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I Love USA, Los Antiguos (2025)

12/08/2025

So, you know how everything happens in its own time, right? Well, Seraphina never knew her dad. Folks in the village said her mum had her by some passing bloke way back when, almost by accident. But whatever the story, Seraphina was born and grew up strong—like, freakishly strong for a kid. Tall, broad-shouldered, tougher than any of the lads, let alone the girls. Nobody messed with her.

When she was fifteen, her mum went blind. Completely. Seraphina had to look after her like a child, especially at first. Later, her mum figured things out a bit, but still, most of the work fell to Seraphina.

"Love, it’s all on you now," her mum would sigh. "I can’t even milk the cow anymore. Lord knows why He’s punishing me like this."

"Alright, Mum, alright," Seraphina would say, all grown-up about it. "This is just our lot in life, isn’t it? Some paths are set for us."

"Aye, love… you’ll have to plough, chop firewood, carry the weight—everything the men do in other houses."

And she did. Seraphina grew up, but she never stopped being the man of the house. She was built like an ox—tall, broad, hands like shovels. Not pretty, but strong. Splitting logs? Easy. Hauling carts out of mud? No sweat. The farm lads would call, "Sim, give us a hand with this wagon!" and she’d heave it free while they all shook their heads. "Bloody hell, she’s a tank!"

But no bloke in the village would marry her. Too rough-looking, too fiery-tempered. "Cross Sim and you’ll regret it," they’d mutter. Her mum tried to comfort her: "Don’t fret, love. Fate’ll smile on you one day."

And it did—sort of. Their neighbour, Ignatius, a widower with a toddler, asked her to mind his boy one night while he worked. His own mum was poorly, so who else could he ask? Seraphina agreed. But once she stepped into that house, little Timmy clung to her skirt and howled when she tried to leave. So she stayed. And Ignatius—not out of love, mind, but for his son’s sake—asked her to stay for good. No big wedding, just a quiet registry office do.

Life rolled on. No kids of their own, but Seraphina adored Timmy like he was hers. Ignatius? Well, they rubbed along fine, but there was no spark—just necessity. He had a housekeeper; she had a roof over her head.

Timmy grew up strapping, handsome. Girls in the village swooned. Seraphina swelled with pride. He helped her with everything—hauling water, chopping wood. "That’s not women’s work, Mum," he’d say, taking the axe from her.

But then he fell for *her*—Ursula. Skinny little thing, not the sturdy farm girl Seraphina had hoped for. "Son, she can’t lift a sack, let alone milk a cow! What good’s a wife like that?" But Timmy wouldn’t hear it. "Mum, I love her. End of."

The wedding was merry, packed with villagers raising pints to the happy couple. Only Seraphina sat grim-faced. Ursula caught her glower and shrank. She *knew* she wasn’t the daughter-in-law Seraphina wanted.

Life under the same roof wasn’t easy. Timmy doted on Ursula, but when he got called up for National Service, she was left alone with Seraphina. Nights were lonely, tearful. But then—Ursula was pregnant. Terrified, she kept it secret until Seraphima noticed her sneaking pickles. "Ah. So that’s it."

No fuss, just extra stew on Ursula’s plate. "Eat. You’re feeding two now."

When labour hit, Seraphima carried her to the midwife herself…
ILoveUSA

12/08/2025

"Hey, listen to this...

*Olivia, sorry, I’ve got to go.*

*Wife called? Fine, go then. I’m used to it.*

Every time Ethan left to go back to his wife, it stung. Olivia wished he’d stay—just once. They could’ve gone to a cosy pub, then curled up under a blanket watching telly. She’d make him a proper cuppa, maybe even some biscuits...

But that was just a dream. Ethan never hid the fact he was married—had a son, too. Said he didn’t love his wife, only stayed for the boy’s sake. Once the lad finished school, *then* he’d leave. Then he’d be hers.

Olivia couldn’t care less about his wife. Why should she worry about some other woman’s happiness? If a marriage was broken, if a man had checked out—well, that wasn’t her problem. Ethan was just being a decent dad, didn’t want to wreck his son’s life.

Fine. Her time would come. Two more years, and the boy would be off to uni. *Then* there’d be blankets and telly and… maybe even a family of their own. Olivia dreamed of a little girl—just like her.

Those two years flew by. But every time she expected Ethan to finally leave, there was always an excuse.

