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The Day My Ex-Mother-in-Law Came to Take Even My Daughter’s Cradle: How I Lost Everything and Proved I Could Build It All Again Without Them

The Day My Ex-Mother-in-Law Came to Take Even My Daughters Cot When I told my ex-mother-in-law I was

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Granny Kicked Out Her Grandson and His Wife and Chose to Live Alone at 80 – Now the Whole Family Is in an Uproar

Gran lived to be eighty. Just last week, she kicked my older brother and his wife out of her flat.

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I’ve Been Married Twenty Years and Never Suspected a Thing: My Husband Was Always Travelling for Work, Came Home Tired After Long Meetings, and I Trusted Him Completely—Until One Evening, He Sat Down Still in His Shoes and Told Me He Was Seeing a Younger Woman from His Office and Wanted a Divorce. I Had to Move Out Within a Week, Face Everything Alone, and Months Later, Met a Man Fifteen Years Younger Than Me While Waiting for Coffee; Now We’re Together, He Listens and Values Me, but My Ex Called to Ask Shamefully About My New Relationship—I Told Him the Only Shame Was His Betrayal. Is Finding Love Again Like This Life’s Unexpected Gift?

Ive been married for twenty years and never suspected anything unusual. My husband often travelled for

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The Most Heartbreaking Thing That Happened to Me in 2025 Was Discovering My Husband’s Infidelity… and Realising My Brother, Cousin, and Father Had Known All Along We’d been married eleven years. The woman my husband had the affair with was a secretary at the company where my brother works. The affair began after my brother introduced them—it wasn’t accidental. They crossed paths at work, meetings, business events, and social gatherings my husband attended. My cousin met them in the same circles. Everyone knew each other. They all saw each other often. For months, my husband lived with me as if nothing was wrong. I attended family gatherings and spent time with my brother, cousin, and father, not knowing all three were aware of the affair. No one warned me. No one said a word. No one even tried to prepare me for what was happening behind my back. When I found out in October, I confronted my husband first. He admitted the affair. Then I spoke to my brother and asked directly whether he knew. He said yes. When I asked how long, he told me “for a few months.” I asked why he hadn’t told me, and he replied that it wasn’t his problem, that it was an issue between a couple, and “men don’t talk about such things.” Then I spoke to my cousin and asked the same questions. He knew too, admitting he’d seen behaviour, messages, and signs that made things clear. When I asked why he hadn’t warned me, he said he didn’t want trouble and that it wasn’t his place to interfere. Finally, I spoke with my father and asked if he’d known. He said yes. I asked how long, and he replied “for a while.” When I asked why he hadn’t told me, he answered that he didn’t want conflict and that things like this should be sorted between husband and wife, so he wouldn’t get involved. Essentially, all three told me the same thing. I moved out after that, and now the house is up for sale. There were no public arguments or physical confrontations, because I refuse to lower myself for anyone. The woman still works at my brother’s company. My brother, cousin, and father all kept normal relations with both of them. For Christmas and New Year’s, my mum invited me to celebrate with the family—my brother, cousin, and father would all be there. I told her I couldn’t come. I explained I wasn’t able to sit at a table with people who knew about the infidelity and chose to stay silent. They celebrated together. I wasn’t there for either holiday. Since October, I haven’t been in contact with any of the three. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them.

You know, the hardest thing that happened to me in 2025 was finding out my husband was cheating on me.

