This Isn’t Up for Debate: When My Husband Moved His 12-Year-Old Daughter In Without Asking, Ignoring Our Plans for a Family, and Turned My Life Upside Down

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 1

Thats not up for discussion.

Emily will be living with us; its simply not up for debate, said Henry, placing his spoon aside. He hadnt touched his supper at all, as though bracing himself for the weight of the conversation. Weve got the spare roomits just been redecorated. So, in a fortnight, my daughter will be moving in.

Have you forgotten anything? Charlotte asked, counting to ten in her head before speaking. For example, the fact that the room is meant for our *future* child? Our child. Dont you remember that? Or perhaps youve overlooked that Emily has a mothershe ought to be living with her!

I do remember talking about having a child together, Henry replied, frowning in disappointment. He had hoped Charlotte would quietly accept his wordno more discussion needed. But we can put that off for a couple of years. Youre still finishing your degreethis isnt the time for babies. Besides, Emily doesnt fancy the idea of siblings. As for her motherHenrys lips twisted into a sour smileIm going to get full custody. Its too risky for Emily to stay under that womans roof!

Risky? Charlottes eyebrows rose in disbelief. Shes twelvenot exactly a toddler. And whats so dangerous? That her mum wont let her wander about after ten? Or that she makes her do her homework under threat of losing her phone or the WiFi? If thats all, Julias a saint in my bookGod knows Id have grounded her ages ago!

You dont know anything, Henry said through gritted teeth. Emilys shown me bruises, let me read horrible messages full of threats! I wont let anyone ruin my daughters life!

Youre doing it right nowgiving in to her every whim.

Charlotte stood up gently from the table, leaving her soup untouched. Her appetite had slipped away, chased off by the sight of her husbands scowl. Everyone had warned herdont rush into marriage! Live together a bit, see if you can withstand the strain. But Charlotte, ever clever, was sure she knew best. She had to beat her friends to the punch.

Why did no one approve the hasty wedding? Three reasons: Henry was on his second marriage, fifteen years older, and had a nearly grown daughter who was spoiled rotten in his eyes. Any one of those things might have been minor, but lumped together? Nearly a catastrophe.

The first two didnt bother Charlotte much. On the contrary, she liked that her husband was older and experienced. She knew first-hand his divorce from Julia was amicable; no complaints from either side.

The third reason Emily. Wildly overindulged, headstrong, and unruly. Shed been raised mostly by her grandmother, since both parents had worked flat out to secure her future. Emily hadnt cared much about the divorce, confident her father would never abandon herremarriage be hanged. But when Julia remarried, Emily came undone.

Her new stepfather launched into discipline mode, and Julia, with a new job and more time at home, backed him up. Curfew! Homework! Tutors! Emily fell behind in nearly everything at school. The change infuriated her, a girl whod grown used to hours of TV and computer games. So much so, she began to make up storiesfrightening storiesto wind up her father.

Yes, Emily wanted to live with Henry, knowing hed be absent with work and shed be left largely to her own devices. She didnt care about Charlotte, who was, after all, only nine years older than herself.

All for the promise of freedom, Emily would stop at nothing.

***

Emilys arriving tonight. Please get her room ready, and do try not to upset hershes been through enough, Henry informed Charlotte, contemplating which tie went with his new suit. If Id ever thought Julia would turn into a tyrant with a new man He trailed off, shaking his head. No sense wishing time backwards.

So, you still havent changed your mind, then? Charlotte asked, disappointment souring her voice. You really mean to bring Emily here? Shed hopedeven nowthat things might fall through. And who, dare I ask, is meant to look after her? Youre home atwhat?eight oclock most nights.

Youll keep an eye on her, Henry replied, nonchalant. Shes not a toddler, she can manage on her own.

Ive got exams coming up, remember? Charlotte shot back. You said yourself I need to focus on my studies. She offered a chilly smile. If Emily cant be quiet and not disrupt me, shell have to learn how to do the dishes and mop the floorthose can be her contributions for the next two weeks, at the very least.

Shes not your servant

Nor am I, Charlotte interrupted as Henrys protest began. If she lives under this roof, she does her share. And youd better lay out the ground ruleswith her, not just with me.

***

Dad, how can you let her boss me about? I cant even see my friends because your precious wife dumped all the housework on me while she sits there, watching telly!

