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“Get Out of Here, I Said! Go On, Off with You!” — Mrs. Gladys Beech Slams Down a Steaming Plate of Freshly Baked Sausage Rolls Under the Old Apple Tree, Shoves the Neighbour Boy Away, and Frowns: “Why Are You Lurking About? Off You Go! When Will Your Mother Start Looking After You? Lazybones!” Skinny as a Beanpole, Little Jack—known only by his nickname “Grasshopper”—casts a nervous glance at the stern neighbour and slinks off towards his own front steps. The sprawling old house, split into several flats, is only half-occupied. Really, just two and a half families call it home: the Parkers, the Smiths, and the Carters—Kate and her boy, Jack. The last two are that “half”: generally ignored unless someone needs something. Kate’s not considered important, so people don’t bother with her. Other than her son, Kate has no one—no husband, no family. She muddles through on her own, best she can. People look at her askance, but seldom bother her—except to chase Jack off, calling him “Grasshopper” for his gangly limbs and head that looks a tad too big for his skinny neck. Grasshopper isn’t much to look at—awkward and easily frightened, but kind-hearted. He can’t pass a crying child without trying to help, which often earns him a scolding from anxious mums who want “that odd-looking boy” nowhere near. He only found out what “Scarecrow” meant after his mum gave him a book about Dorothy and the Yellow Brick Road, and he realised his neighbours were calling him after that character. Surprisingly, Jack didn’t mind—he figured they must at least know Scarecrow was loyal, clever, and brave, and in the end, ruled the Emerald City. Kate let him believe that. There’s enough bitterness in the world, she thought; let him keep some innocence for now. She loves her boy unconditionally. Forgiving Jack’s father his uselessness and betrayal, she clung to her newborn fiercely—snapping at the nurse who whispered he was “not quite right”. “Don’t talk rubbish! My boy’s the handsomest in the world!” “Sure—though clever, he will never be…” “We’ll see!” Kate crooned, stroking her baby’s cheek, sobbing quietly. For his first two years, she shuttled him round doctors until someone took real notice. Old coaches and worn prams rattled through the village, Kate holding her well-wrapped son tight. To pitying looks and busybodies, she was ice: “Put your own in care if you like. No? Then keep your advice! I know best for my boy!” By two, little Jackie nearly caught up—healthier now, if not handsome, still a touch awkward: big, flattened head, stick-thin arms, and legs Kate struggled to fatten. She sacrificed everything to give her boy the best—he was her purpose. In time, doctors all but stopped warning her, shaking heads in awe as elf-like Kate cuddled her Grasshopper. “Mums like you—one in a million! He was nearly disabled, and now—look at him! A little hero! Smart as anything!” “…It’s not about Jack, love—we mean you, Katie! You’re a star!” Kate only shrugged—what mother wouldn’t fight for her child? By the time Jack started school, he could already read, write, and count, though he stammered; it undid all his skills. His first teacher, Mrs. Fielding, grew exasperated: “Thank you, Jack, that’s enough!” Aloud, she’d say he “seemed nice, but his reading—impossible.” She lasted two years before marrying and moving away; a new teacher, Miss Hardy, took over the class. Miss Hardy, an old hand with a fierce love for children, quickly saw what Jack needed. She had a quiet word with Kate, suggesting a speech therapist, and let Grasshopper hand in his work written. “You write so beautifully, Jack! I love reading your answers!” Jack glowed; Miss Hardy read his work aloud with pride. Kate wept with gratitude, desperate to thank the kind teacher—who simply waved her off. “You’re daft, woman! It’s my job—and your son’s wonderful! He’ll be just fine, you’ll see!” Jack skipped to school—literally. The neighbours giggled: “Off he hops—there’s our Grasshopper! Maybe it’s shift change for us too! Shame on nature, leaving a child like that behind. Was there ever a point?” Kate heard the whispers, but never stooped to argue—if God hadn’t given a person a heart, she thought, no power on earth could make them act kindly. Better to spend your time making a prettier home or planting another rose bush. The big front garden, all flowerbeds and a tiny orchard out back, was unmarked by fences; each family’s porch had its “patch”—Kate’s was brightest with roses and lilacs, and her steps she’d mosaicked with broken tiles from the village hall’s renovation, pieces glinting like treasure in the sun. When the director teased her about carting home “rubbish”, within weeks neighbours gasped to see her tilework blossom into a work of art—folk came just to marvel. Kate didn’t care what they thought; the only praise that mattered was from her son. “Mum, it’s so beautiful…” Jack would sit tracing the mosaic with his finger, beaming with joy while Kate welled up again—her boy was happy. Such moments were rare for Jack: a compliment at school or a treat from Mum were his only real joys. He had few friends—couldn’t keep up—and much preferred reading anyway. Girls were strictly off-limits; especially thanks to neighbour Gladys, who with three granddaughters (five, seven, and twelve), guarded them fiercely. “Don’t you dare go near them!” she’d threaten with a fist. “They’re not for you, lad!” What went on in Gladys’s perm-frizzed head was a mystery, but Kate told Jack not to get under her feet or near her girls. “Why make trouble? The poor soul might fall ill…” Jack agreed, keeping well away. Even when Gladys was busy for a party, he was only passing by—not angling for an invite. “Oh, my sins!” Gladys muttered, covering her pastries with an embroidered cloth. “They’ll say I’m stingy. Wait!” She picked out a couple of sausage rolls, caught up with Jack, and thrust them at him. “Take