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There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence Four years had passed since Agatha’s mother died, but she still remembered the unbearable grief, especially the evening after the funeral, with her father crushed by sorrow in their big, solid English home. At sixteen, Agatha did her best to adapt; years later, after qualifying as a paramedic, she lived alone in the family house while her father, Ivan, now remarried, settled with his new wife Kate and her two children in a nearby village. On her father’s birthday, Agatha arrived in a beautiful dress and heels, smiling as she handed over a gift—only to be met with Kate’s blunt announcement: “Your father won’t be supporting you anymore; you’re old enough to manage, he has a new family now.” Ivan tried to defend his daughter, but was silenced by Kate’s complaints. After a fraught celebration, Ivan and Kate soon visited Agatha to propose selling her beloved family home. Kate, cold and sharp, insisted it was only fair—her own children needed space, and Agatha, now an adult, could manage alone. Hurt, Agatha refused, standing her ground. Ivan, torn between loyalty to his daughter and his new wife, grew increasingly uneasy. Things darkened further when Agatha was unexpectedly abducted near her home by a stranger who threatened her into signing away her share of the house. “In our business, there are no coincidences,” he sneered, forcing documents into her hands. But police, alerted by Agatha’s fiancé Arthur—a local officer—arrived in time to rescue her. The plot, it turned out, was masterminded by Kate and her lover, desperate to claim Agatha’s home and the money it would bring. With the truth revealed, Ivan divorced Kate and returned to his daughter, filled with regret but hopeful for the future. Agatha found happiness with Arthur, and their family—though smaller—grew closer than ever within the cherished old house. A reminder that in life, there’s no such thing as coincidence—only choices, love, and the courage to stand by what matters most.
There is No Such Thing as Coincidence
It had been nearly four years since her mum passed away, but Emily still remembered the sharp ache and suffocating loneliness that lingered, especially that night after the funeral. Her father, Thomas, sat hunched, crushed by grief, while Emilys own tears had finally run dry. In their sturdy, roomy house, silence pressed down on them, heavy and relentless.
At sixteen, Emily understood the pain she and her dad bore. The three of them had been happy together once, a complete family. Thomas wrapped his arm gently around her shoulders and spoke in a voice hoarse from sorrow:
Well have to find a way to keep on living, love; somehow, well get used to it
Time passed. Emily became a paramedic and had only recently started working at the surgery in her village. She lived alone now, because her father had remarried last year and moved to the neighbouring village. She bore him no ill will, didnt judge him. Life goes on, she thoughtshed marry someday herself, and Dad was still a young man.
Stepping off the bus in a graceful dress and polished shoes, Emily carried a wrapped gift in her bag. Today was her fathers birthdaythe only family she had left.
Hello, Dad! Emily called, warmth lighting her face as they hugged tightly in the garden where he met her.
Oh, Em, you made it, he grinned, his eyes brightening. She grinned back, handing him his present, Happy birthday!
Come inside, love, the tables all set, he said, leading her indoors.
Oh, Emily, finally! called Grace, now her stepmum, bustling from the kitchen. The kids are starving already!
For a year, Thomas had lived with Grace and her brood. Graces daughter, thirteen-year-old Megan, was mouthy and mean, and her ten-year-old son nearly as bad. Emily rarely visitedthis was only her second time that yearand did her best to ignore Megans sharp tongue, unchecked by her mother.
After dinner, as congratulations and small talk gave way to prying questions, Grace turned her attention to Emily.
Do you have a boyfriend, then?
Erm I do, yeah, Emily answered, caught off guard.
So, is there a wedding on the horizon? Grace pressed.
Emily flushed at the bluntness, avoiding her eyes. Well well see.
