Trending Link

You need a housekeeper, not a wife Mum, Daisys chewed my pencil again! Rebecca charged into the kitchen

I Promise to Love Your Son as My Own. Rest in Peace…

I promise to love your son as if he were my own. Rest in peace Harry Hart was a man who seemed to have it all.

As Long As There’s Life, It’s Never Too Late: A Heartfelt English Story of Family, Second Chances, and Rediscovering Happiness

While theres life, its never too late. A Story Well then, Mum, just as we agreed, Ill come by tomorrow

La vida

I’m 45 and I No Longer Host Guests in My Home: Why I Swapped Stressful House Parties for Celebrating Birthdays in Restaurants and Finally Put My Own Comfort First

Im 45 years old, and I no longer entertain guests in my home. Some people simply forget theyre guests

La vida

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around at the house where she’d grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she already felt utterly disappointed with life. Why was fate so cruel? Her beloved grandmother had died; she hadn’t been able to get into university, all because of a girl who’d sat at the next desk during exams, copied her answers, and then whispered something to the examiner when she handed in her paper first. The examiner frowned, demanded to see Alena’s answers, and then announced she was being expelled from the exam for cheating. She couldn’t prove her innocence. As it turned out, that clever girl was the daughter of a local bigwig. How could you ever hope to compete with someone like that? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother had suddenly reappeared—along with two half-brothers and a new man in tow. Where on earth had they been all these years? It had been her grandmother who’d raised Alena, her mother leaving when Alena was only four. And there were no fond memories from those early years—her mother used to abandon her alone while she went out for fun. Even when married, her mother was always looking for a “worthy man,” never hiding it, not before and not after Alena’s father’s sudden death. Left a widow, Tamara hadn’t mourned long. She packed her things, left her little daughter on her own mother’s doorstep, sold the flat she’d inherited from Alena’s father, and vanished. Her grandmother Raya had pleaded with her to behave like a proper mother, but it was no use. Tamara showed up occasionally, but she was never really interested in Alena. At one point, she visited when Alena was twelve, bringing a seven-year-old Svyatoslav with her, demanding that her mother sign over the house. “No, Toma! You’re not getting a thing!” her mother refused flatly. “Suit yourself—the place will be mine as soon as you die!” Tamara spat back, glaring at her daughter and bundling up Svyatoslav before slamming the door. “Why do you always have to quarrel when she visits?” Alena asked her grandmother. “Your mother’s nothing but a selfish woman! I obviously went wrong somewhere raising her! Should have tanned her hide more often!” Grandma Raisa Petrovna replied bitterly. Her grandmother’s illness came suddenly. She’d never complained before, but one day when Alena got home from school, she found her always-busy grandmother pale and sitting in a chair on the balcony—something Alena had never seen her do. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked nervously. “I’m not feeling well… Call an ambulance, Alyonushka…” her grandmother replied calmly. Hospital. Drips. Then—death. Raisa Petrovna spent her last days in intensive care, where visitors weren’t allowed. Consumed by fear, Alena desperately tried to reach her mother. Initially, Tamara refused to come, only relenting when she learned her mother was in intensive care. She arrived in time only for the funeral. Three days after, Tamara thrust a will under her daughter’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be here soon. I know you don’t get along with him, so you’ll stay with Aunt Gala for a while, alright?” There was no hint of grief in her voice—in fact, she seemed positively cheerful now that Raisa Petrovna was gone, and she was the sole heir! Crushed by grief, Alena couldn’t stand up to her mother. The will spelled everything out clearly, so she ended up living with her father’s sister, Aunt Gala—a flighty woman with a non-stop stream of rowdy, half-drunk visitors. Alena couldn’t abide it, especially when some men started showing her unwanted attention. She confided in her boyfriend, Pasha, who responded in a way that both surprised and delighted her: “No way am I letting strange old men gawk at you or lay a finger on you!” he said, adding firmly, “I’m going to talk to my dad today. We have a one-bedroom flat on the edge of town. My father promised I could live there once I started uni. I kept my word, and now it’s his turn.” “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with me…” Alena replied, confused. “What do you mean? We’ll live there together!” “Do you really think your parents will agree to that?” “They’ll have no choice! Consider this my official proposal: will you be my wife and live with me in that flat?” Alena nearly cried from joy. “Of course I will!” Her aunt was delighted at the news, but her mother was furious: “So you’re getting married now, are you? Just look at you! