З життя
Please Marry Me,” Begs the Lonely Millionaire Heiress to a Homeless Man. What He Asked for in Return Left Her Stunned…
The sky wept softlya delicate veil of rainas people hurried past with umbrellas and downcast eyes. Yet no one noticed the woman in a beige suit kneeling at the heart of the crossroads, her voice trembling. “Please… marry me,” she whispered, clutching a velvet box. The man she proposed to? Unshaven for weeks, his coat patched with duct tape, he slept in an alley just a stones throw from the City of London.
Two weeks earlier
Eleanor Whitmore, 36, billionaire CEO of a tech empire and single mother, had it allor so the world believed. Fortune 500 accolades, magazine covers, a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park. But behind the glass walls of her office, she felt like she was suffocating.
Her six-year-old son, Oliver, had fallen silent after his fathera renowned surgeonleft her for a younger model and a life in Milan. Oliver no longer smiled. Not at cartoons, not at puppies, not even at chocolate cake.
Nothing brought him joy… except the ragged stranger who fed pigeons outside his school.
Eleanor first noticed him when she was late to pick Oliver up. Her quiet boy pointed across the road and murmured, “Mum, that man talks to birds like they’re his family.”
She dismissed ituntil she saw for herself. The homeless man, perhaps forty, with warm eyes beneath the grime and a scruffy beard, crumbled bread onto the pavement, whispering to each pigeon as if they were old friends. Oliver stood nearby, watching with soft eyesand a stillness she hadnt seen in months.
From then on, Eleanor arrived five minutes early just to witness this exchange.
One evening, after a gruelling board meeting, she walked past the school alone. There he waseven in the rainmuttering to the birds, soaked but still smiling.
She hesitated, then crossed the street.
“Excuse me,” she said softly. He looked up, his eyes startlingly alive despite the dirt. “I’m Eleanor. That boy, Oliver… hes grown quite fond of you.”
He smiled. “I know. He talks to the birds. They understand things people dont.”
She laughed despite herself. “Might I… ask your name?”
“Jonah,” he answered simply.
They talked. Twenty minutes. Then an hour. Eleanor forgot her meeting. Forgot the rain trickling down her back beneath her umbrella. Jonah didnt ask for money. He asked about Oliver, her company, how often she laughedand he listened. Really listened.
He was kind. Clever. Unassuming. Nothing like any man shed ever known.
Days folded into weeks.
Eleanor brought coffee. Then soup. Then a scarf.
Oliver drew portraits of Jonah and told her, “Hes like a real angel, Mum. But sad.”
On the eighth day, Eleanor asked a question she hadnt planned:
“What… would it take for you to start again? To get a second chance?”
Jonah looked away. “Someone believing I still matter. That Im not just a ghost people ignore.”
Then he met her gaze.
“And Id want that someone to be real. Not out of pity. Just… choosing me.”
The PresentThe Proposal
And so it happened that Eleanor Whitmore, billionaire CEO, the woman whod once acquired AI startups before breakfast, now knelt in the rain on Oxford Street, a ring in her hand, before a man who had nothing.
Jonah looked stunned. Not at the cameras already flashing, or the murmuring crowd.
But at her.
“You want to marry me?” he breathed. “Eleanor, Ive no name. No bank account. I sleep behind a skip. Why me?”
She swallowed. “Because you make my son laugh. Because you make me feel again. Because youre the only one who never wanted anything from meyou just wanted to know me.”
Jonah stared at the box in her hand.
Then he stepped back.
“Only… if you answer one question first.”
She froze. “Ask. Just ask.”
He leaned in slightly, meeting her eyes.
“Would you love me still,” he asked, “if you knew I wasnt just a man on the street… but someone with a past that could ruin everything youve built?”
Her eyes widened.
“What do you mean?”
Jonah straightened. His voice was quiet, almost rough.
“Because I wasnt always homeless. Once, I had a name the papers whispered in courtrooms.”
Ethan Blackwood stood there, wrapped in stunned silence, holding a battered toy car in his palm. The red paint was chipped, the wheels wobbled, yet it was worth more to him than any luxury hed ever owned.
