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Ive honestly had enough of you turning up every single weekend! Maybe you know this particular sort of

Like a Songbird to the Piper – A Tale of Love, Loyalty, and Life’s Unexpected Turns: Choosing Forever with One Man, Family Secrets, Sisterly Rivalry, Vanished Husbands, Temptations of Married Love, and Finding True Happiness the Second Time Around

LIKE A BIRD TO A CALLER Girls, when you get married, it should be only once. Stay with the person you

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She Thought Her Husband Had a Voracious Appetite, But It Turned Out His Sister Was Stealing All the Food

Sarah stood by the open fridge, rubbing her temples. Her husband had eaten everything again.

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She knelt beside the table she’d placed on the pavement, cradling her baby. “Please, I don’t want your money, just a moment of your time.

He knelt by the low table he had set up on the cobbled pavement, cradling his infant. Please, I dont

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Let Me Remind You “Mrs. Mary Stevens, the curl just won’t go right here,” sighed little Year Two pupil Timmy, prodding at the stubborn, wayward green leaf on the flower he’d tried so hard to paint. “Try not to press so hard, sweetheart. Glide the brush as gently as if you’re stroking a feather across your hand. There you go — wonderful! That curl’s a true delight!” The elderly teacher smiled. “And who’s this masterpiece for, then?” “For Mum!” Timmy beamed, triumphant at last. “It’s her birthday today — this is my present!” Pride rang clearly in his voice after her praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Timmy. Be patient, though — don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry, so you don’t smudge it. When you get home you can carefully tear it out. She’ll just love it, you’ll see!” Mrs. Stevens gave one last fond glance to the boy’s determined, lowered head, and, smiling at her thoughts, returned to her desk. A gift for Mum — she hadn’t seen such pretty gifts in years. Timmy clearly had talent for art. She ought to call his mum and suggest signing him up for art school, such gifts shouldn’t go untended. And she’d ask her former pupil, now a mother herself, whether she’d liked her son’s present. Mrs. Stevens herself could hardly tear her eyes away from those flowers blooming on paper — as if their living, rustling leaves might suddenly stir. Just like his mum, that Timmy! Definitely just like her… Larissa at his age drew beautifully too… ***** “Mrs. Stevens, it’s Larissa, Timmy Carter’s mum,” came a call that evening in the teacher’s flat. “I’m ringing to let you know Timmy won’t be in tomorrow,” the voice of a young woman declared curtly. “Hello, Larissa! Has something happened?” Mrs. Stevens asked gently. “It has! That rascal ruined my whole birthday!” snapped the reply. “And now he’s lying there with a temperature — ambulance left just now.” “What do you mean, Larissa? He left school perfectly well, with your present…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh no, Larissa! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was going to ring you myself — to recommend art school—” “I don’t know about flowers — but I certainly didn’t expect a mangy little lump!” “A lump? What do you mean?” Mrs. Stevens was bewildered by the nervous, muddled explanation from the other end. Her frown deepened as she listened. “Tell you what, Larissa — mind if I come round for a bit? I live just nearby…” Moments later, having gained consent from her former pupil — now, in the blink of an eye, her pupil’s mum too — Mrs. Stevens took from her drawer a thick album of faded photos and precious childhood drawings from her first ever class, and set off. In the bright kitchen where Larissa welcomed her, chaos reigned. Tidying away the cake and piling dishes in the sink, Timmy’s mum began to tell her tale: How he arrived home late from school, dripping with muddy water from backpack and clothes; how he pulled a sopping puppy from under his coat, smelling of the rubbish tip — he’d gone in after it himself when bullies tossed it in a ditch. The ruined textbooks, the ‘blotched’ art book not fit to look at. And now the fever high as nearly 102… The guests had left before tasting any cake, and the paramedic had scolded her for not keeping better watch… “So I took him back, that puppy, to the very dump when Timmy had fallen asleep. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator — as for flowers, there’s nothing left at all,” Larissa scoffed, not seeing how Mrs. Stevens’ face darkened with each word. And when she mentioned the pup’s fate — rescued, then returned to the dump — the teacher grew black as thunder. Stroking the damaged album gently, she spoke softly. Of green swirls and painted flowers, of diligence and courage, of a boy’s heart that couldn’t bear unfairness — and the bullies who tossed a helpless creature in a ditch. Then she stood, led Larissa to the window: “There’s the ditch — Timmy could’ve drowned, never mind the puppy. But do you think he paused to think? Or was he thinking instead about the painted flowers, not wanting to spoil his gift for you?” “Have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once sat weeping on the school bench, clutching a stray kitten you’d saved from the toughs? How we all stroked it and waited with you for your mum? How you dreaded going home when they threw that ‘mangy lump’ out — until, thank heavens, they let you keep him in the end? Let me remind you… Tishka the kitten, who you adored; and floppy-eared Max, the mutt who walked by your side all the way to college; even the jackdaw with the broken wing you nursed in our class menagerie…” From her yellowed album Mrs. Stevens drew a large photo: a slender little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she cradled a fluffy kitten, surrounded by classmates. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your own heart, as vibrant and colourful as any paint.” After the photo, a faded childhood drawing floated down — a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand, tightly holding her mother’s palm in the other. “If I had my way,” Mrs. Stevens spoke more sternly, “I’d kiss that puppy’s nose and Timmy’s too! And those ‘blotches’ I’d frame, for no mother ever received a finer gift than raising her child to be a true person.” Larissa’s face changed with every word. Anxious glances darted toward Timmy’s closed bedroom. Her white knuckles tightened on the ruined sketchbook. “Mrs. Stevens! Please, watch Timmy for just a few minutes — I’ll be right back. Please!” The teacher watched as Larissa hurriedly tossed on her coat and dashed out the door. Out into the night she ran, toward the distant rubbish tip, heedless of muddy shoes, calling and searching beneath dirty boxes, rooting through litter, her worried eyes ever flicking back toward home… Would Timmy forgive her? ***** “Timmy, who’s that burying his nose in the flowers — is that your friend Duke?” “That’s him, Mrs. Stevens! Does it look like him?” “It certainly does! See that white star on his paw — just like when your Mum and I were scrubbing out those muddy paws, remember?” “And now I wash his paws every day!” Timmy declared with pride. “Mum says if you have a friend, you should look after him. She even got us a special tub for his baths!” “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Mrs. Stevens. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Yep, I want to put this one in a frame. She’s got those blotches up in a frame, but still keeps smiling at them. Is it normal to smile at blotches, Mrs. Stevens?” “At blotches?” the teacher chuckled. “Well, maybe — if they were made with love. Now tell me, how’s art school going?” “Oh, I’m doing great! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait! She’ll really love that! But for now…” Timmy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a folded sheet. “This is from Mum — she paints too.” Mrs. Stevens unfolded it and touched the boy’s shoulder gently. Across the page, a bright, happy Timmy smiled, his hand resting atop his beloved black-and-white mongrel, gazing up at him in adoration. Beside them stood a tiny, fair-haired schoolgirl in an old-fashioned uniform, cuddling a fluffy kitten; and, off to the side, peering from behind a desk piled with reading books, Mrs. Stevens herself — smiling kindly, ageless wisdom shining in those eyes. In every stroke of the painting, in every colourful mark, Mrs. Stevens felt that secret, boundless pride only a mother could feel. Wiping away a tear, she suddenly brightened, noticing a single word, spelled out in blossoms and curling green vines at the very corner: “Remember.”