Charlotte, whod caught the conversation by chance while passing the hall, gave a lopsided smile. She knew betterEmily barely lifted a finger. The sky would sooner turn upside down.

Ill have a word with Charlotte, promise. But you need to try as well, Emily. I know its hard, but I honestly cant be around all the time. Work things out with Charlotte. Show her youre a good girl at heart.

Ill see what I can do Emily replied, sullen. She knew she wasnt going to get anywhere with her father tonight. Ohand did you really buy her a car?

Yes. Why?

Nothing. Not important, Emily pouted. You told *me* you couldnt afford to send me abroad for the holidays. I really wanted that.

You cant go aloneyoure twelve, for goodness sake! Well go as a family, come summer.

I dont *want* to go with everyone! You dont even care about me, do you? Emily sniffed, her voice cracking. Why did you take me from Mum, then? Your precious wife doesnt want me here, youre always too busy

Charlotte stopped listening. It was clear: Emily would always get her wayover the trip, and much more besides. The girl was cunning; she was trying to force out one more competitor for Daddys cash, and likely shed succeed.

Charlotte was tired of Henrys criticisms. She made up her minda single row more, and shed file for divorce. And before she went, shed make sure to ruin any triumph Emily might feel, telling her that Henry would *still* part with a share of his earnings by lawthats just how alimony works.

***

Charlotte was rightdinner devolved into a barrage of complaints. Calmly, she listened, then declared she was filing for divorce.

I want peace, not endless accusations, thank you. And I did warn youindulging Emily was a mistake, she said, noticing Emilys victorious grin. And dont get too pleased with yourself, darlingno one knows how things will pan out. For example, I could give Henry an ultimatum: if he wants to see our childCharlotte stroked her stomach with a smilehe can only do so if you return to your mothers. Or something like that.

While Emily struggled for words and Henry tried to process, Charlotte took her already-packed case and walked out. In truth, she wasnt pregnant at allshe just wanted to rattle the smug little girl, and teach her husband a lesson about what he truly failed to understand of a childs mindAs the front door clicked shut, the sudden silence was heavier than any argument. Henry stared at the vacant space Charlotte had left behind, her words echoingchild, ultimatum. For the first time, he saw Emily not as a girl wronged, but as a storm that had swept through his life, toppling trust and possibility. Emilys grin faltered. She opened her mouth with some sharp retort, but none came. Instead, she slouched at the kitchen table, glancing furtively at her father.

What now? Emily said, voice small.

Henry didnt answer right away. He sank onto a chair, fingers massaging his temples, guilt creeping in as he recalled the look on Charlottes facea look hed dismissed one too many times. He thought, absurdly, of the untouched soup, cooling and congealing, and of what might have been if hed listened.

Across town, Charlotte paused outside in the quiet dusk, pressing a hand over her still-flat belly, uncertain if shed meant her parting words or uttered them out of hurt. But a strange peace settled in her chestthe future, unknown and unpromised, was finally hers to shape. She whispered a promise to the life she hoped would grow: Well choose better. Well be braver.

Back in the house, the spell of indulgence finally shattered. Henry looked at Emily, seeing now how lonely she looked, stripped of victory, just a child again. He reached for his phone, heart pounding, and dialed Julia. His voice trembled as he spoke: Maybe we need helpmaybe all of us do.

Outside, a breeze stirred the roses near the front step. The house, emptied of accusation, stood in fragile waitinga space where blame could finally give way to understanding. And somewhere in the new quiet, after the storm, a chance for something better was unfoldingmessy, uncertain, and real.

