Trending Link

La vida

I Can Hardly Believe It!

I still cannot believe it. Once again, as I did two decades ago, I find myself spinning in a waltz with you.

La vida

My Frugal Friends Invited Me to Their Birthday Party—But I Came Home Hungry

My thrifty friends invited me to a birthday bash. I came home starving. I have some friends I affectionately

La vida

We Meet the Wrong People, Marry the Wrong Ones: The Story of Vera’s Search for Happiness Through Life’s Twists and Turns, from a Women’s Household in the Countryside to City Living, Family Loyalties, Lost First Loves, and the Wisdom That Comes with Time

Sometimes We Meet the Wrong People, and Marry the Wrong Ones Walking life’s path isn’

La vida

011

I’m Sorry, Mum, I Couldn’t Leave Them There,” My 16-Year-Old Son Told Me When He Brought Home Two Newborn Twins.

Im sorry, Mum, I couldnt leave them, my 16yearold son said as he set two newborn twins on the kitchen table.

La vida

You’re the Big Brother, So You Must Help Your Little Sister: You Own Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister!

Youre the older brother, so you must help your younger sister. You have two flats, give one to your sister!

La vida

057

My Husband Wants Us to Give Up Our Bedroom for His Parents Over Every Holiday – While We Sleep on the Floor

My dear, you do realise Dads back is dreadful? David said, standing awkwardly by the kitchen door.

La vida

013

I Stopped Speaking to My Husband After His Outburst at My Birthday Party—and For the First Time, He Was Truly Frightened

Right then, lets raise a glass to our birthday girl! Forty-five years youngback in bloom, as they say

La vida

My Thrifty Friends Invited Me to Their Birthday Party—But I Went Home Hungry

My thrifty friends invited me round for a birthday party. I came home hungry. I have a group of friends

La vida

I Don’t Understand Why I Became His Wife We Just Got Married—He Said He Loved Me Wildly, But After a Strange Incident, Everything Changed. It Wasn’t Infidelity, But Something Far Worse. Maybe It’s Because I Loved Him Too Much—Forgiving Everything, Worshipping Him, and Letting Him Become Overconfident. He Thought Any Woman Would Grovel at His Feet, Though He’s Not That Popular Otherwise. No One Else Would Tolerate His Mistakes So Blindly. Just Before the Wedding, He Wanted to Be Alone—Disappear on Holiday, Prepare Himself for Married Life. I Accepted This and Let Him Go. He Escaped to the Countryside Where There Was No Internet or Phone, Hiking Alone, Taking in Nature. I Stayed Home, Missing Him Terribly, Counting Every Minute Until He Came Back. A Week Later He Returned—I Was Overjoyed, Welcoming Him Warmly and Cooking His Favourite Dishes. The Next Day, He Started Acting Strangely: Running to the hallway, slipping out on odd errands. One day, while leaving for the shop, I found a letter addressed to me in our postbox—from him, sent just before he’d come home. What I read shook me to my core: “Hello. I don’t want to deceive you anymore. You’re not the right person for me. I don’t want to spend my life with you—there will be no wedding. Forgive me, don’t call or look for me. I’m never coming back.” So Short, So Harsh… Only Then Did I Realise He’d Kept Checking the Postbox, Waiting. I Silently Destroyed the Letter, Never Saying a Word, Never Letting Him Know I Knew. But How Can I Live With Someone Who Doesn’t Want to Be With Me? Why Did He Marry Me, Pretending Everything Was Fine?

