While We Waited for the Bus: An October Evening at a City Stop, a Girl Wrapped in a Giant Tartan Scarf, a Quiet Stranger Watching Magpies, Missed Buses and Shared Silence, Small Gestures Amid Autumn Chill, and the Unexpected Journey from Standing in the Cold to Sharing Hot Chocolate, Eclairs, and Ultimately, Finding Home, Happiness, and a New Year’s Proposal in an English Village Blanketed with Snow

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 1

Waiting for the Bus

The end of October in London has always held a peculiar charm. The air grew crisp, scented with fading leaves and a hint of the first nights frost. On such an evening, Emily stood at the bus stop, swaddled in a massive tartan scarf, her gaze lost in the sluggish trail of passing cars. Her phone lay quiet in her hand, barely a flicker of signal, while the theme tune from last nights drama circled endlessly in her mind. She had missed her bus. Late again, as ever.

Someone else waited beside hera man, tall and straight-backed, hands sunk deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Emily caught him in the corner of her eye; he wasnt gawky or restless, but observant. He looked not at the road, but at a magpies nest perched in the skeleton branches of a maple tree across the way. Emilys gaze followed. The busy birds hurried to and fro, clutching the last twigs, lining their home against the coming winter.

Looks like traffics bad even for them, he remarked suddenly, his voice calm, measured, not looking her way at all. I suppose theres always one magpie, perpetually late.

Emily snorted aloud, surprised by herself.

And always dropping its beak in the tunnel, Id wager, she added, playing along.

He finally turned his head, a warm, easy smile on his face.

James, he introduced himself.

Emily.

The bus refused to come. They waited in shared silence, no longer lonely, but companionable now. When her bus finally arrived, she reached for the door with a touch of regret.

Likely a frost tomorrow, he called after her.

Ill remember my flask of tea, she responded, stepping aboard.

It was on that tomorrow they saw each other again at the same stop. No arrangement made. Emily brought her flask, brimming with Earl Grey. James handed her a small brown bag, holding two tiny éclairs.

For cultural sustenance, he explained lightly.

And so began their waiting. No dates, no grand plansjust coming across each other at half-six each evening, if work had delayed them. Sometimes the bus was prompt: a quick exchange of words. Sometimes it was half an hour late, and they spoke of everythingabsurd bosses, strange dreams, why pineapple on pizza was an abomination (a rare point of unity), and which songs best suited an autumnal evening (here they could never agree).

Then, one evening, James didnt come. Nor the next. Emily found her eyes straying not to the road, but to the silent, empty magpies nest. The bus shelter seemed colder, and the city suddenly more vast.

A week later, at Novembers start, he stood at their usual spot. His face was pale, eyes circled with shadow.

My father, he explained briefly. He was ill, in hospital. Hes alright now, thank heavens.

They stood side by side in quiet. Emily tentatively reached for his hand. He started at the contact, but didnt pull away. His fingers were ice-cold. She wrapped them tight in her own warmth.

Come on, she whispered. Lets miss this bus. Lets find somewhere for hot chocolatewith cream. And two éclairs to share.

From that day, everything seemed to shift.

Their route changed. Instead of waiting, they walked. To a cosy patisserie just round the corner, redolent with the scents of vanilla and cinnamon.

At first, theyd sip chocolate and chat aimlessly. Soon, their conversations deepened; as if, freed from the clock-watching at the bus stop, they dared take a closer look at each other.

James, she discovered, was not simply a civil engineer, but a man who spoke of bridges as though they breathed.

That one over the Thames, hed say, tracing on the misty café window with his finger, shes old, stubborn. Hates when the lorries passgroans every time. But the new one at London Bridge? Just a child, learning to take the strain.

Emily listened, eyes wide. Where others saw concrete and numbers, she saw poetry. Shed ask, And what about the bridge where we met? After pondering, hed say, That ones a romantic. Built for walking, for wandering talks.

Emily, for her part, wasnt merely the girl who writes blogs. She was an explorer of unseen threads. Walking with James, shed say,

Can you smell that? Sorrel soup from the flat on the third floormust be Mrs. White, she always makes it Tuesdays. And listenupstairs, someones struggling through Für Elise again. Always the same bar

James, long used to viewing the world through blueprints and figures, started noticing colours of curtains in the windows they passed, the way a brass bell caught the sunset. He shared these details with her, delighting in their discovery.

They began to visit each others homes. James marvelled, with gentle awe, at the creative chaos on Emilys desktowers of books, jumbles of sticky notes, a cold cup still fragrant with peppermint. For the first time, he tasted ginger biscuits that crumbled on the tonguea taste of true, simple comfort.

In his own neat, almost ascetic flat, its main adornment the afternoon sun glowing through tall windows, Emily found an old photograph album. His father, younger then but with the same steady eyes, was fixing a grand clock on the wall. Littler James, grave and intent, watched on.

