Січень 2026 Archives

My Dearest One. A Story Marina discovered she had grown up in a foster family. She still struggled to believe it. But there was no one left to discuss it with—the parents who raised her were gone, one after the other. First her father’s health failed, then her mother’s. Marina remembered sitting by her mother’s bedside, holding her weak, lifeless hand. Her mother was fading fast. Suddenly, her mother’s eyes fluttered open: ‘Marina, darling, we never found the words to tell you… We found you, you see. Yes, found you, crying and lost in the woods. We waited for someone to come looking. Reported it to the police. But no one searched for you. Maybe something happened— I never knew. They let us adopt you.’ ‘In the drawer at home, among my papers, there are old letters… You can read through them. Please forgive us, love.’ Her mother’s eyes closed once more, exhausted. ‘Oh, Mum,’ Marina pressed her mother’s hand to her cheek, ‘my dearest Mum, I love you so much. Please get better.’ But the miracle never came. A few days later, her mother passed away. Maybe it would have been better if her mother had never told her. Marina never mentioned her mother’s final words to her husband or children. She pushed the memory aside, burying it deep. Her children adored their grandparents. Marina saw no good upsetting anyone with a truth that didn’t matter now. But one day, driven by a vague impulse, she opened the folder her mother had mentioned. Clippings, letters, official answers. Marina began reading and couldn’t stop. Her dear, beloved parents! They had found Marina at eighteen months old in the woods. They were over forty then, childless—and suddenly a little girl reaching out to them, crying. The village policeman shrugged—no missing child report had been filed. They adopted Marina. But her adoptive mother had never stopped looking for Marina’s birth family. It seemed no longer to find them, but to be sure no one would ever claim their beloved daughter. Marina shut the folder and shoved it deep out of sight. Who needed the truth now? A week later, Marina was unexpectedly called to HR: ‘Marina Powell, someone from your previous job wants to speak with you.’ A woman about her age was waiting: ‘Hello. My name’s Hope. I really need to talk with you,’ she cast a meaningful glance at the HR lady, ‘it’s regarding correspondence from Lillian Evans… That was your mother, wasn’t it?’ ‘You said this was old work business,’ bristled the HR officer, ‘sort these things in your own time!’ ‘Hope, let’s step outside,’ suggested Marina, and they left under the disapproving HR gaze. ‘I’m sorry—this is odd, but I promised,’ Hope began nervously. ‘Three years ago, I met my first teacher. At Rosewood Primary, you know. Then she moved away, became very old and lonely. She invited me for tea and begged me for help with something. Her daughter had vanished years ago as a little girl, and she’d been corresponding with your mother.’ ‘I’m sorry, Hope. My mother’s gone and I’m not interested in this.’ Marina turned away, tight-lipped. ‘I understand, Marina. Please, I know it’s odd. But you see, my teacher, Vera Everson, she’s very ill. Cancer. Not long left, they say. She so wants to find her daughter—she’s been searching all her life. She even gave me a lock of her hair for a DNA test, would you believe?’ Marina was about to walk away, but something stopped her. ‘You’re saying she’s gravely ill?’ Hope nodded. Marina accepted the small bag of hair from Hope and promised to be in touch. A week later, they travelled together to visit Vera Everson in hospital. As they entered, Vera peered at them with weak, hopeful eyes: ‘Oh, Hope, thank you for coming, dear,’ she gave a grateful, embarrassed smile and looked curiously at Marina. ‘Mrs Everson, I’ve found her. This is Marina—she wanted to come. Here,’ Hope handed Vera an envelope. ‘What’s this? My eyes aren’t what they were, even with glasses,’ Vera’s gaze was soft and pleading. ‘It’s the test result,’ Hope explained, opening the letter. ‘It says you’re related. Marina is your daughter.’ Vera’s face lit up, radiant with sudden happiness. She couldn’t stop the tears: ‘My darling—my precious girl—what joy! I’ve found you. Alive, beautiful, you look just as I did once. My dearest girl. All my life I woke at night, sure I heard you crying, calling out…’ ‘There’s no forgiving me.’ ‘Alive—still alive. Now I can rest in peace.’ Afterwards, Hope and Marina left the room. Vera was exhausted and quickly fell asleep. ‘Thank you, Marina. You’ve made her happy, you can see that. She doesn’t have much time.’ A few days later, Vera Everson passed away. Marina burned the papers from her mother’s folder. She didn’t want anyone finding out a truth that no longer mattered. What was there to know, anyway? Marina never really had another mother. And Vera Everson? That was simply a blessed lie. Had she done the right thing? Marina believed so. In the end, we each answer to God for all we have done.

My Dearest One. A Reminiscence Margaret learnt, quite unexpectedly, that she had grown up as an adopted child.

