“You’re a Disgrace to This Family! Did You Really Think I’d Raise That Mistake of Yours? I Found a Vagrant to Take You Away!” – As David Miller’s iPhone Notification Lit Up the Gloom of His Private Jet, His World Was About to Shatter in the Chilly Night of His Greenwich Mansion.

Author Walton MerrittReading 12 minViews 2

Youve brought shame on this family! Did you think Id have anything to do with that mistake youre carrying? Ive arranged for a vagrant to take you away! The alert on my phone glowed, faintly lighting the muted, too-clean cabin of the Gulfstream G650.

From Rebecca: Kids are fast asleep. House is spotless. Missing you so much. Love you. Counting the days!

I smiled to myself, massaging the weariness from my eyes. Six months. Id been chasing the London deal for half a year that felt like an eternity, living out of hotel rooms, living on tea and relentless ambition, determined to secure my childrens future for years beyond my own. It was the biggest agreement of my careera new high-rise complex that would transform the London skyline.

Well be starting our descent, came the pilots crisp tone over the intercom. Welcome back to London, sir. Ground temperature is one degree Celsius.

I wasnt due home until the following Thursday. The deal wrapped up early, the final signature drying just after 4AM London time. I couldnt wait to surprise them: the delighted laugh of my six-year-old boy, Oliver; the gentle, gap-toothed grin of my ten-year-old daughter, Alice. And Rebecca, my wife of two years, greeting me with a hot stew and perhaps a glass of claret beside the fire.

I touched down at Farnborough at 2:30AM.

By 3:15AM, I was turning the key in the wide oak door of our Hampshire manor.

The cold was the first thing that greeted mesharp enough to take my breath away. No heating. In November. The air felt dead, damp, wrong.

The second thing was the quiet. Not the soothing hush of sleeping loved ones, but a stifling silence that pressed on my chest. Something was undoubtedly amiss.

Rebecca? I whispered, letting my leather bags drop on the polished tiles.

Nothing. The alarm panel wore a blank faceno red light, no security.

I wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water before heading upstairs. The house loomed around me, hollow, dark.

The sight that met my eyes rooted me to the spot.

There, on the cold flagstones, lit only by slants of winter moonlight, were my children.

They werent in their cozy beds. Not snuggled with the stuffed animals Id sent from every city. They were huddled beneath a thin, patched blanket by a cold radiator.

Oliver? Alice? My voice hardly worked, thick as it was with shock.

Alice panicked at the sound. She didnt run to me. She dragged her brother backwards, eyes wild, using her arms to shield his head.

Dont hurt us! she squeaked. We didnt steal it! It was in the bin! I swear!

Alice, its me. Dad. I tried to steady my voice.

I flicked on the kitchen light.

What I saw turned my stomach. Oliver shook terribly, his cheeks hot with fever and his hair pasted to his brow. Between them sat a plastic dog bowl withwater and shriveled carrot peels.

My eyes darted to the stove. A battered pot simmered with a couple of wan carrot slices floating in pale water.

Im sorry! Alice wailed, dropping the ladle. I didnt take the good food! These are just scraps! Please dont tell mumshell lock us in again!

I knelt, not caring about the chill. I reached out, but Alice recoiled, expecting to be struck.

Alice, I whispered, hands shakingnot just with anger; with cold, blistering rage Id never known. Im not angry. But wheres the food? I send £4,000 a monthdirect debit for groceries.

Alice gestured at the larder door, which was chained with a heavy padlock.

Mum says proper food is for guests, Alice whispered. We just get the practice food. To teach us to be thankful. To know our place.

Practice food, I breathed. The words landed bitter in my throat.

I felt Olivers forehead. He was burningat least forty degreesor more. His skin was stretched, hot and brittle.

How long has he been sick?

Three days, Alice murmured, tears brimming over. Mum said if I called you, shed send Oliver away. She said you wouldnt want broken children.

I lifted them both. They were punishingly light; the fullness of childhood gone, bones too prominent.

Upstairs, in my bedroom, the only warm room left, I bundled them in my thick duvet.

Stay here, I told them softly. Ill get proper food. I promise.