A Lesson for a Wife Fed Up! – Tom flung his spoon across the table, glaring at his wife with frustration. Can you even call this edible? Soggy pasta that’s basically mush, and a couple of barely cooked sausages! What did you do all day? Stuck to your phone as usual? How can you say that? – Sarah protested dramatically, quickly hiding the very device in question. I was chasing after Charlie all day! He’s such a handful! Just like his father, she added, watching her husband’s temper rise. It’s hard for me, you know? Ever since I gave birth, nothing’s been easy… Charlie’s two and a half now, Tom said, trying to stay calm. He should be in nursery by now, and you could go back to work. Things would get easier! Why should I put my son in some germ-ridden daycare? Sarah shot back. Do you want us always in hospital? You do realise a child needs to be occupied and properly stimulated, don’t you? We do plenty! Charlie’s doing great for his age, the paediatrician said so! Sarah stood her ground. This argument had come up before; she dreaded Tom actually sending Charlie off to nursery. She wasn’t keen on returning to work—she’d grown used to half-days spent browsing the internet and didn’t want to give it up! And who do we have to thank for Charlie’s progress? Tom lost his patience, slamming his fist on the table so the plates rattled. My mum! She’s the one who comes over and plays with Charlie. You’re either napping or on your phone! Couldn’t you tidy up or make a decent meal for once? Why should I come home from work to THIS? Tom looked at the meal in disgust. I’m not your cook! Or your cleaner! I’m your wife! And as my husband, you should be providing me a comfortable life! Sarah truly believed what she said. After countless daytime talk shows and hours spent on “mums’” forums, she’d changed her mind about what it meant to be a wife. She’d once thought she should care for her husband, do housework, and raise children, but now she saw that as the role of a servant, not a wife. She valued herself too highly for that. So that’s how it is? Tom ground out, after listening to her fiery speech. I’m out working all hours so you can keep the sofa warm? That it? I’m working on self-improvement, Sarah retorted proudly. You’ll be bragging to your mates about how clever your wife is soon enough. I can hold my own in any conversation! Can you? What’s the last book you read? What’s something new you’ve learned? Tom got up, looming over her. Well? Go on, say something! Scrolling through social media doesn’t count as intellectual growth. And those shouty talk shows—what use are they? Be honest: are you going to look after your home and our child or not? No! Like I said, I’m not a maid… Sarah burst out with a torrent of complaints: Tom didn’t earn enough, acted like a domestic tyrant, was never around… Tom listened in silence, then responded with a single word: Divorce. What? Sarah gasped, midway through a new rant. Divorce, Tom repeated coolly. I’ll find a woman who’ll be a good wife and mother to Charlie. He spends more time with his grandmas than with you anyway. You’re not a mother—you don’t deserve that title. And you’re certainly not a wife. Sarah was thrown for a minute, but then dismissed him. He was bluffing—he wouldn’t really divorce her! Surely the court would let Charlie stay with his mum—everyone knows kids belong with their mothers, right? Tom changed. He barely spoke to her. Soon, Charlie and his grandma went to the seaside for a couple of weeks. Sarah was delighted at first—no more interruptions when she wanted to scroll on her phone. But after a while, she started to miss Charlie and called her mother-in-law more often. Then, two weeks after the argument, a court summons arrived. Tom had kept his promise—he’d begun divorce proceedings. And at the hearing, came another shock: Sarah’s own mum sided with Tom. I believe Charlie should stay with his father, she said firmly, eyeing her daughter. Unfortunately, Sarah has neglected her child entirely; all the work has fallen on me and Tom’s mum, Margaret. Tom works long hours, but still manages to spend time with his son. The judge nodded, glancing at Sarah with a faint smile. And rightly so—Sarah had nothing. No home, no job, no real bond with her child. Tom had a good chance of winning custody. I’m asking for more time! Don’t divorce us! Give me a chance! Sarah sobbed. Tom, I swear I’ll change. I’ll forget this nonsense about being a ‘housemaid’ and be the model wife! Just believe me! Alright… *************************** One Month Earlier My daughter is completely spoiled, I’m ashamed of her, said Susan. Tom, I understand—you’re right to question if you need such a wife. She’s home all day and doesn’t even tidy up, never mind taking care of her son. So if you want a divorce, I won’t judge. Just let me see Charlie, that’s all I’ll ask. I love Sarah, faults and all, Tom sighed. But things aren’t working. I want to give her a chance. Why not? And I know just how: file for divorce. Sarah will resist it, so you’ll get the three-month reconciliation period. That’ll sort her head out for sure. *************************** Sarah learnt her lesson. The flat was sparkling, scents of home-cooked meals filled the air, and Sarah herself was welcoming and attentive. At last, she focused on her son—much to Charlie’s delight. He really did love his scatterbrained mum…