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“You’ll Take the Mortgage. You Owe It to the Family!” My Mum Said. “We Raised You and Bought You a Home.” — Oh, how cold and distant you’ve become… — my mum poured tea, moving between the stove and table along the route she’s walked for years. — You turn up once a month, and only for a couple of hours. Dad sat in front of the telly. He’d turned the volume down, but not off. Footballers dashed across the screen; he pretended not to listen, but watched the goals on replay. — I’m working, Mum… — I cupped my mug to warm my fingers. — Nearly every day until nine. By the time I make it here and back, it’s midnight. — Everyone works. Family comes first. It was getting dark outside. Only the kitchen light over the table was on, casting shadows into the corners. There was a cabbage pie on the table — Mum always makes it when I visit. Funny really, I’ve hated boiled cabbage since I was a kid. But I never learned to say it out loud. — It’s lovely — I fibbed, sipping my tea. She smiled, pleased. Then she sat opposite, hands on the table — that gesture from my childhood. That’s how all “important talks” started. It was the same when they saddled me with my first mortgage. The same when they insisted I leave the boyfriend who “wasn’t for me”. — Your sister rang yesterday — she said. — How is she? — Exhausted… Halls are noisy, sharing a room. Says she can’t study, has to go to the library, but there aren’t always seats. Sometimes sits on the corridor windowsill… I nodded, realising where this was heading. Mum always poured it out slowly, drop by drop, before getting to the point. — I feel so sorry for her… — she sighed. — She’s trying, studying, on a grant… but it’s no life. — I know… she messaged me. Mum hesitated, then lowered her voice like she was about to share a secret. — Your dad and I were thinking… — she spoke quietly. — She needs her own place. Just a small one. A studio, at least. So she can have her own space, study in peace, sleep. She can’t live like this… I gripped my mug tighter. — What do you mean, “a place”? — Well, not a big flat — she waved her hand. — Just a studio. There are cheap ones. Something around three hundred thousand… I looked her straight in the eye. — And how do you see that working? Mum glanced at Dad. He coughed, turning the TV down even more. — We’ve been to the bank — she sighed. — Talked to one, then another… No chance. Our age, our income… They won’t approve us. Then she said what I already knew she would: — But they’ll approve *you*. You’ve got a good job. You’ve been paying your mortgage for six years. Never missed a payment. Perfect credit history. They’ll give you a second mortgage, no problem. And we’ll help… until your sister gets on her feet. Then she’ll get a job and pay it off herself. Something inside me clenched so hard, it felt as if someone sucked all the air from the room. “We’ll help.” Exactly what I heard six years ago, at this same table, under this same light, with this same cabbage pie. — Mum… I can barely keep up as it is… — Oh, come off it. You’ve got a home, a job. What more do you want? — I’ve got a home… but no life — I whispered. — Six years stuck on a hamster wheel. Working late every day. Sometimes on weekends. So I can just make ends meet. I’m twenty-eight, and can’t even go on a date — either too tired or too broke. My friends are getting married, having kids… I’m alone and always exhausted. Mum looked at me like I was making a fuss. — You always dramatise. — A second mortgage, Mum… I can’t even find my own feet. She pursed her lips, smoothing the tablecloth as if the problem was in the fabric, not her words. — We helped you, didn’t we? Sold Grandma’s bungalow for your deposit. We’re family, not strangers. And then… I couldn’t hold it in. — Mum… that was my share of my inheritance. Her face changed. — What “your share”? Everything’s family. We gave it to you. We sorted the paperwork, dealt with the banks! — You put in my money… and for six years keep reminding me how you “helped” me. Dad finally turned away from the TV. His look was heavy. — What, you’re counting now? Your parents are strangers to you, is that it? — I’m not counting… I’m just telling the truth. He rapped the table with his palm, not hard, but enough to make me feel cold. — The truth is, *we* bought you that flat, and you won’t help your own sister. Blood’s blood, in case you’ve forgotten. There was a lump in my throat, but I made myself speak calmly. — You didn’t buy me a home. The mortgage is in my name. My inheritance paid the deposit. You “helped out” a bit the first two years — ten grand here, fifteen there. Then you stopped. For six years I’ve been paying alone. And now you want me to get a *second* mortgage. — We’ll pay it! — Mum said with the patience of someone explaining to a child. — You won’t have to do a thing. Just get the loan. — And me… when will I ever be able to stand on my own two feet? Silence. The TV fell silent too — adverts. Dad turned his back to me again. Mum looked at me as if I’d said something shameful. — I’m going — I stood and grabbed my bag. — Wait… stay a bit longer… — she tried. — Talk like a normal person… — I’m tired, Mum. I left without looking back. The pie stayed, untouched. Out on the landing, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. My phone buzzed — my