Look, Emily, Grace said, a tight smile on her lips, your dad and I have talked, and he wont be helping you out financially anymore. Hes been giving you far too much, and weve got a big family now. Time you married and let someone else take care of you. Your fathers responsibilities are to us firstbesides, youre grown up and working yourself
Grace, thats not exactly what we agreed, Thomas interrupted quietly. I told you Im not even giving her as much as I give everyone else
Grace cut him off, raising her voice. Dont be daft! She treats you like a cash machine, and its us who go without
Thomas stared at the table, silent and ashamed. Emilys cheeks burned; she stood abruptly and hurried outside, settling on the old bench in the garden to regain her composure. The birthday gathering was ruined. Megan followed her out, slouching next to her.
Youre pretty, you know, Megan said, and Emily gave a wordless nod, fighting the urge to respond.
Dont take it out on my mumshes all over the place lately cause shes pregnant, Megan smirked. But youll get to know her yet. Wait and see. Giggling spitefully, she darted back inside.
Emily rose and walked beyond the gate, glancing back to see her father watching from the porch, sorrow in his eyes. Three days later, unexpectedly, Thomas and Grace appeared at Emilys door.
Oh! Youve both come. Let me put the kettle on, she offered.
Grace took a long look around the house, walking from room to room. Good solid housethere arent many like this in the village.
My dads got magic handshe and Uncle Colin built it themselves, isnt that right, Dad?
Oh, stop it, lovenothing magic about it. Just did what I could for us both.
I know, Grace replied. I count myself lucky. Weve actually stopped by to talk about the house.
Emilys heart sank at once. Im not selling my share; I grew up in this house. It means the world to me. She looked squarely at Grace, then her father.
My, arent you quick! Grace hissed, venom and mockery in her tone. Well, Tom, arent you going to say anything? She nudged Thomass arm.
Emily, darling, we have to sort this out. My familys growing, and this house is too smalleven more so with a baby on the way. If we sell, you could get yourself a smaller placeand if its not enough, you could take out a loan. Id help you pay it off He couldnt meet her eyes.
Dad, how can you say that? Emily whispered, numb with disbelief.
Your father has a new family now! Grace snapped, raising her voice. When will you get that? This house is no longer yours. Youre sitting on a huge property all on your own. Its time for you to moveno ones going to ask you again.
Dont you dare shout at me, Emily said, standing firmly. Please leave, both of you.
After theyd gone, Emilys heart ached. Of course her father had a right to his life. But not by throwing her aside. This was her mums house, and she would never sell her share.
Later that evening, her boyfriend Oliver stopped by. When he saw Emilys pale face, he faltered.
Whats wrong, sweetheart? You look done in.
She ran to his arms, tears breaking free. She sobbed out every word, and Oliver listened, patience and quiet strength in his every move. Working at the police, he was always calm, always steady.
Your dads not a bad man, Emhes just too wrapped up in Graces schemes. Shes got him all tied up in knots. Dont fret. Well find a way. Ill get some solicitor friends from the city involved, but promise me this: dont sign or agree to anything.
Back at home, Thomass guilt gnawed at him. In the first months with Grace, life was good. But now she was easily angered, wanted more money, and was set on selling the house, dragging him along with her. Hed begun to wonder if hed made a grave mistake. Then, of course, she announced the pregnancy.
He needed air. He slipped from the kitchen, reaching for his phone, but paused when he heard Graces voice behind the door, speaking low and harsh.
She wont listen, no matter what, she muttered to someone on the phone. Well have to take action ourselves. Ill talk to him again. If that doesnt work, Ill find a way to handle him, too.
Grace hung up and spun round, startled to see Thomas.
Who was that?
Just Sarah, she lied, too quickly.
No, you were talking about selling the house. Grace flopped onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh.
Sarahs found a reliable estate agent, someone who can get us a buyer. Trust me, Emily will thank usshell make a tidy sum.
But I heard you say, Ill handle him, too. What did you mean by that?
Oh, that I was talking about the garagewe ought to sell that as well. She lied outright.
Thomas, half-convinced, pushed his worries aside.
Emily was coming home late from work; autumn nights had drawn in thick and early. Oliver promised to meet her, but had been called out urgently, apologising over the phone. She hurried down the dark lane, desperate to be home. Just yards from her gate, a car pulled up. A burly stranger stepped out, grabbed her, and shoved her easily onto the back seat before the car screeched away.
