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Get out of here, I never loved you anyway! – shouted Nicholas after his young wife as she left the flat with their small child.

15December I stared out at the drizzleslicked pavement as I walked home from the office, the scent of

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Natalie Was Returning Home with Heavy Shopping Bags When She Saw a Car by Her Gate—Puzzled, She Drew Closer and Spotted a Young Man in the Yard. “He’s Here!” She Exclaimed, Rushing to Hug Her Son—But He Stopped Her: “Mum, Wait, I Need to Tell You Something. You’d Better Sit Down,” Victor Whispered, and Natalie Braced Herself for the Worst

Natalie was making her way home from the village shop, her arms aching from the weight of her shopping bags.

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I Bought Myself a “Younger” Life With Money—Years Later, My Husband Discovered the Truth and We Got Divorced

Money made me “younger.” Years later, my husband learned the truth and we divorced.

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Ever Since I Was a Little Girl, My Parents Told Me I Was Useless and Nobody Needed Me—But I Proved Them Wrong by Moving to London, Starting My Own Business, and Building the Family I Always Dreamed Of

Since I was a young boy, my parents used to tell me that nobody needed me and that I would never amount

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The Most Important Thing: When Lily’s Fever Skyrocketed to 40.5°C, Convulsions Began—Her Body Arched with Such Force That Sarah Froze, Speechless. Foam Choked Lily, Her Breathing Faltered, and Only Desperate Shouts, Shaking Hands, and Heartbeat Seconds Remained for Her Mum—Until the Ambulance Was Called, and Her Father John, Hearing Only the Word “Died,” Collapsed in Despair; Hurtling Through London Streets in the Dead of Night, Haunted by Memories and Fear, They Wait at the Children’s Hospital as Tears Fall and Hope Hangs by a Thread, Until Finally—“She Will Live. The Crisis Has Passed”—and Nothing in Their World Would Ever Have the Same Meaning Again.

The Most Important Thing Emilys fever came out of nowhere. In no time, the thermometer was reading 40.

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You Used to Be Absolutely Fine Before

Youd better spotpay me £5? No cash, the petrol gauge is empty, the voice note from a mate cut off.

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My Husband Only Thinks of Himself: He Eats Everything in the House, Not Even Leaving Food for Our Child – Five Years of Marriage, Mortgage Struggles, and Endless Arguments Over My Greedy Husband’s Selfish Ways

My husband thinks only of himself. He eats everything, leaving not even a crumb for the child.

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Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.

Emily, its been five years since you left; you havent cared how Im living or whats happened to me.

