Trending Link

I Just Want to Go Home, Son Victor sat on the little stool out on his London flat’s balcony, lighting a cigarette as a bitter lump formed in his throat. He tried to steady his hands but couldn’t stop the shaking. Never had he imagined the day would come when there wouldn’t be room for him in his own home… “Dad, don’t be so upset!” called out Laura, his eldest daughter. “I’m not asking for much—just give us your room, please! If you can’t do it for me, then think of your grandchildren. They’re about to start school and we’re still all cramped in one room…” “I’m not moving into a care home,” Victor replied calmly. “If you need more space, move in with Michael’s mother. She’s alone in a three-bedroom place—you’d all have your own rooms.” “But you know I’ll never get along with her!” Laura shouted, slamming the balcony door. Victor stroked his old dog, Barney, remembering his late wife, Nadia, and, as his tears rolled down, he thought about the lonely life she’d left him to face. He and Nadia had raised Laura with kindness, hoping she’d turn out caring—but something had gone awry. Laura grew up selfish and cold. Barney whined softly and lay at his master’s feet, sensing Victor’s heartbreak. “Grandad, do you not love us?” asked his eight-year-old grandson, entering the room. “Of course I do! Who said otherwise?” Victor replied, surprised. “Then why don’t you want to leave? Aren’t you being greedy, keeping your room from me and Kostya?” the boy snapped, echoing Laura’s words. Victor realised Laura had turned the child against him. “Alright, I’ll go,” he answered quietly. “You can have the room.” Everyone in the house seemed to resent him, even Barney was no longer welcome. “Are you serious?” Laura ran in, delighted. “Yes,” Victor whispered. “Just promise you’ll look after Barney. I feel like a traitor…” “Oh, stop it—he’ll be fine. We’ll take him for walks and visit you at weekends,” Laura promised. “I found the perfect care home for you—you’ll like it there.” Two days later, Victor arrived at the care home, only to find Laura had lied about its comforts. It was a dreary council facility filled with neglected old folk. He unpacked his few belongings and sat outside, nearly in tears. “New arrival?” an elderly woman named Valerie asked, joining him. “Yes,” Victor sighed. “Don’t worry—once you settle in, things seem less awful. My nephew put me here after I signed my flat over to him. Well, at least I’m not homeless…” They spent the evening reminiscing. Valerie offered Victor companionship, bringing a little joy to his otherwise dreary days. But Victor longed for home—and hoped Laura would come for him, or at least let him speak to Barney. Calls went unanswered. One day, Victor spotted his neighbour Stephen by the entrance—he was shocked to find Victor there. “Your daughter’s lied to everyone, saying you moved to the countryside. I always thought something was off—especially since Barney’s been outside your old building for days,” Stephen said. “She put Barney in a shelter and now she’s moving, renting out your flat. What happened?” Victor explained everything, wishing he could undo his rash decision. “I just want to go home, son,” Victor whispered. “I’m a solicitor—I help people in your situation. Have you been officially signed out of your flat?” Stephen asked. “No, unless Laura did it herself. I don’t know what to expect anymore.” “Pack your things—I’ve got my car out front. We can’t let this stand!” Victor hurriedly packed, promising Valerie he’d return for her someday. On arriving at his old flat, he found it locked and Laura gone. Stephen took him home, and with his legal help, Victor reclaimed his rights to the property. “She won’t give up, but there’s one solution: sell the flat, give Laura her share, and buy yourself a small cottage in the country.” “Perfect!” Victor beamed. Three months later, he moved into a cosy country home, with Barney by his side. “Wait, first I must visit Valerie,” Victor insisted. He found her sitting on their old care home bench, gazing into the distance. “Valerie, come with Barney and me! There’s space, fresh air, fishing—please say yes.” She hesitated. “Just stand up and come with us. There’s nothing left for us here,” Victor laughed. Valerie agreed, tears of joy filling her eyes. Against the odds and cruelty, Victor and Valerie proved there are still good people in the world. They fought for their right to happiness and finally found peace—reminding us kindness will always outshine selfishness.

I miss home so much, my boy. Today I stepped out onto the little terrace, lit a cigarette (Im not supposed

La vida

My Ex-Husband’s Son from His Second Marriage Fell Ill, and He Asked Me for Financial Help – I Said No!

I am now looking back on those days when I was thirtyseven, long after the dust had settled.