He taught me the most important thing, James said quietly, peering at the photo. Every system, however complex, is made of simple parts. When it breaks, you neednt fearjust find the failing part, and mend it.

Do you mean the clock? Emily asked.

And life, he smiled wryly.

They didnt aim to impress one another. Quite the oppositethey peeled away layers, cabbage-like, until only what was real and sometimes fragile remained. Emily admitted she wrote poems, tucked away for no ones eyes, because theyre foolish, really. James, flushing, confessed he had once read at a university poetry clubgave it up, growing up, I suppose.

One winters day, Emily fell illa fever and a bothersome cold. James came after work, wordlessly handing her a bag: lemons, honey, herbal teas, and a new book by the poet shed once mentioned.

I didnt know what youd need, he said awkwardly at her door, so I bought everything that might mend a broken system.

Wrapped in her blanket, nose red, Emily both laughed and wept. She was gratefulnot only for the help, but because someone finally saw not just her cheer, but also her weariness, and wasnt afraid of it.

Step by step, their titles faded away. No longer the man from the bus stop or the girl with the scarfbut James, who knew Emily only drank tea from the blue mug, and Emily, who understood that if James gazed out the window quiet for ages, it meant he was arranging his thoughts, not displeased.

They became one anothers shelter in the citya place not always kind, but made warm by the certainty of return, even if it meant missing another bus.

A year passed. Fourteen months since that fateful meeting at the bus stop, James broached it over dinner in their favourite patisserie.

Em, he began, fingers twisting in his lap, Ive a suggestiona bit of a strange one, but dont answer straight away.

She paused with her spoon, expectant.

My great-grandmother lives out in a little Yorkshire village. Every winter, she waits for me at Christmas. Theres a wood-fired oven, proper snowdrifts, a silence so deep it rings in your ears… and shes desperate I bring that young lady you talk about on the phone. He met her eyes, unsure. I know its not a spa. Theres barely a phone signal unless you stand beside the post-box. Its cold, the geese are fiercely territorial… You can say no, honestly.

Emilys eyes lit upsparkling like fairy lights on a tree.

Geese? she asked, straight-faced.

Very noisy.

And the snowreal? Deep?

To your waist. Crunches like old gramophone records.

And does your great-grandmother have a proper Aga?

Centrepiece of the house, he nodded, hope flickering.

Well, then, Ill start packing, Emily grinned, her face breaking into a winter-bright smile. Just send me a list of things Ill needand a guide to surviving rural wildlife!

Christmas in Yorkshire was everything hed promised. The air was sweet and sharp, biting at the nose. Great-grandmother Harriet, tiny and busy as a wren, welcomed Emily wholeheartedly: stacking her plate with crumpets and honey, bundling her up in an old sheepskin coat, and sending her and James hunting for a Christmas tree in the wood.

Their Christmas table groaned under the weight of simple, marvellous food. At midnight, they raised their glasses of champagne to the chimes on telly. Great-grandmother toasted the young ones, winked slyly, and quietly excused herself to bed, leaving them alone.

The quiet that followed was speciala hush broken only by the hiss and crackle of firewood and the glow of coloured lights from the tree in the corner. The world, somehow, felt very far away; only their little universe seemed to exist, warm and bright in the cottages heart.

James got up, poked the fire into life. He turned to Emily, sitting at the table, her hands cupped around the glass.

You know, he began, his voice unsteady, when we trudged through the snow for the tree this morning you laughing, red-nosed in Grans oversized coatsuddenly, I knew, without doubt.

Knew what? Emily smiled, softly.

That picture of youlike thatits my truest happiness. More than any city, any bridge, any achievement Ive known.

He knelt on one knee, fished a velvet box from his jumper pocket. Took her hand. His fingers, warm now, trembled.

Emily, he said, voice thick, Girl from the bus stopwho opened my world. Will you marry me? Build a future togetherwith space for your creative whirl, my blueprints, and Grans crumpets and… well, everything?

Tears spilled down Emilys cheeks, but her smile shone like New Year stars. She saw, in his eyes, not mere affection, but the steady certainty and loyalty on whichjust as hed saidbridges are built.

Yes, she whispered. The word was both a vow and a release. Yes, James. Absolutely yes.

He slipped the ring on her finger. Perfect fit, as though it was always meant for her. And as he stood to embrace her, the first New Years fireworks burst outside the windowcoloured sparks mirrored in the frosted pane and in their joined gaze.

The old cottage glowed with happinessno longer fleeting, like the bus stops lamplight, but solid as a wedding band and as sure as the promise yes.

Their path, begun on a damp autumn evening at a city bus stop, had led them hereto a snowy fairy tale, to the fire, to home. Whatever the future held, whatever bridges they must build or cross, theyd travel them together.

