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…

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 3

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed
Confession of a 60-year-old Woman

Margaret:

This year I turn 60. Not one of my family even rang to wish me happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and a granddaughter, as well as an ex-husband somewhere out there. My daughter is 40, my son 35. Both live in London and have graduated from rather prestigious London universities. They’re clever, successful. My daughter is married to a senior civil servant, my son to the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Their careers are prosperous, they own several properties, and aside from their public sector posts, each runs their own business. All is steady.

My ex-husband left when our son finished university. Said he was tired of this pace of life. Odd, as he worked quietly in the same job, spent weekends with friends or lounging about at home, and every summer hed disappear for a whole month to relatives down in Cornwall. I never took a single holiday; I worked three jobs at onceengineer at a factory, cleaner in the office, and weekends as a packing assistant at the local Tesco from 8am to 8pm, plus cleaning storage and staff rooms. Every penny I made went to the childrenLondons an expensive place, and studying at elite universities demanded a good wardrobe, nutritious food, and plenty of activities.

I learned to wear old clothes, mend where I could, repaired shoes countless times. I always kept myself neat and clean, that was enough for me. My only entertainment was in dreamssometimes I’d see myself happy and young in my sleep, laughing.

As soon as my husband left, he bought himself a flashy carmust have saved quite a bit. Our life together was strange; I bore every expense except the rent. He paid the rent, and that was the end of his contribution to the family. It was me who educated the children

The flat we all lived in came from my grandmothera good, solid and lovely Victorian two-bed converted into a three. There was a storage room with a window, 8.5 square metres, which I fixed up with a bed, desk, wardrobe and shelves; my daughter took that space. I shared a room with my son, though I only came home to sleep; my husband had the living room. When my daughter moved to London, I moved into the storeroom and the son stayed in the bedroom.

There were no dramas with my husband as we parted, no fighting over assets, no accusations. He wanted to live, not just survive the dreariness, and I was so worn out that I actually felt relief. I didnt have to cook endless meals or do his laundry anymore, didnt need to iron and put everything away, could actually just use that time for rest.

By then, I’d collected a fair few ailmentsbad back, sore joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves shot to pieces. I took my first proper break at my main job just to get treatment. Still kept my side jobs though. I improved.

I hired a brilliant tradesman and with his mate, they renovated my bathroom in just two weeks. For me, it was true happiness! HAPPINESS FOR ME! A personal joy.

All those years, for birthdays, Christmas, Mothers Day, even Fathers Day, I sent money to my successful children instead of presents. Then came the grandchildren, so I could never quit my extra work. Nothing left to spend on myself. I got the odd holiday greeting, usually only in reply to mine. No one ever gave me presents.

But the worst part was neither my son nor my daughter invited me to their weddings.

My daughter said quite bluntly: “Mum, you wouldnt really fit in with the crowd. Therell be people from Downing Street.” I only learned of my son’s wedding after the event, from my daughter.

Well, at least they didnt ask me for money for the wedding

Neither child ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter said theres nothing for her in our backwater, even though our city has over a million people. My son always says, “Oh Mum, theres never any time!”

There are seven flights a day to London! Its just two hours in the air

How would I describe that period of my life? Probably a life of suppressed emotions.

I lived like Scarlett OHara”Ill think about that tomorrow”

I crushed my tears and pain, pushed down every feeling from confusion to despair. I lived like a machine, programmed only for work.

Then our factory was bought by London investors and there was restructuring. All of us nearing retirement were let go, so I lost two jobs instantly, but managed to take early retirement thanks to the redundancies. The pension I get is £200 a week. Try living off that.

As luck would have it, a position opened up for a cleaner in our five-storey, four-entry block of flatsI started cleaning the corridorsanother £200 a week. I kept my packing and cleaning job at Tesco at weekends, as the pays good£30 a shift. Its only tough being on my feet all day.

I slowly started fixing up my kitchen. Did it all myself, ordered the cabinets from a neighbourhe did a fine job for a fair price.

I started saving again. I wanted to redecorate the rooms, maybe replace some furniture. I had plansbut the plans never included myself! What did I spend on myself? Just foodsimple stuff; Ive never eaten much. And medication, which costs plenty. The rent never cheers meit just climbs each year. My ex told me, sell the three-bed, the areas desirable, youll get a decent sum. Buy yourself a one-bed place.

But I simply cant. It’s my grandmothers memory. My parents I barely remember. My grandmother brought me up. That flat means everything to me.