La vida

My Mother-in-Law Once Mocked My Mum for Cleaning Other People’s Homes… Now She Cleans in Mine

Ill never forget the first time I brought my husband to meet my family. Mum made her legendary Sunday

La vida

When I Got Off the Bus, I Saw My Mother Sitting on the Pavement Begging – My Husband and I Were Stunned, and No One Knew a Thing I’m 43, my mum is 67. Though we both live in London, we’re on opposite sides of the city. Like many elderly people, my mum needs regular care, but moving in with us isn’t possible—all because she keeps four cats and three dogs in her council flat. She also feeds every stray animal in her neighbourhood. Every penny I give her, meant for food and medicine, goes straight to her animals. I personally deliver groceries and whatever else she needs, because I know she’d spend any cash entirely on vet bills and pet food. Not long ago, my husband and I visited a friend and decided to leave the car and take the bus home. You can imagine my shock when we got off and saw my mum sitting on the pavement, begging for money. I was lost for words—my husband too, who knew exactly how much money I put aside for her. Naturally, he questioned where all our support was going. It turned out Mum was collecting money to feed her dogs and cats, and to pay for their jabs. It all sounds so tragic—but think: what would you do if you saw your own mother in such a state? How would your family, friends, and neighbours react? Of course everyone would think I’m a useless daughter, abandoning my mum and letting her waste away. Now, I go searching for my mum on every street. Even after I confronted her, she didn’t stop—she’s just gotten better at hiding it from me.

When I stepped off the bus that evening, I couldn’t quite believe my eyesthere sat my mother, huddled

La vida

“Forgive Me, Son, There’s No Dinner Tonight,” a Mother Cried — But a Millionaire Overheard: A Christmas Miracle in London That Gave a Homeless Family Not Just Food, But a Future

Forgive me, son, theres no dinner tonight! shouted Mum A millionaire was listening. Mum Im hungry.

La vida

020

What About the Flat? You Promised Me! You’re Ruining My Life!

What about the flat? You promised me! Youre ruining my life! My husband and I were over the moon when

