You Were My Teenage Mistake A young girl gave birth at sixteen, the child’s father was also just sixteen. Leaving the scandalous details aside, the couple broke up soon after their son was born. When the girl realized the boy wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, she immediately lost all interest in her child. The son was raised by his grandparents—her own parents. At eighteen, the girl moved to a nearby city with a new boyfriend, never called, never wrote. Her parents didn’t seek her out. Shame and pain lingered—how could she abandon her child? They raised their grandson, who still considers them his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. At eighteen, the boy’s cousin got married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters—one ten years old and the other just one and a half. The boy was nervous and excited to meet his mother and sisters—and of course, to ask, “Mum, why did you leave me?” No matter how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even keeping her only surviving photo. His grandfather had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted cheerfully 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 nonchalantly, turning away. Seven years later, living in his comfortable two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he got a call from 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 attends. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family, the dorm is awful, rent is expensive, my husband left, things are hard—one daughter’s a student, one’s just starting school, the littlest one’s off to nursery soon,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong number,” he replied and hung up. He picked up his son, held him close, and said: “Right, let’s get ready—first we’ll meet with Mum, then afterwards, a visit to Grandma and Grandpa, shall we?” “And can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?” his little boy asked. “Of course we can. Family traditions are too important to break!” … Some relatives criticised him for not helping his sister, but he believes his loyalty belongs to his grandparents, not to the woman for whom he was just a mistake.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 4 min

You know, there’s this story about a girl named Emily Taylor who had a baby when she was just sixteen. The boy, Jack Evans, was also sixteen. Lets skip all the hullabaloo and drama, but after little Lucas was born, Emily and Jack went their separate ways quite quickly. And when Emily realised Jack neither wanted her nor their son, she stopped caring altogether. So, it was Emilys parents, Margaret and Peter Taylor, who took Lucas in and raised him as their own.

Two years passed, and when Emily turned eighteen, she packed up and moved to Manchester with a new boyfriend. She didnt call, didnt write. Her parents didnt chase after her, either. The whole thing was wrapped up in hurt and resentmenthow could Emily just walk away from her own child? Margaret and Peter felt ashamed and heartbroken, questioning how they had raised someone capable of such abandonment.

But they poured all they had into Lucas, their grandson. He always saw them as his true parentsdeeply grateful for the childhood they gave him, for the education they made sure he got, for just everything, really.

Years later, when Lucas was eighteen, his cousin Sophie was getting married. For her wedding in Brighton, all the family gatheredincluding, surprisingly, Emily. By then, shed been married and divorced three times and had two more daughters: the oldest was ten, the youngest barely a toddler.

Lucas was honestly quite thrilledhe wanted to finally meet his birth mum and his sisters. And, of course, hed always held onto the big question: Mum, why did you leave me?

His grandparents, for all their kindness, couldnt fill the space left by his mother. He even kept her only surviving photoeven after Granddad Peter burned the rest. At the wedding, Emily was chatting away to an aunt, bragging about her brilliant girls.

Lucas went up to her and asked, What about me, Mum?

She just looked at him and said, calm as you like, You? You were my mistake when I was young. Your father was rightI shouldve ended the pregnancy.

With that, she turned her back on him.

Seven years later, Lucas was living comfortably in a cozy two-bedroom flat in Leeds with his wife, Hannah, and their young sonthanks in no small part to the support of his grandparents and his mother-in-law. Out of nowhere, his phone rang from a number he didnt recognise.

Hello, son. Its your mum. Your uncle gave me your number. Listen, Ive heard you live near the university your sisters attending. Could you let her stay with you for a bit? Shes family, rentings pricey, my husbands walked out, and Im strugglingone at uni, one in school, and the youngest will be starting nursery soon, she said.

Lucas replied, Sorry, youve got the wrong number, and hung up.

He walked over to his own son, scooped him up, and said, How about we get ready for a visit to Grandma and Granddad? Fancy a trip to see them?

His little boy chirped, Can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?

Of course, thats our family tradition! Wouldnt miss it for the world.

Some relatives gave Lucas a hard time, saying he ought to help his sister. But he knew in his hearthis loyalty was to Margaret and Peter, the only real parents he ever knew, not some stranger who thought he was just a youthful error.

