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A Struggling Single Mom Accidentally Texted a Billionaire Asking for Baby Milk Money — And That’s When Everything Changed.
Long ago, in a dimly lit flat above a chippy in Manchester, a weary young mother sat hunched over her kitchen table. The clock had long since struck midnight, and the muffled cries of her infant son, Alfie, echoed from the next room. Emily Whitmore had tried everything to soothe him, but the hunger in his cries was unmistakable. The last tin of formula sat nearly empty beside herwhat then?
A single mother scraping by on her wages from the local café, Emily had no one to turn to. Her meagre earnings barely covered the rent, let alone nappies or baby food. Shed pawned her grandmothers locket weeks ago just to keep the cupboards stocked, and her family, struggling themselves, couldnt help.
Her fingers trembled as she opened her banking app£3.42 blinked back at her. Then her gaze fell on an unsent message in her drafts, meant for a stranger shed found in an online forum claiming to help mothers in need. Shed reached out before, only to be met with silence or empty promises.
That night, desperate and exhausted, she typed:
“Hello I hate to ask, but Ive run out of milk for my baby, and I wont get paid till next week. He wont stop crying, and I dont know what to do. If you could help, Id be forever grateful. Im sorry to bother you, but Ive nowhere else to turn. Thank you for reading.”
With a shaky breath, she hit send before she could second-guess herself. It wasnt the first time shed swallowed her pride to beg for help, but this time, she had no other choice. She slumped into her chair, tears welling as she waitedthough she hardly dared hope.
Minutes later, her phone buzzed.
A reply appeared:
“Hello, this is William Harcourt. Youve got the wrong number, I think. But I understand things must be difficult for you right now. Dont worry about the formulaIll make sure you have what you need.”
Emily stared, bewildered. William Harcourt? The name rang a faint bell, but she couldnt place it. Part of her suspected a scamshed heard of con artists posing as benefactors. Yet something in his words felt genuine.
Before she could reply, another message arrived:
“Ill have supplies delivered tomorrow. Just focus on yourself and your boy, Emily. Its sorted.”
Her breath caught. This wasnt a trick. Whoever this man was, he meant it.
Tears spilled over. For the first time in years, Emily let herself hope.
The next morning, a knock at the door revealed stacks of formula tins, nappies, and baby wipesenough to last months. A note rested atop the pile:
“I know how hard it can be. I hope this helps. If you need anything else, dont hesitate to ask.”
Signed simply: William Harcourt.
Emily stood frozen, fingers tracing the neat boxes. Never in her life had a stranger shown such kindness. Was it real? Would it vanish as suddenly as it appeared?
Half in disbelief, she unpacked each item, her heart swelling with each one. Formula, nappies, even a tin of biscuitsmore than shed dared dream of. For the first time in months, she could breathe. She snapped a photo and messaged William.
“Thank you. I cant even put into words what this means. Youve given me my son back.”
His reply came swiftly:
“Happy to help. But this isnt charity. Its what anyone should do. Ive been where you are.”
Emily blinked. William had been in her shoes? She knew nothing about himwas he wealthy? A businessman? Why did he care?
Another message followed:
“If you need anythingfood, bills paid, anythingjust say the word. Ive the means to help.”
She sank into her chair, overwhelmed. She didnt want to take advantage, but the relief was undeniable. Who was this man?
After a long pause, she typed:
“Why are you helping me? You dont know me.”
His answer came at once:
“Because I know what its like to feel like youre drowning. Its easy to think no one cares, but I do, Emily. Ive the means to help, and I want you and Alfie to have a fair chance. No one should face this alone.”
Her hands shook as she read. It was too much to take in. A flicker of hope, long buried, stirred in her chest.
Over the next weeks, William kept sending deliverieseach more generous than the last. He covered her rent when the landlord threatened eviction, stocked her cupboards, even bought a new pram and cot for Alfie.
Then, one day, a message stopped her heart:
“Id like to meet you properly. Its time we spoke face to face.”
Nerves twisted in her stomach. Who was he, truly? Was this all a ruse? Yet part of her buzzed with excitement. William had already changed her life.
They met the next afternoon in a quiet tea room. Emily arrived early, clutching her phone. She had no idea what to expect.
Then the door opened, and in walked a man who carried himself like royaltytall, impeccably dressed, with a smile that belonged on a magazine cover. Her pulse raced. This was William Harcourt.
He approached, offering his hand.
“Emily,” he said warmly. “At last.”
She shook it, still stunned.
“I didnt expect you to look like this.”
He chuckled.
“I suppose Ive surprised you more than once.”
As they talked, Emily found herself sharing things shed never told anyoneher struggles, her fears, the loneliness of raising Alfie alone. William listened, never interrupting, never judging. It was as if a weight had lifted.
Then, leaning in, his voice softened.
“Emily, I didnt help you just because I could. Ive known hardship too. But I want you to knowyou dont have to face it alone anymore. You and Alfie you could have a future with me, if youd like.”
She blinked.
“What do you mean?”
He smiled.
“Ive watched you, Emily. And I want to build that futurenot just with money, but with you and Alfie beside me. I want us to be a family.”
Her heart pounded. Was this real?
William had given her so much alreadybut now he was offering more than money. He was offering something shed never dared dream of: a second chance.
And for the first time in years, Emily knew she wouldnt have to face the world alone.
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...
The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block watched as new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family headed by the manager of the local factory workshop, an important business in a quiet English market town. “Why do you think they chose to live in these old red-brick flats?” wondered retired Mrs. Nina Andrews aloud to her friends. “With his connections, surely they could have landed a place in a new development.” “Don’t judge by your own standards, Mum,” chimed in her thirty-year-old unmarried daughter Anna, sporting bright makeup. “Why would they want something new when these Victorian terraces have high ceilings, grand halls, spacious rooms, and a massive balcony—like in a country house. Besides, they got a phone line the very first week—not everyone in our block even has a phone; just three out of the nine flats!” “You’re always gabbing on the phone!” scolded her mother. “You’re a nuisance to the neighbours. And mind you don’t start pestering the new lot—they’re proper and busy people.” “Oh, they’re not so serious! They’re young, and they have a little girl—nine years old, Natasha,” Anna replied, giving her mum a wounded look. “They’re practically my age, just five years older at most.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and cheerful—Lydia worked as the school librarian, Ivan had been at the factory for ten years. Anna became the neighbourhood news source, chatting with the ladies in the courtyard each evening as her mum listened in. “How do you already know all this, Anna?” they would tease. “Oh, I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some people, they actually let me,” Anna retorted, referencing the times neighbours refused to open their door, suspecting she’d yak away for ages to her girlfriends. So Anna befriended the newcomers and made herself at home, often calling friends and colleagues for long chats, showing up in new outfits or cosy dressing gowns, clearly hoping to grow close to the family. One day, she noticed Ivan pointedly closing the lounge door when she entered to use the phone. The same thing happened again and again. Anna would flash a smile at Lydia and peek into the kitchen to thank her after her calls, but Lydia would just nod and politely ask her to shut the door on her way out. “I can’t—my hands are covered in flour,” Lydia would explain. “Our lock snaps shut on its own—it’s French.” “Oh, what are you baking now? More pastries? You always have something fresh coming out of the oven… I never learnt to bake,” Anna gushed. “Just making some sweet cheese buns for breakfast, but I won’t have time in the morning—that’s why I’m baking now,” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna grimaced and left, annoyed her friendship wasn’t warming up. Later that evening, Ivan said, “Listen, Lyds, I know it’s awkward to refuse her, but our phone is permanently tied up every evening and my mates can’t get through. It’s not fair.” “Yes, she’s gotten a bit too comfortable, coming in as if she lives here and gossiping away,” Lydia agreed. That same night, Anna showed up again—dressed to the nines, made up, and perched on the hallway chair chatting away. After ten minutes, Lydia asked, “Anna, will you be long? We’re expecting a call.” Anna nodded and hung up but pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket and grinned, “I brought treats! Come on, let’s have tea—my treat for getting to know you.” She laid the chocolate on the kitchen table, but Lydia hesitated. “No, please—take it away. Natasha has allergies; she can’t have sweets. In our house, chocolate is a strict no-go.” “What? But I was just being kind,” Anna blushed, stung. “No need for grateful gifts, and do us a favour: don’t come by so often—unless it’s for a real emergency, the doctor or