Лютий 2026 Archives

The Unwanted Child — So, what would you like to name your little girl? — The elderly doctor’s professional smile turned toward his young patient. — We haven’t thought of a name yet, — Natalia, seated beside the hospital bed, jumped in. — This is an important decision; Dasha still needs time to think. — I don’t want to, — the young mother suddenly replied, taking everyone by surprise. — I have no intention of keeping her. I’m going to sign her away. — How can you even say such a thing? — The older woman snapped, shooting an angry look at the girl before turning to the doctor. — She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Of course we’ll bring the baby home. — I’ll check back later; you need to rest — The doctor had no desire to witness a family row. As the door swung closed behind the man, the mother rounded on her daughter with accusations. — How dare you say something like that? What will people think of us? We’ve already had to move to this town and do everything quietly. That baby should stay in our family. — And whose fault is that? — Dasha stared her straight in the eye. — If you’d listened to me then, none of this would’ve happened. I’d have finished school and maybe gone off to university. If you want the baby so much, you can keep her. Dasha rolled away toward the wall, making it clear she was done talking. Natalia sat trying to reason with her daughter for another minute before a nurse arrived and politely asked her to leave — the patient needed to rest. Left alone, Dasha sobbed quietly into her pillow, wishing anything to make this nightmare end. A timid knock forced Dasha to wipe her tears, take a deep breath, and call, “Come in.” She expected a staff member, perhaps her father, but the woman who entered was a stranger. — Can I help you somehow? — Dasha struggled to keep up the mask of calm. — I just… overheard. By accident! The doctors were talking outside my room, — the woman hesitated, unsure how to ask. — It’s true, I’m signing away the baby. I suppose that’s what you want to know? — I saw your mum… — She’s not my mum! — Dasha cut in sharply, dropping any pretense of calm. — She’s only my stepmother, who thinks highly of herself. My mum works abroad. — Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you — the woman flushed with embarrassment. — It’s just, I have three kids and… well, I spent my whole childhood in care. I’m frightened for your little one — she’s done nothing wrong. — Babies that small get adopted fast, or so I’m told, — Dasha shrugged. — I can’t even bring myself to hold her, let alone more. If Natasha hadn’t interfered, I wouldn’t even be here right now. — But you’re old enough to decide for yourself. You are over fifteen, aren’t you? — “It’s so shameful!” — Dasha mimicked her stepmother. — “How will we show our faces about town?” — I don’t understand… — I’ll explain, — Dasha’s smile twisted bitterly. — Maybe then you’ll stop judging. **************************************************** Dasha’s last year of school was a disaster. First, her beloved Pasha had been sent off to the army. Then, a new boy joined their class — a spoiled London lad, exiled to their backwater by his father as punishment. He pestered all the girls, not for relationships, just for ticking boxes. That’s why his father sent him away: he was ruining the family reputation with his antics. Mack gave out expensive gifts, took girls to clubs and restaurants. The girls all fell for him, hoping they’d be his “princess.” Dasha was the only one who resisted — she was in love and didn’t want anybody but Pasha. Eventually, it seemed Mack got the message and lost interest. Or so she thought. She couldn’t have been more wrong. In December, one of Dasha’s friends had a birthday party — the whole class came, Mack included. But he wasn’t there for the birthday girl. Partway through the party, Dasha stepped out for a phone call. When she returned, Mack