З життя
Dandelion Jam After a mild, snowy English winter, everyone in the quaint town is longing for the fresh green leaves and colourful blooms of spring. Taissa, living in her cosy flat with her granddaughter Vera—whose parents, both doctors, have gone to work in Africa—finds herself cherishing the new season. The rhythms of the town change: market stalls buzz, neighbours gather on garden benches, and birdsong replaces alarm clocks. Taissa’s daily life intertwines with her lively neighbours—cheerful, well-read Valerie and grumpy Mrs Simmons—whose gossip and camaraderie brighten the days. Meanwhile, Vera happily attends school and dance class, proud to be watched over by her loving grandma. When Taissa strikes up a warm friendship with her thoughtful neighbour George Ellis, a widower with a distant daughter, they find comfort in shared stories and park strolls. Yet, tension brews when George’s daughter Vera visits and demands he sell his flat to move in with her family, suspecting Taissa’s intentions. An awkward confrontation ensues, but Taissa remains gracious. Life brings Taissa and George back together; he approaches her with a crown of dandelions and a jar of homemade dandelion jam, sharing its English folklore and health benefits. Their friendship flourishes over tea, recipes, and evenings under the old linden tree. Through spring’s renewal, two hearts discover sunshine in companionship and the sweet taste of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading and supporting my stories—wishing you all life’s brightest joys!
Dandelion Jam
The snowy winter had finally packed its bags and left, not that the cold was anything to write home about this yeara gentle, fluffy season from start to finish. Yet, like a guest who overstays their welcome, winter had begun to grate, and everyone was ready for green leaves and bursts of colour, not to mention leaving the endless parade of woolly jumpers behind.
Spring tiptoed into this small English town. Margaret loves this time of year, always eager for natures revival, and now, at last, she watched from her third-floor flat with a contented sigh.
With these warm spring days, the whole town feels as if its woken up from a long nap, she mused, gazing out the window. Even the lorries seem to rumble differently, the market is bustling again, and everyones swapped greys for bright coats. Birds do a much better job than my alarm clock now. Oh, spring is nice, but summers even better
Margaret had lived in her brick block of flats for years, now sharing the space with Alice, her granddaughter, who was in Year 4. Alices parents shipped off to Kenya last year on a medical contractboth doctorsleaving their daughter in Grannys capable hands.
Look, Mum, were entrusting Alice to youno point dragging her halfway across the world. We know youll mind her like a hawk, Margarets daughter had insisted.
Of course I will, Margaret replied. Itll liven things up now Im retired. Off you go, well be grand here!
Hurray, Granny! Alice cheered. Well have the best time! Mum and Dad never have a free minute, but you and I will take all the trips to the park.
After breakfast and sending Alice off for another day of learning and probable paint-spattered uniforms, Margaret dived into her domestic duties, the hours slipping by unnoticed.
Ill nip to Tesco before Alice comes back from schoolI did promise her something sweet if she stayed on top of her spelling tests, she thought, grabbing her shopping bag.
Out the front door, she spotted the familiar sight: two neighbours parked on the communal bench, each armed with a cushion for insulationBritish benches in spring are no joke. Mrs. Simmonsa mystery age, somewhere between seventy and eternity, always refusing to disclose her birth yearlived on the ground floor. Mrs. Valentine, also single but with about five years on Mrs. Simmons, was a voracious reader, brimming with stories and boisterous laughterpolar opposite to the perpetually peeved Mrs. Simmons.
As soon as the frost left, and even the sun wasnt quite committed, that bench filled up. Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Valentine were regulars, keeping tabs on every resident and even, some rumour had it, a passing bumblebee.
Margaret would often squeeze in beside them, and together with their newspapers, TV gossip, and Mrs. Simmonss endless tales of blood pressure, they solved all the worlds problems before elevenses.
Morning ladies! Margaret greeted with a grin. Already on duty?
Morning, Maggie! Cant let the neighbourhood down, can we? Mrs. Simmons declared, eyeing her shopping bag. Off to the supermarket, are we?
