The Secret In a small English village, more a rural hamlet than a true town, lived a girl named Lily. One day her mother, a firm believer in the mystical, took her to visit the local fortune teller. The old mystic laid out the cards and declared: “Lily will have a happy life. Everything will turn out well for her. But I don’t see a man by her side.” Lily was only about ten at the time. The words of the mysterious old woman were seared into her memory, though she barely understood them. Years passed. Lily grew into a tall, beautiful woman who drove all the village lads wild. But she never settled on any of them, dating one and then another but never making a decision. Despite doing well at school, she didn’t leave for university. Instead, she stayed and took a job at the local dairy. Rumour had it she was seeing one of the managers, but no one ever saw them together. The older women at the factory would warn the newcomer: “Careful, Lily, don’t get stuck here or you’ll find life’s passed you by. Head to the city—you’ve got everything going for you there.” Lily just smiled, never replying. Suddenly, news swept through the village: Lily was pregnant! Speculation exploded about who could have “blessed” the village beauty, but no one could figure out who the father was. Her mother didn’t hesitate: “So you’ve done it? Shamed the family! You’re on your own now. Don’t expect my help. You made your bed, now lie in it. And find somewhere else to live, you’re not staying here—I’ll give you a month.” “All right, Mum,” Lily replied calmly, “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to come back.” Two weeks later, Lily bought a small cottage, complete with all the household bits. She was lucky, said the neighbors—the previous owner’s children had taken her to the city and sold the house for next to nothing. Where Lilly, pregnant as she was, got even those few pounds was a mystery. Then the miracles began. The cottage was swiftly done up, fitted with a modern touch and a new fence, and a fresh water well appeared in the yard. People would turn up, do the work quickly, and then vanish. Soon after, Lily received deliveries of boxes filled with appliances and new furniture. She walked around the village smiling, looking every bit as content and carefree as anyone could imagine—nothing like an abandoned, single mother. That autumn, Lily’s son, Anthony, was born, and a brand new sky-blue pram appeared before her tidy little house. She bounced back from childbirth quickly, looking even more striking than before. Always poised and well-dressed, she walked through the village with her head held high, looking endlessly content. At home, she worked tirelessly: the newborn, the garden, the wood stove, shopping, laundry—but she never once complained. Raised to value hard work, she simply got on with things. Neighbors, recognizing her spirit and kindness, became friends, even helping with Anthony when she needed to nip out. They’d lend a hand in the garden—sending a husband round to dig beds, or helping with weeding—but Lily managed most things on her own. When Anthony was about two, one neighbor rushed to another wide-eyed: “Did you see?” “What?” “Lily’s pregnant again!” “Nonsense, you’re imagining it!” “No, really—come and see!” Once again, gossip about Lily spread through the village: who could be the father this time? But no one had seen her with any man. Lily ignored the whispers, quietly carrying on with her life. Soon a little bathhouse appeared on her land, gas fitters rerouted their route to install gas for her, and a modern greenhouse sprang up in her garden. “So where does a single woman get that kind of money?” villagers wondered, “She must have a secret admirer—someone important. But Lily’s secret remained unsolved.” The same sky-blue pram reappeared in her yard and Anthony had a new little brother, Sam. Two years later, another brother—Michael. Lily had three sons, and no one in the village knew who their father was. Some openly mocked her, some admired her courage when they saw her healthy, well-cared-for children and tireless work ethic. Others wagged their fingers and used her as a cautionary tale for their own daughters. Lily’s mother couldn’t understand her, was ashamed, never tried to help or get to know her grandchildren. Lily simply held her head high and ignored it all. Time passed—until the day a fancy car pulled up outside Lily’s house. Out stepped the owner of the dairy factory—a widely respected figure—bearing a huge bouquet. He went in, and as townsfolk gathered outside, Lily eventually stepped out with him, only for the man to embrace and kiss her in front of everyone before announcing loudly: “Lily has agreed to be my wife. We, and our sons, invite you all to our wedding!” A stunned silence. Only then did the villagers realise who Lily’s boys reminded them of… At last, congratulations rained down from every direction. After a grand wedding, the dairy owner moved Lily and her sons into his home, with the whole village helping to pack up her things. A year later, the family welcomed a long-awaited baby girl… So much for fortune tellers!

Author Emily TaylorReading 6 minViews 4

The Secret

In a small English village that fancied itself a town, lived a girl named Abigail. One day, her motheran earnest woman with a fondness for the mysticalbrought Abigail along to see the local fortune-teller.

The old woman laid out her tarot cards and peered into Abigails future.
Your Abigail will be a happy one,” she intoned, her eyes shining in the candlelight. Everything in her life shall be bright. But I see no man at her side.

Abigail was only ten, and though she didnt entirely grasp the words, the prophecy settled into her heart.

Years rolled by and Abigail blossomed into a tall, striking young woman with an air of self-assurance that drove the village lads wild. But she never lingered for long with any of themone moment shed be seen sharing a laugh with Tom at the bakery, the next strolling with Daniel through the churchyard. None could claim her.

