RAW AND UNFILTERED… In This English Family, Everyone Lived for Themselves. Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife—he had a string of lovers, sometimes more than one at a time. Mum, Jane, aware of her husband’s affairs, was hardly a saint herself—she enjoyed spending time away from the family with a married colleague. Their two sons were left to their own devices, with no one really bothering to raise them. Mum insisted the school should handle all responsibility for her sons. The family only gathered at the kitchen table on Sundays, just to eat quickly and then disappear into their own separate worlds. And so, this broken, sinful, yet oddly sweet family might have continued in their own spoiled chaos—until the unthinkable happened. …When the younger son, Danny, was twelve, Dad Alex took him to his garage for the first time to help out. As Danny eyed the strange tools, Alex slipped out to chat with his car-loving mates nearby. Suddenly, black smoke and flames billowed from the garage! No one understood what had happened. (Later, it was discovered Danny had knocked over a lit blowtorch onto a petrol can.) People froze. Panicked. The fire raged on. Someone doused Alex with water, and he dashed inside. Seconds later, he emerged from the burning maw, carrying his lifeless son. Danny was badly burnt—only his face, which he must have shielded with his hands, was untouched. All his clothes had burned away. The fire brigade and ambulance were already on their way. Danny was raced to hospital. He was alive! He was taken straight into surgery. Hours later, a doctor told Alex and Jane: “We’re doing all that is medically and humanly possible. Your son is in a coma. His chances of survival—one in a million. Conventional medicine can do no more. But, should Danny have the will to live, there could be a miracle. Be strong.” Without a thought, Alex and Jane dashed to the nearest church. A torrential rain started. The desperate parents barely even noticed. They had to save their child! Soaked to the skin, they entered the church for the first time in their lives. It was quiet and nearly empty. Spotting a vicar, they hesitantly approached. “Vicar, please—our son is dying! What should we do?” Jane sobbed. “My name is Father Samuel, my children. When you’re frightened, you turn to God, eh? Are you great sinners?” he asked directly. “Not really—we’ve never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, lowering his eyes under Father Samuel’s piercing gaze. “But why did you kill the love in your family? It’s lying dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass—between you, you could lose a whole log! Ah, people…” “Pray, my children. Pray to St. Nicholas for your son’s health! Pray with all your might! And remember, all is in God’s hands. Do not curse the heavens! Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise, you’d never learn! You’ll destroy your own souls without even noticing. Change your ways! Love can save everything!” Alex and Jane stood shivering from rain and tears, listening to Father Samuel’s bitter truths—like a pair of ugly ducklings. He pointed them to the icon of St. Nicholas. Alex and Jane fell to their knees and prayed desperately, sobbing and making vows… Every extra-marital relationship was put aside, once and for all. Forgotten and erased. They dissected their lives, letter by letter, thread by thread… The next morning, the hospital called. Danny had come out of his coma. Alex and Jane rushed to his bedside. Danny opened his eyes and tried to smile at them. It was a painful attempt—the suffering etched on his young face. “Mum, Dad, please—don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Darling, why would you say that? We’re together,” Jane answered, gently brushing his weak, hot hand. Danny flinched and cried out in pain. Jane pulled back. “I saw it, Mum! And when I have children, they’ll have your names…” Alex and Jane exchanged glances, thinking their son was delirious. What children, Danny? You can barely move your finger! Just get well and we’ll thank God! …But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s resources went into his treatment. Alex and Jane even sold their cottage. Sadly, the garage and car were lost in the fire—they too could have been sold for Danny’s recovery. But what mattered most was their son survived! All the grandparents helped in whatever way they could. The family drew together in their shared ordeal. …Even the longest day comes to an end. A year passed. Danny was now in rehab. He could walk and take care of himself. There, Danny befriended a girl named Molly—like him, a fire survivor. Molly’s face had been burnt. After several operations, Molly was shy and avoided mirrors. Danny felt a warm compassion towards her—she radiated a wisdom and vulnerability that made you want to protect her. All their free time was spent together. They had much in common—unbearable pain, despair, handfuls of bitter pills, learning not to fear endless jabs, nurses’ white coats… They had favourite topics and could talk forever. Time passed… Danny and Molly had a modest wedding. They went on to have beautiful children—a daughter Charlotte, and three years later, a son, Jon. Finally, the family breathed easy—until Alex and Jane decided to part ways. The ordeal had exhausted them so much, they could no longer bear to be together. Each longed for release and peace. Jane moved in with her sister out of town. Before leaving, she went to church for Father Samuel’s blessing. She had visited him many times, always thanking him for saving her son. “Thank God, Jane,” he’d say. The vicar disapproved of Jane’s departure. “But if you must, go. Find rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex stayed alone in the empty flat. Their sons, now with families, lived separately. Ex-spouses visited their grandchildren on a rota, carefully avoiding each other. In short, everyone was finally comfortable…

