Every year, Sarah had to devise a new excuse to explain to her family why they wouldn’t be visiting. “I won’t miss a single-family holiday because of your parents!” her husband Peter always insisted. But this time, Sarah stood her ground and defended her family values.
The end of autumn and the beginning of winter had always been my favorite time of year.
Сrisp air carried the smell of woodsmoke, and the golden leaves gave way to the first frost.
It was the season when my family would gather, no matter what, to share holiday dinners and exchange thoughtful gifts.
Those gatherings were the heart of my childhood, moments of warmth and laughter that felt like nothing else in the world.
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But since marrying Peter, those moments had become memories. Each year, I found myself on the phone, explaining to my parents why I couldn’t make it.
Why, once again, I’d be spending the holidays with Peter’s family instead of my own.
My mom would try to sound understanding, but I knew it hurt her. It hurt me too.
This year, though, things were going to be different. For the first time, Peter had agreed to spend Thanksgiving with my parents.
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It had taken weeks of discussion—if you could call the arguments discussions—but he finally relented.
And now, here we were, strolling through the grocery store, picking out a bottle of wine for my mom, a new roasting pan for my dad, and the ingredients for the pumpkin pie I wanted to bake.
I clutched a small bundle of festive napkins with turkeys printed on them and held them up for Peter’s opinion.
He shrugged. His lack of enthusiasm was obvious, and it had been simmering all day.
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“Are you okay, love?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
“Yeah. Couldn’t be better,” he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.
I sighed.
“Are you still upset about going to my parents’ house?”
He stopped walking and turned to me, his face tight with frustration. “Of course, I’m upset! