Winter had wrapped Andrew’s garden in a soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a giant German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke stubbornly refused to sleep inside, choosing instead to lie out in the snow. Andrew watched from the window, his heart tightening—Duke had never behaved like this before. Every morning, as Andrew stepped outside, he noticed how Duke eyed him warily. Whenever Andrew approached the kennel, the dog would position himself protectively between him and the entrance, growling softly and staring up as if to plead, “Please, don’t go in there.” Such odd behavior from his longtime friend troubled Andrew deeply—what was his faithful companion hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew crafted a little plan—tempting Duke into the kitchen with a juicy steak. While the dog, locked inside, barked fiercely at the window, Andrew returned to the kennel and knelt to peer inside. His heart nearly stopped as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that left him frozen in shock… …Inside, tucked under a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes flickered weakly open, its body shivering with cold. Somewhere, Duke had found it, and instead of chasing it off or leaving it to its fate, had given it shelter. Duke slept outside so he wouldn’t frighten the kitten, guarding the entrance as if protecting hidden treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached out gently, gathered the little creature in his arms, and pressed it to his chest. Instantly, Duke ran over and nestled beside his shoulder—not growling, but calm and ready to help. “You’re a good boy, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel Andrew had built with so much care found new purpose—a little home for rescued souls.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

Winter had wrapped Thomass garden in a thick, soft blanket of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a towering English Mastiff, was behaving oddly.

Instead of curling up in the spacious kennel that Thomas had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke insisted on sleeping outside, right in the snow. Thomas watched from the frosty window, a knot tightening in his chestDuke had never acted this way before.

Each morning, Thomas would venture outside only to find Duke watching him with wary, anxious eyes. The moment Thomas approached the kennel, Duke would settle himself squarely between Thomas and the entrance, rumble a low growl, and look up at him pleadingly, as if to beg, “Please, dont go in there.” This peculiar behaviour was completely at odds with the years of warm friendship theyd shared, leaving Thomas bewilderedwhat was his best friend hiding from him?

Determined to uncover the truth, Thomas hatched a small plan. He lured Duke into the kitchen with a sizzling strip of bacon, the aroma wafting through the air. While Duke, now closed inside, barked urgently at the window, Thomas crept toward the kennel and crouched to peer inside. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, and when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, what he saw chilled him to the bone.

Inside, bundled in an old blanket, was a tiny kittendirty, half-frozen, barely managing to breathe. Its eyes flickered open weakly, its body trembling with cold. Somehow, Duke had found the little thing and, rather than chase it off or leave it to its fate, he had taken it in. Duke chose to sleep outside; guarding the entrance and refusing to scare the kitten, as though that kennel housed the most precious of treasures.

Thomas held his breath. Slowly, he reached in, scooping the fragile creature gently to his chest. At that very moment, Duke dashed over and nestled against Thomas shouldernot growling this time, but hovering close, eager to help.

Youre a good boy, Duke, Thomas murmured, clutching the shivering kitten. Far better than many a person I know.

From that day forward, there werent just two friends in the gardenbut three. And the kennel, crafted with such care, had found its true purpose once morea small home for rescued souls.

I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.

“All Right Then, Dear Mum! You Have Your Own Home—That’s Where You Belong. Don’t Come Over Unless We Invite You.” My mother lives in a quaint English village, nestled beside a gentle river. A stretch of woodland starts just behind her garden, and in season, we gather bountiful berries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I’d run through familiar meadows with a basket, relishing nature’s gifts. I married my schoolmate, whose parents live nearby, just across the lane. Their garden doesn’t have access to the river or the woods, so when we visit from the city, we always stay with my mum. Lately, mum’s changed—perhaps it’s her age, or perhaps jealousy over my husband—leading to holiday visits that spiral into arguments. Peaceful resolutions became rare. Once, when we stayed with my in-laws, mum picked a fight with her own beau over trivial matters. My mother-in-law was so upset, she shouted so loudly the whole lane could hear their long-standing grievances. A month later, once tempers cooled, my husband and I hatched a plan—to build our own home, so no one’s feelings would be hurt and we’d have a place to truly belong. Sorting out the land took ages, but we managed. My in-laws eagerly pitched in; my father-in-law was a constant presence on our building site. But mum was nothing but trouble—coming over, offering unsolicited advice, insulting our progress, making peace impossible. Building the house became a nightmare. A year passed; the house was finished, but relief was short-lived. Mum wouldn’t stop dropping by, accusing us of selfishness and threatening to withdraw her help—forgetting how my husband had always been there to mow her lawn or fix her roof. One day, mum asked: “Why do you even come here anymore? Stay in your city home—when you visit, you’re just flaunting what you have.” That broke my husband’s patience. He calmly approached his mother-in-law, but there was something in his calm that made her edge toward the door. “What are you doing, son-in-law…?” she asked. “Nothing, dear mum! You’ve got your house—so live there. Don’t come here unless we invite you. Let us have a weekend to ourselves now and then. If you need help, call us; if there’s a fire, we’ll come running!” “What do you mean, what fire?” At those words, mum made a hasty exit. I stifled laughter watching her hurry out the gate. My husband, after calming down, raised his hands: “Well, maybe I did go a bit far with the fire comment.” “No, you’re quite right.” We laughed together, recalling the look on mum’s face. Since then, peace has reigned in our new home. Mum no longer pops by, graciously accepts my husband’s help, but only speaks in simple yes or no answers. I suspect she’s still thinking about that imaginary fire.