“No,” he finally said, kneeling before the twins. “I cant take this. It belongs to both of you.”
One of the boys, with chestnut eyes brimming with tears, whispered, “But we need the money for Mums medicine. Please, sir…”
Ethans heart clenched.
“Whats your name?” he asked.
“Im Leo,” said the elder twin. “Hes Oliver.”
“And your mums name?”
“Emily,” Leo replied. “Shes very sick. The medicine costs too much.”
Ethan studied them. Barely six years old. Yet here they stood, in the biting wind, selling their only toyalone.
His voice softened. “Take me to her.”
At first, they hesitated. But something in his tone made them trust. They nodded.
He followed the boys through narrow alleys to a crumbling tenement. Up broken stairs to a tiny room where a woman lay on a moth-eaten sofa, pale and unconscious. The room was barely heated. Her frail body was draped in a thin blanket.
Ethan pulled out his phone and called his private physician.
“Send an ambulance to this address. Prep a full team. I want her admitted to my clinic.”
He hung up and knelt beside the woman. Her breathing was shallow.
The twins watched him with wide eyes.
“Is Mum going to die?” Oliver choked out.
Ethan turned to them. “No. I promise, shell get better. I wont let anything happen.”
Minutes later, paramedics arrived and took Emily to hospital. Ethan insisted on staying with the twins, holding their small hands as the ambulance raced through the night.
At Blackwood Memorial, the hospital hed once funded, Emily was rushed into intensive care. Ethan covered everythingno questions asked.
For hours, the twins huddled together in the waiting room, half-asleep, clutching a blanket. Ethan kept watch, a storm raging in his mind.
Who was this woman? And why did she feel… strangely familiar?
A Week Later
Emily blinked awake in a sunlit private ward, the last thing she remembered being unbearable painand her boys whispers, as if saying goodbye.
Now the pain was gone.
She sat up sharplyand gasped.
Leo and Oliver burst in, followed by the tall man in the tailored suit. Ethan.
“Youre awake,” he said, his face lighting up. “Thank God.”
Emily blinked. “You…? What are you doing here?”
“Thats my line,” he replied, sitting beside her. “Your boys tried to sell their only toy to buy your medicine. I found them outside my shop.”
Emilys hand flew to her mouth. “No…”
“They saved you, Emily.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed. “How can I ever repay you?”
“You dont have to,” Ethan said. Then, after a pause: “But… I have a question.”
He pulled a faded photo from his coat pocket. In it, a younger Emily embraced a younger Ethan. Back when they were at university. Back when hed left everything for business and wealthand left her.
“Ive kept this all these years,” Ethan said softly. “You never told me you had children.”
“I didnt want to ruin your life,” she whispered. “You walked away. I thought youd moved on.”
Ethan looked up. “Are they mine?”
She nodded.
“Theyre our sons.”
Ethan went very still.
All this time… hed had twin boys he never knew existed. And theyd tried to sell their only toy to save the woman hed once loved.
He knelt beside her, taking her hands. “I made a mistake, Emily. The worst of my life. If youll let me… I want to make it right. For them. For you. For us.”
Tears rolled down Emilys cheeks.
By the door, Leo whispered, “Mum… is that man our dad?”
Emily smiled. “Yes, darling. It is.”
The twins rushed forward, wrapping their arms around Ethan. For the first time in his life, he felt whole.
Epilogue
Six months later, Emily and the boys moved into Ethans estate. But they didnt just inherit a mansionthey inherited a family.
The toy car, still scuffed and worn, sat in a glass case in Ethans study, beneath a small plaque:
“The toy that saved a lifeand gave me a family.”
Because sometimes its not grand gestures or wealth that change lives, but the smallest thingsgiven from the
“My Grandchildren Only See Fresh Fruit Once a Month, But She Buys Expensive Food for Her Cats!”: My Daughter-in-Law Accuses Me of Being Cold-Hearted for Putting My Pets First, but I Won’t Let Her Guilt Me into Supporting Their Growing Family
My grandchildren only see fresh fruit once a month, yet she spends a fortune on fancy cat food, my daughter-in-law...
