You2FB - Captivating Lifestories (2025)

02/07/2025

"Managing Love Life"

"Mum, why are you making such a fuss? Daniel said he loves me. We’re getting married," Zoe said, eerily calm.

"How can I *not* make a fuss? You’re pregnant, unmarried, still in college, and I’ve never even met this bloke! Do you think a child is some kind of toy? That Daniel had better show up today, look me in the eye, and promise he’ll take responsibility, understood?"

"Stop shouting! I thought you’d be happy about a grandchild. I’ll fetch him—he’ll be back from work soon. I’ve got a key to his flat in student housing. I’ll wait there. You’re being *way* too dramatic," Zoe huffed, flouncing out the door, her handbag swinging carelessly.

Catherine clutched her chest and slumped onto a kitchen stool, staring at her late husband’s portrait.

"That’s what happens without a father around," she muttered to the photo. "Oh, Michael, why did you leave us so soon? I’ve failed our Zoe—rushed into everything. What if this lad walks out? How will we manage? My wages are barely enough, and who’ll hire a pregnant student? She’s got *half a year* left! Blimey, what a mess!"

She buried her face in her apron and wept. Life had weighed heavy on her shoulders when she was young—widowed at twenty, left with a two-year-old in a tiny Surrey village. Only her best mate and the neighbours knew the full struggle. She’d gone without meals to feed Zoe, juggled odd jobs, and now, just as things steadied, her daughter drops *this* bombshell.

"Right. Best get the pie dough started—son-in-law’s coming, eh? Oh, Zoe, Zoe..."

Once the table was set, Catherine changed into her Sunday dress and knitted socks to calm her nerves.

The front door creaked open—Zoe trudged in alone. Catherine peered behind her.

"Where’s the groom-to-be? Left him on the doorstep?"

"Gone. Vanished," Zoe sniffled. "He dumped me."

"*What?*" Catherine collapsed onto a chair.

"Just like that! Quit his job, packed his bags, and bolted. The landlady told me..."

Zoe’s eyes welled up. Single motherhood hadn’t been part of her plan.

"What do I do now, Mum?"

Catherine bit back an "I told you so." A mother’s heart isn’t made of stone.

"You have the baby. That’s what. It won’t magic itself away. When’s it due?"

"July. Just in time to graduate," Zoe sighed, rubbing her belly.
..Zoe delivered right on schedule—a girl she named Emily. And so, they became a trio, like three peas in a pod.

Emily grew up bright-eyed and cheeky. Catherine doted on her; Zoe, however, kept her at arm’s length. The girl was the *spitting image* of that cheating Daniel—same copper curls, same bright green eyes.

"Mummy’s home!" Six-year-old Emily would sprint to the door, arms wide.

"What’d you bring me?" She’d cling to Zoe’s sleeve, hopeful.

"Nothing," Zoe would grumble.

"But *why*? You *promised* ice cream!"

"P**s off, I’m knackered!" Zoe would shove her off and lock herself in her room.

Emily would stand there, crying. She’d waited *all day* for a cuddle. And now nursery kids mocked her "dad-less" family drawing—just her, Mum, and Nan.

Catherine would scoop her up, but the hurt ran deep.

"Daddy? Where’s my daddy? Why’s Mummy *mean*?" Emily would wail.

Catherine would squeeze her tight. "Not everyone has a dad, love. More pies for us, eh? Let’s pop to the shop for ice cream."

The magic word always worked.

"And Mummy too?"

"And Mummy."

Mother’s Day was *their* holiday—just women, after all. The table groaned with food, Zoe’s mates brought gifts, laughter rang out. But this year, Zoe brought a *man*. No warning.

On their doorstep stood a silver-haired bloke in a Savile Row suit, *decades* older.

"Mum, meet Alexander. My boss. He’s being transferred—promotion. We’re getting married."

"*What?*" Catherine froze.

"Is *he* my daddy?" Emily piped up from the hallway.

Alexander chuckled. "No, poppet. Here’s a doll for you."

Emily turned away. Something about him felt... *off*.

The evening dragged. Alexander barely hid his disdain for their "quaint" life. Zoe fawned over him, snapping at Emily.

"Sit *properly*! What will Uncle Alex think? Stop *fidgeting*!"

Catherine stayed quiet. Alexander held court, bragging about his promotion, their "lovely" Hampshire cottage.

