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The biting wind cut through the air as young Eddie dragged a dry pine log on his sled, his breath forming clouds in the ...
18/10/2025

The biting wind cut through the air as young Eddie dragged a dry pine log on his sled, his breath forming clouds in the cold. The tree had fallen near the edge of the village—technically, he shouldn’t take it, but old Tom, the local woodsman, had whispered, "Wait till dark, then take it."

Eddie strained, his small frame trembling under the weight.

"Eddie! Eddie!" A bright voice called out. Of course—it was Lucy, his sharp-eyed classmate.

"What d'you want?"

"Let me help."

How did a girl have such strength? But still, it was easier with two. They hitched themselves to the sled, hauling the log together.

"Who’s minding the kids, Eddie?"

"Gran, who else? Mum’s at work."

"Oh… I came by to help with your homework, but your door was locked. Little Andy told me you’d gone toward the woods. Said you told ‘em to stay put."

"Had to lock it..."

"She still running off?"

"Yeah… always tryin’ to wander back to *her* England, back to *her* mum."

"Oh, poor thing… hurts herself, hurts you lot too."

"Yeah."

They hauled the log to Eddie’s house.

"Thanks, Luce."

"Don’t mention it. Get the saw—let’s chop this quick."

"I’ll manage. You’ve helped enough."

"Oh, sure—you’ll hack at it with a handsaw, or we can do it proper now."

Together, they sawed the log into neat, dry chunks. Through the window, the tiny faces of six-year-old Andy and two-year-old Annie peered out.

Eddie took the axe, drove it deep into a log with a crack, hammered it down again and again until the wood split clean. Lucy gathered the splinters while he worked.

Once the pile was ready, they carried it inside. Eddie lit the stove, and soon, flickering warmth danced across the ceiling. The chill lifted.

"Let me make you some soup. When Aunt Lydia gets home, she won’t have to cook."

"Nah, we’re fine," Eddie muttered, flushing. "Gran’ll manage."

"Oh, no, no!" Andy whined. "Let Lucy make it, Eddie! Remember last time Gran cooked? Threw in cabbage, peas, even Mum’s dill seeds—like medicine for Annie’s cold! Couldn’t eat it!"

"I’ll cook, Andy. C’mon, help."

"And who’re *you*?" A hunched figure shuffled from the stove—old Gran, wrapped in a shawl, woolly boots scuffing the floor.

"Gran, get changed. It’s warm now."

"Freezing, Danny."

"Danny? I’m Eddie, your grandson!"

"Eh? Where’s Danny, then?"

"Gone… he’ll be back soon."

"She means Uncle Dan?" Lucy whispered.

"Yeah… she’s not right since he left. Got worse."

"Why didn’t he take her? His own mother!"

Eddie shrugged. He hated this talk.

Dan—Eddie’s father, Lydia’s husband. Left for his fancy woman. Not just abandoned Gran—left in winter, clever and cruel. Slaughtered the pigs, took the meat, led off their only milk cow and the heifer, Daisy.

Mum begged, "At least leave the heifer, for the milk!"

He’d laughed. "What kinda man comes to his bride empty-handed?"

Eddie hated him from that moment. Emptied the pantry, took sacks of potatoes, even divided the cutlery—counted every spoon.

Lydia came home to find the children at the table, Eddie reading fairy tales by the oil lamp. Gran huddled by the stove, Annie asleep, thumb in mouth.

"Mum," Andy whispered, "it’s so warm! Eddie brought wood, him and Lucy chopped it. Lucy made soup—proper good. Annie’s asleep. Gran tried running off to *her* England twice—we caught her."

Lydia undressed, smiling faintly, ruffling Andy’s wild hair.

"Eddie… it’s too much for you."

"S’alright, Mum. Eat—soup’s good."

After supper, Lydia mended clothes. A knock rattled the window.

"See who it is, Eddie."

The door burst open, icy air swirling in with a bundled-up woman.

"Blimey, freezing out! Gonna drop to minus two tonight—March my foot! Lydia, luv, brought you some cracklings and a bit o’ lard."