Oxana, Are You Busy? – A Festive New Year’s Eve Tale of Family, Holiday Hustle, a Mishap in the Snow, and an Unexpected Encounter with a Doctor That Changed Everything
Annie, are you busy? her mum calls, poking her head through the door to her daughters room. Just a second,...
Vitaly Settles in with Coffee and His Laptop to Finish Work—Until an Unexpected Call from the Maternity Ward Changes Everything: A Stranger’s Baby, a Past Affair in Brighton, and the Decision That Will Change His Life Forever
Edward settled himself at his mahogany desk, laptop open and a steaming mug of tea beside him. He had a...
Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
Yours hasnt written or rung you yet? No, Vera, not a word after nine days, not after forty either, Lydia...
You Drive Me Up the Wall!… I Can’t Eat Right, Can’t Dress Right, Can’t Do Anything Right! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything!… Can’t even earn proper money!… We never get any help from you around the house!… — Marina burst into tears, — …And there are no children…, — she whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the wardrobe, silently witnessed yet another “family tragedy”. She knew, she could sense, that Mum and Dad truly loved each other… But she didn’t understand why they said such cruel words that hurt everyone. Mum, sobbing, locked herself in the bedroom as Dad lit one cigarette after another. Belka, seeing her family falling apart, thought, “There must be happiness in this house… and happiness means children… we need to find some children…” Belka couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said she could, but something just wouldn’t work out… The next morning, after her humans left for work, Belka, for the very first time, slipped out the window to visit her neighbour Pawsy — for advice. — Why would you want kids? — scoffed Pawsy. — Ours come with children, and I have to hide from them… they smear lipstick on your face or squeeze you until you can’t breathe! Belka sighed: — We just need normal children… If only we could find some… — Hmmm… That street cat Molly’s had a litter… five of them… — mused Pawsy. — Take your pick… Taking her chances, Belka leapt balcony to balcony to the street. Shivering nervously, she squeezed through the railings of a basement window and called out: — Molly, could you come out for a minute, please… From deep within came desperate squeaks. Carefully crawling through, eyes darting in fear, Belka began to cry. Under the radiator, on the hard gravel, lay five tiny, sightless kittens, nudging the air and wailing for their mum. One sniff told her: Molly hadn’t been back for at least three days. The babies were starving. Fighting tears, Belka gently carried each kitten to the entrance. Trying to calm her hungry, squeaking brood, Belka lay down beside them, anxiously watching the end of the yard, waiting for Mum and Dad. Pavel, silent as he met Marina after work, brought them home. As they reached the doorway, they froze — there was their Belka, (who had never set paw on the street alone), and five multicoloured kittens clambering to nurse from her. — What on earth? — Pavel was stunned. — A miracle…, — echoed Marina, and together they scooped up the cat and kittens and rushed inside… Watching Belka purr happily in a box with her new babies, Pavel asked: — But what do we do with them? — I’ll feed them with a dropper… once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll call my friends…, — Marina whispered. Three months later, still stunned by the turn of events, Marina sat stroking her “cat pack” and murmured, over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen… this just doesn’t happen… Then, she and Pavel broke down in happy tears; he swept her into his arms, and they both laughed and chattered at once: — I’m glad I finished building the house! — Perfect for a child to get some fresh air! — And let the kittens run in the garden! — There’ll be room for everyone! — I love you! — And I love you even more! Wise Belka brushed away a tear — life, it seemed, was finally coming together…
How you get on my nerves! Nothing I do is right not even how I eat, not even what I...
