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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage with a full bucket of pig feed, her face stormy as she passed her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the old well for three days running. He’d decided he wanted it carved and fancy—beautiful, as though he had nothing better to do! She bustled about looking after house and livestock while he stood with a chisel in hand, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What kind of husband had God sent her? He never uttered a tender word, never slammed his fist on the table, just quietly worked away. On rare occasions, he’d simply glance at her and gently run his hand along her thick, honey-blonde braid—his sole display of affection. Oh, how Annie longed for more: for pet names and sweet nothings… Lost in thoughts of her lonely woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog. Instantly, Henry darted over, caught his wife, and shot the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, Buster—you’ll end up tripping the missus.” Buster lowered his eyes, tail tucked, and shuffled off to his kennel. Annie was amazed, not for the first time, at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d asked Henry once about it, and he’d just replied, “I love animals, and they love me right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love—love that swept her off her feet, with whispered words at night and flowers on her pillow each morning. But Henry was always so reserved, barely affectionate… Sometimes she even doubted whether he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” came a cheery voice over the fence—it was Victor, their neighbour. “Still fussing with your well, Henry? Who needs all those carvings anyway?” “I want our children to grow up with an eye for beauty,” Henry replied. “Well, you’ll need to have some first!” Victor winked at Annie. Henry’s eyes grew sad; Annie hurried inside, embarrassed. She wasn’t in a rush to have kids—after all, she was still young, beautiful, and maybe wanted to live for herself a little longer. Besides, her own husband was hardly the dashing type. And Victor—tall, broad-shouldered—now, he could make your heart flutter! He’d greet her near the gate, voice gentle as summer rain: “My little dove, my darling sun…” Annie’s knees would turn to jelly, but she’d always run from him. When she married Henry, she’d vowed to be faithful; her parents, together for decades, had taught her to cherish her marriage. Yet why did she yearn to catch Victor’s eye just for a moment? Next morning, as Annie led the cow to pasture, she ran into Victor at the gate. “Annie, dearest, why do you keep avoiding me? Are you shy? I can never get enough of your beauty—it makes my head spin.” He whispered, “Come see me at dawn. When your Henry leaves for fishing, just slip over, and I’ll shower you with all the love you could wish for.” Annie flushed, cheeks burning, heart racing… but hurried past him in silence. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t stop thinking about him—Victor, with his smouldering gaze, promising her all she ever wanted. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to cross that line. Not yet… Maybe never. There were still long hours till dawn. That evening, Henry fired up the bathhouse—and even invited Victor to join. Victor happily agreed, saving himself the trouble of heating up his own. The two men swapped stories, laughing and thwacking each other with birch branches. After their steam, they relaxed in the changing room; Annie poured them a jug of homemade cider and arranged snacks, then dashed off for some pickled cucumbers in the cellar. As she came back and reached the door, she overheard voices from inside and paused: “Why so hesitant, Henry?” Victor said quietly. “Come along next time—you won’t regret it. Widows like those, they’ll smother you with affection… And the beauties there! Unlike your Annie—she’s a plain little mouse.” “No, friend,” came Henry’s quiet yet steady reply, “I want none of that. I won’t even think of it. And my Annie isn’t a little mouse—she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. There’s not a flower or berry to match her. When I look at her, I can’t even see the sun—just her eyes, her slender form. My love for her is like a river in flood. I just ache because I can’t speak the words to tell her how much I love her. She feels hurt, I know, and I’m frightened of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her—I couldn’t even breathe…” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear sliding down her cheek. Suddenly she lifted her head, strode in, and loudly declared, “Victor, go keep those widows company—we’ve got more important things to do here at home. We don’t yet have anyone to gaze on the beautiful carvings Henry’s making. Forgive me, my dearest, for my foolish thoughts—for my blindness. Happiness was in my hands, and I nearly missed it. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time…” And at dawn the next day, Henry didn’t go fishing.

