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Thirty Years Ago: A Journey Through Time and Memory

Thirty years ago Emily remembered her mothers eyesfull of despair and something else. Margaret never

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I Cared for Him for Eight Long Years, and Not a Single Thank You Was Given!

13October2025 London Ive spent eight long years looking after a man who was, in truth, a stranger to

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Marrying a Disabled Man: A Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, reviews, subscriptions, and a HUGE thanks for all your generous donations from me and my five feline companions. Please feel free to share any stories you enjoy on social media—every little bit brings joy to this author! My daughter came home late from her shift at the hospital, where she works as a nurse in trauma care. She spent ages in the shower, then wandered into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are some meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” I offered, trying to read her face for clues, “Long day, Lucy? You look shattered. Is everything alright?” “I’m not hungry. I’m already hideous as it is, and if I eat now, no one will ever look at me,” Lucy muttered darkly, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Don’t talk nonsense,” I protested, “There’s nothing wrong with you, love. You’ve got lovely eyes, and your nose and lips are perfectly fine. Stop being so hard on yourself!” “It’s just… all my friends are married already, and I’m not. The only men interested in me are the awful ones. The ones I like don’t even notice I exist. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” she frowned, looking to me for answers. “You just haven’t met your person yet, that’s all! Your time will come,” I tried to reassure her, but Lucy just grew more upset. “My eyes are small, my lips are thin, and just look at my nose! If we had money, I’d get plastic surgery. But we’re poor, so I’ve decided I’ll marry some guy with a disability. There are men at the hospital who’ve lost limbs after car accidents—most of their girlfriends leave them. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three, I can’t wait around forever!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that,” I blurted out in distress, “Look at your father—his legs aren’t the best, either. I was hoping at least my son-in-law would be able to help in the garden at the allotment. It really would make a difference. How are we supposed to manage otherwise?” Then I caught myself and rushed to explain, “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but why tie yourself to someone with a disability? What about Alex from next door? He’s a good lad, has had his eye on you for ages. He’s strong, your babies would be healthy, and you know—” “Mum, please!” Lucy protested. “Your Alex can’t hold down a job, he loves a drink, and what would I even talk to him about?” “You don’t have to chat much! I’ll tell him to go dig over the garden and then come in for tea. Or I’ll send him to the shop. He’s a good sort, really. Maybe you two would get on?” I suggested hopefully, but Lucy just pushed her tea away and stood up. “I’m off to bed, Mum. Honestly! I thought you at least believed there was nothing wrong with me, but you’re just like everyone else—you think I’m an ugly duckling, too.” “Lucy, darling, don’t be silly,” I called after her, but Lucy just waved her hand. “I’m done, Mum!” And she shut her bedroom door right in my face. She lay awake for hours, thinking about the young man who’d arrived at the hospital recently. He’d lost his leg below the knee—a slab had crushed him in a derelict building due for demolition. Nobody came to visit this young fellow, not even thirty, and at first, after surgery, he’d look at Lucy with pleading eyes, clutch her hand. But then, once the shock wore off, he just stared at the ceiling, silent and withdrawn. For some reason, Lucy felt sorrier for him than for the others—maybe because no one ever came to see him. “Do you think I’ll walk again?” he asked, not looking at her. “Of course you will, you’ll heal—you’re young,” Lucy said, trying to sound certain. “They all say that. Try living without a leg—see how it feels,” he snapped, turning his face to the wall like it was her fault. “Well, why did you go in there, anyway?” she fired back. “Thought I saw something,” he muttered, and now whenever she entered his room, he’d turn to face the wall. Lucy couldn’t help but notice his eyes—icy blue and cold, but his face was handsome. It seemed so unfair, what had happened to him… “You pity me, don’t you? I can see it,” he said, catching her gaze. “That’s all anyone can do now—pity me. No one could ever love me like this.” “No one loves girls like me, either, even with both arms and legs, because I’m just not right. No one even pities me—maybe I’d be better off missing a leg, at least then someone would feel sorry for me,” Lucy shot back, eyes burning with self-pity. But then, for the first time, Michael (that was his name) smiled at her. “You’re mad—you think you’re not attractive? I’d give anything to be with someone like you, honestly,” he said quietly. Lucy looked at him, bright-eyed, and for some reason, she believed him. So she blurted out, “Well, what if I chose you? Would you marry me?” Then, when he just stared at her, speechless, she added, “If you don’t answer, I’ll take that as a no!” She stood, headed for the door, her feelings hurt. Michael struggled up on his elbows, trying to sit up as if to chase after her, then, remembering the leg, he called out, “Lucy, marry me! I promise, soon no one will even guess about my leg. I’ll recover. Please, don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy stopped in the corridor, on the verge of tears—but somehow, she knew this was it. The One. It didn’t matter about noses or eyes or missing legs—they’d found each other. Her time had come, just like her mother had said… Michael threw himself into rehabilitation with determination. He wanted to marry this wonderful girl, to be strong for their future together. He longed for Lucy to feel needed and cherished. He needed her—he wanted nothing more than to live by her side. “Are you in love at last, sweetheart?” I asked her quietly one day, “Look at you, all glowing—didn’t you say you weren’t pretty?” Lucy didn’t try to deny it. She walked on air, her biggest wish now that Michael would manage with his prosthesis. They walked together more and more, starting in the hospital courtyard, then through the snow-covered, twinkling pre-Christmas streets… “That’s where the building collapsed on me,” Michael showed her one day. “Why did you go in there, anyway?” Lucy asked. “You’ll laugh—I saw a puppy in there, a black and white stray. I thought he’d freeze to death. I wanted to take him home—didn’t want to be alone anymore.” They saw a skinny dog nearby, watching them warily. “That’s probably him!” Michael grinned, and the dog trailed them all the way home. “At least Lucy’s found herself a lovely husband—good looking, younger than her, with his own flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends teased at the wedding. Lucy’s mother shed a tear when Michael called her “Mum.” Michael was raised in care and had no family of his own. He was kind, thoughtful—and most importantly, they truly loved each other. Allotment gardening didn’t matter anymore—though Michael took on every task happily and made a success of them all. Now Lucy, Michael, and their dog Kuzma live together. Soon, they’ll be four—their daughter is on the way! Never give in to despair. If you do, you might miss your chance at happiness. After all, life’s greatest beauty is its unpredictability…