"Emily’s coming too, right? Is the nursery nice there?"

Alexander shot Zoe a look. She changed the subject.

"Mum, why’s work? Retire—we’ll send you money."

"Retire? On what?"

"Alex’ll provide. You’ll want for *nothing*."

"Why would you—?"

"Emily, bedtime. Take your doll," Alexander ordered.

Emily glanced at Nan’s nod and left—doll abandoned by the door.

"Mum, here’s the thing... We’re not taking Emily. Just till we’re settled—"

Catherine *exploded*. "She’s not a *goldfish*! You’re dumping her *for a man*?"

"It’s *temporary*," Zoe simpered. "A new father needs *bonding* time."

"Go ahead. But lay one finger on my Em, and you’ll *regret it*. I’ll tell her you’re on business. That poor lamb’s heartbroken *enough* without her mum choosing some prat over her!"

Zoe stormed out.

A week later, she packed. Emily hovered, fussing.

"Mummy, pack your *scarf*! What if it snows? And mittens!"

Zoe laughed. "It’s the *South Coast*, silly."

Catherine’s heart ached as Emily smothered Zoe in hugs.

"Take Mr. Bearington. He’s my *favourite*."

Zoe tossed the teddy in the suitcase. Emily tucked him in with a jumper.

"Don’t be sad, Bear. Mummy’s just cross ’cos she’ll miss me. Look after her, ’kay?"

Catherine fled to the loo, sobbing into a towel.

"Taxi’s here!" Zoe chirped. "No need to see me off."

"Mummy, *no!*" Emily lunged. Zoe pried her off.

"Ugh, I’ll miss my *flight*! Mum, *take* her!"

Catherine held a weeping Emily as Zoe vanished.

Neither six months nor six years later did Zoe return. Just occasional cheques and calls. Catherine worked; the money went into Emily’s uni fund.

At graduation,…
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

02/07/2025

"Well, this is awkward."
"Meaning you’re his wife?"
"In every sense. Legally, at least—I can show you the stamp in my passport if you like. Didn’t bring the certificate, sorry," the woman replied, one hand resting on her rounded stomach.

***

"Love, I’ll be away next week on a job up north. Signal’s patchy there, so don’t lose touch," said James Wilson.
"Don’t worry about the cat. I’ll pop by, feed him, clean the litter," muttered Emily, eyes glued to her phone.
"About the cat…" James hesitated. "Honestly, love, no need to trek across town after work just for that. Mrs. Higgins from upstairs—you know, the one on the landing—she’ll check in on Whiskers now and then."
"You’re being odd, Dad," Emily chuckled. "Your neighbour’s a proper saint, then? Feeds the cat, picks up milk, even swings by the chemist after work? Lucky you."
"Right. Lucky me."

James suddenly felt a pang of guilt for lying again. His brows furrowed, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere to hide his unease. *She doesn’t suspect a thing. Just having a go at me,* he told himself.

James and Emily’s mum had been divorced for seven years now. They’d parted amicably—no rows, just a quiet acknowledgment that the love had fizzled out. After speaking with Emily, they filed for divorce with clean consciences. She’d taken it in stride, on one condition: family holidays would still be spent together. Everyone agreed.

"So, I’m your neighbour now?" Charlotte smirked.
"Couldn’t think of anything else…" James dropped his gaze, sheepish.
"Calling me your wife was just *too* complicated, apparently."
"Lottie, don’t take it to heart."
"I’m a grown woman, Jamie. But how long are we going to keep up this charade?"
"I don’t *know*," he groaned. "What if she doesn’t understand? When she was little, she’d panic at the thought of either of us leaving. Kept asking if we’d abandon her. Feels like I’m betraying her."
"Look, I’m not meddling in your relationship with Emily. But in two months, you’ll have *two* daughters. You’ll have to make a decision—a proper one. I’m not forcing your hand, God forbid, but how do you plan to hide a newborn?"
"We’ll figure it out," James muttered, though he had no clue how.

James had met Charlotte not long after the divorce. One look, and he knew—she was the one. But admitting it to his family? Impossible. He feared Emily would turn away, and his ex-wife would make visitation a nightmare.

First, he’d fretted over the ten-year age gap. Then over the secret wedding. Now, over Charlotte’s pregnancy. But with the due date looming, the truth was about to burst like a boil. *I’ll tell her when the time’s right,* he assured himself.

