Johnson Michael

My Dearest One: A Tale of Family, Lost and Found Marina always believed she had grown up in a loving family—until she learned as an adult that she was adopted. Her foster parents, who had found her as an abandoned toddler in Sherwood Forest, never spoke of her past until her mother’s dying moments. With both parents gone, Marina discovers a hidden folder of letters and newspaper clippings about her origins, still unsure whether the truth should ever come to light. Years later at work, a woman named Hope brings news that a gravely ill retired schoolteacher from Yorkshire—who has been searching for her lost child all her life—believes Marina could be her missing daughter. A DNA test confirms it, leading Marina to the woman’s hospital bedside for a bittersweet reunion. Now torn between the mother who raised her and the one who lost her, Marina must decide whether to reveal a truth that could unsettle the family peace, or keep it hidden and honour the love she has always known. But as the past catches up, Marina realises that, for her, there has only ever been one real mother—a bond defined not by birth, but by love and devotion.

My Dearest One. A Story Sarah had found out, much to her disbelief, that shed grown up in a foster family. It still felt unreal to...

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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…

Annoying Neighbour Dont you touch my reading glasses! screeched my former friend Jean. You ought to mind your own eyesight! Do you think I dont notice...

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My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: A Brother’s Betrayal, a Mother’s Escape, and the Fight to Reclaim a Life Built on Trust, Not Manipulation

His Wife Packed Her Bags and Disappeared Without a Trace “Stop pretending youre a saint. Itll all work out. Women calm down in the end, shell...

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No One’s Home

Nobodys House Henry would wake, just as he always had, without an alarm, at half past six. Silence filled the flat, save for the low hum...

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The Letter That Never Arrived

Diary entry I sat by the window for a long while last night, although there wasnt really much to see. It gets dark early here in...

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My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Beloved Lawn at Our Country Cottage to Plant Vegetable Beds—So I Made Her Restore Everything Just as It Was

William, are you sure we havent forgotten the charcoal? Last time we ended up at the village shop, and all they had was damp logs, Emily...

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My Relatives Took Offense When I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My Brand New Flat: How I Defended My Personal Space from Pushy Family – and Why ‘My Home Is My Castle’ Matters More Than Keeping Everyone Happy

Saturday, 27th March I can still hear Auntie Graces voice ringing in my ears from this mornings calllouder than the bathwater filling the tub, loud enough...

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My Husband’s Relatives Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage – But I Refused to Give Them the Keys

My mum and I were chatting, and we reckon theres no point letting your cottage just sit empty over the holiday, is there? Well pop down...

