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My Husband Suggested a Trial Separation to Test Our Feelings, So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, it feels like we’re strangers now. The daily grind has swallowed us up. I’ve been thinking… maybe we should live apart for a while.” Mark said it as casually as if suggesting we buy brown instead of white bread for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his bowl of soup, dunking a piece of bread absently. I froze mid-stir, feeling boiling broth trickle down my wrist—but barely noticed the burn. My ears rushed, like someone had suddenly turned on a vacuum at full blast. “What do you mean—apart?” I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady as I set the ladle into the pot, afraid it might slip from my suddenly weak fingers. “Are you going away for work?” “No, nothing like that,” Mark finally looked up, eyes tired and slightly annoyed, like a teacher explaining the obvious to a clueless pupil. “I mean a pause. A test of our feelings. You know, the spark is gone. I come home, and… it’s stifling. Always the same: work, dinner, telly, sleep. I want to see if I really miss you, or if this is just habit.” I slowly sat down opposite him. Twenty years of marriage. Two children—both at uni, living in other cities. A mortgage paid off three years ago. DIY home improvements, weekends spent ripping off old wallpaper together. And now—“stifling”? “So, where exactly are you going to stay during this… test?” I asked quietly. “I’ve rented a flat. Just a studio, for a couple of months, close to work—so I don’t get stuck in traffic,” he replied a touch too quickly, as if rehearsed. “I’ve started packing, the bags are in the bedroom.” So he’d planned it for ages. While I’d been thinking about rose bushes for the garden or picking out a jumper for him at the spring sales, he’d been flat-hunting. Signed a lease. Paid a deposit. Not a word. “Don’t I get a say?” I looked at him, searching for any hint of the young man I’d married. But sitting across from me was a stranger: heavier, fidgeting, eyes darting down. “Helen, don’t make a scene,” Mark set his spoon down, apparently finally losing his appetite. “I’m not asking for a divorce—yet. Just a time out. It’s normal, loads of people do it. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t live without each other and get a second honeymoon. Or, if not… at least we’ll know.” He stood up, tossed his napkin down and headed to the bedroom. I heard wardrobe doors opening, the rustling of shopping bags. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at his favourite soup—made just how he liked it—feeling a cold, vast emptiness swallowing up my insides. The rest of the evening passed in a fog. Mark bustled around, ferrying suitcases to the hall. He took his laptop, the coffee maker I’d gotten from my colleagues (which he nearly monopolised), his warm jumpers. “Well, I’m off,” he said at the door, looking a mix of smug and faintly guilty. “Don’t ring me. Let’s do a month of no contact—for the experiment, you know, keep it pure.” “What if there’s a plumbing disaster?” I blurted. “Get a plumber. You’re a grown woman, you’ll cope. I’ll keep my set of keys just in case I urgently need to grab something. Right, that’s all. Bye. Don’t pine for me.” The door slammed. The lock clicked. I was left in a flat that suddenly seemed cavernous and eerily silent. For three days, I barely moved—just enough to drink water or use the loo. Life, I thought, was over. I replayed the past months, searching for where I’d gone wrong. Too much nagging about the socks? Had I put on weight? Was I boring? On the fourth day, my sister Kate crashed in like a tornado, arms full of groceries and wine. Seeing my puffy, bathrobe-clad, unwashed self, she just shook her head. “Right, enough of this. Shower. Now,” she commanded. An hour later, sipping wine in the kitchen, I told her everything. She listened and narrowed her