La vida

014

“When Was the Last Time You Looked at Yourself in the Mirror?” Her Husband Asked—But His Wife’s Unexpected Reaction Changed Everything Alex finished his morning coffee, half-watching Marina. Her hair pulled back in a child’s scrunchie—little cartoon cats. But Kseniya from next door? Always bright, fresh, smelling of expensive perfume that lingered in the lift after she left. “You know,” Alex put aside his phone, “sometimes I think we live like… well, like neighbours.” Marina stopped, cloth frozen in her hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Oh, nothing. Just… when was the last time you looked in the mirror?” She looked at him, carefully. Alex felt things were going off script. “When was the last time you really looked at me?” Marina asked softly. Awkward silence. “Come on, Marina, don’t be dramatic. I’m just saying—a woman should look her best. Simple as that! Look at Kseniya, and she’s your age.” “Ah,” said Marina. “Kseniya.” Something changed in her voice—a revelation. “Alex,” she said after a pause, “you know what? I’ll stay with Mum for a bit. Have a think about what you said.” “Fine. Let’s live apart for now, think it over. But I’m not kicking you out!” “You know,” she hung the cloth up with care, “maybe I really do need to look in the mirror.” She went to pack her suitcase. Alex sat in the kitchen thinking, “Damn, isn’t this what I wanted?” Only, it didn’t feel like victory—just emptiness. Three days passed like a holiday. Coffee in the morning, evenings as he pleased. No romantic dramas streaming on TV. Freedom, right? Long-awaited manly freedom. One evening, Alex saw Kseniya at the entrance, hauling gourmet grocery bags, heels clicking, dress fitting perfectly. “Alex!” she smiled. “How are you? Haven’t seen Marina in ages.” “She’s at her mum’s. Resting,” he lied. “Ah.” Kseniya nodded knowingly. “You know, women need a break sometimes. From the routine, the housework.” She said it as if she’d never met a dust bunny—her dinner probably materialised at the snap of her fingers. “Ksenia, maybe coffee sometime? Neighbour-to-neighbour?” Alex blurted. “Why not?” she smiled. “Tomorrow evening?” That night, Alex planned his outfit—shirt or polo, jeans or trousers, not too much aftershave. Next morning, the phone rang. “Alex? It’s Mrs Vasilyeva, Marina’s mum.” His heart skipped. “Marina asked me to tell you: she’ll collect her things Saturday when you’re out. She’ll leave the keys with the concierge.” “Wait—collect her things?” “What did you expect?” her voice was steel. “My daughter won’t spend her life waiting for you to decide if she matters.” “I didn’t mean it like that—” “You said enough. Goodbye, Alex.” She hung up. Alex sat in the kitchen, staring at his phone. What the hell? He wasn’t divorcing—just asking for a pause, time to think. But apparently his family decided for him. Coffee with Kseniya felt odd. She was pleasant, stories about banking, laughed at his jokes. But when he reached for her hand, she gently drew away. “Alex, you know—I can’t. You’re still married.” “But we’re… living apart.” “Today, maybe. What about tomorrow?” Kseniya eyed him carefully. Alex walked her to the door, then upstairs. His flat greeted him with silence and the scent of bachelorhood. Saturday. Alex left home—no scenes, no tears, let her take the stuff in peace. But by three in the afternoon, curiosity gnawed at him. What did she take? Everything? Or just essentials? By four, he couldn’t stand it. He headed home. In front of the building—a car with local plates. At the wheel, a stranger, about forty, well-dressed, helping someone load boxes. Alex perched on the bench and waited. Ten minutes later, out came a woman in a blue dress. Dark hair, not a cartoon scrunchie but a stylish clip. Subtle makeup, made her eyes pop. Alex stared—was this Marina? His Marina—only not. She carried the last bag, and the man quickly helped her, like handling crystal. Alex couldn’t hold back. He walked over. “Marina!” She turned. Her face was calm, beautiful—no trace of the exhaustion he’d grown used to. “Hi, Alex.” “Is that… you?” The driver tensed, but Marina eased his arm—don’t worry. “It’s me,” she said simply. “You just stopped seeing me a long time ago.” “Marina, wait—can’t we talk?” “About what?” No anger, just surprise. “You said a woman should always look stunning. I listened.” “But, I didn’t mean it like that!” Alex’s heart thumped. “So what did you mean, Alex?” Marina tilted her head. “You wanted me beautiful—but only for you? Interesting—but only at home? To love myself, but not so much that I could leave a husband who doesn’t see me?” He listened and every word turned something inside him. “You know,” she continued gently, “I realised I had stopped taking care of myself. Not out of laziness, but because I’d become invisible. In my own home, my own life.” “Marina, I didn’t want—” “Oh, you did. You wanted a wife-invisible, who does everything but doesn’t disturb your life. And when you get bored—you can upgrade to a flashier model.” The man in the car said something quietly. Marina nodded. “We should go,” she told Alex. “Vladimir’s waiting.” “Vladimir?” Alex’s mouth went dry. “Who’s he?” “A man who sees me,” Marina answered. “Met him at the gym. There’s a new fitness centre near mum’s. Can you believe—it took me forty-two years to start working out for the first time?” “Marina, don’t—let’s try again. I get it, I was a fool.” “Alex,” she looked at him closely, “do you remember the last time you told me I was beautiful?” He couldn’t. “Or asked about my day?” Alex realised—he’d lost. Not to Vladimir or circumstance. To himself. Vladimir started the engine. “Alex, I’m not angry. Truly. You helped me learn something valuable: if I don’t see myself, no one else will.” The car pulled away. Alex stood by the entrance, watching his life drive off. Not his wife—his life. Fifteen years of “routine”, he thought. And only now did he realise it had been happiness. Only he’d never noticed. Half a year later, Alex bumped into Marina at the mall, by the coffee shelf. She was reading labels, suntanned, light blouse, new haircut. Next to her, a twenty-something girl. “Try this one,” she said. “Dad says arabica is better than robusta.” “Marina?” Alex approached. She turned, smiled—easy, relaxed. “Hi, Alex. Meet Nastya, Vladimir’s daughter. Nastya, this is Alex, my ex-husband.” Nastya nodded politely—pretty, probably a student, watching with curiosity, not hostility. “How are you?” he said. “Good. You?” “Alright.” Awkward pause. What do you say to your ex-wife, who’s changed so much? They stood by the coffee shelves. Alex looked at her—happy, truly happy. “And you?” she asked. “How’s your love life?” “Nothing special,” he admitted. Marina studied him. “You know, Alex—you want a woman as beautiful as Kseniya, as obedient as I was. Clever, but not so clever she catches you eyeing others.” Nastya listened, eyes wide. “That woman doesn’t exist,” Marina finished gently. “Nastya, let’s go?” the girl said. “Dad’s waiting in the car.” “Yes, of course.” Marina grabbed a pack of coffee. “Good luck, Alex.” They left. Alex stood among the shelves, thinking—she was right. He was chasing a woman who didn’t exist. That evening, Alex sat in his kitchen, sipping tea, thinking of Marina, how she’d changed. Sometimes, losing something is the only way to see its true value. Maybe happiness isn’t about searching for a convenient wife, but learning to truly see the woman standing beside you.