friend. — Where’ve you vanished to? Weren’t we meeting up? — I was at Mum and Dad’s. — How’d it go? I paused. — Awful. They want me to take another mortgage. For my sister. — What? You haven’t paid off the first one! — Exactly. They say the bank will approve me, since I’m reliable. And they’ll pay, until my sister “finds her feet”… — It’s a trap — she said. — Classic. You’ll be paying it off. All of it. I clenched my phone. — I know… Then she told me how her relatives had tried the same — promised it was fine, just a signature — and almost lost their home. Finally, she said: — You’ve got every right to say no. That isn’t selfishness. That’s survival. I sat on a bench outside and breathed. For the first time in ages, I just sat… ten minutes… not racing about. Numbers whirled in my head. First mortgage — X amount a month. Nine years to go. A second mortgage— that much again. I’d have nothing left, not even for food. I’d be living just to pay. Not to live. Three days later Mum showed up unannounced. Morning. Early. While I was getting ready for work. — I’ve brought you some pastries — she smiled. — I want us to talk, calmly. Without your dad. I let her in. Put the kettle on. Left the pastries in their box. She sat down and started: — I didn’t sleep all night… You have to understand. Your sister’s just a child. Helpless. But you’re strong. You can be relied on. I looked at her and said what I’d never said before: — Mum… I’m not strong. I just don’t have a choice. She waved her hand. — You’ve got it all. Home. Job. Your sister’s got nothing. I pulled out my notebook. Opened to the page where I’d worked out every penny. — Here. My salary. First mortgage. Bills. Food. Travel. There’s… almost nothing left. If I get sick or something breaks, that’s it. Mum brushed the notebook aside, like it was a pesky fly. — You do your sums on paper. Real life’s different. You always manage somehow. — That “somehow” is my life. Six years. Six years with no break. No clothes. Nothing. My friends holiday at the seaside; I work extra during my leave, just to make a buffer. She raised her voice. — We promised we’d pay! — Like last time. Her eyes flashed. — Are you blaming me? — No. I’m telling the truth. She sprang up from her chair. — We raised you! Paid for your education! Got you a home! — I’m not saying you didn’t raise me. I’m saying I can’t give any more. Mum’s voice turned icy. — Can’t… or *won’t*? And then… for the first time, I looked straight into her eyes and didn’t look away. — *I won’t.* Silence. Then her face flushed, red blotches spreading. — I see… Your sister’s a stranger to you. We mean nothing. Fine. Remember that. She grabbed her bag and stormed out. The door slammed so hard the hallway mirror rattled. I was left alone in the kitchen. The pastries sat untouched, boxed like an emotional ransom. That evening I wrote to my sister: “Hi. Can I come visit Saturday?” She replied quickly: “Great! Come!” And I set off. I wanted to see the “misery” Mum spoke of for myself. The halls were ordinary. Cramped, yes. Noisy sometimes. But clean, tidy. My sister… didn’t seem a victim. She hugged me, laughed: — You should’ve warned me you’d be here so early! I’d have tidied up! I looked round — a few beds, cupboards, one table. Photos and fairy lights on the wall. She was making it homely. We sat and chatted. Then I asked: — Has Mum talked to you about this flat? She looked surprised. — Yeah… but… I thought they were getting it. Not you… — They can’t. They want me to. Her face changed. — Wait… but you’re still paying your own mortgage… — Yeah. — And how much is it monthly? I told her. She gasped: — I didn’t know… Mum never said it was so tough for you… Then my sister said something that set me free: — I’m not insisting. Honestly. I’m fine. I have mates. I’ve just met a new guy. It’s fun. If I need to, I’ll get a job and sort myself out. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All this time, they made me think she was helpless… She was just a “convenient reason”. On the train home I stared out the window, and for the first time, felt no guilt. My sister will be fine. She’s not a child. She’s not powerless. And me… I’m done paying for someone else’s decisions. I called my mum. — I went to see my sister. — And?! Did you see how she lives?! — Mum… she’s okay. She’s not struggling. She’s not asking. Mum snorted: — She’s a child. What does she know! Her pride won’t let her ask for help! And I said clearly: — Mum… I’m not taking the mortgage. Her voice was cold, unfamiliar. — So you don’t trust your own parents? We’ll pay! — You said that before. — Stop repeating it! — I’m not repeating. I just… I don’t want to destroy myself. She started shouting: That I was ungrateful A traitor That “family shouldn’t be left behind” That one day, I’ll need help and remember this She hung up. Dad didn’t pick up either. Texts — no answer. Silence. And I was alone. I cried. Yes. A lot. I cried from pain, not guilt. Because when you’re told: “You’re with us, or against us” That’s not love. It’s control. And at night, in the dark, I understood something: Sometimes saying “no”… Isn’t betrayal. Sometimes “no” is the only way to survive. Life is long. And if I’ve got to live it… I’ll live it for me, not in a script my parents wrote for themselves. ❓What do you think — do children owe their parents forever, even when it destroys them?