James had gone to great lengths to hide his new life from Emily—avoiding her visits, meeting on neutral ground. And Emily, like any sharp young adult, needled him endlessly about his "mysterious neighbour."

The morning James returned from his job, Emily decided to surprise him with a visit. But no one answered the door. Or his phone—not on the first call, nor the tenth. Worried, she stepped outside. She hadn’t misheard: Dad had texted he’d landed at Heathrow, was on his way home, and would call that evening.
Yet he wasn’t home. *He’s an adult. Probably ran errands,* she told herself.

"James was taken to hospital," an unfamiliar voice cut through her thoughts.
"What? When? Where?" Emily spun around.

The voice came from a first-floor window. An elderly neighbour, peering out, explained she’d seen James return with his duffel bag—likely from his trip—and half an hour later, an ambulance arrived.

"From what I gathered, it’s the cardiac unit. Didn’t look too rough—walked out on his own, thank heavens! No stretcher, so not A&E," the woman mused. "Knew you straightaway. You’re his girl—always waiting for your cab out front, buzzing his flat."
"How long ago was he taken?"
"Over an hour now."

Emily barely heard the rest. Trembling, she racked her brain—where was he? What state was he in? *Cardiology? But he’s never had heart trouble!*

"Ring the ambulance service. They might say which hospital," the neighbour suggested, as if reading her mind.

Emily dialled with shaky hands, begging for help. Minutes later, the operator directed her to the hospital. She hailed a cab, fighting panic, pushing back dark thoughts. Dad’s phone remained off.

"Please—emergency said my father was brought here!" Emily blurted, voice cracking.
"If he’s been admitted, I’ll check. How long ago?" the receptionist replied, calm as ever.
"I don’t *know*. Half an hour? An hour? The neighbour wasn’t sure. Please, *help*."
"Hold on. Name and dob?"
"Wilson. James Wilson. 12th March, 1973…"
"Wait in the corridor. I’ll confirm."
The receptionist disappeared, murmuring into a phone. She returned shortly.
"He’s in cardiology. No visitors allowed—ward’s under quarantine. If you’ve brought anything, staff can collect it. Visiting hours are posted at the main entrance."
"Thank you, *thank you*."

Emily bolted outside, scanning for the main doors. *If they said he might come out, it can’t be that bad, right?*

Lost in thought, she barely registered reaching the ward. A nurse checked James’s details, then frowned. "You’re outside visiting hours. And it’s *quarantine*."
"He’s just been admitted! He’s not answering! I don’t know if he has *anything*! Let me in!" Emily’s voice rose to a shout.

A hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, whirling around—expecting security, but instead finding a pregnant woman, barely older than herself.

"Emily, hello," Charlotte said carefully.
"Hello. Do I know you?"
"Not exactly. I know *you*—very well. But to you, I’m just the ‘neighbour’ who feeds the cat and nips to the chemist." She forced a smile.
"I don’t understand. Are you here for Dad? Did he call you? What’s going *on*?"
"I came alone. The hospital rang *me*."
"Why—you?"
"Because… I’m his wife."
"*What* do you mean, his wife?"
"In every legal sense. I’ve got the passport stamp to prove it. Left the certificate at home, sorry," Charlotte said, a hand shielding her belly—instinctive defence. "Let’s step outside. I’ll explain. He’s fine—I’ve brought his things. Come on."

She guided Emily out, choosing her words.

"How? How long have you been married? Why didn’t Dad *say* anything? And especially about—" Emily’s eyes dropped to Charlotte’s stomach.
"This isn’t how I wanted to meet you. But as they say, want to make God…
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

02/07/2025

**"How Could You, Behind My Back"**

"Hello, Marianne. How long has it been since we last saw each other? Fifteen years? Or more?"

"Perhaps longer. But you haven’t changed a bit."

"And you have—grown lovelier."

Valerie studied the face of her once dearest friend, hardly believing they had truly crossed paths again. Not just met, but collided—quite literally—in the dance school’s waiting room, where they had each brought their daughters for a free trial lesson.

"Thank you, Val," Marianne replied with a faint smile.

She wanted to offer a compliment in return, but the words eluded her. They had dried up long ago—over fifteen years past—when they had last spoken. That final conversation had been bitter, tangled, and Marianne still shuddered to recall it.

"Whom did you bring?" Valerie asked. "A son or a daughter?"

