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Raising a Wimpy Kid, or Why Did You Enroll Him in Music School?

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

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Raising a Wimpy Kid, or Why Did You Enroll Him in Music School?

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

La vida

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Who Would Ever Want You, Toothless, Childless, and Unclassy Clara? — The 15-Year Marriage that Ended with Spiteful Words, an Elegant Husband’s Departure, and a New Life with Roses and True Love in London

Who would ever want you? Toothless, childless, plain old Brenda. Who would ever want you? shouted Paul

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My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded That We Hand Over Our Two-Bedroom Flat to Them Because We Don’t Have Children – Then Blamed Me When Things Went Shockingly Wrong

My brothers pregnant wife demanded we hand over our flat. Ive been married for ten years now.

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I’m a Pensioner – While Selling Pretzels at My Usual Corner Stall, Two Slick “Businessmen” Tried to Scam Me, but They Didn’t Expect a Savvy British Granny!

I’m a pensioner and while I was selling bagels, someone tried to scam me. There I was, stood at

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Raising a Wimpy Kid, or Why Did You Enroll Him in Music School?

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

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Staying Connected Every morning in Mrs. Hope Emerson’s home followed the same gentle ritual: kettle on the hob, two spoons of tea leaves in her treasured old teapot—saved from the days when her children were small and everything seemed ahead. As the water heated, the kitchen radio brought the familiar hum of news, more constant than most faces in her life. The yellow-handed clock on the wall kept steady time, but the landline beneath it rang less and less. Evenings once buzzed with calls from friends about soaps or blood pressure; now, those friends were ill, moved away, or gone for good. The phone, solid and reassuring in her palm, was a lingering touchstone—she’d stroke the receiver when passing, just to make sure that way of connecting still lived. Her children now called one another on mobiles. When visiting, their phones were never far from hand; her son could fall silent mid-sentence, stare at the screen, mutter “just a sec,” and tap away. Her granddaughter Daisy, a slender ponytailed girl, hardly let go of hers—there lived friends, schoolwork, music, her own vibrant world. Everything was there, for all of them. All she had was her old flip phone, a present after her first hospital stay for high blood pressure. “So we can always reach you,” her son had said. It lived in a grey case by the hallway mirror, sometimes forgotten uncharged, sometimes nestled in a bag with receipts and tissues. It rang rarely, and she often missed calls, scolding herself for her slowness. The day she turned seventy-five felt strange—the number didn’t fit. She was sure she felt at least ten years younger, maybe fifteen. But the passport didn’t lie. The morning followed its groove: tea, radio, gentle exercises prescribed by the GP. She fetched yesterday’s salad and set a pie on the table. The children were due by two. It amazed her that birthdays were now discussed in a “group chat.” Her son said, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” But never quite did. For her, “chat” belonged to another world, where people lived in little windows and spoke in letters. At two, they arrived: first, grandson Arthur with a rucksack and headphones, then Daisy—quiet and swift—and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms full of shopping. Suddenly, the house was crowded, noisy, and scented with bakery sweets, perfume, and some energetic, indefinable freshness. “Happy birthday, Mum.” Her son hugged her quick and firm, as if already late for something. Gifts were placed on the table, flowers in the vase. Daisy immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. Her son hunted out a slip of paper and dictated the jumble of letters and numbers that made her head spin. “Granny, why aren’t you on the group chat?” Arthur asked, slipping off his trainers and heading to the kitchen. “That’s where all the action is.” “What chat?” she waved her hand, serving him pie. “This old phone’s fine for me.” “That’s why we… Well, we’ve got you a present,” her daughter-in-law chimed in. Her son brought out a sleek white box. She felt a swell of anxiety—she knew what it held. “A smartphone,” he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. “Nothing fancy, but decent. Camera, internet, all you’ll need.” “But why would I need one?” she tried to keep her voice level. “Mum, so we can use video calls—keep in touch more easily. There’s our family chat, photos, news. Everything’s online now: doctors’ appointments, bills… Keeps you out of those surgery queues you hate.” “I’ll manage…” she began, but her son sighed gently. “Mum, it’s peace of mind. If you need anything, you just message. No more hunting for the green button.” He smiled, softening his words. Still, it stung—“hunting for the green button,” as if she was helpless. “All right,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the box. “If you all want it.” They opened it together, like presents for the children, but now the children were grown and she sat in the centre, feeling not the hostess but the learner at an exam. Out came a slim black rectangle, cold and slick, with not a single button on its face. “It’s all touchscreen,” Arthur explained, swiping the glass to bring it to life. She flinched. It felt clever, foreign—surely about to demand a password or other mystery. “Don’t worry,” Daisy soothed, uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything until we show you.” Those words stung most—“don’t press anything”—like she was a child who could break the vase. After dinner the family gathered in the lounge. Her son perched next to her, smartphone on her lap. “Right, see—this is power. Hold it. Screen wakes up, then the lock—swipe to unlock, like this.” He moved too fast; words blurred together—a foreign tongue. “Wait, please. Step by step. Or I’ll forget.” “You won’t,” he brushed off. “You’ll get used to it.” She nodded, but knew it would take time—time to make peace with a world now squeezed into these rectangles. By evening, their numbers were saved, the neighbour’s and GP’s too. Her son installed the messenger, created her account, added her to the family chat. Set a big font, so she wouldn’t squint. “Here’s the chat,” he demonstrated. Typed out a message, which appeared on-screen. A reply popped up from her daughter-in-law: “Yay, Mum’s joined!” Daisy added a flurry of emojis. “How do I write?” she asked. “Tap here,” her son showed her the typing field. “Keyboard shows up. Or use voice: press the mic and speak.” She tried. Her hands shook. “Thanx” came out as “thanc.” They all laughed, and she burned with embarrassment—as if she’d failed the easiest test. “You’ll get there. Everyone makes mistakes at first,” he assured her. That night, the house was quiet again: leftover pie, flowers, the white