Youll take on the mortgage. You have to help! We raised you and bought you a flat, my mother said.

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My Son and His Wife Gifted Me a Flat When I Retired: The Day They Handed Me the Keys and Took Me to the Solicitor, I Was Left Speechless—But Their Generosity Changed My Life More Than I Ever Expected

It feels like only yesterday, though it all happened years ago, when my son and his wife surprised me

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I’m 29 and I always thought marriage was a haven, a place of peace, a home where you could take off your mask, breathe freely, and know that no matter what happens outside, inside you’re protected—until I found myself living the opposite: Strong and smiling out in the world, but walking on eggshells inside my own house, not because of my husband, but because of his mother—her visits grew, her control tightened, until my home no longer felt like mine, my things no longer where I left them, and I learned there’s a difference between a challenging personality and someone determined to rule your life; for all the world saw her as a saint, but behind closed doors I became the outsider, and the worst part was my husband—the man I thought would defend me—watched and chose silence; the night I finally stopped fighting to belong and started packing my bags, I realized: I’m not a guest, not an ornament, not a servant in someone else’s family—I’m leaving not because of her, but because he let it happen; and as I closed that door, I didn’t feel pain—just freedom, because when a woman starts to fear her own home, she’s not living, she’s surviving, and I’m done surviving—I choose to live, and this time, for the first time, I’ve chosen myself.

Im twenty-nine years old, and Ive always imagined marriage to be a sanctuarya peaceful home, a place

