You Were My Teenage Mistake A girl gave birth at sixteen, the father was also sixteen. Skipping the details of the scandal, they quickly split after the birth. When the girl realised the boy didn’t need her or their son, she instantly lost interest in her child. Her parents, the boy’s grandparents, raised him. At eighteen, she left to a nearby town with another young man, never called, never wrote. Her parents made no effort to contact her. There was disappointment, confusion, shame and pain that they’d raised someone capable of abandoning her child. The grandparents raised their grandson. To this day, the boy considers them his parents, and is incredibly grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. When the boy turned eighteen, his cousin was getting married. The whole family gathered at the wedding, including his biological mother. By then, she was married for a third time and had another daughter. Her eldest was ten, her youngest just eighteen months old. The boy was excited—finally, he would meet his mother and sisters. And, of course, ask: “Mum, why did you leave me?” As loving as his grandparents had been, he still missed and remembered his mother. He’d even kept the only surviving photo of her. Granddad had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted with relatives, boasting about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right; I should have had an abortion,” she replied indifferently, then turned away. … Seven years later, when he was living comfortably in a two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), his phone rang. An unknown number. “Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister goes to. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family. She doesn’t like her dorm, private rent is expensive, my husband left me, times are hard, one daughter’s a student, another’s at school, and the youngest will soon start nursery,” she explained. “You must have the wrong number,” he replied, and hung up. He picked up his own son, hugged him and said: “So, shall we get ready to visit Mum, and then all go see Grandma and Granddad?” “And at the weekend, we’ll go to the countryside together, right, Daddy?” his little boy asked. “Of course, family traditions must never be broken!” … Some relatives criticised the young man’s decision, saying he could have helped his sister. He believes he should help only the grandparents who raised him, not the stranger who sees him as nothing but a mistake.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 1

You are a mistake of youth.

My mother gave birth to me when she was just sixteen. My father was the same age. The messy details of the scandal aren’t worth rehashing, but after I was born, my parents separated almost immediately. Once my mum realised my father wanted nothing to do with her or me, she stopped caring about me altogether. My grandparents, her mum and dad, took me in and raised me as their own.

When she turned eighteen, Mum left our small town with a new boyfriend and moved to Birmingham. She never called, never wrote. My grandparents didnt try to meet her. There was disappointment, confusion, and pain how could she abandon her child? The feeling that they’d raised someone capable of this haunted them.

They brought me up as their own son. To this day, I consider my grandparents my real parents and Im endlessly grateful for my childhood, education, and everything they gave me.

When I turned eighteen, my cousin Annie was getting married. The whole family attended the wedding, and my biological mother was there too. By then, shed married three times and had another daughter.

Her eldest was ten, the youngest just a year and a half. I felt a strange excitement, wanting to meet my mother and sisters at last, hoping I could ask her, Mum, why did you leave me?

Despite how wonderful my grandparents were, there was always a part of me that missed my mother. I even held onto the only photograph I had of herGrandad had burned the rest. At the wedding, I listened as Mum chatted away with an aunt, boasting about her beautiful daughters.

And what about me, Mum? I asked.

You? Youre just a mistake I made when I was young. Your father was rightI should have ended the pregnancy, she replied, turning away casually.

Seven years later, I was living comfortably with my wife and son in a cosy two-bedroom flat, thanks to my grandparents and my in-laws. One evening, my mobile rang with an unfamiliar number.

Hello, its your mum. Your uncle gave me your number. Listen, I know you live near the university where your sisters started. Can she stay with you for a bit? Shes family after all. She hates the halls, renting is too expensive, my husbands left me, Im struggling with a student, a schoolgirl, and a toddler, she said.

Youve got the wrong number, I replied and hung up.

I walked over to my little boy, scooped him into my arms, and said, Lets get ready, were going to see Grandma and Grandad today.

And at the weekend, can we all go to the countryside together? my son asked.

Absolutely, you never break family traditions!

Some relatives disparaged me for refusing my sisters plea for help. They said I should have helped. But I believe my loyalty belongs to Grandma and Grandad, not to a stranger who calls herself my mother and sees me as a mistake.

If Ive learned anything, its this: family isnt just about blood. Its about the ones who choose you, cherish you, and stand by you no matter what.