eyes. “Hm, ‘testing his feelings’? He’s ‘stifled’?” Kate scoffed. “Helen, you’re the cleverest person I know—add numbers in your head all day, but you can’t add this up? He’s got another woman.” “Oh come off it,” I waved her off. “Who’d want him? He’s fifty-two, got a dodgy back and constant indigestion!” “Oh please. Love isn’t put off by a few aches—and at fifty, loads of blokes get second-wind mischief. ‘Studio flat’? ‘No phone calls for a month’? That’s classic. He wants to shack up with her—but keep his options open in case she doesn’t cook or do laundry. You’re his safety net in case new girlfriend doesn’t work out. If it does—he’ll divorce you.” Her words hit me like stones. I tried to argue, to defend Mark, but I knew Kate was right. The new phone password a month ago. The overtime at work. The new shirt he bought himself, when he hated shopping. “So what do I do?” I muttered, feeling anger throb where tears had been. “What do you do? Live! Get your hair done. Go shopping. And stop waiting by the phone. Whose name is on the deeds?” “Mine. Mum’s old flat—I inherited it. He never bothered sorting paperwork, he’s registered at his mum’s.” “Well then! You’ve got the legal high ground. Don’t mope. Surprise him.” When she left, I couldn’t sleep. I drifted through the flat, lights blazing. In the bathroom, I spotted his forgotten shaving foam, picked it up, and chucked it in the bin. The thud sounded like the first shot in a new war. The next fortnight passed strangely. I forced myself back to work—colleagues assumed my weight loss was spring blues. I started noticing things I’d missed before. The flat was tidier—no bread crumbs, no jeans on chairs. The fridge stayed stocked; I didn’t need to cook every night—a salad sufficed. My evenings were my own again. I remembered loving knitting, found my old needles and started making a scarf, TV on in the background. Silence wasn’t scary anymore. It was soothing. No droning about politics, no channel-switching during films. But still, a doubt gnawed—what if Kate was wrong? What if Mark was really missing me? Friday night solved it. On my way to grab more wool, I spotted them. Mark, standing outside a jeweller’s. A young woman—no more than thirty, bold coat—hooked on his arm. Mark was smiling at her—his old smile, the smile I’d fallen for twenty years ago. He pointed out a bracelet; she laughed, tossing her head. They looked utterly happy. I backed out of sight, heart pounding in my ears, as I watched my “sparkless,” “needing space” husband cuddle another woman and lead her away. Something snapped inside. But instead of fire, just cool, calm determination. No scene, no confrontation. I went home. There, I found the title deeds: my name, mum’s gift contract, my and the kids’ names in the passport. Mark wasn’t listed. I googled a locksmith. “I need my locks changed—urgent. Yes, paperwork is in order. How soon? An hour? Perfect.” A burly locksmith arrived—a pro, no questions. “Best quality, please,” I said. “Something he definitely can’t open with the old keys.” He grinned. “We’ll fit a British Standard 5-lever mortice. Not even your husband with a duplicate key will get through that.” The drill’s roar was music. As the old lock clattered to the mat, it felt like the old pain was tumbling out too. When he left, handing me shiny new keys, I locked up—four turns. Click-click-click-click. Four walls to my fortress. I bagged up Mark’s leftover things—coats, shoes, fishing gear, tools—into five black bin sacks. Left them by the shared hallway door. Another week passed. No word. Clearly, the “test” with his new muse was dragging on. I was fine. Applied for divorce online—it was surprisingly simple. The doorbell rang early Saturday. I looked through the peephole—Mark, a little dishevelled, but confident, clutching groceries and carnations. I didn’t open. I leaned my forehead against the door, waiting. He tried the old key. Metal scraped. He huffed, tried again. No luck. “Helen! Are you