*Listen, Lucy’s mum’s proper poorly. She’s moved in with us. I can’t just walk out now, you get that, yeah?*

Olivia sighed and nodded. How much longer? Till she was drawing her pension?

Then—late. A test. Two lines. Maybe… maybe it was for the best. She booked a doctor’s appointment, just to be sure.

Sitting in the clinic, waiting her turn, the door opened. A heavily pregnant woman walked out, arm in arm with a man. Her stomach dropped. *Ethan.* What the—?

They left without seeing her. Olivia went in, numb.

*You alright, love? You’ve gone awfully pale.*

*Yeah, just… need a check-up.*

The doctor confirmed it—congratulated her.

*Bit later than most, first baby at 35, but it’s fine. Had a woman in earlier, 40, her son’s off to uni, and her and her husband decided on one more. Lovely family, really solid—why not, eh?*

Olivia forced a smile. Her head spun. All those years of lies. *Wait for me,* he’d said, while knocking up his *unloved* wife. How long had he planned to string her along? What now?

*Little Fox, can’t make it tonight, sorry.*

*Sure. I’m busy too.*

*Doing what?*

*Clubbing with Gemma. Sick of sitting around.*

*Clubbing? You’re how old? I don’t like this, Little Fox—*

*I’ve got no family, have I? I’ll do what I want. You’re someone else’s husband—no right to tell me anything.*

She hung up. Oh, *now* he cared where she went. Expected her to sit like some loyal pup, waiting for scraps of his time. While he played happy families, raised kids, and swung by hers for a bit of fun. Till *he* got bored.

Only now did she see it—the pathetic role she’d played. His wife got the life, the love, the kids. Olivia? Just a backup plan. And he didn’t care that her clock was ticking, that *she* wanted a family. Well, fine. Now she’d have her own child.

Ethan showed up unannounced. Drunk, weeping. Said his wife had lost the baby—a girl. Everything had seemed fine, then… gone. His wife wasn’t coping, her mind shattered by grief. He didn’t know what to do.

*What do you mean? You be there for her, Ethan. It’s *your* grief too. Why’d you even come to me if things were so good with her? Why lie?*

*God’s punishing me. Took my daughter because of you—*

*Don’t be daft. This is *your* mess. You lied to her, to me, to yourself. Be a man for once—go home.*

*I love you both. In different ways. I can’t choose—*

*Done, Ethan. Go. And don’t come back.*

She shut the door …
ILoveUSA

12/08/2025

**Diary Entry – 15th of June, 2023**

*Mum, why did you leave me here with him? You knew how awful it would be…*

Emily traced her fingers over the cold headstone, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her stepfather, Gregory, had gone into town to sell milk, eggs, and whatever else their farm had yielded that week. And it yielded plenty. The whole village whispered that it was the farm that had killed her mother, Beatrice—once the prettiest girl in Lancashire.

Beatrice had been in love once, with a handsome, kind-hearted lad named Thomas. They were to marry, but fate had other plans—Thomas vanished on a hunting trip in the Yorkshire Dales. When spring came, they found only scraps of him. Beatrice bore his child, but the village turned its back on her. Her own father cast her out, and she wandered with baby Emily until Gregory took them in—gave them a roof, his name.

People said Gregory had been sweet on Beatrice for years, but she’d always refused him. Now, desperate, she had no choice. Some called him a saint; others knew better.

He was greedy. He saw a young, strong woman who could work his land. Emily remembered her mother stumbling home exhausted, her hands rough and calloused from dawn till dusk. By then, they had three dairy cows, two sows, sheep, chickens, and a sprawling vegetable patch.

Then Beatrice fell ill. Emily, just ten, clung to her hand as her mother whispered, *"The moment you turn sixteen, run. Run to Manchester—someone will help you."*

*"But what about you?"* Emily sobbed. She wanted them both to escape. But Beatrice only smiled weakly and said no more.

**---**

After the funeral, Emily lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t allowed to grieve long. Gregory stormed in.

*"Lazing about, are we? The chickens aren’t fed, the cows aren’t milked! Think you’re too good for work, eh? Well, listen here—you’ll eat when you’ve earned your keep!"*

Emily dragged herself outside. She returned well past midnight, only to be woken at dawn.

*"Up, lazy thing! Your mum’s gone, so her work’s yours now. Quick bite, then w**d the potatoes. I’m off to town—got crates of eggs and a few plucked hens to sell. When I’m back, I want that field cleared!"*

Emily glared as he drove off in his battered Land Rover. She sipped weak tea, then trudged to the field. The village was barely stirring when she’d already cleared three rows.

