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Youll finally have a child of your own, so its time to send her back to the orphanage. When is my son

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples throbbed—the last of the holiday salads had been finished off yesterday, and this morning he’d packed away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. Pulling his cap over his ears, he pocketed his phone and carefully descended the stairs, gripping the banister as usual. In the pale January midday, the courtyard looked like a stage set: cleared pathways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance. Snow tumbled softly from the wooden planks. This was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—a few minutes on the bench, then back inside. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. A tall man in a navy coat, about fifty-five, with a vaguely familiar face. “Plenty of room,” Victor replied, scooting over. “Which flat are you from?” “Forty-three, second floor. Moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stephens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael produced a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go on, feel free.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the tobacco scent suddenly carried him back to the newsroom where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale it and quickly pushed the thought aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was brand new back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. Sound technician.” Victor perked up. “With Valery Zachary?” “That’s right! You knew him?” “I wrote a profile on him, back in eighty-nine. For that anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ performed?” “I could tell you every detail of that show!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in these giant speakers, the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own. Names surfaced, stories—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he should be heading home, but each memory led to another: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d grown unaccustomed to long chats. In his last years at the paper he only churned out urgent copy, and after retiring, he closed himself off. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to rely on anyone, not to get attached. But now, something inside was slowly thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got an archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes, too—I did the recordings myself. If you’d like to see them…” What for? Victor wondered. Then I’ll feel obligated. What if he wants to become neighbourly friends—my routine will be thrown off. And what could I possibly see that’s new? “Could be worth a look,” Victor replied. “When’s good for you?” “Anytime. Five o’clock tomorrow? I’ll be in from work then.” “Alright,” Victor fished out his phone and opened his contacts. “Take my number, we’ll call if plans change.” That evening, he struggled to fall asleep. He replayed their conversation, called up old details. More than once he reached for the phone—ready to call it off and blame his busy schedule. But he never did. In the morning, he was woken by a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Changed your mind?” Michael’s voice sounded a little unsure. “No,” Victor answered. “I’ll see you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens steps out into the courtyard just after one in the afternoon.

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What are you up to, Granddad? Fancy a stroll? At your age, I’d be staying indoors!

19May2025 Today I found myself once more by the dustladen lane that runs past the old brick cottages

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Now You’ll Have Your Own Child—It’s Time She Went Back to the Orphanage

Now you’ll have your own child, and it’s time for her to go back to the orphanage.

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The Last Summer at Home

Last Summer at Home William arrives on a Wednesday, when the midday sun is already warming the slate

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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? Why I Needed a DNA Test to Be Sure Nikita sat thoughtfully watching his wife, Olivia, dote lovingly on their newborn daughter. Yet he couldn’t shake a nagging thought: what if the baby wasn’t really his? Last year, Nikita had been sent away on a month-long work trip, and just weeks after returning, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news—they were expecting a child. At first, Nikita was overjoyed. But things changed when Olivia’s sister visited and, in passing, revealed that she too had taken a DNA test on her own son—to put any doubts her partner had about paternity to rest. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test as well—just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. Olivia exploded in anger, launching objects around the house, the argument so loud it prompted the neighbours to bang on the wall. “What? What’s so outrageous?” Nikita insisted, feeling his suspicions deepen. Her dramatic reaction only confirmed his fears. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” Olivia cried, hurling another cushion. “I was away for a whole month,” Nikita pointed out. “How do I know what went on here?” He proposed they could get the clinic details from Olivia’s sister. Olivia, fuming, stormed out of the room, slamming the nursery door behind her. *** Nikita vented his worries to his mother, Anne. Over coffee, she quietly sided with him, even hinting at a suspicious incident: a time she had visited while Nikita was away, only for Olivia to take an unusually long time to answer the door—and, when she did, there were men’s shoes in the hallway. Though Anne was careful not to jump to conclusions, her story only stoked Nikita’s paranoia. She urged him to push for the test, if only for his own peace of mind as a father. *** In the end, Nikita got the test done secretly while out with the baby. When the results arrived, he declared: “You can relax—Aria is my daughter. Like I promised, I won’t bring this up ever again.” But Olivia was livid: “Did you really do the test without my permission?” “Yes, I did. I needed to know,” he admitted. “That’s a problem,” she replied sadly. The next day Nikita returned from work to find his wife and daughter gone, their things packed up. On the table lay a single note: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything. I won’t live with a traitor—I want a divorce. I don’t want anything from you, not the house or even support. I just want you out of our lives.” Enraged, Nikita tried calling Olivia—only for a man to answer, telling him to stop calling. Nikita assumed the worst, convinced she’d already moved on. The divorce was finalised swiftly; little Aria stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again.

What if shes not really my daughter? Maybe I should do a DNA test. James found himself watching his wife

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Hypochondria or a Genuine Diagnosis?

