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Run Away From Him Oh, hey there, mate! Hannah plops down on the chair next to Emily. Long time no see.

Just Hold On a Little Longer – Mum, this is for Anna’s next semester. Mary set the envelope down on the scratched plastic tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the front door. It was always exactly the amount needed. Eleanor put aside her knitting and looked over the top of her glasses at her daughter. – Mary, love, you look a bit peaky. Shall I put the kettle on? – No need, Mum. I’m just popping in, have to dash straight to my second shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—maybe Mum’s joint cream or the drops Mary bought every month. Forty pounds a bottle, lasting just shy of three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets. Plus quarterly check-ups. – Anna was so pleased about the bank internship, – Eleanor said gently, taking the envelope as if it were made of the finest glass. – She says there are good prospects. Mary kept quiet. – Tell her these are the last funds for uni. The final semester. Mary had carried this weight for five years. Each month—an envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Each month, the calculator came out: minus rent, minus medicine, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s tuition. What was left? A rented room in a shared flat, a winter coat now six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own place. Mary once dreamed of a weekend in London—just to wander Tate Britain, walk along the Thames. She’d started to save, but then Mum had her first serious turn and all the savings vanished on doctors. – You ought to take a break, love, – Mum stroked her hand. – You look done in. – Soon, Mum. I will. Soon. Soon meant once Anna got a job. Once Mum’s condition settled. Once Mary could exhale and care for herself, just as she’d been telling herself for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—first class, Mary had taken a day off to attend the ceremony. She watched her little sister cross the stage in a new dress—her gift, obviously—and thought: this is it. Now it all changes. Anna would start earning, and Mary could finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. – You don’t get it, – Anna sat curled on the sofa in fluffy socks – I didn’t go to uni for five years to slave away for peanuts. – Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. – For you, maybe. Mary bit down on her annoyance. At her main job, she earned forty-two. Her second job—an extra twenty, on a good week. Sixty-two thousand, with luck. If she kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. – Anna, you’re twenty-two. You need to start work somewhere. – I will. Just not for a pittance in a dingy office. Eleanor busied herself in the kitchen, clattering plates—always acting like she couldn’t hear. Every time her daughters argued, she absented herself, then later, as Mary went to leave, she’d whisper, “Don’t be hard on Anna, love. She’s still young. She just doesn’t get it.” Doesn’t get it. Twenty-two, and still doesn’t get it. – I’m not made of time, Anna. – Stop dramatising. It’s not like I’m asking for handouts. I just want to find something decent. Not asking directly. But Mum asked: “Mary, Anna needs some money for a course; she wants to brush up on her English.” “Mary, Anna’s phone is broken, she needs it for job searching.” “Mary, Anna’s coat is wrecked, and winter’s coming.” Mary sent the money, bought the coat, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was how it always went: she toiled, and the rest just accepted it. – I’ve got to run, – she stood up. – Evening shift tonight. – Wait, I’ll pop some pasties in a packet for you! – Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Mary took the bag and stepped into the chilly, cat-scented stairwell. Ten minutes at a brisk clip to the bus stop. Then an hour on the bus. Then eight hours on her feet. Then four more on her computer, if she made it in time for her freelance shift. And Anna would be home, scrolling vacancies, awaiting the universe to provide her with the perfect hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pounds, work-from-home role. The first blow-up came in November. – Are you even doing anything? – Mary snapped, seeing Anna sprawled on the sofa just as she was the week before. – Have you sent a single CV? – I’ve sent three. – In a whole