There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val opened the creaking garden gate with great effort, hobbled to the front door, struggled with the old rusty lock for a while, entered her cold, unheated cottage, and sat down on a chair by the chilly fireplace. The house smelled empty and unlived-in. She’d only been gone three months, yet already the ceilings were shrouded in cobwebs, the ancient chair groaned mournfully, the wind rattled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How will we get through the winter now? “Just a moment, my dear house, let me catch my breath… I’ll fire up the stove, we’ll soon be warm again…” Only a year ago, Granny Val was bustling about the old house: whitening the walls, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before the icons, tended the kitchen, and darted through the garden, somehow finding time to plant, weed, and water. The house, in turn, seemed to rejoice with its mistress—floorboards creaked cheerily under her light, hurried footsteps, doors and windows flew open at the gentle touch of her weary hands, and the oven diligently baked fluffy pies. They were good together, Val and her beloved old house. Widowed young, she raised three children, educated them all, and sent them off into the world: one son now a ship’s captain overseas, the other a colonel in the military, both far away and rarely able to visit. Only her youngest daughter, Tamara, stayed behind in the village as chief agronomist—always at work, popping in to see her mother on Sundays with pies to cheer her heart, but gone for the rest of the week. Her main comfort was granddaughter Sweetie (or, as the neighbours called her, “Our Svetlana”): tall and beautiful, with huge grey eyes, a golden mane of hair, and a delicate presence that stopped the local lads in their tracks. A clever girl too—agricultural college in the city, returned to work in the village as an economist, married the local vet, and, thanks to a scheme for young families, moved into a new, solid brick house. Though her new home was modern, it lacked the blooming garden of Granny Val’s beloved cottage. Svetlana, though a country girl, had always been shielded from hard work by her grandmother, and with the birth of her son, Vasya, tending the garden fell by the wayside. She begged Granny Val to come live with her in the new house—no more fire to light, everything modern and easy. At eighty, Granny Val’s health began to fail—her once quick legs grew heavy; weary from a lifetime of work, and she finally gave in. Yet after a few short months, she heard, “Gran, I do love you! But you’re always sitting—you worked all your life, but here you just rest. I want to run a bigger household, and I need help…” “But my legs… They don’t work anymore, pet—I’m getting old…” “Hm… You got old just as soon as you moved in with me, it seems…” Soon, Granny Val—having “failed” her granddaughter—was returned to her own home, heartbroken she couldn’t be the support she wished to be. Her steps grew slower, the journey from bed to table a challenge, and church now too far to reach. Father Boris, longtime family priest and once her partner in all parish duties, stopped by and quickly sized up the cold cottage, the threadbare cardigan, the battered shoes. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared out the stove, fetched extra wood, got the fire going, and set the kettle to boil. He helped Granny address envelopes for her monthly letters to her sons—her trembling hand writing large, shaky letters: “I’m living very well, dear son. I have everything, thank God!” The blots on the page betrayed the truth—those stains were salty tears. Neighbour Anna took Granny Val under her wing, a helpful hand only twenty years younger. Father Boris made sure to visit, provide confession and communion, and on holidays Anna’s husband, old sailor Uncle Pete, would bring Granny to services on his motorbike. Life slowly settled again. But tragedy struck—Svetlana, her cherished granddaughter, grew gravely ill. What she thought was a stomach problem turned out to be lung cancer; within six months, she was gone. Her husband took to sleeping by her grave, relying on bottles for comfort. Four-year-old Vasya was left homeless, dirty, unloved. Tamara took in her nephew Vasyenka, but her work kept her too busy. With nowhere else to turn, Vasya was put on the list for council care. The local home was reputable enough—a caring headmaster, proper food, children sent home on weekends. But it wasn’t family, and Tamara’s job kept her out late. Then on a rainy Saturday, Granny Val turned up at her daughter’s with Uncle Pete at the helm. “I’ll take Vasya home with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk, how will you manage?” “While I live, I won’t send Vasya to a home,” Val replied—and that was final. The usually gentle Val’s firmness stopped Tamara in her tracks, and Vasya’s things were quickly packed. Neighbours tutted: “She needs help herself, yet brings a child into that cold cottage—what is Tamara thinking?” Father Boris visited with dread—would he find a hungry, dirty child and Granny faint with exertion? But in the warm kitchen, he found Vasya clean and happy, listening to nursery stories from a battered record player. Granny Val was bustling around the kitchen as though her legs had never failed—beating eggs, kneading dough, cheerfully preparing tarts for their tea. “Father dear! I tried making your Alexandra some cakes—wait a bit, I’ll send a warm treat home for you!” When he got home, Father Boris recounted the miracle to his wife. Alexandra pulled out an old family diary and read aloud the story of Vera Yegorovna, her great-grandmother, who recovered from her own deathbed rather than leave her new great-grandchild uncared for, saying with a wry smile, “It’s not time for me to go yet—I’ve still got work to do at home!” She lived another ten years, helping to raise her great-granddaughter. And Father Boris smiled at his wife—knowing, as all old houses and loving hearts do, that there’s still work to be done at home.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

We still have things left to do at home…

Granny Mabel fumbled with the rusty latch, barely managing to open the garden gate before slowly hobbling to the old front door. It took her several attempts to get the stubborn lock open, and when she finally stepped inside her chilly, unlived-in cottage, she slumped onto the creaky wooden chair beside the cold hearth.