As I tucked the cover beneath Alices chin, I felt something hard. Hidden under her pillowa small spiral-bound pad. Alices Diary.

The first page, written in wobbly scrawl, was smudged and smeared.

Day 14: Mum said if I call Dad, shell get rid of the cat. So I didnt. I miss Tigger.
Day 30: Olivers hungry. I gave him my toast. Told Mum Id eaten it myself. She locked me in the boot room for fibbing. It was dark.
Day 45: A man came. Mum calls him Simon. They drank Dads wine and laughed when Oliver tripped.

I shut the diary. My hands stopped trembling. No more sadnessjust that calm, ruthless edge that made me who I am in business.

I was no longer a grieving father. I was a managing director who had just uncovered criminal activity. I knew how to handle a hostile takeover.

PART 2: THE CONFRONTATION

I didnt ring the police. Not yet. The police warn, question, give chances. I required finalityirrevocable evidence.

Downstairs, I examined the bins: empty bottles of Bollinger, the ones Id bought for my fiftieth. Empty tins of Royal Belgian caviar. Luxury takeaway wrappers.

The master bathroom: a mans razor not mine. Colognea cheap trendy scent Id never buy.

My office desk: the lock broken, trust fund paperwork in disarray. I checked the bank statement on my mobile.

Withdrawal: £20,000 Emergency (Alice).
Withdrawal: £35,000 House maintenance (Roof).
Withdrawal: £85,000 Transfer to S. Bright Ltd.

The household account was ransacked. Over £200,000 in six months.

A car engine rolled into the gravel driveway at 5:00AM. Dawn was barely stretching pink fingers over the horizon.

I killed the kitchen light and took a seat in the high-backed leather armchair by the front hall, diary in one hand, phone in the other.

Keys, laughtera bubbly, boozy giggleRebeccas. Paired with a mans deep chuckle.

Hush, Simon, Rebecca whispered. Kids are lightly sleeping. If they see you, Ill have to lock them in again. Broke a heel last time.

You worry far too much, Simon replied lazily. Lets go upstairs. Henrys stuck in meetings for another week. Hes too busy haggling over flats in Mayfair.

Did the last bank transfer go through? she murmured.

Yes, love. Your story about Alices problem convinced the manager. Tickets for Nice, first class, as soon as were packed.

From the gloom of the chair, I quietly opened the recording app on my phone.

I cant believe he swallowed it, she laughed. Believes hes such a loyal fatherjust a cash point, really. Fell for the right face.

Simon: A sightless cash point.

I flicked on the lamp.

The light froze them. Rebecca dropped her Mulberry handbag, Simon lurched back, shielding his eyes.

Welcome home, darling, I greeted. My voice held the chill of finality. And whos this then? The house repairs?

PART 3: THE RECKONING

Rebecca paled as though turned to wax. She stepped in front of Simon, trying to shield him from view.

Henry! You youre back! I can explain! Simons a consultant! Handling the repairs!

Repairs, I drawled. Odd hour to check the pipes. Or are you fixing accounts too?

Her gaze darted frantically. Tears followedon cue, polished.

Please! I was lonely! You left me alone for months. You chose business over us all! I needed comfort! Im only human!

And the children? I pressed. Did they need practice food as well?

I what?

I saw to them tonight. I saw the pitiful soup. The chained larder. Oliver, shivering against the cold.

Theyre greedy! she shrieked, mask breaking. Fat! Im teaching gratitude! Theyre fine!

I held up Alices diary.

Strange, then. She wrote here that Oliver cried with hunger this past Tuesdayshe gave him her bread and was punished for it. She writes you locked her away for lying. You threatened the cat.

She twists things! Rebecca spat. Shes unstable and jealous. Shes always been against me!

Is the bank also unstable, then? I scoffed, sliding paperwork across the coffee table. Where is the £150,000 for Alices surgery? Wheres the roof that still leaks?

Simon began to edge for the exit. Look, mate, this is between you. Im leaving. I didnt know she was married.

I pressed a button on my phone. The houses smart locks thudded shut.