was sitting by her seat. At first, she thought nothing of it, but soon after she began to feel unwell… She woke the next morning barely able to open her eyes. Mack lay beside her, grinning. — See, and you played so hard to get, — he said carelessly. — Call it compensation. Even I was surprised — your precious Pasha’s a real sucker. Dasha struggled to make it home. She felt weak and dizzy. Passing strangers looked at her with disgust. She rang the bell instead of fishing for keys (she was sure her stepmother was home). — Where have you been? — Natasha exploded when she saw her. — You didn’t come home, didn’t answer your phone, and look at the state of you! If your father saw you… — Call a doctor — and the police, — Dasha interrupted. — I want to make a statement. He should be jailed. Natasha stiffened. She sized up Dasha’s appearance and words, and drew conclusions. — Who was it? — Mack, who else, — Dasha could barely speak. — No one else would be that brazen. Call them, or I will. — Wait. — Natasha paused, already plotting how to profit. — His family will just pay him out of any trouble. We’ll do this another way. I’ll talk to his dad — let him compensate us. — Are you insane? — Dasha couldn’t believe her ears. — Compensation? I’m going to the police myself. — Like hell you are! — Her grip was iron, yanking Dasha into the room. She was too weak to fight. — You’ll end up the guilty party, the whole town gossiping. Leave it to me. Dasha’s phone was gone — lost or left behind. She couldn’t go out; her stepmother had locked the door. The bed beckoned… A few days later, Dasha visited her gran, a hundred miles away. Her gran was elderly — Dasha didn’t want to worry her, so she acted normal. A month later, the awful truth emerged: she was pregnant. Natasha was thrilled. This baby would guarantee their security! Granddad would pay handsomely, protecting his own reputation. Best to keep it a secret until she was five months along. Nobody asked Dasha what she wanted. When she hinted at abortion, Natasha flew into a rage, watching her like a hawk. The potential granddad wasn’t thrilled, but coughed up the cash, promising more ‘child support.’ ************************************************ — So now you see? — Dasha continued. — That baby cost me everything. Pasha dumped me; he didn’t believe me. My friends turned away. We had to move. I didn’t even finish school! — I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged you, not knowing the facts, — the woman said softly. — But your baby isn’t to blame. At that moment, Natasha swept into the ward with Dasha’s father in tow. — Dasha, we need a word! Visitors out, please — this family business! The woman offered Dasha a sympathetic nod and slipped out. — I won’t let you ruin my plans. If you walk away from that baby, don’t bother coming home. Where will you go? Your beloved gran’s gone now, and your uncle has her flat. Are you going to beg? — No, she’s coming to me. — An elegant woman entered the room. Dasha’s eyes filled with hope. — Mum! You came! — Of course I did. I couldn’t leave you in trouble, — Albina pulled her into a hug. — If you’d told me sooner, I’d have brought you back ages ago. I thought it’d be easier for you to finish school here. — I thought you didn’t want me, — Dasha wept. She was still, for all that had happened, just a child. — Someone said you didn’t want to hear from me. My gifts came back unopened, I could never reach you on the phone. I thought you couldn’t forgive me. Well, never mind — we’ll leave, and put it all behind us… ******************************************************** Dasha left. Natasha took the baby, hoping for a cushy life. But… once the powerful grandfather found out, he came for the child and took her away. Mack was forced to acknowledge the baby, despite his resistance. As for Dasha, she is happy now. She’s with the one person who truly cares for her, and will never betray her…