"Thanks, Val, but you shouldn’t—"

"Don’t be daft! You got flour?"

"A bit."

"Right—here’s two pints of milk, froze since winter, and some eggs. You’ll manage till spring, then… gardens in, easier then. Don’t fret over seed potatoes—John said we’ll spare some. And…" Val whispered in Lydia’s ear.

"Oh, Val… what if they find out?"

"Who? You got crowds round? Our sow’s near farrowing, so… don’t fret, Lyd. We’ll manage."

Two nights later, Val smuggled in a piglet—tiny as a mitten.

"You sure, Val? What if—?"

"They won’t know. Thirteen born—weakest would’ve died. Took the toughest."

Next day, Lydia was summoned to the farm office. She kissed the children goodbye.

"Mum," Eddie cried, "maybe it’ll be alright?"

"Don’t know, son. Look after ‘em."

The foreman—Dan’s old mate—wouldn’t meet her eyes. "Go to the barn, Lydia."

"Wh—why, Mr. Floyd?"

"Just go. Here’s a chit for milk. Take a piglet—Val’ll pick a good ‘un. Or two?"

"How’ll I feed—?"

"You’ve got milk, porridge for the kids… April, we’ll give you a heifer. Take it?"

"I’ll take it." Her lips were stiff. "Can I go?"

"Lydia—" He stopped her at the door. "Forgive me."

"For what, Mr. Floyd?"

"For Dan. Didn’t think he’d turn out such a rotter. A fling’s one thing, but leaving kids, his mum, *cleaning you out*… only just heard from the wife."

"You didn’t know."

"Potatoes left?"

…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

The woman peered into the bag and recoiled in horror at what lay inside. A boy gazed out the window, tugging at his gra...
18/10/2025

The woman peered into the bag and recoiled in horror at what lay inside.

A boy gazed out the window, tugging at his grandmother’s sleeve.
"Nanna, when can we go outside?"
"Not today, love. It’s too cold," the woman replied, her fingers busy with knitting needles. "And I’ve got orders to finish—hats and scarves won’t knit themselves."
Emily Whitmore worked from home, crafting woollen sets for customers. But her grandson, Oliver, was relentless.
"Please? Just for a little while?"
She sighed. "Alright, alright. But only a short walk, mind you. It’s bitter out there."

The streets were deserted, everyone huddled indoors against the chill. Oliver darted about, full of energy, while Emily shivered, her breath misting in the air.
"Time to go home, Ollie. We’ll catch our death out here."
But the boy was already scampering toward the playground, vanishing into the maze of climbing frames. She called his name, but only silence answered—until a small voice piped up.
"Nanna! There’s a doll here. Can we take it?"

Stepping into the maze, Emily froze. A handbag sat abandoned, a faint whimper escaping from within. Her blood ran cold. She unzipped it—and there, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, was a tiny baby, its lips blue from the cold. She snatched the infant up, cradling it to her chest, and fumbled for her phone with trembling hands.

Paramedics and police arrived swiftly. The child was rushed to hospital, while Emily and Oliver gave their statements.
"Clever lad, spotting her like that," an officer said, ruffling Oliver’s hair.
Emily couldn’t fathom it. "How could anyone abandon their own flesh and blood?"
The officer shrugged. "Seen it all before. Dumped in bins, left on doorsteps. Nothing surprises us anymore."

She insisted on calling the hospital later, anxious for news.
"And who are you to the child?" the voice on the line demanded.
"No one—just the woman who found her."
"Ah! The rescuers. She’s a little girl, doing just fine. You saved her life."
Emily’s voice wavered. "Could we visit? Bring anything she needs?"
"Against protocol, but… for you, we’ll make an exception. Nappies and formula, if you can."

The next day, Emily arrived with Oliver, arms laden. The baby—so fragile, so perfect—lay swaddled in a hospital crib. Tears welled in Emily’s eyes as she unfolded a soft grey scarf, its edges delicately patterned, something she’d knitted on a whim months ago. It had waited, it seemed, for this moment. She draped it over the tiny girl,…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

Bad. Bad and bitter, bitter and painful, painful and unfair. No tears left to cry. Why? Why did he do this to me? Sev...
18/10/2025

Bad. Bad and bitter, bitter and painful, painful and unfair.

No tears left to cry.

Why? Why did he do this to me?

Seven years, seven happy years.

We held hands, he never said a cruel word, and then... just like that, he left.

No, not left—ran away like a coward.

The phone keeps ringing and ringing—who on earth could it be?

Mum.

"Hello, love... love, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Mum." She forced her voice to stay steady.

"Well, that’s good. You’re not crying over some fool, are you?"

"A fool’s a fool, no matter where you go," Mum chuckled, pleased with her own joke. "Listen, love, I wanted to invite you to the cottage this Friday. Auntie Margot’s coming, and she’s bringing her nephew, Simon—you haven’t met him, but I have. He’s lovely, really. Had a rough time of it."

"Such a nice lad, but his wife—good riddance to her, honestly."

"Strangled her, did he?"

"What? Who strangled who?"

"Well, you said he got rid of her."

"Oh, for heaven’s sake! Dark humour, that’s good, love... laugh it off. Helps, you know? When that bloke, Kevin Morrison, left me—did I ever tell you that story?"

"We were at music school together. I played the cello, he played the French horn. Sweet lad, all floppy hair and bright eyes. I adored him. And then—the rotter—ran off with that clarinetist, Natalie. Oh, love, how I wept! Skipped class, wandered along the riverbank, even thought about—well, you know..."

"Mum... I’m not really up for talking right now."

"Fair enough, love. So, Friday then? We’ll expect you."

"I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know."

"That’s not an answer, Lily. Promise me, alright?"

"Fine, Mum. I’ll come. Just for a bit."

"Good. Love you, darling. Dad sends his love too—oh, Michael, I told her you love her! Lily, sweetheart? Dad loves you, and so do I..."

She curled under the blanket, lying on her side in the dark.

No tears. No strength left to cry.

Just one question.

One.

Why?

What did I do?

The phone again.

Her sister.

If she didn’t answer, her sister would rally the whole family.

"Hello."

"Lil, are you crying?"

"No. Why would I cry? My husband just left me, that’s all. The man I was going to have children with. The man I thought I’d grow old with."

"Good riddance, then! Blubbering over some tosser. When that idiot Greg dumped me, I thought I’d never recover. Remember him? That fit bloke I dated for six months? Loved him madly. And look at me now!"

"Anyway, we’re going camping—couples only. But then Daniel’s wife left him, so we thought... well, he’s a decent chap. Maybe you two could hit it off?"

"And that ex of yours? Never liked him anyway..."

"Lil? You coming?"

"I’ll think about it, Tabs."

"Think hard, Lil..."

Cold. Cold and aching. Physically aching—her eyes stung from dried tears.

Another call.

Grandma.

Good grief.

"Hello..."

"Lily, darling... Come over. I’ll make your favourite scones, hot chocolate, maybe even a little sherry, eh? We’ll send Grandad to the shed. I know how you feel—when that no-good Nigel left me, oh, how I suffered! Started smoking, if you can believe it. Didn’t last long, though. Then I met your grandad, and he swept me off my feet..."

"Alright, Gran... I’ll think about it."

And so it went all day—call after call, each person recounting their own heartbreak.

By evening, when Lily finally dozed off, the doorbell rang.

Who now? She ignored it.

But the bell kept ringing—insistent, relentless.

Lily dragged herself up and opened the door.

Odd. No one there. She turned to close it—then heard an irritated voice.

"Well? Move aside, let us through! This is what we get for trying to help."

Lily looked down.

Good Lord—what in the world?

Marching into her flat, single file...

"Hic... who are you?"

"Who do we look like? We’re cats."

"Wh-what kind of cats?"

"All sorts. We’re here to help. Now, close the door before you catch cold."

"We’re family. The Catson family."

"Mum, look at the state of her!"

"Son, check her pulse. Daughter, put the kettle on. Sit down, dear."