You Can’t Turn Back the Clock: When Tanya Showed Off Her Wedding Photos, She’d Laugh and Say, “Oh, I suffered in that dress! So beautiful, but heavy and clumsy! Next time I get married, it’ll be in something light and airy.” Everyone thought she was joking—after all, Tanya and her husband had married for love. It began as a classic holiday romance: Tanya, 21; Alex, 28. August on the English coast, sparkling wine, starlit skies, seaside romance… ending with papers at the registry office. In the decade that followed, ‘London–Brighton–London’ became Tanya’s well-worn path—her second home. But that came later. At first, they had to find a place to live. Alex gifted his flat to his dramatic second wife (who had threatened outlandish revenge if left), and Tanya moved to Brighton with him. Tanya’s life seemed charmed: bouquets of flowers, three fur coats, a new pair of shoes for every day, trips to Paris and the Lake District… All preparing to welcome their first child. Daughter Molly was born, and Alex lovingly set up a cosy home for his girls. Tanya, however, longed for her old life in London—her friends, her mum, and the city’s comforting lime trees. While she studied psychology at university, Molly was left with her adoring grandmother. Tanya’s returns home became ever more frequent—and Alex became suspicious and jealous. Eventually, Tanya confessed: she was bored and yearned for freedom. Despite Alex’s pleas, she left—chasing her dreams, her freedom, and even starting her own tailoring business. Alex, desperate to save his family, moved with Molly to London—but Tanya’s mind was made up. Their marriage ended. Years passed. Alex found quiet happiness with a down-to-earth woman and became stepdad to her boys, finally welcoming another daughter. No Parisian trips, no designer shoes—just rubber boots, a warm coat, and a simple life. Tanya, meanwhile, lived with her mum again. Her business failed, her admirers vanished—but her studies paid off; she became a school psychologist. Regrets? Maybe, in the silent depths of her soul. And Molly? All grown up, she married in Odessa—wearing a light, airy bridal dress, just as her mother once dreamed.

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Emma Was His Daughter—His Wife Sheila Worked at the Local Shop and Was Rumored to Have Secret Meetings with Other Men. Leonard Rejected the Petite Girl, but Only Grandad Helped Her, Leaving His Countryside Cottage as an Inheritance Only Grandad Truly Loved Little Emma In her childhood, frail, tiny Emma often fell ill. “No one so slight in either of our families,” Leonard would scoff. “That child is barely knee-high.” Gradually, even her mother’s love grew cold. But one person adored Emma: Grandad Matthew. His cottage stood at the village’s edge, by the woods. A retired ranger, Matthew knew every trail and herb. People whispered he was odd, but they still came for his healing teas. After losing his wife, Matthew’s greatest solace was Emma. More and more, she stayed with Grandad, learning about nature and cures. She dreamed of becoming a nurse, but her mother claimed she couldn’t afford Emma’s education. “I’m not destitute,” Grandad reassured her. “If need be, I’ll even sell the cow.” He Left Emma a Home and His Blessing Emma’s mother rarely visited, but when her son got into trouble gambling, she turned up begging for money. “You never come unless you want something,” Matthew scolded, refusing to help and insisting his priority was Emma’s future. Furious, Sheila stormed out, declaring she had neither father nor daughter any longer. When Emma got into nursing college, only Grandad supported her. He promised her the house and a happy destiny, urging her to keep the cottage alive, believing her fate awaited her there. Matthew’s Prophecy Came True One autumn, after Matthew passed away, Emma worked as a nurse but spent weekends at the cottage. During a snowstorm, she sheltered a stranded stranger named Sam who came to her door. After helping with his car, she welcomed him inside for tea. Soon, the two became inseparable. Emma never wanted a wedding; only love mattered, and Sam soon agreed. When their first son was born, everyone marvelled at the robust boy. “What’s his name?” they asked. Emma replied with a smile, “He’ll be Matthew, after a truly good man.”