fire brigade. That’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we’d understand. But just for chatting… best not,” Lydia managed politely. Anna took her chocolate and left without a word, feeling slighted, and convinced herself Lydia must be jealous of her youth or charm. “She knows I’m younger, prettier—that’s why she snubbed me,” Anna griped to her mum. “I only wanted to be friendly, but she wouldn’t even pour me a cup of tea—and I brought my own chocolate.” “Silly girl,” Mrs. Andrews sighed. “You shouldn’t force your way into someone else’s home. If they don’t want your calls, that’s their right. They’re a decent family, not a public drop-in centre, and you were firmly shown the door. Don’t make it about jealousy—find yourself a husband and get your own phone, then let your neighbours come calling on you!” Anna’s last attempt at getting close was to pop round with a notebook to ask Lydia for her cheese bun recipe. “Could you give me your sweet cheese bun recipe? I really should learn…” “Better ask your mum,” Lydia replied, surprised. “Our mums know lots—I always just mix by eye, I don’t use strict measures. My hands know what to do. Sorry, I’d really better dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home. She knew her mum’s battered old recipe book was in the kitchen, full of handwritten gems—salads, pies, even fish terrine. Half the book was devoted to cakes and baking. But Anna didn’t fancy baking, and her mum had long since given it up due to her blood pressure. Still, Anna retrieved the notebook, leafed through indifferently, then found the recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you actually planning on baking?” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Why does that surprise you?” Anna snapped the book shut. “Has something happened with Slava? I thought you’d parted, just like all your other beaus.” “Why would you think that? He’ll come running back whenever I want,” Anna grumbled. “Well, then why not want it?” her mother chuckled. “And what recipe are you after? I’ll help if you like.” “I can manage,” Anna replied quickly. A few days later, when her mum got back from her evening walk, the smell of baking greeted her. “Good Lord, what’s that? Pies baking? You must really be in love,” her mother exclaimed. “Don’t shout so the whole block hears! Come in and have a taste. They’re cheese buns, traditional ones.” The kettle steamed, the table was set, and a plate of golden cheese buns awaited. “You’ve still got it,” her mum said. “We haven’t baked together in ages and I thought you’d forgotten—but you did it. Well done.” “Don’t just say that—tell me honestly. Are they all right?” “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Try one!” her mum laughed. Anna flashed back to her Dad—those were his words: “It’s edible.” The highest praise. “Right then, I’ll invite Slava round for tea soon—serve him these. Think he’ll like them?” “He’ll love them! I won your Dad by baking these—he was besotted with both the buns and me,” her mum grinned. “Keep baking and invite him. I’ll go watch telly at the neighbour’s—good to see you finally have your priorities straight. You won’t win hearts just by dressing up and curling your hair.” Soon, Slava became a regular visitor. The rows faded, Anna spent more time in the kitchen, with Slava helping and their laughter echoing through the flat. When Anna told her mum they’d registered for marriage, Mrs. Andrews nearly wept with joy. Anna blossomed, slimming down before the wedding. Slava teased, “You’ve stopped baking! Will you make a cake for our wedding at least?” For the home wedding, Anna, her mother, and aunt spent two days preparing festive dishes, though there’d only be about twenty guests—all family. The newlyweds moved into their own big room in the three-bedroom flat. That year, telephones were finally installed for all households. Anna, now content, called everyone at first, but always kept her chats short: “Sorry, Rita, got to dash—my dough’s rising and Slava’s heading home. Bye!” She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was lifting under its own yeasty cloud. Anna was expecting, her maternity leave just a month away, but the young wife never rested—she cooked, she baked, keeping her husband happy. She adored cheese buns, especially homemade, and so did he—after all, what could be sweeter than a home filled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of baking?
The Recipe for Happiness… The entire block watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat, arms loaded with...
“My Grandchildren Only Get Fruit Once a Month, While I Buy Gourmet Food for My Cats”—My Daughter-in-Law Fumes and Accuses Me of Heartlessness… My daughter-in-law tried to shame me because her children only get fruit once a month, while I treat my cats to quality food. What she overlooks is that children have a mum and dad to care for their nutrition, but my cats only have me. When I once suggested that my son and his wife slow down on having children, they told me to mind my own business. So I did. Now I feed my cats and listen to my ever-indignant, child-devoted daughter-in-law.