For the most vital connection in their lives had already been forged. It thrummed in time with two heartsfound at just the right moment. All because, once upon a time, they both missed the bus.

Every Tuesday Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic bag—a sorry trophy from two fruitless hours trawling bustling high streets for her goddaughter’s birthday present. Ten-year-old Sophie had outgrown unicorns and become obsessed with astronomy, and finding a decent telescope on a teacher’s budget was proving a mission worthy of NASA. Evening shadows settled over the platforms. Letting the rush-hour crowd spill past, Liana squeezed onto the escalator. That’s when, above the muffled roar of the commuters, a clear, emotionally charged snippet of conversation caught her ear. “…I never thought I’d see him again, honestly.” The voice behind her was young and slightly tremulous. “But every Tuesday, he picks her up from school. Himself. In his own car. They go to that same park with the carousel…” Liana paused mid-escalator, glancing back at the speaker—a vivid red coat, an animated face, shining eyes—and her friend, nodding along. Every Tuesday. She’d once had a day like that of her own. Not Monday’s frantic scramble or the anticipation of Friday, but Tuesday: the quiet pivot upon which her world once spun. Every Tuesday at five, she’d leave the English classroom where she taught, and race across the city to the Royal Academy of Music’s old creaky-floored building. There, she collected Max, her seven-year-old nephew with the overlarge violin case—her late brother’s son, living proof of love and loss three years gone. In those weeks after the accident, Tuesdays became a survival ritual—for Max, who barely spoke; for his mum, Kate, broken by grief; and for herself, clinging on for them both, the makeshift anchor in a storm. She remembered every detail: how Max would emerge, head down, silent; how she’d carry his case, fill the Tube journey with teacher stories or funny playground anecdotes. One rainy November, Max once asked, “Did Dad hate the rain?” And with her heart twisting, Liana smiled and replied, “He loathed it—always ran for cover.” With that, Max clutched her hand tight, not to be led, but as if holding onto a memory slipping away. In the warmth of that squeeze was all his childlike longing and belief, anchoring his dad to the here and now. For years, life split into ‘before’ and ‘after’. Tuesdays became the day that mattered: she’d buy Max his favourite apple juice, download cartoons for the Tube, think up conversation starters. Then—gradually—Kate healed. She found work, then a new start in another city. Liana helped them pack, hugged Max at the station. “Call me, I’ll always be here,” she whispered, fighting tears. At first, the calls came every Tuesday, on the dot at six. She would ask about school, violin, new friends, each conversation a slender thread bridging miles. In time, the calls spaced out, then became texts. “Sorry, forgot to ring on Tuesday—had a big test.” She replied, “No worries, sunshine. How was it?” Her Tuesdays became waiting for a message that might not come. Now, only holidays. His voice deeper, polite: “All good, Aunt Liana.” Kate remarried—her new husband, John, stable and kind, never tried to replace Max’s dad. Recently, Max’s little sister Lucy arrived, and in photos, Max cradled the newborn with a beautiful, awkward affection. Life, both cruel and generous, had rebuilt itself. Liana’s place was now a carefully maintained niche in his past. But there in the Underground, those two words—“every Tuesday”—resonated not as reproach, but as a quiet echo: a reminder of the Liana who’d once carried a fierce, searing love, painful and precious alike. She was needed then. The woman in the red coat had her own drama, her own fragile truce between old wounds and new realities. But that ritual—“every Tuesday”—was a universal language: the language of showing up, week after week, to say: “I’m here. You matter, right here and now.” It’s a language Liana once spoke fluently and was only now recalling by heart. As the train rattled away, Liana stood straight, catching her reflection in the tunnel window. At her stop, she emerged with resolve. Tomorrow, she’d order two matching telescopes—affordable, but good. One for Sophie. One sent to Max. When it arrived, she would write: “Max, so we can look at the same sky, even from different cities. How about next Tuesday, six o’clock? If it’s clear, let’s both look for the Big Dipper. Shall we synchronize watches? Love, Aunt Liana.” She rode up the escalator into the cool evening air. Next Tuesday was no longer blank. It was set—not out of obligation, but as a gentle promise between two people, bound by gratitude, memory, and a quiet, unbreakable thread of kinship. Life went on. And in her calendar, there were still days not just to live through, but to set aside—for small, synchronised miracles across the miles. For memories that warmed instead of hurt. For a love that had learned the language of distance, and only grown stronger, gentler, deeper.