I honestly cant figure out why I ended up as his wife. We only just got married, which sounds terribly

La vida

010

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before the yellowed envelope arrived to change her life, Natalie Sokolov was standing on the balcony of her London flat. The night was thick and starless above the lights of Oxford Street. Inside, behind the glass door, Mark was on speakerphone, discussing the finer points of a business deal. Natalie pressed her palm to the cold balcony window. She was so terribly tired—not from work, which she managed brilliantly, but from the air itself. From the predictable routine, where even Mark’s proposal had become an item to tick off her five-year plan. Her throat ached with a lump of restlessness. Natalie took out her phone, opened Messenger, and wrote a note to her childhood friend, whom she hadn’t seen for ages. The friend had just had her second child and lived in a world of shrieking toddlers and domestic chaos. The message was short, a sigh let loose, and would make little sense to anyone else: “You know, sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like—not the city’s acid fog, but rain that hits the earth and smells of dust and hope. I want some kind of miracle. Something simple. Paper, tangible.” She didn’t expect a reply. It was a cry into the digital void, a ritual for comfort. Message written, relief followed—then she erased it before sending. Her friend wouldn’t understand—she’d assume a crisis, or too much wine. A minute later she was back in the sitting room; Mark was just ending his call. “All okay?” he asked, glancing over. “You look tired.” “I’m fine,” Natalie smiled. “Just needed a breath of fresh air…something new.” “In December?” he smirked. “Fresh air? Book us Brighton in May, if we hit our sales targets.” He turned back to his screen. Natalie glanced at her phone. A client confirmed tomorrow’s meeting. No miracles. She sighed, mentally composing tomorrow’s to-do list as she got ready for bed. *** Three days later, sorting her post, Natalie snagged her finger on the corner of a strange envelope, dropping it to the wooden floor. It was thick, rough, the colour of parchment. No stamps—just an inked fir branch and her address in London. Inside was a Christmas card—not the glossy modern kind, but solid cardboard, embossed and dusted with golden glitter. “May your boldest dreams come true this New Year…” read the handwritten message that made Natalie’s heart jolt. The handwriting—she knew it. It belonged to Alex. The very Alex from the sleepy Cotswold village where she’d spent her summer holidays as a teenager, swearing to love him forever. Summer afternoons, building dens by the river, launching fireworks in August, writing letters between holidays. Then, her grandmother sold the cottage, they went off to different universities, and lost touch. The card bore her current address—but was dated 1999. How? A postal glitch? Or the universe’s answer to her secret cry for a miracle? Moments later, Natalie cancelled a meeting and two calls, told Mark she was “checking a venue,” (he nodded, eyes glued to his tablet), and grabbed her keys. Three hours’ drive to the Cotswolds. She had to find the sender. A quick Google said the market town now had a tiny print shop. *** The ‘Snowflake Press’ wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d pictured something like a kitsch gift shop, cramped and scented of cheap beeswax. Instead, she stepped into a haven of calm. The door yielded with a soft groan to reveal a bright, still room, thick with the sweet scent of wood, metal, and something sharp—old paint, or varnish. And, unmistakably, the warmth of a real wood burner. The owner stood with his back to her, hunched over a heavy press that looked prehistoric. The clinking of tools the only sound. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Natalie cleared her throat. Only then did he straighten slowly, vertebra by vertebra. Short, solid, simple checked shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. An ordinary face, but with quietly intense eyes—not curious or ingratiating, just watching. “Is this your card?” Natalie placed it on the counter. He approached unhurriedly, wiped his hands on his trousers, then held the card up to the light, as if examining a rare coin. “Ours,” he nodded. “Fir branch—must be ’99. Where did you get it?” “It arrived for me. In London. Must be a Royal Mail error,” said Natalie crisply, though her heart felt tight. “I need to find the sender. The handwriting…I know it.” He gave her a look that took in her sharp haircut, the elegant but out-of-place beige coat, the perfectly made-up but weary face. “Why bother now?” he asked. “A quarter of a century—it’s long enough for people to be born, to die, or to forget.” “I’m not dead,” she retorted