There was a musty scent in the air, a sure sign the place had been empty for too long. Shed only been away three months, but already thick cobwebs clung to the beams and ceiling, the floorboards moaned under her weight, and the wind rattled the chimney, as if the house itself was grumbling, Where have you been, mistress? To whom did you abandon us? How will we cope through the winter?

Granny Mabel patted the cold stove gently. Alright, alright, my dear, just give me a moment Ill get the fire going in a tick, and well warm up together.

Only the year before, Granny Mabel would flit around her beloved cottage: whitewashing the walls, dabbing paint, fetching water. Her nimble figure was always busy: bowing her head before the family photos, bustling by the oven, darting out to tend the garden, planting, weeding, watering, never standing still.

And the house rejoiced with her the floorboards squeaking cheerfully under her light steps, doors and windows swinging open to the touch of her hardworking hands, the old stove baking splendid apple pies. Together, Mabel and the house were content.

Shed lost her husband early, raised three children single-handedly, and made sure each one got a good start in life. Her eldest, Peter, became a merchant navy captain and lived miles away; her second son, Charles, made colonel in the Army and likewise hardly visited.

Only the youngest, her daughter Alice, was left in the village, working long hours as the chief farm manager. Shed breeze by on a Sunday, share a pie and a laugh, then vanish for another week.

Mabels real comfort was her granddaughter, Lily. You could say Lily was practically brought up by her gran. And what a beauty she grew into wide grey eyes, a cascade of golden curls, and an elegance that left the local lads speechless. Tall and graceful, with a figure anyone would envy where did a country girl get her poise and looks from?

Mabel had been considered pretty in her own youth, but if you put her old picture next to Lilys, it was like shepherdess versus princess.

Lily was clever, too. Shed finished agricultural college in the city, returned to the village as an economist, and married the local vet. Through a grant for young families, they were given a brand new house proper brick, solid, the envy of the whole village.

The only trouble was, while Mabels home was surrounded by lush, flower-filled gardens, Lilys new place looked bare just three scraggly plants. Lily, for all her rural upbringing, never quite took to gardening. She was delicate, always under her grannys watchful eye, kept away from draughts and anything too heavy.

Soon Lily had a little boy, Jamie, and the garden was forgotten altogether. Come live with us, Gran, Lily pleaded. The house is big, modern, plenty of room, and theres no coal to haul.

When Mabel turned eighty, her legs began to fail as if the aches had just been biding their time. She finally yielded to Lilys coaxing and moved in for a couple of months. But before long, Lily confessed, Gran, I love you, I do you know I do! But you just sit there. Youre always on your feet, you never stop but youve just sat down here I thought youd help me get this place sorted.

I cant, love, my legs wont let me any more Im too old, Mabel sighed.

Well, youve only become old since you moved in with me

It wasnt long before Mabel, having failed her granddaughters hopes, was sent back to her own cottage.

The worry wore her down. Not only had she been unable to help Lily, but she feared shed let her down. Her legs had truly gone shuffling from bed to table was a daily challenge, and church was now out of the question.

It was Reverend William who started visiting, a caring man who knew Mabel as a dependable helper at the village church. He looked around the cottage, noting the weak fire and the cold floors. Mabel sat at the table, busy with her monthly letters to her sons.

On her, the house felt all the more forlorn the once pristine cardigan worn thin, a faded scarf atop her once tidy hair, weary slippers on her feet.

William sighed. She needs a helper, he thought. Perhaps Emma, who lives nearby and is of much hardier stock than Mabel these days. He unpacked a loaf of bread, some ginger biscuits, and half of a large homemade steak pie as a gift from his wife, Martha. Then he rolled up his sleeves, cleaned out the ash pan, brought in armfuls of logs, lit the fire, and filled the big blackened kettle.

Oh, my dear boy oh, Reverend, sorry, I meant would you help me with these addresses, please? My handwritings gone as shaky as an old crows foot, and the letters will never find their way!

William obliged, quickly addressing envelopes, and in glancing at the pages, saw in large, wobbly letters: Im perfectly well, my dearest son. Want for nothing, thank the Lord!

But her tales of good fortune were all smudged with blotches, and it was clear enough from the stains they were made of salt.

Emma soon took Mabel under her wing, and William visited often to give comfort. On big church holidays, Emmas husband old sailor Fred would give Mabel a lift on his battered old motorbike. Slowly, life improved.

Lily didnt come round anymore. Soon after, she fell seriously ill. Shed always had stomach trouble, but this time it proved to be lung cancer, and within six months she was gone.

Her husband, devastated, practically took up camp at her grave, drinking himself into oblivion. Four-year-old Jamie was left unwashed, hungry, and unwanted.

Alice took Jamie in, but with her responsibilities at the farm, she rarely found time for her grandson. Plans were soon made to send him to a county boarding school a respectable one, with energetic staff, decent meals, and children could go home for weekends.

It was hardly a homely life, but Alice had no choice work kept her late and retirement was ages away.

Thats when Granny Mabel, bundled into Freds ancient sidecar, turned up at her daughters door. Fred, complete with sailors jumper, anchor tattoos, and broad arms, looked the part of a village hero together they meant business.

Ill take Jamie, Mabel declared without fuss.

Mum, you can barely walk! How on earth will you manage? Hell need feeding, washing

As long as Im alive, Jamies not going to any institution, Mabel snapped.

Alice, struck silent by her usually gentle mothers resolve, packed Jamies little bag without another word. Fred carted both gran and boy back to the cottage, half carrying them inside. The neighbours tutted. Lovely old soul, our Mabel, but clearly lost her wits in her old age she needs caring for herself, now shes brought home a child! This isnt a puppy he needs looking after Whats Alice thinking?

After Sunday service, Reverend William visited full of dread would he have to remove a starving, neglected Jamie from his frail gran?

Instead, the cottage was warm and lively. Jamie, scrubbed and smiling, lounged on the settee, listening to an old recording of The Gingerbread Boy. As for Mabel, she was fluttering about the kitchen greasing the tin, kneading dough, beating eggs into the cheese. Her legs, which barely worked before, now bustled around almost like old times.

Reverend, youll never guess Im baking cheese scones today Hang on a moment, Ill wrap some for Martha and little Tom to take home hot!

William reached home still dazed at what hed seen and told his wife everything.

Martha listened thoughtfully, then went to her old blue notebook, flipped to a page, and read aloud:

Old Mrs. Harris had lived a long life. Everything had slipped by dreams, feelings, hopes all resting peacefully under a blanket of white snow. It was time. One stormy February evening, Mrs. Harris prayed before her bedside photos, then got into bed and said, Fetch the vicar, Im ready to go. Her face was pale as the snow outside.

The family fetched the priest. She took communion and devoted the next day to lying quietly, eating nothing, drinking nothing only the faintest breathing said her soul hadnt quite departed.

Suddenly the hallway door burst open a gust of freezing air, a babys wail. Shh, Grannys dying, someone whispered. Cant stop a newborn crying, answered the mother, just home from hospital with her red-faced baby girl.

That day everyone left to work early, leaving the dying Mrs. Harris and the frazzled young mum alone. The baby howled, the young mother was still awkward, and Mrs. Harris was disturbed from her passing.

But Mrs. Harris propped herself up, her vacant gaze clearing. She found her slippers with an unsteady foot and shuffled over to help.

By the time the family returned braced for the worst they found Mrs. Harris not only quite alive, but pacing the room, gently rocking the now-contented baby while her granddaughter, worn out, napped on the sofa.

Martha closed the diary and smiled at William. My great-grandmother, Vera Harris, loved me fiercely simply couldnt die on me. She always said, Its too soon for us to go theres still work to do at home! She lived another ten years after that, helping my mother your mother-in-law raise me, her cherished great-granddaughter.

William smiled at his wife in silent agreement.

And, as I reflect on all this, Ive come to learn so long as we have work left to do for those we love, age and weariness can be held at bay. There is life, warmth, and purpose in simply being needed at home.