Love Not for Show I remember the days when Annabel would step out of our cottage, arms straining with

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Echoes in the Night: Alexandra Finds Connection and Hope on New Year’s Eve in an English Rehabilitation Centre

Echo in the Night Margaret Collins found herself admitted to the rehabilitation ward precisely two weeks

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Dear Lady, Have a Slice of Cake with the Young Lady!

Take a biscuit, miss! shouted the bloke perched on the bakerys stone steps, his coat still damp from

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There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged through the front gate, struggling with the rusty old lock before stepping into her chilly, long-empty cottage, the cold stove her only companion as she settled on a creaky chair. The air was tinged with neglect; three short months away, and the cobwebbed ceilings, groaning floorboards, and angry wind through the chimney greeted her, the house demanding to know where its mistress had vanished. “Just a moment, my dear, I’ll catch my breath and light the stove soon…” Not so long ago, Val was lively and bustling, painting and scrubbing, fetching water, tending the garden, moving nimbly between housework and prayer, her presence breathing life into the old home. The house loved her back—doors swung open at the first touch, the stove baked golden pies, and everything felt right when Val was in charge. She’d outlived her husband and worked hard to raise three children: one son a ship’s captain, the other a colonel, both now living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village as chief agronomist, popping in at weekends with pies and love, but always whisked away by her duties. The light of Val’s life became her granddaughter Svetlana, a local beauty with shining hair and a city diploma, who returned to work as an economist and, with her new vet husband, received a solid brick house through a social scheme. But Svetlana wasn’t suited to gardening, and life with a small son, Vasya, and little time for anything else, soon saw her begging Val to move in. Reluctant but aging, Val agreed, only to find herself chided for doing little to help. Rejected, she returned alone to her empty cottage, her body slowing, and her heart heavy with guilt for disappointing beloved Svetlana. The village priest, Father Boris, checked in, finding Val battling the cold, scraping by, writing brave letters to her sons—each page declaring how well she was, though the smudged ink betrayed tears. Anna, a neighbor, stepped in to help, while Father Boris brought food, chopped wood, and made sure Val had warmth and company. Tragedy struck when Svetlana, never robust, was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed within six months. Her bereft husband turned to drink and the cemetery, little Vasya neglected until Tamara took him, only to see internment in a boarding school as her only option. It was then that Val, now nearly housebound, insisted Vasya come live with her—“As long as I draw breath, he won’t go to an orphanage.” Against all odds, she found new life in caring for her great-grandson, her energy returning, the once-quiet cottage filled again with warmth, music, and baking. Neighbors gossiped, yet Father Boris discovered Val not feeble and frail, but bustling with renewed purpose as she tended to young Vasya. Reflecting on these turns, Father Boris’s wife, Alexandra, recalled her own great-grandmother Vera Yegorovna, who delayed death itself to help her newborn great-grandchild, declaring as in the old song, “It’s too soon for me to die—there’s still work to be done at home!” Vera lived another ten years, nurturing the generations that followed, her spirit an enduring legacy of love and resilience. And so, in Granny Val’s humble English cottage, as in Vera’s, the truth was plain: there’s still work to be done at home, and always another reason to carry on.

There are still things to be done at home… Grandma Mildred struggles to open the gate, limping

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The Daughter

Tom, weve got a girl, 7.7pounds! Gail shouted into the phone, her voice trembling with joy.

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Echoes in the Night: Alexandra Finds Unexpected Connection on a Lonely New Year’s Eve in a British Rehab Clinic

Echo in the Night I was admitted to the rehabilitation ward just two weeks before Christmas.