Who are you? What do you want? she cried, voice shaking. This must be a mistake But the men in the dark laughed.
There are no mistakes in our line of business. The drivers words were calm, but cold. Just do as youre told, sign the documents, and you and your father will be left alone.
What has my father got to do with this?
Sign the house over. Sell it in two daysyoull get the money and have to move out. There are already buyers lined up.
This is illegal. Ill never agree to it. Ill go to the policeIll never sell my home But a rough fist struck her jaw. She tasted blood, dizzy with pain.
Were not scared of your police pals, or your boyfriend, either, sneered the thug. Refuse to sign, and youll be wishing you had. Maybe your copper will have to investigate your disappearance. And if he tries to stop us
The car shuddered to a halt at the edge of the village. Another thug shone a torch in her face, shoving papers at her.
Sign, and keep the blood off the page. Itll all be handled by the solicitor tomorrow.
Emily, dazed and desperate, noticed the sudden glare of flashing blue lights behind themone police car, then another in quick succession. In panic, the driver lurched forward, pressing the wrong pedal and crashing into the ditch.
It turned out Oliver had asked his friend Max to watch over Emily when he couldn’t. Max spotted her abduction and called Oliver, who mobilised every available officer.
Later, investigations revealed that Graces supposed lover was none other than the brute who had attacked Emily, and that Grace was carrying his child. Together, theyd tried to swindle Thomas out of his homea home Grace had coveted for its value and comfort. Emily, stubborn and loyal, was simply in the way. Grace planned to deal with Thomas once she got what she wanted.
In time, the truth came out. Everything fell back into place. Thomas divorced Grace and moved back home. He kept up his small car parts business, grateful for second chances. They sat together at the kitchen table that eveningThomas, Emily and Oliver. For Thomas, the old house was dearer to him than ever.
Dont fret about being alone, Dad, Emily teased, laughter lightening the air.
Tell meare you planning a wedding soon? Thomas asked, half-teasing.
Ive already proposed to Emily, Oliver said, grinning at father and daughter. She said yes. Weve filed the paperworkthe weddings soon. The pair shared a quick, conspiratorial glance, then laughed together.
Dad, even when I move in with Oliver, well visit all the time. Were not far, after all.
Thomass gaze drifted to the photo of his late wife, tears welling in his eyes. Forgive me, EmIve made mistakes. Im so sorry.
Its all right, Dad. Things turned out fine. Theyll only get better from here.
Thank you for reading, for your support, and best wishes for your journey through life.
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On the Edge of This Summer Working in a quiet village library, Dana always considered her life hopelessly dull—after all, when most people could find answers with a quick online search, visitors were few and far between. She would dust off paperbacks and rearrange shelves, the only upside being that she’d devoured a staggering number of books: romances, adventures, philosophy… Yet by the age of thirty, she was painfully aware that the great love stories she read passed her by in real life. A sensible age to settle down, a plain face, a modest wage—none of these had ever urged her to change jobs. Her customers were mostly the odd student, a rare schoolchild, or an elderly patron. Recently, an unexpected twist: she’d entered a county-wide professional contest and, to her astonishment, won—a fully paid two-week seaside holiday. “Brilliant! I’m definitely going—there’s no way I could afford such a getaway on my salary!” she beamed to her best mate and her mum. As summer waned, Dana wandered a windswept beach while most tourists lurked in beach cafés, keeping dry from the wild surf. It was her third day, and she craved a peaceful stroll and a little daydreaming. Suddenly, a young man was swept off the pier by a rogue wave. Instinctively, not thinking of herself, Dana dashed to the rescue—luckily, he was close enough to save, and childhood swimming lessons paid off. By the time she dragged him ashore, her once-pretty dress clinging to her damp skin, Dana realized he was just a tall, awkward boy, perhaps fourteen