‘We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!’: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, the one day I’d hoped to sleep in after a hellish quarterly report, not play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law’s face, charging in like she was storming the Tower of London, three wild-haired children in tow. “Igor!” I shouted through gritted teeth. “Your relatives—your problem.” He stumbled out, pulling his shorts on backwards, fully aware that my patience for his family was buried deeper than the Tube. I’d sweat blood to buy this three-bed in central London before we even got married—my rules, my home, absolutely no squatters. Yet in barged Svetlana, shoving me aside as if I were a hatstand, dumping her bags onto my Italian stone tiles. “Thank goodness, we made it!” she announced, ordering me to get the kettle on as if this were her own manor. “It’s just for a week,” she said, explaining how their flat’s ‘full refurb’ left them homeless—cue wide-eyed innocence. “Seven days,” I snapped, setting strict house rules. Svetlana rolled her eyes—the hospitality was lost on her. One week turned to two, then three. My designer flat descended into chaos: dirty shoes everywhere, sticky counters, and Svetlana acting like Lady of the Manor. She even had the nerve, one night, to sneer, “Can’t you fill the fridge? You earn well enough—surely you can look after family?” But the final straw came when I caught her children bouncing on my orthopaedic mattress (priced like a first-class ticket), my limited-edition Tom Ford lipstick smeared across my bedroom wall. Svetlana waltzed in, shrugging, “They’re just kids! The lipstick? Oh, buy another. We’ll be here till summer, by the way—the builders are drunks. Bit of fun for you, isn’t it?” I left before I did something criminal. But then her phone flashed with a message: “Svetlana, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are happy to stay till August. +£800 to your account.” It clicked—there was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her tribe in with me, soaking up free food and bills, raking in passive income, all on my dime. Genius—if you’re shameless. I snapped a photo of her phone and showed my husband. “Either she’s gone by lunchtime, or you’re both out. Your choice.” When Svetlana left ‘for shopping’ the next morning (presumably for luxury boots with her rent takings), I seized the moment—called a locksmith and the police. Forty minutes later, Svetlana returned from Harrods to find her things (stuffed in bin bags) by the lift and me standing firm at the door with a police officer. “Get your things. The hotel is closed,” I declared. She wailed. “My kids! My rights! I’ve nowhere to go!” I coolly replied: “Try your own flat—assuming your tenants don’t mind. If you step foot here again, I’ll report you to HMRC for undeclared rental income, and to the police for theft—a missing gold ring, perhaps?” Pale and defeated, she hauled her bags away, cursing me to kingdom come. Once the doors closed behind her, my husband returned—alone. “That was the last time,” I warned. “Next time your family pulls this, your suitcase will be right out there with theirs.” At last, I drank hot coffee in perfect silence in my own flat—renovated, peaceful, and finally, all mine. My crown didn’t slip—in fact, it fit perfectly.

A Message from the Wife “Darling, could you pick me up from work?” Jenny called her husband, hoping she wouldn’t have to spend forty minutes rattling around on the bus after a long day. “I’m busy,” he answered curtly. In the background, she could clearly hear the TV—so Arty was definitely home. Jenny wanted to cry. Their marriage was falling apart, and just six months ago her husband couldn’t do enough for her. What had changed so quickly? She didn’t know. She looked after herself, spending plenty of time at the gym. She was a fantastic cook—after all, she worked at one of the city’s most popular restaurants. She never asked for money, never made a fuss, never failed to make her husband happy. “You’ll get on his nerves if you keep pampering him like this,” her mum would say, listening to Jenny’s complaints. “Men don’t like everything handed to them on a plate.” “I just love him,” Jenny would smile helplessly. “And he loves me…” ***** “I guess he’s bored of me,” Jenny chewed her lip, scrolling through his browsing history. Apparently, Arty spent all his free time on dating sites, chatting up loads of different girls. “Why couldn’t he just talk to me about it? I would have understood. Why torture yourself living with someone you don’t love? And me with your attitude?” So—divorce. Well, she could manage. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook quite so easily. He deserved a little payback. That evening, Jenny registered on the very same dating site as her husband, found his profile, and sent him a message. She grabbed a photo off the internet, applied a bit of Photoshop, and was sure Arty would take the bait. He did. The messages started flowing. Arty described himself as single, ready for a real relationship, even for children. He kept raving about his amazing character—Jenny nearly cried with laughter; she knew how hard it was to actually live with him. “Let’s meet up,” Jenny wrote, holding her breath for a reply. “I’m up for it,” Arty wrote back a few seconds later. “But my sister’s staying at mine while she prepares for her uni exams, so let’s meet on neutral turf—and maybe continue the evening at a hotel?” “Seriously?” Jenny blurted as she read. “Why do you just assume your date will go straight to a hotel with you? Any decent person would be insulted! Still—it works in my favour.” “How about we meet at mine? I live alone in a cottage outside the city. No one will bother us…” Jenny wondered if he’d say yes. “Brilliant idea!” Arty was clearly delighted—probably about not having to fork out for a hotel. “Send me the address and time. I’ll rush over on the wings of love.” “25 Willow Lane, ten o’clock. Does that work?” “Perfect! I’ll be there.” At nine, Arty pretended he’d been called into work. He couldn’t find his car keys and finally asked Jenny if she’d seen them. “They were on the table,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye while clutching the keys in her pocket. “Maybe the cat knocked them somewhere?” “Fine, I’ll take a taxi. Don’t wait up.” Jenny had no intention of waiting up. She spent her time packing her things—luckily, she had her own flat from her gran. The only thing she left behind was the divorce form, right out in the open. Arty didn’t get home until morning, absolutely fuming. It had taken him over an hour just to get there, and as for “Angela” from the website—let’s just say the girl who answered the door looked nothing like her photos. The woman was three times his size, dressed only in a semi-transparent dressing gown, and Arty would’ve paid anything to erase the sight from his mind. To make matters worse, she wouldn’t let him leave easily—he had to call a taxi to escape her. While he waited, he froze out in the windswept front garden, shivering in his blazer. The taxi took forever, and then the strange driver took him even further out of his way before finally dropping him home. What a night. Only then, when he saw the divorce papers on the table, did it click who’d been behind the whole ordeal. Next to the papers, scrawled in lipstick, were the words: This Sweet Revenge…