in there? What’s up with the lock?” I stayed silent. “Helen, open up! Your car’s outside! Don’t mess about—we agreed one month but I came early! I missed you!” I drew a breath and called out steadily, “Your things are in the black bags to the left. Take them and go.” Silence. Then the sound of shuffling—he’d seen the bags. “Are you mad?” his voice rose, shrill. “Open the door! I’m your husband! I have a right!” “This isn’t your home, Mark,” I said, calm. “It’s mine. You wanted to live separately? Be my guest—live separately. For good.” “You…you changed the locks?” It finally sank in. “How dare you? I’ll call the police! They’ll break down this door!” “Go ahead,” I said. “Show them your passport. And tell them how you left for a ‘test’—with your girlfriend. The local bobby will have a good chuckle.” “What girlfriend? You’re imagining things! I lived alone!” “I saw you. At the shopping centre. Jeweller’s, red coat. Stop lying. Experiment’s over. Results: failure.” Swearing erupted outside. He kicked the door. “You’ll regret this! No one will want you in your forties—you’ll be left all alone, daft cow! I came back to you out of pity! But you… I’ll take you to the cleaners! Half the car, half the holiday place!” “We’ll split the house and car in court, as the law says,” I answered. “But this flat? It’s not yours. Go away, Mark. Or I’ll call the police—a strange, aggressive man is trying to force entry.” He ranted for a bit, banged the bags. I heard the bouquet hit the floor. Then he gathered his stuff, obviously wondering how to carry it all at once. “Cow!” he shrieked before stomping off. I slumped to the floor, legs shaking, tears streaming down—but not for grief. Just the tension, sluicing out salty and hot. Ten minutes. Then I washed my face in cold water. In the mirror, a tired, older woman stared back—head held high. Text: From Kate—“So, how’s Casanova? I saw his car outside.” Me: “Gone. With his stuff. Locks work perfectly.” Kate: “Brilliant! So proud of you! Be round with cake later—new beginnings!” I went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. I could see the carnations outside—he never remembered, I loathe carnations, always preferred tulips. A month later, the divorce went through—quick, since our kids are adults. The house was sold, proceeds divided; Mark took the car, paid me my half (which funded a lovely solo holiday). Turned out his “muse” dumped him as soon as he lost the cushy flat and his prospects dimmed. He couldn’t afford the studio, ended up at his mum’s little council flat. I heard it from mutual friends. Didn’t care. I’d just got back from Turkey—first solo trip in years, bronzed, in a bright new dress, possibly even started a holiday romance with a charming German. Nothing serious—just enough to remind me I was still desirable. One evening, outside my block, Mark called out: “Helen?” He looked thinner, beaten down, in a creased old jacket. “Hi,” I said, not stopping, but slowing down. “Look, Helen… can we talk? I was a fool. It was a mistake. I miss our place. Your soup. Can we try again? You can’t just throw away twenty years…” I studied his face, surprised to feel—nothing. No anger, no pain, just emptiness, as if a stranger was begging for loose change. “Twenty years can’t be erased,” I replied. “But the past should stay in the past. I have a new life, Mark. There’s no room for old mistakes—or for you.” “But I’ve changed! I know now!” “So have I,” I smiled. “I know it’s not stifling alone. It’s freeing.” I took out my set of shiny new keys and stepped inside. The intercom buzzed, the door shut behind me—leaving Mark and his regrets at the threshold. As the lift carried me up, I thought—I should redo the hallway, maybe peach wallpaper this time. And buy a new armchair, perfect for knitting. My life was only just beginning, and the keys to it—all mine. Like the story? Subscribe and hit like for more real-life tales. Let me know in the comments—did Helen do the right thing?