Despite excelling at school, Abigail chose not to head to university in the city. Instead, she stayed and took a job at the village creamery. Rumour had it she had caught the eye of one of the managers, but if so, no one ever saw them together beyond the ordinary.

The women in the dairy would warn newcomers,
Best not linger here too long, Abigail, or lifell slip by you before you know it. If I were you, Id head to Londonyoud have no trouble turning heads in the city.

Abigail would listen quietly, offering a gentle smile but little more.

Then, out of the blue, word raced through the village: Abigails expecting!

What followed could only be described as a village-wide inquest. Who had stolen the heart of their local beauty, and more importantly, when? Speculation ran wild, but the answer eluded them.

Her mother wasted no time in voicing her dismay,
So youve gone and done it? Brought shame on us both! Dont expect anything from meIve nothing to offer. If youre grown enough to make your own choices, youre grown enough to face the consequences. Youll need somewhere else to liveone month, Abigail, thats all.

Alright, Mum, Abigail replied, her voice level. Ill go. But dont expect me back.

Within two weeks, Abigail had purchased a modest cottage on the edge of the village. The previous owners children had sold the place for a song, eager to move their mother into the city. No one ever figured out where the pregnant Abigail had scraped together the pounds for the purchase.

Then, astonishing changes unfolded. The old cottage was swiftly transformed, its garden tamed and its fence replaced. Someone built a fresh well in the yard. Tradesmen with unfamiliar faces arrived, working briskly until the little house gleamed.

Neighbours watched as a lorry unloaded new kitchen appliances and a heap of smart furniture. Abigail herself seemed all smiles, her eyes bright with contentment. She hardly resembled the forlorn, abandoned woman theyd anticipated.

That autumn, Abigails son Harry was born. A shiny blue pram appeared in her tidy garden. She soon recovered, growing more beautiful and radiant by the day, always immaculately dressed, her head held high as she strode through the village.

At home, there was no restshe was up with the baby, tending the veg patch, keeping the stove going, dashing to the shops, and managing a mountain of laundry. But Abigail never complained; she had been raised to work hard and handled everything herself. No grumbling, no self-pity.

Her neighbours, seeing how industrious she was and how well she treated others, gradually befriended her. Some even watched over little Harry whenever Abigail needed to nip out. Why not lend a hand?

Help came with the garden toonow a neighbours husband would lend his muscle to dig the beds, or a group of women would tackle the weeds together. Yet mostly, Abigail managed it all alone.

When Harry was about two, one neighbour rushed over, eyes wide as saucers:
Did you see Abigail?
What about her?
Shes expecting again!
Oh, dont be daft!
Im telling yougo see for yourself!

Once again, the gossip machine whirred. No one could fathom who might be the father this time. Abigail was never spotted with a soul.

Unperturbed, she carried on as always. Next, a neat little bathhouse appeared outside her cottage. Gas fitters, inexplicably, detoured to install central heating. A gleaming polycarbonate greenhouse was suddenly erected out backcost a fair bit, too.

Wheres she finding all this money, a single girl like her? folks muttered. Most likely theres a secret boyfriend, some bigwig looking out for her. But the riddle of Abigail remained unsolved.

The same blue pram was wheeled out again soon after. Harry now had a little brotherOliver. Two years later, another brotherEdwardarrived.

Abigail, mother to three strapping sons, never revealed the fathers name. Some openly laughed, declaring her touched in the head. Others admired herher children were healthy, she never touched a drop, and she worked harder than anyone. Some even wagged fingers and told cautionary tales to their daughters about her.

As for Abigails mother, shame forced a wedge between them. She never tried to help and made no effort to know her grandsons.

Yet Abigail held her head high and let neither scorn nor pity faze her.

Time passed. Then, one day, a gleaming black car drew up outside Abigails cottage. The creamerys director, Mr. Henry Bennett, stepped out, a grand bouquet of flowers in hand. He entered Abigails house. Word spread quickly, drawing villagers and bystanders alike.

What was Henry Bennettrespected, recently widowed, having nursed his invalid wife for yearsdoing at Abigails cottage in broad daylight? With flowers, no less?

Abigail emerged to see the yard thick with neighbours. Mr. Bennett drew her close, kissed her for all to see, and in a voice that rang out clear:
Abigail has agreed to marry me. We, and our sons, invite you all to our wedding.

A stunned hush fell. Slowly, people registered the familial features in Abigails sons. Only now did the pieces fall into place.

Then, cheers erupted as everyone rushed forward with congratulations.

After a grand, bustling wedding, Henry moved Abigail and her boys into his house, the whole village helping cart over their things. A year later, Abigail delighted everyone with the birth of a daughter.

And after all that, who could trust a fortune-tellers word?