Sit, Simon, I said. The authorities are nearly here. Since you signed off on the Bright Ltd. account, youre facing fraud, theft, identity crimes.

Simon collapsed into the sofa, face in hands.

PART 4: THE SNARE

You called the police? Rebecca scoffed. Honestly, Henry. Theyll believe me over childrens notes. The diarys mere fantasy.

You think tonight caught me off guard? I asked quietly.

I picked up the remote, facing the grand television in the sitting room.

I didnt get off that jet two hours ago. Ive been here, parked nearby, since Sunday. Watching.

I pressed Play.

Grainy but distinct nanny-cam footage, taken from my office, flickered to life. Rebecca, two days prior, shouting at Oliver, dragging him across the carpet and then slapping him.

The crack of her palm rang through the room.

I despise you! Cam-Rebecca screamed at weeping Oliver. If your father werent rich, youd be out on the street!

Rebecca stared at the screen, white as parchment.

I needed video to break the infidelity clause, I told her coldly. But thisthis is child cruelty and neglect.

I faced her.

Youll get nothing, Rebecca. No alimony, no house. Prison greys await. Simon, too, for his little road trip across county lines with my money.

Rebecca crumpled, clutching my trouser leg, begging. Let me change. Please! Wholl mind them? Youre absent, Henry! I was all they had!

I looked down, beyond ragejust empty disgust. I realised too late what Id allowed into my home.

Im learning, too, I replied. First lesson: protect your own, even from within.

Police lights painted fractured blue across the windows.

PART 5: THE FEAST

They were gone by sunrisecuffed and weeping, blaming me, blaming the world.

When all was quiet, I snipped off the pantrys padlock and chucked the practice meal onto the rubbish heap.

Then I rang for three massive pizzas: bubbling cheese, mounds of pepperoni. Pancakes, thick as books, from the local café. Chocolate milk. Proper fruit.

I laid it all in the kitchen, picnic-style.

Alice? Oliver? I called gently.

They appeared upstairs, small hands entwined, afraid.

Isthe bad man gone? Alice whispered.

All gone, I said, arms open. They wont be back. Not ever.

They ran into my hug. I held them, tears leaking at last.

Its just us now, I promised, and were eating until were stuffed.

Oliver gaped at the food. Thats for guests?

No, mate, I smiled. This time, its for family. And thats all that ever mattered.

We ate, sitting on the floor, hearts breaking and healing as we devoured everything. I realised Id spent a lifetime building a legacy, but lost sight of the present.

No more.

PART 6: THE MAGIC HOUR

Two years later.

The kitchen was warm with the scent of cinnamon buns and hope.

It was 3AM.

No Tokyo, no London. Id sold most of the business, poured my energy into a childrens trust. Tonight, I stood in my dressing gown, floury apron reading Best Dad.

Alright, Oliver, pour in those chocolate chips! I called.

Oliver, now eight and sturdy, chucked in a heaping bowlful. Alice, twelve, tall and radiant, stirred with a wooden spoon.

You know, she said, pausing to glance at the clock, I used to hate three in the morning.

I stilled, wiping my hands. Why, sweetheart?

That was the worst time, she replied. So hungry. So scared. I thought youd never come home.

I hugged her gently. And now?

She grinned, dabbing her cheek with flour. Now its biscuit time. Its when the magic happens. Its our hour.

Id traded wealth for spirit, created a home, not just bricks and mortar. Our picture by the fire, half-eaten pizza as backdrop, reminded me daily.

The diary had burned away here, in this fire. No more secrets, Id told Alice. We speak our hunger, we share everything.

I headed back to the kitchen, into laughter and warmth.

A house is built with bricks, but a home is made with love. I almost lost that, but I turned things round in time.

Who wants the spoon? I asked.

Me! They shouted as one.

The cage was gone. My cubs were safe. And the nightmarethey were only memory now, softened by the glow of a three a.m. kitchen.

I learnt, in the end, that presence is what my children needed most. And from that moment on, I never missed another magic hour.