Lily sat, half-convinced she’d lost her mind, as the cats bustled about with purpose.

"Granny Catson, she needs a story."

"Purrr, my dear... let the bad fade, let the good come... Papa Catson, tuck her in. Auntie Catson, fluff her pillow."

"Little one, behave. Put that down—darling, take the phone from him."

Dazed, Lily watched as the youngest Catson snapped a selfie on her…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

"Lena! Leeeena!" A boy with a bike stands outside a five-story building, its front door swinging loosely on its hinges. ...
18/10/2025

"Lena! Leeeena!" A boy with a bike stands outside a five-story building, its front door swinging loosely on its hinges. He tilts his head back and shouts up at the windows.

"Lenaaa, Len!"

"I swear I’m about to throttle someone," growls a man in a blue vest, poking his head out. "Get lost, kid."

"Wasn’t calling you! LENAAAA!"

"For heaven’s sake," a woman in a nightgown and curlers leans out another window. "It’s Saturday! People are trying to sleep!"

"Shut it, all of you!" snaps a tall, balding man from a third window. "I barely slept all night, and now this racket—"

"Lenaaa, you coming or what?"

The creaky front door groans open, and out steps a girl in a light summer dress, clutching a tote bag with something wrapped in parchment.

"Hey, what took you so long? Oversleep?"

"Nope, making sandwiches," she says flatly, securing the bag onto the bike rack before perching on the crossbar. The boy swerves sharply, pedaling away as laughter bubbles between them.

"Bloody hooligan!" yells the sleep-deprived man.

"Just let us sleep!" another voice whines.

"Sleep, then!" the boy calls over his shoulder as they zip past the windows again. "It’s Saturday morning—what’s your excuse?"

Laughing, they leave the courtyard behind.

The boy pedals hard, soon leaving their little town behind, speeding down a country lane.

"Len, you tired?"

"Nah. You?"

"Me neither," he says, legs pumping.

They collapse into the grass, giggling, after a flat tire sends the bike skidding sideways.

"Uh-oh. Now what, Alex?"

"Dunno," he says, sprawled in the grass. "Guess we live here now."

"Alex!"

"What? We’ll build a hut by the river. I’ll catch fish, cook ’em over a fire."

"And where do we get firewood?"

"We’ll make a campfire."

"Matches, Alex?"

"Who needs matches? We’ll rub sticks together—or borrow some from fishermen."

"Right."

They dissolve into laughter again, rolling in the grass.

"Alex, look—that cloud looks like a teapot."

"Yeah, and that one’s a dog!"

They lie there forever, naming shapes in the sky.

"Fancy a swim?"

"Go on, then."

They race to the river, then dry off on the warm, golden sand.

"Len, what d’you wanna be when you grow up?"

"Dunno… finish school, go to uni, get a job. You?"

"I’ll marry you and get rich. Or the other way ’round. Either works."

"Oh, shut up."

"You’re right—that’s not enough. Gotta fit in the army and a proper job before you run off with someone else."

Lena laughs.

"Like who?"

"Dunno… Vince, maybe? Saw you giggling with him the other day, heads together like—"

"We were doing the school paper! Don’t be daft."

"Whatever. Just know—I’ll steal you back from anyone."

***

Saturday, early morning. A motorbike’s roar shatters the peace.

"Lenaaa, Leeeen!"

"Hooligan!" a woman shouts from a window.

"Let us sleep!"

"Keep it down!"

"Lenaaa! Not you lot—it’s Saturday! Lie in already!"

The same wobbly door creaks open, and out steps a young woman, squinting in the sunlight.

"Hey. Oversleep?"

"Hey. Nah, just packing snacks."

"Pipe down out there!" someone yells.

Alex hands Lena a helmet. She pulls it on, climbs onto the bike—its rear wheel lifted high—and wraps her arms around him.

"Disgraceful!" grumbles the insomniac from his window.

Alex revs the engine, shouts one last "Sleep well!" and peels out of the courtyard.

They speed through town, hit the main road, then veer onto a dirt track.

"You alright back there?"

