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Beautiful Autumn, Los Angeles, CA (2025)

10/18/2025

Mary knew instantly when she tugged the scrap of fabric poking out from the bushes. The rag turned out to be an old patterned baby blanket, and she pulled harder. Then she froze—there, curled in the corner of the blanket, lay a tiny child.

By dawn, Mary had dreamed a strange dream: her son, Alfie, standing on the porch, knocking at the door. She jolted awake, scrambled up, and ran barefoot to the front door.

Silence. No one. She often had these dreams, and they always tricked her, yet every time, she flung the door wide open. This time was no different—she stepped onto the porch and peered into the dark.

The quiet of the night wrapped around her. Trying to calm her restless heart, she sat on the porch step. Then, in the stillness, an odd sound—a faint squeak, or maybe rustling.

"Probably the neighbour’s kitten tangled up again," Mary thought, heading toward the gooseberry bushes where she’d freed the little thing before.

But it wasn’t a kitten. She understood the moment she tugged the scrap of fabric sticking out from the bush. It was an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harder.

And then she froze. In the corner of the blanket lay a tiny child—a baby boy, naked except for the stump of his umbilical cord still attached. He couldn’t even cry anymore, just weak, shivering whimpers.

Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and rushed inside. She found a clean sheet, swaddled him, wrapped him in a warm quilt, and heated milk. An old baby bottle and a teat from last spring—when she’d nursed a newborn lamb—were still in the cupboard. The boy gulped greedily, then fell asleep, warm and full.

Morning came, but Mary barely noticed. She was lost in thought. At forty, the village already called her "Aunt Mary." Her husband and son had been lost to the war in the same year, leaving her utterly alone. She’d never grown used to the solitude, but life had forced her to rely only on herself.

Now, she didn’t know what to do. She glanced at the baby—sleeping softly, breathing like all little ones do.

Then she thought of her neighbour, Helen. Helen’s life was smooth and untouched—no husband, no children, no loss. She lived for herself, taking men lightly, keeping none too close.

Helen stood on her porch now, stretching in the morning sun, a shawl draped over her shoulders. She listened to Mary’s story, then shrugged.

"And why would you want that?" she said before disappearing inside. Mary caught a flicker of the curtain—another man had stayed the night.

"Why? Indeed, why?" Mary whispered.

She went home, packed a bag, fed the baby, and walked to the bus stop. A lorry pulled up within minutes.

"To the hospital?" the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.

"To the hospital," Mary answered quietly.

At the orphanage, as they filled out the forms, doubt gnawed at her. Something felt wrong—against her conscience. The emptiness in her chest ached, just like when she’d heard about her husband and son.

"What’s the boy’s name?" the matron asked.

"His name?" Mary paused, then said, surprising herself, "His name is Alfie."

"Lovely name," the matron said. "We’ve plenty of Alfies and Kates here. Some lost parents in the war, but this one—who abandons a child these days? No men left, and yet—heartless!"

The words weren’t meant for her, but Mary’s heart twisted. She returned home by evening, lit the lamp, and saw Alfie’s old blanket still lying where she’d left it.

She picked it up, sat on the bed, and ran her fingers over the damp fabric. Then, in the corner, she felt something—a small knot.

Inside was a scrap of paper and a simple tin cross on a string. The note read:

"Kind woman, forgive me. I can’t keep this child. My life is tangled, and by tomorrow, I’ll be gone. Don’t abandon my son—give him what I cannot: love, care, and safety."

A birthdate followed. And then Mary broke. She wept as if mourning the dead, tears she thought had long dried up.

She remembered her wedding day, how happy she and her husband had been. Then Alfie came—more joy. The village women envied her glow.

But the war took them both. First her husband in ’42, then her son that same autumn. Her light vanished.

She became like the others—waking at night, running to the door, staring into the dark.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. By morning, she was back at the orphanage.

The matron recognised her at once. When Mary said she wanted to take Alfie home, the woman nodded.

"Good. Take him. We’ll sort the papers."

Wrapped in the quilt, Alfie left with her. Mary’s heart felt different—lighter, no longer hollow.

Happiness and love had returned. If joy was meant for her, it would come. And so it had.