“Button? Oh, I called her Holly. She was dashing about all morning here—clearly lost. Then she curled up at my feet, poor thing. So I popped her in the car to keep her from freezing,” the man smiled… “Tammy, how can you be so unlucky? I’ve always told you—Vince is no good for you!” her mother scolded. Tamara stood, head bowed. Though she was only thirty-seven, she felt like a schoolgirl who’d brought home a failing grade. She couldn’t help but feel bitterness and sorrow—for herself, her failed marriage, and her little daughter. Right before the most magical time of year, they’d been left without a father figure. “I’m leaving you,” Victor had mumbled that evening, carelessly. She barely understood what he meant at first. “Leaving for where?” Tammy asked automatically, as she set a steaming bowl of borscht in front of him. “Oh Tammy, you’re just not all there. You don’t get serious things! How have I even lived with you all these years?” Victor rolled his eyes melodramatically. Before she could clarify, he explained in detail: “I can’t do this anymore! And your yappy dog doesn’t help. The kid’s always ill, there’s no romance, Tammy. Look at yourself. What have you become?” he finished his tirade. Tamara tried to peer at her frightened reflection in the cupboard glass, but her vision blurred with tears. She remained standing alone in the kitchen. Victor hated tears. He eyed the borscht with longing, stepped away from the table, and began to pack his things… Little Button the dog, sensing trouble, worried at her owner’s feet, whining for comfort. “At least I’ll finally get to rest without that constant howling,” Victor declared, appearing in the doorway with his bag slung over his shoulder. “But Vince—what about Eva?” Tamara whispered, imagining how heartbroken their five-year-old would be, peacefully sleeping in her room. “Figure something out! You’re the mum,” he snapped, leaving the flat to Button’s mournful whines… Tamara spent the whole night in the kitchen, hugging Button, who gently licked her to console her. She seemed to understand something terrible had happened. Tamara didn’t know how to tell her mum for days. Mum kept ringing, asking how things were, but Tamara would claim all was fine and switch off her phone. “And have you found a new job yet? Because if that no-good Vince leaves, you’ll have nothing to live on,” her mum insisted on a visit. Tamara finally broke down and explained that employers weren’t replying, and Victor had left days ago. Her mother tutted and fussed—she’d always been wary of Victor’s intentions, since he’d never actually married her daughter after five years and a child. “What are you going to do now?” she asked, alarmed. “I’ll think of something… I’ll get a job as a nursery assistant where Eva goes,” Tamara replied bleakly. “You can’t survive on a nursery wage—not with a dog to feed, too,” her mother concluded. She wasn’t keen on animals, especially little fluffy Button, whom Tamara had rescued from the street. She was about to chide Tamara some more when she saw her daughter fighting back tears. “Come on now, don’t cry. I’ll help out. If need be, I’ll look after Eva,” her mother relented… A week passed. Tamara managed to find work and started going to the nursery with Eva, which delighted the girl. “Mummy! Can’t Button come as our helper? Grandma’s tired of walking her, and Button could help you wash the dishes and watch over us at nap time,” Eva grinned. Tamara laughed and hugged her, though her heart ached every time Eva repeated, “Mum, will Dad be back soon? Do you think he’ll make it for Christmas?” Tamara couldn’t bear to tell Eva the truth, inventing a story about a business trip. She tried to call Victor, but he was always “too busy:” “Tammy, let me enjoy my personal life—tell Eva I’m a super-spy on a top-secret mission, I won’t be back for ages. By the way, have you seen my Christmas tie?” She sat for ages, wondering how she’d face Christmas alone—or explain things to Eva. The encounter happened by pure chance. Grandma was taking Eva to the doctor—she was on the mend from a cold—when Victor suddenly appeared. “Daddy! Daddy, you’re back!” Eva squealed. Victor flinched, offered a pale smile, and muttered that he and Mummy wouldn’t be living together anymore, before hurrying away. “Maybe I’ll drop in sometime if I can,” he said as he left. Eva stood stone-faced, whispering, “Please don’t