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When He Got Home From Work, The Cat Was Gone Patrick was a humble young man, free of bad habits. For his 25th birthday, his parents helped him buy a flat by supporting him with his mortgage down payment. He began living alone, working as a software developer, preferring a quiet life and keeping to himself. To beat the loneliness, Patrick decided to adopt a kitten. The little cat had a deformity in his front paws. The people who owned the kitten’s mother were planning to put him down, but Patrick felt sorry for him and took him in, calling him Handsome. The two got on famously – Patrick rushed back from work, and Handsome was always waiting for him by the doormat. After a while, Patrick started dating a clever woman from work, and in less than a month, she had moved in. From the start, she didn’t like Handsome and asked Patrick to give the cat away. Patrick refused, explaining that Handsome meant the world to him. Maria didn’t let it drop and kept pestering Patrick to get rid of the cat. Patrick finally insisted that Handsome was staying. Maria argued that the cat spoiled their image, as guests were repulsed by his paws. Patrick felt torn between Maria and Handsome, loving both dearly. On top of that, Patrick’s parents didn’t approve of Maria, thinking she was rude and brash. They warned their son not to rush into any commitment with her and to take a closer look. When Maria’s parents visited, Patrick realised he didn’t want a future with her. Her father laughed upon seeing Handsome at the door, calling him a “freak.” Patrick defended the cat, but all evening Maria and her father mocked Handsome for his looks and suggested getting rid of him, coming up with outrageous ideas for where to send the poor animal. Maria’s mother joined in the laughter. The next day, when Patrick got home from work, Handsome was gone. When he asked Maria where the cat was, she replied that she’d taken him to the vet clinic and left him there. Patrick frantically searched for Handsome for five hours…and found him. Purring in Patrick’s arms, the cat was delighted to be reunited with his owner. When Patrick got home, he told Maria to pack her things and leave. He never wanted to see her again. She was simply revolting to him now. The next morning, Maria quietly packed her things and left, wounded. She had never imagined a cat could matter more than her. Now Handsome and Patrick live together, and Handsome happily greets his owner after work every day.

When he returned home from work, the cat was gone. Oliver was a modest young man, free of bad habits.