Spot ongot to get Alice something special for her achievements, Margaret replied. She didnt lingerthere was work to do.
The day slipped by: picking Alice up, dishing out tea, supervising homework, sneaking in a bit of telly.
Granny, Im off to dance class! Alice called from the hallway, backpack slung, phone grasped with the intensity only an English nine-year-old could manage.
Shed been hip-hopping about for six years, starring in local shows, and Margaret couldnt help but beam with pride.
Right then, Alice, go have fun, she replied, holding the door.
Later, Margaret perched alone on the bench, waiting for Alices return.
Lonely today? asked Mr. Edgar King, the second-floor neighbour, sliding in beside her.
As if anyone could be lonely on a day like this! Springs doing its thing, Margaret quipped.
Absolutely, the suns out, birds are on form, the whole estates yellow with coltsfootthose little flowers look like miniature suns, dont you think? Edgar smiled, earning Margarets agreement.
At that, Alice pounced from behind, arms flying around her grandmothers neck, barking playfully:
Woof, woof!
Goodness, child, you almost gave me a heart attack! Margaret laughed.
Not just yet, please! Edgar said with mock seriousness, patting her shoulder.
Come on, whirlwind, Margaret called, I grated your favourite carrots and sprinkled a bit of sugar, fried up some lovely cutlets toobet you worked up an appetite at dance.
Edgar rose with them.
What, leaving already? Now Im famished just hearing about those cutlets. I suppose Ill make myself a sarnie. But if you fancy an evening stroll on the bench, let me know! Edgar winked.
Cant promiselots to do. Maybe later
Margaret did pop out later, waving a quick goodbye to Edgar before heading in with Alice.
Granny, Mr. Kings courting you, you know! Alice giggled as they entered the hallway.
Oh, give over! Margaret dismissed the mischief.
No, really! Hes always eyeing you! If only Jamie from the class next door looked at me like that, every girl at school would be green with envy, Alice sighed dramatically.
Sit down and eat, my observant one. Jamie will gaze, just wait, Margaret chuckled.
Margaret found herself back on the bench later; Edgar was waiting, with regulars mysteriously absent.
Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Valentine just went in for supper, Edgar said cheerily.
After that evening, Margaret and Edgar started meeting more often, sometimes venturing to the park across the roadreading the newspaper, discussing articles and recipes, exchanging stories about actors and grandchildren.
Edgars life hadnt been all roses. Hed lost his wife early, bringing up daughter Vera as best he could, juggling two jobs so she never went without. Of course, time together had been scarce: hed head out before she woke, home after she was tucked up.
Vera eventually married, moved to another town, and gave him a grandson; shed visit a few times, but barely bothered after that. The visits were businesslike at best. She raised her son alone after her marriage crumbled fifteen years later.
Maggie, my daughters coming in two days, Edgar confided to Margaret one afternoonby now they were firmly on a first-name basis, discussing everything openly. She rang today. No idea why after all these years.
Maybe she wants to be nearer family as she gets older? Margaret suggested.
Not sure I buy that
Vera arrivedstill stern-faced and prickly, clearly carrying a secret agenda. Edgar braced for a deep and meaningful, which wasted no time making an entrance.
Dad, Im here for a reason, Vera announced. Lets sell your flat, you move in with us. Live with me and your grandsonitll be jolly! She pushed hard, obviously certain the matter was settled.
But Edgar felt uneasyhe couldnt imagine abandoning his home for a new life under the watchful, joyless eye of his daughter. He declined, insisting he preferred his solitude.
Vera, undeterred, sniffed out his friendship with Margaret and paid her a visit. She greeted politely, moved straight to the kitchen, where Margaret poured tea and produced a tin of biscuits and homemade jam.
So, Vera, whats brought you here? Margaret asked warmly.
I see you and my father are very close. Could you persuade him in one tiny favour?
And what might that be?
Convince him to sell his flat. Why does he need all that space? He should think of someone else for once! Vera snapped.
