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Forgiveness: A Path to Healing and Redemption

Forgiveness Olivia White was born into a comfortable family. Her father was a senior manager in a railway

A Sweet Little Payback from the Wife: After Her Husband Leaves Her Stranded Post-Work, Devoted Chef Jenny Discovers His Online Dating Betrayal and Delivers Him an Unforgettable Lesson He’ll Never Forget

A Message from the Wife Harry, could you pick me up from work? Emilys voice crackled with hope as she

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This Is Not Up for Debate “Nina will be living with us—end of discussion,” declared Zach, setting his spoon aside. He hadn’t touched his dinner, clearly preparing for a serious conversation. “We have the room—all freshly refurbished—and in two weeks, my daughter will be moving in.” “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Ksyusha asked, silently counting to ten. “Like the fact that we renovated that room for our future child—our child. Or the small detail that Nina has a mother—the one she should be living with?” “I remember we talked about having a baby,” Zach replied solemnly. He’d hoped his wife would simply accept his decision, negating the need for further debate. “But that can wait a few years. Anyway, you’ve got your studies to finish—now is not the time for children. Besides, Nina doesn’t want siblings. And as for her mother…” Zach’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “I’m getting her parental rights revoked. It’s dangerous for the girl to even be in the same room as that woman!” “A girl? She’s twelve!” Ksyusha shot back with raised eyebrows. “Hardly a toddler. And dangerous how? Because her mother won’t let her out after ten at night, or because she has to do her homework or risk losing phone privileges? Honestly, your ex is a saint for not resorting to a belt!” “You don’t know anything,” Zach seethed. “Nina’s shown me bruises and messages with insults and threats. I won’t let my daughter’s life be ruined.” “But that’s exactly what you’re doing—letting her manipulate you.” Ksyusha rose from the table, appetite gone and a headache forming at the sight of her stubborn husband. People had warned her against marrying in haste—“Live together first, test your feelings!”—but she’d arrogantly thought she knew best. She wanted to beat her friends down the aisle. Why were people against her rushing into marriage? It was simple. For Zach, it was a second marriage; he was fifteen years her senior and had a pre-teen daughter he adored. Independently, these were minor issues—together, nearly disastrous. The first two didn’t bother her much. In fact, she liked that Zach was older and experienced, and she knew the divorce from his ex-wife Alla was amicable. But the third reason—Nina—was another story. Wild, disobedient, spoilt, mostly raised by her gran while her parents worked hard to provide for her, Nina was unfazed by her parents’ split—she knew her dad would always be there for her, remarriage or not. Her mother’s remarriage, on the other hand, shook her world. Now her new stepfather was taking her upbringing seriously and her mother, now home more after a job change, sided with her new husband. Curfews, homework, tutors to catch up on neglected subjects—all infuriated a girl accustomed to hours of TV and computer time. So she began inventing tales to worry her father. Nina desperately wanted to live with Zach, knowing he’d be at work and she’d have freedom under Ksyusha, who was only nine years older and not about to act as a parental authority. To secure her “free life,” Nina was ready to do anything. ***** “Nina’s arriving today. Get her room ready, and please don’t upset her—she’s been through enough,” Zach said, adjusting his tie. “If I’d known Alla would start mistreating Nina because of her new husband… but it’s too late to change anything now.” “So you really won’t reconsider? You’re set on her moving in?” Ksyusha had clung to hope her husband’s plans would fall through. “And who’s going to look after her? You don’t get home before eight.” “You’ll keep an eye on her,” he shrugged. “She’s twelve—not three. She can manage herself.” “I have final exams coming up—you told me I needed to focus on my studies,” Ksyusha smirked. “If Nina wants to live here, she’d better be quiet and not disturb me. I hope she knows how to wash dishes and mop the floors—because that’s her job for the next two weeks.” “She’s not a housemaid—” “Neither am I,” Ksyusha cut him off. “But if she lives here, she helps out. You’d better discuss house rules with your daughter.” ***** “Dad, are you really going to let her treat me like this? I can’t even see my friends—your wife piles all the chores on me while she watches TV and grins.” Listening from the hallway, Ksyusha smirked. As if anyone could make Nina do a single chore! She’d sooner see pigs fly. “I’ll talk to Ksyusha, I promise. But you need to try to get along with her. Nina, I know it’s hard, but I physically can’t supervise you all the time. Find common ground with Ksyusha, show her you’re a good girl.” “I’ll try,” Nina replied unconvincingly, realizing her pleas would get her nowhere. “By the way, is it true you bought her a car?” “Yes. Why?” “No reason. But you told me you couldn’t afford to send me abroad for the holidays! But that’s all I dreamt of!” “You can’t travel on your own—you’re only twelve. We’ll go together, as a family, in summer.” “But I don’t want a family holiday! You don’t love me at all, do you? Why did you even take me from mum? Your wife hates me, you’re always at work…” Ksyusha stopped listening. She knew Nina would get her way, not just with holidays but everything else. The cunning girl intended to get rid of any competition for dad’s affection—and might well succeed. Ksyusha was tired of resentment from her husband and resolved: after one more row, she’d file for divorce. She’d spoil Nina’s victory by making sure Zach still paid regular support after splitting. Some consolation. ***** Ksyusha was right—the evening began with a torrent of complaints. She listened calmly, then announced she was filing for divorce. “I want peace, not endless accusations at my expense. And I did warn you—letting your daughter call the shots was a terrible idea.” Catching Nina’s triumphant smile, Ksyusha brought her back to earth. “And don’t look too pleased—who knows what the future holds? For example, I could give your father an ultimatum: if he wants to see our child—” she patted her stomach, “you’ll have to go back to your mum. Or something like that.” While Nina struggled for words and Zach tried to process the turn of events, Ksyusha picked up her suitcase and left the flat. She wasn’t actually pregnant—she just wanted to shake up that bratty girl and give her husband a lesson in child psychology. This Is Not Up For Debate: When Your Husband’s Daughter Moves In, Your Family Plans Fall Apart, and It’s Time to Fight for Your Own Happiness