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The Snap of a Dry Branch Beneath His Foot Went Unheard by Johnny; In a Split Second, His World Spun Like a Colourful Kaleidoscope, Burst into a Million Shining Stars, and Then Reformed in a Sharp, Burning Pain Just Above His Left Elbow — “Ow…” Johnny Clutched His Injured Arm, Howling in Pain. — “Johnny!” His friend Sally darted to his side, dropping to her knees. “Does it hurt?” — “No, it’s lovely!” he grimaced and whimpered sarcastically. Sally reached out and gingerly touched Johnny’s shoulder. — “Just leave it!” he suddenly snapped, eyes flashing. “It hurts! Don’t touch me!” The frustration hurt twice over. First, the likely broken arm meant weeks in a cast—and endless jokes from friends. Second, climbing the tree was his own idea: he’d wanted to impress Sally with his skill and daring. If the first reason for his resentment was bearable, the second infuriated him. Now, not only had he embarrassed himself in front of her, but she was trying to pity him! No way… Standing abruptly, holding his limp arm close, Johnny set off for the hospital. — “Don’t worry, Johnny, it’ll be okay!” Sally hurried beside him, trying anything to console her friend. “It’ll be alright, Johnny! It’ll all be fine!” — “Just leave me alone,” he stopped, glaring at her, then spat on the ground. “How will it be fine? I broke my arm, can’t you see? Go home, you’re driving me mad!” He strode away, leaving Sally standing with wide grey-green eyes, whispering the same words over and over: — “It’ll be okay, Johnny… It’ll be okay…” *** Mr. John Victor, if we don’t see that money transfer in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll be very disappointed. Oh, and by the way, there’s a weather warning for black ice on the roads tomorrow, so drive safe. You know, accidents happen… nobody’s immune to a bit of bad luck. All the best. The line went dead, leaving silence. John flung his phone aside, grabbed fistfuls of his own hair, and leaned back in his chair. — “Where am I supposed to get that? That payment wasn’t due until next month…” Sighing, he picked up the phone again, dialled, and held it to his ear. — “Mrs. Olga Vass, can we send our partners in the holding company payment for the equipment today?” — “But… Mr. Victor…” — “Can we or can’t we?” — “Yes, but it’ll mess up the rest of this month’s payments…” — “To hell with them! We’ll deal with it later. Wire the money to the holding company today.” — “Okay, but after this—” John hung up before she finished and slammed his fist into the chair’s armrest. — “Bloody leeches…” Something soft and unexpected brushed his shoulder and he jumped in his seat. — “Sasha, I told you not to bother me when I’m working, didn’t I?” His wife Alexandra leaned in, kissed his ear, and stroked his hair. — “Johnny, please don’t get upset, alright? Everything will work out.” — “I’m sick of hearing ‘everything will be okay!’ Haven’t you had enough? What if I’m killed tomorrow, will it all be fine then?” John shot to his feet and pushed Sasha away. — “What were you doing, making soup? Then go do it! Don’t get on my nerves—it’s bad enough already!” She sighed and walked to the door. At the threshold, she paused, then whispered three words, just as always. *** “You know, I’m lying here remembering our whole life…” The old man blinked, his cloudy eyes turning to his aged wife. Her once-beautiful face was lined with wrinkles, her shoulders stooped, her posture no longer proud. Never letting go of his hand, she gently adjusted the drip in his arm, then smiled silently. — “Every time I got into trouble, when I was at death’s door, when the worst happened—always, you’d come and say the same phrase. You can’t imagine how it used to drive me mad—your naïve little mantra. I wanted to strangle you for saying it all the time,” he tried to smile, then was racked by a fit of coughing. When he caught his breath, he continued, “I broke bones, got death threats, lost everything, fell so far hardly anyone climbs out, and all my life, you kept saying, ‘Everything will be fine.’ And not once did you lie to me. How did you know?” — “I didn’t know a thing, Johnny,” the old woman sighed. “You think I was saying it for you? That was for myself, to calm my own nerves. You’re my whole life, silly. When you were in trouble, when things went wrong, my soul turned inside out. I cried rivers, I spent so many nights awake… I just kept telling myself, ‘Let the sky fall, as long as he’s alive, everything will be okay.’” For a moment, the old man closed his eyes, then squeezed her hand. — “Is that it? And I was even angry at you for it. Forgive me, Sasha. I never knew. All my life and I never really thought about you… the fool I am.” The old woman brushed a tear from her wrinkled cheek and bent low over her husband’s face. — “Johnny, don’t you worry…” She paused, looked deep into his eyes, and slowly rested her head on his quiet chest, gently caressing his cooling hand. — “Everything WAS okay, Johnny, everything WAS okay…”

The snap of a dry twig beneath his foot went unnoticed by Jack. Suddenly, his world spun like a kaleidoscope

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The Stolen Betrothal

The wedding in Ashford was the kind that set the whole hamlet buzzing. John Miller, the villages ace