Margaret, taken aback by the edge and calculation in Veras plea, refused. Veras face twisted into a ripe tomato, and she began shrieking:
Oh, I see whats going on! You want the flat for yourself, dont you? Bagged a lonely old man just for your granddaughters inheritance! You two, cooing away on benches, waxing lyrical about dandelionspair of doddery fools. Have you filed your marriage papers already? Well, itll come to nothing, just you wait, you dried-up old bat! With a final slam of the door, she was gone.
Margaret felt embarrassed, praying the neighbours hadnt caught the tiff. Thankfully, Vera left soon after. Margaret did her best to steer clear of Edgar, darting home whenever she spotted him outside.
But fate, as it does, marched on with its own plans. One day, coming back from the shops, Margaret found Edgar on the bench, yellow dandelions in hand, an unfinished floral crown resting on his lap.
Dont run away, Margaret, he pleaded as she approached. Sit with me a moment. Sorry about Verashe came to you, didnt she, and said all sorts We had a proper talk, Ill always help my grandson, but Vera Well, shes gone for good now, said she hasnt a father anymore. Anyway He fell silent, then held out the half-plaited dandelion wreath with a gentle smile. Here, I made this. And I actually cooked up some dandelion jam, you knowits surprisingly tasty and good for you. Add it to a salad, too!
Margaret laughed, the awkwardness melting away. After the chat about dandelion health benefits, they whipped up a salad together and spent the afternoon sipping tea with dandelion jamMargaret was quite taken with it. That evening, they strolled in the park.
Got the new issue of our favourite magazine, Edgar announced, lets have a read under our linden tree, eh? He nodded towards the bench.
Margaret sat, and the conversation flowed with laughterforgotten grievances and drama put firmly behind them. Life was good, especially together.
Thanks for reading, subscribing, and for all your support. May life smile on you!
The Stillness of New Year’s Eve
New Years Quietude November hung over me like a damp blanketgrey, wet, hopelessly dismal, just as ever. The days dragged...
You Simply Don’t Understand Your Own Happiness — Half a million? — Karen stared at the phone notification, rereading it three times before the numbers made sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? David was on the sofa, fixated on his smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing really, just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her pipes are leaking, floors warped, wallpaper peeling… — Hold on. — Karen sank onto the edge of the armchair, legs refusing to hold her. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave all of it to your mother. Without saying a word to me? David finally looked up. His face showed only genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something entirely obvious. — Karen, it’s my mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else is going to help her? — And you couldn’t discuss it with me? — Karen yelled, unable to stop herself. — Ask my opinion? At least warn me? — You would’ve argued, — David shrugged. — And Mum needed it urgently. Four years. Four years she’d put up with the woman who called every evening to check what David had for dinner. Who’d arrive unannounced and critique their cleaning, who’d orchestrate family dinners so Karen ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, — David kept his calm tone. — We’ll be fine. Pay it off fast, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears streamed down. Karen wiped them with the back of her hand, smearing mascara. — Family? Am I family? Or just an add-on? Remember when your mum decided it was time for a new car and you sold ours without asking me? Or when she cleared my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep surrounded by strangers’ junk”? Or how on my birthday, you left with her to buy her a fridge? — It’s nothing, — David waved her off. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at this man—tall, gentle features, dimples she once thought cute. Now she saw only a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the cord. — We’ll get through this, — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen rose without a word and went to the bedroom. Two large duffel bags sat in the closet—the same ones she’d moved in with. She dragged them out, tossed them on the bed, and began opening cupboards. David appeared at the door twenty minutes later, just as one bag was stuffed full. — What are you doing? Karen, this is ridiculous. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer, quietly folding jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down the jewellery box—gifts from her parents and friends, she wouldn’t take anything from him. — Where will you go? To your mum? She’s up in Manchester! Zipping the second bag. Checking her purse—passport, bank card, the keys to her mum’s flat she’d always kept “just in case.” — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She looked him in the eye, sharp and long. Then picked up her bags and walked out. …Next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, clutching her completed divorce papers. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds low over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen jumped awake on the sofa at her friend Leah’s, not immediately sure where she was. — We need to talk, — David’s rapid breathing, scattered words. — I get it now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You are my whole life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one long, tearful, full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you, forever.” A week later, David began appearing outside her office. Karen would leave for lunch and there he’d be, hovering by the coffee kiosk. She’d head to the Tube—there he was, across the street. — Just passing by, — he insisted when Karen demanded an explanation. — I wanted to see you. One evening, there was a knock at Leah’s door. Karen opened it, not checking the peephole—she was expecting the pizza delivery. David stood on the doorstep, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — Just one chance, — he whispered. — I ask for nothing more. Karen quietly closed the door. He stayed outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it—the way you learn to live with chronic pain. Don’t read the texts, don’t answer unknown calls, don’t look back in the street. Switched to remote work at a new firm, moved to a suburb where David would never “happen” to be. The divorce was finalised three months later. Karen left court with the official papers clutched tight and cried on the steps—not for grief, but relief. The first months of freedom were frighteningly empty. Karen had gotten used to checking every decision with someone, even if they’d always do as they wished. Now she could buy any yoghurt in the shop, without wondering if Mrs Davies would approve. She could watch any film, and wouldn’t hear “normal women don’t watch that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English courses—her long-time dream, which David had dismissed as “foolish expense.” Began attending early morning yoga before sunrise, when the city was just waking up. Took a solo trip to Brighton for the weekend, wandering the streets and eating doughnuts. Six months later, the calls stopped. The texts too. Karen waited for the catch another month, then another, and finally understood she could relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency—bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was moving on. …She met Andrew at a work event her colleague Maddy insisted she attend. — This is our lead developer, — Maddy introduced a tall guy in thin-rimmed glasses. — Andrew, this is Karen from marketing. He shook her hand—firmly, but gently. Smiled—just a plain, genuine smile. — Escaping from the karaoke too, I see? — he nodded toward the stage, where the Finance Director was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Saving my nerves, — Karen nodded. They talked most of the night—about books, travel, the oddities of life. Andrew listened more than he spoke. Asked questions, actually waited for answers, never interrupted. Never tried to lecture or explain how she should live. When he found out she was divorced, he just nodded and changed the subject. …Half a year later, they moved in together, picking a flat in the city centre. Small, light-filled, high ceilings, overlooking a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this flat? — Karen asked, as they viewed it before signing. — Maybe we should see some more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes. Very much. — Then let’s take it. Small things—the right to have an opinion, and be heard—meant more than any declarations of love. He proposed on the roof of their building, as the sun sank below the skyline, painting the sky pink and gold. He pulled out a tiny box, opened it—inside shimmered a diamond ring. — I’m not much for speeches, — Andrew admitted. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you don’t mind my snoring and my addiction to terrible coffee. Karen laughed through tears and nodded. …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was late at work—a looming deadline, an urgent bug. Karen was making pasta, humming along to the radio, when a sharp, insistent knock came at the door. She glanced through the peephole—and jumped back. It was David. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence—and now he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She grabbed her phone, dialled Andrew. The line was busy. — We love each other! — David shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s wrong! The door shuddered—he was throwing his weight against it. Karen pressed her back tight against the door, feet braced. — Get away, — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice climbed to a shrill pitch. — You were mine and you’ll always be mine! I waited two years for you to come to your senses! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — Nothing’s over! — he shoved again, and she barely held the door. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! Through the peephole, his face was twisted, possessed. Nothing like the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — David! One click and the police will be here. Leave. Now. David froze. A few seconds passed. Then he spun around and strode to the stairs. Downstairs, the front door banged. Karen slid to the floor against the wall, dizzy. After half an hour, she managed to stand and call Andrew. The police took her statement the next day. The officer, an older bloke with a mustache, took notes, nodded. — We’ll deal with it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to David, Karen never found out. But after that, her ex never appeared again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …She and Andrew held their wedding in early June—a small country restaurant, twenty guests, just close friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives demanding old traditions. Karen stood across from Andrew in a simple white dress, holding his warm hands. Outside, birch trees rustled, the air scented with flowers and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — began the celebrant. — I do, — Karen cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring on her finger—thin gold, engraved inside: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed stalker. Just a man who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…
You just dont understand your own happiness Fifty thousand pounds? Emma scanned the notification flashing on her phone three times...