Déjà Vu She Had Always Waited for Letters. Since Childhood. All Her Life. Addresses Changed. Trees Seemed Smaller, People More Distant, Hopes Fainter. He Trusted No One and Expected Nothing. Outwardly, Just an Ordinary, Strong Man—Work, a Dog at Home, Trips Alone or with His Four-Legged Friend. She Was an Endearing Girl with Big Sad Eyes. When Someone Asked Her, “What Can’t You Leave the House Without?” She’d Say, “My Smile!” and Her Dimples Spoke for Themselves. She’d Always Been Friends with Boys—A Pirate in a Skirt, They Called Her in Her London Neighbourhood. But Alone, She Played a Game: She Was a Mum with Many Kids, a Good Husband, Living in a Large, Cosy House with a Flowering Garden. He Couldn’t Imagine Life Without Sport: Medals, Trophies, and Certificates Dozing in a Garage Box—Kept for His Parents Who Were So Proud! For Him, It Was Never About the Wins, But the Challenge and the Surge of New Strength After Exhaustion. Her Parents Had Died When She Was Seven. She and Her Younger Brother Were Sent to Different Foster Homes. They Grew Up Apart, With Their Own Battles and Joys. Those Homes Were Behind Them Now—They Lived Across the Road from Each Other, In a Neighbourhood of Cosy Streets, Cheery Gardens, and Farmer’s Markets. Her Brother’s Family Were Her Closest Friends. It Was an Anxious Day… Her Shift Ended and She Crossed the Ambulance Car Park. Old Arthur, the Senior Driver, Caught Up, Gave Her a Fatherly Hug, and Thanked Her for the Pies. “Get Some Rest, Will You?” “Plenty of Time!” She Grinned, Blew Him a Kiss, and Hurried to Her Car. In the Holidays, She and Her All-Male Crew Were Often on Shift—Few Doctors Wanted the Holiday Hours. Being Well-groomed Boosted Morale—A Cheerful Doctor Changes Everything. He, Meanwhile, Was Racing Toward His Parents’ House, Medals Rattling in the Boot, Dog Restless on the Backseat. His Dad Had Suggested They Welcome the New Year Together. He’d Loaded The Box of Trophies, Glad He Wasn’t On Duty for Once. His Heart Ached Over Rare Visits Home… Days Before Christmas, His Father’s Phone Call Woke Him: “Mum’s Ill.” His Father, A Retired Colonel, Couldn’t Hide His Worry. His Parents, Together Since School, Still Looked At Each Other Like Young Lovers. She Was Baking as Always—A Tradition, Delivering Pies Around the City After Her Shift. She’d Slept a Few Hours at Work—Otherwise, Old Arthur Wouldn’t Let Her Drive, He’d Insist on Being Her Chauffeur. About Ten Miles from His Childhood Home, A Blizzard Began. He Remembered His Dog Not Wanting to Get In, Those Countless Trips, The Road, Always The Road… “Mum, Dad—Hold On… You’re All I’ve Got.” The Dog Licked His Head in Sympathy. “Sorry, Old Boy. Of Course, You Too…” She Slowed The Engine—the Blizzard Hit at the Worst Time. One Pie Left, Just a Few Miles Along the Village Road to Her Favourite Patient—A Spirited Elderly Lady (though She’d Never Call Her “Granny”) with Her Loving Husband, Both Keen Travelers. Who Her Own Parents Might Have Become… A Shadow Leapt—Right Into Her Headlights. Against The White Curtain of Snow. “Where Did You Come From, Girl, From the Woods? Or Did Someone Lose You?