at most. He murmured thanks and staggered away, leaving her bemused. The next morning, Dana awoke to glorious sunshine and the sparkling promise of a gentler sea. After breakfast she headed to the beach, basked in the warmth, and by evening wandered into a nearby funfair. She tried her luck at the shooting range—her first shot missed, but the second was spot on. “See, son, that’s how you shoot!” came a friendly voice behind her. To her surprise, it was the same boy from the pier—accompanied by a tall, affable man, who introduced himself as Anton. They spent the evening together—ice creams, a ride on the Ferris wheel—and Dana felt oddly at home. Funnily enough, both father and son lived in the same town as she did; they laughed at the coincidence. The beach days grew magical as the trio became inseparable. Anton’s easy wit, the boy’s newfound confidence, and Dana’s quiet warmth began to feel like something more than friendship. Home was just a train ride away, but matters of the heart cared little for geography. As her holiday drew to a close, Dana and her new friends had to say their goodbyes. Anton promised to meet her at the airport, his messages now filled with the tender hope of something lasting. By summer’s end, Dana had moved in with Anton and his son. Their simple happiness felt as unexpected and wonderful as winning that holiday—and for young Jen, nothing could be better than seeing his dad, himself, and Dana become a family at the edge of summer.
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My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage for Christmas, But I Refused to Give Them the Keys — “So, we’ve been talking and decided: why let your cottage sit empty? We’ll head there with the kids for the Christmas holidays. Fresh air, sledging hill nearby, we’ll fire up the sauna. You’re always at work, Lena, and Vitya could use some rest—but he turns us down, says he just wants to catch up on sleep. So just hand over the keys, we’ll pop in tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my sister-in-law, was speaking so loudly and matter-of-factly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, towel-drying a plate, struggling to process what I’d just heard. My husband’s relatives’ cheek had long become a running family joke, but this was a new level of audacity. “Hold on, Svetlana,” I replied slowly, trying to keep the irritation from trembling in my voice. “What do you mean, you decided? With whom? The cottage isn’t some public holiday camp—it’s our home, mine and Vitya’s. And for your information, we were planning to go there ourselves.” “Oh, come off it!” She brushed off my protest—for all I knew, chewing something at the other end. “You were planning! Vitya told Mum you’d be home with the telly. You’ve got loads of space – two floors! We won’t be in your way, even if you decided to show up. But better not—it’s going to be a noisy crowd. Gena’s inviting mates for barbecue and music! You and your books would just be bored anyway.” I felt my face flush. I could picture it instantly: Gena, her husband, a fan of drunken singalongs; their two teenage kids who’d never heard the word “no”; and my poor cottage, into which I’d poured my soul and every penny I’d saved these last five years. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “You’re not getting the keys. The cottage isn’t ready for guests, the heating system needs an expert touch, the septic tank isn’t easy. And frankly, I don’t want a crowd of strangers partying in my home.” “Strangers?!” my sister-in-law shrieked, finally pausing her chewing. “Family! Your husband’s own sister and nephew and niece! What’s happened to you and your accountant’s heart? I’ll tell Mum exactly how you welcome family!” The dial tone sounded like gunshots. I lowered the phone to the table, hands trembling in betrayal. I knew this was just the beginning. Soon the heavy artillery would arrive—my mother-in-law, Nina Petrovna, and a full-blown assault would begin. Viktor entered the kitchen a minute later, offering a guilty smile. He’d overheard, of course, but had chosen to hide in the lounge, hoping I’d handle it. “Lena, isn’t that a bit harsh?” he tip-toed in, trying to put an arm around my shoulders. “Svetka’s a bit much, sure, but they’re family. Don’t want to hurt them.” I shrugged him off and turned. The exhaustion and resolve in my eyes made