Why My Wife Brought Home an Unlucky Stray Cat Who Couldn’t Stay Out of Trouble, Got Him a Chihuahua for Company (Whose Luck Was Somehow Worse), and How Two Hapless Pets Taught Our Family That Love Is the Best Kind of Luck

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 2

Diary Entry

Today has been another reminder of just how unpredictable life can be when you have unlucky pets in the house. Im starting to suspect bringing home that dog was a terrible blunder. Now, instead of one hapless creature, we seem to have two.

It all began, really, when the kitten first appeared. Well, appeared isnt quite rightI found him in the most dreadful state, shivering in a damp cardboard box beside the wheelie bins. God knows who could abandon something so small and helpless. Id only gone out to take the rubbish, yet I returned home with a new family member. We called him Dudley. It suits hima bit of a magnet for misfortune.

His adventures started on day one. The poor mite managed to tread his two front paws right into Mums hot tomato soup. While she leapt to rescue the wailing kitten, Dudleys back feet slipped into a bowl of cold double cream. That was only the beginning…

Dudley became notorious for his constant scrapes. He once managed to sprain every leg just by hopping off the bed. When he knocked over glasses and vases from the tables, he inevitably ended up being whacked by the very things hed sent flying, always landing underneath. If someone left the salt on the table, everyone nearby would quickly shield it with their hand because we all knew the inevitableDudley would leap up and plant his paw squarely in it.

Hes been electrocuted three times (who knows how), and although that should have been the end, the local vet, bless him, revived Dudley each time. He must have a guardian angel, the vet chuckled, shaking his head, while Dad just groaned about another bill in pounds sterling.

Buckets of mop water posed another regular hazard. Dudley toppled into them at every opportunity and had to be fished out again and again, leading to a strict ban on unattended buckets. Hes legendary for his awkward jumps, never landing where he means to, colliding with skirting boards, mirrors, or even the sofa.

Frankly, it was exhausting. Mum took him to every cat lady and supposedly spiritual granny shed ever heard of seeking help, but after Dudley destroyed yet another antique tea set at one of their homes, his reputation was sealed. No one wanted to touch him, not even for a tenner.

Eventually, Mums friend Linda suggested maybe getting Dudley some companya mate, perhaps another kitten or a small dog. Mum lit up at the idea. For the joy of both my wife and daughter, a rather expensive but peculiar-looking chihuahua was brought home and christened Winston.

Why peculiar? If youve ever seen a chihuahua up close, youll know what I mean. More shivery goblin than dog, and the noise he makessomewhere between a bark and a cough.

The next day, Winstons nerves truly revealed themselves. There are mice in our old housealways have been. Dudley is utterly unbothered; in fact, hes fascinated and often plays at chasing them, meaning we keep traps about. Inevitably, Winston found one with his paw and the howling that accompanied it was something else.

Off Mum went to the vet again, this time with a whimpering Winston, realising perhaps too late that now we had two hopelessly unlucky creatures under our roof.

Oddly enough, Dudley seemed to adopt Winston. Soon, the pair were inseparablealways underfoot, bumbling into flowerbeds, suffering ant stings and bee chases, and being nipped by the neighbours geese or pecked by our hens. Our household chaos had doubled overnight.

Then something truly bizarre happened. My husband, Peter, keeps his old Ford parked just in front of the houseone benefit of countryside living: no shortage of space. Hed step out each morning, mug of tea in hand and packed lunch ready, lock the garden gate, and drive off.

That one morning, Dudley, having already knocked over the tea and sent a buttered crumpet sailing to the floor, didnt hide under the table as usual. Instead, he dashed to the door and planted himself firmly in the middle, refusing to let Peter pass.

Peter tried scooping him out of the way, only for Dudley to scratch him with his singularly sharp claws and arch his back menacingly.
You little devil! Peter shouted. Its not enough that youve dumped my tea and breakfast, now you want to box me out too? Get onmove!

As Peter tried to nudge Dudley aside with his foot, Winston suddenly burst from under the bed, hackles raised, unleashing a wheezy cough-bark in defence of his feline friend. The tiny dog stood his ground, trembling but determined, shielding Dudley with all his might, bearing his miniscule teeth in a show of courage that was both ridiculous and touching.