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 1

TO THE QUICK

In this family, everyone largely minded their own business. David, the father, somehow managed to juggle a wife and a rotation of favourite ladies on the sidesometimes even getting them mixed up. Fiona, the mum, had her own suspicions about her husbands extracurricular activities, but she was hardly a saint herself. She spent most of her free time with a married colleague, gallivanting about as if the children would sort themselves.

As for their two sons, they were pretty much left to their own devices. No one was particularly fussed about proper upbringing, unless passing the buck to the nearest comprehensive school counted. Let the school sort them out, Fiona liked to proclaim whenever anyone dared inquire. So the boys mostly wandered about, killing time and, if feeling adventurous, a few hours in the local park.

Once a week, the family congregated in the kitchen for the Sunday roast, but only so they could wolf it down, trying to break the world record for fastest family meal in silence. As soon as dinners over was muttered, everyone made a swift exit back to their preferred corners of glorious privacy.

This blissful mess would likely have rolled happily along, were it not for a day when everything went awry.

When the youngest, Harry, turned twelve, David took him along to the lock-up garage for a bit of father-son bonding (presumably the type that wouldnt appear in any parenting books). While Harry poked about with the spanners and other mysterious gadgets, his dad nipped out for a chinwag with the other blokes fussing over their cars nearby.

Suddenly, thick black smoke erupted from Davids garage, flames licking the roof faster than you could say insurance excess. No one understood what was happening. (It turned out later Harry had managed to knock a lit blowtorch onto a jerry can full of petrolbut that was a revelation for another time.) For a few stunned seconds, everyone froze. Then all hell broke loose. Someone chucked a bucket of water over David, and he bolted inside like James Bond with a point to prove.

Out he came, only seconds later, carrying Harry in his arms. The boy was unconscious, his body burnt and barely clothed. Only his face was untouchedperhaps he’d instinctively covered it with his hands.

The fire brigade and ambulance arrived promptlyluckily, given the overzealous nature of English neighboursand whisked Harry off to hospital.

Harry was alive, but only just.

Straight away, the doctors put him under the knife. After hours of tense waiting, a weary surgeon finally appeared before David and Fiona and delivered the news with the bedside manner of a traffic warden:
Were doing all we possibly can. Your sons in a coma. His chances? One in a million, if that. Modern medicine can only do so much. But you never know. Sometimes, if theres a stubborn will to live, miracles do happen. Keep the faith.

David and Fiona, panic-stricken, dashed through a torrential downpour to the nearest churchwhich, coincidentally, neither had entered since it was last used as a polling station.

They arrived, drenched and desperate. Spotting the vicar, they shuffled over.

Our boys dying, Reverend! Fiona managed between sobs. What can we do?

My names Father Charles, replied the vicar, sizing them up with more insight than a marriage counsellor. Funny how people remember God when theres drama, isnt it? Tell me, been keeping busy with sin?

Erno murders or anything, mumbled David, suddenly enraptured by the interesting pattern on the carpet.

But youve murdered your love, left it for dead! Between a loving husband and wife, you couldnt slip a threadbut with you two, you could fit in a garden shed and no one would notice! tutted Father Charles, with all the warmth of the Archers most sincere neighbour. Now, go and pray for your sons recovery. But understandsometimes the Almighty gives us a nudge when we wont see sense otherwise. Dont blame God. Love is the only cure here!