Marrying a Disabled Man Thank you for your support, for the likes, for caring and for your thoughtful

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“Don’t Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned “These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth have you packed them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly unfamiliar. “We’ll get rid of them. Why do we need this stuff, Mark? They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter duvets and spare pillows—the house is a mess as it is.” With purposeful efficiency, Olga continued stripping the modest jumpers, skirts, and light dresses of her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Mrs. Valerie Harris had always hung her clothes neatly, maintaining their good condition—a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. But Olga’s wardrobes were chaos; every morning, she’d dive among the shelves searching for a top, complain there was nothing to wear, and then attack crumpled shirts with her steamer—the clothes always looking as though a cow had chewed and spat them out. It had only been three weeks since Mark laid his mum to rest. Valerie had required medical care—though it was already a lost cause—and peace. Stage four cancer took her frightfully fast. Mark brought his mother home; she faded within a month. Returning from work that day, he found her belongings tossed carelessly in the hallway, as if they were useless rubbish. Stunned, he wondered—was that it? Was this how his mum would be treated? Thrown out—forgotten without a second thought? “Why are you staring at me like Thatcher at the miners?” Olga retorted, stepping back. “Don’t touch those things,” Mark hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely, he momentarily lost feeling in his hands and feet. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—what do we need this tat for?” Olga snapped, her temper rising. “What is this, a shrine? Your mum’s gone—face it! Maybe if you’d cared that much when she was alive—visited a bit more—you’d have known how ill she was!” Mark recoiled at those words as if whipped. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he forced out over the tension in his throat. “Whatever. Loony.” Olga scoffed. In Olga’s mind, anyone who dared to disagree with her was automatically mad. Mark, still in his shoes, went to the hallway cupboard, opened the top doors, and climbing on a stool, fetched one of their checkered moving bags—of which they had about seven. He packed all Valerie’s things, not haphazardly, but folded each item into tidy rectangles. Her coat went on top, and her shoes in a separate bag. Their three-year-old son bustled around helping, even tossing his toy tractor into the bag. Mark rummaged for a key in the hall drawer and dropped it in his pocket. “Daddy, where are you going?” Mark managed a bitter smile as he grasped the door handle. “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go to your mum.” “Wait!” Olga called, appearing in the lounge doorway, “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, I’m full up with your attitude towards my mum.” “Oh come on, there’s no need for this drama. Take your coat off—where do you think you’re off to at this hour?” Without looking back, Mark left with the bag, got in his car, and drove towards the ring road. He kept his mind blank, let the motorway drone drown his thoughts—work, summer holiday plans, those funny Facebook pages he browsed to relax—all shrank to insignificance. Only one slow, heavy thought crawled through his mind: the real priorities. Everything else burned away. The only things remaining untarnished were the kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself—hadn’t seen enough, never home in time, always some excuse. His mum hadn’t wanted to be a burden, so he’d postponed visits, rang less, cut their chats short. After driving for some hours, Mark pulled up along a country lane by the family home where he’d grown up. Artist: Shaun Ferguson It was pitch black. He fumbled with the garden gate, used his phone screen to light the way—five missed calls from Olga. No, not tonight. The night air was heavy and sweet with the dying scent of cherry blossom, luring moths in the dark. Old slippers stood by the porch, and, by the inner door, Valerie’s worn blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—he’d given them to her years ago. The air inside smelt faintly damp, the