"Fine!" Lena shouts, pressing closer against his back.

Wind whips tears from her eyes, loose hair flailing beneath the helmet.

Alex kills the engine. Lena hops off, stretching stiff legs.

They flop into the grass, staring at the sky.

"Look, Alex—that cloud’s like two cats!"

"Yeah, and that one’s a motorbike!"

"Swim?"

"Go on, then."

They swim, bake on the sand, then kiss until they’re dizzy.

"Len…"

"Hm?"

"I’ve been called up. Army. You’ll wait for me?"

"What? When?"

"Tomorrow. Got my papers."

"You… why didn’t you say?"

"Didn’t know," he shrugs.

"Is that why you didn’t apply to uni? Because of this?"

"Don’t cry… Len, I’ll go after. Then I’ll marry you. You won’t run off with Vince, yeah? Promise?"

***

Lena waits on the platform. The train pulls in, soldiers spilling out.

"Alex! Son!" A woman flings herself at the tall, lean young man, near-collapsing. "Home, you’re home!"

His father shakes his hand. His little sister, tearful, leaps into his arms. Hugging them all, Alex scans the crowd—then spots her.

There she stands, hands clasped to her chest. He pushes through, ignoring his sister’s pout, his mother’s frown, his father’s sigh.

"Len… crying?"

"Happy tears, Alex."

"Plenty more where that came from."

***

"Son, it’s too soon! You just got back—what about uni? Thought you were applying?"

"Did both, Mum. And I’m getting married."

"Don’t be like the others, don’t fuss. I love Lena. She loves me."

"But son, she’s in a hurry—nineteen’s too young! You should date around—"

"Mum, I don’t want anyone else. Just her. Get it?"

"Alex, it’s too soon—"

"Oh, give over, Mum! When I got back, you and Gran were nagging me to settle down before I turned into a drunk."

"To save you!"

Alex smiles, slips out quietly.

***

"It’s a boy! A BOY!" Alex bursts into his parents’ flat, grinning. "Mum, Dad—it’s a boy!"

His mother weeps. His father wipes proud tears.

"I’ve got a nephew!" shrieks his sister.

Five years later, a princess arrives—their daughter.

***

"Son… Dad said you quit? How will you manage?"

"Mum, I’m done working for peanuts. We’ve got it sorted."

"And Lena agreed? This is reckless—you had security!"

"Mum… I won’t have my kids splitting a Snickers with a knife. I want better."

"Alex, we got by without fancy chocolate—"

"That was then. We’ll be fine."

And they were.

Not at first. There were highs, lows, moments they wanted to scream.

But Lena? Calm as ever, making sandwiches.

One day, she hands him a guitar.

"Len, what—?" He bites back a shout. Who cares about songs now?

"Alex… sing. It helps. Always does."

Softly, they begin: "I’ll ride my bike so far away…"

Lena cries when he’s not looking. He knows. …
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

"Free up the flat—I’m getting married, and we’ll be living here," declared my husband’s daughter from his first marriage...
17/10/2025

"Free up the flat—I’m getting married, and we’ll be living here," declared my husband’s daughter from his first marriage.

"Victoria, you forgot to sign your holiday request form. HR needs it by lunch," said a young colleague, poking her head into the office.

Victoria glanced up from her computer and smiled. "Thanks, Olivia. I’ll pop over now."

She set her work aside and headed to HR, already daydreaming about her holiday. A beach getaway would’ve been lovely, but her husband, Edward, had insisted on staying at their cottage. "Why spend money when we’ve got fresh air for free?" he’d said. Victoria didn’t argue. After eight years of marriage, she’d learned to let the small things go.

Back at her desk, she noticed several missed calls from Edward. Odd—he never rang during work hours. She called back.

"Vicky, can you come home early today?" His voice was tense.

"Has something happened?"

"Emily’s here. Says she needs to talk."

Emily—his daughter from his first marriage. Twenty-seven, lived up in Manchester, only ever visited when she needed something.

"Alright, I’ll try to be back by six."