My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife Over for the Sake of the Children—So I Checked Into a Hotel to Celebrate on My Own
My husband invited his ex-wife over for the boys, so I spent the holiday in a hotel Where are you...
Never Truly Forgotten Every day, Prohor commutes from his job in London: a ride on the Tube, then the bus, before finally arriving home. The journey lasts over an hour each way. His car spends more time parked than on the road, thanks to London’s notorious rush hour traffic—he finds it easier and faster by public transport. Two years ago, his family life changed drastically; he and his wife quietly divorced. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mum. There were no dramas—Prohor was never one for arguments. He’d noticed his wife had changed over the years, grown restless, and often left late, claiming she was meeting friends. When he asked, —Why are you always out so late? Most wives are at home by this hour. —None of your business. Those ‘normal’ wives—just hens. I’m different: clever, social, and need more than just home. Besides, I’m not a farm girl like you. —So why did you marry the farm boy? —Picked the lesser of two evils, she’d retort before shutting down the conversation. Soon after, she filed for divorce and moved Prohor out of the flat; he’s since got used to renting and isn’t ready for marriage again, though he keeps looking. On the Tube, like most, he doesn’t waste his travel time—scrolls through social media, reads news, jokes, and watches clips. Scrolling absentmindedly, one image jolts him—it’s an ad: Folk Herbalist Mary, Natural Remedies He recognises the face immediately—his first love from school: unrequited, unforgettable. He remembers her well, that strange but beautiful girl from his class. Barely making his stop, he rushes home on foot, skipping the bus just to clear his head. Inside, he forgets his dinner and sits in the corridor, staring at his phone, jotting down the number in the ad before his device demands a charge. While his phone powers up, memories flood back: Mary was always different from their first day in Year 1. Quiet, modest, with her school dress a little below the knee—unlike the other girls. Their small village outside Oxford was a place where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew much about Mary. She lived with her grandparents in a unique house by the woods—like something out of a fairytale. He fell for her—childishly, yet to him, seriously. She had a handmade rucksack with beautiful embroidery, and rather than the usual “hiya”, she’d always greet people with: “Good health to you.” She was like a character from an old English legend—never rowdy, always polite. One day Mary missed school, and the kids went to check on her. Outside the village, they saw her home—and a crowd: her grandmother’s funeral. Mary in her headscarf, wiping her tears, her grandfather silent but present. After the burial, the children were even invited in for the wake. That memory stuck—his first funeral. Mary returned to school soon after. Time passed, the girls matured, took to makeup and fashion battles. Only Mary remained as dignified and natural as ever, her cheeks rosy without a hint of blush. The boys started courting; Prohor tried his luck with Mary. She didn’t respond at first, but at the end of Year 9, he managed: —Can I walk you home after school? She replied, quietly, privately, —I’m promised, Prohor. It’s tradition in our family. He was confused—what tradition? Later he learned her grandparents were Old Believers, her parents having died young, leaving her their legacy. Mary excelled at school, wore no jewellery, kept to herself despite the others’ gossip. She blossomed every year, by Year 10 there was no denying her beauty. After graduation, classmates scattered. Prohor moved to London for university. He heard Mary married her betrothed and moved to a remote village, living a simple rural life—herding cows, working the land, raising a son. None of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does now,” Prohor muses, “Herbalist… Looks even lovelier than before.” Sleep eludes him, morning comes and the routine repeats—work, but the past and beautiful Mary won’t let go. First love never fades, always stirs the heart. After several days in a daze, he finally messages her: —Hello, Mary! —Good health, she replies, unchanged