these! And I don’t want to see you in the yard! We’re celebrating today! Keep to yourself till your mum gets back from work, got it?” Jack nodded, mumbling thanks. But Gladys was too busy with guests—today was her youngest and favourite granddaughter’s birthday, little Sophie, and she wanted everything just so. That scrawny, big-headed “Grasshopper” was the last thing she needed hanging about—no need to frighten the children! Gladys had long since told Kate to give Jack up: “Why bother? He’ll just end up a drunk in the gutter—child’s got no future!” She scorned Kate’s pride, but Kate stopped even greeting her after that. “What are you angry for, fool? I only meant well!” Gladys would mutter as Kate waddled by, heavily pregnant. “What’s good for you stinks to me!” Kate retorted, stroking her belly. “Don’t worry, little one—no one will ever hurt you.” Jack never told his mum who said what—he didn’t want to upset her. If something hurt badly, he’d cry alone, then forget it, pitying those grown-ups who didn’t understand how life was simpler without spite or grudge. Gladys no longer scared Jack—but he didn’t like her much. Whenever she scolded or insulted him, he’d disappear; if she asked, she’d be surprised to hear he pitied her, for wasting so many minutes on anger. Jack cherished every moment—he’d learned young how much time mattered. Everything else could be fixed, but you never get time back. Tick-tock, the clock says. And it’s gone. You can’t buy it back, not for all the best sweet wrappers in England. Adults, though, never seemed to learn. Sitting in his window, munching his sausage roll, Jack watched Sophie—bright as a butterfly in her pink dress—flitting on the lawn among the children ready for her party. The adults seated by Gladys’s porch, children darted off to kick a ball near the old well out back; Jack, guessing their destination, ran to his mum’s bedroom for a better view from the window. He watched until dusk, clapping as they chased the ball, pleased for their fun. After a while, some drifted home, new groups started other games, but Sophie lingered near the old well, catching Jack’s attention. Kate had often warned him never to approach it—years of rot had left it unsafe. “The beams are rotten, love. No one uses it anymore, but the water’s still there—fall in, and you’re done for, without a sound! Never go near, Jack, you promise?” “I promise!” Jack missed the moment Sophie vanished—distracted by the boys clustering elsewhere. Glancing back, his heart froze—the pink dress was gone. He shot outside. It took him only a second to realise Sophie wasn’t with the adults at the table, either. He’d never know why he didn’t think to call for help; he simply bolted, flying across the garden as Gladys shrieked behind him, “I told you to stay inside!” The other children carried on, oblivious to Sophie’s absence or Jack’s dash to the well. Spotting something pale far below, he called down: “Press yourself against the side!” To avoid landing on her, he swung himself onto the rim, dangled his legs, and slid inside—coated in moss and splinters. He knew Sophie couldn’t swim—he’d seen her struggle while sulking at the beach, never mastering it, never trusting Jack thanks to her grandma. Yet, clinging to his narrow shoulders now, Sophie gripped him with all her might. “It’s alright—don’t be scared, I’ve got you!” Like his mum had shown him, he held her up. “Just hold on—I’ll call for help!” His hands slipped on the slick, slimy beams, Sophie pulling him down, but he gulped air and screamed as loud as he could: “Help!” He had no way of knowing how long rescue would take, or if anyone could hear. But this much he knew: this silly, wonderful girl in her pink dress had to live. There’s little enough beauty and too few precious moments in the world. His cries didn’t carry at first. Gladys, bringing out the roast goose, searched for Sophie and stiffened with dread: “Where’s Sophie?!” Guests, already tipsy, reacted only when she dropped the dish and howled so even passers-by paused on the road. Meanwhile, Jack managed a last, hoarse, desperate cry: “Mum…” Kate, hurrying home from work, suddenly broke into a run, forgetting the bread, racing past gossiping neighbours—compelled, certain now was the time for running. She arrived just as Gladys collapsed on Kate’s own steps, clutching her heart. Kate, not pausing, darted out back and heard Jack’s faint call. “I’m here, darling!” She knew at once where—the old well. No time to think: sprinting indoors for the washing line, she shot back out. “Hold this!” she cried to the startled menfolk. Gladys’s stone-cold son-in-law sobered up at once—he tied Kate on, and lowered her down. She found Sophie immediately—scooping her up, clinging to her, praying she’d survived. Then Kate fished about for her son, pleading to God as she had the night he was born. She almost gave up hope before she finally grabbed something slick and thin—dragging Jack up, terrified of what she’d find. “Pull!” she yelled. And as she rose above the black water, relief flooded her: a faint, broken whisper just for her. “Mum…” After two weeks in hospital, Jack returned home as a hero. Sophie’s recovery was quicker; a few scratches, a ruined dress, little more. Jack wasn’t as lucky—a broken wrist, sore lungs, but he had his mum and visits from Sophie and her parents. Soon, he’d be back among his books and his old cat. “Oh, my dear boy—God bless you! If not for you…” Gladys wept, hugging him, “I—anything you want—” “Why?” Jack only shrugged. “Did what needed doing. Isn’t that what men do?” Gladys, speechless, would only hug him tighter—not knowing that this awkward, skinny “Grasshopper,” years later, would one day drive an ambulance through gunfire, carry the wounded, and bring comfort to all, friend or stranger. And if ever asked why, after the life he’d had, he’d simply say: “I’m a doctor. It’s what’s needed. Life must go on. It’s the right thing to do.”

