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Grandma, My Guardian Angel: An Orphan’s Journey, An Unbreakable Bond, and the Life-Saving Warning from Beyond

GRANDMOTHER, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL My parents are just shadows in my memory, for I never really knew them.

There’s Still Much to Do at Home… Granny Val Opened the Garden Gate and Struggled Up the Path, Fumbling with the Rusted Lock Before Entering Her Cold, Untended Cottage and Taking a Seat Beside the Chilly Hearth, Where the Scent of Emptiness Hung in the Air—She’d Only Been Gone Three Months, but Cobwebs Now Clung to the Ceilings, the Old Chair Creaked in Complaint, and the Wind Moaned Down the Chimney, Greeting Her with a Stern “Where Have You Been, Mistress? How Are We to Survive the Winter?”

Theres always something that needs doing at home, isnt there Old Nan Edith managed to open the garden

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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a heavy pail of pig feed, marching irritably past her husband, George, who had been fussing with the well for three days straight. A carved well—just for the sake of beauty, as if there weren’t real work to do! While his wife busied herself around the house and tended the animals, there he stood, chisel in hand, covered in wood shavings, smiling at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? Never a tender word, never a fist pounded on the table in passion—just quietly toiling away, and now and then, he’d come over to look her in the eyes and run his hand through her thick honey-coloured braid—that was the extent of his affection. And how she wished for more, to be called “darling” or “my swan”… Pondering her woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog, but in an instant George was there, catching her by the arm and scolding the pup: “Why are you always underfoot? You’ll get the mistress hurt.” Buster tucked his tail and slunk away to his kennel, while Annie marvelled—once again—at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d once asked George about it, and he’d simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Annie too dreamed of love—a husband who would sweep her off her feet, whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and leave flowers on her pillow every morning… But George was a man of few affections, and Annie was starting to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called over the fence Charlie, their neighbour. “George, still up to your old tricks? Who needs all those fancy carvings on a well, eh?” “I want my children to grow up as good people, with something beautiful to look at,” George replied. “You’ll need to have some children first!” Charlie laughed, winking at Annie. George looked at her sadly, and Annie, flustered, hurried back inside. She wasn’t in a rush to have children—still young, still pretty, wanting to live for herself a bit longer. And George—neither here nor there. But the neighbour! Tall, broad-shouldered… Charlie was a real looker. And when he met her at the garden gate, his words were tender and warm as a summer rain: “My dewdrop, my sunshine…” Her heart would flutter and her knees would weaken, but Annie always ran away from him; she wouldn’t give in to his overtures. She’d promised fidelity when she married, and her parents, who’d lived in harmony for years, always taught her to protect her family. Yet why did she yearn so to glance out the window, hoping to catch Charlie’s eye? The next morning, Annie was driving the cow out to pasture when she bumped into Charlie at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I can’t take my eyes off you—I’m dizzy every time I see you. Come visit me at sunrise. When your George is off fishing, come see me—I promise you more tenderness than you’ve ever known; you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed fiercely, her heart skipped, but she said nothing—just hurried on past. “I’ll wait for you,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t get him out of her head. Oh, how she longed for love and affection, and Charlie was hard to resist, with those sultry looks—but she couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. Not yet… the sunrise was still some hours away, and perhaps… That evening, George heated the bathhouse and even invited Charlie to join him—a welcome excuse for Charlie, who could save himself the chore at home. They laid into each other with birch branches, sighing with pleasure as the steam built up. After their bath, they sat to cool down, and Annie brought out a decanter of homemade gin and laid out snacks—but remembered there were pickles in the cellar. As she went to fetch them, voices drifted through the half-open door, so she paused to listen. “Why so shy, George?” Charlie murmured. “Come on, mate, you won’t regret it. There’s widows out there who’ll shower you with affection, real stunners! Not like your Annie—just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” she heard her husband’s soft but certain voice. “I don’t want anyone else. Wouldn’t even think of it. My Annie’s no grey mouse. She’s the most wonderful woman on earth, more beautiful than any flower or berry. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—just those lovely eyes, her slender waist. My love for her is more than a river in spring—only trouble is, I can’t find the words to let her know how much I love her. She gets upset—I know she does—and I’m to blame, but I’m terrified of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her. Couldn’t draw breath…” Annie stood motionless, heart pounding, a tear slipping down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the bathhouse and declared, “Charlie, off you go—go chase around with widows if that’s what you want. We’ve got more important things right here. There’s still no one to admire George’s handiwork, and I’ve wasted enough time not seeing the happiness I had in my hands. I’m sorry, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness. Let’s not waste another moment…” At dawn the next morning, George did not go fishing.