*"Emily?"*

She straightened. Mrs. Harris, their neighbour, stood by the fence, pity in her eyes.

*"Love, why are you out so early? Did that wretch Gregory force you?"*

*"He… said to finish before he’s back."*

Mrs. Harris scowled, then bellowed, *"Rob! Sarah! Out here, now!"* Her two children hurried over. *"Help the lass—just for a couple of hours."*

By noon, the field was nearly done. *"Come eat with us,"* Mrs. Harris insisted. *"That miser’s probably starving you. Then I’ll help tidy up—I remember how that cow, Daisy, only let your mum near her."*

When Gregory returned, everything was done. Emily sat on the bench, exhausted. He inspected the fields, the barn, then sneered. *"Not enough work for you? Tomorrow, muck out the cowshed."*

That evening, Mrs. Harris found Emily barely able to walk. *"That monster’s working you to death!"*

Gregory appeared, smirking. *"Mind your own, Margaret. I gave the girl a home! Kept her from turning out like her mum—"*

Emily lunged at him. *"Don’t you dare!"*

He backhanded her. *"Try that again, and it’s bread and water for a week!"*

Mrs. Harris shoved between them. *"You vile rat! I’ll call social services!"*

*"Go ahead,"* he jeered. *"And I’ll tell the council how you lot nick hay from the county fields!"*

*"Rot in hell, Gregory!"*

**---**

Years passed. Emily grew thin as a reed, her schoolwork suffering—she studied only after chores, late into the night.

At fifteen, their village farm was bought out by a wealthy entrepreneur, Mr. Edward Hartley. His new farm boasted imported cattle—tall, red-coated things Gregory coveted. He’d stand by their pen, teeth grinding with envy.

One day, he approached Hartley. *"How much for one?"* The price made him choke. Then an idea struck—he’d heard Hartley was rich, bored, unmarried.

The next morning, Gregory marched into Hartley’s office.

*"Let me be blunt,"* he said. *"I’ll trade you Emily’s… innocence… for one of those cows."*

Hartley’s lip curled. *"You’re offering me a child?"*

*"She’s fifteen—healthy, pretty. What’s the harm? She’ll lose it to some lad soon enough."*

Hartley nearly struck him. Instead, he said coldly, *"Leave. I’ll think on it."*

That evening, men arrived. Emily heard murmurs, saw Gregory sign papers. Then he called her in, smiling eerily.

*"Fancy some tea, love? There’s cake in the fridge."*

Her stomach knotted. This wasn’t kindness—it was a trap.

After tea, he dropped the act. *"You’re staying at Hartley’s tonight. He’s paying well for you."*

Emily went white. *"No! I won’t—"*

*"You will! I’ve wasted years on you! Your mum tricked me—left you as my burden. Now pack your things!"*

Trembling, she realised—she’d never return. If forced, she’d throw herself into the River Ribble first.

An hour later, a sleek car pulled up. Gregory practically shoved her inside. As it drove off, he stroked his new prize—a red heifer, gleaming in the dusk.

**---**

Two weeks later, the village erupted. A crowd stormed Gregory’s farm.

*"Where’s Emily? What’ve you done?"*

*"None of your business!"* Gregory barked.

Then Mr. Harris—a hulking ex-soldier—stepped forward. *"Answer them, Greg. Unless you fancy explaining yourself the hard way."*

Gregory paled. *"She ran …
ILoveUSA

12/08/2025

I’ve never been one to ask for sympathy. That’s never been my way. I was raised to believe a man carries his burdens, keeps moving forward, and takes care of his family. But life doesn’t always play fair.

My name is Edward Whitmore. I’m a father of four—three lively lads, aged 11, 9, and 7, and my youngest, Sophie, who’s only 4 but has the spirit of a lion. My wife, Charlotte, used to say our house sounded like a bustling market. Now, even the rustle of the wind through the hedgerows reminds me of her voice.

She passed away from cancer three years ago. It was quick, cruel, and merciless. I held her hand until her last breath. She smiled at me and whispered, “Promise me you’ll keep them safe.”

I made that promise. And I’ve done everything in my power to keep it.