David and Fiona knelt before the icon of St Nicholas, ugly crying, vowing to give up all extracurricular relationships for good. Suddenly, every misdemeanour was revisited, every past pleasure repentedto the letter.

The following morning, miracle of miracles, they received a call: Harry had woken from his coma.

David and Fiona were instantly at his bedside. Harry opened his eyes and attempted a smile, though it was mostly a grimace. His face wore the agony of someone forced to eat mushy peas daily.

Mum, Dad, pleasedont split up, he whispered.

Why would you think that? Fiona replied, gently stroking his burnt hand, until he winced and she flinched away. Were right here, love.

I saw it, Mum, Harry insisted, andone day, when I have kids, Ill name them after you two.

David and Fiona exchanged worried glances. Surely, their son was deliriouswhat children? He could barely move, much less father the next generation.

Yet Harry slowly began to recover. The entire family, from grandparents to distant cousins, joined forces. They even sold the little cottage in Cornwall to fund his treatment. The garage and the car, alas, were now just so much cinder, or theyd have been up on AutoTrader immediately.

The family, once about as close as relatives at a will-reading, united in adversity.

Even the longest Monday eventually ends.

A year passed. Harry was settled in a rehabilitation centre. He could walk now, dress himself, and joke about the horror-show meals. There he met Emilya girl his age, who, like him, had suffered burns, though hers had scarred her face.

Emily, shy and self-conscious since a string of surgeries, avoided mirrors as if they might bite. But she had a quiet wisdom and gentle light that drew Harry in. He found her vulnerability endearing; he wanted to protect her.

The two spent every spare minute together. Theyd both survived unimaginable pain, overdoses of dreary medicine, and grown unafraid of needles and white coats. Their shared stories and laughter became a new healing.

Time rolled on

Harry and Emily eventually had the most modest of weddingsbarely a blip on Facebookand a few years later welcomed two beautiful children: first, their daughter Molly, then, after three years, their son George.

With the family seemingly out of the woods, David and Fiona quietly decided to separate. Harrys ordeal had took its toll on both; they found it impossible to be together any longer. Whatever spark they’d had evaporated somewhere between the hospital wards and kitchen sink. Fiona moved in with her sister in Surrey, but not before popping into the church, hoping for Father Charless blessing.

Over the years, Fiona had stopped by to thank him for Harrys recovery.

Thank God, Fionanot me! Father Charles always replied, determined not to take credit.

He didnt approve of her running away, but relented: If you must go, have a break. Sometimes solitude helps. But you belong together, truly.

David stayed behind in their now echoey flat. The grown sons had flown the nest, grandchildren were visited strictly on alternate weekends, each parent orchestrating their visits as if to avoid a sitcom-style disaster.

In short, the family seemed, finally, to have found peace. Everyone in their rightful placecosy, at last.