Love Isn’t For Show Emily steps out of the cottage with a heavy bucket of pig feed and walks past

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“Lynda, Have You Gone Mad in Your Old Age? Your Grandkids Are Already at School—What’s This About a Wedding?”: That’s What My Sister Said When I Told Her I Was Getting Married. But Why Wait Any Longer? Tolly and I Are Registering Our Marriage in a Week, and I Need to Tell My Sister—Though She Won’t Come, We Live at Opposite Ends of the Country. We’re Not Planning a Noisy Bash with ‘Kiss the Bride!’ at Sixty, Just a Quiet Registry and an Evening for Two. We Could Skip It Altogether, But Tolly Insists—He’s a True Gentleman, Opening Doors and Helping Me with My Coat. He Says He Needs Real Commitment. To Me, He’s Still a Boy at Heart, Even with Silver Hair—Respected at Work, But Turns into a Teenager the Moment He Sees Me. I’m Almost Embarrassed When He Dances with Me in the Street! I Worried My Sister Tanya Would Judge Me, Especially After Losing My Husband Last Year—But Who Sets the Rules on How Long You’re Allowed to Be Happy Again? She Says at Least Five Years, But What If That’s All Tolly and I Have Left? For the First Time, I’m Living Life for Myself: Sleeping In, Shopping, Theatre, Even Splashing Through Leaves in the Park—All Thanks to Tolly. My Daughters Objected, but Now They’ve Come Around, and When Tolly and I Walked Out of the Registry Office on Our Wedding Day, They—and Even My Sister—Were Waiting with Flowers. We’ve Just Celebrated Our First Anniversary, and I Still Can’t Believe How Blissfully Happy I Am—It Almost Feels Unseemly!

Lucy, are you out of your mind at your age? Your grandchildren are already in school, what on earth do