She left work early and took the Tube home. The three-bedroom flat in Battersea had been hers long before Edward came into the picture—inherited from her parents. When they married, she hadn’t even thought about a prenup. Love and trust had been enough.

Keys in the door, she heard voices from the living room—Emily chattering excitedly, Edward murmuring agreement. Victoria slipped off her heels and walked in.

Emily was perched on the sofa in a smart dress, a young man in a tailored suit beside her. An open bottle of champagne sat on the coffee table.

"Oh, Victoria, finally," Emily said, looking her up and down. "Meet James, my fiancé."

"Nice to meet you," Victoria said, shaking his hand.

"Sit down," Edward gestured to the armchair. "Emily’s got something important to discuss."

Victoria sat, her stomach tightening. Something about the room felt off.

"Free up the flat—I’m getting married, and we’ll be moving in," Emily announced, no preamble.

Victoria blinked. For a second, she wondered if she’d misheard.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. James and I need a place, and this is perfect."

Victoria stared at her stepdaughter, speechless.

"This is *my* flat," she said slowly.

"Emily, love, it’s Victoria’s place," Edward said weakly.

"Dad, you’ve been on the lease eight years. Legally, that gives you rights. And I’m your only child—your *heir*."

Victoria felt the blood drain from her face.

"Edward, what is this?"

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, fiddling with a napkin.

"Vicky, look, Emily’s got a point. Maybe we should talk about—"

"Talk about *what*?" Victoria stood. "This is *my* home. My parents bought it. I grew up here."

"But Dad has rights," Emily said, pulling papers from her handbag. "I’ve spoken to a solicitor. Eight years of cohabitation, shared bills—a court could grant him half."

"Are you *mad*?" Victoria turned to Edward. "Say something!"

"Vicky, let’s stay calm. Emily’s young, she’s starting her life. We could rent something smaller."

Victoria couldn’t believe her ears. The man she’d trusted for eight years was calmly discussing evicting her from her own home.

"Mr. Whitmore, surely you see this is reasonable," James cut in. "A young couple needs space. Two people don’t need three bedrooms."

"And who exactly are *you* to decide what we need?" Victoria kept her voice steady, though her hands shook.

"I’ll soon be family."

"You’re *not* my family."

"Victoria, don’t be rude," Emily snapped. "James comes from money—his father owns a construction firm."

"Lovely. Then his father can buy you a flat."

"Why buy when this one’s available?" Emily shrugged. "Dad, you *do* want me happy, don’t you?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

"Then *talk* to her. It’s your flat too."

Victoria pulled out her phone.

"What are you doing?" Edward asked sharply.

"Calling my solicitor. And I suggest you all leave."

"Vicky, don’t be like this—" He reached for her hand, but she stepped back.

"Hello, Mr. Dawson? It’s Victoria Whitmore. Yes, I need urgent advice. Tomorrow morning? Perfect."

She hung up, eyes sweeping the room.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like you to leave. I need to think."

"Victoria, this is *my* home too," Edward said.

"No. It’s *mine*. You’re just on the lease. By *my* goodwill."

"Dad has every right to be here," Emily stood. "And so do I, as his guest."

"Emily, I’m asking you to leave. Or shall I call the police?"

"How *dare* you!" Emily flushed. "Dad, you’re just going to take this?"

Edward looked between them, lost.

"Vicky, come on, let’s just talk—"

"There’s nothing to talk about. I’m staying with a friend. When I come back, I expect *her* gone."

She grabbed her bag and left. Her hands trembled as she pressed the lift button. *Eight years*. Eight years with a man who’d throw her out for his daughter’s whim.

Her friend Sarah lived nearby. One look at Victoria’s face, and she knew.

"Come in. Tea. Now."

Over Earl Grey, Victoria spilled everything. Sarah listened, shaking her head.

"I *told* you to get a prenup. But no—*love, trust*—"

"*Sarah*."

"Sorry. What now?"

"Solicitor tomorrow. See where I stand."

"And Edward?"

Victoria hesitated. How could she stay with a man who’d betray her so easily?

"I don’t know. Divorce, probably."