drop in on us anymore.” That evening her fever rose again, and a doctor was soon called. Eva refused to speak or eat, as if her recovery had stopped. “Could be stress-related,” the doctor murmured sympathetically when he heard what had happened. Tamara blamed herself. “I should have told Eva at once—she’s a clever girl, she’d have understood,” she said to her mother, who just shook her head. And then another shock—a few days later, Grandma took Button out for a walk, but without a lead. When she told Button off, the dog bolted in the opposite direction. “Suit yourself! Freeze outside if you must—see how you like it!” she huffed, rushing upstairs to Eva with her medicine. But when Eva learned Button was missing, she refused all food, telling her mother, “I’ll only eat when we find Button again.” “It’s your fault, Tam—she’s all spoiled and out of control. I warned you…” her mother began. “Maybe you should have watched Button instead of lecturing me!” Tamara snapped—unusually angry. Her mother left in offense, so Tamara was once again alone. That night, she wandered the estate searching for Button, returning home shivering and exhausted. Eva woke early: “Mum! I dreamed of a Christmas tree! We decorated it and found Button!” Tamara smiled sadly at the tiny artificial tree on the table. New Year’s Eve was almost here, and they’d done their best to prepare. But Eva was crestfallen—she insisted their tree must be big and real. “Then Button will come back too, like in my dream!” she sobbed. Buying a real tree wasn’t in Tamara’s budget. She phoned her mum for help, but was told, “You care more for that stray than your own mother! Think about that.” Tamara realised there’d be no help from Grandma. At least it was nearly the weekend. Eva, still unwell, stayed in bed. As the house was readied for New Year’s Eve, Eva wept, “There’s no tree, Mummy… And Button won’t come home, just like Daddy…” Tamara soothed her daughter, then asked her kindly neighbour to keep an eye on Eva, and dashed out into the snowy evening. Snowflakes whirled in the bitter air as laughing strangers brushed past. Tamara barely noticed, frantically searching for Button. “Where could you have run off to, little one?” she whispered again and again as she retraced her steps. She suddenly stopped at a small Christmas tree market. A stocky man in a sheepskin coat shuffled near the last few firs. Tamara hesitated. “Need a tree? Only a couple left, special discount,” he offered quickly, clearly eager to get home to his family—maybe his wife had set the table and the kids were peering from the window… A joyful couple scooped up the penultimate tree, leaving just one. “Are you taking it or not? I can help you carry it home,” the man said. Tamara looked despairingly into his eyes; she had no money on her, not enough even at home. She noticed some cast-off branches in the back of his truck. “Could I… have those branches? If you don’t need them?” she murmured. “Of course. Here, let me help,” he replied, passing her a bundle. Tamara, in relief, tried to explain, “My daughter’s poorly. She keeps wishing for a tree, our dog’s gone missing—everything’s just gone wrong, not at all like Christmas…” The man listened with compassion; he’d himself recently been left by his wife, and the holiday was looking empty. Just then, another customer arrived, “Is that tree for sale?” “It’s taken. Try the next stall,” the man replied. Turning to Tamara, he said, “Come on, I’ll help you get that tree home.” Tamara faltered, “But I told you—I have no money…” “I remember,” he said quietly. And then came the most magical moment—just what can only happen as Christmas draws in. He opened the truck—and there on the seat lay Button, fast asleep and bundled in a woolly jumper, slow to realise what was happening. “But—but how did you find Button?” Tamara cried, barely holding back tears. “Button? I’d been calling her Holly! She was out and about here all morning—lost, clearly. She cuddled up by my feet, so I popped her in the car, poor thing,” the man smiled. His name was Paul. He loved animals and got on famously with children. Soon, Tamara’s home felt warm and welcoming as never before. Perhaps it was the magic of Christmas, or perhaps fate had long planned this happy meeting—no one can say for sure. But we do know this: a new family found happiness, and sometimes, even today, the little dog gets called Holly.