The Heart of a Cat Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered and Soul Ached: What Could Happen for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Olesya Was Given a Pure Black British Cat at Her Housewarming, She Was Stunned for Several Minutes… Her Modest, Previously-Owned One-Bedroom Flat, Bought with Hard-Scraped Savings, Was Barely Furnished. Other Problems Demanded Her Attention. And Then, Out of the Blue, a Kitten. Astounded, She Looked into the Little One’s Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a tomcat or a queen?” “A tomcat!” “All right then, Tomcat, you’ll be called Whiskers,” she said to the kitten. He opened his tiny mouth and meekly squeaked, “Meow…” ***** It Turned Out British Shorthairs Were Quite Comfortable Company. Three Years Later, Lesley and Whiskers Lived in Harmony, and Through Shared Life She Discovered His Touching Soul and Big Heart. He Joyfully Greeted Her After Work, Warmed Her As She Slept, Watched Movies Snuggled by Her Side, and Trailed After Her as She Tidied Up. Life with a Cat Became Much Brighter. It’s Comforting to Know Someone Waits at Home for You—Someone to Laugh or Cry With and, Most Importantly, Understands You Instantly. It Seemed Like Life Couldn’t be Better, but… Recently Lesley Began Noticing Pain in Her Right Side. First, She Thought She Pulled a Muscle or Blamed Rich Food. But When Pain Worsened, She Went to the Doctor. After Hearing the Diagnosis and What Lay Ahead, Lesley Cried All Evening Into Her Pillow. Whiskers, Sensing Her Mood, Quietly Snuggled Close and Tried to Comfort Her with Musical Purring. Unaware, Calmed by Whiskers’ Purrs, Lesley Fell Asleep. In the Morning, Having Accepted Her Fate, She Decided Not to Tell Family, Sparing Herself Sympathy and Awkward Attempts to Help. She Still Clung to a Ray of Hope that Doctors Could Treat Her Illness. They Offered a Course of Treatment that Might Improve Her Condition. But There Was the Question of Where to Place Her Cat. Deep Down, Fearing Her Illness Might End Tragically, She Decided to Find Whiskers a New Home with Good Owners. She Made an Online Post Offering Her Pedigree Cat to a Loving Home. When the First Caller Asked Why She Was Parting with an Adult Pet, Lesley, Without Really Knowing Why, Said She Was Expecting and Had Developed an Allergy to Cat Hair During Pregnancy. Three Days Later, Whiskers, in His Carrier with All His Belongings, Left for His New Owners, and Lesley Was Admitted to Hospital… Two Days Later, She Called the New Owners to Ask About Whiskers, and Apologetically They Told Her the Cat Had Escaped That Very Night and Couldn’t Be Found. Her First Instinct Was to Flee the Hospital and Search. She Even Pleaded with the Duty Nurse, Who Sternly Sent Her Back to Her Bed. Her Roommate Noticed Lesley’s Distress and Asked What Had Happened. Lesley, Sobbing Bitterly, Told Her Everything. “Don’t Grieve Yet, Dear,” said the thin elderly woman. “Tomorrow, a specialist from London is meant to visit. I also have a bad diagnosis, my son—he’s a businessman—wanted to move me to another clinic, but I refused. He managed to arrange for the specialist here. I’ll ask if she’ll see you too; maybe things aren’t so hopeless,” she comforted Lesley, gently rubbing her shoulder. **** Emerging from the Carrier, Whiskers Realized He Was in a Strange House. Someone Unknown Reached to Stroke Him… The Cat’s Nerves Snapped—he Gave a Fierce Swipe and Bolted into a Dark Corner. “Paul, don’t approach him yet, let him settle,” Whiskers Heard a Soft Female Voice, But It Wasn’t His Owner’s Voice. The Cat’s Heart Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered, Soul Ached. What Could Have Occurred for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers, Why Had She Abandoned Him? His Amber Eyes Scanned the Room in Panic. Then He Spotted an Open Window. With a Black Flash He Darted Across the Room and Leapt Outside! Luckily, It Was Just the Second Floor—and a Well-Kept Lawn Beneath. From There, Whiskers Began His Journey Home… ***** The Specialist Appeared Before Lesley as a Pleasant Woman Just Past Forty. She Introduced Herself as Dr. Mary Palmer, Carefully Studied Lesley’s Medical File, and Asked Her to Lie on the Couch, Turn to Her Left Side. She Probed and