Get out! I said, out! What are you hanging about for? thundered Mrs Claudia Matthews, setting a heaping

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The Shaggy Guardian Angel

The Shaggy Guardian Emma slowly edged backwards, never taking her eyes off the enormous dog sitting smack

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Echoes of the Past

The handwriting of the past Morning began in its usual, predictable way. Andrew Spencer woke a minute

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All’s Fair in Blood and Inheritance: When Family Gathers, Old Money, Lost Trust, and a Grandmother’s Hidden Pension Tear a Family Apart

Alls Fair in Love and Inheritance The entire family had assembleda rare occurrence only achievable when

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Letters from the Past: Unearthing Hidden Tales

Old letters Since the postman stopped climbing the stairs and now leaves newspapers and envelopes by

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“Excuse Me, Sir—Oh, It’s You Who Smells? A Chance Encounter, Some Spare Change, and the Unexpected Renovation That Gave Rita a New Lease on Life, Love, and Second Chances After Fifty”

– Sir, please dont push, honestly. Ugh. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man mumbled

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“Excuse Me, Sir—Oh, It’s You Who Smells? A Chance Encounter, Some Spare Change, and the Unexpected Renovation That Gave Rita a New Lease on Life, Love, and Second Chances After Fifty”

– Sir, please dont push, honestly. Ugh. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man mumbled