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I’m 30 and I’ve learned that the most painful betrayal doesn’t come from enemies—it comes from the people who once said, “Sister, I’ll always stand by you.” For eight years, I had a “best friend”—the kind of friendship that feels like family. She knew everything about me. We’ve cried together, laughed till dawn, shared our dreams, fears, and plans. When I got married, she was the first to hug me and say, “You deserve this. He’s a wonderful man. Take care of him.” It felt sincere at the time. Looking back now, I realise some people don’t wish you happiness—they just wait for things to fall apart. I’m not the kind of woman who gets jealous of my friends around my husband. I always believed that if a woman has self-respect and a man is honourable, there’s nothing to worry about. And my husband never gave me a reason—not once. That’s why what happened hit me like cold water. The worst part? It didn’t happen all at once—it happened quietly, gradually, in tiny ways I chose to ignore because I didn’t want to seem ‘paranoid’. First, it was her increasingly dressed-up visits—high heels, perfume, dresses—which I shrugged off. Then she’d walk in and greet my husband first—“Wow, you’re looking better and better, how’s that possible?”—with a smile. She started asking him questions that were out of line: “Working late again?” “Are you tired?” “Does she look after you?”—referring to me as ‘she’, not ‘your wife’. Something inside me twisted, but I didn’t make a scene. I believed in decency—and refused to suspect my closest friend of anything more than friendship. But I started noticing subtle changes. When we were together, she spoke as if I was an outsider—as if they had a ‘special bond’. My husband never noticed; he’s one of those well-meaning men who never sees malice. I comforted myself with that. Then came the messages. One night, looking for holiday photos on his phone, I stumbled across a chat with her name at the top. Her last message: “Tell me honestly… if you weren’t married, would you have chosen me?” I sat frozen, reading it three times—checked the date: it was from that very day. My heart didn’t race; it just felt hollow. I walked to the kitchen where he was making tea. “Can I ask you something?” He looked at me. “Sure, what’s up?” “Why is she writing things like that to you?” He seemed confused. “Writing what?” I kept my voice calm. “‘If you weren’t married, would you have chosen me?’” He turned pale. “You…read my phone?” “Yes, I saw it by chance. But there’s no ‘chance’ about this. That sentence isn’t normal.” He got flustered. “She’s just…joking.” I gave a quiet laugh. “That’s not a joke. It’s a test.” “There’s nothing between us, I swear.” “Okay, so what did you reply?” He fell silent. Just that silence hurt more than anything. “What did you reply?” I repeated. He turned away. “I wrote back for her not to talk nonsense.” “Show me.” He said, “No, there’s no need.” When someone starts to hide—it becomes necessary. I picked up his phone, no shouting, no scene—and read his reply. He’d written: “Don’t put me in this position… you know I value you.” Value. Not ‘stop’. Not ‘respect my wife’. Just ‘value’. I looked him in the eye. “Do you realise how this sounds?” “Please, don’t blow things out of proportion…” “It isn’t nothing. This is a boundary, and you didn’t set it.” He tried to hug me. “Come on… let’s not argue. She’s lonely, having a hard time.” I stepped back. “Don’t make me the villain for reacting. My friend is texting my husband about ‘what if’. That’s humiliating.” He said, “I’ll talk to her.” And I believed him. Because I’m someone who believes. The next day she called—her voice as sweet as honey. “Darling, we have to meet. This is a misunderstanding.” We sat in a café—her innocent look in full effect. “I don’t know what you imagined…” she said. “We were just chatting. He’s my friend.” “He’s your friend. But I’m your friend too.” “You always twist everything.” “I’m not twisting. I saw.” She sighed dramatically. “You know what the real problem is? You’re very insecure.” Those words felt like a knife. Not because they were true, but because they were convenient—classic defence: if you react, you must be crazy. I looked at her calmly. “If you cross a line in my marriage again, there won’t be any ‘talks’. I’ll be done.” She smiled. “Of course. I promise. It won’t happen again.” That was the moment I should have stopped believing. But I believed again. People believe when it’s easier than not. Two weeks passed. She barely contacted me. I thought: it’s over. Then, one night at my relatives’ house, my husband left his phone on the table after talking to his mum. The screen lit up—a message from her: “I couldn’t sleep last night. I was thinking of you.” This time I wasn’t shocked—I was certain. Utterly certain. I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a scene. I just stared at the screen—like I was looking at the truth itself. I took his phone, waited until we were home, then said, “Sit down.” He smiled. “What’s up?” “Sit down.” He sensed it. I put the phone in front of him. “Read.” He looked and his face changed. “It’s not what you think.” “Don’t take me for an idiot. Just tell me the truth.” He tried to explain. “She messages me… I don’t reply like that… she’s emotional…” I cut him off. “Show me the whole conversation.” He clenched his jaw. “That’s going too far.” I laughed. “Too far to want the truth from my own husband?” He stood up. “You don’t trust me!” “No. You gave me a reason not to.” Then he admitted—not with words, but the gesture. He opened the chat. I saw months—months of messages. Not daily, not direct, but building a bridge between two people. With ‘How are you?’, ‘I thought about you’, ‘You’re the only one I can talk to’, ‘She doesn’t understand me sometimes’. ‘She’ was me. The worst was one sentence from him: “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I’d met you first.” I couldn’t breathe. He stared at the floor. “I didn’t do anything…” he said. “We didn’t meet…” I didn’t ask if they’d met—because even if they hadn’t, this was cheating. Emotional. Quiet. But cheating. I sat because my legs were shaking. “You said you’d talk to her.” He whispered, “I tried.” “No. You just hoped I wouldn’t find out.” Then he said the thing that finished it: “You have no right to make me choose between you.” I looked at him—long. “I’m not making you choose. You already did the moment you let this happen.” He started to cry—really cry. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…” I didn’t shout, didn’t humiliate him. I just got up and began to pack my things. He followed me. “Please… don’t go.” I didn’t look at him. “Where will you go?” “To my mum’s.” “You’re exaggerating…” That ‘exaggerating’ always comes when the truth is inconvenient. I said quietly, “I’m not exaggerating. I just refuse to live in a triangle.” He knelt. “I’ll block her. I’ll cut everything off—swear on it.” I looked at him for the first time. “I don’t want you to block her for me. I want you to have already blocked her because you’re a man with boundaries. And you don’t.” He was silent. I took my bag, paused at the door, and said: “The worst thing isn’t what you wrote. The worst thing is that you left me being friends with a woman who was quietly trying to replace me.” And I left. Not because I gave up on my marriage, but because I refused to fight alone for something that’s supposed to be the work of two. And for the first time, I said to myself: Better the pain of truth than the comfort of a lie. ❓ If you were in my shoes—would you forgive if there’s no ‘physical’ affair, or is this betrayal enough?