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“Well, Ginger, shall we head out then…” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old piece of rope. He zipped his ancient coat up to his chin and shivered. February that year was vicious—slush, stinging wind, cold that cut right through you. Ginger—a scruffy ginger mongrel with mottled fur and one cloudy eye—had walked into Val’s life a year ago. Val had spotted the battered and starving stray by the bins on his way back from the night shift at the steelworks. The poor animal’s left eye was milky with an old injury. A shout sliced through the evening. Val recognised the sneer—it was Steve ‘Squint’, the local twenty-something would-be tough guy. Around him loitered three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “Out for a walk, are we, gramps?” Steve jeered. “Just walking,” Val replied curtly, eyes down. “Oi, mate, you paying tax to walk that mutt?” one of the kids laughed. “See, he’s proper ugly—look at that dodgy eye!” A rock whistled past and struck Ginger’s side. The mongrel yelped and pressed close to Val’s shin. “Leave it,” Val said quietly, but his voice had an edge as sharp as glass. “Oooh, Percy the Tinkerer’s found his tongue!” Steve swaggered closer. “You remember whose patch this is? Dogs walk here if I say so. Got it?” Val tensed. Army training taught him to handle trouble swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary, retired fitter who didn’t want any more hassle. “C’mon, Ginger,” Val turned for home. “Yeah, you better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time I’ll finish off your freak for good!” Val lay awake all night, the confrontation twisting in his mind. The next day, sleet drummed on the windows. Val delayed the walk, but Ginger waited by the door with such faithful insistence he couldn’t refuse. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts, but Steve’s gang were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val was just beginning to relax when Ginger stopped dead near the old boiler house. His one good ear pricked up, sniffing. “What’s up, old boy?” Ginger whined and tugged towards the derelict. Strange noises filtered out—maybe crying, maybe groans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer, just wind howling through broken brick. Ginger pulled urgently. There was fear in that one bright eye. “What is it?” Val knelt beside him. “What’s going on?” Then, he heard it—a child’s voice, desperate: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped Ginger’s lead and followed into the ruins. Behind crumbling bricks, a boy of twelve huddled, beaten and crying—split lip, torn clothes. “Oh my God!” Val knelt. “What’s happened, son?” “Mr Williams? Is that you?” the boy peered up. Val looked closer and recognized him—Andy Moore, the quiet lad from no. 5. “Andy! Who did this?” “Steve and his lot,” Andy sniffed. “They wanted money off my mum. I told them I’d tell the police. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. S-so cold.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped Andy. Ginger pressed close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, son?” “My leg… I think it’s broken.” Val carefully examined it. Definitely a break. Who knew what else was wrong? “You got a phone?” “They took it.” Val fished out his battered old Nokia, dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, Andy. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m still alive?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t lay a finger on you,” Val promised. “Not ever again.” Andy stared at him in disbelief: “But you ran off from them yesterday…” “That was just me and Ginger. This time—it’s different.” He left the rest unsaid. How to explain the old soldier’s code—that real men don’t abandon children in trouble? The ambulance came quicker than expected. They took Andy away. Val waited by the boiler house, thoughts churning. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs Moore, came to his door in tears, thanking him over and over. “Mr Williams,” she sobbed, “they said if he’d been out there another hour… You saved his life!” “Wasn’t me,” Val said, stroking Ginger’s head. “Ginger found your boy.” “But what now?” Mrs Moore stared anxiously at the door. “Steve’s still out there. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word doesn’t count.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He tossed in bed that night, restless. How could he protect Andy—and the rest of the area’s kids—from this gang? By morning, the answer was clear. Val put on his old British Army dress uniform—medals shining, jacket crisp. He checked the mirror—a soldier, even if greying and slowed by time. “Come on, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s gang lurked by the shop as usual. Seeing Val approach in full regalia, the youths sniggered. “Here he comes, like it’s Remembrance Sunday!” one crowed. Steve hopped off the bench, smirking. “You lost, grandad? Your day’s done.” “On the contrary,” Val replied, walking straight up. “My day’s only beginning.” “Why you dressed like that, then?” “To do my duty. To protect the vulnerable—from the likes of you.” Steve snorted. “What planet are you on, grandpa? Who cares about ‘the vulnerable’?” “You remember Andy Moore?” The laughter slid off Steve’s face. “Why would I remember some muppet?” “You’d better. Because he’ll be the last kid you harm around here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a glint of metal in his hand. “Let’s see if you’ve still got the bottle—” Val didn’t budge. The old army steel was back. “The law runs this patch, not you.” “And who made you the law?” “My conscience.” Then, something unexpected happened. Ginger, silent until now, stood up tall—hackles raised, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. “Your mangy dog’s next,” Steve started. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in calmly. “Afghan bomb squad. She can sniff out bad guys with her eyes closed.” Utter nonsense—Ginger was no more than a bin dog. But Val’s voice had such conviction, everyone bought it. Even Ginger, who straightened and bared her teeth like a K9 legend. “She’s taken down more villains than I can count,” Val went on. “Think she couldn’t handle one jumped-up yob?” Steve faltered. His mates froze behind him. “Listen carefully,” Val intoned, stepping closer. “From today, these streets are safe. I’ll be walking every alley, every day—and my dog will know every troublemaker. You get me?” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You can’t scare me, you fossil. One call and—” “Make your calls,” Val nodded. “Just remember—I have my own contacts. Blokes in the nick. Life owes me more favours than you could dream.” Not true, but Val sounded utterly convincing. “The name’s Val the Veteran,” he finished. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned away. Ginger trotted beside him, tail high. Behind, silence. Within three days, Steve and his crew had all but disappeared. And Val kept his promise. Every evening, he patrolled the estate, Ginger at his side—watchful, indomitable. Andy left hospital a week later, still limping but on the mend. That very day he knocked on Val’s door. “Mr Williams, can I help? With your patrols, I mean.” “You’d best ask your mum first.” Mrs Moore agreed, relieved her son had found such a role model. So, every night, the oddest trio strolled the estate—a retired soldier in medals, a sturdy lad, and an old ginger dog. Ginger won everyone’s hearts; even the mums let their kids stroke her, scruffy as she was. Something about her was noble. Val told the kids stories of army brotherhood and loyalty. They listened, rapt. One evening, Andy asked: “Mr Williams, have you ever been scared?” “Of course,” Val replied honestly. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not getting there in time. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Ginger. “When I grow up, I want to help too. Maybe I’ll have a dog as clever as Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. “I’m sure of it.” Ginger wagged her tail. And soon, everyone in the area knew it: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog. She can spot a hero from a villain.” And Ginger proudly served, no longer just a stray—now a true defender of the neighbourhood.

Come on, Ginger, shall we? muttered Arthur, adjusting the makeshift lead hed fashioned from an old bit of rope.

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Nice Try! My Would-Be Boyfriend Thought He Could Move Into My Flat and Live Off Me—But He Was in for a Rude Awakening

Looking back now, I realise how fortunate I was to always have a firm sense of purpose. By the age of