as ever. “What concerns you?” —Mary, it’s Prohor, your old classmate. Remember we shared a desk? Saw you online—had to write. —Of course, Prohor, the brightest lad in our class. —This is your number, can I ring you? he asks. —Of course, she replies. After work, he calls; stories and memories exchanged. Where do you live? What’s life like? —I’m still in the old family home by the woods, she tells him. Came back after my husband died—a bear attack in the forest… Grandfather’s gone too. —Sorry, I had no idea… —It’s alright, Prohor, it was long ago. Life goes on. You’re just calling for a chat, or do you need some herbs? I sometimes advise. —Just wanted to say hello. No herbal remedies needed, just saw you and all the memories came flooding back. Miss the old village—my mother’s gone now. They reminisce and say goodbye. But a week later, restless, Prohor calls again: —Hi, Mary. —Good health, Prohor. Missing someone or fallen ill? —Just missing you, Mary—please don’t be cross, but could I visit you? —Come if you like, she says, unexpectedly. Whenever you get the chance. —My holiday’s next week, he beams. —Good, you know the address. He spends the week preparing, choosing gifts for Mary—wondering what she’s like now. At last, he drives from London to his old village—six hours, not a hardship, he loves long drives. Arriving, he’s shocked at the changes. New homes, shops, even the local factory thriving, the high street buzzing. —Wow, thought our village, like so many others, must’ve faded away. But it’s thriving, he says aloud. —It’s a proper town now, replies a passing pensioner with pride. Been granted borough status for ages. You haven’t been back for years, have you? —Years and years, says Prohor. —Our mayor’s a good man—really cares about the place, so it’s grown and blossomed. Mary waits for Prohor at the old house when he calls to say he’s arrived. As his car turns in, Mary’s heart races. No one ever knew how she’d loved Prohor since school—a secret she’d have carried forever had he not reappeared. Their reunion is joyful. Sitting for hours in the gazebo, the old house your typical English cottage—aged, yet welcoming. —Mary, I’ve come on business, he says, with a serious look. —I’m listening, she answers a bit nervously. —I’ve loved you all these years, surely you can’t still turn me away? Mary leaps up, throws her arms around him. —Prohor, I’ve always loved you, too—since I was a girl. Prohor spends his holiday with Mary, and as he leaves, he promises, —I’ll sort things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. I’m not going anywhere else—I was born here, and here I’ll make myself useful.
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Dandelion Jam After a mild, snowy English winter, everyone in the quaint town is longing for the fresh green leaves and colourful blooms of spring. Taissa, living in her cosy flat with her granddaughter Vera—whose parents, both doctors, have gone to work in Africa—finds herself cherishing the new season. The rhythms of the town change: market stalls buzz, neighbours gather on garden benches, and birdsong replaces alarm clocks. Taissa’s daily life intertwines with her lively neighbours—cheerful, well-read Valerie and grumpy Mrs Simmons—whose gossip and camaraderie brighten the days. Meanwhile, Vera happily attends school and dance class, proud to be watched over by her loving grandma. When Taissa strikes up a warm friendship with her thoughtful neighbour George Ellis, a widower with a distant daughter, they find comfort in shared stories and park strolls. Yet, tension brews when George’s daughter Vera visits and demands he sell his flat to move in with her family, suspecting Taissa’s intentions. An awkward confrontation ensues, but Taissa remains gracious. Life brings Taissa and George back together; he approaches her with a crown of dandelions and a jar of homemade dandelion jam, sharing its English folklore and health benefits. Their friendship flourishes over tea, recipes, and evenings under the old linden tree. Through spring’s renewal, two hearts discover sunshine in companionship and the sweet taste of dandelion jam. Thank you for reading and supporting my stories—wishing you all life’s brightest joys!
Dandelion Jam The snowy winter had finally packed its bags and left, not that the cold was anything to write...
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