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He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife: The Story of Victor Dudnikov, a Moody Art Teacher, His Long-Suffering Wife Sophia, and the Unexpected Visitor Who Changed Everything

Set his sights on another mans wife When they moved in together, James Ashford quickly proved himself

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Bittersweet Bliss – Why Don’t You Like That Young Lady? She’s Sweet, Tidy, Smart—and She Loves You, My Son: Elena’s Stern Advice, Denis’s Reluctance, Failed Loves, And the Unexpected Destiny on a Train That Led to an Unassuming Woman, Three Kids, and Their ‘Sunshine Child’—A Story of Difficult, Yet Cherished, Happiness

BITTERSWEET HAPPINESS Whats wrong with this young lady then? Shes a good girl. Well-mannered, tidy, studies hard.

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My Beloved Wife —How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s the secret?—my brother would ask me every time he visited. —Love and enormous patience. That’s the whole secret,—I’d always reply. —That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. As for living with a book I’ve already read—no, thank you,—my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride was ten years his senior. Kind-hearted Anna fell hopelessly in love with Peter for life. For Peter, she was little more than a fleeting amusement. Anna became a proper part of her husband’s household—one bustling with relatives—and gave birth to a son, Michael. The newlyweds received a tiny room to themselves. Anna treasured her delicate collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, all displayed proudly on an old dresser. Our large family knew how precious they were to her. She’d often stand, gazing at them in quiet admiration. Back then, I was only getting ready to start a family of my own, searching for that one special woman to be my wife for life. To my delight, I found her and we’ve now been married for over fifty years. Peter and Anna were married for ten years, but it brought Anna little to boast of. She tried her best to be a devoted wife and loving mother, compliant, gentle, agreeable. Still, something was missing for Peter. One evening, my brother came home the worse for drink. Something about Anna annoyed him—her look, her manner—so he started picking at her, joking crudely, grabbing her arms. Sensing an argument brewing, Anna silently left the room, taking little Michael outside. Suddenly, a terrible crash rang out. Anna knew instantly—it was her figurines. She rushed inside and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her beloved collection lay smashed on the floor, all but one piece miraculously spared. Anna picked up the lone survivor, kissed it, but said nothing to her barbarian of a husband. Only her tear-filled eyes spoke. After that, a deep rift formed between Peter and Anna. I think Anna, in her mind, grew distant from the family. She still did all her wifely duties, kept house well, but it was with effort, without enthusiasm. Peter turned more often to drink. Vulgar women and shady friends began turning up. Anna guessed what was going on, but closed into herself and grew distant, untethered. Peter all but abandoned his family, and Anna—watching his antics—realised you can’t chase the wind across a field. In the end, Anna and Peter quietly divorced—without shouting or blame. Anna took Michael and moved back to her hometown. The sole surviving figurine stood on the dresser, left behind in memory. Peter didn’t mourn. Instead, he dived headlong into a wild, reckless life. He fell in love easily and parted ways even more so. He married and divorced three more times, drank heavily, and partied without restraint. Yet, curiously, Peter was a respected economist at a university, often called to consult in other cities. Even a textbook bore his name. His future looked bright, but alcohol and chaos ruined everything. One day, our family thought Peter had finally settled down and was marrying a “stunning” woman. We attended a modest wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son, and it quickly became clear that Peter and the lad would never get along. They were simply too different. Peter ignored the obvious, but after five years, a furious row between the two ended in divorce. Afterward, a string of fleeting “current” sweethearts—Lila, Natalie, Sarah—flitted through Peter’s life. He adored each one, certain he’d found his forever. But life had other plans: at fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. By then, no women were left by his side. Only my sisters and I cared for him as his illness confined him to bed. —Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Fetch it,—Peter whispered, too weak to move. I found a dusty suitcase and opened it. Inside—carefully wrapped in soft cloths—was a collection of porcelain figurines. —I gathered these for Anna. I’ve never forgotten that silent reproach when she saw her smashed collection. She endured so much because of me. Remember my business trips? I bought figurines wherever I could. There’s a false bottom—take the money from there. It’s all my savings. Give it to Anna. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never see each other again. Promise me you’ll give everything to Anna,—Peter turned to the wall. —Alright, Peter. I promise,—I choked out, knowing I’d soon lose my brother for good. —Anna’s address is under my pillow,—he added, never turning to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town. Michael was seriously ill, the doctors perplexed. “Go to Europe,” they said, “perhaps you’ll get help there.” I discovered this from Anna’s letter hidden under Peter’s pillow. Anna and Peter had quietly kept in touch, but only through her letters; Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last request. I met Anna at a quiet railway station. She was delighted to see me: —Oh, Simon, you look so much like Peter! Two peas in a pod. I handed Anna the suitcase, as Peter wished: —Anna, forgive your wayward husband. This is for you. There’s money, and something else from Peter. You’ll see at home. Remember, you were always Peter’s beloved wife. With that, Anna and I parted for good. Some time later, I received a single letter from her: “Simon, thank you to both you and Peter. I am grateful God brought Peter into my life. We sold the figurines for a good price—a true collector bought them. I could never look at them without remembering they once passed through Peter’s hands. It’s a pity he left so soon. With the money, Michael and I moved to Canada, as my sister had long invited us. I had nothing left holding me back. I’d hoped Peter would ask me to stay—he didn’t, but he still saw me as his beloved wife. So he didn’t forget me after all. By the way, Michael is doing much better here, and he is happy. Farewell.” No return address.

A WIFE OF ONE’S OWN How do you manage to stay with the same wife for so many years? Whats the trick?