June 22nd Today might just mark the most surreal turning point in my life. I dont think Ill ever forget

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Sunday Dad: A Short Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olena repeated, her teeth chattering from either fear or the cold…

Wheres my daughter? I kept asking, teeth chattering, but I didnt know if it was from cold or pure panic.

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Two Blue Lines on a Test Became Her Ticket to a New Life—and the Start of Hell for Her Closest Friend. She Married Amid Applause from Betrayers, but the Final Twist Was Written by the Man Everyone Thought Was Just a Foolish Pawn

Two lines on the test were her passport to a new lifeand a direct path to hell for her closest friend.

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Turning Up the Heat on a Marriage: When Victor Suggested an Open Relationship, Elena Surprised Him by Embracing Her Own Freedom – Three Years, Heartbreak, and a New Beginning Later, She Finally Discovers Herself

Warming Up the Marriage Listen, Liz… What if we tried an open marriage? Henry asked her gently. What?

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Don’t I Have a Say in This? You Won’t Get a Penny from Me!” My Mother-in-Law Stared in Shock as I Banged My Hand on the Table.

Do I get a say in this? Then you wont see a single penny from me! My motherinlaw freezes as I slam my

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Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to Our Well-Laid Table, So I Closed the Fridge – How Our First Housewarming Turned into a Lesson in Self-Respect and the True Meaning of Friendship

My mates turned up empty-handed to a well-laid table, and I shut the fridge door Tom, are you certain

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My Husband Suggested a Break to “Test Our Feelings,” So I Changed the Locks “You know, Emily, I feel like we’ve become strangers,” Tom said, dipping his bread in tomato soup like it was just any Tuesday night, not looking up from his plate. “All this routine is suffocating. I’ve been thinking… maybe we should try living apart for a bit.” Emily froze, ladle in hand, feeling hot soup burn her wrist but barely noticing. Twenty years of marriage. Two grown children now studying in other cities. The mortgage paid off. DIY weekends spent painting and wallpapering. And now… “suffocating”? She sat across from Tom, her heart thundering as she asked, “So where will you be staying for this… break?” “I’ve already rented a flat near work. I’ve started packing. My things are in the bedroom.” His answer was too quick—clearly planned days ago. While she’d been picking out new plants for the garden and buying him jumpers on sale, he was putting down a deposit on another home. Emily swallowed her hurt. “Do I get a say in this?” “Please, Em, let’s not turn this into a drama. I’m not talking divorce. Just a time-out. Loads of people do it. It’s what psychologists recommend—see if the spark is still there.” He left her with a half-eaten dinner and disappeared into the bedroom. The next evenings blurred together: Tom shuttling suitcases down the hallway, collecting his laptop and his precious coffee machine—her colleagues’ gift, but one he’d claimed for himself. “Don’t call me—not for a month. It’s important for the experiment,” he said at the door. “Oh, and I’ll keep my keys. You never know when I might need something.” When Tom left, the silence felt cavernous. Emily barely moved for days. She berated herself: Had she nagged too much? Let herself go? Become boring? It was her sister, Kate, who snapped her out of it by marching in with groceries and wine. As Emily described Tom’s “test of feelings,” Kate only snorted. “He’s probably got someone else. ‘Studio flat,’ ‘don’t call for a month’—classic. Don’t sit here moping. This is your place. Surprise him.” That night, Emily threw out his shaving cream. Then she realized: it was cleaner without him. Quieter, too—no more political rants, no channel flipping. Loneliness slowly changed into comfort. But then, on a Friday, she saw Tom at a jeweller’s in town—arm in arm with a much younger woman, beaming, buying her a bracelet. The “spark” was never lost—it had just been found elsewhere. Emily went home. She dug out her paperwork: the flat in her name, the gift deed from her parents, the registration stamp. She called a locksmith. “Best lock you’ve got,” she told the man. “In case someone tries to get in with the old key.” That was the night her old life unlocked itself. She packed the last of Tom’s things—his parkas, fishing rods, tools—into five black bin bags left by the door. When he returned, triumphant with cheap carnations, Emily answered through the new steel barrier: “Your things are outside. Please leave, Tom. It’s not your home anymore. You wanted time apart—now you’ve got it. For good.” He threatened. He belittled. He said he’d call the police. Emily stayed calm: “Go ahead—show them your ID. And tell them how you left your wife for your girlfriend’s ‘experiment.’” A week later, divorce proceedings were underway. Tom’s new romance soured as quickly as his finances did. He was soon back with his mother, reminiscing about Emily’s Sunday roasts. She was tanning in Turkey, practicing her rusty German on an attractive tourist, and buying herself a summer dress. The next time they crossed paths, Tom pleaded for a second chance. Emily surprised herself. She felt… nothing. “We can’t erase twenty years,” Tom said. “No. But the past belongs in the past. I have a new life, Tom. And there’s no space in it for old mistakes—or you.” She jingled her new, shiny keys all the way up to her flat, planning fresh peach wallpaper and a comfy chair for her knitting. Her life was just beginning—and this time, she held the only keys. Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe for more real-life tales, and tell us in the comments: did Emily do the right thing?