26April2025 Diary I still cant shake the image of my wife, Emma Clarke, standing at the corner shop

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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? I Need a DNA Test Nikita couldn’t shake off a nagging suspicion as he watched his wife, Olivia, cooing over their newborn daughter. He seriously doubted the baby was his. Just last year, Nikita had to go away for a month-long business trip. A couple of weeks after he returned, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news: they were expecting a baby. At first, Nikita was thrilled. But then Olivia’s sister visited and casually dropped a story about having had a DNA test done for her own son—just to reassure her partner about paternity. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test, too. Just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. His wife’s reaction was immediate—a raging argument broke out, with things flying and the neighbours banging on the walls. “What’s the big deal?” Nikita insisted, now more convinced than ever of his suspicions. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “How could you even think that?” Olivia shouted, tossing another pillow his way. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” “I was away for a month,” Nikita retorted with a crooked smile. “How do I know what happened here while I was gone? Let’s do the test—I’ll see the result and never bring it up again. So, when are we going? We can use your sister’s clinic.” “In your next life,” Olivia spat, slamming the door as she left for the nursery. *************************************************** “You know,” Nikita complained to his mother over coffee, “I’m not asking for anything extraordinary. So why is she so upset?” “She must have a guilty conscience,” his mum, Anne Peterson, replied. “Mark my words, she had that daughter with someone else and is scared you’ll find out. Besides,” she hesitated, “when you were away, there was something that happened…” “What was it?” Nikita’s interest was piqued. “I try not to meddle, but I came over to discuss your father’s birthday. She took forever to answer the door—even though I knew she was home. When she finally opened up, she looked disheveled. And there were men’s shoes in the hallway.” “What did she say?” Nikita demanded, outraged. “Said it was a burst pipe,” his mother rolled her eyes. “Could’ve come up with something better, really.” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” “I never got inside the flat, so there’s no proof,” she retorted. “Didn’t want to cause trouble unnecessarily.” “You should have!” Nikita exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee. “Really should have! So what now?” “Make sure you do the DNA test,” Anne said, hiding a smirk. She’d never liked Olivia. “Or do it yourself. You’re the father, you have the right.” ************************************************ “You can relax,” Nikita dropped the now-unnecessary envelope delivered by courier. “Ari is my daughter. Like I promised, I’ll never bring it up again.” “I don’t get it,” Olivia said, eyeing the opened envelope with suspicion. “Did you do that damned test without asking me?” “Yeah,” Nikita replied casually. “Stopped by the clinic while I was out with our daughter. Didn’t take long. She’s mine, so it’s all good.” “There is a problem,” she said quietly. “And it’s a shame you can’t see it.” The next morning, Nikita left for work as usual. That evening, he came home to an empty flat. His wife and daughter were gone, and all Olivia’s belongings with them. Only a handwritten note sat on the coffee table: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything between us. I refuse to live with a traitor, and I’m filing for divorce. I don’t want anything from you—no flat, no alimony. I just want you out of our lives.” Nikita was furious. How dare Olivia leave him—and take his daughter with her! He grabbed his phone and started calling around. A man answered, listened silently to Nikita’s outburst, and asked him not to call again. “I knew she was cheating on me!” Nikita fumed. “She couldn’t wait to run to some other man! Good riddance!” He never considered that Olivia might have gone to her parents’, and it was her brother who answered, simply protecting his sister who had just gotten Ari to sleep. Nikita had made up his mind. The divorce was quick and mutual. Little Ari stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again…

What if she isn’t my daughter? I need a DNA test. Michael gazed thoughtfully at his wife, Emma

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No More “Shoulds”: When Anton walked into the kitchen and saw three plates of dried-up pasta, an overturned yoghurt pot, and an open exercise book, he was too tired to tell Vera or Kostya off. Instead, he just started tidying up. Vera didn’t look up from her phone, Kostya’s rucksack was in the middle of the hallway, and Anton was worn out from work and his mother’s demands. The family drifted through their routines—homework, chores—but no one talked about what mattered. But that evening, Anton chose honesty over duty. He called everyone to the kitchen—not to nag, but to talk. They sat together: Vera defensive, Kostya wary, Anton uncertain. For once, they spoke not about “what needs to be done” but about how they were actually feeling. Anton admitted his fears: money problems, job cuts, his mother’s health, and most of all, the worry that his children were struggling and he didn’t even know it because he was too busy pretending all was well. Kostya confessed he was being teased at school and couldn’t sleep. Vera admitted she didn’t want to go to college and felt lost, but everyone around her seemed to have their lives planned out. Anton told them he didn’t always cope either. For a while, they just sat with the truth in the silence. Then, together, they washed the dishes—not out of duty, but because they chose to share the work. That night, for the first time, the silence in their home felt full of possibility, not emptiness. Anton realised you don’t have to have all the answers to be a good parent. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply show up, be honest, and face the unknown together—without the weight of “shoulds” hanging over you.

Without must David walked into the house and saw three plates with dried-up pasta on the kitchen table

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A New Family Takes Precedence Over the Old One

– Mum, this is Emily, my fiancée Arthur announced as soon as he crossed the threshold, wrapping