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“Mr. William Johnson, You’ve Overslept Again!”—The Bus Driver’s Warm Chide Echoes Gently with a Hint of Reproach—“That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Sprinting for the Bus Like the Clappers Clutching the Rail, the Elderly Man in his Rumpled Jacket Catches his Breath, Silver Hair Untidy, Glasses Perched at the End of his Nose “Sorry, Andrew…” the Old Gentleman Pants, Pulling Out Crumpled Notes—“Either My Watch Is Slow, or I’m Just Not What I Used to Be…” Andrew Stephens—the Veteran Bus Driver, Tanned from Two Decades on the Route, Knows Most Passengers by Sight, but This Polite Pensioner Makes a Lasting Impression—Always Quiet, Always Courteous, Boarding at the Same Time Each Morning “That’s All Right, Hop On. Where To Today?” “To the Cemetery, as Usual.” Settling into His Regular Spot—Third Row from the Driver, by the Window—He Holds a Weathered Plastic Bag in His Lap Only a Few Passengers This Weekday Morning—A Cluster of Chattering Students, a Man Absorbed in his Phone—A Typical Scene “So Tell Me, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Asks, Glancing at Him in the Mirror, “You Go There Every Day? Isn’t It Difficult?” “Nowhere Else I Need to Be,” Comes the Quiet Reply, Gaze Fixed on the Window—“My Wife’s There… Been a Year and a Half Now. I Promised I’d Come Every Day.” Time Passes, and Mr. Johnson Becomes a Fixture of the Morning Journey—Andrew Grows Used to Waiting for Him, Even Sometimes Holding the Bus a Few Minutes “No Need to Wait for Me,” Mr. Johnson Once Insists, Sensing the Truth—“A Schedule’s a Schedule.” “Nonsense,” Andrew Brushes him Off—“A Couple of Minutes Won’t Hurt.” Then, One Morning, Mr. Johnson Doesn’t Appear. Nor the Next. Nor the Day After “Have You Seen the Elderly Man, Always Heading to the Cemetery?” Andrew Asks Tamara, the Conductor. “Hope He’s Not Unwell…” But Andrew Feels His Absence, Missing the Quiet ‘Thank You,’ the Sad Smile A Week Passes; Concerned, Andrew Takes his Break to Visit the Cemetery Gates “Excuse Me,” He Asks the Gatekeeper, “Looking for an Elderly Regular—Mr. Johnson, Silver Hair, Glasses, Always with a Bag. Have You Seen Him?” “Oh, Him!” She Brightens. “Every Single Day—Always Came to Visit His Wife…” “Not Been By this Week?” “Not at All.” She Remembers His Address—Sycamore Avenue, Number 15. “And You Are?” “I’m His Bus Driver. Drove Him Every Morning.” Andrew Finds the Old Block, Peeling Paint at the Entry, and Rings a Doorbell A Middle-aged Man Answers, Brow Furrowed “Looking for Mr. Johnson—the Gentleman Who Rode My Bus Each Day…” “Oh, He’s in Hospital—Had a Stroke Last Week, Poor Soul. Just Down at St. Mary’s.” Andrew’s Heart Sinks After His Shift, Andrew Heads to the Hospital—Finds the Ward, Asks a Nurse “Mr. Johnson? Yes—He’s Here, But Still Weak.” Andrew Steps Gently into the Room—The Elder by the Window, Pale but Awake. “You? Andrew? How Did You Find Me?”—Surprise and an Edge of Tears “I Looked for You—Worried When You Didn’t Show,” Andrew Smiles, Placing a Bag of Fruit Beside Him “You Worried—For Me? Why Would Anyone…” “You’re My Regular Passenger. I’ve Grown to Expect You Each Morning.” Mr. Johnson Stares Up at the Ceiling “I Haven’t Been to See Her in Ten Days—First Time in a Year and a Half. I’ve Broken My Word…” “It’s All Right, Mr. Johnson—Your Wife Would Understand. Illness Is No Light Thing.” “Maybe… Every Day, I’d Tell Her About My Day, About the Weather… Now She’s Alone, and I’m Stuck Here…” Andrew Feels for Him, and the Answer Comes Easy “Would You Like Me to Go? To Visit Your Wife’s Grave? I’ll Tell Her You’re in Hospital—That You’re Getting Better…” For a Moment, Mr. Johnson Looks at Him—Hope Flickering in His Eyes “You’d Do That—for a Stranger?” “You’re No Stranger. We’ve Seen Each Other Every Morning for a Year and a Half—That’s More Familiar than Some Family.” The Next Day, Andrew Visits the Cemetery—Finds the Grave with the Kind-eyed Woman, “Anna Johnson, 1952–2024,” Etched in Stone He Feels Awkward, but the Words Spill Out “Good Morning, Mrs. Johnson. I’m Andrew—the Bus Driver. Your Husband’s Been to See You Every Day without Fail—but Right Now He’s in Hospital, Getting Better. He Asked Me to Tell You He Loves You—and He’ll Be Back Soon…” He Says a Little More—About Mr. Johnson’s Devotion, His Kindness—and Feels Somehow That It’s the Right Thing to Do Returning to the Hospital, He Finds Mr. Johnson Stronger, Enjoying a Cup of Tea “I Went,” Andrew Says Simply. “Told Her Everything.” “How—How was it?” Mr. Johnson’s Voice Trembles “It’s All in Order. Someone’s Been Bringing Fresh Flowers—One of the Neighbours, Perhaps. Everything’s Tidy. She’s Waiting for You.” Mr. Johnson Closes His Eyes, Tears Rolling Down His Cheeks “Thank You, Son. Thank You…” A Fortnight Later, Mr. Johnson Is Discharged—Andrew Picks Him Up and Drives Him Home “See You Tomorrow?” Andrew Asks as He Helps the Old Man Off the Bus “Of Course—Eight O’Clock, as Always.” And True Enough, Next Morning He’s Back in His Familiar Seat. But Something’s Changed—They Are No Longer Just Driver and Passenger, But Friends “Tell You What, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Offers One Day, “Why Don’t I Drive You at the Weekends, Just in My Car? No Trouble—My Wife Thinks You’re Wonderful, and She Insists We Help.” “Oh, I Couldn’t Possibly Trouble You…” “You Can, And You Shall—It’s No Trouble at All. Besides, You’re Practically Family Now.” So That’s How It Came to Be—Weekdays in the Service Bus, Weekends in Andrew’s Car, Sometimes with His Wife Along. Friendship Blossoms “You Know,” Andrew Tells His Wife One Evening, “At First I Thought It Was Just a Job—Routes, Timetables, Passengers… Turns Out, Every Person on That Bus Has a Life, a Story.” “And You’re Right Not to Ignore It,” She Smiles And Once, Mr. Johnson Tells Them “You Know, After Anna Passed, I Thought–That Was It. Life Over. What’s the Point? But It Turns Out—People Do Care. And That Means Everything.” *** And Tell Me, Have You Ever Witnessed Ordinary People Doing Truly Extraordinary Things?