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You Stole My Dad: “Mum, I’ve just moved in! Can you believe it—finally!” Oksana clutched her phone between her shoulder and ear, wrestling with a stubborn lock that seemed to be testing its new owner’s resolve. “Darling, thank goodness! And the flat—how is it, is everything alright?” Her mother’s voice was anxious, excited. “Perfect! Light, spacious. Balcony faces east—just how I wanted. Is Dad there?” “Right here!” came Victor’s bass through the speaker. “She’s got us on speaker. Well, has my little bird left the nest?” “Dad, I’m twenty-five—hardly a chick.” “You’ll always be my chick. Checked the locks? Are the windows sealed? Radiators—” “Victor, let her settle in!” her mother interrupted. “Oksana, be cautious. Newbuilds, you never know who lives next door.” Oksana laughed, finally mastering the lock and pushing open the door. “Mum, this isn’t some dodgy 70s bedsit. Nice flat, nice neighbours. I’ll be fine.” The next weeks blurred in a constant marathon between hardware stores, furniture showrooms, and her new flat. Oksana fell asleep buried in wallpaper catalogues and woke up debating grout shades for the bathroom. On Saturday, she was staring at curtain fabrics in the lounge when her phone beeped to life. “So, how’s it going?” her dad asked. “Slow but steady. Curtains are the current battle—‘Ivory’ or ‘Baked Milk’, what do you reckon?” “I reckon it’s the same colour with a fancy name.” “Dad, you just don’t get shades!” “But I get electrics—your sockets sorted?” Renovation devoured time, money, and nerves, but each new touch turned cold walls into a true home. She chose the milky beige wallpaper, found the right flooring guy, arranged furniture to make her poky kitchen seem bigger. When the last builder cleared away the dust, Oksana sat on the gleaming floor, bathed in mellow light through brand-new curtains, the air tinged with fresh paint. Her first real home… She met her neighbour three days after the move, fussing with the keys when the opposite door clicked open. “Oh, the newbie!” chirped a thirty-something woman with a pixie cut, bold lipstick and curious eyes. “I’m Alison. Right opposite, so now we’re neighbours.” “Oksana. Pleased to meet you.” “If you need sugar, salt, or just a chat—knock away. It’s weird being new in a block, I remember.” Alison was a joy to talk with. They drank tea in Oksana’s kitchen, debated building management quirks and talked floor plans. She shared tips—best broadband, affordable plumbers, where to buy the freshest groceries. “I’ve got the most epic apple pie recipe!” Alison scrolled on her phone. “Will send—it takes half an hour, tastes like all-day baking.” “Yes please—I haven’t tried the oven yet!” Weeks rolled by, and Oksana was glad to have such an open neighbour. They bumped into each other in the hall, popped in for coffee, swapped books. Saturday, Victor came by to help with a shelf that refused to stay up. “Wrong plugs—these are for plasterboard, yours is solid concrete. Good thing I’ve got proper ones in the car.” An hour later, the shelf was up and secure. Victor gave it a critical once-over and nodded with satisfaction. “There you go—should last twenty years.” “Dad, you’re the best!” Oksana hugged him. They left chatting about life; Victor fussed about work, Oksana moaned about her scatterbrained boss. Outside, Alison appeared, bags of shopping in hand. “Hi!” Oksana called. “This is my dad, Victor. Dad, Alison—my neighbour I told you about.” “Pleasure to meet you,” Victor said, smiling warmly. Alison froze for a heartbeat, her gaze flicking between Victor and Oksana. Her smile stiffened, as if glued on. “Likewise,” she muttered, then darted into the entrance. After that, everything changed. The next morning, Oksana greeted Alison in the hallway, but received only a frosty nod. Two days later, she tried inviting her for tea—Alison