Tapped for Some Time, Asked Where It Hurt and What Kind of Pain. Then She Checked the File Again and Repeated Tests on Medical Equipment. Lesley Expected Nothing Good. She Returned to Her Bed, Where Her Neighbor Already Lay. “So, what did they say, dear?” the woman asked. “Nothing yet, said they’d come to the ward again.” “I see. Well for me, they confirmed the diagnosis,” she said sadly. “I’m very sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, not sure how to comfort someone who knew she didn’t have long. Half an Hour Later, Dr. Palmer Entered the Ward with Other Doctors. “Well, Lesley, I Have Good News for You. Your Illness Is Treatable—I’ve Prescribed Your Course. Stay Two Weeks, Complete Treatment, and You’ll Be Healthy,” She Told Her With a Smile. Once the Doctors Left, Her Neighbor Spoke: “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, darling,” she added. ***** There Was No Guiding Star for Whiskers—and He Wouldn’t Have Known of One. The Cat Simply Headed Home, Driven by His Feline Inspiration. The Road Through Thorns to the Stars Was Full of Dangerous Adventures and Silly Mishaps. Unfamiliar with the Streets, The Noble Brit Quickly Became a Fierce Predator, His Instincts Sharpened. Avoiding Busy Roads and Noisy Streets, Whiskers Sneaked, Sprinted, and Flew Over the Ground (or so it felt while fleeing dogs), Scampered Up Trees, and Doggedly Pressed On… In One Quiet Yard, Fleeing the Nearby Road’s Roar, He Came Face-to-Face with an Experienced Alley Cat. That Cat Didn’t Waste Time Inspecting Whiskers and Instantly Recognized Him as an Outsider. With a Loud Meow, the Alley Cat Attacked, and Whiskers—transforming from a Stately Aristocrat to a Furious Bandit—Didn’t Back Down. The Scuffle Was Brief; The Local Feline Boss Retreated in Shame to the Bushes, Leaving Behind a Slightly Torn Ear as a Souvenir. What Else Could the Cat Do? The Alley Cat Was Showing Off, Trying to Prove He Was Boss, but Whiskers Was Headed Home and Nothing Would Stop Him. The Journey Continued. Summoning Memories of His Wild Ancestors, Whiskers Learned to Sleep in Tree Forks. Oh God, How Embarrassing, but Whiskers Learned to Eat Out of Bins and Steal Food from Other Alley Cats, Thanks to Sympathetic Locals. Once, He Ran Into a Pack of Stray Dogs. They Chased Him Up a Fragile Tree, Barking, Jumping, and Scraping the Trunk. People Gathered, Driven by the Noise, and Chased the Dogs Away. One Woman Decided to Adopt Whiskers, Tempting Him with a Piece of Delicious Sausage. Hunger and Fear Clouded the Brit’s Judgement, So He Let Her Pet Him and Carry Him Inside. However… After Resting and Eating in Warmth and Safety, Whiskers Remembered His Mission, Bolted Out After the Woman and Slipped Into the Lobby as the Door Opened, Continuing His Trek Home… ***** Discharged from Hospital, Lesley Went Home. She Couldn’t Stop Thinking of the Woman Who Wished Her Happiness. Of Course, She Was Thrilled Her Diagnosis Wasn’t Confirmed and She Was Well. But Her Heart Ached for Whiskers. She Couldn’t Imagine Returning to A Lonely Flat With No One To Greet Her. No Sooner Had She Crossed the Threshold than She Phoned Those Who’d Adopted Whiskers, Asking For Their Address. Arriving, Lesley Learned How Whiskers Had Escaped, and Decided to Trace His Steps. She Was Told It Was Impossible, That Two Weeks Had Passed, That No House Cat Could Survive on the Streets—But She Didn’t Want to Believe It. Lesley Walked Through Every Yard, Checked Nearby Parks and Garages. She Tried to Think Like a Cat Who’d Never Been Outdoors. She Called Out for Whiskers, Peering Into the Darkness Beneath Basement Windows. Nearing Her Own Building, She Realized The Cat Had Disappeared Without Trace. It Was Unreal That He, Unfamiliar With The City, Could Reach This Far, Where She Had Walked For Two Hours With Many Delays. She Entered Her Courtyard with a Heavy Heart, Eyes Filling With Tears, Soul Burdened and Sore. Through Her Blurry Vision, She Saw, Across the Pavement, a Black Cat Limping Her Way. “A Black Cat” Flared in Her Mind. Lesley Stopped and, Staring Hard, Understood. She Broke into a Run, Shouting: “Whiskers!” But the Cat Didn’t Rush to Her—He Simply Had No Strength Left. He Sat Down, Squinting with Joy, and Quietly Squeaked, “I made it!”