month—three? Anna rolled her eyes and buried her face in her phone. – You don’t get how the job market is now. The competition is brutal, you have to pick the right jobs. – The “right” ones? The ones where you get paid to lie on the sofa? Eleanor popped her head round from the kitchen, wringing her hands on the tea towel. – Girls, fancy a cuppa? I made cake… – Not now, Mum, – Mary rubbed her temples. Third day running with a headache. – Just tell me why I have to work two jobs when she won’t take on one? – Mary, Anna’s still young. She’ll find her way… – When? In a year? In five? I was working at her age! Anna jerked upright. – Sorry for not wanting your life! Slaving away, never doing anything but work! Silence. Mary took her bag and left. On the ride home, she stared at the rain-streaked window and thought: a workhorse. That’s how I look from the outside. Eleanor called next day, pleading for peace. – Anna didn’t mean it, darling. She’s just upset, it’s hard for her. Just hold on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on till Dad gets better. Hold on till Anna grows up. Hold on till things improve. Mary had been holding on all her life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same way: Mary tried to reason with Anna, Anna snapped back, Eleanor darted between them, fretting and begging for calm. Afterwards, Mary left. Eleanor phoned with apologies. And it all repeated. – You have to understand, she’s your sister, – Mum said. – And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine. – Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice sparkled with excitement. – Mary! I’m getting married! – What? To who? – He’s called Dave. We’ve been seeing each other three weeks. He’s just perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks—and now marriage. Mary wanted to say it was crazy, to get to know someone first, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If she got married, her husband could support her, and Mary could finally breathe. That fragile hope evaporated at the family dinner. – I’ve got it all planned! – Anna beamed. – Hundred-guest reception, live band, found a dress in a designer boutique… Mary put her fork down. – And all that costs…? – Well…—Anna shrugged, disarmingly—Five grand? Maybe six. But it’s once in a lifetime! A wedding! – And who’s paying? – Mary, come on… Dave’s parents can’t help, he says, mortgage and all. And Mum’s nearly on the breadline. You’ll have to get a loan, probably. Mary stared at her. Then at her mum. Eleanor looked away. – Are you serious? – Mary, it’s a wedding, – Mum used that syrupy tone Mary remembered since childhood. – Once in a lifetime, love. Can’t be stingy… – You want me to take out a six grand loan to pay for a wedding for someone who’s never even bothered to find a job? – You’re my sister! – Anna slapped the table – You have to! – Have to? Mary stood. The world went strangely calm and quiet. – Five years. Five years I paid for your education. For Mum’s medicines. For your food, clothes, heating. I work two jobs. I have no car, no flat, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in a year and a half. – Mary, calm down… – Eleanor started. – No! Enough! For years I’ve supported both of you, and you’re sitting here demanding more from me? That’s it. From today, I live for myself. She left, snatching her coat from the hook. It was minus five outside but Mary didn’t feel the cold. She felt a strange warmth instead—as if she’d finally shrugged off the sack of stones that had weighed her down all her life. Her phone buzzed endlessly. She blocked both numbers. …Six months later. Mary moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat—her own, finally. In summer she visited London—four days, Tate Britain, the Thames, long summer evenings. She bought herself a new dress. And another. Some shoes, too. She found out about her family by chance—from a school friend who worked near her mum’s place. – Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was called off? Mary froze with her coffee cup. – What? – Oh, they say the groom bailed. Heard there was no money, so he legged it. Mary sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter—and, strangely, delicious. – Don’t know. We don’t speak. That evening, Mary sat by the window of her new flat and realised she felt no spite. Not an ounce. Just a quiet, peaceful satisfaction of someone who has finally stopped being the family workhorse…