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re taking the easy way out! I won’t give you a penny, just so you know! And this house is mine—you’re not getting anything!” Her mother’s words hurt deeply. Pavel could barely get the story from her between sobs. He took her home, where his parents comforted her and brewed tea. Andrei Semyonovich listened attentively to his future daughter-in-law, shaken by the sheer number of misfortunes she’d suffered—more than most people do in a lifetime. “My poor girl! What kind of woman is she, your mother!” Pavel’s mum exclaimed after hearing about Tamara’s cruel words. “I’m interested in something else…” Andrei Semyonovich mused. “Why is she so fixated on the house, if there’s a will—and why does she keep using it against you?” “I don’t know…” Alena sobbed. “She’d always argued about the house with Grandma, always wanting to sell it or get Grandma to sign it over. But Grandma said if she did, we’d both end up out on the street.” “Curious. Tell me, did you see a notary after your grandmother’s death?” “No, why would I?” Alena asked, surprised. “To declare your inheritance rights.” “But my mother’s the heir, I’m just the granddaughter. Besides, Mum showed me the will. I saw it myself.” “It’s always more complicated,” Andrei Semyonovich replied. “We’ll visit a notary after the weekend. For now, you need some rest!” During that time, Alena had a run-in with her mother. Tamara brought documents and tried to make her sign them, but Pavel intervened: “She won’t be signing anything!” “And who are you, anyway? She’s an adult, she can make her own decisions!” Tamara snapped. “I’m her fiancé, and I think these papers could harm her. So nothing gets signed, not yet.” Tamara exploded with insults, but she left empty-handed—and Andrei Semyonovich’s suspicions grew. A few days later, as promised, he went to the notary with Alena. “Listen to everything he says and check all documents before you sign!” he advised. The notary was ethical. He accepted her application, and the next day informed them that Alena had an open inheritance case. Unbeknownst to her, her grandmother had set up a savings account to pay for Alena’s education. “What about the house?” Andrei Semyonovich asked. “The house was long ago deeded to the girl as a gift. There are no other documents.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was shocked. “Yes—your grandmother arranged it years ago. Now that you’re eighteen, you’re the legal owner and free to do as you wish.” “And the will?” “It was drafted seven years ago, but then revoked. Your mother probably doesn’t know about that. The house is yours—no one can take it from you.” Andrei Semyonovich’s fears were confirmed. “So, what now?” Alena asked anxiously as they left the office. “Now you tell your mother the house is yours, and she has to move out.” “She’ll never agree! She’s already packed my things to kick me out!” “That’s what the police are for!” When Alena delivered the news, Tamara went ballistic. “You ungrateful wretch! You plan to throw your own mother out? You’d better go yourself! You think I believe your lies? Who’s putting this nonsense in your head—your fiancé and his father? Well, birds of a feather! I have a document proving this house is mine! The will says I’m the sole heir!” “That’s right! So get out, or I’ll break your legs for you!” Oleg snarled, joining in. But Andrei Semyonovich stood his ground. “Sir, for threats and disorderly conduct, the police might get involved,” he warned politely but firmly. “Who do you think you are? Get out! The house is for sale, and buyers are coming soon!” But it wasn’t buyers that showed up—it was the police. After reviewing the situation, they ordered Tamara and her brood to vacate immediately, warning of criminal liability if they resisted. Furious, Tamara, her husband, and her sons had no choice but to leave. At last, Alena went back to her home. Pavel moved in too, not wanting to leave her vulnerable. He was right—Tamara and Oleg harassed her for some time, especially after learning of the savings account. Tamara made a claim, winning part of the money, but got nowhere with the house. After seeking every legal opinion, she finally gave up for good and moved away. Alena never spoke to her again. Alena and Pavel married. The following summer, she began university in her chosen field; by her third year, she’d had her first child. She remained grateful to her husband and his family for their unwavering support, and lived out her life in happiness. Author: Odetta — — Enigma The old house was well-kept despite its years—never left empty long enough to go wild or fall apart. “Thank goodness!” thought Masha. “There’s no man in my life these days, and there probably won’t be. And I’m certainly not one of those hardy English women who can do anything—hammer in nails, rein in horses, or charge into burning farmhouses!” She climbed up on the porch, pulled a heavy key from her handbag, and unlocked the massive old padlock. *** Strangely, this house had been left to Masha by Granny Lyuba, an elderly relative she barely knew. Odd, but who can say what goes on in the minds of the very elderly? By Masha’s reckoning, Granny Lyuba must have been a hundred. Masha was either her great-niece or second cousin, she couldn’t quite remember, but to her Granny Lyuba was just “our sewing and cooking granny.” She’d visited only in her youth—Granny Lyuba was already a senior then, always preferring to live alone, never asking her family for help. But recently, she’d quietly passed away. When Masha got the call about her grandmother’s passing in the village of Enigma, it took her a moment to realize it was Granny Lyuba. She certainly hadn’t expected to inherit a house and twelve acres of land. “A little nest egg for your retirement!” joked her husband, Michael. “Ha! Retirement’s years away—by the time I make it, they’ll probably push the age up again,” Masha replied. “For now, it’s just a gift. Though I can’t fathom what I did to deserve it… I didn’t even know Granny Lyuba was still alive! I thought she was long gone. But hey, far be it from me to complain about a gift.” “Or we could just sell it!” Michael had rubbed his hands gleefully. *** As it turned out, not selling it was a wise decision. Only a few months after Masha became a landowner, another surprise awaited her—one far less pleasant than inheriting property. She discovered her beloved Michael was having an affair. Yes, at this stage in life! Grey hair, midlife mischief…