… Those Eyes! Why Is Your Neck So Sticky?… Wet Jumper, Everything Spinning… Jack—Jack, Old Friend… Why Does It Hurt So Much? Mum, I’m Coming, Dad, I’m So Close… Dark.” Arthur Was Out of Reach. He Went to Get His Grandkids. No, The Ambulance Wouldn’t Make It Through This Snow. “Hang In There, Mate—Let Me Get You Free. My God! There’s a Dog, Too…” She’d Only Just Set Off Again When a Silver Car Whipped Past. “Someone’s Racing Home,” She Thought. But Barely Minutes On, She Found The Silver Car Flipped Into a Ditch. A Black Dog Lay Nearby—Alive, At Least. “Is It Even Late?” She Wondered, Letting a Hot Shower Chase Away Her Shivers. “How’d You Get Him Out? He’s a Solid Bloke!” Her Brother’s Voice Echoed in Her Mind, the Ache of Her Muscles Proof Enough. She Took the Man and Both Dogs to Hospital in Her Own Car. On the Way, Her Brother Met Her to Help. She Returned Later to The Village—to Deliver The Pie After All, and Picked Up The Box That Had Fallen from The Car’s Boot. “Perhaps It Means Something to That Man. At Least Everyone Survived… When He Comes Round, I’ll Return It.” The Elderly Lady’s Husband, Looking Lost, Answered Her Knock. “Is Something Wrong?” She Asked. “My Wife’s In Hospital. I Haven’t Heard from Our Son, Can’t Reach Him…” She Lowered Her Eyes. “Are You All Right?” He Took Her Hand. “Shall I Drop You at The Hospital?” She Offered. They Drove Silently; The Snow Had Ceased. “You’ve Got a Box on Your Backseat—May I Ask Where It’s From?” The Colonel Finally Asked. “There Was a Crash. The Man Tried to Dodge a Dog Dashing From the Woods—The Silver Car Overturned, and the Box Fell Out…” “A Silver Car? With a White Dog Inside? The Dog From the Woods Was Black?” He Whispered. She Stopped the Car, Turned to Him. He Clenched His Fists, Stared Ahead. “He’s Alive! And Your Wife Will Recover.” She Hugged Him. “May I Call You Daughter?” “Of Course,” She Said, Tears Caught in Her Eyes. “My Wife Kept Dreaming About a Black Dog, Over and Over… But Our Son’s Dog Is White… Where Did the Black One Come From?” “Those Eyes—Unbelievable, So Sad…” Was the First Thing He Thought When He Woke, His Father Dozing by The Bedside. “Mum. The Crash.” He Remembered Everything—and The Girl’s Eyes. They Celebrated New Year at the End of January. His Mum Was Mending, His Dad Was Joyful, Jack (His Dog) Was Still Limping a Little, But Would Be Fine. The Boys Needed Training for Upcoming Competitions, But He Lingered at His Parents’ House—Thinking Always of The Girl… Already at the Gate, His Father Called Him From The Attic Window. “Need a Hand, Dad?” He Smiled at the Shelves—His Sports Trophies Had Somehow Made Their Way There. “How Did These Get Here, Colonel?” He Grinned. “Have a Guess!… I’ll Walk Jack Before You Go.” She Was Heading Home Early—Dina Was Waiting for Her. She Couldn’t Abandon the Black-and-White Dog at the Vet’s; The Mark on Her Chest Was a Heart. She Entered Her Building, Automatically Checked Her Letterbox. Almost Closed It, but Spotted a White Envelope. Inside, it Read: I’ll Come By This Evening. Thank You, Dear! Love Is a Compass—It Helps Us Find Our Way