I dont believe this! Peter said, exasperated. Im going to be late for work because you two wont budge? Off he stomped to the bedroom to fetch me. Youd better get upthese two are blocking the way to the door!

Still half-dreaming, I joined him. Just as we reached the unlikely duo standing guard, there was a tremendous crash from outside.

We ran out to find a milk float of all things, the local dairy van, had careered out of control and, brakes failing, smashed full tilt into Peters parked car, reducing it to a mound of twisted metal on the kerb. Peters fresh tea tumbled from his hand in disbelief. The poor milkman went off in an ambulance, heart attack or somethingthese things happen.

From then on, Dudley and Winston let Peter pass to work, but not without Peter pausing each morning and asking, Boys, everything safe out there, yeah? Winston would bare his teeth and nod sagely.

If youre wondering if luck has changed for Dudley and Winston, rest assured, not a bit of it! The calamities continuein ever new and creative forms. But the difference now is, no one sighs at the skies, no one keeps tally of the pound notes spent on their misadventures, and no one utters a word about curses or misfortune. We just laugh, scoop them up, smother them in kisses, and wipe them off whenever they get covered in double cream or tomato soup.

Winston proudly wears a sparkly new collar, and Dudleys scratching posts fill every corner, plus we bought him a fancy bedwhich he steadfastly ignores in favour of sleeping at our feet. Where, of course, he topples off a hundred times a night, yowling and setting off a commotion.

Naturally, Winston races to his side, barking (well, coughing) valiantly and threatening any and all invisible threats that dare upset his beloved chum. Half an hour later, peace restored, both animals squeezed in between us, and we all drift back to sleep till morning.

If youre not sure what it all means, you can just turn the page. But really, this is just another story about love. And the truth is, we cherish Dudley and Winstonnot because of luck or lack thereof, but because theyre ours, and that makes us the luckiest of all.

The Fool Everyone Always Thought Anna Was Daft. She’d Been Married Fifteen Years, Had Two Kids — Alice, Fourteen, and Tommy, Seven. Her Husband Cheated on Her from the Second Day of Their Marriage, and Never Bothered to Hide It. Friends Tried to Warn Her, But Anna Always Smiled Silently. Anna Worked as an Accountant at a Toy Factory, With a Tiny Paycheck and Mountains of Work, Even on Weekends. Her Husband Made Good Money, But No Matter What, There Was Never Enough for Groceries, and at Best, Dinner Was Borscht and Meatballs with Pasta. People Always Gossiped About Val With His New Girl. He’d Often Come Home Drunk. “Oh, Anna’s a fool, why does she put up with him?” On Their Son Tommy’s Tenth Birthday, Her Husband Declared He Wanted a Divorce — He’d Fallen in Love and Wasn’t Happy at Home. “Don’t Be Upset, Anna, But I’m Filing for Divorce. You’re so Cold and Not Even a Good Housekeeper,” He Said. “Alright, I Agree,” Anna Replied Calmly, Smiling Oddly, Which Rattled Val. The Next Day, Val Came Home with His New Flame, But Found the Locks Changed and a Mountain of Surprises Awaiting Him. No Key Under the Mat, Just a Burly Man Answering the Door. “Have You Got Any Papers to Prove You Live Here?” Confused, Val Searched for His Passport — Only to Discover He’d Been Removed from the Flat’s Deeds Two Years Prior. Anna and the Kids Had Moved On — His Daughter Studying Abroad, His Son in a Different School, and Anna Gone from the Factory. Crushed, Val Prepared for the Divorce Hearing, Sure He’d Expose Anna as a Swindler. But in Court, He Was Reminded: Two Years Back, Buzzing from a New Affair, He’d Signed Power of Attorney Over to Anna for Household Matters. He’d Lost It All By His Own Hand. His Mistress Eliza Disappeared After Hearing He’d Lost the Flat. Determined to Get Revenge, Val Planned to Refuse Child Support — Only to Receive a Court Summons Contesting His Paternity. DNA Tests Proved Both Children Weren’t His. Anna Had Seen Him Cheat on Their Wedding Day, and Vowed Subtle Revenge — Affair for Affair, Saving Every Penny He Gave Her, Living Frugally so She Could Support the Children Elsewhere, Until She Was Ready to Strike. He Took Losing the Flat Better Than Finding Out Both Kids Weren’t His. Beware the Women You’ve Wronged — In Anger, They Can Do Anything.