"A daughter," Marianne answered. "Veronica. She’s ten. And you?"

"I’ve a daughter too, though she’s just turned nine. Did you marry Edward in the end?"

Marianne stared at her, astonished. Did Valerie still believe—after all these years—that her best friend could have stolen the man she loved, let alone married him? So much time had passed, yet Val seemed unchanged.

"Let’s go down to the café. We can sit, have tea, and talk properly."

Valerie hesitated. The idea of spending time with the woman who had, in her mind, once been a rival clearly unsettled her. Yet, after a moment’s pause, she nodded. Life had moved on for both of them. What good came from clinging to old walls?

"Alright."

They descended in silence, stealing glances when the other wasn’t looking. Both were curious about the other’s life, but neither dared broach the past just yet.

They spoke of trivial things—of nothing and everything. Valerie had returned to London two years ago with her husband and daughter; her mother had fallen ill, needing care, and she had persuaded her husband to relocate.

"It wasn’t easy," she admitted, "but Ian is wonderful—kind, patient. I’m so grateful I found him."

Marianne smiled. So Valerie *had* built a happy life after all. A loving husband, a daughter—surely she no longer resented Marianne? But within moments, the question came again:

"And you? Did you marry Edward? Have his child? Are you happy with him?"

Marianne flinched. Why must life be so cruel? Once, there had been two little girls—friends from the sandbox, through nursery, school, adolescence—until a foolish quarrel tore them apart. Marianne had thought Valerie understood the truth eventually. But no—Val had carried the belief all these years that Marianne had built her happiness upon her best friend’s heartache.

"Val, do you truly still think there was anything between Edward and me? We spoke of it back then. I tried to explain. I thought you *understood*—that you were just too hurt to believe me."

Valerie pressed her lips together—that old habit Marianne remembered from childhood. Whenever Val was upset, defeated in an argument, or nursing a grudge, her lips would thin, making her look like a petulant little girl again.

"I didn’t think of you at all," Valerie said stiffly, and Marianne knew it was a lie. "I’ve had my own life for years."

"You’ve held onto Edward all this time, convinced I married him, convinced I was happy with him—and now you expect me to believe you *never* thought of us?"

Valerie scoffed, glancing away. Marianne studied her profile, searching for forgiveness—some sign that Val had made peace with the past, even if she still believed the worst.

"I truly didn’t dwell on it," Valerie repeated. "That last conversation... I wiped you and Edward from my mind. And your claims that nothing happened? Just lies to me."

*So she never forgave me.* Marianne sighed, then pulled out her phone and flipped through the gallery before handing it over.

"Look. This is my husband, Victor. The same awkward Victor Samuels you used to mock for being dull."

Valerie’s eyes widened as she scrolled through the photos. A faint smile tugged at her lips. She zoomed in, examining each image, then looked up in disbelief.

"You *actually* married Samuels? I thought you were joking when you said you fancied him. And your daughter—she’s his?"

Marianne nodded. "A daughter *and* a son. Andrew turns thirteen soon; Veronica’s ten. I’m happy, Val—just as you are. There was never anything between me and Edward. He made it all up to drive us apart—and to end things with *you* properly."

Valerie’s lips thinned again, and Marianne felt irritation rise. How long must they dredge up the past? Their friendship could have lasted a lifetime if not for Edward’s meddling—his belief that he could play with their lives as he pleased.

Once, two little girls had met in a park sandpit. Their families lived in the same building—different floors, but close enough. They fought over a doll, almost coming to blows before Marianne’s mother pulled them apart, scolding them for quarreling over what wasn’t theirs. Tearful and ashamed, Valerie had sobbed—until Marianne silently handed her the doll and smiled.

*"You play. I’ll wait."*

Val had stared, disbelieving, at such easy forgiveness. From that moment, a friendship blossomed. They attended the same nursery, the same school, shared desks, homework, games, holidays.

Then came graduation, university together—and in their second year, Edward arrived. A transfer student from another city. The moment Valerie saw him, she was smitten.

*"Marianne! I’m in love!"* she had confessed a week later. *"He’s perfect!"*

Marianne had been delighted. Before Edward, Valerie had shown little interest in romance—so the news had been thrilling.

*"Do you think it’ll work out?"* Marianne had asked.

