excuse Me,” He Asks the Gatekeeper, “Looking for an Elderly Regular—Mr. Johnson, Silver Hair, Glasses, Always with a Bag. Have You Seen Him?” “Oh, Him!” She Brightens. “Every Single Day—Always Came to Visit His Wife…” “Not Been By this Week?” “Not at All.” She Remembers His Address—Sycamore Avenue, Number 15. “And You Are?” “I’m His Bus Driver. Drove Him Every Morning.” Andrew Finds the Old Block, Peeling Paint at the Entry, and Rings a Doorbell A Middle-aged Man Answers, Brow Furrowed “Looking for Mr. Johnson—the Gentleman Who Rode My Bus Each Day…” “Oh, He’s in Hospital—Had a Stroke Last Week, Poor Soul. Just Down at St. Mary’s.” Andrew’s Heart Sinks After His Shift, Andrew Heads to the Hospital—Finds the Ward, Asks a Nurse “Mr. Johnson? Yes—He’s Here, But Still Weak.” Andrew Steps Gently into the Room—The Elder by the Window, Pale but Awake. “You? Andrew? How Did You Find Me?”—Surprise and an Edge of Tears “I Looked for You—Worried When You Didn’t Show,” Andrew Smiles, Placing a Bag of Fruit Beside Him “You Worried—For Me? Why Would Anyone…” “You’re My Regular Passenger. I’ve Grown to Expect You Each Morning.” Mr. Johnson Stares Up at the Ceiling “I Haven’t Been to See Her in Ten Days—First Time in a Year and a Half. I’ve Broken My Word…” “It’s All Right, Mr. Johnson—Your Wife Would Understand. Illness Is No Light Thing.” “Maybe… Every Day, I’d Tell Her About My Day, About the Weather… Now She’s Alone, and I’m Stuck Here…” Andrew Feels for Him, and the Answer Comes Easy “Would You Like Me to Go? To Visit Your Wife’s Grave? I’ll Tell Her You’re in Hospital—That You’re Getting Better…” For a Moment, Mr. Johnson Looks at Him—Hope Flickering in His Eyes “You’d Do That—for a Stranger?” “You’re No Stranger. We’ve Seen Each Other Every Morning for a Year and a Half—That’s More Familiar than Some Family.” The Next Day, Andrew Visits the Cemetery—Finds the Grave with the Kind-eyed Woman, “Anna Johnson, 1952–2024,” Etched in Stone He Feels Awkward, but the Words Spill Out “Good Morning, Mrs. Johnson. I’m Andrew—the Bus Driver. Your Husband’s Been to See You Every Day without Fail—but Right Now He’s in Hospital, Getting Better. He Asked Me to Tell You He Loves You—and He’ll Be Back Soon…” He Says a Little More—About Mr. Johnson’s Devotion, His Kindness—and Feels Somehow That It’s the Right Thing to Do Returning to the Hospital, He Finds Mr. Johnson Stronger, Enjoying a Cup of Tea “I Went,” Andrew Says Simply. “Told Her Everything.” “How—How was it?” Mr. Johnson’s Voice Trembles “It’s All in Order. Someone’s Been Bringing Fresh Flowers—One of the Neighbours, Perhaps. Everything’s Tidy. She’s Waiting for You.” Mr. Johnson Closes His Eyes, Tears Rolling Down His Cheeks “Thank You, Son. Thank You…” A Fortnight Later, Mr. Johnson Is Discharged—Andrew Picks Him Up and Drives Him Home “See You Tomorrow?” Andrew Asks as He Helps the Old Man Off the Bus “Of Course—Eight O’Clock, as Always.” And True Enough, Next Morning He’s Back in His Familiar Seat. But Something’s Changed—They Are No Longer Just Driver and Passenger, But Friends “Tell You What, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Offers One Day, “Why Don’t I Drive You at the Weekends, Just in My Car? No Trouble—My Wife Thinks You’re Wonderful, and She Insists We Help.” “Oh, I Couldn’t Possibly Trouble You…” “You Can, And You Shall—It’s No Trouble at All. Besides, You’re Practically Family Now.” So That’s How It Came to Be—Weekdays in the Service Bus, Weekends in Andrew’s Car, Sometimes with His Wife Along. Friendship Blossoms “You Know,” Andrew Tells His Wife One Evening, “At First I Thought It Was Just a Job—Routes, Timetables, Passengers… Turns Out, Every Person on That Bus Has a Life, a Story.” “And You’re Right Not to Ignore It,” She Smiles And Once, Mr. Johnson Tells Them “You Know, After Anna Passed, I Thought–That Was It. Life Over. What’s the Point? But It Turns Out—People Do Care. And That Means Everything.” *** And Tell Me, Have You Ever Witnessed Ordinary People Doing Truly Extraordinary Things?

Mr. Henry, youve overslept again! The bus drivers voice floats like a friendly cloud tinged with mild reproach.

La vida

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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