Love Isn’t for Show Ann came out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, her mood sour as she passed by her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the well for three days now. He wanted to carve it to make it pretty—like he had nothing else to do! While his wife rushed about the house and tended the livestock, he just stood there with his chisel, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? He never said a gentle word, never banged his fist on the table—instead he worked quietly, occasionally coming over just to look in her eyes and stroke her thick, honey-blonde braid; that was all the affection she got. But she yearned for more—for “my darling” and “my swan”… She pondered her lot as a wife and nearly tripped over old Bully the dog. In a flash, Henry caught her and gave the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll end up hurting the missus!” Bully hung his head and slunk off to his kennel. Ann was once again amazed by how her husband understood animals. She’d once asked Henry about it, and he simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Ann also dreamed of love—being swept off her feet, whispered sweet nothings, flowers on her pillow every morning. But Henry was stubbornly tight-fisted with affection, and she was starting to doubt if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called out Victor over the fence, “Henry, are you still busy with that nonsense? Who needs your fancy carvings?” “I want my children to grow up good people, surrounded by beauty.” “You need to make some children first,” laughed Victor, winking at Ann. Henry glanced sadly at his wife, who, blushing, hurried indoors. She wasn’t in a rush for kids—young, pretty, wanting to enjoy life a bit longer, and her husband was neither here nor there. The neighbour, though—he was handsome! And when he met her by the gate, he spoke such sweet words, as gentle as a summer rain: “My little dew drop, my shining sun…” Her soul fluttered, her knees weakened, but Ann always ran away, refusing his advances. When she married, she’d promised to be a faithful wife; her parents had lived together in harmony for years and taught her to cherish her family. But why was she so eager to glance out the window and meet her neighbour’s eyes? The next morning, while driving the cow to graze, she bumped into Victor at the gate: “Ann, my lovely dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I could stare at your beauty all day—it makes my head spin when I see you. Come to me at dawn. When Henry goes fishing, come to my place. I’ll give you so much tenderness, you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Ann flushed from head to toe, her cheeks burning, her heart racing, but said nothing—she quickly walked past him. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Ann thought of him. She craved love and affection—and Victor was handsome and looked at her with that fiery gaze—but she simply couldn’t go through with anything. There was still time before dawn tomorrow, maybe… That evening, Henry fired up the sauna. He invited the neighbour to join—they lashed each other with birch twigs, sweating and groaning with pleasure. When they finished, Ann brought them a little jug of homemade moonshine and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers in the cellar. She went to fetch them, but paused in the stairwell at the sound of their conversation through the half-open door. “Why are you so indecisive, Henry?” Victor’s voice was low. “Come on, you won’t regret it. There are widows there who’ll smother you with affection, real beauties—they’d gladden your heart! Not like your Ann, a grey country mouse.” “No, my friend,” came Henry’s quiet but firm reply. “I don’t want any beauties. I can’t even think about that. My wife isn’t some grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman in the whole world. There’s no blossom, no berry lovelier than her. When I look at her, I can’t see the sun—just her beautiful eyes and slender waist. I’m overflowing with love for her, like a river in spring. But I’m no good with sweet words. I guess it hurts her, and I’m to blame. I’m scared of losing her—I couldn’t live a day without her, not even breathe…” Ann stood frozen, her heart thundering, a tear running down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the steam room and declared, “Off you go, neighbour—go cheer up those widows! My husband and I have weightier matters. We’ve no one to admire Henry’s carvings yet. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness—I was holding happiness in my hands and didn’t see it. Come, we’ve wasted enough time already…” And at dawn, Henry didn’t go fishing after all.