I’m 38 and for years I thought I was the problem—convinced I was a bad mum, a bad wife, somehow fundamentally flawed because, no matter how much I held everything together, deep down I felt I had nothing left to give. My daily routine started at 5am: cooking breakfasts, sorting uniforms and packed lunches, getting the kids ready for school, tidying the house, and heading to work where I smiled through meetings, hit targets, stayed organised—no one there ever guessed a thing. At home, I juggled lunch, chores, bath time, dinner, homework questions, sibling squabbles, hugs and mending tears, always present, always in control. From the outside, my life looked normal—even good: family, career, health. There was no obvious tragedy to explain the emptiness I felt. But inside, I was hollow. Not constantly sad, but exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix. My body ached, noise grated on my nerves, and I started thinking thoughts I was ashamed to admit: maybe my kids would be better off without me; maybe I just wasn’t cut out for motherhood. I never missed a responsibility, never lost control, so no one—not even my husband—noticed. Whenever I mentioned being tired, I’d hear, ‘Every mum gets tired,’ or, ‘You just need more motivation,’ until I stopped talking about it. Some nights I sat alone in the bathroom, not crying, just staring at the wall, counting the minutes before I had to go back and be the one who copes with everything. The thought of leaving crept in quietly—not a dramatic urge, just a cold idea: disappear for a while, stop being needed. Not because I didn’t love my children, but because I didn’t feel I had anything left to give. The day I finally broke wasn’t spectacular; it was an ordinary Tuesday, when my child asked for a simple favour and I couldn’t respond. I sat on the kitchen floor, unable to move. My son looked at me, frightened: ‘Mum, are you okay?’ And I couldn’t answer. No one came to help or save me. I just couldn’t pretend any longer. Only when my strength ran out did I seek help—from a therapist who finally said what I’d never heard: ‘You’re not a bad mother.’ And explained what was happening to me. I realised no one had noticed because I never stopped functioning; as long as a woman keeps doing everything, the world assumes she can go on. No one asks after the one who never falls. Recovery wasn’t quick or magical, but slow, awkward, guilt-ridden—learning to ask for help, to say no, to accept that rest doesn’t make you a bad mum. I still care for my children and keep my job, but I don’t pretend to be perfect anymore, I no longer let a mistake define me, and I understand now: wanting to run away didn’t mean I was a bad mother—I was simply exhausted.

A man was enjoying his day off and sleeping soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang. Who could be visiting so early? Upon opening the door, he found an elderly woman he didn’t recognise—she was frightened. “Who are you here to see?” he asked. “Son, don’t you recognise your mother?” “Mum? Come in… you!” he stammered. He remembered the day his mother was taken from him. He had waited for years in the orphanage, hoping she would come and bring him home. Eventually the pain faded. He graduated from school, attended university, and started his own business. When asked about his parents, he always said they had died. Independent and successful, no one would have guessed he was raised in care. The woman could not recall when she lost custody of her child. In her youth she drank heavily, and her mind would shut off during her binges. She spent time in prison, where she thought of her son—not with love, but because she felt sorry for him. When her second son was born, maternal instincts awoke. She would do anything for this child—putting him first, forgetting the elder son entirely. Her younger son grew up just like her—moving through care homes, and at 15 receiving his first suspended sentence, then another, and eventually prison. Now, desperate to save him from jail, she searches for her successful older son. She sits in his home, crying and clinging to him, telling him tales of searching, praying for his health, and hoping every day to see him again. He believes her, but something inside him warns him to keep his distance. Despite his reservations, he rents her a flat, gives her money, and promises support—while watching closely to judge her true intentions. Before Christmas, he visits the children’s home where he grew up, regularly donating toys and food. An elderly carer approaches him. “Your mother was asking for your address.” “Thank you for helping her,” he replies. “But be careful. She wants you only for money, to help her younger son. She never loved you—don’t trust her!” “Do I have a brother?” “Yes. Ask her yourself.” His throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe. He cannot believe his mother may betray him again. Pushing through his emotions, he seeks out the truth. The woman faces his questioning, reluctant to admit the existence of the younger brother for fear he would refuse to help. Days later, the man is attacked—beaten severely. When police catch the assailants, they confess—his mother had hired them, hoping to kill her elder son and inherit his wealth to give her younger son an easy life. In court, she feigns remorse and begs for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. “I lived without a mother before, and I’ll keep living without one now!” he whispers through tears.