My dear, Emma, dont you think were starting to drift apart? David said, his voice as casual as if he

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The Lost Letter: A Snowy Evening, a Boy’s Tears, and a Christmas Wish That Changed Three Lives Forever

The Letter David trudged home from work, the crisp snow crunching under his shoes, stirring up memories

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Sunday Dad. A Story. “Where’s my daughter?” repeated Olga, her teeth chattering with a mixture of fear and cold. She had left Zoe at the birthday party, in the children’s playroom of the shopping centre. She barely knew the birthday girl’s parents, but she’d left her daughter there before—it was routine for these kinds of kids’ parties, nothing unusual. Only this time, Olga was late—the bus hadn’t come for ages. The shopping centre was in an awkward spot, everyone drove but Olga didn’t have a car. So she took Zoe by bus, then went home for work—teaching lessons she couldn’t miss—then came back for her. Only a quarter of an hour late—she’d raced across the icy car park, breathless. And now, the birthday girl’s mum, a short woman with big blue eyes, was watching Olga with surprise and repeating: “But her dad picked her up.” But Zoe had no dad. Well—there was one, technically. He’d never even met his daughter. Olga met Andrew by chance—walking the Embankment with a friend who’d twisted her ankle, the lads stopped to help. Like in a film, they bragged they were at Oxford, one’s dad a general, the other’s a professor. Why lie? Youth and stupidity. And when Olga got pregnant, and Andrew found out she was at teacher college, her dad a bus driver, he shoved money at her for an abortion and vanished. Olga didn’t have the abortion—and never regretted it. Zoe was her little partner, wise beyond her years and endlessly reliable. They always had fun together; while Olga taught, Zoe played quietly, and afterwards they cooked up milk soup or poached eggs, tea with biscuits and butter. Money was tight, everything went on rent, but they didn’t complain. “How could you give my daughter to a stranger?” Olga’s voice shook, tears stinging her eyes. “Don’t be silly—he’s her father!” the blue-eyed woman snapped. Olga could have told her no father existed, but what for? She had to run to security, demand the CCTV footage and— “When was this?” “About ten minutes ago…” Olga turned and ran. How many times had she warned Zoe—never go off with a stranger! Her feet refused to cooperate, vision blurred, crashing into people as she ran, apologizing to no one. By instinct she screamed: “Zoe! Zoe—!” The food court was packed, her cries mostly ignored, though a few looked up. Gulping air, Olga tried to decide where to go first—maybe he hadn’t taken her yet, maybe— “Mummy!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her daughter—with an open coat, ice cream smeared face—raced towards her. Olga clutched Zoe as if letting go would make her collapse (which, maybe, it would), and fixed her gaze on the man. Respectable, short hair, stupid jumper with a snowman, ice cream in hand. He seemed to read Olga’s face and started babbling: “Sorry, this is my fault! Should have waited right here, but—wanted to show up those little monsters! You know, they were teasing her, saying she had no dad and he’d never come, that she’s ugly! So I thought—I’d teach them. Said, ‘Come on, sweetheart, while mum’s not here, let’s go buy ice cream.’ I didn’t mean to scare you…” Olga trembled. She wasn’t about to trust a stranger. But were those kids really teasing Zoe? She caught Zoe’s eye—the girl instantly understood, sniffed, lifted her chin. “So what? I’ve got a dad now too!” The man shrugged awkwardly; Olga couldn’t find her voice. “Come on,” she finally managed. “We’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” the man jumped forward, hesitated, waved. “Maybe I can drive you home? After all this… I swear I’m not a creep! My name’s Arthur, I’m harmless! There’s my mum—she’ll vouch for me!” He pointed to a woman with purple curls at a table, absorbed in a book. “If you’d like, I’ll introduce you—she’ll give me glowing reviews!” “I’m sure,” Olga muttered, still ready to whack him over the head. “Thanks, but we’ll walk.” “Mum…” Zoe tugged at her