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“Get Out This Instant! I Told You – Out! Why Are You Lurking Here?!” – Mrs. Mildred Witherspoon Slammed Down a Big Plate of Hot Pasties Under the Sprawling Apple Tree and Shoved Her Neighbour’s Scrawny Boy Away. “Go On, Go Home! When Will Your Mother Ever Watch You, You Little Layabout?” Skinny as a rake, Johnny—known by everyone just as “Cricket” thanks to his long limbs and knobbly head—cast a wary glance at his stern neighbour and shuffled back to his shabby stoop. The huge rambling house, split into a handful of flats, was barely half full. Only two families and the half-family—the Carters and the Shepherds, and Cat with her boy, Cricket—called it home. Cat and her son were the ones everyone tried to ignore except in moments of dire necessity. Cat had only her son; no husband, no parents, and the neighbours looked down on her, barely acknowledging her existence save for chasing away Cricket with shouts and nicknames for his odd looks. Cricket, despite being awkward and frightened and never conventionally handsome, was unfailingly kind. He’d drop everything to comfort a crying child, earning nasty words from mothers who didn’t want “that scarecrow” near their little darlings. For a long while, Cricket didn’t know who “the Scarecrow” was, till his mother gave him a book about Dorothy and her friends, and suddenly, everything made sense. And instead of resenting the name, Cricket decided the others must have read the book too, and so must realise the Scarecrow was clever and good, and helped everyone, and even ruled over a beautiful city. Cat cherished her boy with fierce love, forgiving Johnny’s father’s fecklessness without hesitation, and stood up to the midwife’s dire predictions after his birth, declaring, “Enough of that! My son is the most beautiful child in the world!” In his early years, Cat pursued doctors, determined Johnny would thrive, enduring the bus trips into town and all the pitying looks. Sacrificing everything for his health, Cat prepared the most wonderful meals she could for her boy, growing stronger with love, even if his head was big and his limbs were thin. By school age, Johnny could read and write, though he stammered a little, which undermined his gifts. His first teacher dismissed him—tolerable in every way, she said, except for his reading aloud—but her replacement, Mrs. Mary Ellison, recognised the bright child at once. She set Cricket up with a good speech therapist and encouraged him to submit work in writing, praising his cleverness. The neighbours thought little of Cat and her boy, but Cat long ago decided not to waste her energy on people with closed hearts; better to plant another rose outside her door or lay another tile on her patchwork stoop, created from scavenged pieces that shone in the sunlight, drawing admiration from across the neighbourhood. Cat’s patch—her “penny’s worth”—was the prettiest: blooming with roses, a vast lilac bush, her steps paved with colourful tiles she’d won from the local arts centre’s leftovers. The neighbours gossiped, but Cat didn’t care; the only praise she treasured was when Johnny would sit on the steps and trace the patterns, whispering, “Mum, it’s so beautiful.” Johnny had few friends, not keeping up with the other boys and preferring books to football. And neighbour Mrs. Witherspoon, with her trio of granddaughters, strictly forbade them to go near him—her curls as tight and fierce as her judgments. So Cricket stayed away, especially when Mrs. Witherspoon prepared for a birthday gathering, only passing by the party by chance, not daring to join in. “Lord forgive me!” Mrs. Witherspoon grumbled, covering a plate of pasties with an embroidered cloth. “They’ll call me stingy! Wait here, lad!” She chased after Johnny, handing over a couple of pasties. “Here! And keep out of our way! It’s a celebration! Stay inside till your mother’s home—understand?” Johnny nodded, grateful, quietly vanishing to watch the party from his window, gazing as the birthday girl in her bright pink dress danced like a butterfly across the lawn. Later, disaster struck—the little girl vanished near the old, dangerous well, ignored by the others, but Cricket noticed at once. Remembering his mother’s warnings, he rushed to the well, spotted the pink among the shadows, and, not pausing to shout for adult help, lowered himself in to save her, risking everything to keep her afloat and call for help. Only when Cat raced home from work, in a mother’s blind panic, did the neighbours finally act, helping to haul both children from the dark water. Johnny—Cricket—became the hero of the neighbourhood, his actions forcing even the harshest gossips to see his courage, kindness, and the unwavering love of his mother. And years later, when Cricket, grown-up but ever slight of build, risking his life to save others as a doctor in times of war, is asked why he gives so much—when the world gave him so little—he simply replies, “I am a doctor. That’s what’s right. Life must be lived. That’s what’s right.” Mother’s love knows no bounds, and true greatness shines from the heart: the underestimated, the unvalued, may have more courage and worth than all the rest. Do you believe kindness, no matter the obstacles, finds its way and changes the world for the better? Has your life shown that appearances can mislead, and a person’s true wealth is found in their soul? (Adapted for an English audience, with British names, locations, and references, keeping the original meaning, length, and emotional impact.)