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Honestly, I never planned to get married. But if not for the determination of my future husband, I might still be soaring free. Artem fluttered around me like a lovesick butterfly, never letting me out of his sight, eager to please, treating me like a queen. Eventually, I gave in—and we got married. Artem became my homely, familiar, and dear companion straight away—our life together felt so natural, like slipping on a pair of comfy slippers. After a year, our son, Edward, was born. At the time, Artem worked in another city, coming home only once a week, always bringing treats for me and little Eddie. One visit, as usual, I prepared to do his laundry and checked all his pockets—a habit after once washing his driving licence! This time, a folded paper dropped out of his trousers—a list of school supplies (it was August) and at the bottom, in childish writing: “Dad, come home soon.” So this is how my husband entertains himself elsewhere! Double life! Without causing drama, I packed a bag, took my son’s hand (Eddie wasn’t even three yet), and went to my mum’s for a long visit. She gave us a room: “Stay here till you patch things up.” Then I thought about getting back at my ungrateful husband and remembered my old classmate, Rob—he fawned over me during school and kept in touch. I called him: “Hi Rob! Still single?” “Nancy? Wow, who cares—married, divorced… Want to catch up?” That unexpected romance lasted half a year. Artem came every month with child support for Edward, handed it to my mum, then left without a word. I knew he lived with Cathy Evans—a woman with a daughter from a previous marriage. Cathy insisted her girl call Artem “Dad.” They all moved into Artem’s flat. Cathy adored him—knitted socks and jumpers, cooked hearty meals. I learned this much later. For years, I’d tease my husband about that “Saint Cathy.” Back then, I thought our marriage was dead—done for… But when Artem and I met for coffee to discuss divorce, nostalgia swept over us. Artem confessed his undying love and regret—he didn’t know how to get rid of clingy Cathy. Suddenly, I felt so sorry for him—we reunited. (He never knew about Rob.) Cathy and her daughter left town for good. Seven years of happiness passed. Then Artem was in a car accident—leg surgery, rehab, walking with a stick. Two years of struggle, and he started to drink heavily, withdrawing from everyone. It was painful to watch. He refused help, draining himself and our son. Then, at work, I found comfort in Paul—a listening ear during cigarette breaks, a walking buddy after work, always supportive. Paul was married, with his wife expecting their second child—yet somehow we ended up in bed. Strange—he was much shorter than me, not at all my type! Suddenly, Paul whisked me to art exhibits, concerts, ballet. When his wife gave birth, he pulled back from it all, quit work, moved jobs. Maybe he was letting me slip away? I didn’t hold onto him, letting him return to his family—I never meant to invade someone else’s love. Meanwhile, Artem kept drinking. Five years later, I randomly ran into Paul—he seriously proposed! I found it hilarious. Artem rallied briefly, went abroad to work in Prague. I filled the role of model wife and caring mum, devoted to our family. Artem returned in half a year, we renovated the flat, bought gadgets; he fixed his car. Life looked up—until he relapsed. A new cycle of drinking began, with friends dragging him home, pockets emptied. I’d wander our neighbourhood searching for him, usually finding him asleep on a bench. Life was chaotic. One spring day, I stood gloomily at the bus stop—birds chirped, sun shone, but I felt nothing. Suddenly, a charming man whispered: “Maybe I can ease your troubles?” I turned. Goodness, what a handsome stranger! I was 45—could I bloom again? Flustered, I jumped on the bus. He waved as I left. All day, I only thought of him. For weeks, he waited for me every morning at that stop. I came early, looking for him. When he saw me, he’d send air kisses. One day he brought red tulips. “What am I supposed to do with flowers at work? The girls’ll realise!” He laughed, handed the bouquet to an old lady watching us. She beamed: “Thanks, love! Hope you find a passionate girlfriend!” I blushed—at least she didn’t wish a young lover on him! He said: “Nancy, let’s be guilty together! You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the offer was tempting. My marriage was, well, non-existent—Artem, an immovable log, lost in drink. The stranger—George—was a non-smoker, teetotaller, ex-athlete (aged 57), and a captivating conversationalist—divorced. There was an irresistible pull about him. I plunged headlong into this affair—far wilder than I’d expected! Three years, I was torn between home and George. My soul was in turmoil. I wanted to escape, but couldn’t—in body and spirit, George took over. Logic said I should leave; fascination made me stay. Every time I fled home after our fiery nights, I just wanted to cuddle up to my husband—even stinking drunk, he felt wholesome and familiar. Your own crust is better than someone else’s pie! That was life’s truth. Passion, after all, is close to “pain.” I just hoped I’d suffer through George and return to my family, not chase reckless pleasure. My son knew about George—once spotted us in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I introduced them. They shook hands and parted ways. Later at dinner, Edward looked at me, expecting answers. I joked about a work project: “In a restaurant, though?” he nodded, “Sure.” Edward never judged, just asked me not to divorce Dad—maybe Dad would recover. I was a lost lamb. My divorced friend warned me to “ditch these useless lovers and settle down.” She’d had three husbands—her advice was seasoned. I listened with my head, but not my heart. Only when George tried to hit me did I finally break it off. That was the end—my eyes opened! Three years of torment—finally free! George kept chasing me, begging forgiveness. I stood firm. My friend kissed me and gave me a mug that said, “You did the right thing!” About Artem? He knew everything—George called and told him, sure I’d leave the family. Artem confessed: “When I heard that man’s voice, I wanted to die quietly. It’s my fault—I lost my wife, traded love for the bottle. What could I say?” Ten years have passed. Artem and I have two granddaughters. The other day, at the kitchen table over coffee, I gazed out the window. Artem gently took my hand: “Nancy, don’t look elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe me?” “Of course, I do, my one and only…”