brushed her off before she’d finished. Then came the complaints… The police knocked at 9 p.m. “We’ve had a noise complaint—loud music, banging.” “Music? I was reading!” Oksana spluttered. “Well, the neighbours have reported…” Complaints poured in—management got letters about ‘intolerable stomping’, ‘constant banging’, ‘late-night music’. The police appeared regularly, apologetic and helpless. Oksana knew who was behind it. But why? Each morning became a lottery. What would it be today? Eggshell smeared on her door? Coffee grounds packed into the frame? Potato peelings tucked under the mat? She woke half an hour earlier each day to clear the mess before work, hands stinging from cleaning products, her throat tight with anxiety. “This can’t go on,” she muttered, browsing video doorbells online. Fitting one took twenty minutes. The discreet camera watched over the landing, streamed to her phone. Oksana waited. Not for long. At 3 a.m., her phone flashed—a movement alert. Disbelieving, Oksana watched Alison, in slippers and dressing gown, methodically smearing something dark on her door. Calm, practiced, as if routine. Next night, Oksana sat in wait. Close to three, a faint shuffle outside. She flung the door open. Alison froze, clutching a sloshing bag. “What did I ever do to you?” Oksana’s own voice sounded pitiful. “Why are you doing this?” Alison gently set the bag on the floor. Her face twisted, morphing into an old mask of spite. “You? You did nothing. But your daddy—” “What does my dad have to do with it?” “He’s my dad too!” Alison almost shouted, uncaring who heard. “He raised you, spoiled you, but dumped me at three! Not a penny, never called! My mum and I barely scraped by while he built his ‘perfect family’ with your mum! So you, basically, stole my dad!” Oksana shrank against the door-frame. “You’re lying…” “Ask him! Ask if he remembers Marina Sutherland and little Alison—the ones he threw away!” Oksana slammed the door and sank down, head spinning. No—surely not. Dad wouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Next morning, she went to her parents’ place. On the way, she rehearsed what to ask, but seeing her calm father with his newspaper, words caught in her throat. “Oksana! Surprise!” Victor jumped up. “Mum’s out shopping—she’ll be back soon.” “Dad, I have to ask…” Oksana sat, twisting her bag strap. “Do you know a woman called Marina Sutherland?” Victor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands. “How do you…” “Her daughter is my neighbour. The one I introduced. She says you’re her father.” The silence dragged forever. “Let’s go see her,” Victor said sharply. “Now. I have to set things straight.” The car ride to the block was silent. Oksana stared out at the passing houses, mind racing to piece together a broken world. Alison opened the door immediately, giving them both a heavy look, but stood aside. “So, here to make up for thirty years?” she spat at Victor. “I’m here to set the record straight.” Victor pulled a folded paper from his jacket. “Read this.” Alison snatched it, suspicion on her face. As she read, her expression shifted from rage, to confusion, to shock. “This… what is this?” “A DNA test,” Victor replied calmly. “I did it when your mum tried to get child support through court. The result: I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter.” The paper slipped from Alison’s hands… Oksana and her father left Alison’s flat. Back home, Oksana hugged Victor tight, burying her face in the coarse weave of his jacket. “I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I even doubted.” Victor stroked her hair—like he always did when she’d run to him after childhood fights. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, love. Others are to blame for this.” Things with her neighbour never recovered. After everything Alison had done, Oksana knew there was no respect left to rebuild…