box on the table. The phone lay screen-down nearby. She turned it over and pressed the side as shown. The display flared—her family, last New Year, smiled from the lockscreen. She was there, in blue, eyebrow lifted, as if doubting her place in the crowd. She swiped as taught. Up flicked a flurry of icons—calls, messages, camera—so foreign still. “Don’t press anything wrong,” her son’s warning whispered. But how to know what was wrong? She set the smartphone gently back on the table—let it get used to her flat, she thought. The next morning, she woke early. The smartphone was still there, like an outsider. Yesterday’s fear had ebbed. It was only a thing, after all. She’d learned the microwave, hadn’t she? Even though she’d worried it would explode. She made tea, pulled the phone closer, and turned it on. Her hand sweated. The familiar New Year photo glowed. She swiped, found a green phone icon—at least a little familiar—and pressed. Contacts appeared: son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Arthur, Mrs. Valentine from next door, her GP. She chose her son and pressed. The device buzzed, then his surprised voice came through. “Mum? Everything okay?” “Fine,” she replied, quietly proud. “Just checking. It worked.” “Told you! Well done! But best to call over the messenger—it’s cheaper.” “How do I—?” “I’ll show you later. I’m at work.” She hung up, breathless but warm inside. She’d done it—on her own. A few hours later, her first family chat message arrived: “Daisy: Gran, how are you?” The reply field blinked, welcoming her in. She stared at it, slowly typing: “All good. Having tea.” A mistake in “good,” but she let it be. Sent it off. Daisy replied instantly—“Wow! You wrote that yourself?”—with a heart. She was smiling, alone at her table. Later, Mrs. Valentine brought over jam. “So, the youngsters gave you one of those clever phones?” she teased. “A smartphone,” Mrs. Emerson replied. The word still sounded posh for her age, but she liked the taste of it. “Is it behaving?” “Mostly chirping. No buttons anywhere.” “My grandson’s on at me about it too,” Mrs. Valentine said. “But I say it’s too late for me. Let them stay in their internet.” “That word—too late—pricked at her. She’d thought it too. But the new thing in her home seemed quietly insistent: perhaps it wasn’t too late. Worth a try, at least. Next day, her son called—he’d booked her a GP appointment online. She was astonished. “Online?” “Yep. On GovUK. I’ve written the login and password—it’s in the phone-table drawer.” She found the neatly folded note, like a doctor’s prescription. Everything seemed clear, but she didn’t know how to begin. The following day, she tried. Opened the browser, typed in the site, every letter a labour. Twice she erased everything. Finally, it loaded—blue and white bars, buttons. “Enter username,” she read aloud. Password next. The username went in, but the mixed letters and numbers of the password were a torment. The keyboard kept vanishing, reappearing; once, she wiped the whole box. She swore under her breath, surprising herself. She rang her son, flustered. “It’s impossible, these passwords!” “Mum, don’t worry. I’ll come round tonight with Arthur—he’s better at this.” She hung up, heavy-hearted. Once again, she needed someone to fix things. Arthur came by that evening. Sitting beside her, he explained again, calmly, showing every button, each switch—how to check appointments, cancel if needed. “Don’t worry, Gran. Nothing to break. If you sign out by mistake, we’ll log back in.” She nodded—no big deal for him, but for her, a trial. Days later, needing to check her appointment, she logged in—her name missing from the list. Had she cancelled it by mistake? Panic rose. The thought of calling her son, interrupting his work, made her hesitate. She didn’t want to be a bother. She took a breath. Tried again. Chose the GP, picked the nearest available slot. Confirmed. The screen told her, “You are now booked.” She checked three times—yes, her name, date, time. Relief washed in. To be sure, she messaged her GP through the chat—using the voice function this time. “Good morning, this is Mrs. Hope Emerson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve made an appointment online for Wednesday morning. Please check if you can.” A minute later, a reply: “I see your booking. If symptoms worsen, call anytime.” She felt herself relax. She’d done it. Herself. That evening, she messaged the family chat: “Booked GP myself. Online.” Another typo, but left uncorrected—meaning was what mattered. Daisy answered first: “Grandma, you’re cooler than me!” Others replied with praise and hearts. She reread their messages, something inside gently untwisting. She was no expert in memes or emojis, but a thread had knit between her and her far-flung family. After her peaceful GP appointment, she decided to learn something new. Daisy had once shown her how to swap pictures of food and cats with friends—silly, she’d thought, but a little envious of the shared snapshots of life. One sunny afternoon, Hope picked up her smartphone and opened the camera, snapping her sprouting tomato seedlings on the windowsill. The photo was blurry, but not bad; little shoots stretching for sunlight, like her, learning to reach out. She posted the picture to the family chat: “My tomatoes are growing.” The family fired back—Daisy sent a messy room full of books, her daughter-in-law a salad captioned “Learning from you!”, her son a tired office selfie: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got end-of-month. Who’s winning?” She laughed aloud. The kitchen no longer felt so empty. They were all, in their own cities, right there with her. Sometimes there were muddles: a misplaced voice note where she grumbled at the TV, to everyone’s amusement—“Mum, you’ve started your own show!” her son joked, and Hope eventually laughed too. She still fumbled buttons, shied at “update your system” messages as if someone meant to swap out all she’d grown used to. But with each day, the fear faded. She found the bus timetable, checked the weather online, even found a recipe like her mother’s, baking the pie and sharing the photo: “Remembered Grandma’s way.” Hearts and applause followed. She realised she checked the landline less and less. It still hung on the wall, but was no longer her lifeline. One evening, under the mellow dusk, she sat reading the family chat: work photos from her son, Daisy’s friend selfies, Arthur’s irreverent jokes. Scattered among theirs, her own—her tomatoes, her recipe, her questions about medicine. She saw she was no longer just an onlooker. She missed half the slang and rarely deployed a perfect emoji. But she was there, read, answered, liked—Daisy’s term. A new message pinged. Daisy: “Gran, algebra test tomorrow. Can I ring and moan after?” She smiled. Typed slow and steady: “Call me. I’m always here to listen.” Sent. She left her smartphone by her teacup. The house was still, but it no longer felt lonely. Somewhere beyond bricks and windows, voices and messages were waiting. She wasn’t part of “the in-crowd,” as Arthur put it, but she’d found her own nook in this world of screens. Hope finished her tea, switched off the kitchen light, and as she left, glanced at the phone—a small, quiet link to her loved ones. For now, that was enough.