“Well, Rusty, shall we go then…” muttered Val, tightening the makeshift lead made from an old bit of rope. He zipped his coat up to his chin and shivered. This February was miserably harsh—driving sleet, biting wind that cut clear through. Rusty—a scruffy, ginger mongrel with faded fur and one blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. Val had just finished a night shift at the factory when he found him, battered and starving by the bins. The poor mutt’s left eye was clouded with a milky haze. A shout snapped his nerves taut. Val recognised the voice—it was Steve “Squint,” the local troublemaker not more than twenty-five, flanked by three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “We’re just walking,” Val answered curtly, not meeting their eyes. “Oi, mate, you pay taxes to walk that ugly mutt here?” one of the boys jeered. “Look at it—one eye and all, proper freak.” A stone whistled through the air, striking Rusty’s ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed against Val’s leg. “Sod off,” Val said quietly, but his voice had steel. “Oooh, look! Old Man Fix-It’s got a backbone!” Steve swaggered closer. “Remember whose patch this is. Dogs only walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. Once, the Army had trained him to solve things quickly and hard. But that was thirty years ago, and now he was a worn-out, retired fitter who wanted a quiet life. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Yeah, jog on!” Steve shouted after him. “Next time, I’ll finish your freak for good!” That night, Val couldn’t sleep, replaying the encounter over and over. The next day brought wet snow. Val put off the walk, but Rusty sat patiently by the door, staring with such loyalty that Val caved. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They kept away from the usual haunts, and Steve’s lot were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val had almost relaxed when Rusty suddenly stopped by the old boiler house. One ear cocked, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whined, tugging toward the derelict. From within came strange sounds—maybe cries, maybe moans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer. Only the wind’s howl. Rusty pulled at the rope insistently, worry shining in his one good eye. “What is it?” Val crouched by the dog. “What have you found?” He heard it suddenly—a child’s voice: “Help me!” His heart hammered. He unclipped the lead and followed Rusty inside. Behind a pile of bricks in the half-ruined boiler room lay a boy, maybe twelve, face bloodied, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val knelt beside him. “What happened to you?” “Uncle Val?” the boy peered painfully up. “Is that you?” Val leaned closer and recognised Andy Mason, the quiet lad from the fifth flat. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang,” the boy sobbed. “They wanted money from Mum. I said I’d tell the police. They…” “How long you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and tucked it around the lad. Rusty lay close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg hurts. Broken, I think.” Careful fingers confirmed a break—what else might be wrong, who could say. “Got a phone?” “They nicked it.” Val pulled out his battered old Nokia and dialed 999. Ambulance in half an hour, they said. “Hold on, lad. The medics are coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m not dead?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me off.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val said firmly. The boy stared, confused. “But Uncle Val, yesterday you ran away from them.” “That was different. Then it was just me and Rusty. Now…” He left it unsaid. What could he explain? That thirty years ago, he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? In Afghanistan, they’d taught him—a real man never leaves a child in danger. The ambulance arrived sooner than expected. They took Andy away, and Val stood with Rusty by the old boiler house, lost in thought. That evening, Andy’s mother, Mrs Mason, knocked on his door, weeping with gratitude. “Mr Valentine,” she