At home, only the photos…
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10/18/2025

I went to the shelter to find a pup... and came home with an old, blind dog.
I knew exactly what I wanted: a puppy. Small, playful, with bright eyes, full of life. Ever since Rocky, my twelve-year-old companion, passed, the house had grown too quiet. I hadn’t meant to replace him so soon... but the silence ached. I needed to hear footsteps again, to feel a warm breath beside me in the night.

The shelter smelled of disinfectant and resignation. A volunteer with a kind smile, Emily, greeted me and led me to the kennels. Dozens of dogs barked, jumped, begged for attention. I paused by a cage where a little black terrier wagged his tail like a propeller.
—He’s a proper charmer, she said.
—Just two months old, a right little lovebug, Emily replied.
But then, almost in a whisper, she added:
—I’d like to show you another.

Curious, I followed. At the far end, nearly hidden, was a quieter pen. In the corner, curled tight, lay an older dog. Her coat was grizzled, her eyes sealed shut.
—This is Daisy. Thirteen years old. Blind. We found her by the roadside. She’d been abandoned, we think... couldn’t manage on her own anymore. Hardly moves. Just waiting, I reckon.
I said nothing. I watched her. There was no pleading in her posture, no anger. Only a quiet resignation. As if she expected nothing.
—I’ll take her, I said without thinking.
Emily blinked, surprised. She explained what caring for an old dog would mean. I understood. I knew. But something in me had already decided.

The first few days were hard. Daisy barely ate, scarcely stirred. I lay beside her and whispered, "You’re home now. I’m here."
Her body trembled. Some nights, she whimpered softly. I’d wake, stroke her gently, and she’d drift off again.
Then came the small miracles.
On the fourth day, she found her bowl on her own.
By the seventh, she rested her head on my knee.
I wept. It was her first leap of trust.

I read books, learned how to care for a blind dog. I hung bells on doors, stopped moving furniture, spoke to her more. Daisy learned my footsteps, my voice. We learned to live together.
A month later, she knew every corner of the house. She wandered the garden, lifted her muzzle to the sun. People asked me:
—That your dog? But... she’s so old!
I’d answer softly:
—Aye. She’s my girl.

One day, as we walked, a spotted pup bounded over. Clumsy, quivering with joy, …
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10/17/2025

"Margaret, dear, do take these warm cabbage pastries—I baked them fresh this morning," offered the elderly woman in a floral apron, holding out a plate covered with a tea towel. "And a jar of strawberry jam, just sealed yesterday."

"How kind of you, Eleanor," Margaret replied with a grateful smile as she accepted the treats. "Do stay for tea—you’re always in such a hurry. We hardly see each other anymore."

"I’d love a cuppa," Eleanor nodded, stepping into the kitchen. "Especially as there’s news to share. Have you heard about the row between Emily and her husband?"

Margaret sighed, reaching for the teacups. "The whole building knows. They shouted loud enough to rattle the walls. What was it about?"

"Well, they say he brought his mother from the countryside without a word of warning," Eleanor tutted, settling at the table. "And with them in that tiny flat—you can imagine how Emily took it."

Margaret set the kettle to boil and sat opposite her neighbor. "That would be James, wouldn’t it? The reckless one? He didn’t even consult his wife?"

"Afraid she’d refuse, I expect. The poor woman had nowhere else to go—her cottage burned down. So he fetched her and presented it as a done deal," Eleanor lowered her voice. "I ran into Louise from the third floor yesterday, and she said Emily’s packing her things. Leaving him."

"Good heavens!" Margaret gasped. "Over her mother-in-law? Breaking up the family?"

Eleanor shrugged. "Who knows if it’s true or just gossip, but there’s no smoke without fire..."

That same evening, in a different flat on the outskirts of town, a woman in her forties paced the kitchen, clutching her phone. Charlotte was visibly agitated—her movements sharp as she tucked a strand of greying hair behind her ear, tapped her fingers on the counter, and frowned.

"Sarah, I don’t know what to do," she said into the phone. "He didn’t even ask! Just announced it as if it were nothing. Can you imagine? I came home from work, and there was Beatrice with her suitcases, making herself at home!"