The Fairy Godmother Everyone could already tell by Year 7 that Lisa Browning was destined to become a brilliant doctor. It all started when the neighbour’s boy fell off the swings and bloodied his knee and head terribly. The sight would have made most people faint, but twelve-year-old Lisa kept her cool. “Yasmin, fetch some water, bandages and antiseptic!” she commanded her best friend, who lived in the flat opposite the playground. Without a word, Yasmin dashed home. By the time the frightened auntie—little Jamie’s mum, Mrs Turner, had found out and rushed over, Lisa had calmly and efficiently cleaned, treated, and dressed the wounds with the professionalism of someone far beyond her years. When Mrs Turner learned who had given her son first aid, she was astonished. Thanking Lisa warmly, she declared: “You’re going to be a doctor. And not just any doctor—an outstanding one. Well done, you didn’t panic! Some real doctors could learn from you, my dear.” On camping trips, Lisa was simply indispensable. No one wanted to get hurt, of course, but with Lisa Browning there, any scrapes seemed less frightening. Then came medical school, internships, hospital foundation years, and a steady stream of training courses. Once, in her role as a junior doctor, Lisa had to fill in for the Head of Functional Diagnostics. It was safe to say that Dr Elizabeth Alexandra, now Mrs Thompson, was both respected and valued by her colleagues. The team was fantastic—apart from the ageing deputy head, Dr Bernard Stephens, notorious for his grumpiness and temper, and something of an energy vampire to boot. He was in his element when there was trouble to be had. Lisa tried not to rise to his provocations, though only she knew how much effort that took! The only consolation for Dr Thompson was that their paths didn’t often cross—just once a week at the admissions panel when they discussed diagnoses for new patients. Even then, those meetings were anything but pleasant. Dr Stephens would frequently clash with Elizabeth, sometimes making sly, biting comments. He seemed to sense that Dr Thompson tried to ignore his barbs, and it only encouraged him. “Impossible man,” she complained to her husband Val after another trying day. “Honestly, I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if Stephens deliberately goads me.” “I’m sure you’ll come out on top,” Val grinned. “You’re the best diplomat I know.” “Absolutely, Mum,” agreed their thirteen-year-old, Max. “If you get bored being a doctor, you should be a diplomat. They earn loads more as well.” “I’ll give it some thought,” she laughed. Lisa was always diplomatic—but at the end of the day, only human. And patience, unfortunately, does have its limits. She sensed that sooner or later, she might just snap, and if she did, it would be for a good reason. The very next day at the usual doctors’ meeting everything was routine—until it was Lisa’s turn to present the notes of a woman in her sixties on the examination couch across from them. Normally, after the report, the patient would leave if she was able, and the head of department, the attending physician, and the deputy would discuss the case in private. This time, however, things got out of hand. “Just tell me one thing,” the older lady asked, her voice trembling. “Is it very serious? Will I recover? I have a granddaughter to raise on my own.” There was so much hope in her anxious eyes, it almost brought tears. Lisa had just begun to speak words of comfort when Dr Stephens bulldozed in. “With a diagnosis like yours?! Frankly, dear lady, your condition is so advanced, no sensible doctor would offer any guarantees! What were you thinking all this time?” The patient froze, lips trembling, but Dr Stephens pressed on: “I know your type! You ignore everything, self-medicate, and only come crawling to a doctor when it’s nearly too late! We’re not miracle workers…” The poor woman burst into tears and left the room. Later, Elizabeth berated herself for not reigning Stephens in, but in truth, she had been stunned. To yell at an elderly patient in such distress