coat. “Let them see—my dad’s giving us a lift!” The birthday girl and her mum still stood by the playroom with another girl whose name Olga couldn’t remember. Zoe’s eyes pleaded; walking on ice in this state would be tough. Olga relented. “Fine.” “Brilliant! I’ll just tell my mum!” “Mummy’s boy,” Olga thought acidly. At that moment, the woman waved at her, and Olga quickly looked away. What a stupid situation… On the way she dodged Arthur’s gaze, but couldn’t help noting his gentle chatter with Zoe. The girl chattered away—Olga had never seen her so lively. But when they pulled up outside their block, Zoe’s face fell. “Will we see you again?” she whispered, watching her mum. Arthur glanced at Olga—asking permission. She wanted to say no, Zoe, that’s rude, but seeing the girl’s disappointment, couldn’t. She nodded. “Well, if your mum says yes, I can take you to the cinema next weekend—see a cartoon movie. Have you ever been?” “Really? No! Mum, can I go with dad?” Olga felt awkward—now she babbled. “Okay, Zoe, but two conditions. First—you understand calling a stranger ‘dad’ isn’t polite; call him Uncle Arthur, all right? And second—I’m coming too—what did I tell you? Never go anywhere with strangers, even nice ones!” “I told her that too,” Arthur added. “About not going off with strangers.” “So can I go?” “I said yes.” “Hooray!!!” Olga knew she should nip this nonsense in the bud, but couldn’t. She and Zoe—against the world. If only she had someone to talk to! Like her own mum… Olga barely remembered her—her mother died when Olga was five, same age as Zoe now. A boy fell through the ice, nobody dared help, but she did—saved him, but caught pneumonia and died in a week. She’d been diabetic, always frail. Now Zoe had diabetes too—Olga blamed herself for passing it on. By next weekend, Olga had worried over everything, but her fears were unfounded—Arthur showed up at the cinema with his mum. “So you won’t think I’m dodgy, let mum give me a reference,” he joked. “Oh, you are dodgy!” his mother grinned, clearly adoring her son. When Arthur took Zoe for popcorn, his mum “advertised” him. “You see—may I call you Olga? He grew up without a dad too. I was married four times—the last was perfect! Arthur’s just like him, but fate… He died before he could hold his son. Heart attack. I gave birth early, no idea how I survived. The other husbands helped, mind you—why the look? We’re all still friends: the first still loves me, second wasn’t interested in women, third liked women far too much. They tried to be there for Arthur, but a dad’s a dad. So he connects with Zoe—he was teased too, you know. Poor boy, I was forever talking to teachers, no use! He did all sorts of dares to prove himself, nearly got himself killed once…” What a character—short, wiry, violet hair, Chanel suit and a mystery novel in hand. Olga found herself liking her. “Don’t worry, Arthur has no hidden agendas, he just has a golden heart,” she winked. “And I think he’s quite taken with you.” Olga blushed. Just what she needed! She knew she shouldn’t start anything, but felt so bad for Zoe… After the film, she offered Arthur ticket money; he refused. “If I ask a girl out, I pay!” That annoyed Olga too—she was used to paying her own way. As for his interest—nonsense, that doesn’t happen. When Arthur dropped them off, Zoe asked: “Dad, where shall we go next?” “Zoe!” Olga scolded. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “I think we should visit the Natural History Museum,” Arthur replied, ignoring the slip. “What do you think?” “Great! Mum, let’s go?” “You go without me,” Olga snapped. “Take Catherine with you—she loves butterflies.” She was first out of the car, desperate to end this. She heard Arthur whisper: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me dad.” So Zoe gained a Sunday dad. Sometimes Olga joined them; sometimes Zoe went along if Catherine came too—Olga still considered Arthur a stranger, suspicious, though Zoe gushed every time about how fun and kind he was. Olga found herself catching her daughter’s mood, but didn’t let it grow—life isn’t a fairytale; men don’t appear on white horses. And his mum always raved about him—why? What was wrong with him? Would someone like her really want her son with a nobody? But gradually Olga’s