Just hang on a little longer Mum, this is for Emilys next term. Mary set the envelope down on the old

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Run From Him Oh, hello there, love! Emma settled herself on the chair beside Lily. Been ages!

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Who Slept in My Bed and Left It a Mess… A Story About My Husband’s Lover, Our Daughter’s Favourite Mug, and How Twenty Years Went Down the Drain

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The Waiter Suggested Taking Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot Gentleman Lifted the Crying Furry Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Cut of Meat!” — Let’s wear something daring, almost like young nymphs, and head to the fanciest restaurant in town. Show ourselves off and size up the men… One of the three friends spoke with confidence — she was the headmistress of an elite, expensive private girls’ school. The job required poise, so she always had just the right clever words ready. These “nymphs” were thirty-five. The perfect age, they agreed, for short skirts and blouses designed to highlight, not hide, their assets. Plunging necklines, flawless makeup — the full battle gear. The chosen restaurant was suitably grand: chic, exclusive, and eye-wateringly expensive. Of course, they could afford it. They booked a table, settled in comfortably, and immediately began catching the admiring glances of men — and the openly frosty looks from their companions. The conversation, inevitably, revolved around men — dreams, expectations, and requirements. Each was after her ideal: tall, athletic, handsome, and, above all, wealthy. He should pamper her, fulfill every whim, never bore her with chit-chat or bog her down with chores. If he happened to have noble lineage as well — perfect. — Just not like those ones… The friends glanced knowingly at a nearby group: three cheerful, slightly stout men with receding hairlines, drinking beer, munching on crisps and mountains of steak, discussing football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, honest, and unrestrained. — Awful. — So tacky. — Ugh. The verdict was unanimous: unkempt, coarse, not a trace of class, and entirely wrong for such glamorous ladies. But then something happened that instantly changed the tone of the evening. He walked in — the man who had just pulled up in a scarlet, latest-model Ferrari. — Count Coburg Colden Saxon! — The waiter announced grandly at the entrance. The women perked up like hounds catching a fresh scent. Tall, elegant, with distinguished silver at the temples, he wore a perfectly tailored suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks, a dazzling white shirt completed the look. — Oh my… — Wow… — Mmmm… Low necklines dipped even lower, their gazes openly inviting. — Now that’s a man, whispered one. — An actual count, a stunner, and a millionaire — chimed the second. I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a kid… The third said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the count’s table. They walked grandly, shooting scornful glances at other diners — especially the beer trio. The count was charming, engaging in polite society speeches about ancient family lines, castle estates, and art collections. The tension among the women rose — all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The arrival of food — lobsters, trays of seafood, rare vintage wine — temporarily eased the pressure. The ladies dined in style, sending dreamy glances at the count and fantasizing about much more than dinner. Their cheeks glowed, and they looked especially radiant. The count sparkled too — joking, sharing high-society stories, and none of the women cared anymore where he’d take them after the meal. The restaurant had a small garden. The aroma from the kitchen was so tempting, it drifted outside. Soon, a small, scruffy grey kitten appeared, weaving its way between tables and sitting expectantly at the count’s feet. It was all in vain. The count’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he shoved the kitten away with his foot. The little one tumbled several feet, right into the table leg where the three beer drinkers sat. Silence swept through the room. — I can’t stand these dirty, worthless animals, the count declared loudly. I keep pedigreed hounds and the finest horses at my castle. The waiter hurried to assure: — We’ll handle it, so sorry… He headed for the beer table, but one man was already on his feet. Huge, almost six feet tall, face flushed with anger, fists clenched. His mates tried to hold him back. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and placed it on the chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. And your finest cut of meat. Now! The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen as applause broke out. One of the “nymphs” stood, walked over to the giant, and said: — Make room. And order a lady a whiskey. The count was speechless. Within minutes, the two other friends joined them, gifting the count a contemptuous glare. Not everyone left the restaurant together that night. One group — a man, a woman, and a scruffy grey kitten — walked out in triumph. Time passed. Today, the first of the friends is married to that giant — owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his pals, both top lawyers. Their weddings were held on the same day. Now, the former “nymphs” have a totally different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning, with baby daughters all born within months. To freshen up, they send their husbands off for football or fishing at weekends, call the nanny, and head back to their favourite restaurant — to talk about women’s stuff. About men. As for Count Coburg Colden Saxon — a year later, he was arrested. A high-profile case — a marriage fraudster preying on unsuspecting women. Real men, happily, aren’t like that. I mean those three — with beer bellies and balding heads, with no glamour or airs, but truly honourable hearts. And that’s that. There’s really no other way.

The waiter hurried over, intent on removing the stray kitten. But a towering Englishman intercepted

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The Second Child is a Husband

Second child is a husband. No, it isnt a wife Its a housekeeper, a chef Dont get sidetracked.