Mr. Henry, youve overslept again! The bus drivers voice floats like a friendly cloud tinged with mild reproach.

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And That’s When She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t So Awful After All—The Emotional Turning Point One Cold December in Twelve Years of Marriage for Nadia, Who’d Spent Yet Another New Year’s Eve Alone While Her Husband Was Away Hunting

You know, it finally dawned on her that her mother-in-law wasnt really as bad as shed always thought.

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Grandad It was summertime. I was walking home after evening football practice when I spotted an elderly gentleman—really quite frail—fallen on the pavement, unable to get up. People were giving him a wide berth, apparently assuming he was drunk, while he muttered to himself and reached out for help. My mum taught me from a young age to help others whenever I can, so I went over and asked, “Do you need a hand?” He couldn’t answer coherently; he just made sounds and kept stretching his arms out towards me. A passing woman scolded me: “Don’t go near him! Can’t you see he’s drunk? You’ll catch something! And he’s filthy, you’ll get yourself dirty!” Looking closer, I saw the man’s hands were covered in blood, and a wave of pure dread washed over me. I asked what had happened, but again only got murmurs in reply; then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up a plastic carrier bag lying beside him. Inside were shards of broken beer bottles. He bent down, grabbed a few more pieces from the ground, and put them in the bag. That’s why his hands were bleeding. I started cleaning his hands with wet wipes so I could help him up and walk him home (call me selfish, but I didn’t want to get blood on my football kit…). Once his hands were as clean as I could manage, I helped Grandpa to his feet. I asked for his address but he just mumbled and gestured. Realising I wasn’t understanding, he pointed towards a nearby block of flats, then indicated two numbers with his fingers—his flat number, I guessed. I pressed the right button on the entryphone and soon a woman’s anxious voice answered. Grandpa murmured again. Within moments, a man and woman dashed outside—both immediately fussed over Grandpa, checking he was okay. The man thanked me and scooped Grandpa up to carry him inside. The woman kept asking how she could thank me. I refused, about to leave, when she suddenly asked me to wait, as if she’d remembered something. She rushed back inside and soon reappeared with a huge basket of raspberries. “Home grown,” she beamed. I thanked her, but tried to refuse. “Go on, take them,” she insisted. “We nearly lost our minds when we came back from the allotment and Grandpa was missing. Here’s the thing: he was captured by the Germans in the war. Because he held an important post, he injured his own tongue so he wouldn’t speak under interrogation. There wasn’t exactly much hygiene in those camps, so by the time he escaped, the infection was so bad half his tongue had to be removed. That’s why he can’t talk, only makes sounds. Local teenagers have taken to drinking beer in our playground in the evenings, smashing the bottles everywhere. We’ve filed police complaints, but nothing gets done. Children get glass in their hands and feet—my own daughter, Sophie, cut her foot badly once. That’s why Grandpa started sweeping up after those hooligans—so the little ones wouldn’t get hurt. But he’s old now, his legs barely hold him. We’ve tried everything, even hiding his keys, but he keeps going out. Once, when I was on shift, he fell and lay in the cold for five hours—no one helped. We were just about to go searching when you called up on the entryphone. Thank you.” After that story, I was speechless. She pressed the raspberry basket into my hands and I gave her a grateful bow—honestly, there were no words. Halfway home, I broke down in tears. Why is our country like this? Why does everyone only think of themselves? Please, if you ever see someone who has fallen and can’t get up, don’t just assume they’re a drunk. Go over and ask! They might need your help. And especially—young people—let’s remember that we are HUMANS, not PIGS!

Granddad Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman

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CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THAT MUTT’S SMELL! — SHOUTED HER HUSBAND. SHE CHOSE HIM AND DROPPED HER OLD GERMAN SHEPHERD IN THE WOODS… BUT THAT EVENING, HE TOLD HER HE WAS LEAVING FOR ANOTHER WOMAN

CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER YOUR DOG OR ME! I CAN’T STAND THE SMELL OF THAT MONGREL ANYMORE!