Her friend murmured something on the other end, but Charlotte cut in. "Of course I understand she had nowhere to go! But why couldn’t he discuss it with me first? We’re husband and wife, for heaven’s sake. These things aren’t decided unilaterally!"

The door creaked open, and in walked Richard—a tall man with weary eyes and a receding hairline. Charlotte fell silent, shooting him a tense glance.

"Sarah, I’ll call you back," she muttered, hanging up.

An uneasy quiet settled. Richard fetched a glass of water, avoiding her gaze.

"Where’s Beatrice now?" Charlotte finally asked.

"Resting in the sitting room," he replied. "The journey tired her out."

"The sitting room," Charlotte echoed. "On our sofa."

"Where else was she supposed to go?" Richard’s voice turned defensive. "We don’t have a spare room."

"That’s just it, Richard," Charlotte said, forcing calm. "We don’t have space. Sixty square metres for three is already cramped. And you moved your mother in without so much as a conversation!"

"What choice did I have?" Richard slammed his glass down, water sloshing. "Her home burned to the ground! Did you expect me to leave her on the street?"

"I expected you to talk to me first!" Charlotte’s voice rose before she checked herself, remembering Beatrice nearby. "We could have discussed options—renting her a room, or her staying with your sister in Manchester. They’ve more space."

"Manchester’s miles away," Richard rubbed his temples. "And renting costs money. We’re barely scraping by as it is."

Charlotte shook her head. "It’s not about money. It’s about you deciding for both of us. You didn’t even call to warn me! I walked in, and there she was—like some dreadful surprise."

"I tried calling," he muttered. "You didn’t answer."

"I was in a meeting!" She threw up her hands. "Couldn’t you have waited a few hours? Did it have to be sprung on me?"

Richard stared into his glass as if it held answers.

"Fine," Charlotte took a steadying breath. "What’s done is done. But we need to discuss how long this lasts. Does Beatrice have insurance? Will she rebuild?"

"The cottage was condemned," Richard admitted. "It was barely standing—Granddad built it. No insurance, either. So... this is long-term, Lottie. Possibly permanent."

"Permanent?" Her legs weakened, and she sank onto a chair. "Richard, are you mad? Three of us in this flat won’t work!"

"Where else can she go?" he repeated stubbornly. "She’s my mother. I’m all she has."

"And me?" Charlotte whispered. "What am I? I’m your wife. You’re all I have too."

Just then, Beatrice appeared in the doorway—a petite woman with silver hair pinned neatly back, wearing a floral dress and cardigan despite the warm evening.

"Forgive the intrusion," she said hesitantly. "But the walls are thin. I couldn’t help overhearing."

Silence fell. Beatrice shifted awkwardly.

"Charlotte, dear," she continued, "I understand I’ve come at a bad time. If I’m in the way, I can leave. Perhaps there’s room at the care home—"

"Mum, don’t be ridiculous," Richard stood, wrapping an arm around her. "You’re not going anywhere. This is your home now too."

Charlotte’s resentment swelled. *Your home now*—he’d declared it without consulting her, the woman who kept this home. But aloud, she only said, "Beatrice, it’s not that you’re unwelcome. It’s that this should have been a joint decision. Richard and I are partners. He can’t make these choices alone."

"I understand, love," Beatrice nodded. "You young people need your space. An old woman like me will only be underfoot."

"Mum!" Richard protested. "No one said that. Charlotte’s right—I should have talked to her first."

Beatrice sighed, lowering herself onto a chair. "Son, there’s no need to defend me. I see I’ve come at the wrong moment. Charlotte’s tired from work, and here I am with my troubles."

Charlotte realised, with a pang, that Beatrice had voiced what Richard should have. Against her will, warmth crept in.

"Beatrice," she said gently, "let’s talk properly. It’s a difficult situation, but not hopeless. When did the fire happen?"

"Three days ago," Beatrice replied. "I’d gone to help a neighbour bake, and there was faulty wiring... By the time I returned, the flames had taken hold. At least I saved the photo albums—the volunteer firefighters helped. But forty years of memories... gone." Her voice wavered, and she dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

Guilt pricked Charlotte. How could she have been so callous? This woman had lost everything.