suddenly, with hard-edged defiance. “And I haven’t forgotten.” He studied her, as if reading not her words, but what lay behind them, then nodded toward the kettle. “Bit cold out. Some tea’ll warm you up. And clear your head—even a Londoner’s.” He didn’t wait for a reply, already boiling water into battered mugs. So began her return. *** Natalie spent three days in the Cotswolds, swapping London’s noise for silence that let her hear snow slide from the rooftops, and the living warmth of a wood fire rather than screen glow. The printer, Alec, never pried; he simply opened his world—a creaking family house scented with jam, books, and woodsmoke. He showed her his father’s copper plates, engraved with deer and snowflakes, explained how to mix glitter that wouldn’t rub off. He was like his home—solid, slightly weathered, filled with quiet, humble treasures. He told her how his own father, having fallen hopelessly for his mother, had sent her a card to the wrong address, lost forever. “Love into the void,” Alec said, watching the flames. “Beautiful, hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless?” Natalie asked. “Well, he found her in the end, and they had years together. Where there’s love, anything’s possible. Otherwise, I believe in what I can hold in my hands—this press, this house, my craft. The rest is smoke.” His words carried no bitterness, only the matter-of-fact acceptance of a craftsman working with stubborn material. Natalie had always fought her world to bend it to her will; here, the struggle was meaningless. The snow fell when it chose. Alec’s dog, Oliver, slept where it pleased. A strange closeness grew between them—two lone souls, finding what they lacked in each other: for him, her spark; for her, his quiet authenticity. He saw past London polish to the girl still searching for a simple miracle; she saw not a failure stuck in the past, but a steward of tradition and silence. With him, her inner static faded into peace. When Mark called, Natalie was at the window, watching Alec split firewood with practiced ease. “Where are you, Nat?” came the cold, even voice. “And pick up a real Christmas tree, would you? That old fake one broke—ironic, isn’t it?” Natalie glanced at the real spruce glinting with antique glass ornaments. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “Very ironic.” She hung up. *** The truth emerged on the third day, Christmas Eve. Silently, Alec handed her a yellowed sketch from his father’s album—the card’s original message. “I found it,” he said softly. “This wasn’t written by your Alex. It was from my dad to my mum. It never made it. Funny, the way stories go round in circles…” The magic winked out like falling glitter. No mystical bond—just a cruel twist of fate. Natalie’s flight into nostalgia was a mistake, a lovely delusion. “I should go,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve got…everything. A wedding. Contracts.” Alec nodded. He didn’t try to stop her. Just stood in his world of paper and memory, a man who could preserve warmth in envelopes but not against the cold from elsewhere. “I get it,” he said. “I’m no wizard. Just a printer. I make things you can hold—nothing else. But sometimes…the past sends a mirror instead of a ghost. So you see who you might become.” He turned back to his press. Natalie picked up her bag and keys, closing her fingers round her phone—the only link to the world that waited beyond the snow, with its meetings, KPIs, and quiet, cash-measured marriage to Mark. As she reached for the door, her gaze fell on the card, and on a new, freshly printed one Alec must have intended for her—a fir tree stamp, a different phrase: “May you have enough courage.” She understood. The miracle wasn’t in some lost postcard. It was here, in this moment, in the clarity that illuminated two roads. She couldn’t claim Alec’s world, nor would he enter hers. But she wasn’t going back to Mark. Natalie stepped into the cold, starry night without looking back. *** A year passed. Another December. Natalie didn’t return to the events industry. She left Mark, launched a small agency specialising in “mindful” gatherings—intimate, soulful, with attention to detail. She used paper invitations, all printed at one workshop in the Cotswolds. Life didn’t slow, but gained meaning. She had learned how to savour the quiet. ‘Snowflake Press’ now offered creative weekend retreats. Alec had warmed to online orders, but filtered them with care. His cards became a little better known, enough to get by, but his process stayed the same. They didn’t write every day, just for business. But last week, a card arrived for Natalie: a stamp of a soaring bird, and just two words—“Thank you—for courage.”

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before the yellowed envelope appeared in her life, Emily Bennett