"Where’ll *he* go? He’s got nothing."

"Not my problem. He can live with *her*."

Her phone rang. Edward. She declined the call.

"Not talking?"

"What’s there to say? He made his choice."

She stayed at Sarah’s that night. Next morning, she went straight to her solicitor. Mr. Dawson, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes, listened carefully.

"Mrs. Whitmore, relax. The flat was yours before marriage?"

"Yes. Inherited from my parents two years before I met Edward."

"Then it’s solely yours. Your husband has no claim."

"But he’s on the lease—"

"That doesn’t equate to ownership. At most, if you divorce, you’d need to give him time to find somewhere. A month or two."

"And Emily mentioned shared assets, a stake—"

"Rubbish. Marital assets are what’s acquired *during* marriage. Your flat isn’t included."

Victoria exhaled.

"So they can’t take it?"

"Absolutely not. If they harass you further, file a report. This is coercion."

After the meeting, she went to work. Edward called repeatedly. She ignored him. She needed space to think.

That evening, she returned home. Edward was in the kitchen, sipping tea. No Emily, thank God.

"Vicky. Finally. I was worried."

"Where’s Emily?"

"At James’s place. Vicky, let’s talk."

"About what? How you sat silent while she demanded *my* home?"

"I was shocked. I never expected this from her."

"Really? She *consulted a solicitor*, Edward. This wasn’t spur-of-the-moment."

"I didn’t know, I swear."

Victoria sat opposite him, studying his face. He looked older, tired. When they’d met, he’d been lively, attentive. Routine had dulled that.

"Edward, be honest. Did you even *consider* supporting me? Or was it always going to be Emily first?"

He stared into his tea, silent.

"Vicky, she’s my *daughter*. My only child."

"And what am I? Eight years together."

"You matter. But Emily—"

"I see." Victoria stood. "I’m filing for divorce."

"Vicky, *wait*—"

"No. I’ve seen a solicitor. The flat’s *mine*. You’ve got a month to find somewhere."

"Please. Let’s fix this."

"Fix *what*? Your daughter marched into *my* home and demanded I leave. And you said *nothing*. What’s left to fix?"

Her phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Whitmore? It’s Eleanor Hart—James’s mother."

"Yes?"

"I wanted to apologise for yesterday. My son told me everything. Outrageous behaviour."

Victoria frowned.

"Thank you, but—"

"I’d like to meet. We need to talk about Emily."

"Why?"

"Please. It’s important. Café tomorrow?"

Curious, Victoria agreed. The next day, an elegant woman in her sixties waited at a corner table in a Chelsea café.

"Thanks for coming," Eleanor said, gesturing to a chair. "I ordered coffee."

"What’s this about?"

"My son’s in love for the first time. And this Emily... she’s manipulating him."

"How?"

"She’s told…
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My Neighbour Asked Me to Stop Cooking ‘Smelly’ Food—Then It Got Personal I’d just moved into a new flat in a three-stor...
17/10/2025

My Neighbour Asked Me to Stop Cooking ‘Smelly’ Food—Then It Got Personal

I’d just moved into a new flat in a three-storey terrace house in London. I had two neighbours: one was a young couple with two children, and the other was a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who lived alone.

I assumed we’d all get along fine—I’d never had trouble with neighbours before. But my optimism didn’t last long after a strange encounter with the woman next door.

One evening, as I was preparing dinner, the doorbell rang. To my surprise, it was Margaret. She frowned and said the smell of onions from my cooking was seeping through the wall. She claimed it was so strong she couldn’t focus on her favourite telly programme and asked me to tone it down next time.

I was taken aback but said nothing, brushing it off. A few days later, I made my favourite sausage and onion pasta. Not long after, my landlord knocked on my door. Someone had complained to him about a "persistent smell nuisance."

At first, I was furious that Margaret had gone over my head. Then I considered how to fix things. The next time I cooked the dish, I knocked on her door with a smile. "Maybe the smell bothered you because it was too tempting," I said, handing her a plate.