Im thirty now, and Ive realised that the most painful betrayal doesnt come from enemies. It comes from

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I Buy Premium Turkey Meat and Steam Cutlets for Myself, While My Husband Gets Out-of-Date Pork—Reflections on 35 Years of Marriage, Family Life, and Drawing Boundaries in the Kitchen

I buy the finest quality turkey breast for myself and prepare steamed cutlets, while he gets the expired pork.

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Oh, young woman, your greetings are wasted – he’ll never marry you When Vera was barely sixteen, her mother passed away. Seven years earlier, her father had gone off to work in London, never to return—no letters, no money. Nearly everyone in the village came to her mother’s funeral and helped however they could. Aunt Mary, Vera’s godmother, visited often, advising her how to manage. After finishing school, Vera got a job at the post office in the neighbouring village. She was a strong country girl, as the saying goes: “rosy-cheeked, full of health.” Her face was round and bright, nose upturned, but her grey eyes sparkled. A thick, fair plait hung down to her waist. The village’s most handsome lad was Nick. He had returned from army duty two years earlier and was the talk of the town—no end of female attention. Even city girls who summered in the countryside didn’t ignore him. Nick shouldn’t have been driving the farm lorries; he looked ready for the big screen in Hollywood. He wasn’t ready to settle with anyone yet. One day, Aunt Mary popped around to ask Nick to help Vera fix her fence; it was collapsing and a woman alone struggled with such jobs. Vera managed the vegetable patch, but the house was too much for her. Nick agreed without fuss, came over, surveyed the mess, and started barking orders: “fetch that, run over there, hand me this.” Vera obediently did as she was told, cheeks growing rosier, her plait swinging behind her. When Nick grew tired, she fed him rich stew and tea and watched him bite into crusty bread with strong white teeth. Nick spent three days mending the fence and then began coming by just for the company. Vera would feed him supper, one thing led to another, and he ended up staying the night. Soon he visited regularly, leaving before dawn so no one would see. But nothing stays secret in an English village. “Oh Vera, don’t get your hopes up—he’ll never marry you. And if he does, he’ll wear you out. In summer, those city beauties will be back and your jealousy will burn. You need a different sort of man,” cautioned Aunt Mary. But when love is young, it never listens to wise old age. Soon Vera realised she was expecting. She first thought it was a cold or food poisoning, but weakness and nausea gave her away. Like being hit on the head, it dawned—Nick’s child was growing inside her. She briefly considered ending the pregnancy, thinking herself too young for motherhood, but then decided it was better this way—she wouldn’t be alone anymore. Her mother had raised her; she would manage too. Her absent father had been little help anyway—always at the pub. People would gossip, but soon forget. When spring came, Vera shed her thick coat, and everyone in the village saw her growing bump. They tutted, shaking their heads at her misfortune. Nick popped by to ask what she planned to do. “What else? I’ll have the baby. Don’t worry, I’ll raise the child myself. Live as you always have,” she said, busying herself at the oven, the fire’s red glow flickering on her cheeks and in her eyes. Nick marvelled for a moment, but left—she’d made her decision, like water off a duck’s back. Summer arrived; city girls flooded in, and Nick lost interest. Vera managed her garden alone, with Aunt Mary helping her weed, as bending down with a baby bump was tough. She lugged buckets from the well, her belly growing ever larger—old women in the village predicted she’d have a healthy boy. “Whoever the Lord sends,” Vera would joke. One September morning, sharp pain woke her as if she’d been split in two. It subsided but returned. She ran to Aunt Mary, who grasped what was happening straight away. “It’s time, sit down!” she said, and dashed out, finding Nick beside his lorry, a bit worse for wear from drinking the night before. Aunt Mary jabbed him awake, and when he understood, he yelled, “It’s ten