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I Shouted From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting: “I’m Doing This For You Lot, You Lazybones.” — And The Next Day My Mum Was Gone… Even Now, I Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Path, My Heart Clenches As If Someone’s Gripping It. It Was On The Second Of January I Took That Photo… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed The Footprints In The Snow — And Stopped. Snapped A Picture, Not Really Knowing Why. Now, That Photo Is All I’ve Got Left From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s As Always, All Together As A Family. Mum Was Up Early On The 31st, As Usual. The Smell Of Frying Burgers And Her Voice In The Kitchen Woke Me Up: “Love, Get Up! Help Me Finish The Salads, Or Your Dad Will Scoff Half The Ingredients Again!” I Came Down In My Pyjamas, Hair All Over The Place. She Was By The Cooker In Her Favourite Apron With Peaches — The One I Gave Her In School. Her Cheeks Were Rosy From The Oven And She Was Smiling. “Mum, Let Me At Least Have Coffee First,” I Moaned. “Coffee Later! First, The Salad!” She Laughed, Tossing Me A Bowl Of Roast Veg. “Chop It Fine Like I Like — Not Fist-Sized Chunks Like Last Time.” We Chopped And Chatted About Everything Under The Sun. She Told Me About New Year’s In Her Childhood — No Fancy Salads, Only A Herring Under Its Coat And The Tangerines Her Dad Brought Home Especially. Soon Dad Brought In The Christmas Tree — Huge, Nearly To The Ceiling. “Ladies, Come Admire The Tree!” He Announced Proudly. “Dad, Did You Chop Down The Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Walked In, Threw Her Hands Up: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Time Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Us Decorate. My Sister Lera And I Hung Up The Lights, Mum Dug Out The Old Decorations From My Childhood. I Remember Her Picking Out The Little Glass Angel. She Whispered, “I Bought This For Your First New Year, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Didn’t, Not Really, But I Nodded. She Glowed Because I Remembered That Angel… My Brother Arrived Later, As Usual — Laden With Bags, Gifts, And Bottles. “Mum, Got Proper Champagne This Year! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Time.” “Oh, Love, Just Don’t Let Everyone Get Plastered,” Mum Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Outside. Dad And My Brother Set Off Fireworks, Lera Squealed With Joy — And Mum Stood Beside Me, Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What A Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best One, Mum.” We Drank Champagne Round The Bottle, Laughed When A Firework Whizzed Towards The Neighbour’s Shed. Mum, A Little Tipsy, Danced In Her Woolly Boots To “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree,” And Dad Swept Her Off Her Feet. We Laughed Ourselves To Tears. On The First Of January, We Lounged All Day. Mum Cooked Again — This Time Dumplings And Jellied Meat. “Mum, Stop Already! We’re Going To Burst!” I Moaned. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It — New Year Celebrations Last A Week,” She Brushed Me Off. On The Second, She Was Up Early Again. I Heard The Door, Peeked Out — There She Was In The Garden With Her Shovel. Clearing The Path. Old Puffy Jacket, Scarf Tied, Working Carefully: From The Gate Right Up To The Steps — Narrow, Straight. Piling Snow Beside The Wall Like She Always Did. I Called Out The Window: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Freeze Out There!” She Turned Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Otherwise You Lazy Lot Will Walk Through Snowdrifts All Spring! Go On, Put The Kettle On.” I Smiled, Went To The Kitchen. She Came In Half An Hour Later, Cheeks Rosy, Eyes Bright. “All Done, Nice And Tidy,” She Said, Sitting With Her Coffee. “Came Out Well, Didn’t It?” “Yes, Mum. Thank You.” That Was The Last Time I Heard Her Sound So Full Of Life. On January Third, She Woke And Whispered, “Girls, My Chest Feels Odd. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried At Once. “Mum, Shall We Call An Ambulance?” “Oh, Don’t Fret, Love. I’m Just Worn Out. Cooked And Dashed About So Much. I’ll Rest, It’ll Pass.” She Lay Down, Lera And I At Her Side. Dad Went To The Chemist For Some Pills. She Even Joked, “Don’t Look So Gloomy, I’ll Outlive The Lot Of You.” Then She Turned Pale. Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I feel awful… Too Awful…” We Called An Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispered, “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Fine…” She Looked At Me, Barely Audible, “Love… I adore you all… I hate to say goodbye.” The Paramedics Came Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened In Minutes. I Sat On The Hall Floor And Howled. I Couldn’t Believe It. Just Yesterday She Danced Beneath The Fireworks, Full Of Life — Now… Barely Steady, I Went Out To The Garden. The Snow Hardly Falling Anymore. And I Saw Her Footprints. Those Same Small, Neat, Straight Prints From The Gate To The Steps And Back Again. Exactly Like She Always Left. I Stood And Stared At Them For Ages. I Asked God, “How Can It Be That Yesterday A Person Walked Here — And Today, They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, But She Doesn’t.” Maybe I Was Dreaming, But It Seemed Like On The Second Of January She Went Out For The Last Time — To Leave Us A Clear Path. So We Could Cross It Without Her. I Didn’t Let Anyone Shovel Those Prints Away, Asked Them All To Leave Them. Let Them Stay Until The Snow Covers Them For Good. That’s The Last Thing She Did For Us. Her Everyday Care Shone Through Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Covered The Path. I Keep That Photo Of Mum’s Last Footprints. Every Year, On The Third Of January, I Look At It — And Then Out At The Empty Path By The House. And It Hurts To Know That Somewhere Under All That Snow, She Left Her Last Steps. The Ones I’m Still Following…
I remember that chilly January morning I leaned out the window and called, Mum, what are you doing up so...
Strangers in Our Flat Katie was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside came the sound of the TV, voices in the kitchen, and a strange smell. Behind her, Max nearly dropped the suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” she whispered, stretching out her arm. “Someone’s in there.” There were two complete strangers sprawled out on their beloved beige sofa. A man in trackies flicked through the channels, while a plump woman beside him knitted. On the coffee table—mugs, plates strewn with crumbs, packets of medicine. “Excuse me, who are you?” Katie’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, not the least bit embarrassed. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman didn’t even put her knitting down. “We’re Lynda’s relatives. She gave us the keys, said you weren’t home.” Max paled. “Lynda who?” “Your mum,” the man, finally standing, replied. “We’re from Birmingham, here with Michael for some health checks. She put us up here, told us you wouldn’t mind.” Katie wandered into the kitchen. At the hob stood a teenage boy, frying sausages. The fridge was packed with unfamiliar food. Dishes were piled in the sink. “And you are?” she managed. “Michael,” he turned. “Why, shouldn’t I eat? Granny Lynda said it was fine.” She returned to the hall, where Max was already getting his phone out. “Mum, what are you doing?” His voice was quiet, but angry. His mum’s upbeat voice came through the speaker. “Maxie, you’re back already? How was your holiday? Listen, I gave Svetlana the keys, her and Victor came up to London, Michael had to see the docs. Didn’t think it mattered—place would be empty, waste not want not. Just for the week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why should I? You weren’t here. Just tell them I’m responsible for the flat, make sure they tidy up.” Katie grabbed the phone: “Lynda, are you serious? You let strangers into our flat?” “What strangers? It’s only my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as kids.” “And? That’s our flat!” “Katie, don’t be so dramatic. They’re family. They’ll be quiet. They’ve got a sick child, you should help. Or are you just selfish?” Max took back the phone. “One hour, Mum. You come and take them. All of them. Or I’ll ring the police.” He hung up. Katie sat on the pouffe in the hallway, head in her hands, their suitcases still unpacked. The TV buzzed in the lounge, sausages sizzled, and she felt like an uninvited guest in her own home. The woman from the living room appeared looking sheepish. “We’ll start packing,” she murmured. “Lynda thought you wouldn’t mind. We’d have asked you ourselves, but didn’t have your number. She offered, we agreed. Just needed a week for Michael’s appointments.” Max stood by the window, silent, shoulders tense. “Where’s our cat?” Katie suddenly gasped. “What cat?” “Morris. Ginger. We left the keys so you could feed him.” “No