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” My Husband Said — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly distant. — “We’re getting rid of them, Paul. Honestly, what do we need them for? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for our winter duvets and spare pillows. The house is a tip as it is.” Olivia, looking businesslike, continued pulling modest blouses, skirts, and summer dresses—belongings of her late mother-in-law, Margaret Ferguson—from their hangers. Margaret always kept her clothes pristine, hanging each one carefully, a habit she’d instilled in Paul. Olivia’s own wardrobe, however, was always in chaos: every morning she’d dig through piles searching for something to wear, declaring she had “nothing,” and then frantically steaming crumpled tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Paul said farewell to his mum. Margaret had needed treatment—mostly palliative by then—and peace. Her stage-four cancer progressed mercilessly quickly. Paul had brought her to stay with them. She passed away within a month. Now, coming home after a long day, he found her things tossed like rubbish in the hallway, and he froze in shock. Was that it? Was this really the way his mum was to be remembered? Just thrown away and forgotten? — “Why are you looking at me like that, like Churchill eyeing up the enemy?” Olivia retorted, stepping out of his way. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Paul hissed through gritted teeth, his anger almost numbing his limbs. — “Why do we need this old clutter?” Olivia fumed, “You planning on turning our house into a museum, Paul? She’s gone now. Come to terms with it! Pity you didn’t show this much care while she was alive. If you’d visited more, maybe you’d have known how ill she really was!” Paul flinched as if she’d struck him. — “Get out before I do something I’ll regret,” he managed, voice shaking. Olivia scoffed, “Oh, right. Mad as a hatter—” To Olivia, anyone who challenged her view was immediately written off as “mental.” Still in his shoes, Paul went to the hallway cupboard, flung open the top doors, and climbed onto a stool to reach an old tartan holdall. They’d got about seven of those for their move to this house. He carefully packed all of Margaret’s things, not just throwing them in, but folding each blouse, skirt, and dress into neat rectangles. Her jacket and a bag of her shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son hovered nearby, helping his dad and even tossing in his toy tractor, too. Paul rummaged through the drawer by the door for the key and slipped it into his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Paul forced a smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go and see Mummy.” — “Wait!” Olivia suddenly called from the living room doorway, anxious. “You’re leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “Thanks, but I’ve had my fill of your attitude towards my mum.” — “Don’t be silly—what’s got into you now? Just take your coat off and come here. Where are you even planning to go at this hour?” Paul ignored her, left the flat with the bag, drove out of the estate and towards the ring road. He joined the stream of cars, lost in thought—work projects, holiday plans, and the funny social media pages he’d scroll through to unwind—all receded to irrelevance, replaced by a single heavy thought. Only the most precious things remained untouched: his children, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for Margaret’s death: for not being there, for being too busy, too distracted. She’d never wanted to be a burden, and he’d called less, visited less, their conversations growing fewer and shorter. Now, driving through dusk, the sky suddenly bled crimson on the horizon—a sunset desperately clinging to the day—and for the first time in weeks, Paul simply let himself be. Arriving in the old village late at night, he found his childhood home. Nothing to see, just darkness and the sweet, stale scent of cherry blossom in the air. His mum’s slippers stood by the door—the ones for the garden. By the door to the living room: her worn blue house-shoes with little red bunnies on the toes—Paul had bought those for her years ago. He paused, staring, shaking his head as he unlocked the next door. Hello, Mum, did you wait for me? But no one waited here for him anymore. The air smelled of old furniture, with a hint of damp. After checking every room—her hairbrush, her modest cosmetics, the “value” pasta in a see-through bag, the new sofa he’d bought her, and the sad open fridge—he found her bedroom. Her bed piled with pillows, neatly covered. He sat on the edge; this had once been his room. Now, the wardrobe—her wardrobe—stood where his brother’s bed used to be. He gazed at it, lost, then folded in two, pressing his face into his knees and sobbing for all the things he’d never got to say as she squeezed his hand on her last day. He’d sat there, silent, while thousands of unspoken words choked him. “Don’t look at me like that, Paul. I was happy with you all,” she’d whispered. He’d wanted, so badly, to thank her, to say “thank you” for everything—the childhood, the love, the sacrifices, the safe place to come home to no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he couldn’t. Today’s world is so poor in words for feelings—only cynicism and sarcasm seem to come easily. Paul eventually fell asleep, fully dressed, on her bed, hardly daring to wrinkle the covers. Next morning—seven o’clock, as always—he woke, stretched, and carried Margaret’s things back to her wardrobe. Carefully, he hung each blouse, each skirt, arranged her shoes. Only then did he notice, from the silhouette of dresses and the subtle scent of her, that she was still there in some way, still smiling at him with that warm, unspoken “I love you.” He hugged her clothes, inhaled the familiar smell, not knowing what, if anything, to do next. Finally, he called his boss: “Hi, Stephen. Won’t make it in today; something’s come up at home. Can you manage? Thanks.” He sent a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” He gathered flowers—daffodils in bloom, tulips unfurling, and lilies of the valley by the gooseberry bushes. He made three little bouquets, because there were three waiting for him at the cemetery—his brother, his father, his mother. As he walked through the village, he stopped at the shop for milk, bread, and a chocolate bar. — “Paul! Back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs. Vernon, called. — “Yeah… here to see Mum,” Paul replied, glancing away. — “I see. Fresh Caerphilly cheese in today, from my friend over in Wales. Your mum always bought from me.” He couldn’t help but smile—she meant well. On the graves, he placed the bunches: daffodils, lilies of the valley, tulips. Brother, Dad, Mum. His brother had died young, a fall from a roof. Dad passed away five years ago. Now Mum. Paul left everyone some chocolate, broke off cheese for his mother. They smiled at him from their headstones as he quietly shared memories: early morning fishing trips with Dad, boyhood pranks with his brother, Mum’s voice calling him in for tea—so clear you could hear it two villages away. How embarrassed he used to be! Oh, if only she could call him now. Standing with one hand on his mum’s newly-laid grave, Paul’s thoughts flowed freely: “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t do enough. I thought I’d have time, and now it’s just so empty without you. There’s so much I want to say. You were the best parents a son could have. Thank you—for everything. And you too, Albie.” Time to go. As he walked along the country lane, chewing sweet grass stems, he met Mark, Mrs. Vernon’s son, already worse for wear. — “Paul—back again?” Mark slurred. — “Just visiting. Still drinking?” — “Course. It’s World Turtle Day!” Mark declared, waving a torn wall calendar. Paul smiled thinly. “Look after your mum, Mark. She’s a gem, and she won’t be around forever. Remember that.” And he left Mark standing there, puzzled, calling behind him. — “Alright, mate… you take care, yeah?” — “Goodbye, Mark,” Paul said, not looking back.