him fall silent. “Vitya, do you remember last May?” I asked quietly. He winced, like a toothache had flared up. “Well, yes…” “‘Yes’?” I raised my voice. “They came for two days ‘to barbecue’. Result: your nephew broke the apple tree my father planted; the lounge carpet’s still got burn marks; a week spent scrubbing congealed, greasy dishes because Svetka said ‘I’ve got a manicure and you’ve got a dishwasher’, though they didn’t even turn it on! Smashed vase? Trampled peonies?” “Well, kids… they played…” Viktor mumbled to the lino. “Kids? He’s fifteen. She’s thirteen. Not toddlers! Those two set the sauna on fire by not opening the flue! We nearly burned down! And now you want them there alone—for a week—in winter?” “They promised to be careful… Gena said he’d keep an eye out.” “Gena will keep watch only that the vodka doesn’t run dry!” I snapped. “No, Vitya. I said no. It’s my home—legally and in fact. I put my inheritance into its renovation. I know every nail. I won’t let them turn it into a pigsty.” The rest of the evening passed in tense silence. Viktor tried putting on the telly, switched it off, went to bed. I sat in the kitchen, sipping cold tea, remembering how we built that house. It was more than a cottage—it was a dream. We’d inherited the old cabin and rebuilt it over three years, scrimping on everything. No new clothes, no seaside holidays, every penny for our sanctuary. I sanded logs myself, painted the walls, sewed the curtains, chose the fireplace tiles. To me, it was a sacred place, an escape from city stress and work. To his relatives? Just a ‘free holiday base’ with amenities. Next morning, just as I knew it would, the bell rang. I checked the spyhole and sighed heavily. On our doorstep stood Nina Petrovna, the full force of mother-in-law: fur hat, bright lipstick, huge bag poking with a frozen fish tail. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she thundered, not bothering with hellos. Nina sailed in like an icebreaker, filling the hallway. Viktor poked his head out, half-relieved, half-anxious. “Mum! No warning?” he squeaked. “What, do I need an appointment now?” She snorted, dumping her coat on him. “Put the kettle on—and the valerian, my heart’s been hurting for two days over you two!” Sat in our kitchen like a tribunal chair, I poured the tea, sliced cake, braced for what was coming. “So, dear daughter-in-law,” Nina Petrovna began, “what’s up with Svetochka? Your husband’s flesh and blood. All they asked was to rest at your place. Their own flat’s a mess, can’t breathe for the dust, and your palace just sits empty. Why so stingy?” “Nina Petrovna,” I answered calmly, “it’s not a palace but a regular house that needs care. Their renovations have dragged on five years, that’s not a reason to occupy our property. And I remember their last visit perfectly. The tobacco stench still hasn’t left the guest curtains, even though I begged them not to smoke inside.” “Who cares if they smoked!” she waved her hands. “Open the windows! You care more about stuff than people, Lena, that’s materialism! We raised Vitya to be generous and kind, now you’re turning him into a miser! You can’t take the cottage to your grave!” “Mum, Lena put so much into it…” Viktor tried. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Your wife’s got you under her thumb. Do you want your sister and nephews out in the cold? Gena turns 45 on the third—they wanted a family celebration, already bought the meat, invited friends. Now what, cancel it all? Be the laughingstock?” “That’s not my problem if they invited guests without asking,” I shot back. “That’s called bad manners, Nina Petrovna.” She turned purple—she wasn’t used to anyone arguing, especially not Viktor. But I was made of sterner stuff. “Bad manners?” she gasped theatrically, clutching her heart. “So that’s how it is? I treat you like a daughter and you… Vitya! Hear how your wife speaks to me? If you don’t hand those keys to Svetka right now, I’ll… I’ll curse that house! My foot will never cross its threshold again!” “Hardly sets foot there now, you hate weeding,” I couldn’t help but mutter. “You snake!” She jumped up, knocking over a chair. “Vitya, give me those keys! I’ll give them to Svetka. Who’s head of this family?” He glanced miserably between her and me. Torn apart. He feared his mother’s wrath, had always obeyed, but also loved me—and the cottage too. He