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Gently Brushing Shoulders Together

Slightly brushing sleeves As the calendar turned toward NewYear, Emily felt a nervous thrill.

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“Mum, I’m ten years old now, right?” said Michael suddenly as he got back from school. “So what?” Mum stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, so what? Have you forgotten what you and Dad promised I could do when I turned ten?” “Let you do what? What did we promise?” “You promised I could get a dog.” “No!” Mum exclaimed in alarm. “Anything but that! Would you rather have an electric scooter? The most expensive one. But only if you never mention a dog again.” “That’s how it is, then?” Michael pouted. “And you call yourselves parents… You tell me to keep my promises, but don’t keep yours…” Michael locked himself in his room and didn’t come out until Dad returned from work. “Dad, do you remember what you and Mum promised…” he began, but was interrupted. “Mum already called me about your wish! But I don’t understand why you even want this.” “Dad, I’ve dreamed of having a dog for such a long time! You know I have!” “We know, we know! You’ve read too many stories about little boys and their dogs—you’re acting like a child! You know pedigree dogs are expensive, don’t you?” “I don’t want a pedigree,” Michael blurted out. “I’d be happy with any dog—even a rescue. I read online about abandoned dogs. They’re so unlucky.” “No!” said Dad firmly. “What do you mean, not pedigree? Why would we want that? They’re not pretty! All right, here’s the deal: I’ll agree to adopt an abandoned dog, but only if it’s young and a pedigree.” “A pedigree?” Michael wrinkled his nose. “Yes!” Dad winked at Mum. “You’ll need to train her, enter her in dog shows and all that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. So if you can find a beautiful, abandoned young pedigree dog in this town, we’ll consider it.” Michael sighed, knowing he’d never seen an abandoned pedigree on the streets, but hope is the last thing to die, so he decided to try. On Sunday, Michael called his friend Jack and after lunch, they began their search. By evening, they’d walked what felt like half the city, but still hadn’t spotted a single stray pedigree. Although there were plenty of lovely dogs out, all were with owners and on leads. “That’s it,” Michael said wearily. “I knew we wouldn’t find one…” “Let’s visit the shelter next Sunday,” Jack suggested. “They have pedigree dogs there, I’ve read about it. We just need the address. But for now, let’s sit down and rest.” They found an empty bench, chatted about finding the perfect dog at the shelter, and strolled home dreaming of training their new friend. Suddenly, Jack tugged Michael’s sleeve and pointed. “Look, Michael.” Michael glanced over and saw a tiny dirty-white stray puppy wobbling along the pavement. “A mongrel,” Jack said surely, and whistled. The puppy looked over and bounded towards them, but stopped two metres away. “He doesn’t trust people,” said Jack. “Someone must’ve scared him.” Michael whistled softly and stretched out a hand. The puppy crept forward and, when Michael got close, wagged his filthy tail rather hopefully instead of running away. “Come on, Michael,” Jack said nervously. “Why would you even want that dog? You’re looking for a pedigree. You could give a pedigree a fancy name. This one could only be called Button.” Jack turned away and walked quickly off. Michael patted the pup a bit more, then, sadly, started after his friend. Secretly, he would have loved to take the little dog home. Suddenly, there was a startled yelp behind him. Michael froze; the puppy whimpered, and Jack whispered, “Michael, come on! Don’t look back! He’s looking at you!” “How?” “Like you’re his owner—and you’re leaving him. Run!” Jack ran off, but Michael’s feet wouldn’t move. Finally, as he began to run, something tugged gently at his trouser leg. Michael glanced down and saw two trusting black eyes. Right then and there, Michael picked the little dog up and hugged him to his chest. He’d made up his mind—if Mum and Dad said no, he’d run away from home tonight—with this puppy in his arms. But it turned out his parents had kind hearts after all… The next day, when Michael got home from school, Mum, Dad, and a freshly-washed, snow-white, happy Button were all there to greet him. (TITLE:) “You Promised Me a Dog When I Turned Ten, Mum! — A Heartwarming Story of Promises, Friendships, and Finding the Perfect Four-Legged Friend”

Mum, I am ten already, arent I? piped up Michael as he returned from school, dropping his bag with an