Off you go! I said go! Why are you loitering around here?! Mrs. Florence Middleton banged down a large

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— Four Generations of Men in Our Family Worked on the Railways! And What Have You Given Us? — A Daughter, Anna Whispered, Stroking Her Belly. — We’ll Call Her Grace. — Another girl? Is this some kind of joke? — Mrs. Ellen Mitchell threw the scan result onto the table. — Four generations of men in our family worked on the railway! And what have you given us? — Grace, — Anna replied softly, stroking her stomach. — We’ll call her Grace. — Grace… — her mother-in-law drawled. — Well, at least the name’s decent. But what’s the point? Who’s ever going to need her, your Grace? Max kept silent, glued to his phone. When his wife asked for his opinion, he just shrugged: — It is what it is. Maybe the next one will be a boy. Anna felt something tighten inside. The next one? Is this precious child just a rehearsal? Grace was born in January — tiny, with huge eyes and a shock of dark hair. Max showed up only for the hospital discharge, bringing a bouquet of carnations and a bag of baby things. — She’s beautiful, — he said, peering nervously into the pram. — Looks like you. — But with your nose, — Anna smiled. — And that stubborn chin. — Oh, give over, — Max brushed it off. — All babies look the same at this age. At home, Mrs. Ellen Mitchell met them with a sour face. — Our neighbour, Valerie, asked if it was a grandson or granddaughter. I was embarrassed to answer, — she muttered. — At my age, playing with dolls… Anna locked herself in the nursery and cried quietly, clutching her daughter. Max worked more and more. He took odd jobs, extra shifts, said family was expensive, especially with a child. He came home late, tired, and silent. — She waits for you, — Anna would say when Max walked by the nursery without so much as a glance. — Grace always perks up when she hears your footsteps. — I’m tired, Annie. Early shift tomorrow. — But you haven’t even said hello… — She’s small, she won’t understand. But Grace understood. Anna saw how her daughter’s head turned to the door at the sound of her father’s footsteps, and how she stared into space for ages when those footsteps faded away. At eight months old, Grace became ill. First, her temperature rose to thirty-eight, then thirty-nine. Anna called for the GP, who said to keep her hydrated and use fever medicine. In the morning, the fever hit forty. — Max, get up! — Anna shook her husband. — Grace is really ill! — What time is it? — Max mumbled, barely opening his eyes. — Seven. I was up all night with her. We need to get to hospital! — This early? Maybe we wait till evening? I’ve got a big shift today… Anna stared at him like he was a stranger. — Your daughter’s burning with fever and you’re thinking about your shift? — It’s not like she’s dying! Kids get ill all the time. Anna called a taxi herself. At the hospital, doctors admitted Grace at once to infectious diseases. Complicated inflammation suspected — a lumbar puncture was needed. — Where’s the child’s father? — the consultant asked. — We need both parents’ consent. — He… he’s working. He’ll be here soon. Anna called Max all day. His phone was unreachable. At 7pm, he finally answered. — Annie, I’m at the rail depot, busy… — Max, Grace has suspected meningitis! They need your consent for a lumbar puncture! The doctors are waiting! — What? What puncture? I don’t understand… — Just come! Right now! — I can’t, shift doesn’t end till eleven. And then I’ve plans with the lads… Anna quietly hung up. She signed the consent alone — as her mother’s right. Puncture under general anaesthetic. Grace looked so tiny on that big hospital trolley. — Results tomorrow, — the consultant said. — If it’s meningitis, the treatment will be long. A month and a half or more in hospital. Anna stayed the night at Grace’s side. Her baby lay, pale and motionless, tiny chest rising weakly. Max appeared the next day at lunchtime. Unshaven. Creased shirt. — Well… how is she? — he asked, hesitating at the door. — Not good, — Anna answered curtly. — Still waiting on the tests. — And what have they done to her? That… thing… — Lumbar puncture. Took spinal fluid for tests. Max turned pale. — Did it hurt her? — She was under. She didn’t feel a thing. He stepped to the cot and froze. Grace slept, tiny hand taped to the IV. — She’s… so little, — Max mumbled. — I never thought… Anna said nothing. Results were good — no meningitis. A regular virus, complicated but treatable at home overseen by the GP. — Lucky, — the consultant remarked. — Another day or two, and it could have been much worse. On the way home, Max was silent. When