But after she was gone, everything fell apart. Grief swallowed me whole. I missed shifts at work. Got sacked. Bills stacked up. Eviction notices turned into court orders. I sold everything we owned—our car, furniture, even my wedding ring—just to put food on the table.

Eventually, all we had left were a few camping supplies and a spot under the railway arches on the outskirts of town.

For four months, that was our home.

We made a shelter from tarps and rope. I’d tuck the kids in at night under threadbare blankets and pretend everything was fine. We told stories, played with torchlight shadows, and watched the stars. I did everything I could to shield them from the truth—that their dad was skint, jobless, and scared stiff.

Most days were the same. I’d wake before dawn, tidy up, and hunt for any work going. Sometimes I’d land odd jobs—cleaning gutters, shifting crates, helping old dears with their furniture. Other times, we relied on food banks, soup runs, and the odd kindness of strangers.

But kindness was… scarce.

People looked right through us. Or worse—like we carried the plague.

Then one frosty morning, something happened. Something I never expected.

It was a Tuesday. I remember because the church down the road usually handed out meal vouchers on Tuesdays. But they’d run out that day. I had exactly £2.50 left to my name. Not enough for a proper meal, but maybe enough for a packet of biscuits or a jar of jam from the corner shop.

The kids were still asleep in the shelter, curled up like puppies. I kissed each forehead, wrapped Sophie tighter in her blanket, and slipped away.

The walk to the shop was short, but my legs ached. My trainers were full of holes. My coat was too thin. The wind cut through me like a knife.

When I got there, I spotted an old bloke at the front of the queue. He looked worse off than me—thin, shivering, with hollow eyes and shaky hands. He clutched a small carton of milk and a cereal bar.

The cashier rang him up.

“That’s £2.40.”

The old man fumbled in his pocket. A few coppers and pence clinked onto the counter. He counted… and came up short.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Thought I had enough.”

The cashier sighed. “You’re short, mate.”

“I… I’m just hungry,” the man whispered.

The queue behind him grew restless.

“Someone get him out of here,” a bloke in a suit snapped.

A woman behind him tutted. “People like this just want handouts. It’s disgraceful.”

I felt my hands tighten.

This man wasn’t hurting anyone. He was just… hungry.

Without thinking, I stepped forward and put my last crumpled notes on the counter.

“I’ve got it.”

The old man turned, startled. “No… no, lad, I can’t—”

“You can. It’s alright,” I said, nodding. “Let me.”

He blinked, tears welling in his tired eyes. “Thank you. God bless you.”

He shuffled out, holding that little bag like it was gold. I didn’t even buy what I’d come for. I walked out with empty pockets—but strangely, my heart felt full.

I went back to the shelter, forced a smile for the kids, and played “guess the cloud shape” with them. Later that evening, we shared a loaf from the food bank. It wasn’t much, but it kept us going.

That night, after the kids were asleep, I sat outside and stared at the stars.

“I don’t know what else to do, Lord,” I whispered. “But I’m trying. I really am.”

The next morning started like any other—cold, quiet, uncertain.

I was sweeping leaves off our tarp when I heard tyres crunching on gravel.

I turned and froze.

Two sleek black Land Rovers had pulled up near the arches. They looked completely out of place. Two men in smart jackets stepped out. One held a thick envelope.

“You Edward Whitmore?” he asked.

My stomach knotted. “Aye… who’s asking?”

He smiled. “This is for you.”

He handed me the cream-coloured envelope. My name was written on it in neat script.

I opened it with shaky hands.

Inside was a handwritten letter:

*Dear Mr Whitmore,*
*Yesterday, you gave your last few quid to help a man you didn’t know.*
*That man was my father.*
*He’s got early dementia and had wandered off without his wallet. Most people ignored him—except you.*
*I own a property firm and a few houses round town.*
*After hearing what you did, I spent the last day finding out who you are.*
*If you’re willing, I’d like to offer you a full-time job with my company, along with a home for your family in one of our empty properties.*
*The fridge is stocked. The house is yours. No strings attached.*
*You treated my father like family.*
*Now, let me return the favour.*
*Yours sincerely,*
*James Harrington.*

I stared at the letter. My legs gave way, and I had to sit down.

“This… this can’t be real.”

The man nodded. “It’s real, sir. Mr Harrington’s waiting at the house to meet you. We can take you and the kids there now.”

I turned to the shelter, where my kids peered out, sleepy and confused.

“Pack up, kids,” I said, my voice breaking. “We’re going home.”