This Is Not Your Home Emily gazes around the house shes known since childhood, her heart heavy.

La vida

012

“We’ll Be Staying with You for a While—We Can’t Afford Our Own Place!” My Friend Announced. I’m a Lively 65-Year-Old Who Loves Travelling and Meeting Interesting People, But When My Old Holiday Friend Sara and Her Whole Family Turned Up on My Doorstep, My Kindness Was Stretched to the Limit – They Ate My Food, Made Themselves at Home, and Even Left with My Dressing Gown and a Pot of Cabbage! That Was the End of Our Friendship.

Well be staying at your place for a bit we cant afford to rent our own flat! announced my friend, as

La vida

The Ever-Helpful Grandmas Eleanor Stirling awoke to laughter. Not to a quiet chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but to a loud, riotous guffaw so inappropriate for a hospital ward that it grated her nerves. It was her bed neighbour, pressing a phone to her ear, waving her free arm as if the person on the other end could see her. “Lynn, honestly! He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Eleanor glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Morning rounds wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes – fifteen precious minutes she’d hoped to spend in silence, preparing herself for the surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, her roommate was already in bed, typing furiously on her phone. Their greeting had been brief: “Good evening.” “Hello.” And then they’d retired to their own thoughts. Eleanor was thankful for the quiet. But now? A circus. “Excuse me,” she intoned, clear but soft. “Could you keep it down a little?” Her roommate turned. Round face, short silver-grey hair, unapologetically uncoloured, a flamboyant polka-dot pyjama—bright red in a hospital ward! “Oh, Lynn, I’ll call you back, looks like I’m in trouble,” she said, slipping the phone away and turning to Eleanor with a grin. “Sorry! I’m Cathy Shepherd. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before operations. That’s why I call everyone I know.” “Eleanor Stirling. Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean others don’t need to.” “But you’re awake now,” Cathy winked. “All right, I’ll whisper from now on. Promise.” She didn’t whisper. By breakfast, she’d already made two more phone calls, each growing louder. Eleanor dramatically turned to face the wall and pulled her duvet over her head—but it was useless. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained at breakfast—neither of them actually ate as surgery loomed. “She’s worried, bless her. I’m trying to keep her calm.” Eleanor said nothing. Her own son hadn’t rung. Not that she expected him to—he’d warned that there was an early work meeting, very important. She’d taught him: work is everything, responsibility above all. Cathy was taken down to surgery first, waving a cheery goodbye and shouting some joke to the nurse, who laughed. Eleanor found herself hoping her neighbour would be moved to another ward after her surgery. She herself was collected an hour later. Anaesthesia had always been hard on her. She woke nauseated, her right side throbbing dully. The nurse reassured her it had gone well. She’d just have to be patient. Patience, at least, she had in spades. When she returned to the ward that evening, Cathy was already back, lying still, face ashen, eyes closed, drip needle in, silent for the first time. “How are you?” asked Eleanor, though she had no intention of starting a conversation. Cathy opened her eyes, managed a slight smile. “Still alive. You?” “Yes. Alive.” They fell silent, the room prickled by the shiver of gathering twilight and the quiet ring of IV drips. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy finally said. “When I’m anxious, I talk non-stop. I know it’s annoying. I just can’t help myself.” Eleanor wanted to retort, but she couldn’t muster the strength. She eked out, “It’s all right.” Neither slept much that night, both troubled by pain. Cathy no longer called anyone, but Eleanor could hear her shifting, sighing; once, she thought she heard quiet sobs muffled in a pillow. The doctor arrived in the morning, checked stitches, took temperatures, then commended them both: “Doing well.” Cathy immediately grabbed her phone. “Lynn, hi! All fine, I’m alive, no need to worry. How are the kids? Really? Kyran had a fever? Is it gone now? See, I told you it would be nothing.” Eleanor listened unwillingly. “The kids”—so, Cathy’s grandchildren. Her own phone sat quietly. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s it going?” and “Text when you can”—sent last night, as she’d been groggy from anaesthesia. She replied: “All fine,” added a smiley. He liked them, said messages felt cold without. Reply came three hours later: “Brilliant! Love you.” “Don’t your family visit?” Cathy asked later that day. “My son works. Lives far. No real need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you’ll manage.’ Anyway, what’s the point if everything’s okay?” Something in her voice made Eleanor look closely. Cathy was smiling, but her eyes were far from cheerful. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kyran—the oldest, he’s eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy produced her phone, scrolling through pictures: children at the seaside, at a birthday, hugging, grinning, Cathy always with them, clowning for the camera—her daughter behind the lens, never in view. “She hates being in photos,” Cathy explained. “Your grandkids stay with you a lot?” “I basically live with them. My daughter works, my son-in-law as well, so I do…well, everything. School run, homework checks, dinners.” Eleanor nodded. Her story was similar—daily help in her grandson’s early years. Then it lessened—now, once a month, Sundays, if plans aligned. “And you?” “Only one grandson. Nine. Keen footballer, does well at school.” “See him much?” “Some Sundays. They’re busy. I understand.” “Yes,” Cathy turned to the window. “Busy.” They grew quiet as evening rain speckled the window. Later, Cathy suddenly announced, “I don’t want to go home.” Eleanor looked up. Cathy sat on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought about it and…I don’t.” “Why?” “What for? I’ll get back, Kyran’s homework won’t be done, Maddy’s got snot all over her face again, Leo’s ripped his trousers. My daughter’s at work until late, my son-in-law’s always away. So I cook, clean, tidy, help, sit, fix. And no one even—” she faltered, “even says thank you. Because, well…that’s just what grandmas do.” Eleanor said nothing. She felt a lump rising in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Don’t know what’s got into me.” “Don’t apologise,” murmured Eleanor. “Five years ago, I retired. Thought I’d finally focus on myself. Wanted to go to the theatre, to exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked me to help. I’m the grandma, I’m not working, surely not a problem. I couldn’t say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, every other day. Then school—once a week. Now…now I’m not really needed. They have a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting for them to call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded. “My daughter was meant to come in November—for a visit. I cleaned the house, baked pies. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kyran’s got football club, we can’t come after all.’” “She didn’t come?” “No. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat, quiet, listening to the patter of British rain. “You know what stings?” Cathy said. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I keep hoping they will. I clutch my phone, thinking: maybe now they’ll call because they miss me. Just to chat—not needing something.” Eleanor felt the sting of tears in her nose. “I do too. Every time my phone rings, I hope my son just wants to talk. But no—it’s always for something.” “And we always help,” Cathy shrugged. “Because we’re mums.” “Yes.” The next day brought redressing of wounds—painful for both. Afterwards they lay quiet, until Cathy said, “I always thought I had the perfect family. Wonderful daughter, good son-in-law, lovely grandkids. That I was essential—that they couldn’t do without me.” “And?” “And now I’ve realised, here, that they manage just fine. My daughter hasn’t complained in four days. In fact, she sounds more upbeat than ever. So…they could cope all along. It just suits them to have a grandma-nanny on hand.” Eleanor propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault, too. I taught my son—Mum always helps, always waits, always stands aside. His plans matter, mine don’t.” “Me too. I always drop everything for my daughter.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Eleanor said quietly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. And was silent. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” On day five, Eleanor managed to get out of bed unaided. On day six, she walked to the end of the corridor and back. Cathy was a day behind, but determined. They took walks together, slow, trailing a hand along the wall. “After my husband died, I felt lost,” Cathy confided. “I thought it was all over. My daughter said: ‘Mum, now your whole meaning is the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. Only now it feels…one-sided. I live for them; for me, they’re there when it suits.” Eleanor related her own divorce, thirty years ago when her son was five. How she raised him alone, worked two jobs, studied evenings. “I thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up, and