"I’m so sorry," she said sincerely, covering Beatrice’s hand with her own. "Of course you must stay as long as needed. But we must plan how to manage—together."

Beatrice gave a grateful smile. "Thank you, dear. I’ll keep out of your way. And I’ll help—cooking, cleaning. I’m still spry, thank the Lord."

"Good," Richard relaxed visibly. "Let’s have supper. I bought a roast chicken and salads on the way."

Dinner passed stiffly. Beatrice spoke of village life, her neighbours, the garden she’d lost. Richard listened intently, while Charlotte ate in silence, wondering how their lives would change.

Later, as Charlotte washed up, Beatrice approached with a drying cloth. "Let me help."

"Thank you," Charlotte passed her a plate. "Beatrice, I’m sorry for how I reacted. It was unkind."

"Nonsense, love," Beatrice shook her head. "I’m the one who should apologise, turning up unannounced. Richard insisted you wouldn’t mind. I believed him, but..."

"It’s not you," Charlotte admitted. "It’s how Richard handled it. Fifteen years together, and suddenly he acts alone on something this big."

"He’s always been stubborn," Beatrice sighed. "Certain he’s right, deaf to objections. Takes after his father."

Charlotte smirked. "That he does."

They finished the dishes. Richard was unfolding a camp bed from the cupboard.

"What’s that for?" Charlotte asked.

"Mum can’t sleep on the sofa," he explained. "Her back needs a firm surface. So the sofa’s mine, and she takes the camp bed."

"And where do I sleep?" Irritation flared anew. "The floor?"

"Where? In our bed, of course," Richard frowned. "Where else?"

"So we’re to sleep apart now?" Charlotte crossed her arms. "Splendid."

"Charlotte, not this again," he groaned. "Mum needs the camp bed. We can’t both fit on it. What’s the issue?"

"The issue," she said tightly, "is being told, not asked. Again."

"Children, don’t quarrel," Beatrice interjected. "I’ll manage on the sofa."

"No, Mum," Richard said firmly. "Doctor’s orders. You’re on the camp bed, and that’s final."

"See?" Charlotte glanced at Beatrice. "*And that’s final*. His favourite phrase."

She left, shutting the bedroom door sharply. Richard and Beatrice exchanged helpless looks.

"Son, perhaps I should stay with Martha?" Beatrice ventured. "She offered when the fire happened."

"Absolutely not!" Richard scowled. "That drunk? You’re staying here. Charlotte will come round."

Alone, Charlotte sat on the bed, tears falling. She wasn’t crying over Beatrice—who’d proven more considerate than expected—but over Richard, dismissing her as if her voice meant nothing after fifteen years.

Her phone buzzed—Sarah’s text: *How are things? Calmer?* Charlotte didn’t reply. What could she say? That her husband was still behaving like a tyrant? That they’d be sleeping separately now?

A soft knock came. "Come in."

Beatrice entered with a steaming cup. "Tea. Peppermint—good for nerves."

"Thank you," Charlotte took it, abashed. "I’m sorry I—"

"No need," Beatrice sat beside her. "I understand. Richard’s always thought he knew best. Drove me mad when he was a boy."

Charlotte smiled faintly, picturing a headstrong young Richard arguing with his mother.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Talked," Beatrice said simply. "Shouting only made him dig in. But a calm explanation of why his idea wouldn’t work..."

"I’ve tried," Charlotte sighed. "He doesn’t listen."

"Not now," Beatrice patted her hand. "He’s wound up, defending me. Wait till morning. Meanwhile... I could sleep on the floor here, and you two take the sitting room."

"Don’t be silly," Charlotte said. "Not with your back. I just... need to adjust to three of us."

"I’ll keep to myself," Beatrice promised. "And help—I’m a fair cook. And I sew; could make new curtains, cushions. Brighten the place up."

Charlotte felt the tension ease. Beatrice wasn’t the domineering figure she’d feared, just a kind woman who’d…
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10/17/2025

She’ll Manage

Alison grew up in a children’s home, and for as long as she could remember, there were always other kids like her and carers around. Life never felt sweet—she learned to stand up for herself and protect the younger ones. She had a strong sense of fairness and couldn’t stand seeing the weak bullied. Sometimes she got hurt too, but she never cried. She knew she was suffering for what was right.