Her expression softened. She invited me in and began reminiscing about her childhood, when she’d …
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

My Husband Wouldn’t Lift a Finger with Our Newborn Until I Collapsed in Front of Everyone My husband and I were meant t...
17/10/2025

My Husband Wouldn’t Lift a Finger with Our Newborn Until I Collapsed in Front of Everyone

My husband and I were meant to be partners when we had our first child, but instead, he became my biggest obstacle. His selfishness grew worse each day, and I nearly walked out—until a humiliating moment in front of our family forced a change. Thankfully, an unexpected act of kindness saved our marriage.

Let me explain. I’m Emily, 25, and this is the most mortifying yet life-changing experience I’ve ever had. But first, some background. My husband, Oliver, 29, and I welcomed our beautiful daughter, Poppy, just three weeks ago.

She’s my whole world. The trouble is, every time I ask Oliver to help with her, he shrugs me off with the same tired excuse—

“Let me unwind; my paternity leave is barely a fortnight.”

I’ve been slogging through sleepless nights alone, trying to keep up with the endless demands of a newborn. It’s harder than I ever thought possible.

Poppy rarely sleeps more than an hour at a time, and Oliver hasn’t lifted a finger since she was born. What hurts the most is that he swore before she arrived we’d share the load equally. Lately, his idea of “helping” has been half-hearted at best.

I’m so exhausted I’ve dozed off while making tea or folding laundry. But last Saturday, things went too far—and that moment changed everything.

To mark Poppy’s one-month milestone, we hosted a small gathering at my mum’s house. It was meant to be a joyful occasion where our nearest and dearest could finally meet our little girl.

As the party carried on, Oliver was the life of it, chatting away, soaking up the attention. At one point, I overheard him bragging,

“I needed this paternity leave—working and looking after a baby would’ve knackered me completely.”

My stomach dropped. I couldn’t believe my ears, but I was too shattered to call him out in front of everyone.

I forced a smile, mingling and pretending all was well. But my body had had enough. The room swayed, my skin went clammy, and before I knew it—everything went dark. I fainted right there in the middle of the party.

When I came round, worried faces crowded around me. My family helped me sit up, and someone pressed a slice of cake into my hands, saying it might help. I insisted I was fine, just worn out, but when I glanced up, Oliver was scowling.

I couldn’t read his expression, but I had a horrible feeling he cared more about his pride than me. Everyone fussed over me, though I wasn’t used to accepting help—I’d been doing everything alone for weeks.

The drive home was icy. The moment we stepped inside, Oliver exploded.

He wasn’t angry because I’d scared him—he was furious I’d humiliated him. He stormed around the kitchen, voice razor-sharp.

“Do you have any idea how this makes me look? Now everyone thinks I’m neglecting you!”

I was stunned. He wasn’t worried about me or Poppy—just his reputation. Too shattered to argue, I went straight to bed. That, apparently, made it worse.

The next morning, he ignored us entirely, sulking like a child. When I finally tried to talk, I said gently,

“I’m not against you, Oliver. I just needed rest.”

He rolled his eyes and snapped,

“You don’t get it, do you? You swan off to sleep while I’m left cleaning up your mess!”

That was it. I’d had enough.

Exhausted, hurt, and utterly alone, I decided to pack a bag and stay with my mum for a while. But as I was gathering Poppy’s things, the doorbell rang. Of course, I was the one who answered.

I froze. There stood Oliver’s parents, faces unreadable. Beside them was a woman I didn’t know.

“We need a word,” his mother said firmly, stepping inside.

She introduced the woman as a professional nanny they’d hired for the next fortnight.

“She’s here to help with Poppy and teach Oliver how to care for her—and run a household,” his mother explained.

I was speechless. My kind, observant in-laws had noticed the strain and stepped in before it was too late.

Before I could react, his father handed me a glossy brochure. My eyes widened—it was for a luxury spa in the Cotswolds.

“You’re going away for a week,” his father said firmly. “Rest. Recover. You need it.”

I burst into tears. Oliver looked as stunned as I felt, for once lost for words.

Their gesture…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

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