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“YOU MISSED IT, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE! AND WITH IT YOUR JOB AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” — HER BOSS YELLED DOWN THE PHONE, AS MARINA STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED SOMEONE ELSE’S CHILD FROM. SHE’D LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF.
“YOU DIDN’T MAKE IT, KATHERINE! THE FLIGHT’S GONE! AND WITH IT, YOUR POSITION AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FINISHED!” Her boss roared into the phone. Katherine stood in the middle of a backed-up A-road, staring at the overturned car from which shed just rescued someone elses child. Shed lost her career, but, in that piercing moment, found herself.
Katherine was the picture of a corporate high-flyer. Thirty-five, regional director. Ruthless, efficient, always available. Her life mapped to the minute in her Google calendar.
That morning, she was due to seal her most crucial deal of the yeara contract with a major Singaporean firm. She needed to be at Heathrow by 10:00.
She left with plenty of time. She never, ever cut things fine.
Speeding down the M25 in her sparkling new Range Rover, she rehearsed her presentation in her head.
Suddenly, about a hundred yards ahead, an old Ford Escort wobbled, clipped the verge, and flipped end over end into the embankment. It came to restwheels in the air, smoking.
Katherines foot stomped the brake by reflex.
Her mind clicked through the numbers: If I stop, Im late. This deal is worth millions. It will destroy me.
Other drivers slowed, filmed on their phones, and carried on.
Katherine checked the dash: 8:45. Time was pitifully tight.
She readied herself to drive on, to skirt the growing traffic knot, when she saw ita small hand, pressed to the upside-down window.
A tiny palm, wearing a red mitten.
Katherine swore, slammed the steering wheel, and veered onto the hard shoulder.
She ran in heels, sinking into banked snow.
Petrol fumes spilled from the Escort.
The drivera young manwas unconscious, blood matting his hair. In the back seat, a girl of about five sobbed beneath the tangled seatbelt.
Easy, darling, easy! Katherine shouted, yanking the jammed door.
The door refused to budge.
She grabbed a stone from the verge, smashed the windowglass raked her face, tore her expensive coat. She didnt care.
She pulled the little girl out, then, with the sudden help of a lorry driver, freed the young man.
Barely a minute later, the car burst into flames.
Katherine sat in the snow, clutching the crying child. Her hands shook, tights laddered, soot streaking her face.
Her phone throbbed with calls. Her boss.
Where are you?! Check-ins closing!
Im not coming, Mr Richards. Theres been an accident. I pulled people from a car.
I dont care who you dragged out! Youve lost the deal! Youre out! Hear me? Out of the industry!
Katherine ended the call.
The ambulance arrived twenty minutes later. The paramedic checked the casualties.
Theyll live. Youre their guardian angel, love. If you hadnt been there…
Next morning, Katherine woke up unemployed.
Her boss was true to his word. He didnt just sack herhe let it be known she was unreliable and hysterical. In their tight corporate world, that was the kiss of death.
She tried everywhere. Every door closed.
Her savings dwindled. The car loan for the very Range Rover shed been driving weighed heavy.
She spiralled into depression.
Why did I stop? she wondered in the bleak small hours. If Id just kept going, Id be in Singapore, sipping Prosecco. Instead, Ive lost everything.
A month later, a call came from an unknown number.
Katherine Smith? Its Andrew, from the Ford Escort.
His voice was soft, yet bright.
Andrew? How are you? And your daughter?
Were alive. Thanks to you. Katherine, wed love to see you. Please.
She visited them in a small council flat.
Andrew was still in a back brace. His wife, Helen, wept as she kissed Katherines hands. Little Daisy presented a drawinga crooked, joyous angel with black hair just like Katherines.
They shared tea and cheap biscuits.
I dont know how to thank you, Andrew said quietly. We havent any money… Im a mechanic, Helens a nursery assistant. But if theres anything we can do…
I need a job, Katherine said, managing a wry smile. I lost mine because of that morning.
Andrew paused in thought.
I know a chapbit eccentric, runs a farm out in the country. Hes after someone to manage the placenot muck out stables, but tackle the paperwork, get grants sorted, sort the logistics. Doesnt pay much, but you get a cottage. Fancy a try?
Katherine, who used to wince at mud on her shoes, agreed. There was nothing left to lose.
The place was sprawling but ramshackle. The owner, Uncle Jack, was all heart but useless with books.
Katherine rolled up her sleeves.
No more glossy boardroom tablejust a battered wooden desk. No Armani suitjeans and wellies.
She sorted the accounts, won subsidies, found customers. Within a year, the farm was thriving.
And she, strange as it seemed, was happy.
No office politics. No forced smiles.
Only the fragrance of milk and hay.
She learnt to bake bread, adopted a dog, and gave up her daily hour of makeup.
Most of all, she felt truly alive.
One day, a delegation rolled up from the city to source farm produce for the big London hotels.
Among themher old boss, Mr Richards.
He recognised her, eyed her jeans and wind-burnt face.
Well then, Katherine, he sneered, Look at you now. Queen of the muck heap? You couldve been on a board of directors. Bet you regret playing the heroine, dont you?
Katherine looked at him. And realised she didnt even feel disgust. Just nothing. Like throwing away a plastic cup.
No, Mr Richards, she smiled. I dont. That day, I saved two lives. And a thirdmy own. I saved myself from turning into you.
He snorted and strode off.
Katherine made her way to the cowshed, where a calf had just been born, its dewy nose nuzzling her palm.
Later, Andrew, Helen, and Daisy came by. Now firm friends, they barbecued, laughed together until dusk.
Katherine gazed at the starsenormous, dazzling, nothing like the city. She knew she was exactly where she belonged.
Sometimes you have to lose everything to find what really matters. Career, money, statustheyre only props, gone in a heartbeat. But compassion, a saved life, a clean consciencethose stay with you. Dont be afraid to turn off the main road when your heart says stop. It may be your lifes greatest turning point.
“YOU MISSED IT, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE! AND WITH IT YOUR JOB AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” — HER BOSS YELLED DOWN THE PHONE, AS MARINA STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED SOMEONE ELSE’S CHILD FROM. SHE’D LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF.
“YOU DIDN’T MAKE IT, KATHERINE! THE FLIGHT’S GONE! AND WITH IT, YOUR POSITION AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FINISHED!” Her boss...
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“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
Excuse Me, Sir, Please Don’t Push—Oh, Is That Smell Coming From You? A Chance Encounter, a Perfectly Laid Bathroom Tile, and a Second Wind: How Rita’s Life Changed at 53 When a Homeless Stranger with Sapphire Eyes Built Her Happiness and Challenged Her Son’s Inheritance Plans
– Excuse me, sir, please dont push. Oh, goodness. Is that smell coming from you? – Sorry, the man muttered,...