I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned and Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones!” — And the Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Garden Gate Without Tears Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Gripped It in Their Fist. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Only Stopped When I Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—Now That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We’d Spent New Year Together, Just as Always: Mum in Her Favourite Apron I Gave Her at School, the Smell of Fried Burgers, Family Jokes, Dad Arriving with an Enormous Tree, All of Us Decorating, Singing Old Christmas Songs, Laughing Until We Cried… On 2nd January, I Looked Out to See Mum Clearing a Perfect Pathway from the Gate to Our Door, Her Scarf Tied Up, Red-cheeked, Shovelling Snow So We Wouldn’t Have to Struggle Through the Drifts. “It’s for You, My Lazy Lot—Go Put the Kettle On,” She Called, Smiling. That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Cheerful. The Next Day She Was Gone, So Suddenly It Didn’t Seem Real. Only Her Little Footprints Remain—Marks in the Snow, and In My Heart.
I remember shouting out the window, Mum, what are you doing out there so early? Youll freeze! She turned around,...
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW Anna Petrovna sat in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and she’d wipe the stovetop in irritation. In those moments, she realized: it wasn’t about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, it was as if everything in the family had gone off the rails. Her daughter grew weary, lost weight, and spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, and sometimes retreated straight to the bedroom. Anna Petrovna noticed all this and thought: how could anyone leave a woman alone like this? She spoke up—first gently, then with more edge. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But she began to notice a strange thing: after her words, things in the house didn’t get lighter—they got heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew more withdrawn, and she herself went home with the feeling she’d once again done the wrong thing. That day, she went to the vicar not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. ‘I suppose I’m just a bad person,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I do everything wrong.’ The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He put down his pen. ‘Why do you think that?’ Anna Petrovna shrugged. ‘I wanted to help. But it seems all I do is make everyone angry.’ He looked at her kindly, without judgment. ‘You’re not a bad person. You’re tired. And very anxious.’ She sighed. That felt like the truth. ‘I’m scared for my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s so different after giving birth. And him…’ she waved a hand. ‘It’s like he doesn’t even notice.’ ‘And do you notice what he does?’ asked the vicar. Anna Petrovna thought. She remembered last week, when he quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one noticed. Or on Sunday, when he took the pram out for a walk, even though it was clear he just wanted to lie down and sleep. ‘He does things… I think,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But not the way he should.’ ‘And what is “the way he should”?’ asked the vicar calmly. Anna Petrovna wanted to answer right away, but suddenly realized she didn’t know. In her head: more, more often, more attentively. But specifically what, she couldn’t say. ‘I just want it to be easier for her,’ she said. ‘Then say that,’ the vicar responded gently. ‘But say it to yourself, not to him.’ She looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that right now, you aren’t fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets tired of that. You. Them.’ Anna Petrovna was silent for a long time. Then she asked: ‘So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone, but for someone.’ On the way home, she thought about this. Remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t lecture her but just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it different now? The next day she showed up without warning. Brought soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law awkward. ‘I won’t stay long,’ Anna Petrovna said. ‘Just came to help.’ She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without saying a word about how hard things must be or how they ought to live. A week later, she came again. And a week after that. She still saw her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But she began to notice other things too: how carefully he lifted the youngest, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one saw. One day, she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: ‘Is it hard for you right now?’ He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that. ‘It’s hard,’ he said after a pause. ‘Really hard.’ And that was it. But after that, something sharp disappeared from the air between them. Anna Petrovna realized: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what needed to change was herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to get angry. But slowly, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the constant strain. One day her daughter said: ‘Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.’ Anna Petrovna thought about those words for a long time. She realized something simple: peace isn’t when someone admits they’re wrong. It’s when someone is the first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That wish didn’t go away. But living alongside it was something more important: wanting peace in the family. And every time the old feelings came up—indignation, bitterness, the urge to say something sharp—she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want life to be easier for them? The answer almost always told her what to do next.
MOTHER-IN-LAW Margaret Brown sat in her kitchen, watching as the milk quietly simmered on the hob. She’d forgotten to stir...
Foolish Anna: For 15 Years Everyone Called Her Simple – Her Husband Cheated Openly Since Their Wedding Day, While She Endured With a Smile. Little Did He Know, the Quiet Toy Factory Accountant Had a Master Plan That Would Turn His World Upside Down on Their Son’s Tenth Birthday
Everyone always said Emma was a simpleton. Shed been married to Tom for fifteen years and they had two kidsEmily...