Valerie’s lips had thinned. *"Why? Because only *you* can manage relationships?"*

Marianne had been stunned. Where had this bitterness come from? Yes, she’d had boyfriends—some casual, some serious—but Valerie had never resented her for it. Until now.

Days passed, their friendship fraying—until Marianne realised the truth. Val was *jealous*—convinced Edward fancied *her* instead. Marianne was happily dating Victor, whom Val deemed too bookish. Yet Edward confessed his feelings to Marianne on New Year’s Eve, expecting reciprocation.

*"You’re seeing Val—what’s the point of this?"*

Edward had smirked. *"Seeing her? We’ve shagged a few times. Hardly a relationship."*

Disgust had twisted Marianne’s stomach. Handsome, confident, clever—but lacking decency.

*"You think I’d betray my best friend over you?"*

*"She’s in love with me?"* he’d sneered. *"I just gave her attention."*

Marianne had thrown him out. The next day, Valerie arrived in tears.

*"How could you? You knew I loved him! You *knew* we were together, yet you threw yourself at him!"*

Stunned, Marianne could only stare.

*"Val? What are you talking about?"*

*"Edward told me *everything*! How you cornered him, called our relationship a joke—offered *yourself* instead!"*

*"That’s a lie!"* But before she could say more, Val’s hand struck her cheek.

*"I’m pregnant,"* Valerie hissed through clenched teeth. *"And he doesn’t care—because of *you*. I *hate* you!"*

Marianne had pleaded innocence, but Val was already gone—vanishing from …
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

02/07/2025

A Life Half-Spoken

"Mum, where are my stuffed toys?" Veronica quickly scanned the room, which had gone from a cosy nest to a sterile space in just one morning. "And the Kinder toy figures from my shelf—they’re gone too!"

"Nicky, I gave them to Auntie Val. Her little granddaughter’s such a sweetheart, absolutely lovely. She said little Katie hasn’t left that bag of toys all morning," came her mum’s voice from the other room.

"You’re joking, right? Mum, those are *my* things! *My* toys!" Veronica’s eyes welled up as she rushed in, voice rising.

"Good grief, you’re seventeen, crying over bits and bobs. Auntie Val’s got a toddler—let someone actually *use* them. Yours were just gathering dust. Or are you planning to play pretend at your age? Stop bawling like I’ve given your whole room away!"

"Wouldn’t put it past you! Next thing I know, I’ll come home to find some other kid’s moved in—another niece or your mate’s daughter!" Veronica snapped, grabbing her coat and storming out.

It was always like this. Since she was fifteen, Veronica had taken odd jobs to avoid asking her mum for extra cash for clothes or makeup. The moment she’d bought her first proper jumper and jeans with her wages, her mum had rifled through her wardrobe and bagged up a heap of "clutter" for charity.

"You’re earning now, and Mrs. Thompson’s girl on the third floor’s growing like a w**d. You’ve seen how tight things are for them. Why’d you have to be so stingy?" her mum had said when Veronica spent an hour hunting for her favourite tee.

"Mum, you can’t just *do* that! They’re *mine*. You should’ve *asked*!"

"I don’t *owe* you a thing, and *you’ve* no right to speak to me like that! I bought half that lot with my own money," her mum shot back.

*Does she not get it?* Veronica fumed, staring at her half-empty wardrobe. *How can she just hand my stuff off like it’s nothing?*

Next, her bookshelf was bare. The series she’d collected since Year 5—gone.

"Mum, Nan gave me those! *You* didn’t buy them—why would you do this?" she demanded, tears spilling.

"You never read them—what’s the difference? Just dust magnets. And they’re kids’ books, love. You’re nearly grown. We’d only have chucked them in the charity bin or used them for kindling at the cottage."

"It doesn’t matter if I read them or not—they’re *mine*! Ring your friend and get them back."

"Have you lost the plot? What a disgrace. I’m not ringing anyone. Dunno how I raised such a selfish little madam. Just like your dad—he’d nag me over every sock, and now you’re at it."

Her mum never did say who got the books. After that, Veronica only bought essentials, refused gifts to avoid lectures, and stored what remained of her magazines at Nan’s. New clothes went on her own shelf, with strict warnings: *Don’t touch*. Her mum would sulk for days. "Next we’ll be splitting the grocery bill, will we?" she’d mutter before clamming up.