heart thawed. Arthur was so respectful—he’d leave a chocolate on her shelf, always check with her before inviting Zoe, and sought her gaze in the car. Mostly, she cherished Catherine—such good company! If Arthur wasn’t her son, Olga could have confided in her. One day he called to ask about a film. Zoe piped up—whispered: “Is that Arthur?” And plopped herself down beside her mum. “Of course, Zoe will love it,” Olga answered absently. “Wait…I’m inviting you, too. I mean, just us two. Together.” Catherine’s voice piped up in the background. “At last!” “Mum, stop listening in! Oh, Olga, sorry… She’s always eavesdropping.” Zoe whispered: “Is he asking you out?” Olga laughed. “I’ve got big ears too. Listen, Arthur…I…” “Just—please don’t say no! Just one date, I promise I’ll be a proper gentleman!” “Mum, tell her what you told me—about her mum’s eyes!” Like being doused with ice water. Olga was stunned—her mum? Arthur argued with Catherine, then said: “Olga, I’ll come over and explain. May I?” She could do with some explanations. Olga paced until he arrived, Zoe quietly drawing. “I should’ve confessed straight away,” Arthur began. “Meant to, but I liked you so much… Didn’t want you to think it was because of your mum. I was scared you’d hate me. She died because of me…” He rambled, jumping from point to point, begging with his eyes. Olga shook, just like when she thought Zoe was gone. “Will you forgive me?” Olga managed just one sentence: “I need to think.” “Mum, come on, forgive dad…” Arthur gave Zoe a warning look, reminded her of their deal. Then looked at Olga. She repeated: “I need time, do you understand?” She wanted to ask a million questions—but no words came. When Catherine called, it was different—she shared everything. “He had no idea she died—I protected him, he was just a boy. I let it slip; Arthur wanted to find you. That night, he wanted to offer help, but then everything got jumbled—then you…He fell for you at first sight! He was afraid you’d misunderstand. He was just trying to prove himself to those boys—that he was a real man, even with no dad. Nobody else would cross the ice, but he did…” Catherine never pushed, just defended her son. Zoe pushed, hard! “Mum, he’s good! And he LOVES you, he told me! He can be my real dad, understand?” Olga understood. But…it didn’t feel right? Almost a month passed. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. Didn’t answer calls, ignored his messages. The longer she waited, the more she wanted to call—but it got harder. Zoe woke her in the night—crying, stomach pain. She’d complained last night, blame it on sour milk. Now she was burning up—no thermometer needed. Shaking, Olga called emergency services, then—no idea why—Arthur. He arrived with the ambulance—sleepy, in pyjama bottoms, hair sticking up. He came to hospital, calming Olga, voice shaking as he promised all would be fine. “Peritonitis isn’t so bad—she’ll be fine, really!” Olga took his hand—maybe comforting him, maybe herself. The waiting room was freezing; they sat as close together as possible, sharing warmth. Arthur pounced on the doctor first, demanding updates. Olga sat, terrified to breathe. If anything happened to Zoe, she’d never survive. But everything was fine. Doctors did well, Zoe was a fighter—the situation, they said, critical. “It’s like she’s watched over by a guardian angel,” the doctor said. Olga whispered, Thank you, mum! Arthur thanked the doctors, who told them both to go home—no visitors yet, get some rest. He drove Olga home, and she waited for him to ask up—but he just sat. So she said: “It’s nearly sunrise. Come in—let me make you coffee.” And realised she meant it, wanted him to stay. For good. Zoe recovered surprisingly fast—nurses remarked on it. “Because I have a mum and a dad,” she bragged. And no-one, except Olga and Arthur, understood why that made a little girl so happy…

Wheres my daughter? I asked again, teeth chattering from cold or maybe nerves. Id left Emily at the birthday

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Don’t you worry, Mum! She won’t see a single penny,” his husband proudly declared, oblivious to the fact that his wife was listening in.

Dont worry, dear, she wont get a penny, he boasted, oblivious to his wifes listening ears. Emily was