Her name had always been Alison, but in the home, they shortened it to Ali. The moment she turned eighteen, she was sent out into the world on her own. At least she had a trade—she’d trained as a cook and had already been working as a kitchen assistant in a café for a few months. They gave her a room in a shared house, but it was dreadful.

Around that time, she’d started seeing Daniel, who was three years older and worked at the same café as a delivery van driver. Soon enough, they moved in together at his one-bed flat, which he’d inherited from his nan.

"Alison, come live with me," he said. "What’s the point of that dingy room with a broken lock? Needs a proper fix-up." She agreed straight away.

She liked Daniel because he was older and more serious. Once, they talked about kids, and he said, "Can’t stand little brats. Nothing but noise and trouble."

"Daniel," Alison said, surprised, "but if it’s your own child, your flesh and blood, how can you talk like that?"

"Whatever. Drop it. I said I don’t like them, end of," he waved her off.

His words stung, but she pushed the thought aside. *Maybe if we get married, he’ll change his mind about kids.*

Alison worked hard at the café, even covering for the head cook, Valerie, when she called in sick with a "headache"—though everyone knew it was really a hangover.

"Valerie, one more slip-up and you’re out," the manager, Max, warned, though he knew she was a skilled cook, praised by regulars.

"Brilliant chef you’ve got there, Max," friends would say.

So Valerie kept her job—for now—grudgingly tolerating the warnings. She knew she was only kept on because she could cook. She’d noticed Alison was quick and put heart into her work. Even Max had started paying more attention to her.

Once, Alison overheard Max talking to the floor manager. "If Valerie skips work again, she’s done. Alison’s young, but she’s got potential—just as good already. Hardworking, responsible." She didn’t catch the rest as they walked off.

*So Max has his eye on me. Still, I feel bad for Valerie—she’s good, just can’t help herself.* She decided not to tell anyone, not even Daniel.

Time passed. Valerie did vanish for a week. Alison took over, and not a single customer complained or even noticed the change. When Valerie returned, she was a mess—shaking hands, dark circles under her eyes, barely able to look up.

Max walked into the kitchen. "Valerie, my office. Now."

He sacked her, then announced to the staff, "From today, Alison’s head cook. You’ve got talent—room to grow. Good luck."

"Thank you," she said, nervous about the responsibility but thrilled—this meant better pay, and she was still so young.

*I’ll prove myself to Max.*

That evening, Daniel brought champagne. "Let’s toast your promotion. Well done, Ali. Knew you’d get there."

They’d been together a long time, but he’d never mentioned marriage.

Months rolled by. Alison worked hard, earning the occasional praise from Max. She really had a gift for cooking. She and Daniel had been together nearly three years. He didn’t drink, drove most days, and never hurt her. They argued sometimes, but made up quickly. Still, no proposal—not even a hint. She wondered.

*We’ve been together ages, and he won’t commit. Maybe if I get pregnant…*

She remembered his warning—how he hated kids. But since then, he’d never brought it up again. She told herself it wasn’t the right time anyway—she was just getting settled in her career.

Then, she realised she was pregnant. The doctor confirmed it, put her on the register. She was overjoyed.

*No family of my own, but soon I’ll have someone to love.*

When Daniel came home and saw her beaming, he asked, "What’s got you so happy?"

"It’s good news. I saw the doctor today—we’re having a baby."

His face darkened. "I don’t want it. Either get rid of it, or get out. I told you—I can’t stand kids. You went behind my back. Live with the consequences."

His voice was calm, but it chilled her. He’d never hidden his feelings, but she’d hoped he’d change his mind. She watched him clench his jaw, then turn away.

"You grew up in care," he added coldly. "Where will you go, pregnant? Think carefully. Get rid of it. We’ll carry on as we were. You’ve got no choice."

The next day, after her shift, she packed her things and went back to the shared house. She stood before the peeling door with "35" scrawled in marker over the faded number plate. She pushed it open—it wasn’t locked.