The last straw was the missing toys. Finding them gone—handed off to Auntie Val—Veronica snapped. She knew where the woman lived and, dignity be damned, marched over. *Let them think what they want. I’m not letting her give my things away.*

"Nicky! Where d’you think you’re going?" her mum shouted after her. "Don’t you *dare* shame me by storming round to Val’s!"

But Veronica was already out the door. To others, they were just toys. To her—they were everything.

A wrinkled face answered her knock. Auntie Val had been family friends for years—helped her mum land a job post-divorce, even babysat a young Nicky.

"Veronica? Love, what’s wrong?" Val frowned.

"Hi. No, it’s—well, actually—" Veronica hovered on the step, clammy with shame. Her earlier resolve crumbled. *Was this even right?*

"Don’t just stand there. Come in, have a cuppa, tell me properly."

Veronica perched on the hallway stool, still in her trainers.

"Auntie Val… Mum gave you a bag of my toys this morning?"

"Oh yes, ta ever so! Katie’s mad for plushies. I meant to pop round with something for you—thought your mum’d collect it. But since you’re here—" She turned to fetch it.

"Wait, please," Veronica blurted. "I’m… I’m so embarrassed. Mum’ll be furious, but… I need them back."

Val’s brows shot up.

"But I’ve already given them to Katie. Bit awkward, love."

"I know how it sounds. And I’m mortified asking. Not all—just a couple. Auntie Val, Mum didn’t *tell* me. If she’d asked, I’d have packed some myself—really. But there was this old brown bear… and a tiny knitted doll, palm-sized? Please understand—they’re not *just* toys. Dad gave them to me before… before they split. They matter. *So* much." She broke down, face in her hands.

"Good Lord, pet." Val knelt, pulling her close. "Your mum said you didn’t want them. I’d never have taken them if I’d known!"

Veronica couldn’t stop crying.

"Right, cuppa first." Val hauled herself up, steering her to the kitchen. "We’ll sort this."

Clutching the steaming mug, Veronica stared into her tea. She remembered her dad. Post-divorce, her mum barred visits, but those rare times he came—she’d been *happy*. They’d had a bond she’d only *truly* felt once the last traces of him were given away "for good causes".

Then he’d died. No goodbye. Just endless grief.

Val returned with a bundle.

"Nicky, look at this shawl. Thirty-odd years old—my mum’s gift. Kids tell me to bin it." She laughed, fi*****ng the holes. "But I keep darning it. ‘Mum’s hugging me,’ I tell ‘em. Won’t part with it." Tears glimmered in her eyes.

"I *get* why your things matter. Your dad—good man, just didn’t work out. Don’t blame your mum. She loved him fierce. If not for that crash… Well. I’ll bring your toys tomorrow. Let my lot call me daft—*I* understand. Fight for what’s yours, but don’t forget who’s still *here*." She buried her nose in the shawl’s wool, breathing deep.

***

Veronica found her mum leaning on the dresser. Braced …
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

02/07/2025

The Nuisance

"Good evening, folks. The neighbour downstairs has complained about the noise and shouting from your flat," said the constable standing at the door. "Mind if I come in?"

"Of course," Emily replied, her voice shaking. "Just give me a moment to settle the baby."

Truthfully, Emily wasn’t trembling because of the police officer—it was the fresh bruises from her husband. This time, he’d lashed out because she’d poured his whiskey down the sink. When William discovered it, he flew into a rage:

"I’m the one working my fingers to the bone on the building site while you sit at home in your cushy maternity leave! Go get me another bottle!"

"No," Emily said. "You’re drunk every night. Jamie’s barely one, and he’s already terrified of you. Enough, William!"

The child’s wails drowned out her words as his mother took another beating. The noise reached old Mrs. Whitmore downstairs, who, true to form, did what she always did when suspicious—called the police.

Mrs. Whitmore was quite the piece of work. The neighbours didn’t just dislike her—they couldn’t stand her. There wasn’t a single person in the building she hadn’t reported at some point—not just to the police, but to the council, the housing association, even social services.

"That lad from Flat 5—his mother barely feeds him. Skin and bones, dressed like a ragamuffin," she’d say over the phone. "Someone ought to check on them. Far too cheerful, that one—probably on something."

The social worker took note, promising action. Meanwhile, the poor mother of chubby little Oliver was stunned when a full inspection team turned up at her door. Turned out, Oliver was on a strict diet—at nine, he weighed as much as a teenager. His mum was thrilled it was working. As for his clothes? The boy was lively, and trousers never lasted long.