was simply unthinkable. The head of department shook her head in disapproval, too. Even if, deep down, the doctors acknowledged Stephens wasn’t technically wrong, there was no excuse for not speaking more kindly—at least with respect for the patient’s age. And that was when Lisa’s patience broke. Enough was enough. “Dr Stephens, with all due respect, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” “What’s the problem?” Stephens shrugged. “We’re not magicians. It’s about time patients knew that. Everything is easier to treat in the early stages, and you know that as well as I do.” Seeing Stephens’ self-satisfied smirk, Lisa grimaced in disgust. The head of department, knowing exactly what he was so pleased about, braced as Lisa took up the challenge. “Yes, Dr Stephens, you’re certainly right that early intervention is better. In most cases, it’s the only real chance! But do you realise how hard I worked to persuade that woman to get treatment? She believed me when I said things could be alright. And now—you’ve shattered all of that in a single moment. Well done.” Lisa threw up her hands in frustration. Stephens, recovering from her outburst, tried to assert his authority with the head of department, but soon realised it was no use. He had long ago discovered Mrs Thompson was no pushover—she knew her worth, and it was high. He blustered some more, but Lisa was barely listening. She watched, as if through a veil, as the department head left the office. With only Stephens for company, Elizabeth felt suffocated. Lisa gazed blankly at a corner, silent. How could she be expected to get on with her work after this? She felt like crying, but thought, “No way am I giving him that satisfaction.” She moved to the window, and heard the door slam. Lisa turned to see she was alone. She sat down at her desk and reached for her files. Duty still called. “Dr Thompson?” came a hesitant voice. She barely registered who it was, so unlike Stephens’ usual tone of command. The deputy held a bottle of valerian drops, his face creased in confusion. Strangely, Lisa felt no triumph—only pity. Rumour had it that Stephens was a lonely man. “Dr Thompson, here,” he muttered, handing her the vial. “And… forgive me. Maybe you’re right….” “And you, Dr Stephens,” she replied, choosing kindness, “have your own point. But our job is to heal people—and to give them at least a glimmer of hope. Sometimes, that hope creates miracles. I’m sure you know that as well as I do.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Stephens nodded absently. Such a transformation was something remarkable, but Lisa didn’t dwell on it. Better to strike while the iron was hot. “Dr Stephens,” she said, taking a steadying breath, “please remember: I’ll never allow anyone—no matter their position—to raise their voice or question my qualifications in front of a patient, whether they’re a porter or the Health Secretary himself.” “Absolutely, Dr Thompson. Understood.” “Let’s hope so,” thought Lisa, looking at the time. There was still so much to do. An hour later, she visited the patient—Veronica Grace, who had a bouquet of tulips on her bedside table. Seeing Lisa, the older woman smiled. “You’ll never guess who just visited me,” she said. “Your boss! Brought me flowers and apologised. Said, ‘We’ll do everything we possibly can to help you recover.’” “That’s wonderful,” Lisa replied, squeezing Veronica’s hand. “We really will do everything. You’re as good as new—practically a young bride-to-be!” “You joker!” laughed the patient. A month on, Veronica was on the mend. On the day she was discharged, Dr Stephens brought her a box of posh chocolates. “For your granddaughter,” he said, a little awkwardly. “And these are for you,” holding out a bouquet of roses. “Such beautiful flowers! Thank you so much. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers. And my thanks to all of you—doctors, really, you’ve given an old lady her life back.” History was made: “Did Stephens just do that?” thought everyone present, marvelling. The widely disliked deputy, famous for never speaking a kind word, had done the unthinkable. Relations between Lisa and Bernard improved, if not to friendship, then to very cordial understanding. They often shared a coffee after meetings, or sometimes ran into each other in the hospital café. “There’s no such thing as happiness,” Stephens confided once. “Maybe that’s why I’m so cantankerous. Life’s gone by, and I haven’t really lived it.” “What do you mean?” Lisa exclaimed. “You’re senior deputy, that’s no small achievement.” “I suppose so,” he conceded. “But I wish I was happy. I was, once. But it slipped away.” So, Lisa realised, the man had simply been defeated by loneliness. She found herself growing fond of him. Lisa’s new friendship did not go unnoticed by the staff, though nobody stooped to idle gossip—Dr Thompson was above that, and Stephens was hardly a ladies’ man. “What’s your secret?” nurse Abby asked in the middle of a girls’ tea party. “He’s different now—actually smiles. Not often, but it’s something!” Every Friday, all the female staff, from doctors to cleaners, held a tea party in the hospital kitchen, bringing their best cakes and jam. “Honestly, girls, there’s no secret,” Lisa said. “It’s simple really.” “As if!” scoffed Valerie the cloakroom lady. “It’s true! Everything depends on self-confidence and dignity. Anyone—be they doctor or cleaner—deserves both.” “I wish I could,” sighed young orderlie Sarah. “He scares me!” “You shouldn’t think like that,” Lisa replied. “Everyone has the right to self-respect. It’s all about confidence.” Psychiatrist Gillian nodded. “Especially with energy vampires. If they sense confidence, they steer clear—there’s nothing to feed off.” “Maybe Stephens is just an unhappy man,” mused Vera the cook. Everyone agreed—except Lisa, who knew it for a fact. “Did I miss much, girls?” panted Katie the linen lady, bustling in. “Not really—we’re just gossiping about old Bernie,” Gillian grinned. “Oh, then you’re all up to date!” Katie declared. “About what?” everyone clamoured. “Stephens is getting married!” “No way!” “Now that’s a shock!” “More likely the world’s about to freeze over than that!” Hospital staff were agog. “Lisa, don’t tell me you didn’t know,” said the housekeeper slyly. “No, I had no idea!” Lisa replied, surprised. “We talked about a lot, but not hearts and flowers.” “People like him would never let on!” pronounced psychologist Tamara sagely. “Too right,” Lisa thought. “I wonder who the lucky lady is…” “So who is he marrying?” Sarah piped up. “Not sure—apparently it’s a patient,” Katie said as she poured her tea. “Seriously?” Vera exclaimed, while Lisa smiled—she had an inkling. “Well, girls, I think this news deserves something stronger than tea,” Lisa said. “A bottle or two of wine, perhaps?” Cheers! For all they knew, becoming a newlywed might just soften Stephens up a bit. The next day at coffee, Stephens looked the picture of happiness. Lisa didn’t let on that she’d heard—it was obvious he wanted to announce it himself. “You’re looking well, Bernard,” she smiled. “You noticed,” he grinned. “And I’m in a fantastic mood—I’m getting married, Lisa!” “Really?” Lisa feigned surprise. “And who’s the lucky lady?” “Oh, she’s marvellous. The very best in the world for me.” “So—will you tell me who?” “It’s Veronica. You know, the lady you gave me a proper talking-to about. I really liked her, so I decided to act. Got her details from her records, went to see her—ostensibly as follow-up care.” “Well, well, a secret schemer after all,” Lisa laughed. “She’s a wonderful choice.” “I think so, too. And I want you at our wedding. You and your family. Because it’s thanks to you that I found my soulmate. Lisa, you really should have been a diplomat!” “Oh, don’t be silly! Fate would have brought you together regardless.” The wedding was lovely. The groom looked dashing, and the bride radiant—transformed from the anxious patient desperate for her granddaughter’s sake into a stylish, confident woman ten years younger. Veronica’s bob haircut and dark chestnut hair suited her perfectly, and she never tired of thanking Lisa…