No Magic at All New Year was approaching like a runaway train—fast and unstoppable. Lena was breathless from the speed, as if she were standing on the platform, realising she didn’t have a ticket, nothing would work out, happiness had slipped away—and so had the festive spirit. Why had she even invited guests? Who wants to ring in the New Year with a failure? *** The 31st of December began with a small catastrophe: the washing machine, faithful for ten years, decided to retire with a spectacular flood in the bathroom. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve was a wild goose chase, but after much stress, Lena finally succeeded, hoping her misfortunes were over for the day. But… Later, ginger Basil the cat—household gourmand—devoured all the sausage set aside for the salad, leaving Lena with just sad peas and pickled cucumbers. Apparently unsatisfied, Basil also tried hunting a blue tit who’d landed on the open windowsill… A giant ficus crashed from the window, taking the Christmas tree with it, finally snuffing out Lena’s beloved old fairy lights. Broken baubles collected since childhood and shards of the flower pot were mixed with soil on the carpet. Lena fought back tears as she cleaned. Then came the shattered decanter, burnt roast chicken—and, finally, the last straw: with guests on their way, Lena realised in horror that she’d forgotten to buy the pudding. In a panic, she called her sister. “Kate, disaster! I’ve got no dessert!” “Calm down!” came her sister’s cheerful voice, “I’m outside—come down, we’ll get everything sorted.” “And where are you, again?” “I’m at your front door, I told you!” Downstairs, Lena was greeted by a sight fit for a Christmas card: Kate’s car outside, their friend Maria with an enormous shopping bag, and Aunt Gail—armed with a huge trifle bowl. “A whole trifle, Auntie? That’s a lot!” Lena gasped. “One can never be too prepared!” Aunt Gail replied solemnly, eager as ever to dish out unsolicited advice. “I know your cooking! And it’ll be a long night! You’ve at least got the salad, yes?” Lena shrugged evasively… While the girls dashed out for dessert, Maria hung up streamers—promptly ensnaring Basil, who soon resembled an alien. Kate’s husband Ian arrived just in time, fresh from work, to rescue the cat. Basil didn’t struggle until he spotted Lena, then darted at her so enthusiastically he left a scratch on Ian’s hand. Ian, wounded but heroic, offered to help the ladies in the kitchen, though his contributions amounted to musings about “salad being a state of mind, not a recipe”—which was, frankly, enough for Kate and Lena. “Lena, what’s in this box?” Maria called from the next room. “‘Happy New Year’ it says. Ooh, there’s a note too! ‘Open at midnight. Love, Grandma Val.’” Lena rushed over. “Oh, I completely forgot! Kate, Gran left this! She said to open it at two in the morning for a surprise.” “What is it?” Kate inspected the box with curiosity. “Let’s just open it now!” “No way! She’ll know if we opened it early—just wait.” The intrigue gripped everyone—even Aunt Gail edged closer to the box, eyeing it greedily. *** After the New Year countdown, champagne, the “cat” salad, laughter, and debates, the clock struck two. “Is it time?” asked Lena, as she ceremoniously lifted the box. “Time for Grandma Val’s surprise!” The only gentleman present, Ian, was chosen to open it. Inside, layered on cotton wool, were not money or old photos, but dozens of tiny rolled-up notes tied with colourful ribbons, each tagged with a name. “What’s all this?” Ian wondered aloud. Lena unrolled hers and read aloud: “Lena, my darling granddaughter. Has something gone wrong again? The washing machine broke? Cat ate the salad? Don’t worry! Every problem is just a reason to order pizza and put on your favourite show. Dessert can wait until morning. The only thing that matters is the people who help you eat that pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Grandma Val.” There was a stunned silence—then laughter. Lena laughed until the tears streamed down her face. “How did she… how did she know?!” “That’s magic,” whispered Aunt Gail. “Hand mine here!” Kate demanded, impatient. She read her note: “Kate, my love. Stop bickering with Ian over the little things. Just give him a hug—he means well, even with all that philosophizing. And if he starts again, just kiss him—that’s the best way to confuse a man’s logic. Love you both!” Ian blushed scarlet and kissed Kate amid applause. Maria opened hers with a giggle: “Maria, darling. Don’t look for love in the pubs—try the library or local supermarket. That’s where proper people hang out. And for goodness’ sake, stop dying your hair purple. You look best your natural colour!” “How did she know about my hair?!” gasped Maria. “I only changed it two days ago!” Last was Aunt Gail. She carefully unfolded her note as if decoding a secret message. “Gail, my dear. I know you’re our wise one, always in the know. But here’s a secret for you: wisdom and kind advice are wonderful—but sometimes it’s best just to have a slice of cake and say nothing at all. Love you, sweetheart.” Aunt Gail reddened, muttered, took a slice of cake, and—miracle of miracles—remained silent for the rest of the night. Laughter and gossip carried on until dawn. The girls facetimed Grandma Val, who — smiling in her armchair miles away — beamed: “My darlings! I’m so pleased my surprise worked. No magic about it—I just know you all so well, and I love you more than words.” Next morning, tidying up, Lena gathered the notes into a decorated jar and set it on the mantelpiece. These weren’t just messages. They were her grandmother’s recipe for happiness: Don’t fear chaos. Laugh at mishaps. Cherish the ones beside you. Eat what you want (but mind your waistline). And always remember—the best gift of all is knowing there’s someone out there who loves and understands you, no matter what.