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The Nuisance Next Door “Don’t you dare touch my specs!” screeched the former friend. “Keep your eyes to yourself! You think I don’t notice who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Borisova replied in surprise. “I see, that’s who you’ve got your sights set on! I know just the thing to give you for Christmas—your very own lip-zipper!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” snapped back Lyuda. “Or is it that even a machine couldn’t help your lips anymore? You think I don’t know what’s going on?” Old Mrs Tamara swung her feet off the lumpy bed and shuffled over to her shelf of family photos to say her morning prayers. She wasn’t especially religious, but she figured something or someone up there must be running the show—whether it was the universe, the great beyond, or good old Father Christmas with his white beard, keeping an eye on everyone from above. After all, she was closer to seventy now, and at that age it didn’t pay to pick a fight with the Almighty: better safe than sorry. At the end of her prayers, Tamara always added her own two cents—ritual complete, soul lighter, and ready for a new day. Tamara Borisova had two major annoyances in life—and no, not potholes and politicians—that’s old hat. No, it was her neighbour, Lyuda, and her own lazy grandchildren. The grandchildren were their parents’ problem. But Lyuda was another story. She had turned tormenting her neighbour into an art form. In the films, legendary stage actresses’ catty squabbles look downright charming—real life is far less cute, especially when the barbs hit close to home. Tamara’s closest friend and confidant was “Pete the Scooter”—also known by his Sunday name, Peter Geoffrey Coster. Once upon a time, Pete was famous for speeding round the village on his beloved scooter, but now it rusted unused in his shed. The nickname stuck—typical village life. Their friendship dated back to school days, when Tamara, Pete, and Lyuda formed a trio—the best of friends, no hint of romance. The girls, holding his arms, always walked like a double-handled teacup—less risk of dropping the goods! Over time, though, that easy friendship faded, replaced by Lyuda’s prickly resentment, and then open hostility, especially after her husband died. Grief can change a person; then again, so does envy. And there was plenty to envy: Tamara, even in her golden years, stayed slim and spry, while Lyuda had plumped out. Plus, school friend Pete started popping by Tamara’s more often—he seemed to enjoy her company and wit, whereas with Lyuda, conversation was clipped and cold. In the end, Lyuda resorted to pointless grumbling—her English would make even Basil Fawlty blush! First she moaned about Tamara’s loo, then the grandchildren supposedly stealing pears, later Tamara’s home-cooked smells in the garden, even the free NHS cataract op Tamara had. “Keep your mitts off my new lenses!” Lyuda yelled. “Watch where your own eyes are roving!” “So you’re jealous?” Tamara grinned. “Must be over Pete! I’ll gift you a lip-shrinker!” “Heaven knows you should keep it for yourself!” Lyuda snapped, “Your mouth’s beyond help anyway!” On and on it went—back and forth over garden pears, trampling chickens, even the smoke from Tamara’s kitchen. Pete, ever the joker, came up with a plan to plant fake eggs in the garden to spook Lyuda’s chickens away—thank the internet for sound advice! Eventually, Tamara realised enough was enough—the stress was shrinking her, draining her joy. But Pete had one last trick up his sleeve. One morning, Pete showed up, grinning and astride his mended old scooter: “Hop on, beautiful!” he called. “Let’s ride like the old days!” Why not? The government had just declared that sixty-five is the new forty-five—it was official! Pete popped the question, and Tamara packed her bags for a new adventure as Mrs Coster. Lyuda stayed behind—resentful, bossy, alone. With no one to squabble with, her bitterness simmered, but the village air was finally sweet for Tamara and Pete—life in the English countryside, just as lively as a soap opera. If only they hadn’t fussed so much over where to put the toilet!

Dont touch my glasses! screeched my former mate across the hedge. Mind your own eyesight! You think I

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The Tail-Wagging Sidekick

Frank Harrison was the sort of driver the depot liked to keep at a distance. He was a sensible man, an

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His Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: When a Man’s Need for an Heir Destroys a Family, and His Sister Must Choose Whose Side She’s On

His wife packed her bags and vanished without a trace. Oh, stop pretending to be the saint.

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When He Was Brought Into the Hospital’s Morgue, It Was Clear – He Was a Drowned Man…

When the ambulance barrels into the reception of St.Georges Hospital, its obvious the patient is a drowning victim.

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No One’s Home

Nobodys Home I woke up without the alarm, as usual, at half past six. The flat was silent, apart from

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Revenge: A Tale of Reckoning

Two years ago William Harper seemed to have everything: a house in a leafy suburb of Manchester, a loving

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THE STRICT FATHER-IN-LAW

Dad, would you mind if we stayed with you for a few months? I asked, my voice hesitant. Would I?

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The Cuddly Guardian Angel

Plush Angel Hello, my former husband! Youll probably never read this letter, and perhaps it doesnt matter.

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My Mother-in-law Dug Up My Prized Lawn at the Holiday Cottage for Vegetable Beds—But I Made Her Restore Everything Just the Way It Was

James, are you positive we havent forgotten the charcoal? I asked, turning to my husband as he drove