After Abandoning Her Twin Babies at Birth, Mum Returned 20 Years Later—But She Wasn’t Prepared for the Truth She’d Find On the night the twins were born, his world split in two. It wasn’t their cries that frightened him, but her silence—a heavy, oppressive hush, filled with emptiness. Their mother watched from across the room, her eyes distant, as if the babies were strangers from a life that no longer belonged to her. “I can’t…” she whispered. “I can’t be a mother.” There was no dramatic exit. No harsh words. Just a signature, a closed door, and a void that would never truly heal. She said she felt too small for such a huge responsibility, suffocated and unable to breathe. And so she left—leaving behind two newborns and a father who had no idea how to raise them alone. In the early months, their dad stood more than he slept. He learned to change nappies with shaking hands, warm bottles at midnight, and sing gentle lullabies to soothe their cries. No manuals, no help—just love. A love that grew as they did. He was both mother and father to them. Comfort, shield, and answer. He witnessed their first words, first steps, and first heartbreaks. He was there when they were ill, when they cried for something they couldn’t name. He never spoke ill of her—not ever. All he ever told them was: “Sometimes, people leave because they simply don’t know how to stay.” The twins grew up strong and united—two siblings who understood the world could be unfair, but that true love never abandons. Over 20 years later, on an ordinary afternoon, someone knocked at the door. It was her. Older. Frailer. Lines of guilt on her face. She said she wanted to know them, claimed she’d thought of them every day, that she regretted leaving, that she had been young and frightened. Their father stood in the doorway, his arms open but his heart tight—not for himself, but for them. The twins listened in silence, regarding her like a story told too late. No hatred in their eyes, no desire for revenge—just a grown-up, painful quiet. “We already have a mum,” one of them said gently. “Her name is Sacrifice, and she answers to Dad,” the other added. They didn’t feel the need to reclaim what they’d never had—because they hadn’t grown up unloved. They were raised wholly, completely, and truly loved. And perhaps, for the first time, she understood: some departures cannot be undone. And true love doesn’t come from giving birth… But from staying. A father who stays is worth a thousand promises. 👇 Tell us in the comments: what does “a true parent” mean to you? 🔁 Share for anyone who grew up with just one parent… yet with everything.

My husband has always said I’m not feminine enough. At first, he’d just mention it in passing—suggesting I should wear more makeup, put on dresses, or try to be “softer.” But I’ve never been like that. I’ve always been practical, straightforward, not particularly vain. I get things done, I solve problems—I’ve always just done what needs to be done. He knew me like this. I never pretended to be someone else. Over time, his comments became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to our friends’ wives, to colleagues. He’d say I looked more like a mate than a wife. Sometimes I argued back, but mostly I just listened and carried on. I never thought it was all that serious—I put it down to just normal differences in a relationship. But the day I buried my father, all of that stopped seeming unimportant. I was in shock. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating, I couldn’t think about anything except getting through the funeral. I threw on the first black clothes I found, didn’t put on any makeup, did nothing with my hair except what was absolutely necessary. I simply didn’t have the strength. Before we left the house, my husband looked at me and said: “Is that really how you’re going? Can’t you try to make a bit more effort?” At first, I didn’t understand. I told him I didn’t care how I looked; I’d just lost my father. He replied: “Yes, but still… people will talk. You look a mess.” I felt something strange in my chest, like someone had crushed me from the inside. At the wake, he was with the others. He greeted people, expressed condolences, kept a serious face. But with me he was distant. He hardly hugged me. Didn’t ask how I was. At one point, as we passed the mirror in the living room, he quietly told me I should “pull myself together a bit,” that my father wouldn’t want to see me like this. After the funeral, back at home, I asked him if that was really the only thing he noticed that day. Did he not see how broken I was? He told me not to exaggerate, that he was just giving his opinion, that a woman shouldn’t let herself go “even in moments like this.” Since then, I look at him differently. But I can’t leave him. I feel like I can’t live without him. ❓ What would you say to this woman if she were sitting in front of you?

You Were My Teenage Mistake A young girl gave birth at sixteen, the child’s father was also just sixteen. Leaving the scandalous details aside, the couple broke up soon after their son was born. When the girl realized the boy wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, she immediately lost all interest in her child. The son was raised by his grandparents—her own parents. At eighteen, the girl moved to a nearby city with a new boyfriend, never called, never wrote. Her parents didn’t seek her out. Shame and pain lingered—how could she abandon her child? They raised their grandson, who still considers them his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. At eighteen, the boy’s cousin got married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters—one ten years old and the other just one and a half. The boy was nervous and excited to meet his mother and sisters—and of course, to ask, “Mum, why did you leave me?” No matter how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even keeping her only surviving photo. His grandfather had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted cheerfully about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right, I should have had an abortion,” she replied nonchalantly, turning away. Seven years later, living in his comfortable two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he got a call from an unknown number. “Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister attends. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family, the dorm is awful, rent is expensive, my husband left, things are hard—one daughter’s a student, one’s just starting school, the littlest one’s off to nursery soon,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong number,” he replied and hung up. He picked up his son, held him close, and said: “Right, let’s get ready—first we’ll meet with Mum, then afterwards, a visit to Grandma and Grandpa, shall we?” “And can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?” his little boy asked. “Of course we can. Family traditions are too important to break!” … Some relatives criticised him for not helping his sister, but he believes his loyalty belongs to his grandparents, not to the woman for whom he was just a mistake.