The hinges groaned as she stepped into her new home—if you could call it that. The room smelled damp and dusty. The ceiling plaster was crumbling, a dark stain spread in one corner, dead flies littered the grimy windowsill.

*Cheerful.*

An iron bedframe stood against the wall, its mattress stained, the blanket dotted with marks. A rickety table and chair sat in one corner; a battered wardrobe with a detached door leaned in another.

She set down her bag—a few clothes, some books, cups, plates. She rested a hand on her still-flat stomach.

*We’ll manage.*

Next door, a drunk neighbour started shouting, then slammed …
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10/17/2025

Years ago, in a quiet corner of Yorkshire, lived a woman named Eleanor Whitmore with her husband, Edward. They had built a life together in their modest home, raising their eight-year-old son, Oliver. Edward, with his perpetually tousled chestnut hair and that tired, fond smile he reserved only for their boy, had been Eleanor’s whole world for thirteen years. Life in their little market town was simple, predictable—until it wasn’t.

Edward arrived home at half past nine, later than usual. Lately, he’d been working long hours, and Eleanor hadn’t thought much of it—until tonight. The moment he stepped inside, she caught it: his jacket carried a scent that wasn’t his usual cologne. Something floral, sweet. Unmistakably feminine.

"Evening," he muttered, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. "Exhausted. Bloody long day."
"Hello," she replied evenly. "Fancy some supper?"
"No, ta. Just need a wash."
He moved past her, and Eleanor’s stomach twisted. He’d been refusing meals often lately. His phone, once left carelessly on the bedside table, now never left his pocket—always face-down, always locked.

"You’re late," she said, picking up her teacup. "Busy at the office?"
Edward paused at the bathroom door.

"Aye. End of quarter. Reports, paperwork—you know how it is."
"Why do you smell like that?" The question slipped out sharper than she’d intended.
Edward froze. She saw it—the flicker of guilt before he schooled his face into casual indifference.

"Smell like what?"
"Perfume. Flowers. Not yours."
He shrugged. "Must’ve been one of the lasses at work. Lucy from accounts got some new fancy scent. Reckon it clung to me."
"Lucy," Eleanor repeated flatly. "Right."

That scent had haunted her for weeks. She’d tried to ignore it, told herself it was nothing—but tonight, the lie crumbled.

Their family’s dream had lived in a savings account, painstakingly built over five years. A flat for Oliver’s future, so he wouldn’t struggle like they had. Edward, an engineer at the local mill, and Eleanor, taking in sewing work, had scrimped and saved—no holidays, no new car, every spare penny tucked away. Nearly fifty thousand pounds, a fortune in their town. Enough to give their boy a proper start.

Then the storm broke.

A client paid Eleanor early, even adding a bit extra for her quick work. On a whim, she stopped by the bank to deposit it. The teller, a girl named Sarah who’d known her for years, frowned at the screen.

"Mrs. Whitmore… the account’s empty."
"Empty?" Eleanor’s hands clutched the counter.
"Completely. Last withdrawal was two weeks ago—forty-nine thousand eight hundred. Mr. Whitmore closed it."

Two weeks ago. Edward had come home late that night, mumbled something about a meeting.

Eleanor left the bank in a daze. Forty-nine thousand. Gone.

When Edward returned that evening, she was waiting at the kitchen table, the bank statement laid neatly before her. Her face was calm, eerily still.

"Sit down," she said.

Edward’s eyes flicked to the papers. Slowly, he pulled out a chair.

"Ellie, what’s this …
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10/17/2025

Oh, you’ll never guess what happened—so, Granny Polly was absolutely chuffed and said, "I taught your little Billy how to play cards!"

Marianne, just back from work and exhausted, blinked. "Why? He’s only six."

"Well, imagine!" Granny Polly beamed. "He’ll visit someone, they’ll sit down for a game, and he’ll join in! Proper social skills, you see!"

You could understand her—she’d grown up in post-war Britain, where a game of cards or dominoes was the height of entertainment. And this wasn’t now—it was the early ’70s. So, off they went, teaching him whist and snap!

Granny Polly was babysitting her great-grandson, baby Alfie, while Billy, who hated nursery, hovered around. The boy was fiercely independent—key around his neck, lunch in a thermos. Back then, that was normal. These days, kids won’t leave their mums’ side till they’re thirty.