When was the last time you actually looked at yourself in the mirror? Tom asked his wife. Janes reaction

La vida

Undercover Secrets.

Emily, was that you? I asked, astonished as the former schoolmate pushed open my front door.

La vida

096

— There’s No Need for You to Sit at the Table. You Should Be Serving Us! — Declared My Mother-in-Law. I Stood by the Stove in the Quiet Morning Kitchen — Wearing a Wrinkled Pyjama and a Messy Bun. The Air Smelled of Toast and Strong Coffee. My 7-Year-Old Daughter Sat on a Stool Beside the Table, Nose Buried in Her Sketchbook, Carefully Drawing Colourful Swirls with Felt-Tip Pens. — Are You Making Those Diet Toasts Again? — Came a Voice Behind Me. I Jumped. At the Door Stood My Mother-in-Law — A Stern-Faced Woman with a Voice That Allowed No Argument. She Was in Her Dressing Gown, Hair Pulled Back Tight, Lips Pursed. — By the Way, Yesterday I Ate Whatever I Could Find! — She Continued, Smacking a Tea Towel Against the Table Edge. — No Soup, No Proper Food. Can You Make Eggs? Properly, Not with Your… Fancy Modern Ideas! I Switched Off the Hob and Opened the Fridge. A Tight Spiral of Anger Swirled in My Chest, but I Swallowed It. Not in Front of My Child. And Not in a Place Where Every Inch Seemed to Whisper, ‘You’re Only Here Temporarily.’ — I’ll Sort It Now — I Said, Struggling Not to Let My Voice Tremble. My Daughter Didn’t Look Up from Her Pens, but Kept a Careful Eye on Her Grandma — Quiet, Small, Alert. ‘We’ll Stay with My Mum for a Bit’ When My Husband Suggested Moving in with his Mum, It Sounded Sensible Enough. — We’ll Stay at Mum’s — Just for a Little While. Two Months, Tops. It’s Close to Work and Our Mortgage Will Be Approved Soon. She Doesn’t Mind. I Hesitated. Not Because I Was at Odds with My Mother-in-Law. No. We Were Always Polite. But Deep Down I Knew the Truth: Two Adult Women in One Kitchen — That’s a Minefield. And My Mother-in-Law Was Someone Who Needed Order, Control, and Moral Judgements Like Oxygen. But There Was Little Choice. Our Old Flat Sold Quickly, the New One Wasn’t Ready, So the Three of Us Moved into My Mother-in-Law’s Two-Bedroom Flat. ‘Just Temporarily.’ Daily Life Became All About Control The First Few Days Passed Quietly. My Mother-in-Law Was Particularly Polite — Even Put an Extra Chair Out for My Daughter and Served Us Pie. But By Day Three, the ‘Rules’ Started. — There’s Order in My House — She Declared Over Breakfast. — Up at Eight. Shoes Only on the Rack. Food Must Be Agreed on. TV Down Low, I’m Sensitive to Noise. My Husband Smiled and Waved It Off: — Mum, It’s Just for a Bit. We Can Cope. I Nodded Silently. But ‘We Can Cope’ Began to Sound More like a Sentence. I Began to Disappear A Week Went By. Then Another. The Regime Got Tighter. My Mother-in-Law Removed My Child’s Drawings from the Table: — They’re in the Way. She Took Off the Checked Tablecloth I’d Put On: — Impractical. My Cereal Vanished from the Shelf: — Been There Ages — Must Be Off. She ‘Moved’ My Shampoos: — Don’t Want Them Lying About. I Didn’t Feel Like a Guest, but Someone with No Voice, No Right to an Opinion. My Food Was ‘Wrong.’ My Habits — ‘Unnecessary.’ My Child — ‘Too Noisy.’ And My Husband Kept Saying the Same Thing: — Just Bear with It. This Is Mum’s Place. She’s Always Been Like This. Day by Day, I Was Losing Myself. Less and Less Remained of the Woman Who Was Once Calm and Confident. Now It Was Just Endless Adjusting and Enduring. A Life Ruled by Rules That Weren’t Mine Every Morning I’d Get Up at Six Just to Get to the Bathroom First, Cook Porridge, Rush to Get My Daughter Ready… and Avoid My Mother-in-Law’s Criticism. Each Evening I’d Make Two Dinners. One for Us. And One to Her Standards. No Onion. Then With Onion. Then Only Using Her Saucepan. Then Only Using Her Frying Pan. — I Don’t Ask for Much — She’d Say Disapprovingly. — Just Cook Properly. The Way It Should Be. The Day the Humiliation Became Public One Morning I’d Just Washed My Face and Turned On the Kettle When My Mother-in-Law Walked into the Kitchen, as if It Was Perfectly Normal. — My Friends Are Coming Over Today. At Two. You’re Home, So You’ll Prepare the Table. Pickles, Salad, Something with Tea — Nothing Special. ‘Nothing Special’ Always Meant a Feast with Her. — Oh… I Didn’t Know. Ingredients… — You’ll Buy Them. I Made a List. Nothing Difficult. So I Got Dressed and Went to the Shop. Bought Everything: Chicken, Potatoes, Dill, Apples for Pie, Biscuits… Came Back and Started Cooking Non-Stop. By Two Everything Was Ready: Table Set, Chicken Roasted, Salad Fresh, Pie Golden. Along Came Three Retired Ladies — Neat Hairstyles and Perfume from Another Era. And Straight Away, I Knew I Wasn’t ‘One of the Group.’ I Was the ‘Waitress.’ — Come Here, Sit by Us — Smiled My Mother-in-Law. — You’ll Serve Us. — Serve You? — I Echoed. — What’s the Problem? We’re All Older. It’s Not Hard for You. So There I Was: Carrying Trays, Spoons, Bread. ‘Give Me Some Tea.’ ‘Pass the Sugar.’ ‘Salad’s Gone.’ — The Chicken’s a Bit Dry — Complained One. — You Overdid the Pie — Said Another. I Grinned and Bore It. Cleared Plates. Poured Tea. No One Asked If I’d Like to Sit Down. Or Take a Breather. — Isn’t It Nice Having a Young Housewife Around? — My Mother-in-Law Declared with Mock Warmth. — Everything Depends on Her! And Then… Something Inside Me Finally Snapped. That Night, I Told the Truth When the Guests Left, I Washed Up, Packed Away Leftovers, Washed the Tablecloth. Then Sat on the Edge of the Sofa with an Empty Mug. Outside, It Was Getting Dark. My Daughter Slept Curled Up on the Bed. My Husband Was Next to Me — Lost in His Phone. — Listen… — I Said Quiet but Firm. — I Can’t Do This Anymore. He Looked Up, Surprised. — We Live like Strangers. I Feel like I’m Just Here to Serve Everyone. And You… Do You Even See This? He Didn’t Reply. — This Isn’t a Home. It’s a Life Where I’m Constantly Adjusting and Silent. The Child and I Are Both Stuck Here. I’m Done with Being Convenient and Invisible. He Nodded… Slowly. — I Get It… Sorry I Didn’t See It Sooner. We’ll Find a Flat. Doesn’t Matter What — As Long as It’s Ours. We Started Searching That Night. Our Home — Small but Ours The New Flat Was Tiny. The Landlord Had Left Old Furniture. The Linoleum Squeaked. But When I Stepped Over the Doorstep… I Felt Light. Like I’d Finally Found My Voice Again. — Here We Are — My Husband Sighed, Setting Down the Bags. My Mother-in-Law Didn’t Say a Word. She Didn’t Even Try to Stop Us. I Didn’t Know If She Was Hurt, or Just Realised She’d Gone Too Far. A Week Passed. Mornings Began with Music. My Child Drew on the Floor. My Husband Made Coffee. And I Watched and Smiled. No Stress. No Rushing. No ‘Just Bear with It.’ — Thank You — He Said One Morning, Hugging Me. — For Speaking Up. I Looked Him in the Eyes: — Thank You for Hearing Me. Life Wasn’t Perfect Now. But This Was Our Home. With Our Rules. Our Noise. Our Life. And It Was Real. ❓ What about you — If You Were in This Woman’s Shoes, Would You Last ‘Just for a Little While,’ or Would You Have Walked Out in the First Week?

You dont need to sit at the table. You should be serving us, my mother-in-law announced sharply.