Ill remind you Miss Mary, the swirl isnt working here, whispered little Tom, a crestfallen Year 2 pupil

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I’m Fed Up With You Turning Up Every Weekend! How My Brother-in-Law’s Entire Family Started Using Our House as Their Weekend Getaway—And What I Did to Finally Get My Life (and Weekends) Back in Order

Ive truly had enough of them turning up every weekend! You might have encountered that particular sort

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Raw and Real… In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Life Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife — he often had another woman by his side, sometimes more than one. Mum, Jenny, suspected her husband’s affairs but wasn’t exactly a saint herself; she enjoyed spending time with a married colleague outside the home. The two sons were left to fend for themselves, neglected and often wandering about with nothing to do. Their mother insisted that it was entirely the school’s job to raise her kids. The only time the whole family gathered was on Sundays, quickly and silently munching lunch in the kitchen before rushing off in all directions. They might have spent the rest of their days in their broken, sinful, but oddly sweet world, if not for the tragedy that changed everything… When the younger son, Danny, turned twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage as his helper for the first time. While Danny was exploring the tools, Alex popped out to chat with some car-enthusiast mates working nearby on their motors. Suddenly, thick black smoke billowed from Alex’s garage, followed by flames. No one knew what had happened. (It would later come out that Danny accidentally knocked a lit blowtorch onto a can of petrol.) People froze, panicked. Fire raged. Water was thrown over Alex, who rushed into the inferno. Seconds later, he emerged carrying his lifeless son. Danny was burned all over, save for his face — protected by his hands. His clothes had been reduced to ashes. Firefighters and an ambulance arrived. Danny was alive but barely. Surgeons worked desperately, while his parents waited in agony. A doctor emerged at last: “We’re doing all we can. Your son is in a coma. His chances are one in a million. Medicine can do no more. If Danny fights with everything he’s got, maybe a miracle will happen. Be strong.” Without thinking, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church, drenched by a wild downpour, desperate to save their boy. For the first time in their lives, they entered the sanctuary. There, in the hushed gloom, they found Father Simon. “Our son’s dying! Please, what should we do?” Jenny sobbed. “Ah, so in need you come to God? Are you very sinful?” the priest asked bluntly. “Don’t think so. Never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, avoiding Father Simon’s piercing eyes. “But you killed your love for each other — it lies dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass. Between you, you could lay a tree trunk and it wouldn’t touch a soul! Pray for your son’s life, children. Pray hard. But remember, it’s all God’s will. Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise you’d never learn. Love saves all.” Soaked through and through, Alex and Jenny knelt before the icon of St. Nicholas, sobbing out their prayers, making promises, vowing to end all their affairs. The next morning, the phone rang. Danny had come out of his coma. His parents rushed to his bedside. He tried to smile through his pain. “Mum, Dad, please don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Why do you think we would, sweetheart? We’re together,” Jenny soothed, stroking his hot hand. Danny winced. “I saw it, Mum. And when I have children, I’ll name them after you.” Alex and Jenny exchanged glances, thinking Danny was talking nonsense — children? He couldn’t even lift a finger, barely clinging to life! But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s efforts went into saving him; the holiday home was sold. The garage and car, lost in the fire, could have helped too — but the only thing that mattered was that their boy survived. Grandparents chipped in however they could. The family rallied together in their shared grief. Even the longest day must end. A year passed. Danny was now at a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. There, he met Mary, a girl his own age, also a burns survivor, her face terribly scarred. She was shy, never looking in mirrors. Danny was drawn to her gentle spirit and inner wisdom, wanting to protect her. They spent every free moment together. Both had known unimaginable pain and despair, learned to swallow bitter medicine, grow unafraid of needles and white coats. Time passed… Danny and Mary had a quiet wedding. Two beautiful children followed — a daughter, Charlotte, and, three years later, a son, Eugene. At last, the family seemed settled and at peace. Yet, at this point, Alex and Jenny decided to part ways. Everything with Danny had left them empty and weary. Both craved freedom and calm. Jenny moved in with her sister in the suburbs, but first stopped by the church for Father Simon’s blessing. She often thanked him for Danny’s life, but he always reminded her: “Thank God, Jenny!” He wasn’t pleased she was leaving, but said gently, “If you must, go and rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex remained alone in their empty flat. The sons, now with families of their own, lived separately. Even the former couple visited their grandchildren at different times, careful not to cross paths. In short, now everyone was comfortable…

RAW TO THE TOUCH In this family, everyone lived their own life. Tom, the father, had not only his wife

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Fate on a Hospital Bed: The Story of a Nurse, a Tuberculosis Patient Named Dmitri, His Abandoned Marriage, and the Trials and Triumphs of Love, Loss, and Family Through the Years

FATE ON A HOSPITAL BED Miss, please, take this and look after him! I darent even stand near him, let

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I Came to Visit Because I Missed You, But My Grown Children Feel Like Strangers – A Mother’s Story of Longing and Disappointment

I came to visit because I missed you, but children feel like strangers now. Parents always worry about

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A Struggling Man Rescues a Drowning Woman

Victor Mills, fresh from tucking his meagre evening catch into a wicker basket and making his way down