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… The Confession of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60—and not a single one of my family even rang to wish me happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and even my ex-husband is still around. My daughter’s 40, my son’s 35. Both live in London, both graduated from respected universities. Both intelligent, successful. My daughter’s married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son to the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers, own several properties, and each runs their own business alongside a secure government job. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished uni. He said he was tired of the constant pace, even though his own work was steady, weekends spent with mates or lounging on the sofa, holidays visiting family up north for the whole month. I never took holidays, worked three jobs at once—engineer in a factory, cleaner for management, and at weekends packing shelves in the local supermarket from eight to eight, plus extra cleaning. Every penny I earned was for the kids—London’s an expensive city and studying at top universities meant good clothes, food, and treats. I’d wear old clothes, patch things up, repair my shoes, kept clean and tidy. That was enough for me. My escapes were dreams—sometimes I’d see myself there; happy, young, laughing. When my husband left, he bought himself a fancy car straight away. Must’ve had a decent stash set aside. Our life together was strange—all the costs were mine except the rent, which he paid; that was his only real contribution. I raised our children, paid for their educations myself… The flat we lived in came from my gran—a solid, well-kept Victorian with high ceilings. Two beds, converted to a three. The box room had a window and I renovated it; perfect for a bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves. That was my daughter’s. My son and I shared a room—luckily, I was hardly home except to sleep. Husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her old box room. Son stayed in the other room. Splitting up with my husband was peaceful; no rows, no splitting the furniture, and no blame games. He wanted to LIVE, not muddle through, and I was so worn out I felt relieved… No more slaving over dinners, desserts, and drinks. No more washing his clothes and bedding; I could finally rest. By that stage, I’d racked up plenty of health issues—spine, joints, diabetes, thyroid, exhaustion. For the first time I took a real break and focused on treatment. I kept my side jobs. Got a bit better. I hired a really good tradesman and his mate—they redid my bathroom in two weeks, a proper job. For me that was happiness! Personal, genuine happiness! Happiness for myself! All this time, instead of birthday and holiday gifts, I’d send my successful children money. Then there were grandchildren, so I couldn’t stop working extra. I never saved for myself. My own birthday calls came rarely, mostly in reply to my wishes. No gifts. Worst of all, neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings. My daughter told me: “Mum, you just wouldn’t fit in the crowd. There’ll be people from the Prime Minister’s office.” And I found out about my son’s wedding from my daughter, after the fact… At least they didn’t ask for money for the weddings… Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter says there’s nothing for her in our “backwater” (a busy city, over a million people). My son always says, “Oh, Mum, I’m too busy!” Flights to London go seven times a day, just two hours in the air… How would I name that period of my life? Probably the age of suppressed emotions… I lived