they pulled up, he quietly asked, — Am I really… that bad? As a dad? Anna shifted their sleeping daughter and looked at her husband. — What do you think? — I thought there was plenty of time. That she wouldn’t understand, being so little. But then… — he fell silent. — When I saw her there with those tubes… I realised I could lose her. And that I’d be losing more than I knew. — Max, she needs a dad. Not just a provider, a man who brings home a paycheque. A dad. Someone who knows her name, who can say what her favourite toys are. — Which ones? — he asked softly. — Her rubber hedgehog and the jingly rattle. When you come home, she always crawls to the door. She waits for you to pick her up. Max looked down. — I didn’t know… — Now you do. At home, Grace woke and cried softly. Instinctively, Max reached for her, then stopped. — May I? — he asked Anna. — She’s your daughter. Gently, Max picked Grace up. The little girl hiccupped, quietened, and fixed big eyes on her dad’s face. — Hello, precious, — Max whispered. — I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. Grace reached out and touched his cheek. Max’s throat tightened with a new, unfamiliar feeling. — Dada, — Grace said, clear as a bell. It was her first word. Max stared wide-eyed at Anna. — She… she just said… — She’s been saying it for a week, — Anna smiled. — But only when you’re not home. She was waiting for the right moment. That evening, with Grace asleep on his chest, Max gently put her in her cot. She didn’t wake, only gripped his finger even tighter in her sleep. — She doesn’t want to let go, — Max marvelled. — She’s afraid you’ll disappear again, — Anna explained. He sat by the cot for half an hour, unable to pry free. — Tomorrow I’m taking a day off, — he told Anna. — And the day after. I want… I want to really know my daughter. — What about work? All those extra shifts? — We’ll manage. Or live simpler. What matters most is not missing how she grows up. Anna drew close and hugged him. — Better late than never. — I’d never have forgiven myself if something had happened, and I hadn’t even known her favourite toys, — Max said softly, watching his daughter sleep. — Or that she could say “Dada.” A week later, when Grace was fully recovered, the three of them went to the park. Grace rode on her father’s shoulders, giggling and grabbing golden autumn leaves. — Look at all this, Grace! — Max showed her the yellow maples. — And there’s a squirrel! Anna walked beside them and thought about how sometimes you almost have to lose what’s dearest before you realise its true worth. At home, Ellen Mitchell greeted them with her usual disapproval. — Max, Valerie said her grandson is already playing football. And your little one… just plays with dolls. — My daughter’s the best in the world, — Max replied calmly, sitting Grace down and handing her the rubber hedgehog. — Playing with dolls is brilliant. — But our family line will end… — It won’t end. It will go on. Just a different way. Ellen opened her mouth to argue, but Grace crawled over and raised her arms. — Gran! — she called, beaming. The grandmother picked her up, flustered. — She… she’s talking! — she exclaimed. — Our Grace is very clever, — Max said proudly. — Isn’t that right, love? — Dada! — Grace shouted happily, clapping her hands. Anna watched the scene and thought that happiness sometimes comes through trials. And that the deepest love isn’t born at once, but ripens slowly, through pain and the fear of loss. That evening, as Max put Grace to bed, he softly sang her a lullaby. His voice was low and a little hoarse, but Grace listened, wide-eyed. — You’ve never sung to her before, — Anna observed. — There’s a lot I never did before, — Max replied. — But now… now I’ve got time to catch up. Grace slept, hugging her dad’s finger tight. And Max sat quietly in the dark, listening to her breathe, thinking how much can be missed if you don’t stop to treasure what truly matters. And Grace slept on, smiling in her dreams — she finally knew her dad wasn’t going anywhere. This story was sent in by one of our readers. Sometimes fate demands not just a choice but a great trial to awaken the brightest feelings in a person. Do you believe someone can truly change when they realise they stand to lose what matters most?

In our family, four generations of men have worked on the railways! And what have you brought?

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Oksana, Are You Busy? – A Mother’s Unexpected Request, a Midnight Trip for Mayonnaise and Dill, an Icy Mishap, and a New Year’s Eve That Changed Everything for a London Mum and Daughter

“Anna, are you busy?” Mum asked, popping her head round my daughter’s bedroom door. “