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Love Isn’t for Show Ann came out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, her mood sour as she passed by her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the well for three days now. He wanted to carve it to make it pretty—like he had nothing else to do! While his wife rushed about the house and tended the livestock, he just stood there with his chisel, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? He never said a gentle word, never banged his fist on the table—instead he worked quietly, occasionally coming over just to look in her eyes and stroke her thick, honey-blonde braid; that was all the affection she got. But she yearned for more—for “my darling” and “my swan”… She pondered her lot as a wife and nearly tripped over old Bully the dog. In a flash, Henry caught her and gave the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll end up hurting the missus!” Bully hung his head and slunk off to his kennel. Ann was once again amazed by how her husband understood animals. She’d once asked Henry about it, and he simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Ann also dreamed of love—being swept off her feet, whispered sweet nothings, flowers on her pillow every morning. But Henry was stubbornly tight-fisted with affection, and she was starting to doubt if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called out Victor over the fence, “Henry, are you still busy with that nonsense? Who needs your fancy carvings?” “I want my children to grow up good people, surrounded by beauty.” “You need to make some children first,” laughed Victor, winking at Ann. Henry glanced sadly at his wife, who, blushing, hurried indoors. She wasn’t in a rush for kids—young, pretty, wanting to enjoy life a bit longer, and her husband was neither here nor there. The neighbour, though—he was handsome! And when he met her by the gate, he spoke such sweet words, as gentle as a summer rain: “My little dew drop, my shining sun…” Her soul fluttered, her knees weakened, but Ann always ran away, refusing his advances. When she married, she’d promised to be a faithful wife; her parents had lived together in harmony for years and taught her to cherish her family. But why was she so eager to glance out the window and meet her neighbour’s eyes? The next morning, while driving the cow to graze, she bumped into Victor at the gate: “Ann, my lovely dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I could stare at your beauty all day—it makes my head spin when I see you. Come to me at dawn. When Henry goes fishing, come to my place. I’ll give you so much tenderness, you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Ann flushed from head to toe, her cheeks burning, her heart racing, but said nothing—she quickly walked past him. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Ann thought of him. She craved love and affection—and Victor was handsome and looked at her with that fiery gaze—but she simply couldn’t go through with anything. There was still time before dawn tomorrow, maybe… That evening, Henry fired up the sauna. He invited the neighbour to join—they lashed each other with birch twigs, sweating and groaning with pleasure. When they finished, Ann brought them a little jug of homemade moonshine and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers in the cellar. She went to fetch them, but paused in the stairwell at the sound of their conversation through the half-open door. “Why are you so indecisive, Henry?” Victor’s voice was low. “Come on, you won’t regret it. There are widows there who’ll smother you with affection, real beauties—they’d gladden your heart! Not like your Ann, a grey country mouse.” “No, my friend,” came Henry’s quiet but firm reply. “I don’t want any beauties. I can’t even think about that. My wife isn’t some grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman in the whole world. There’s no blossom, no berry lovelier than her. When I look at her, I can’t see the sun—just her beautiful eyes and slender waist. I’m overflowing with love for her, like a river in spring. But I’m no good with sweet words. I guess it hurts her, and I’m to blame. I’m scared of losing her—I couldn’t live a day without her, not even breathe…” Ann stood frozen, her heart thundering, a tear running down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the steam room and declared, “Off you go, neighbour—go cheer up those widows! My husband and I have weightier matters. We’ve no one to admire Henry’s carvings yet. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness—I was holding happiness in my hands and didn’t see it. Come, we’ve wasted enough time already…” And at dawn, Henry didn’t go fishing after all.

Love Isnt for Show Annabel stormed out of her cottage, the handle of a slopping pail digging into her

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If Only Everyone Got “Help” Like This: How Polina’s Mother-in-Law Came to the Rescue and Nearly Broke Her Family

If only everyone had such help Polly, love, Ill come by today and help out with the little ones.

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Living Together with My Beloved Mum: At 57, I Have No Husband or Children, But Cherish Every Day with My 86-Year-Old Mother

We live together, my mother and I. My mum is eighty-six now. Things just turned out in such a peculiar

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You Were My Teenage Mistake: A Boy Raised by Grandparents After Young Parents Abandon Him, Years Later Refuses to Help His Biological Mother and Sister Seeking Shelter

Youre the mistake of my youth. The girl had her baby when she was just sixteen. The boy who fathered