miles to the hospital! By the time the doctor’s here, she’ll have delivered. Best drive now! Pack her things!” “On a lorry? You’ll shake her apart—she’ll deliver halfway!” Aunt Mary protested. “Then come along, just in case,” Nick insisted. He drove the bumpy road carefully, dodging potholes but hitting some, with Aunt Mary perched on a feed sack in the back. Once they reached the main road, the drive sped up. Vera writhed on the seat, biting her lip, clutching her stomach. Nick instantly sobered. He glanced at her, jaw clenched, fingers white on the steering wheel, lost in thought. They made it. Vera was admitted to hospital, and Nick and Aunt Mary returned to the village. Aunt Mary scolded Nick the whole drive: “Why did you ruin that girl’s life? She has no parents; she’s a child herself, and you left her all this worry. How will she raise a baby alone?” Before they even reached the village, news arrived: Vera had given birth to a healthy baby boy. The next morning, nurses brought her the baby to feed. She was scared—unsure how to hold him, how to nurse. She gazed at her son’s wrinkled red face, bit her lip, followed orders—and her heart trembled with joy. She stroked his fuzzy forehead, a little clumsy, but happy. “Will anyone come for you?” asked the stern older doctor before her discharge. Vera shrugged, shaking her head. “Not likely.” He sighed and left. The nurse wrapped her baby tight in a hospital blanket for the journey home, sternly instructing, “You’ll return the blanket! Fedor will drive you in the hospital van—you can’t take the public bus with an infant.” Vera thanked her, walking down the corridor red-faced with embarrassment. Vera rode home, cradling her son, worrying about the future—the maternity benefit barely covered anything. She pitied herself and her innocent son, but his sleeping face melted her heart, banishing gloomy thoughts. Suddenly, the van stopped. Vera looked anxiously at Fedor, a short, fiftyish man. “What’s wrong?” “Two days of rain, look at those puddles—no way through. We’d get stuck. Only a lorry or tractor could get past.” “Sorry, it’s just a couple of miles more. You’ll have to walk,” he said, nodding to the flooded road stretching endlessly ahead. The baby slept in her arms. Sitting, Vera was tired; carrying her son, who was sturdy for his age, along such a path was daunting. She climbed out carefully, adjusted her grip on the baby, and tiptoed around the edge of the vast puddle, her feet sinking ankle-deep in mud, fearful of slipping. Her worn shoes squelched. She wished she’d worn wellies to the hospital. One shoe got stuck; unable to retrieve it with the baby in her arms, she forged ahead in just one. By the time she reached the village, dusk had fallen and her legs were numb with cold. She barely noticed the lights glowing in her cottage windows. She stepped onto the dry porch, shivering yet sweating from exhaustion. She opened the door and froze. By the wall stood a crib, a pram filled with lovely baby clothes. At the table, Nick slept with his head in his arms. Sensing her, Nick raised his head. Vera, flushed and windswept, with child in her arms, stood in the doorway—her dress soaked, legs muddy up to the knees, one shoe missing. Seeing her plight, Nick rushed over, took the baby, laid him in the cot, fetched a pot of hot water, and helped wash her feet. While Vera changed behind the stove, he prepared boiled potatoes and a jug of milk. The baby soon cried; Vera picked him up, sat down, and tenderly began to nurse. “What did you name him?” Nick croaked. “Edward. Is that alright?” she asked, her clear eyes full of longing. Nick’s heart ached from the love and sadness in her gaze. “Lovely name. Tomorrow we’ll go register our boy and get married.” “It’s not necessary…” Vera began, watching her son suckle. “My son will have a father. I’m done with wild living. I can’t promise to be a perfect husband, but I won’t abandon my child,” Nick said firmly. Vera nodded quietly. Two years later, they welcomed a daughter, naming her Hope after Vera’s mother. It doesn’t matter what mistakes you make starting out—what matters is you can always put them right… Such is life’s story. What do you think? Share your thoughts in the comments and give us a like!

Oh, love, youre wasting your time with him, he wont marry you, Aunt Mary warned. Evelyn had just turned