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There Are No Coincidences Four years had passed since the loss of her mother, but Agatha still carried the bitterness and unbearable longing—especially on that evening after the funeral. Her father sat broken and grief-stricken, while Agatha was already exhausted from her tears, and their once cheerful family home was filled with a crushing silence. Agatha was sixteen, old enough to understand the pain she and her father shared, for the three of them had once been so happy together. Ivan hugged his daughter’s shoulders and quietly said: “We must find a way to carry on, darling. Somehow, we’ll get used to things…” Time went by. Agatha completed her training as a paramedic and recently started working at the local clinic. She lived in their family house alone, ever since her father remarried a year ago and moved to a nearby village with his new wife. Agatha had no resentment towards her father—life is what it is, she knew she too would marry someday, and her father was still a young man. On her father’s birthday, Agatha stepped off the bus wearing a beautiful dress and shoes, a gift in hand for her only remaining family. “Hello, Dad!” she said warmly. They embraced in the garden where he greeted her. “Happy birthday!” “Hello, love, come in—the table’s ready,” he replied, and they went inside. “Agatha, you’re finally here!” called out Kate—her stepmother now—from the kitchen. “My kids are already starving!” she added. Ivan had lived with his new family for a year. Kate had two children: Rita, an unpleasant, spiteful girl of thirteen, and an unruly boy of ten. Agatha didn’t visit often—this was only her second time in a year. She tried to ignore Rita’s misbehavior, though the girl’s rudeness went unchecked by her mother. After the birthday wishes, Kate began her interrogation. “So, have you got yourself a boyfriend?” “Yes,” Agatha replied. “And will there be a wedding, then?” Agatha blushed, caught off guard by Kate’s directness. “Well…we’ll see,” she answered evasively. “Here’s the thing, Agatha,” Kate forced a smile, “your father and I have spoken, and he’s decided he’s not going to help you financially anymore. He already gives you too much, and we have a big family now. It’s time you got married and let your husband support you. Your father needs to look after us first. You’re an adult now—and you have a job…” “Kate, hang on,” Ivan interrupted, “it’s not quite like that. I already explained I’m giving Agatha far less than—” But Kate cut him off, shouting, “You’re nothing but a cash machine to your daughter and the rest of us have to suffer!” Ivan fell silent in shame. Agatha felt ill and left the table, slipping outside, needing to calm her nerves. The birthday had been completely ruined. Rita soon followed, plopping beside Agatha on the bench. “You’re pretty, you know,” Rita remarked. Agatha just nodded, not wanting conversation. “Don’t be offended by my mum—she’s just cranky because she’s pregnant,” Rita smirked. “Wait till you get to know her—she’ll show you,” the girl added, laughing as she ran back inside. Agatha got up and left the yard. Glancing back, she saw her father standing on the porch, watching her go. Three days later, Ivan and Kate paid her a surprise visit. “Oh! How lovely to see you both—let’s have some tea,” Agatha offered. Kate eyed the house critically. “It’s a good, solid house—you won’t find many like it around here.” “My dad built it himself, with Uncle Nick from up the road. Right, Dad?” “Oh, I wouldn’t say golden hands for myself, love—the house was for us, after all,” Ivan demurred. Kate continued, “Yes, I know—I got very lucky with him. And actually, we’re here to talk about the house.” At once, Agatha grew wary and squared her shoulders. “I’m not selling my share. I grew up in this house and it means the world to me,” she declared, challenging both Kate and her father with her eyes. “Aren’t you clever!” Kate hissed with undisguised bitterness. “Well, Ivan, tell her.” Ivan looked away. “Love, we need to sort this out. My family’s bigger now, the house is too small, and with another child on the way… If we sell, you can buy a smaller place—they have loans, I’ll help to pay it off.” “Dad, how can you say that?” Agatha was stunned. “Your father’s got a new family now!” Kate yelled, “When will you understand? There’s no such thing as your family’s old house. You’re taking up too much space alone. You’ll just have to move, and no one’s going to ask your permission.” “Don’t you dare shout at me,” Agatha stood up. “Please, leave.” After they left, Agatha was gutted. She understood her father had a right to his own life, but not at her expense. This house, her mother’s home, was not for sale. Later, her boyfriend Artie stopped by and was shocked by the look on her face. “Hey, beautiful, you look awful—what’s happened?” Falling into his arms in tears, Agatha poured her heart out. Artie, a local police officer, listened quietly and reassured her, “Your dad’s a good man. He won’t go against your will—it’s that Kate who’s manipulating him. Don’t worry. I’ll get some city solicitors involved. Don’t agree to anything.” Ivan, meanwhile, was troubled. At first his marriage to Kate had seemed promising, but she’d turned greedy and aggressive, obsessed with selling his old house. Ivan was starting to think marrying her had been a mistake. Then came the news of Kate’s pregnancy. One evening, after Agatha was late home from the clinic, she hurried along in the autumn dusk. Artie, called away on an urgent shift, couldn’t walk her back, but he asked his friend Max to keep an eye out. As she neared her house, a car pulled up beside her. A large man stepped out, forced Agatha into the back seat, and sped off. “Who are you? What do you want with me?” Agatha sobbed. “Surely this is a mistake?” “There are no coincidences in our line of work,” the man replied calmly. “Do what we say and nothing will happen to you or your father. Just sign over your share of the house, and we’ll leave you both alone.” “Why bring my father into this?” “Sign the papers. The buyers are waiting. You’ll get your money in two days.” “This is illegal! I will never agree. I’ll go to the police. I’m not selling my house,” she spat, just before a brutal punch split her lip. “We’re not scared of your precious police—nor your boyfriend,” the man sneered. “If you don’t sign, you won’t live to regret it. And if your boyfriend meddles…” The car pulled off the road and skidded onto the verge as police sirens flashed behind them—first one, then another patrol. In a panic, the driver floored the accelerator but crashed the car into a ditch. Max, who had followed the car and called Artie, had acted quickly, and the police squad intercepted them in time. It later transpired that Kate’s thug was actually her lover and the father of the child she was carrying. With him, she hatched the plan to swindle Ivan out of his family home, which Kate coveted above all else. Agatha’s refusal had threatened the scheme, and Kate was ready to resort to anything, even violence. In the end, justice prevailed. Ivan divorced Kate and returned home. He kept busy running his small auto parts business. One night, Ivan, Agatha, and Artie sat together at the kitchen table. Now, more than ever, the house’s four walls felt precious to Ivan. “Don’t worry, Dad—you’ll never be alone,” Agatha teased. “Come on—are you getting married?” Ivan smiled at her knowingly. “I’ve proposed to Agatha, and she said yes!” Artie grinned. “We’ve already submitted the forms—the wedding’s soon,” the happy couple exchanged a playful glance and burst out laughing. “Even when I move in with Artie, Dad, we’ll visit all the time. We’re only going to be down the road…” Ivan, misty-eyed as he looked at the photo of his late wife, said, “Forgive me, love—I made a mess of things, but I’m sorry.” “It’s alright, Dad,” Agatha replied, “Everything’s going to be just fine.” Thank you so much for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you happiness in life!

Theres No Such Thing as Coincidence It had been nearly four years since Agathas mum passed away, but the ache and emptiness still lingered like a...

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I Kicked My Brother-in-Law Out from Our Anniversary Dinner After His Offensive Jokes Ruined the Celebration

Oliver, have you found the best china? The set with the gold rim, not our everyday plates. And check the napkins, would you? I starched them...

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Stories By Johnson Michael

My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: A Brother’s Betrayal, a Mother’s Escape, and the Fight to Reclaim a Life Built on Trust, Not Manipulation

No One’s Home

The Letter That Never Arrived

My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Beloved Lawn at Our Country Cottage to Plant Vegetable Beds—So I Made Her Restore Everything Just as It Was

My Relatives Took Offense When I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My Brand New Flat: How I Defended My Personal Space from Pushy Family – and Why ‘My Home Is My Castle’ Matters More Than Keeping Everyone Happy

My Husband’s Relatives Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage – But I Refused to Give Them the Keys

I Kicked My Brother-in-Law Out from Our Anniversary Dinner After His Offensive Jokes Ruined the Celebration

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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

I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—Now I Regret It More Than Ever…

“How Can You Refuse to Look After My Son’s Child?”: An English Mother-in-Law’s Outburst – Family Tensions Flare as Rita Stands Her Ground on Parenting, Work–Life Balance, and Respect in a Modern Blended Family