Unwanted Child Have you chosen a name for your baby girl? The elderly doctor asked, his professional

Діти

037

A Good Bloke with Unforeseen Circumstances

Mum, you dont get it! Theres nothing left between them, she got pregnant on purpose just to keep him

Діти

070

Another Woman’s Son — Your husband is the father of my child. These are the shocking words a stranger spoke to Christine as she sat enjoying a peaceful lunch. Without waiting for an invitation, the woman helped herself to the seat across from her, clearly anticipating a dramatic response. “How old is your little one?” Christine replied with utter calm, as if this sort of conversation happened to her every day. “Eight,” Marina replied, pursing her lips in displeasure at the lack of outrage. Where were the accusations? The disbelief? The disgust? “Wonderful,” Christine answered with the hint of a smile, returning to her delicious cherry pie—served only in that particular café. “We’ve only been married three years, so anything that happened before me doesn’t matter. Just one question—does Arthur know?” “No,” the woman snapped. “But that hardly matters! I’m suing for child support! And he will pay, do I make myself clear?” “He will, of course,” Christine conceded. “My husband adores children. If he’d known earlier, he’d have wanted a part in your son’s life. What’s his name, by the way?” “Edward,” Marina answered automatically, then frowned. “Don’t you care your darling husband has a child outside your marriage?” “As I said, whatever happened before I married him doesn’t concern me,” Christine’s smile remained gentle. “I knew full well I wasn’t marrying an innocent. A man of thirty is bound to have a history. It really doesn’t bother me. What matters is that I’m the only one now.” “Fine, we’ll see each other in court. Prepare to get out your cheque book—I’ll demand every penny my son is legally entitled to.” Marina stormed out, leaving behind a trail of overpowering perfume. Christine struggled not to wrinkle her nose at the scent; it seemed the woman had emptied half a bottle over herself. “Just you try,” Christine sighed philosophically, finishing her last forkful of pie. “Wonder how she’ll react when she learns Arthur’s official salary is just over minimum wage—his business is in his father’s name, and on top of that, he’s caring for a sick mother. She’ll get pennies, if anything.” Christine felt a pang of pity for the innocent boy. Perhaps she should visit them, see how they were really living. Maybe even arrange for a reasonable monthly allowance—assuming, of course, Edward really was Arthur’s son. You never know… ************************* A DNA test was done without fuss—it’s amazing how money can solve problems in an instant. The result was conclusive: Edward was indeed Arthur’s son. But what struck Christine most was how quiet and withdrawn the boy was. Surely an eight-year-old couldn’t sit perfectly still for an hour and a half, staring at nothing, while the paperwork for the test was sorted? He didn’t ask for cartoons, didn’t fidget or make a fuss—in short, acted nothing like a boy his age. It was unsettling. Christine felt more convinced than ever to pay this newly discovered family a visit. Their home was in a nice area, with a concierge at the door. A spacious, well-renovated two-bedroom flat. Christine noted these things and genuinely wondered how a woman living in such comfort could claim to be in dire need. “The court hearing is next week,” Marina grumbled, letting her unexpected guest in. “We can talk about all this then.” “I wanted to get to know Edward better. After all, Arthur is determined to be involved in his child’s life. Maybe even have him over some weekends, once he’s comfortable.” “As if I’d let that happen!” Marina retorted sharply. “The law says otherwise,” Christine answered calmly. “He’s the boy’s father—he has every right. Odd… I don’t see a single toy.” “I can hardly afford his clothes, never mind silly toys,” Marina scoffed. “Really?” Christine glanced at the designer bag on the coffee table, the expensive clothes scattered across the sofa, the luxury cosmetics lined up by the mirror. “You’re struggling for money?” “I’m still young—I want a life, maybe even a new family,” Marina snapped, not enjoying the tone of her guest at all. “And it’s none of your business!” “And who looks after your son while you’re out on dates?” Christine pressed, beginning to understand why the boy seemed so timid. “He’s not a baby—he can stay in on his own. Is that all? If so, I’ll see you in court.” “I’ll insist you account for every penny meant for the child,” Christine replied. She couldn’t bring herself to stay—she found the mother’s attitude appalling. “I’m afraid you won’t like what the court decides…” ***************************** “…the court finds in partial favour of Marina Grant’s claim. It is hereby acknowledged that Arthur Mallory is the father of Edward Grant; the relevant registry authorities shall amend the birth certificate. The claim for child maintenance is denied. The counterclaim determining where the child will live is granted in favour of Arthur Mallory…” Christine smiled in satisfaction—her goal accomplished. Edward would be living with them. Some might judge her for “taking” a boy from his mother, but she knew it was the right thing. Neighbours all agreed: the boy meant nothing to Marina; she frequently screamed at him, even hit him in public. The child psychologist assured the court removal was necessary. Teachers and former childcare workers supported this too. Now, Edward would have his own spacious bedroom, a mountain of toys, a computer—and, most importantly, the love of parents he’d never truly felt before. For both Arthur and Christine already adored this remarkable little boy.