idea,” Svetlana shrugged. “Not seen him.” Katie found Morris wedged under the bed, fur bristled, eyes wide. The room smelled unfamiliar; unknown medicine bottles on her nightstand, the bedding different, someone else’s slippers by the door. Max knelt down beside her. “Sorry.” “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” “For Mum being like this.” “She always does what she wants.” Voices filtered from the corridor—his mum had arrived. Katie straightened her hair and went to face her. Lynda stood in the hallway, glaring. “Max, are you mad?” “Mum, sit down,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “We’re being thrown out! Svetlana, Victor, pack up, we’ll go to mine.” “Mum, just sit.” They sat at the kitchen table, Michael finishing his sausages. “Mum,” Max said, “how did you think it was okay to let people into our flat without asking?” “I was just helping! Svetlana rang, crying—Michael’s sick, they had nowhere to stay. It’s not like you were here.” “But it’s not your flat.” “Of course it is! I’ve got keys.” “To feed the cat. Not run a B&B.” “Max, they’re family! He’s poorly, they need help. And you’d turn them out?” Katie’s hands shook as she poured water. “You didn’t even ask us, Lynda.” “Why ask? You weren’t here!” “That’s exactly why you should have.” Max’s voice rose. “You could have called. Texted. We’d have talked it over.” “And you’d have said no, I suppose.” “Maybe. Or maybe just for a couple of days. But we’d have known. That’s called respect.” Lynda stood up. “Typical. I try to help, and you throw it back in my face. Svetlana, pack up—we’ll manage at mine.” “You said your flat’s a single-bed, there isn’t room for four.” “We’ll squeeze in. Better than dealing with ungratefulness.” Katie set her glass down. “Lynda, stop. You know you did the wrong thing, or you’d have asked first.” Lynda hesitated. “You knew we’d say no, and wanted to put us on the spot. That we wouldn’t turf people out—yes?” “I thought it was best.” “No, you wanted to do things your way. That’s different.” Lynda finally looked lost. “Svetlana was so upset. Michael’s in pain. I felt sorry for them.” “We get that,” Max said. “But you can’t just use what isn’t yours. Imagine if I let my mates move into your flat without asking.” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence, the sounds of hasty packing drifting from the lounge. Michael stood in the doorway, looking at his feet. “Sorry,” the teenager muttered. “Thought it was okay. Gran said so.” Katie gave him a tired smile. “It’s not your fault. Go help your parents, love.” Lynda dabbed her eyes: “I really thought I was helping. Never occurred to me to ask. You’re still my kids—I just assumed…” “We’re not kids anymore, Mum. We’re thirty—we have our own life.” “I see.” She handed over the keys. “You’ll want these back?” “Yes,” Katie said. “Trust is broken now.” “I understand.” Svetlana’s family packed quickly. Their apologies were awkward and endless. Lynda drove them away, promising to find space. Max closed the door behind them and leaned against it. They checked the flat—unmade beds, the fridge filled with strange food, bits left behind, and their cat still cowering. Katie opened the kitchen window. “Think she’ll get it this time?” “Not sure. I hope so.” “And if not?” “Then we’ll just have to set firmer boundaries.” She hugged him, and together they stood among the chaos. “You know what hurts most?” Katie pulled away. “The cat. We did all this for him and he’s hungry and terrified.” “Did they even feed him?” “Doesn’t look like it—bowl’s empty, water filthy. They probably forgot he existed.” Max knelt by the bed. “Morris, mate, we’re not giving her the keys again.” The cat cautiously crawled out at last. Katie gave him food; he devoured it, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. They started cleaning. Threw out the strange food, changed the sheets, washed the dishes. Gradually, their flat became home again. Morris slept on the windowsill, finally settled. That evening, Lynda rang. Her voice was quiet, apologetic. “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thanks, Mum.” “Is Katie angry?” He glanced at his wife—she nodded. “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” They sat up late over tea, silent. Out the window the city darkened; their flat, finally, was quiet and theirs again. Holiday was well and truly over—suddenly and brutally.
Sarah was the first to open the door, halting on the threshold. From within the flat drifted the sound of...