Morning always arrived in the same peculiar way for Margaret Hopkins. The sun crept timidly past her

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Even now, I sometimes wake in the dead of night and ask myself when my dad managed to take absolutely everything from us. I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but cosy house – furniture in its place, the fridge stocked well on shopping days, and the bills almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were getting through Maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without saying hello, toss his keys on the table, and head straight to his room with his phone in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you reckon this house keeps itself?” He’d just reply in a flat voice, “Just leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to all of it from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him in the garden talking on the phone. He laughed under his breath and said things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” As soon as he saw me, he hung up quickly. I felt a weird ache inside, but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted at him, “A while with who? Just tell the truth!” Then he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I broke down crying, “What about me? My school? The house?” He just replied, “You’ll figure it out.” He shut his suitcase, grabbed the documents from his drawer, picked up his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, mum tried to get money from the cashpoint but her card was blocked. The next day she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they’d saved together. On top of that, we learnt he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan behind mum’s back, naming her as guarantor. I remember mum sitting at the table, sifting through scraps of paper with an old calculator, crying and muttering, “It’s not enough… it’s just not enough…” I tried to help sort out the bills but didn’t understand even half of what was happening. A week later they cut off our internet, and soon nearly disconnected the electricity, too. Mum started cleaning people’s houses for work. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing in the corridor with a bag of chocolates at break time, but I did it because at home we barely had the basics. There was one day I opened the fridge and there was only a jug of water and half a tomato inside. I sat in the kitchen and cried on my own. That same night we had plain rice – nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to provide as she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook of dad with that woman at a restaurant – raising a glass of wine together. My hands were shaking. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that, he never called again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He simply vanished. Now I work, pay for everything on my own, and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of money – because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and moved on with his life as if nothing ever happened. And even now, so many nights I wake up with the same question lodged in my chest: How does a person survive when their own father takes everything, leaving them to learn to fend for themselves while they’re still just a child?

Even now, there are nights when I wake suddenly and find myself wondering how my father managed to take

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I’ll Say Yes to Marriage—But Not to This Handsome Fellow. Sure, He’s Wonderful in Every Way—But He’s Just Not the One for Me

Ill get married, but certainly not to that charming lad. Yes, hes wonderful in every way. Just not for me.

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Letting Trouble In: When a Father Moves In, and Brings Unwanted Company—Kristina’s Battle to Protect Her Home, Her Rules, and Her Peace

Letting All the Wrong People In Dad, where did all these new things come from? Did you raid an antique