managed through tears, “the doctors said—one more hour out there and he’d have died. You saved his life!” “I didn’t save him,” Val said, stroking Rusty’s head. “It was him who found your boy.” “What happens now?” Mrs Mason glanced fearfully at the door. “Steve won’t let it go. Even the police say one child’s word isn’t evidence…” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though how, he didn’t know. He lay awake that night, asking himself what to do. How to protect that boy? And not just him—how many more kids in the estate suffered at Steve’s hands? By morning, Val had his answer. He put on his old service dress uniform, medals and all. Stood in front of the mirror—a soldier again, if an older one. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s crew were where they always hung out, outside the shop. They sniggered as Val, resplendent in uniform, approached. “Oy! Looks like Gramps is off to a parade!” one shouted. Steve straightened, cocky as ever. “Move along, grandpa. Your time’s up.” “My time is just beginning,” Val replied calmly, coming closer. “What d’you want, dressed up like that?” “To serve my country. To defend the weak from the likes of you.” Steve burst out laughing. “You what, mate? Defend the weak? Who from—me?” “Andy Mason—ring any bells?” The smirk faltered on Steve’s face. “Why should I remember every loser’s name?” “You should. He’s the last kid in this estate you’ll ever hurt.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you,” Val said. Steve edged forward, flick-knife flashing in his hand. “I’ll show you who’s boss round here.” Val didn’t back down an inch. Army training never fades. “The law’s the boss.” “What law?” Steve waved the knife. “Who put you in charge?” “My conscience did. And so did this—” he nodded at Rusty, “my dog’s a war hero. Afghanistan. Explosives detection. He can sniff out trouble a mile off.” This was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val sounded so sure, everyone believed him. Even Rusty seemed convinced, standing tall and growling low and fierce. “She sniffed out twenty terrorists. Caught every one alive. Think she can’t handle a druggy thug?” Steve stepped back. The others froze behind him. “Listen up. From now on, this estate is safe. Every day I’ll walk every corner, and my dog’ll sniff out bullies. And if—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You think you can scare me?” Steve tried to sneer. “One phone call—” “Go on, call,” Val nodded. “But remember—I’ve got mates inside and out. I know people. People who owe me.” Another lie—delivered with unblinking calm. “Name’s Val Afghan,” Val said. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned and walked away, Rusty trotting loyally by his side, tail high. Silence hung behind them. Three days passed. Steve’s gang barely showed their faces. Val really did start patrolling every evening. Rusty padded alongside, grave and proud. Andy was home from hospital in a week, limping, but on the mend. He showed up at Val’s flat the first day he could. “Mr Valentine,” Andy asked, “Can I help you? With the patrols?” “Ask your mum first,” Val said. Mrs Mason agreed—glad her son had such a good role model. So every evening, people would see them: the old soldier in uniform, the boy at his side, and the elderly ginger mongrel. Everyone liked Rusty. Even the mums let their kids stroke him, though he was just a scruffy stray. There was something about him—a quiet dignity, maybe. Val told the boys stories—about the army, about true friendship. They listened, captivated. One evening, walking home after patrol, Andy asked softly, “Were you ever afraid?” “Of course,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of being too late. Of not being strong enough.” Andy petted Rusty. “When I’m older, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog, too—a smart one, like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “You will.” Rusty wagged his tail. Everyone in the estate knew him now. They’d say: “That’s Val Afghan’s dog. He can tell heroes from bullies.” And Rusty walked on, proud, no longer just a stray—he was a true guardian.