Your husbandhes the father of my child. With those words, Jane was introduced into the delightfully unremarkable

Діти

0264

My Husband Compared Me to His Ex-Wife, So I Suggested He Go Back to Her

Oliver had once likened me to his former wife, and I told him he could go back to her. You know, Laura

Діти

0158

My Husband’s Relatives Are Upset That I Didn’t Let Them Stay Over in My One-Bedroom Flat

Emily clutched the ladle, the steam from her pot curling up and settling on the glossy cabinets as if

Діти

041

I’ll Make a Proper Man of Him “My grandson will not be left-handed,” declared Mrs. Thompson in outrage. Dennis turned to his mother-in-law, irritation darkening his gaze. “And what’s wrong with that? Elliot was born left-handed. It’s just who he is.” “Who he is!” Mrs. Thompson sniffed. “It’s not a ‘trait,’ it’s a weakness. It’s just not done. The right hand has always been the proper hand. The left one is from the devil.” Dennis barely managed to stifle a laugh. It was the twenty-first century, and his mother-in-law still thought like a medieval villager. “Mrs. Thompson, science has long since proven—” “That ‘science’ of yours means nothing to me,” she snapped. “I corrected my own son. He turned out normal. You should start retraining Elliot before it’s too late. One day, you’ll thank me.” She turned and swept out of the kitchen, leaving Dennis alone with his unfinished coffee and a bitter aftertaste from the conversation. At first, Dennis thought little of it. It was just old-fashioned Mrs. Thompson with her outdated notions—nothing new there. Every generation brings its own baggage of superstitions. He watched as she gently swapped Elliot’s spoon from left to right hand at the table, and thought nothing much of it. Children are adaptable, and a grandmother’s quirks can’t really cause harm—can they? Elliot had always been a lefty. Dennis remembered Elliot reaching for toys with his left hand as a toddler, drawing, clumsily, yes—but always with the left. It seemed absolutely natural, just another part of who Elliot was—like the colour of his eyes or a freckle on his cheek. But for Mrs. Thompson, it was something else entirely. Left-handedness was a flaw, a mistake of nature to be fixed. Every time Elliot picked up a pencil with his left hand, she pursed her lips as if he’d done something downright improper. “Right hand, Elliot. You must use your right.” “There have never been, and never will be, lefties in this family.” “I retrained George, and I’ll retrain you.” Dennis once overheard her recounting her “achievement” to his wife, Olivia. How little George, “was wrong too, at first,” but she had caught it in time. She’d tied his hand, watched every movement, punished disobedience. Result? A proper, normal adult. Her tale was told with such pride, such certainty of rightness, that Dennis found it hard to listen. He didn’t notice the changes in Elliot straight away. Small things at first—his hand would hover above the table, as if weighing a hard decision. Then a quick glance toward his grandmother, checking: is she watching? “Dad, which hand should I use?” “At dinner, Elliot asked, looking nervously at his fork. “Whichever’s comfortable, son.” “But Grandma says…” “Don’t listen to Grandma. Just do what’s comfortable for you.” But it was no longer comfortable. He hesitated. Things slipped from his grasp. The once confident motions of childhood replaced by an anxious, careful awkwardness. Elliot seemed to lose trust in his own body. Olivia saw it too. Dennis noticed how she bit her lip each time her mother switched Elliot’s spoon, or looked away when Mrs. Thompson launched another lecture about “proper upbringing.” Having grown up under her mother’s iron will, Olivia had learned not to argue—better to stay silent and wait until the storm passed. Dennis tried talking to her. “Ollie, this isn’t normal. Look at him.” “Mum wants the best.” “It’s not about what she ‘wants.’ Can’t you see what’s happening?” Olivia just shrugged and dodged the conversation. Years of obedience proved stronger than motherly instinct. Things grew worse, day by day. Mrs. Thompson grew bolder. Now, she didn’t simply correct her grandson—she commented on everything. Praised when he used his right. Sighed dramatically when it was the left. “See? Elliot, you can do it! You just have to try. I made a proper person out of your Uncle George, and I’ll do the same for you.” Dennis decided it was time to confront her. He waited until Elliot was playing in his room. “Mrs. Thompson, please leave the boy be. He’s left-handed. It’s fine. There’s no need to retrain him.” Mrs. Thompson looked truly affronted. “Are you telling me what to do? I raised three children, and you think you can order me around?” “I’m not trying to teach you. I’m asking you, please don’t interfere with my son.” “My son? Aren’t Olivia’s genes there as well? He’s my grandson! And I won’t have him grow up… like that.” She said “like that” with such disgust, Dennis felt it in his bones. He realised—this would never be resolved quietly. The next few days devolved into a standoff. Mrs. Thompson pointedly ignored Dennis, communicating through Olivia. Dennis followed suit. An awkward, tense silence settled between them, punctuated by the occasional flare-up. “Ollie, tell your husband the soup is on the stove.” “Ollie, please tell your mother I’ll handle it myself.” Olivia was caught in the middle, pale and exhausted. Meanwhile, Elliot retreated ever further into his little world, curling up with his tablet on the sofa, trying to make himself invisible. Dennis had an idea one Saturday morning while Mrs. Thompson was in the kitchen, slicing cabbage for her beloved borscht—her movements quick, confident, the product of thirty years of practice. He moved to stand behind her. “You’re cutting it wrong.” Mrs. Thompson didn’t even turn around. “Excuse me?” “The cabbage—you should cut it thinner. And with the grain, not across.” She grunted and went on cutting. “I’m serious,” Dennis went on. “No one does it that way. It’s wrong.” “Dennis, I’ve been making borscht for thirty years.” “And you’ve been doing it wrong for thirty years. Here, let me show you.” He reached for the knife; she snatched it away. “Are you mad?” “No. I just want you to do it properly. Here—see, too much water. The heat’s too high. And you’re not doing the beetroot right.” “I’ve always done it this way!” “That’s not an argument. You should relearn. Let’s start all over, from scratch.” Mrs. Thompson froze, knife mid-air, a look of utter disbelief on her face. “What are you talking about?” “The same thing you say to Elliot every day,” Dennis leaned in. “Relearn. You’re doing it wrong. It’s not done that way. Use the other hand.” “That’s completely different,” she spat. “Is it? To me, it’s exactly the same.” Mrs. Thompson put the knife down, cheeks flushed with indignation. “You’re comparing my cooking to… I’ve always done it this way! It’s what I’m comfortable with!” “And Elliot’s comfortable using his left hand. Yet that doesn’t stop you.” “It’s not the same! He’s a child, he can still change!” “And you’re an adult, set in your ways. You can’t be changed, right? So what gives you the right to break him?” Mrs. Thompson’s lips tightened, her eyes shining with fury. “How dare you? I raised three children! I retrained George, and nothing happened to him!” “And how is he now? Is he happy? Confident in himself?” Silence. Dennis knew he’d hit a nerve. George—Olivia’s older brother—lived far away and called their mother twice a year. “I only ever wanted what’s best,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice trembled. “That’s all I wanted.” “I don’t doubt it. But ‘what’s best’ doesn’t mean ‘what you decide.’ Elliot is his own person—small, but his own. With his own ways. And I won’t let you squash them out of him.” “You’re giving me lectures, now?” “I will, if you won’t stop. I’ll point out every single thing you do—every gesture, every habit. Let’s see how you like it.” They stood staring, both tense, on edge. “That’s petty and vindictive,” Mrs. Thompson hissed. “You left me no choice.” He saw something break inside her—a crack in that pillar of certainty she’d always relied on. Mrs. Thompson suddenly looked older, smaller, more vulnerable. “I only meant to help—” she didn’t finish. “I know. But you need to stop helping like this. Otherwise, you won’t see your grandson again.” The borscht on the stove began to boil over, but no one moved to rescue it. That evening, after Mrs. Thompson had retreated to her room, Olivia slipped onto the sofa next to Dennis, silent for a long time with her head on his shoulder. “No one ever protected me like that as a child,” she whispered. “Mum always knew best. Always. I just… accepted it.” Dennis wrapped his arm around her. “But in our family, your mother doesn’t get to decide for anyone else. Not anymore.” Olivia nodded, squeezing his hand in thanks. From the children’s room, the faint scratch of pencil on paper could be heard. Elliot was drawing—with his left hand. And no one told him he was doing it wrong ever again.

Ill make a proper boy of him yet! My grandson will not be left-handed. Mrs. Edith Hadleys indignation