This is not up for discussion. Nina will be living with us, and thats final, declared Zachary, carefully

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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pressed at his temples—he’d finished the last of the holiday salads yesterday, and spent the morning taking down Christmas decorations and packing away ornaments. The house was too quiet. He pulled on his hat, slipped his phone into his pocket, and went downstairs, steadying himself on the banister as usual. In the pale January noon, the courtyard looked like a stage set: shoveled walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance, letting the snow fall softly from the wooden slats. It was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and go home refreshed. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall guy, navy blue jacket, mid-fifties. The face was vaguely familiar. “Have a seat, there’s plenty of room,” Victor said, sliding over. “Which flat are you from?” “Number forty-three, second floor. Three weeks since I moved in. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he replied automatically, shaking the offered hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” “Go ahead, by all means.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly reminded him of the newsroom where he’d spent most of his working life. He caught himself wanting to breathe in the smoke, then quickly pushed the feeling away. “You lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was just built then.” “I used to work nearby, at the Metalmaker’s Community Centre. Sound engineer.” Victor started. “With Valery Zakharovich?” “That’s right! And you—how do you know him?” “Did a feature on him. Back in ’89, for the anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you the whole concert, start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We lugged in a massive speaker; the power supply was sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own—names, stories, some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he ought to go home, but every time, the talk drifted on—musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He hadn’t talked like this in ages. In his later years at the paper, it was all deadline pieces, and since retiring, he’d withdrawn. He convinced himself it was easier, not to depend on anyone, not to get attached. But now something inside felt like it was thawing. “You know,” Michael said, stubbing out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got a whole archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I made myself. If you’re interested…” Why would I need that? Victor thought. Then you have to visit, keep talking. Maybe he’ll want to be friends, upend your routines. And what new things would I even see? “I’d like that,” he said. “When suits you?” “Tomorrow, say around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it.” Victor pulled out his phone and opened contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, just call.” That night, he couldn’t sleep. He replayed their talk, remembered details from old stories. He reached for his phone several times—to cancel, to make excuses. He didn’t. In the morning, he woke to a call. On screen: “Michael, neighbor.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice sounded a little uncertain. “Yes,” Victor replied. “See you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Edward Thompson drifted into the courtyard just as the church clock tolled one.

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The kitchen’s marble floor was icy, unyielding, and relentless. There, upon that frigid ground, sat Mrs. Rosalie, a 72-year-old woman.

The marble tiles in the kitchen were cold, hard, unforgiving. On that icy floor sat Rose, a frail 72yearold

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The Runaway Bride: A Tale of Love and Escape

The first time I ever found myself at a wedding where the bride bolted was a shock Ill never shake off.

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No More “You Have To”: Anton Comes Home to Dried Pasta and Teen Silence, Decides to Talk Honestly with Vera and Kostya About Worries, Not-So-Perfect Days, and What Family Really Means

Without the “Must” It seems so vivid now, thinking back to those evenings in the old terraced

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Now That You’ll Have a Child of Your Own, It’s Time for Her to Go Back to the Orphanage

Youll finally have a child of your own, so its time to send her back to the orphanage. When is my son

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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples throbbed—the last of the holiday salads had been finished off yesterday, and this morning he’d packed away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. Pulling his cap over his ears, he pocketed his phone and carefully descended the stairs, gripping the banister as usual. In the pale January midday, the courtyard looked like a stage set: cleared pathways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance. Snow tumbled softly from the wooden planks. This was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—a few minutes on the bench, then back inside. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. A tall man in a navy coat, about fifty-five, with a vaguely familiar face. “Plenty of room,” Victor replied, scooting over. “Which flat are you from?” “Forty-three, second floor. Moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stephens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael produced a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go on, feel free.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the tobacco scent suddenly carried him back to the newsroom where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale it and quickly pushed the thought aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was brand new back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. Sound technician.” Victor perked up. “With Valery Zachary?” “That’s right! You knew him?” “I wrote a profile on him, back in eighty-nine. For that anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ performed?” “I could tell you every detail of that show!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in these giant speakers, the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own. Names surfaced, stories—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he should be heading home, but each memory led to another: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d grown unaccustomed to long chats. In his last years at the paper he only churned out urgent copy, and after retiring, he closed himself off. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to rely on anyone, not to get attached. But now, something inside was slowly thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got an archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes, too—I did the recordings myself. If you’d like to see them…” What for? Victor wondered. Then I’ll feel obligated. What if he wants to become neighbourly friends—my routine will be thrown off. And what could I possibly see that’s new? “Could be worth a look,” Victor replied. “When’s good for you?” “Anytime. Five o’clock tomorrow? I’ll be in from work then.” “Alright,” Victor fished out his phone and opened his contacts. “Take my number, we’ll call if plans change.” That evening, he struggled to fall asleep. He replayed their conversation, called up old details. More than once he reached for the phone—ready to call it off and blame his busy schedule. But he never did. In the morning, he was woken by a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Changed your mind?” Michael’s voice sounded a little unsure. “No,” Victor answered. “I’ll see you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens steps out into the courtyard just after one in the afternoon.

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What are you up to, Granddad? Fancy a stroll? At your age, I’d be staying indoors!

19May2025 Today I found myself once more by the dustladen lane that runs past the old brick cottages