Marrying a Disabled Man: A Heartfelt Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, your thoughtful comments and reviews on my stories, your subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five kitties for all your generous donations. If you enjoy my stories, please share them on social media—it means so much to this author! Late one evening, Lucy returned home from her shift as a nurse in the trauma ward. She spent ages in the shower and finally came into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are cutlets and pasta in the pan,” her mum said, peering at her daughter’s face, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? Why the long face?” “I’m not hungry. I’m already ugly enough—if I eat any more, no one will ever look at me,” Lucy muttered, pouring herself some tea. “Oh, don’t be daft!” her mum fussed. “You’re perfectly fine—clever eyes, a normal nose and lips—don’t put yourself down, Lucy!” “All my friends are married, but not me! Only the bad eggs seem interested in me, and the good ones don’t even glance my way. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” Lucy scowled, waiting for an answer. “You just haven’t met your fate yet, love. Your time will come,” her mum tried to reassure her, but Lucy only grew more agitated. “No, Mum, it’s all the ‘pretty eyes’—mine are tiny. My lips are thin, my nose… just look at it! If I had money I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re poor, so I’ve decided I’ll marry one of those disabled blokes at the clinic—ones who got dumped after accidents. What else am I supposed to do? I’m thirty-three already, time’s running out!” “Oh, don’t say that, Lucy. Look at your own dad, his legs aren’t great. I’d hoped for a son-in-law who’d help out at the allotment—now that would really help us. How will we manage otherwise?” her mum blurted out, then hastily tried to explain. “Don’t get me wrong, but not everyone lives the high life—why tie yourself down with a disabled man? Shurley, next door, is a good lad, always had his eye on you! He’s strong, he’d give you healthy children—” “Mum, honestly, not you too. Your Shurley can’t hold down a job, likes a drink, and what would I talk to him about?” Lucy protested. “What do you need to talk about? I’ll tell him to dig the garden, then we’ll have tea, or he’ll pop to the shop. He’s hardworking, you know—maybe it would work out?” her mum pleaded, but Lucy just pushed away her half-finished tea and stood up. “I’m going to bed, Mum. I thought you saw me as a person, but just like everyone else, you think I’m a freak…” “Lucy, darling—” her mum rushed after her, but Lucy only waved her hand. “That’s it, Mum!” She closed the door to her room right in her mother’s face. Lucy lay awake, thinking of the young man they’d brought in recently, who’d lost his leg below the knee. A building had collapsed, trapping his leg; by the time they pulled him out it was too late to save it. No one visited him—he was young, not thirty yet. At first, after his operation, he’d looked at Lucy with pleading eyes, holding her hand, searching her face for hope. Once he’d understood what had happened, he just stared up at the ceiling in silence. For some reason, she felt sorrier for him than for anyone else. “Do you think I’ll ever walk again?” he asked her quietly during a recent night shift, still not looking at her. “Of course you will—the wound will heal, you’re young!” Lucy replied, determined and confident. “Everyone says that. I’d like to see you manage without a leg—what sort of life is that?” he snapped, turning away from her as if she were at fault. “And what were you doing in that building anyway?” Lucy retorted. “No one to blame but yourself!” “I… I saw something,” he mumbled, turning his face to the wall for the rest of her shift. Lucy often found herself thinking about him—his pale blue eyes like frosty ice chips, his handsome face. It was just so unfair. “You feel sorry for me, don’t you?” he caught her eye one morning. “I can see it. No one could love me now—pity is all I’ll get.” “They don’t love girls like me either, not really, even though my arms and legs are all there. I’m just not right somehow—not even pity, really. Might as well be missing a limb—at least then someone would feel sorry for me,” Lucy shot back, the words coming faster as tears clouded her vision. Misha—his name was Misha—smiled at her for the first time. “You? Not pretty? Are you kidding? I envy the bloke you’ll choose, honestly.” Lucy gazed at him, and, somehow, she believed him. She blurted out the question she’d wanted to ask him for weeks, “And if I chose you, would you marry me? You’re not saying anything, so you must be lying!” She made for the door, face flushed. Misha propped himself up on his elbows, as if to run after her. Realizing he couldn’t, he called out after her, “Marry me, Lucy! I swear, soon nobody will even notice my leg. I’ll recover, just don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy and Misha. She paused in the corridor, close to tears, but felt, with a sudden certainty, that this was HIM. It didn’t matter if her nose was squat or his leg was missing—this was fate. Her time had come, as her mum had always said. Misha tackled rehab with fierce determination. He had a goal: He wanted to marry this wonderful girl and needed to get back on his feet for their future together. He couldn’t stand the thought of Lucy feeling unwanted—she was everything to him. “You’re in love, aren’t you, sweetheart?” her mum asked slyly a few weeks later. “Just look at you glowing!” Lucy didn’t argue—she floated through the house on cloud nine, only wishing that Misha would master his prosthetic soon. They began to stroll for hours—first in the hospital courtyard, then through snowy, festively lit December streets. “That’s the spot where the house collapsed on me,” Misha pointed out one evening. “And what were you doing in there, anyway? You never told me,” Lucy reminded him. “You’ll laugh. I’d spotted a stray puppy—thin, black, with white patches. I thought I’d rescue him, bring him home—didn’t want to live alone…” Suddenly, a scruffy dog crept toward them, wary but hopeful. “That looks like him!” Misha exclaimed, and the dog trotted along with them all the way home. “At least Lucy’s found herself a handsome younger husband—with a flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends joked at her wedding. Lucy’s mum even shed a tear when Misha started calling her “Mum” too. Misha, raised in foster care, had no family at all. But he was kind and loving—and most importantly, he and Lucy truly loved each other. Happiness, at last. Who cared about the allotment? Although, as it turned out, Misha was willing to help with everything, and always did well! For now, Lucy, Misha, and their dog Kuzma live together. But there will soon be four of them—their daughter is on the way… Never give up—otherwise, you might miss out on the happiness that’s just around the corner. After all, life is so wonderfully unpredictable…