remembered fixing the porch Gena broke, dragging a barbecue in during a storm. “Mum, Lena has the keys,” he mumbled. “And maybe we’ll go ourselves.” “A liar!” she declared. “Right, Svetka’s coming round tomorrow. Have the keys on the table—with instructions for the boiler! If not, you’re not my son. And you,” turning to me, “remember this day. What goes around comes around!” She left, slamming the door. Silence settled, broken only by the clock ticking. “You won’t give them the keys, will you?” Viktor whispered half-an-hour later. “I won’t,” I said. “In fact—Vitya, we’re going to the cottage tomorrow morning. Ourselves.” “But we hadn’t planned… you had reports…” “Plans have changed. If we don’t occupy it, they’ll lay siege. I know your sister. She’d climb in the window if she decided she ‘needed’ it. If we’re there, she’ll have to go.” “Lena, that’s war…” “It’s defending our borders, Vitya. Pack your bags.” We left at dawn. The city was sparkling under Christmas lights but our mood was anything but festive. Viktor anxiously checked his phone—on silent, as I’d requested. An hour later, we arrived. The village dozed under snowy blankets; our house, with its bright wooden walls and snow-topped roof, looked like a Christmas card. I breathed out—sanctuary. We warmed the house, switched on the underfloor heating, unpacked Christmas decorations. The smell of pine and clementines filled the air; tension began to fade. Viktor went out to shovel snow; I watched through the window as he enjoyed it. He needed this peace too, but had been afraid to admit it. The peace shattered at three in the afternoon. The blaring of car horns at the gate. I peeked out and froze—Gena’s old jeep and another unfamiliar car. A crowd tumbled out: Svetlana in bright puffer, Gena, their kids, a strange couple with a huge Rottweiler, and Nina Petrovna—a general amongst troops. Viktor hesitated by the gate, shovel in hand. “Vitya, let us in—we’re freezing!” Svetlana yelled, yanking the handle. “Lena, what’s keeping you? We came to surprise you! If you’re here—even better! Let’s celebrate together!” I put a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. He hesitated. “Hello. We weren’t expecting guests,” I said loudly. “Oh, stop pretending!” Gena waved, his voice already slurring. “Surprise! We’ve brought meat, a crate of vodka—everyone’s here. Let us in!” “A dog?” I snapped as the Rottweiler lifted its leg on my precious juniper. “Get him off my plants!” “Oh leave it, it’s just a tree!” Svetlana laughed. “Come on! Kids need the toilet!” “There’s a loo at the petrol station five miles down,” I said crisply. “I told you yesterday—the cottage is occupied. We’re resting. No room for ten guests and a dog.” A pause. They’d assumed if they just showed up, with mother-in-law in tow, we’d give in—classic family blackmail. “You’re not letting us in?” Nina Petrovna shrilled. “Leaving your own mother out in the cold? Vitya! Say something!” He turned to me, pleading. “Lena, please… they’re already here, how can we…?” “Like this,” I said firmly. “If you open that gate, in an hour it’ll be drunken chaos. The dog’ll dig up my garden and foul the carpets, the kids will destroy the upstairs, your sister will teach me how to cook in my own kitchen, and your brother-in-law will smoke cigars in the lounge. Our peaceful holiday—ruined. Is that what you want? Or would you prefer a quiet New Year with me? Make your choice. Right now.” Behind the gate, Gena was kicking his tyre, Svetlana was screaming insults, the kids were throwing snowballs at the window, Nina Petrovna clutched her heart theatrically. And suddenly, Viktor remembered. Three days fixing the swing last visit, the shame over the burnt rug, wishing simply to nap by the fire instead of running out for Gena’s vodka. He straightened, stepped to the gate, and, quietly but very firmly, declared: “Mum, Svetka. Lena’s right. We said there’d be no keys and no guests. Please leave.” “What?!” the whole clan roared. “You heard me. This is my home too. No circus. Please go.” “You—you—” Gena started, hand trying to force the latch. “Go, Gena,” Viktor gripped his shovel. “I’ll call security.” “Security?!” Nina Petrovna wheezed. “We’re family! I curse you, Judas! And your snake wife! I’ll never set foot here again!” “Let’s go!” Svetlana yanked her husband. “They’re mad! Let’s go to Tolyan’s place—he may be half-built but at least they’re welcoming!” Finally, engines revved, wheels spun, cars reversed out through the snow. Svetlana showed me a very rude gesture, Nina Petrovna’s stare like granite. Five minutes later, only silence—and a yellowed patch on my winter-wrapped juniper for proof. Viktor rammed the shovel into a snowdrift, sat heavily on the steps, face in hands. “Oh God, what a disgrace,” he whispered. “My own mother…” I sat beside him, put my arms around him, rested my cheek to his shoulder. “It’s not disgrace, Vitya. It’s growing up. Today you protected our family—the two of us. Not their clan, but us.