has his own life,” Cathy finished. “Yes. I suppose it’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On day seven, her son showed up, unannounced. Tall, in an expensive coat, with a carrier bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Better now?” “Better.” “Fantastic! Doctor says three more days and you’re out. Maybe you’ll come stay with us? Olesya says the guest room is free.” “Thanks, but I’m better at home.” “As you wish. If you need anything, call.” He stayed twenty minutes—work stories, grandson updates, new car chat. Asked if she needed money, promised to visit again next week. Left quickly, with palpable relief. Cathy pretended to sleep through, then opened her eyes. “Your son?” “Yes.” “Handsome fellow.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice, though.” Eleanor could only nod. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe it’s time we stopped waiting for their affection. Just…let it go? Understand that they’ve grown up, their lives are their own. Time to find ours again.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But, what’s the alternative? Sitting here hoping they’ll remember us.” “What did you say to your daughter?” Eleanor asked, surprised to have switched to ‘you’. “Told her I’d need two weeks’ rest after discharge; the doctor said so,” said Cathy. “Not able to watch the kids.” “Was she cross?” “Oh yes. But you know what? I felt lighter, like a huge weight was lifted.” Eleanor closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no, they might take offence—stop calling entirely.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can’t get worse. Can only get better.” On day eight, they were discharged together. Packing in silence, as if saying a final goodbye. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Eleanor agreed. They did. Stood there, looking at one another. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “For being here.” “Thank you. You know…I haven’t spoken like that to anyone in thirty years. Heart to heart.” “Nor have I.” They hugged—awkwardly, gently, careful not to jostle stitches. The nurse arrived with their discharge notes, called a taxi. Eleanor left first. Her flat was quiet and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son. “Mum, are you discharged yet?”, “Call when you’re home”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set the phone aside. She stood, went to the cupboard, pulled out a folder—untouched for five years. Inside, a French class leaflet and a printed theatre schedule. She stared at the leaflet, thinking. The phone rang: Cathy. “Hi—sorry to ring so soon, but…I just wanted to call.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “Shall we meet up? When we’re both fitter? In a week or so—coffee, maybe? Or just a walk? Only if you’d like.” Eleanor looked at the leaflet in her hand, then at the phone. Then back at the leaflet. “I’d like that. Really. In fact, why wait? Let’s meet Saturday. I’ve spent long enough lying around.” “Saturday? Are you sure? The doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I looked after me.” “Deal. Saturday.” They rang off. Eleanor picked up the French leaflet again. Classes started in a month. Registration was still open. She reached for her laptop, hands trembling slightly, and filled out the registration form. All the way to the end. It was raining outside. But behind the clouds, the sun was breaking through—just a little, the soft, silvery glow of an English autumn. And Eleanor Stirling suddenly thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. Then she pressed ‘submit’.

Comfortable Grandmothers Margaret awoke to laughter. Not a mild chuckle or a restrained giggle, but a

La vida

017

My Ex-Husband Asked Me for Money When His Son from His New Marriage Fell Seriously Ill—But I Refused to Help!

Monday, 12th February Im 37 now, and its been a decade since my divorce. My ex-husband was unfaithful

La vida

“While We Sell the Flat, Why Not Stay in a Care Home?” Suggested Her Daughter Lydia Married Late in Life, Only to Watch Her Husband Edward Take Over Her Mother Mary’s Flat—Cramming the Elderly Woman Into a Cupboard, Complaining About ‘Musty Old Smells’, and Finally Sending Her to a Care Home ‘Just for Now’ So They Could Sell Up—But When Guilt and Karma Finally Caught Up, the Truth Was Too Much to Bear

While we sort out selling the flat, you can stay in the care home for a bit my daughter told me.

La vida

010

My Children Are Well Settled, I’ve Saved Up for Myself, and I’m Ready to Retire – The Story of My Neighbour Fred: Beloved Mechanic, Devoted Family Man, and the Heartbreak of Growing Old in Modern England

My children are all settled; I have a few pounds tucked away, and soon enough, I shall be drawing a pension.