“You Have to Let Me Know First! I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Even Realise How Expensive It Is to Host Guests?” – My Mother-in-Law Yelled I’m an ordinary working daughter-in-law, nothing special, no crown on my head. My husband and I live in our own flat in the city, which we pay for ourselves – mortgage, bills, work from dawn till dusk. My mother-in-law lives in the countryside, as does my sister-in-law. All would be well, except they’ve decided our flat is their weekend holiday resort. At first it sounded quite sweet: “We’ll pop round on Saturday.” “Just for a bit.” “We are family, after all.” Except “a bit” means overnight stays, “pop round” means arriving with bags, empty pots, and expectant looks, waiting for a feast. Every weekend, it’s the same: after work, I run round shops, cook, clean, lay the table, smile, and spend half the night washing dishes and tidying up. Valentina Ivanovna sits and comments: “Why isn’t there sweetcorn in the salad?” “I like my borscht richer.” “We don’t do things this way back in the village.” And my sister-in-law adds: “Oh, I’m so tired from the journey.” “No dessert?” And never once: “Thank you”, “Can I help?” One day, I snapped and told my husband: “I’m not a housemaid, and I don’t want to serve your family every weekend.” “Maybe we should really do something about this.” That’s when an idea struck me. Next time, mother-in-law calls: “We’re coming round on Saturday.” “Oh, we’ve got plans for the weekend,” I say calmly. “What plans?” “Just our own.” And you know what? We really did go out – not to our ‘plans’, but to Valentina Ivanovna’s. Saturday morning, my husband and I are standing in her yard. My mother-in-law opens the door – and freezes. “What’s this?!” “We’ve come to visit you. Just for a bit.” “You have to let me know first! I didn’t prepare anything! Do you even realise how expensive it is to host guests?!” I look at her and respond quietly: “See, that’s how I live every weekend.” “So you wanted to teach me a lesson?! How rude!” She shouted so much, the neighbours came out to see, and we went home. Funny thing? Ever since – not a single visit without an invitation. No more “we’ll just pop round” and no more weekends in my kitchen. Sometimes, to be heard, you just have to show people what it’s like to be in your shoes. Do you think I did the right thing? What would you do in my situation?