like Scarlett O’Hara—”I’ll think about it tomorrow”… I buried all my tears and pain, held back everything from confusion to despair. I worked like a robot pre-programmed to keep going. Later, the factory was bought out by London investors—restructuring followed, all us older staff were let go overnight, so I retired early. The pension’s £250 a week… Try living on that. I got lucky—a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey, four-entrance block… So I started mopping up stairwells—an extra £250 a week. I kept my weekend supermarket job, £35 per shift. Hardest bit was being on my feet the whole day. I slowly started fixing up the kitchen. Did most of it myself; ordered new units from a neighbour—he did a fine job at a decent price. And again, I began to squirrel away a little money. Wanted to touch up the rooms, update some furniture. Those were the plans… except nowhere in those plans was I myself! What did I spend on me? Only basic food, and I never ate much. And medicine—those bills were steep. Rent’s climbed year after year. My ex suggested, “Sell the flat, great area, good price—get yourself a one-bed.” But it breaks my heart. It’s my gran’s memory. I don’t recall my parents. Gran raised me. That flat’s my whole life’s history. I kept things friendly with my ex. We chat now and then, like old mates. He’s fine. Never talks about his personal life. Once a month he comes over, brings potatoes, veg, rice, drinking water—all the heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says if I use delivery, it’ll be rubbish, all rotten. I don’t argue. Inside, something’s frozen—bundled tight. I just keep going. Work hard. Never dream. Never want anything for myself. I only see my daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. My son’s life flashes on his wife’s Insta. I’m glad they’re well; safe and healthy. They holiday in exotic places, dine at fancy restaurants. Maybe I didn’t give them enough love. Maybe that’s why they don’t have love for me. Sometimes my daughter asks how I am; I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son occasionally sends WhatsApp voice notes: “Hi Mum, hope you’re well.” Once my son told me he didn’t want to hear about my problems with Dad—negativity upsets him. So I stopped sharing anything with him, just say: “Yes, love—all’s well.” I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know their living granny exists—the old cleaner on a pension. I guess, according to family legend, granny’s long gone… I don’t recall ever buying anything for myself—all I get is the odd bit of underwear and socks, always the cheapest. Never been for a manicure, pedicure… Once a month I get my hair trimmed at the salon next door, and dye it myself. The one thing I like: even now, I still wear the same size as in my youth—14/16. No need to replace my wardrobe. But I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed—the pain in my spine is relentless. I’m afraid of being trapped. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way—no rest, no little joys, always working and saving everything for “later”? But where is “later”? It’s gone… My spirit is empty… my heart—full of indifference… And around me—only emptiness… I don’t blame anyone. But I can’t really blame myself either. I’ve always worked, still do now. Building a little safety net, just in case I can’t work. Tiny, but still… Though, truth be told, I know if I’m bedridden, I won’t want to live… wouldn’t want anyone to have to deal with me. And you know what’s saddest of all? No one in my entire life has ever given me flowers… Not once… Wouldn’t it be a laugh if someone finally brings fresh flowers to my grave? Seriously, it’d be almost funny…

Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I just can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tommy, a Year 2 pupil, sadly poking his paintbrush at the stubborn, curling-the-wrong-way green leaf on the flower he’d drawn. “Not so hard, love, be gentle with your brush – like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. There, that’s it! Beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky one getting your lovely picture?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy replied, grinning now that he’d tamed the awkward leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His pride at the teacher’s praise was clear in his voice. “Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet. Let the paints dry a little or they’ll smudge. Then, when you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. Trust me, your mum will love it!” The teacher glanced one last time at the boy’s tousled head bent over the paper, then returned to her desk, smiling at her thoughts. What a gift for his mum! Bet it’s been years since she’s had something so lovely. Tommy’s got real talent for art—maybe I should call his mum about art school. Talent shouldn’t go to waste. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask my former pupil if she liked the present. I can’t take my eyes off those flowers Tommy painted; they look ready to rustle their living green curls. Oh, he takes after his mum! No doubt about it. Lorna was a brilliant young artist herself at his age… ***** “Miss Mary, it’s Lorna—Tommy Cottam’s mum,” came the strict voice of a young woman over the phone that evening. “Just letting you know, Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna! Is everything alright?” “No, it isn’t! That little rascal ruined my whole birthday! And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left.” “Hang on, Lorna, what do you mean fever? He left school happy, bringing you his—” “You mean those splotches?” “Splotches? No, Lorna! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was just about to call to suggest art school for him…” “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy mess for a gift!” “Soggy mess? What on earth happened?” Miss Mary was lost for words as Lorna rambled on, tense and upset, and her frown deepened with every explanation: how Tom came home late, drenched in mud and water… How he pulled a soaking-wet puppy from under his coat—the stench! He’d climbed into a thawing puddle to rescue it after bigger boys threw it in. Ruined books, splotched sketchbook, and a fever nearly touching 39… The party ruined, guests left before the cake came out. The doctor scolded her for not watching her child… “After Tom fell asleep, I took that puppy straight back to the dump. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator, but the water’s made a mess of everything, not just the flowers!” Lorna grumbled. She didn’t seem to notice how the elderly teacher’s expression grew grimmer with every word, especially when she heard what happened to the rescued puppy. Miss Mary looked sternly at Lorna, stroked the ruined sketchbook gently, and spoke softly… About green swirls and living flowers. About the care of a child and his brave heart, unwilling to look away from injustice. Of the bullies who threw the little animal into that pit. Then she stood, took Lorna by the hand, and led her to the window. “There’s that pit,” she pointed. “Tom could have drowned, not just the puppy. Do you think he gave that a thought while he was rescuing it? Or was he thinking about those flowers on the page and trying not to breathe on them, so he wouldn’t spoil his gift?” “Or have you forgotten, Lorna, how—you in the nineties—sobbed bitterly on the school bench, hugging a stray kitten you’d rescued from the local boys?” “How we all stroked it, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home when your parents tossed your ‘scruffy flea bag’ out… Luckily, they changed their mind in time.” “Well, let me remind you! And your cat, Tigger, you never wanted to part with! And floppy-eared Max, that puppy who went everywhere with you right up to uni, and the rook with the broken wing you took care of at school…” Miss Mary fetched an old photo from her album: a tiny girl in a white pinafore holding a furry kitten, smiling at her classmates. Her voice was gentle, but firm: “I’ll remind you of the kindness in your heart, the kindness that bloomed in spite of everything, bright as paint on a child’s page.” A faded drawing tumbled out after the photo: a girl, clutching a fluffy kitten and gripping her mum’s hand. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary added more sternly, “I’d have kissed that puppy and Tom together! And put those splotches in a frame! There’s no better gift for a mother than raising her child to be a good person!” Lorna didn’t seem to notice how her face changed with every word. She cast worried glances at Tom’s bedroom door, clutching the ill-fated sketchbook with whitening fingers. “Miss Mary! Please, would you watch Tom for a few minutes? I’ll be right back, I promise!” Under her teacher’s gentle gaze, Lorna threw on her coat and rushed out. She ran straight for the distant dump, not caring that her feet got soaked, calling and searching under boxes and bags, glancing anxiously homeward… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Tom, who’s got their nose buried in the flowers? Is that your mate, Duke?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It certainly does! There’s that white star on his paw—how I remember washing those muddy paws with your mum.” The teacher chuckled fondly. “And now I wash them every day! Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even bought a special doggy tub for it!” Tom said proudly. “You’ve got a wonderful mum,” nodded Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another picture, then?” “Yep! This one’s for a frame. The splotches are up on the wall now, and she always smiles at them. Why would you smile at splotches, Miss Mary?” “At splotches? Maybe you would, if they came straight from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school?” “It’s brilliant! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait—she’ll love it! But for now—look, I’ve got something for you, from Mum. She draws too.” Tom pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag, and Miss Mary squeezed his shoulder lightly. On the paper, a brightly painted Tom beamed, his hand resting on Duke’s head, the dog gazing at him adoringly. Next to them, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress hugged a fluffy kitten… To the left, behind a teacher’s desk piled with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling with bottomless, wise kindness in her lively gaze at her happy students. In every brushstroke, in every mark, she could feel the proud love of a mother. Miss Mary brushed away her tears and, suddenly beaming, noticed—right in the corner, drawn in flowers and curling green spirals—one single word: “Remember.”