La vida

I Gave My Surname to Her Children—Now I’m Legally Obliged to Support Them While She Lives Happily Ever After with Their Biological Dad How I Went from “Fun Guy” to the Official Cash Machine for Two Kids Who Only Message Me When They Need Money for the Cinema but Ignore Me at Christmas It all started three years ago when I met Marianne—an amazing woman, recently divorced, with two children aged 8 and 10. I fell head over heels, totally smitten. She’d constantly say, “The kids adore you!” And like a proper fool, I believed her. Of course they loved me—I took them to theme parks every weekend. One day, during one of those life-altering conversations, Marianne says: “It makes me so sad that the kids don’t share their father’s surname. He never officially acknowledged them.” So, in a moment of dazzling (and sarcastic) brilliance, I replied: “Well… I could adopt them. Honestly, they already feel like my own.” You know that bit in films where time freezes and a voiceover says, “That’s when I knew it would end badly”? I didn’t get that warning. I should have. Marianne broke down in happy tears. The kids hugged me. I felt like a hero—a foolish hero, but a hero nonetheless. We went through it all—lawyers, paperwork, judges. The kids officially became Sebastian Rogers and Camilla Rogers—MY surname. I was happy. Marianne was happy. We even held a “family ceremony” with a cake. Six months later. SIX. Marianne tells me: “We need to talk… I don’t know how to say this, but… Mike is back.” “Who’s Mike?” I ask, already knowing. “The kids’ biological father. He’s changed. He’s grown up. He wants his family back.” I was dumbstruck—literally speechless. “What are you going to do?” I asked. “I’ll give him a chance. For the children, you understand?” Of course, I understood. It was as if someone pointed me to the exit with a neon sign. “Marianne, I ADOPTED them. They are legally my children.” “Yes, yes… we’ll sort that out later. The most important thing now is that the children have a dad.” “We’ll sort it out later.” Like it’s a gas bill. I visited my solicitor. The man nearly choked on his coffee. “You’ve signed up for full adoption?” “Yes.” “Then you’re their father. Completely responsible—maintenance, school, healthcare. Everything.” “But I’m no longer with their mum…” “Makes no difference. You’re the dad. That’s how the law works.” And here I am—paying child support to Marianne, who now happily lives with Mike in MY flat. Because “the children need stability and shouldn’t have to move.” MY flat. Paid for by me. I had to move out, because apparently it would be “too traumatic for the children” if I stayed. The most absurd part? Mike—the ghost dad who never contributed a penny—is now taking them to the park, to football, and playing the family hero. And every month I get a polite email from Marianne’s solicitor: “Maintenance received: £XXX.” Complete with a sad emoji. That doesn’t help. Last month Sebastian messaged me: “Hi, could you transfer a bit more? I want new trainers.” “Can’t Mike get them for you?” “He said you’re my legal dad. He’s just my dad at heart.” Dad at heart. How convenient. I’m the dad via HSBC. Adoption’s almost impossible to reverse. The court would probably see me as the baddie who wants to “abandon his children.” Even my mates have stopped pitying me. “Mate, at what point did you think this was a good idea?” “I was in love.” “Falling in love doesn’t mean you switch your brain off completely.” And he’s right. Now, when I see a couple where the kids aren’t his, I want to shout: “DON’T SIGN ANYTHING! Be the fun uncle, the boyfriend, whatever you want—just DON’T SIGN!” My mum only said, “Love made you stupid,” and hugged me in a way that hurt even more. Yesterday, yet again: “Unexpected expense: school materials – £XXX” Unexpected. As if school isn’t every year. Meanwhile, Marianne posts photos of her “happy family.” The kids—bearing MY surname—smiling beside the man who abandoned them. The grand finale? Camilla (10, yes, she has Instagram…) wrote in her bio: “Daughter of Marianne and Mike ❤️” My name? Nowhere. I’m the anonymous sponsor to their lives. So here I am—£500 a month lighter, two “kids” who only message when they want money, and fully aware that I made the biggest mistake of my life, all for love. The only upside is that when people ask if I have children, I can say “yes” and regale everyone at dinner with this story. Everyone laughs. Except me. I only laugh on the outside. And you? Have you ever signed something “for love” that ended up costing you dearly… or am I the only genius who gave away his surname and bank account in a buy-one-get-one-free promotion?

I gave my surname to her children. Now Im obliged to support them financially while she lives happily