My ex and I managed to keep up civil friendship. We sometimes talk, like old neighbours. He’s well. Never talks about his private life. Once a month he pops in bringing groceriespotatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. The heavy stuff. Refuses money. Tells me not to use deliveries; you get nothing but bad food, he says. I agree.

It feels like something inside me has frozenall tight. I live my life and work a lot. I dont dream of anything. I dont want anything for myself. I only see my daughter and grandchildren in her Instagram posts; my sons life flashes by in his wifes stories. Still, Im glad theyre doing well. Everyones healthy, going on fancy holiday trips, dining in expensive restaurants.

Perhaps I didnt give them enough love. Thats why they feel nothing for me. My daughter occasionally asks how I am. I always answer Im fine. I never complain. My son sometimes sends quick WhatsApp voice notes: Hey Mum, hope you’re well.

Once, he said he didnt want to hear about our problems, too much negativity, so I stopped talking about any troubles, just reply, Yes, love, alls fine.

Id really love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they dont even know their grandmother is livinga pensioner working as a cleaner. Probably in their minds, grandmas passed on years ago

I cant recall the last time I bought something just for myself; sometimes I pick up the cheapest underwear or socks. Ive never had a manicure or pedicure at a salon. Once a month I get my hair trimmed at the local barbers. I colour my hair at home myself. The only thing thats stayed since youth is my sizesame as before. No reason to update the wardrobe.

The one thing that truly frightens me is the thought that one morning I won’t be able to get upmy back constantly tortures me, the aches never fade. Im terrified of being left helpless.

Maybe I shouldn’t have worked myself to the bone, never taking time off, always postponing any joy for later? Where is later? It doesnt exist anymore My soul feels empty my hearts just indifferent and the world around me is empty too

I blame no one. But I cant blame myself either. Ive worked my whole life, and I still do. I keep a small buffer just in case I cant work anymore. Its not much, but at least its something Though, truthfully, I know if I become bedridden, I wont want to live I dont want to be a burden to anyone.

And you know what’s the saddest bit? No one has ever given me flowers Never. Funny, really, if someone would bring fresh flowers to my grave someday It would be enough to make me laughproperly laugh.

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.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Irene Was His Own Daughter—Suspicious Rumors About Wife Vera at the Shop Made Him Reject the Fragile Child, Leaving Only Grandpa Matthew to Cherish Her and Bequeath His Countryside Cottage and a Promise of Happiness The Only One Who Truly Loved Irene Was Her Grandfather As a child, Irene frequently battled illness, small and delicate, prompting Leonard to scoff, “Neither my family nor Vera’s ever had such tiny offspring! That’s hardly a daughter of mine.” With time, even Vera distanced herself, leaving Irene unloved—except for Grandpa Matthew, the kindly forest warden whose remote cottage at the village edge became Irene’s safe haven. He taught her about woodland herbs and cures, nurturing both her spirit and ambition to become a healer, promising support for her studies even if he had to sell the family cow. Grandpa Left Irene Both His Home and a Blessing for Her Future Vera rarely visited her father, but when her son lost a poker game in town, she came begging for money. Grandpa Matthew sternly refused, declaring his priority was Irene’s education, not covering his grandson’s debts. Furious, Vera disowned them both. When Irene entered nursing college, only Grandpa Matthew helped her, his encouragement and Irene’s scholarship sustaining her despite her parents’ neglect. Sensing his end, Grandpa Matthew bequeathed Irene the cottage and foretold her happiness: “Find work in the city, but never abandon your home—its spirit lives through you. Don’t fear the woods at night; your destiny awaits here.” Matthew’s Prophecy Came True After Grandpa’s autumn passing, Irene—now a nurse in the district hospital—spent weekends alone at the cottage. One snowy night, a stranger named Stan appeared, stranded outside, seeking a shovel. Their unexpected meeting blossomed; Stan teased her gentle strength, and Irene welcomed him in from the winter storm. Over tea, they found companionship—Stan offered Irene a ride to town, and soon, their friendship grew. “There’s something magical about your herbal tea—I just had to see you again,” he joked after a surprise visit. They never had a big wedding, but a heartfelt love flourished. Stan doted on Irene, disproving the notion that only storybook husbands carry their wives. When their sturdy son was born, the maternity nurses marveled: “How did such a petite woman have such a strong boy?” Irene named him Matthew, honoring the wonderful grandfather who gave her love and a home.