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Recently I Met a Woman Strolling Down the Street With Her One-and-a-Half-Year-Old Daughter, Entirely Lost in Her Own World – Her Heartbreaking Tale of Love, Marriage, and the Struggles That Followed Forever Changed the Way I See Family Life

Not long ago, I came across a woman strolling down the street with her eighteen-month-old daughter, completely

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Fed Up With My Mother-in-Law and Wife: That Night, Stepan Came to My Village Surgery—The Strongest, Most Silent Man I Know—And Sat Down in Tears, Broken by the Women at Home. As I Listened, I Realised Sometimes the Only Cure Is Simple Human Kindness.

Fed Up With The Mother-in-Law and the Wife That evening, the quietest, most stoic man in our village

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Changed His Mind About Getting Married Late Into the Night, Dr. Archibald toiled away in his lab, endlessly transferring mysterious liquids between test tubes and analyzing granulated powders, his mind consumed by the hope that his painstaking research would soon bear fruit—and that he’d finally unveil his “product,” extracted from the roots of a rare English wildflower, to the scientific community. With all the enthusiasm of a dedicated forty-year-old scientist, Archibald barely registered the awestruck gazes from the institute’s new young cleaner, Sophie, who, forgetting her own work, would linger in his office for hours, propping herself on her mop and watching him intently. Driven by his dream, Archibald noticed neither Sophie’s attentions nor her habit of standing quietly behind him, lost in her thoughts until, one evening, she found her courage: “Dr. Archibald, you’ve hardly left your chair all day,” she said, brightening. “Fancy a cuppa? I happened to bring my electric kettle—and some homemade sausages.” At the mention of sausages, Archibald looked up from his experiments. “Tea with sausages, you say? I’d be mad to pass that up.” Sophie beamed as she rummaged through her backpack, producing first the kettle and then a plastic container of delicious-looking food. “Mother sent me some beef mince from the country yesterday,” she explained, her cheeks glowing with pride, “so I made sausages with a bit of pork fat and roasted them.” Archibald peered into the clear tub, putting his glasses back on for a closer look. “How long has this sat in your bag?” he inquired. “Since this morning, I suppose. Why?” Sophie faltered, apprehensive. “And the lid was sealed tight?” “Yes, it was,” Sophie insisted, now a bit anxious. “You think it’s spoiled already? It’s been cold in the staff room—they haven’t got the radiators on yet.” Archibald weighed his doubts. “Best stick to tea for now. Maybe you should take the sausages home.” Angry at the rejection, Sophie scooped away her container, but curiosity got the better of her, and she opened it anyway. “Smells just fine! Oh, you city types—always worrying! If you won’t have any, more for me.” As the kettle boiled, Archibald eyed Sophie as she tucked in voraciously. The warm aroma and her enjoyment tempted him. He reasoned with himself about food safety, the risk of bacteria, and Sophie’s questionable fridge habits, but the British scientist’s willpower failed under hunger’s persuasion. Finally, he caved—one bite led to another, and Archibald found himself in culinary heaven. “Stunning! Did you really make these yourself?” Sophie smiled through happy tears. “Told you—I’ve been cooking since I was a girl!” The humble supper ended with Archibald offering to see Sophie to the bus stop, and the evening set in motion a chain of unexpected events. Archibald, A Forty-Year-Old Scientist, Visits His Young Girlfriend Sophie’s Eccentric Family in a Snowy English Village—Only to Find Himself Questioning Both Love and Marriage The next day, anxiety gnawed at Archibald as a bumpy taxi ride took him and Sophie to her childhood home in the snow-blanketed English countryside—a crooked-roofed old cottage reminiscent of an eccentric BBC drama. Sophie, headstrong and affectionate, tried to reassure him: “Mum’s understanding. And my stepdad will love you; he agrees with everyone.” Archibald fretted about the age difference. “Your mum’s forty-five, I’m forty. Will she even approve?” “She’ll come round!” Sophie insisted, even vowing, in jest, to invent a pregnancy if her mother disapproved. The cottage was as unwelcoming as Archibald had feared. Sophie’s mother, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown, sized him up sharply, her voice cold. “My little girl’s twenty-three, and you’re twice her age! What’s your game? Looking for a housekeeper?” The tension snowballed into a blazing row involving Sophie’s handsome young stepfather and the whole family, with accusations and furniture flying. Archibald fled into the frosty night, dodging hurled stools and searching the village for any means of escape, ruing the day he ever left his lab for this rural “adventure.” After collapsing from stress and cold, Archibald was nursed back to health by a local medic and Sophie’s unwavering devotion. But as tempers cooled, doubts about love, marriage, and rural English family drama gnawed at him. Archibald found himself longing for the order and coziness of his city flat—and the idea of remaining a confirmed bachelor started to seem far more appealing. A Comedy of Love, Laboratories, and Culture Clashes: When a Middle-Aged London Scientist Visits His Quirky Young Girlfriend’s Eccentric Family in Rural England, He Starts to Rethink His Plans for Marriage

Changed His Mind About Marriage Archibald would stay in his laboratory late into the night, endlessly

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Without Me, You’d Achieve Nothing!

Without me youd never get anywhere, Emma said, rubbing her nose as she slumped back in the café chair.

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I’ve Already Done My Fair Share of Nurturing

Ive already taken mine, Emma said, her voice wavering. No, dear, Margaret snapped. You gave birth for

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The Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul: “The Foster Home Has Long Been Calling Your Name! Get Out of Our Family!” I Screamed — My Cousin Dima, Once the Golden Child with Cornflower Eyes, Turned Out to Be the Source of All Our Family’s Heartbreak

THE BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL Off you go! Youd be better off in a boarding school!

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A Baby for a Friend: Lily’s Struggle Against Betrayal, Poverty, and Sacrifice — Her Journey as a Single Mother Surrounded by Greed, Broken Promises, and the Unexpected Power of Maternal Love

A Child for a Friend When Lily was approaching the last months of her pregnancy, her younger brother