The drive felt like a dream. The house was on a quiet cul-de-sac with hedges and rose bushes. It had a red-brick front, a wooden gate, and a welcome mat with our name on it.

The kids ran inside.

“Beds!” Oliver shouted.

“Toys!” Sophie squealed, clutching a teddy bear like it was the crown jewels.

There was a note on the fridge: *Welcome Home, Whitmores.*
I lost it. Right there on the kitchen floor, with my kids hugging me tight.

That evening, James Harrington dropped by.

He was mid-40s, maybe. Tall, warm-eyed, in a checked shirt and jeans. No fuss. Just a firm handshake and a quiet…
ILoveUSA

12/08/2025

**The Hourly Wife**

Karen stepped out of yet another stranger’s flat with the odd sensation of being cheated on. Though, strictly speaking, it was she who had come—to cook soup, change sheets, iron shirts, and listen to the usual complaints: *My wife doesn’t understand me. The house is a mess. Cleaning services cost too much. I’m under so much stress, Karen, you’ve no idea.* Oh, she had an idea.

Karen worked for a company offering domestic services—branding themselves as "The Hourly Wife." It was temporary work.

She was a trained accountant, but the firm she’d worked for had gone under. New opportunities were scarce; the good positions were long taken, and she refused to settle for anything beneath her. Truthfully, she was exhausted. She needed a break. So "The Hourly Wife" became her stopgap, something to keep her afloat until she found something better.

Her parents disapproved. They believed even a miserable office job—clean, stable, *respectable*—was better than this "nonsense." Their educated daughter, hauling groceries, scrubbing strangers’ ovens, traipsing to unknown addresses. They were ashamed—not of her, but of what others might say.

"Go back to accounting," her father insisted. "You’re clever. Why lower yourself to this... grime?"

"Maybe the divorce broke you," her mother murmured once.

They didn’t understand. For Karen, this wasn’t just about money. It was about survival. A way to breathe, to feel needed. Still, her mother wasn’t entirely wrong. The divorce had left its mark—twisting her choices in ways even she didn’t fully grasp.

She didn’t have many regulars. Today, just three. One asked her to sit in his kitchen—just so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Another handed her keys and a note: *Wash the laundry, feed the cat if you like. Stay the night if you want. Payment’s on the table.* She left before dark. The last requested a meal "like his mum used to make," providing a tattered notebook of recipes. Over dessert, he wept. Then tried to kiss her cheek. Karen wiped the table in silence, washed the dishes, and walked out without a word.

At home, the stairwell smelled of damp. The woman from the fifth floor was shouting at her son through the door, a dog barked somewhere. Inside, silence. His slippers still sat by the threshold—left behind when he moved out six months ago.

Karen kicked off her shoes, filled the kettle, and slumped into a chair by the window. Sometimes, none of it felt real. As if "The Hourly Wife" wasn’t a job but a penance she’d invented. For what, she didn’t know. Still, she served her sentence—listening, cleaning, cooking, ladling soup. No questions, no confessions. Clients often asked, *Why do you do this?*

She’d tilt her head slightly—trained in customer service—and reply, "Shall I tidy the bedroom instead?"

Not a lie. Not the truth, either. The truth was like grease on a hot pan: it spat, sizzled, burned.

He’d left her. Not without reason. Said she needed time to think. But there was nothing to think about. Karen wouldn’t share a bed with a liar and a cheat—no matter how Mark insisted it was "just harmless flirting."

She’d found out by accident. Rushing to work one morning, she’d grabbed his phone instead of hers—same model, same case they’d chosen together. At the office, the screen lit up with messages. Too intimate. Too many.

At home, she didn’t scream. Just asked, calm as ice, *Does this mean nothing?*

"It was just words," Mark said. "A bit of attention. You’re always tired, always busy—working, cleaning. I didn’t even realise I’d slipped into it. But Karen, I never crossed the line. Just messages. Photos. That’s not cheating."

He leaned closer, voice dropping. "If marriages ended over texts and pictures, no one would stay together. Everyone flirts. It’s nothing."

She nodded. "I see."

Relief flashed across his face. "So... we’re good?"

Karen stood, smoothing her sleeve. "You are. I’m moving on. Without you."

Stunned silence. Then laughter. "You’re throwing us away over *this*? People forgive worse. They move on."

"Maybe they do," she said. "But I’m not *them*. What I read was enough."

He reached for her hand. She stepped back.