One More Year Together… For the past while, Mr. Arthur Evans hadn’t gone out on his own. Not since the day he left for the clinic, lost his way, and forgot both his address and his own name. He wandered the neighbourhood in confusion until his eyes landed upon a very familiar building: the old clock factory where Mr. Evans had spent nearly fifty years of his working life. He stared at the factory, certain he recognised it, but the reason escaped him, as did his own identity—until someone approached from behind with a friendly pat on the shoulder: “Evans! Uncle Arthur, what brings you here—missing us, perhaps? We were just reminiscing the other day about the best foreman and mentor we ever had. Arthur Evans, you haven’t even recognised me? It’s me—Sam Cooper! You made a man of me, Evans!” Something clicked in Arthur’s mind—his memory returned all at once, thank heavens. Sam grinned and embraced his old mentor, “Recognised me now? Shaved off the moustache, don’t look much like myself, eh? Will you come in, the lads would love to see you?” “Perhaps another time, Sam, I’m feeling rather worn out,” admitted Mr. Evans. “I’ve got my car out front, let me drive you home—I remember your address!” Sam cheerfully replied. He drove Arthur home, and ever since, Mrs. Natalie Evans hadn’t let her husband go out alone, even though his memory seemed fully recovered. They only went out together now—to the park, the clinic, and the shops. One day Arthur fell ill—fever, harsh cough. Natalie hurried alone to the pharmacy and supermarket, although she herself was under the weather. She bought medicine and groceries, not even much, but a strange weakness overtook her, and she was short of breath. Her shopping bag felt impossibly heavy. Natalie paused to catch her breath, then struggled onward toward home. A few steps further, she stopped again, set her heavy bag down on the fresh snow, and gently sank to the path leading to her house. Her last thought—why had she bought so much at once, silly old lady! Thankfully, the neighbours saw her lying on the snow, hurried over, and called an ambulance. Natalie was rushed away, while neighbours took her bags of food and medicine, returned, and rang her doorbell. “Her husband must be home—he’s looked poorly lately, I haven’t seen him outside,” guessed Mrs. Nina Miller. “He’s likely sleeping; Natalie mentioned he’s been quite unwell too—oh, old age is no joy, I’ll check back later…” Arthur Evans heard the bell. But his cough made breathing hard, and when he tried to stand, dizziness from fever nearly caused him to collapse. The cough quieted, and Arthur drifted into a strange half-sleep, halfway between dream and reality. Where was Natalie? Why was she taking so long? He dozed for ages, but then heard light footsteps. Suddenly, his wife appeared—his Natalie, thank goodness she was back. “Arthur, give me your hand, hold on, get up, come now,” she called softly. And so, clutching her curiously cold, frail hand, he rose. “Now open the door, quickly, open up,” Natalie whispered. “Why?” Arthur asked, but opened the door as she asked—and in came neighbour Nina Miller and young Sam Cooper from work. “Evans, why didn’t you answer? We knocked and called!” “Natalie—where’s Natalie? She was just here!” Arthur stammered, lips pale, unable to understand where his wife had gone. “She’s in hospital, in intensive care!” exclaimed Nina Miller. “He’s delirious,” Sam realised, just in time to catch his old friend as he fainted… The neighbours called an ambulance—it was a feverish faint. Two weeks later, Natalie was discharged from hospital. Sam drove her home, having helped Arthur recover in her absence. At last, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were together again. Alone at last, tears were hard to hold back. “It’s good, isn’t it, Arthur—there are still kind people. Nina is such a decent woman—remember how her kids came round after school? We fed them, helped with homework, and she’d collect them after work.” “Yes, not everyone remembers kindness, but she’s stayed warm-hearted, it means a lot,” Arthur agreed. “And Sam—a bright young lad; I was his mentor, helped him find his feet. Many young folks forget us oldies, but he didn’t.” “The New Year’s in a few days, Arthur—it’s so wonderful that we’re together again,” Natalie said, nestling close to her husband. “Natalie, tell me honestly—how did you come from hospital and make me open the door for my rescuers? I would’ve died here without you.” He dreaded she’d think his mind was slipping, but Natalie looked astonished, “So it was real? They told me I’d had a clinical death—and during that, in a dreamlike haze, I came to you? I remember it too—seeing myself in intensive care, then leaving and coming to you…” “What strange magic, what blessings as we grow old! And I still love you, more than ever before,” Arthur Evans took her hands in his and they sat for a long time, silent, gazing at one another as if afraid fate might separate them again. On New Year’s Eve, Sam dropped by with a basket of his wife’s homemade pies. Neighbour Nina popped in too; they chatted over tea and pies, feeling content and warm inside. At midnight, Natalie and Arthur welcomed in the New Year together. “You know,” Natalie smiled, “I made a wish—if we see in this New Year together, then it’s ours. We’ll have another year yet.” They laughed with joy at the thought. One more whole year together—it means everything, it is happiness itself.