She Walked All Over My Destiny – The Tale of a Brazen Woman Who Stole My Heart and Left My Mother in Despair “Son, if you don’t break it off with that shameless woman, you no longer have a mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated for the hundredth time. “Mum, I can’t! I wish I could, but I just can’t,” I tried to explain. …I once had a sweet, innocent girl I adored—Lena, fourteen years old, pure and reserved, someone I cherished deeply. I was eighteen when I first met her at a school dance and instantly knew she was something special. Through her friend, I convinced Lena to meet with me. Did she show up for our first date? Of course not. But like a huntsman, I pursued her, tracked down her number, and begged her to go out with me. Finally, she relented—but warned: “Come ask my mum for permission first.” Standing nervously at Lena’s door, I was a bundle of nerves. Her mother turned out to be a good-humoured, kind woman, willing to trust me with her treasure—but only for two hours. Lena and I wandered the park, chatting, laughing, with everything staying perfectly innocent. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said: “Vova, I’ve got a boyfriend. I think I love him, but he’s a terrible womaniser. I’m tired of catching him with other girls. I have my self-respect. Let’s try being friends, you and me—what do you say?” I raised my eyebrows, my curiosity piqued. Lena could be coy, or a girl in love already. I was captivated. The hours with Lena melted away. I returned her safely to her mum. …In time, I couldn’t imagine life without her. My mum, too, fell in love with this “little sunshine.” Lena often visited, and they’d forget all about me, chatting for hours on end. When Lena turned eighteen, we talked about marriage. Our families raised no objections. Our wedding was set for autumn. Then summer came. Lena left to stay with her grandmother in the country, while I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum. One day, as I watered the tomatoes, I heard someone call: “Young man, could I have some water?” I turned—there stood a dishevelled, fiery-eyed woman of around thirty-five. I didn’t recognise her as one of the neighbours, but I offered her a cup of well water anyway. “Thank you, young man! I was parched. Here, I’ve got some of my homemade cordial. Take it as a thank you—don’t be shy.” She pressed a full bottle into my hand. Not wanting to be rude, I took it, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, I drank the cordial over dinner while home alone—Mum was away in town. If she’d been there, she’d never have let me near that bottle. The next day, the woman returned. We talked. Her name was Nina; she lived nearby. I welcomed her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I made us a quick salad and sandwiches. Conversation and drink flowed, and before I knew it, I found myself utterly in Nina’s thrall—a boy bewitched. What happened next still haunts me years later. Nina, like a seasoned enchantress, took full control. I was helpless, adrift, foggy-headed—and when I came to, she was gone. My mother was standing over me, trying to wake me: “Vladimir, what happened while I was gone? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed like a herd of horses ran over it?” she demanded, bewildered. I could barely open my eyes; my head spun, hands shook. I mumbled and dodged answers. By evening, coherence returned, and shame overwhelmed me—especially when I thought of my dear fiancée, Lena… Less than a week later, Nina reappeared—and, to my surprise, I was actually happy to see her, maybe even missed her a little. Mum intercepted her at the door, arms akimbo: “What do you want, madam?” I led Mum inside. “Mum, honestly—what kind of welcome is that? Maybe she just wants water!” I protested. “Water? That’s Nina from the village! Every stray dog knows her—she roams from cottage to cottage, seducing the menfolk! Harlot! And now she wants to get her claws into you! Get rid of her!” Too late for warnings—Nina’s honeyed brew had bound me to her. I knew she wasn’t mine, didn’t truly love her, yet I trailed after her like a shadow. Lena faded entirely from my mind. When I mentioned my fiancée, Nina shot back: “Vova, first loves aren’t real fiancées.” Wedding plans with Lena collapsed. Mum invited Lena over and confessed everything. “Forgive the foolish boy, love. He’s tumbling straight into the pit and won’t listen. Build your own life—don’t wait for him,” Mum pleaded. Lena moved on, married, started a family. My mother, desperate to tear me away from Nina, enlisted the help of the recruitment office—and, just like that, I was sent off to the army. In Afghanistan, I lost three fingers, but survived—barely. Nina waited for me at home, our little son already toddling about (I’d “planted a seed” before I went to war, unsure if I’d return). During those dark days, I dreamt of having five children. Mum still detested Nina, doted on Lena and her little girl (“I’m sure that child’s yours!” she insisted). I would have loved that, but it simply wasn’t true. Lena often visited Mum’s, asking after me—years later, she passed on Mum’s latest news: “He’ll never break free of that woman, I just don’t know what my son ever saw in her…” Soon after, I took my family north. Nina and our three children followed. Two more were born to us, but our little daughter passed away from pneumonia. Grief-stricken, we returned home. Memories of Lena resurfaced, and longing hollowed me out. I learned her number from Mum (who warned me not to meddle in Lena’s happy family). I called, and we met. Lena had grown even more beautiful. She welcomed me home, introduced me to her husband as a childhood friend; he trusted her completely, leaving us alone while he worked the night shift. Half-finished champagne, fruit on the table, and Lena’s daughter visiting her grandmother; it was just the two of us. “Well, Vova,” said Lena finally. “Tell me yourself how you’ve been?” “I’m sorry, Lena. What happened can’t be undone. I have four children now,” I stammered. “You don’t have to change anything, Vova. We’ve met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only—be kinder to your mum, she’s suffered enough,” Lena replied softly. Staring at her, I couldn’t look away—she was still breathtaking, still desirable as ever. I took her hand and kissed it, gently. “Lena, I still love you, just as I did in youth. But our love has drifted by. You can’t retell life, only live it. I’m sorry, Lena…” “Vova, it’s late. It’s time you went,” she said, ending the meeting. Could I really leave so easily? An overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over me, passion I couldn’t quell. …I crept away in the morning while Lena slept sweetly. For three years we met in secret, then she moved to the suburbs with her family, and our contact ended. I divorced Nina when the children were grown. My mother had been right all along: some people are just passing through, trampling on your destiny and breaking your heart before moving on. …No matter how much you boil water, it’s always just water in the end. In the end, only one child turned out to be truly mine—my firstborn son.