"Don’t. I’m not angry. Not even hurt. I just won’t live with someone who seeks warmth elsewhere while I’m keeping our home together."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You always do everything *perfectly*. Cold. Rational. Even now. No tears, no begging. Like some bloody accountant."

Karen almost smiled. "Exactly. I *am* an accountant. And in our story, the numbers don’t add up."

She didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. Didn’t even tell him to leave—just walked to the bathroom, splashed icy water on her face, and sat on the edge of the tub until her hands stopped shaking. That was how her marriage ended. Quietly. No scenes. Just silence outside—and collapse within.

A week later, her firm folded. The final blow. Karen knew it was coming—she’d seen the numbers—but hearing the words still winded her. It felt like her whole life had crumbled at once.

The divorce shattered her. She’d loved him, believed in their future. Now that love was a wound—raw, unhealed. She wouldn’t forgive him. He’d left with a parting shot: *You’re a fool. No husband, no job.* Then added, as if it mattered, that he still loved her. That he’d give her time to "come to her senses."

That night, she sent out dozens of CVs. A few callbacks led nowhere. Offers were laughably low.

"Take *something*," her mother urged. "Even minimum wage. Sitting idle is shameful."

Karen agreed.

So she became "The Hourly Wife." Mopping floors, roasting chicken, hemming shirts. Other people’s homes, other people’s lives. Nothing of her own. Every visit, she played a role—smiling, efficient, detached. No real responsibility. Just time—too much time—to think. She told herself things would change. But weeks passed, and nothing did. Only exhaustion grew. And the gnawing sense she was stuck—between a past she couldn’t forget and a future she couldn’t see.

---

Midweek, Karen arrived at a new client’s—a respectable brick townhouse with a coded entry, green courtyard. The request: cook lunch, clean the kitchen, organise a cabinet of paperwork.

The door opened to a man in his thirties—glasses, tired eyes, polite.

"You’re Karen? Come in. I hate imposing, but I’m swamped."

His study was paper chaos—documents, bills, reports. "My grandfather’s estate, work deadlines... Mind if I shut myself in here?"

Karen nodded. Typical. Clients were either busy, awkward, or hovering.

She washed dishes, made soup, wiped surfaces, began sorting files.

"Thanks," he said later, leaning in the doorway. "Really."

She just nodded. Gratitude felt misplaced—she was paid to be here.

But he lingered, watching her. "Sometimes... it feels like everything’s falling apart at once. Work, family, home... And no one gets it but you."

She said…
ILoveUSA

12/08/2025

To avoid disgrace, she agreed to live with a hunchbacked man… But when he whispered his request into her ear, she sank to her knees—

"John, is that you, my love?"

"Yes, Mother, it’s me! Forgive me for coming so late..."

Her voice trembled with worry and exhaustion as it carried from the shadowed hallway. She stood there in an old dressing gown, a lantern in her hand—as if she had been waiting for him all her life.

"Johnny, my heart, where have you been wandering until this hour? The sky is black as pitch, the stars burning like the eyes of wild beasts..."

"Mother, David and I were studying. Lessons, revisions... I lost track of time. Forgive me for not warning you. You barely sleep as it is..."

"Or were you with a girl?" she asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Tell me, have you lost your heart to someone?"

"Mother, what nonsense!" John laughed, pulling off his boots. "I’m not the sort lads wait for at the garden gate. Who’d want a hunchback with arms like an ape’s and a head like a wild bramble?"

But pain flickered in her eyes. She didn’t say that she saw not a grotesque figure but the son she had raised in poverty, in cold, in loneliness.

John was no beauty. Just shy of five foot six, hunched, with arms so long they nearly brushed his knees. His head was large, crowned with curls that stuck out like thistledown. As a boy, they called him "monkey," "woodland imp," "freak of nature." But he grew—and became something more than just a man.

He and his mother, Margaret Whitaker, had come to this village when he was just ten. They had fled the city, the shame—his father imprisoned, his mother abandoned. Only the two of them remained. Two against the world.

"That boy of yours won’t last," old Mrs. Tilly muttered, eyeing the scrawny lad. "He’ll vanish into the earth without a trace."

But John didn’t vanish. He clung to life like a root to stone. He grew, he breathed, he worked. And Margaret—a woman with steel in her heart and hands ruined from the bakery—labored day after day, kneading bread for the whole village. Ten hours a day, year upon year, until she broke.