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She will. The moment she needs something—money for medicine or help with a job. They’re like that. They don’t stay upset if it’s inconvenient. But now they’ll know—there’s a line. And start respecting you. Not right away, but they will.” “You think?” “I know. And if not… well, we’ll have more peace. Come in, or you’ll freeze. I’ll make us mulled wine.” We went inside, drawn the curtains, shutting out the cold and angry words. In the evening, by the fire, we watched the flames in a silence that was cosy, not bitter. The next three days passed in blissful quiet. Woodland walks, barbecues—for ourselves—sauna, books. The phones silent—the family had declared boycott. On the third of January, just as I’d predicted, Viktor’s phone pinged: a message from Svetlana. Not an apology—just a photo: some sort of shed, a battered gas stove, empty vodka bottles and blurry, drunken faces. Caption: “Having a great holiday without you. Jealous much?” I looked at the battered table, Gena’s puffy face, and then at my husband asleep with a book, relaxed, peaceful, content. “Nothing to be jealous of, Svetka,” I whispered, deleting the message so as not to wake him. A week later, back in the city, Nina Petrovna rang herself. Her voice was cold and hurt, but she needed Viktor to drive her to the clinic. She didn’t mention the cottage. The boundary was drawn. There’d be the odd skirmish, but our citadel stood firm. Sometimes you need to be ‘bad’ for others to be good for yourself, and to protect your own family. And from then on, the cottage keys sat not on the hallway shelf, but locked in my safe. Just in case.
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There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence Four years had passed since Agatha’s mother died, but she still remembered the unbearable grief, especially the evening after the funeral, with her father crushed by sorrow in their big, solid English home. At sixteen, Agatha did her best to adapt; years later, after qualifying as a paramedic, she lived alone in the family house while her father, Ivan, now remarried, settled with his new wife Kate and her two children in a nearby village. On her father’s birthday, Agatha arrived in a beautiful dress and heels, smiling as she handed over a gift—only to be met with Kate’s blunt announcement: “Your father won’t be supporting you anymore; you’re old enough to manage, he has a new family now.” Ivan tried to defend his daughter, but was silenced by Kate’s complaints. After a fraught celebration, Ivan and Kate soon visited Agatha to propose selling her beloved family home. Kate, cold and sharp, insisted it was only fair—her own children needed space, and Agatha, now an adult, could manage alone. Hurt, Agatha refused, standing her ground. Ivan, torn between loyalty to his daughter and his new wife, grew increasingly uneasy. Things darkened further when Agatha was unexpectedly abducted near her home by a stranger who threatened her into signing away her share of the house. “In our business, there are no coincidences,” he sneered, forcing documents into her hands. But police, alerted by Agatha’s fiancé Arthur—a local officer—arrived in time to rescue her. The plot, it turned out, was masterminded by Kate and her lover, desperate to claim Agatha’s home and the money it would bring. With the truth revealed, Ivan divorced Kate and returned to his daughter, filled with regret but hopeful for the future. Agatha found happiness with Arthur, and their family—though smaller—grew closer than ever within the cherished old house. A reminder that in life, there’s no such thing as coincidence—only choices, love, and the courage to stand by what matters most.
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