The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block eagerly watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the factory workshop manager, whose role was quite prestigious in their quaint English market town. “Why would they choose to live in this old Victorian place?” wondered pensioner Mrs. Nora Andrews aloud to her friends. “Surely with his connections, they could’ve bagged themselves a flat in those new builds.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna—thirty, still single and all bold lipstick—chimed in. “Who needs a new build when we have these grand Victorian ceilings, big separate rooms, a generous hallway, and the balcony’s as good as an extra room! Besides, they got their phone line connected straight away. In our block of nine, only three flats even have one.” “You only care because you want to chat on the phone all day,” her mum scolded. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t go badgering those people—they’re important and busy.” “Oh, they’re not so serious,” Anna replied, rolling her eyes. “They’re young—a nine-year-old daughter, Natasha. Practically my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be charming and polite: Lydia worked at the local school library, while John had a decade’s experience at the button factory. Anna loved to keep everyone apprised of their business when she joined her mother and her friends in the courtyard. “And how do you know all this?” the women quizzed. “Well, they let me in to use the phone! Not like some people who’d rather I didn’t call my friends for half an hour about nothing,” Anna shot back, meaningfully. Anna soon became a regular visitor to the newcomers—sometimes turning up in new dresses, other days in cosy dressing gowns—all in pursuit of friendship with Lydia and John. One afternoon, she noticed John decisively closing the lounge door when she arrived to use the phone—a gesture that became a habit. After her calls, Anna would peek into the kitchen to thank Lydia, who would reply only with a polite nod and ask her to close the front door. “Can’t—I’m elbow-deep in flour,” Lydia would say, displaying her hands. “Our lock’s French; it snaps shut itself.” “Oh, are you baking again—more pastries? I wish I could do that,” Anna would sigh. “Yes, cheese danishes for breakfast. No time to bake in the morning, so I do it now…” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would grimace and leave, frustrated she hadn’t been invited to linger. One evening, John mentioned, “Lydia, I know you don’t want to seem rude, but she monopolises our phone every evening—my mates can’t get through. This can’t go on.” Lydia agreed, “She comes in as if our home’s a waiting room!” Soon Anna, dolled up once again, plonked herself on their hallway stool for another long call to a friend. “Anna, will you be long? We’re waiting for a call,” Lydia asked after ten minutes. Anna nodded, hung up, and produced a chocolate bar: “Brought a treat—let’s have tea, get to know each other.” She headed to the kitchen, setting the chocolate down invitingly. “No, sorry—please, put that away. Natasha has an allergy. Chocolate is a strict no-go here. I’m afraid tea together won’t work. Don’t be offended, but in our family, chocolate is off the table.” “What? Off the table? I just wanted to say thanks…” Anna blushed in confusion. “No need for thanks, but please, only use the phone for emergencies—doctor, ambulance, fire crew—that’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we understand. But for anything else, please…” Lydia managed, “John needs business calls, and Natasha’s doing her homework. We try to keep things quiet.” Anna retrieved the chocolate and left, fuming—to her, Lydia was just jealous of her youth and looks. “She’s just envious I’m younger and prettier,” Anna told her mother. “I tried to be nice—brought my own chocolate—and she didn’t even offer me a cuppa!” “Silly girl,” Nora chided her, “Stop butting into other families. They don’t want you forever using their phone. Make friends elsewhere—better yet, find your own fella and your own phone!” Anna’s final push for friendship was to ask Lydia for her famous cheese danish recipe. “Could you write it down for me? I’d really like to learn,” Anna pleaded. “Why not ask your mum? Our mums know everything!” Lydia replied, surprised. “Anyway, I bake by instinct—never measured a thing. Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” Anna flushed and trudged back. She knew full well her mum had a battered old recipe notebook stuffed with secrets, most of them devoted to baking. But Anna didn’t want to bake herself, and her mum had stopped, struggling with her weight. But Anna retrieved the book, leafed through, and found what she needed—her mother was astonished. “You’re going to bake?” “Well, why not?” Anna replied, closing the book around the dog-eared page. “Is this about that boy, Simon?” her mother asked. “I thought you’d finished with him, like all the others.” “Not at all! He’ll be back.” Anna snapped. “Suit yourself, but you’d better get a move on if you want to settle down.” A few days later, the unmistakable aroma of baking filled the flat. “Is it possible? Baking—here!” her mother exclaimed. “You must be in love!” “Shh—not so loud!” Anna laughed. “Ready for a taste test? They’re cheese danishes—classic ones.” The kettle boiled, cups were out, and on a plate glowed golden danishes, like tiny suns. “You’ve still got it!” her mother exclaimed. “Not bad at all.” “Don’t just humour me—try one,” Anna insisted. “Tastes just right!” her mother confirmed. Anna remembered her father’s words: “Edible—that’s the highest praise.” “I’ll invite Simon over for tea. What do you think, will he like them?” Anna grinned. “He’ll love them! I won your dad’s heart with these very danishes,” her mother replied. As Simon became a regular for tea and laughter echoed from the kitchen, Anna’s mother grew used to her daughter spending more time at the stove—with Simon, no less. The news they planned to marry brought tears to Nora’s eyes. Anna slimmed down in anticipation of her wedding, Simon teasing, “Don’t forget to bake danishes for the wedding feast!” The big day was celebrated simply, with Anna, her mother, and her aunt preparing treats for just twenty family guests. The couple set up home in a grand room of their Victorian flat, and with time, every neighbour enjoyed the luxury of their own telephone. Anna made quick calls now—no more lingering. “Oh, Rita, can’t chat—my dough has risen and Simon will be home soon. Talk later!” She hurried to the kitchen to check on her pillow-soft dough—Anna was expecting a baby, on the cusp of maternity leave, but still couldn’t resist baking up treats for her husband, and herself. Homemade cheese danishes—such delicious happiness! And Simon simply adored her for it, for her baking, her kindness, and her warmth.