sort of musty old furniture scent you never forget. In the lounge, the new sofa and telly he’d bought her stuck out, the fridge door ajar reminded him nobody lived here anymore. Her bedroom—his old one as a boy—was just across. He sat on the bed. The wardrobe there was once his brother’s. Now, the rail held his mum’s things. Mark stared at it as if expecting his mother to appear. He dropped his head in hands, crumpling onto the pillows—and he wept. He wept for the words he never said, for the last time her hand squeezed his, for all the “thank yous” he never voiced—for love, for sacrifices, for making him feel safe and secure. For the strength she gave him. And now, at the moment for words, he’d found none. All he thought of seemed pompous and outdated; nothing would do. Today, people had a vocabulary for cynicism and bravado, not for real feelings. Mark crashed out on the bed, not undressing, not wanting to disturb her orderly world. Miraculously, he slept soundly and woke with the dawn, just as he always had. He put everything back in her wardrobe, folding things neatly the way she liked, hung up her dresses, arranged her shoes. He stepped back, pictured her in this room, in these outfits, that warm, loving smile. He hugged her blouses, breathed in their scent, and stood there, lost in memory. Only later did he fish out his phone. “Morning, Steve. Can’t come in today—family emergency. Will you manage? Thanks.” And to Olga he texted: “Sorry I snapped. Will be home tonight. Love you.” Outside, daffodils and tulips flowered along the garden path. Mark picked them, plus a bunch of lilies of the valley, and made three small posies—for the cemetery, for his brother, dad, and mum. He grabbed breakfast at the village shop. “Mark! Back again?” the shopkeeper called. “Just visiting mum,” he mumbled. “Want some fresh Lancashire cheese? Your mum’s favourite.” He wavered, then nodded, “Alright, thanks, Mrs. Harris. How’s your lot?” She waved him off—her son was still a dead loss, always drinking. Mark ate at the gravesides—flowers and chocolate laid for each loved one. His brother had died young, his father five years ago, and now his mum. He broke off some cheese and chocolate for each stone, smiling to their photos. Recalling mischief with his brother, fishing at dawn with his dad, and his mum calling him in for tea—her voice unmistakable for miles. Oh, to hear it again. Standing by Valerie’s grave, its earth still fresh, he whispered: “Sorry, Mum. I should’ve done more. Life was meant to go on—but without you, it feels so empty. I wish I’d told you just how great you both were, and how lucky I am to be your son. Thank you for everything. I wish I’d been better—forgive me.” Soon it was time to go. Heading home, Mark ran into his old mate on the lane, already half-cut. “Oh, Mark! You back again?” the lad slurred. “Yeah. Family visit. You still drinking?” “Course I am—it’s World Turtle Day!” he exclaimed, waving a calendar scrap. Mark smirked, “Take care of your mum, mate. She’s gold—and she won’t be around forever.” He left his friend standing there, speechless, calling after him, “Alright, Mark. Take care, pal.” “Goodbye,” Mark replied, not looking back.

Dont you dare touch my mothers things, my husband said These clothes are my mothers. Why have you packed them up?

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Grandma’s Getting Restless

Grandma got bored What on earth have you made? Its impossible to eat! Too sweet, too gloopy, too Oh, yuck.

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Caught My Sister-in-Law Trying on My Clothes Without Asking

June 16 I caught my sisterinlaw rummaging through my wardrobe without asking. Simon, please, no overnight

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The Value of Lasting Friendship

The price of a lifelong friendship But Poppy and I have always wanted you two to end up together I know

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Don’t Think Badly of Me

Do not think ill of me Sophie had been counting the days until the NewYear break, dreaming of a trip

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Granny’s Craving for Adventure

Diary 12October2025 Grandma got bored. What on earth have you boiled, Evelyn? This is inedible!

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Not Our Child

My wife Victoria once asked why we should take another child into our home when there are already millions