As a child, I was curious to discover who my father was. Growing up in care, his absence became ‘normal’ for me. At 14, I met the father of my children and had no desire to search for my own father—life simply went on. Later, after separating, fate unexpectedly led me to him. I run my own business, and one day a client arrived. We struck up a conversation, and I mentioned I’d never met my father. He helped me find him in the village where he’d lived all his life. Meeting him at last brought indescribable joy. I made plans with him—trips, chats, little gestures. I’d buy him clothes, indulge him, always paid for everything, feeling a need to make up for lost years. He told me he was alone, his local children wouldn’t let him have a partner, insisting any woman near him wanted only his money. I asked to meet the woman he claimed loved him, and he introduced us—a humble, hardworking lady who genuinely cared. But his children rejected her, insulted her, called the police, and treated her badly at every turn. She confided the reason: my father had houses, land, and money in the bank—and his children blocked anyone getting close, frantic to protect their inheritance. That’s when the whispers began. People said I only appeared to take everything from him. I didn’t even bear his surname, but he insisted I accept it. I didn’t want the trouble, but eventually I agreed, and tensions flared. My bond with my father’s partner only grew stronger. I suggested they marry in secret, and they did. His children’s anger intensified. But I told them he deserved happiness. Their marriage had ups and downs, but one day I invited them both on a trip. Usually it was just me and my father. During the trip, his wife asked how much I’d contribute to expenses; I said nothing, as I’d always covered our trips. That’s when she shook my world: she revealed things weren’t as I thought. My father was always financially comfortable. His children controlled him, wouldn’t let him spend on himself or enjoy life. I’d thought he had little, living in an unfinished house and looking deprived, but others managed his money. From then on, I encouraged him to enjoy what he’d worked for. But he said his children wouldn’t allow it. After the wedding, his wife pressed him to help with household expenses. Every request sparked an argument. Eventually he’d contribute, but only after a row. She confided everything, and I saw her requests as fair. One day, when his wife asked him to buy lunch for her father, he exploded—told her to pay instead, bemoaning the daily requests, and started a fight. I defended her, reminding him how unfair it was to deny someone who cared so much. He replied he was tired of always being asked for money. Then it hit me, painfully: my father was generous with the children who never cared for him and came only for his money, but stingy with the woman who looked after him. Eventually, his marriage ended. Now he lives alone. Supposedly a daughter ‘looks after’ him, but everyone knows he’s supporting her, her husband, and their children. His other kids order him around and he sends them money instantly. But to the woman who stood by him—he always refused. I’m not the same with him anymore. I love him, but it’s different. I no longer invite him on holidays; we rarely talk. If I don’t call, he doesn’t ring. I can’t be who I was. It hurts to admit—finding him once filled me with hope, but now, it’s as if he no longer exists.

You’re Not Welcome: How a Daughter Rejected Her Mother Because of Her Appearance I’m Sorry, Mum… Please Don’t Come Over Right Now — whispered my daughter quietly, almost offhand, as she laced up her trainers in the hallway. — Thank you for everything, really, but right now… it’s best if you stay home and rest. I already had my bag in hand and was slipping on my coat, ready as usual to go look after my granddaughter while my daughter went off to yoga. It was always so well-rehearsed — I’d arrive, babysit, then catch the bus home to my little bedsit. But today, everything was different. After her words, I just stood there, frozen. Had something happened? Had I put the baby down wrong? Buttoned up the wrong babygrow? Fed her at the wrong time? Or maybe, just maybe… was I simply caught looking “wrong”? But no, the truth was much more ordinary — and hurtful. It was about her in-laws. Wealthy, influential, holding all the right positions, they’d suddenly decided to visit their granddaughter every day. With serious faces, they unwrapped presents and sat at the dining table they’d picked out themselves. They’d gifted the young couple the flat as well. The furniture, the tea — all from them. They brought over posh Darjeeling and made themselves at home. Apparently now claiming my granddaughter as “theirs”. And me… I was in the way. Me, the retired railway worker with thirty years’ service, just an ordinary woman, no titles or frills, no fancy clothes or designer hairstyle. “Mum, look at yourself,” said my daughter. “You’ve put on weight. Your hair’s gone grey. You look… untidy. Those jumpers are hideous. And you smell like the train. Do you understand?” I stayed silent. What can you say to that? After she’d left, I stared into the mirror. I saw a woman with tired eyes, lines around her mouth, a stretched out pullover, and red cheeks burning with embarrassment. Disgust at myself welled up inside me, sudden as a downpour on a sunny day. I went out for some air as my throat clenched tight and traitorous, bitter tears slid down my face. Then I returned to my tiny flat on the edge of town. I sat on the sofa and scrolled through old photos on my brick of a mobile. My daughter — just a little girl, with a hair ribbon at her first day of school. Prom. Graduation. Her wedding. My granddaughter, smiling from her cot. My whole life in these pictures. Everything I’d lived for. Everything I’d poured myself into. And now, being told “don’t come over”, well, maybe that’s how it’s meant to be. My time had passed. I’d played my part. Now my job was to keep out of the way. Not to be a burden. Not to upset their lives with my unfashionable face. If they needed me, they’d call. Maybe. Some weeks passed. Then one day, the phone rang. “Mum…” her voice sounded strained. “Could you come by? The nanny’s quit, the in-laws… well, they’re showing their true colours. André’s out with his mates. I’m on my own.” I paused for a moment. Then answered calmly: “I’m sorry, love. I can’t just now. I need to look after myself. Become ‘worthy’, as you put it. If that ever happens — maybe then I’ll come.” I hung up. And for the first time in ages, I smiled. Sadly. But with pride.