Their estate was decent—cosy, with blocks on all sides. There was even a ping-pong table and a proper little playground with swings and a sandpit. And in one of the blocks was a shop called "Bright Lights," which, for some reason, sold lampshades *and* furniture.

Now, furniture’s heavy. Unloading it didn’t put the delivery lads in the best mood. So, the kids often came home with colourful new vocabulary—Mum, what does *this* word mean? The parents called them "brightly lit" words.

But it was a small price to pay for the safety of the estate. You could let your kids play outside without worry—even the surly delivery blokes kept an eye out.

Marianne had married young—fell for a bloke from her uni group and got pregnant. Later, her mother-in-law, who worked at a nursery, took Alfie during the week so Marianne could finish med school. After that, both she and her husband became GPs—back when they still had job placements.

Her sister, pretty Lizzie, didn’t marry till twenty-five—practically ancient by those standards. The sisters were total opposites: quick, wiry, dark-haired Marianne and slow, curvy, fair Lizzie. But both were stunners—like night and day, two halves of a whole.

People always asked, "Are you *sure* you’ve got the same dad?"

"Not sure at all!" the sisters would snap, though they were thick as thieves.

Their dad had died years ago. Their mum had moved on, leaving the flat to her grown-up girls. She’d dodged the question with, "Why d’you care? Of course it’s the same man!"

Till twenty-four, Lizzie had men wrapped around her finger—her heart hadn’t woken up yet, though she’d had her flings. She met her future husband, Peter, at a mate’s party a few years after school. He was a friend of their old classmate, Alex.

Lizzie agreed to a date but came back fuming. "He’s so *boring*!" she ranted. "Guess what he asked me?"

"What?" Marianne held her breath, bracing for scandal.

"Whether I’d worn my thermal knickers! Can you *believe* it?" Lizzie shuddered. "So *tame*!"

Poor Peter—three years older and smitten—had just been concerned. It was freezing out, and everyone wore thermals. But youth is ruthless, so Peter got the boot along with his practical advice.

He reappeared seven years later. By then, Lizzie had played the field but was still alone, living with Marianne’s family in their two-bed flat.

One New Year’s Eve, it hit her—no one had invited her out. Then Marianne found a pin hidden in her bedding. Someone had put a hex on her!

Lizzie’s mates often stayed over—the flat was near the Tube, handy for uni and work.

The pin got tossed, and *boom*—Lizzie bumped into Peter. Fate, right? This time, when he asked about her thermals, she melted. "He’s so *thoughtful*!" she sighed. They married soon after—Peter was a maths PhD by then.

He moved in, marking his arrival with a new enamel teapot and a sofa.

"But we already *have* a teapot," Marianne said.

"This one’s *yours*," Peter explained. "Ours is *this* one."

For the first time, tension simmered—Peter’s teapot was *nicer*. His parents were well-off, unlike Marianne’s husband, whom their mum called "that scrounger" behind his back.

The plan was to swap the two-bed for two one-beds with a top-up. Peter’s parents promised to help.

Time passed, Alfie was born, and Lizzie went back to work. Clever Peter enlisted Granny Polly to babysit.

One day, Marianne came home early with a fever—probably caught from patients. The flat was dark—everyone must be asleep.

But inside, it was a sick bay: Lizzie was off with Alfie, and her husband, John, was poorly too. Billy, of course, was home.

Marianne tiptoed in—then froze. Odd noises. *Please, not the kids.*

In the dim light, six-year-old Billy and drooling Alfie sat on the rug, cards in hand—Billy was teaching him *whist*.

"Where’s Dad?" Marianne asked.

"Dad and Aunt Lizzie are doing laundry in the bathroom!" Billy chirped, then turned to Alfie, who could barely hold one card: "Your go—cover me!"

Granny Polly’s lessons had *stuck*.

"How long have they been in there?" Marianne’s voice shook.

"The big hand was on six, now it’s on nine!" Billy said.

*Fifteen minutes*, Marianne thought. *He’s never taken …
🔽 The rest of the story is waiting below

Beautiful Autumn

10/18/2025

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