Took My Father Mum, Ive just moved in! Can you believe it, finally! Rebecca squeezed her phone between

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The Bloke with a Trailer

I remember that chilly November evening like it was yesterday. Rain and a sprinkle of snow hammered the

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The Snap of a Dry Twig: Ivan’s Lifelong Struggle, Pride, and a Promise That “Everything Will Be All Right” — From Childhood Mishaps to High-Stakes Threats and an Enduring Love Tested by Time

The snap of a dry twig under his boot was something Jack barely noticed. One second the whole world was

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Five Homes in Our Family, Yet We’re Still Renting: How Our Parents’ Generosity Stops at Property and Why We’re Left Struggling

Five homes in the family, and yet we have to rent I slip through the halls of this strange reality, so

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My Husband’s Mistress: Milla’s Fateful Visit to “Coffee Paradise,” a Meeting with the Other Woman, and the Shocking Truth Behind Ten Years of Marriage

The Other Woman Emily sat in her car, staring at the glowing face of the sat nav. She checked the address

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You Don’t Love Him, But We Were Happy Together—Shall We Try Starting Over, Just This Once?

You never loved him, but we were happy together; shall we try again, just once more? We parted ways three

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“We’ll Just Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Pushy In-Laws, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday. My one morning to finally catch up on sleep after closing my quarterly report, not to play hostess. My husband Igor’s sister, Svetlana, looked ready to storm the Bastille on the intercom screen, with her three scruffy kids looming behind her. “Igor!” I barked, not picking up. “Your family. Your problem.” He stumbled from the bedroom, pulling on shorts backwards: if I was speaking in that tone, his family had officially reached the bottom of my patience. While he muttered into the handset, I stood in the hallway, arms folded across my chest. My flat—my rules. This three-bed in the centre of London was mine alone for years before marriage. The last thing I wanted was relatives treating it like a boarding house. The door flung open, and my fragrance-infused, immaculate hallway was invaded. Svetlana, loaded with bags, didn’t even greet me. She nudged me aside as if I were a piece of forgotten furniture. “Oh, thank God, we made it!” she sighed, dumping her bags on my Italian tiles. “Alina, what are you doing standing there? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said flatly, and Igor shrank into himself, recognising Defcon 1. “What is going on?” “He didn’t tell you?” She widened her eyes. “We’ve got a massive renovation! Pipes, floors ripped up—it’s unliveable. We’ll just stay here for a week. Loads of space, you’ll hardly notice us.” I glared at Igor. He inspected the ceiling—execution imminent. “Igor?” “Come on, Alina, she’s my sister. Can’t have the kids in a building site. One week, promise.” “One week. Seven days. You feed yourselves. Kids don’t run riot, don’t touch the walls, and stay away from my office. Silence after ten, understood?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’re like some prison warden. Fine. Where do we sleep? Hope it’s not the floor!” And so the chaos began. A week turned into two, then three. My lovingly designed flat became a pigsty—muddy shoes everywhere, fat stains on my countertops, crumbs, sticky patches. Svetlana took over like she owned the place. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she whined one evening. “The kids need yogurt, and we’d love a steak. You earn well—you can look after family!” “You’ve got a card and shops, use them,” I replied, not glancing up from my laptop. “Tesco delivers 24/7.” “Miser,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take it with you when you’re dead, you know.” But things reached breaking point when I came home early and found my nephew bouncing on my Tempur mattress and his sister drawing on the wall—with my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “Out!” I roared, scattering kids everywhere. Svetlana bolted in, shrugged at the carnage: “They’re just kids—who cares about a mark on the wall? You can wash it off. And that lipstick? You’ll buy yourself another. Listen, the builders are useless—so we’re staying until summer. It’ll be fun, you two just rattle around here anyway!” Igor stood mute. Useless. I said nothing, just walked away to avoid a murder charge. Later, Svetlana left her phone on the table to go shower. A message flashed up: “Svetlana, next month’s rent received, tenants happy, want to extend until August? – Marina Lettings.” And a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Click. It all made sense. No renovations—she was renting her place and living free off me: free food, no bills, making a profit. Genius—on my dime. I photographed her screen, hands steady, rage replaced with icy clarity. “Igor, get in here,” I called. He read the photo. Red, then white. “Maybe it’s a mix-up?” “The real mix-up is you not kicking them out yet. You’ve got a choice. Either by tomorrow lunchtime she and the kids are gone, or you all are. Take your mother, too, for good measure.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or The Ritz, if they can afford it.” Next morning, Svetlana left for ‘shopping’—probably with her rent money—leaving the kids with Igor, who took them out. “Take them to the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the place for parasites.” Once they’d left, I made two calls: one to a locksmith, one to the local police. Hospitality over. Time for a purge. By the time Svetlana returned, loaded with Selfridges bags, the locksmith had changed the locks and her stuff was bagged—five heavy rubbish sacks and two suitcases. She found me and a police officer at the door. “What’s this?” she screeched. “Alina, are you mad? These are my things!” “Exactly. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She bolted for the door, blocked by the constable. “Do you live here? On the tenancy register?” “I’m… my brother’s sister. We’re guests!” She turned red and purple, dialled Igor frantically—straight to voicemail. “You have no right! We have nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Say hi to Marina. And ask if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll need to evict them to live in your own place?” Air left her like a punctured balloon. “You… how?” “You might want to lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived off me to save for a new car? Clever. Now listen: take your bags and get out. I ever see you or your kids near my building again, I’ll inform HMRC about illegal letting. And the police: I’m missing a gold ring, easy to find in your bags if they feel like a search.” (The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know.) “You evil cow,” she hissed. “God will judge.” “God’s busy. I’m finally free—and so is my flat.” She scrambled for her bags, swearing, fumbled for a taxi as the constable watched. When the lift doors closed behind her and her shattered plans, I thanked the officer. He grinned. “Call if you need me—or just get good locks.” Lock clicked behind me—delicious, solid. The cleaner was nearly finished. Igor returned alone, looked round like he expected a trap. “She’s gone,” he said. “I know.” “She was screaming about you—” “Don’t care what the rats say as they’re thrown off the ship.” I drank a perfect coffee in blissful silence. My kitchen, my fridge, my rules. No lipstick murals left, no shouting, no chaos. “Did you know about the letting?” I asked. “Never! I swear. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet. Listen, Igor. This was the last time. One more stunt like this from your family and your bags will be right beside theirs. Understood?” He nodded, pale and fast. He knew I wasn’t joking. The coffee was hot, strong, and—finally—enjoyed in perfect, peaceful silence in my own flat. My crown didn’t pinch. It fit perfectly.

Well stay here till summer, all right!: How I Kicked Out My Husbands Cheeky Family and Changed the Locks