Mrs. Whitmore didn’t know that, of course. She avoided the neighbours like the plague.

Long-time residents said that years ago, burglars had broken into her flat. Since then, she’d trusted no one, convinced someone in the building had tipped them off after she and her husband withdrew their savings for a second-hand Ford. Her husband had fought back, got badly hurt, and died soon after. She’d never quite recovered.

But the younger neighbours—most of them—didn’t know that.

"Clean up after your dog! Think you can just leave messes about? You’ll regret it!" she snapped at a young lad walking his Rottweiler at night.

"You fancy it, you clean it, you daft old bat," he scoffed.

The massive dog growled, straining at its lead as Mrs. Whitmore retreated, nursing a grudge that demanded payback.

And payback came—the young man found a neatly placed "gift" outside his door the next morning, squashing it in his brand-new white trainers.

"Damn it!" he yelled, scraping the mess off his shoes.

Lucky for Mrs. Whitmore, he didn’t know which flat was hers. Cursing, he chucked the trainers into the bin.

Behind her lace curtains, the old woman smirked. After that, the pavements near the playground stayed spotless. Word spread fast.

"So, what’s the trouble?" The constable scanned the room where little Jamie sobbed in his cot, gripping the rails.

"Nothing," William muttered. "Just got carried away watching the match. Useless lot, barely moved out there."

Emily shot him a fearful look. She had to back his lie—or suffer later. The constable eyed her. He knew the score, but without her testimony, there’d be no consequences.

"Yes, the telly got too loud," she lied. "Sorry."

The officer sighed. Same old story—victims protecting their abusers until it was too late.

"Right, consider this a warning. Next time, it’s a fine," he said. "And apologise to your neighbour. Sharp as a tack, she is. Calls us whenever something’s amiss—knows us all by name now."

"Lucky us," William muttered.

A warning glare from the constable, a meaningful glance at Emily, and he was gone.

"Next time, I’ll make sure you don’t make a sound," William hissed as the door shut.

Emily clutched her son, cursing the day she’d married him.

"He’s no good for you, love," her mates had said. "You’re kind-hearted, full of life. That one—smiles sweet, eyes dead. Walk away."

"You don’t know him like I do. He loves me," Emily had insisted, starry-eyed. "He stood up for me once."

She married him. Soon, the truth showed—jealous fits, public rows, controlling every move. Emily mistook cruelty for devotion. Now, he raged at imagined slights, delighting in her guilt.

"Is this ironed? Useless!" he barked.

"I tried. Jamie’s teething—I haven’t even eaten," she pleaded.

But William didn’t do understanding. Too hot, too bland, a bad mother—always her fault.

"You woke him, shouting!" she protested. "I think I’ve caught a cold."

"Won’t kill you. Women used to work fields hours after giving birth. Weak lot now," he scoffed.

Emily once thought stress made him cruel. Now, she saw the truth—she was just convenient. A flat, a job, a punching bag.

Then fate stepped in. Her old coworkers visited for her birthday. She’d baked despite exhaustion.

"So good to see you!" Emily beamed, clinging to her past freedom.

"Happy birthday! Where’s Jamie? Brought him a teddy," said Daniel, her old workmate.

Jamie adored the toy and the attention—smiling, dimples flashing. For the first time in a year, Emily felt happy.

"Don’t stay off work too long. We’ll help with nursery," her boss said. "You’re not yourself. Everything alright?"

Emily smiled. She didn’t mention the hell at home.

When William returned, he ignored her guests. They left quickly, sensing trouble.

"Keep them out. Especially that Daniel," he sneered. "Fancy him, do you?"

"Don’t be ridiculous!"

"Oh? He walked you home before we married. Why was he holding Jamie? Is he the father?"

"Are you insane?" Emily gasped. "His wife just had a baby!"

"'Just'? So Jamie’s his? You slag! Out—both of you!"

"It’s my flat!" she cried, clinging to Jamie. "It’s freezing!"

William grabbed a knife. "Go, or I won’t stop myself."

Barefoot, in her dressing gown, she fled to the…
🔸 R£ m0r€ ¡n c0mm£nt$ 👇👇👇

You2FB - Captivating Lifestories

02/07/2025

02/07/2025

02/07/2025

02/07/2025

02/07/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share