When she took to her bed, never to rise again, John became her son, daughter, nurse, and healer. He scrubbed floors, cooked porridge, read aloud from old magazines. And when she died—quiet as the wind leaving the fields—he stood by her coffin, fists clenched, silent. Because he had no tears left to shed.

But people remembered. Neighbors brought food, warm clothes. And then—unexpectedly—they began to visit. First the boys, fascinated by radios. John worked at the village repair shop—mending sets, tuning antennas, splicing wires. His hands were golden, though they looked clumsy.

Then came the girls. At first, just to sit, to sip tea with jam. Then to linger. To laugh. To talk.

And one day he noticed—one of them, Eleanor—always stayed last.

"You’re in no rush?" he asked once when the others had gone.

"Nowhere to rush to," she murmured, eyes downcast. "My stepmother despises me. Three brothers—coarse, cruel. Father drinks, and I’m just another mouth to feed. I stay with friends, but it’s not home… Here, it’s quiet. Safe. I don’t feel alone."

John looked at her—and for the first time, understood he could be needed.

"Live with me," he said simply. "Mother’s room is empty. You’ll be mistress here. And I… I’ll ask nothing of you. Not a word, not a glance. Just stay."

People talked. Whispered behind his back.

"How can this be? A hunchback and a beauty? It’s absurd!"

But time passed. Eleanor swept the house, cooked stew, smiled. And John—worked, kept silent, cared.

And when she bore a son, the world turned upside down.

"Who does he look like?" the village asked. "Who?"

But the boy, Thomas, gazed at John and said, "Papa!"

And John—who never dreamed he’d be a father—felt something stir in his chest, like a tiny sun unfolding.

He taught Thomas to mend sockets, catch fish, sound out words. And Eleanor, watching them, said:

"You should find a wife, John. You needn’t be alone."

"You’re like a sister to me," he replied. "First, I’ll see you wed—to a good, kind man. Then… then we’ll see."

And such a man came. Young, from the next village. Honest. Hardworking.

They held a wedding. Eleanor left.

But one day, John met her on the road and said:

"I’ve a favor to ask… Let me keep Thomas."

"What?" she gasped. "Why?"

"I know, Eleanor. When you bear children, the heart shifts. And Thomas… he’s not yours by blood. You’ll forget him. But I… I can’t."

"I won’t give him up!"

"I’m not taking him," John said softly. "Visit when you wish. Just let him live with me."

Eleanor thought. Then called her son:

"Tommy! Come here! Tell me—who do you want to live with? Me or Papa?"

The boy ran over, eyes bright:

"Can’t we live like before? With Mama and Papa together?"

"No," Eleanor said sadly.

"Then I choose Papa!" he blurted. "And you, Mama, come visit!"

And so it was.

Thomas stayed. And John—became a father in truth.

But one day, Eleanor returned:

"We’re moving to the city. I’m taking Thomas."

The boy howled, clinging to John:

"I won’t go! I’m staying with Papa! With Papa!"

"John…" Eleanor whispered, eyes lowered. "He… he isn’t yours."

"I know," John said. "I’ve always known."

"I’ll run back to Papa!" Thomas sobbed.

And he did. Every time.

They took him—he returned.

In the end, Eleanor relented.

"Let him stay," she said. "He’s chosen."

Then—a new chapter.

A neighbor, Mary, lost her husband—a brute, a drunk, a tyrant. God had given them no children, for love had no place in that home.

John began stopping by for milk. Then to mend the fence, then the roof. Then—just to visit. Drink tea. Talk.

They grew close. Slowly. Steadily. Like adults do.

Eleanor wrote letters. Shared news: Thomas had a sister now—Lucy.

"Come visit," John wrote back. "Family should be together."

A year later, they came.

Thomas doted on his sister—held her, sang lullabies, taught her to walk.

"Son," Eleanor coaxed. "Live with us. The city has theaters, schools—"

"No," Thomas said firmly. "I won’t leave Papa. And Aunt Mary’s like a mother now."

Then—school.

When boys boasted of fathers who were drivers, soldiers, engineers, Thomas never faltered.

"My dad?" he’d say proudly. "He fixes everything. He knows how the world works. He saved me. He’s my hero."

A year passed.

Mary and John sat with Thomas by the hearth.

"We’re having …
ILoveUSA

I Love USA

12/08/2025

12/08/2025

12/08/2025

12/08/2025

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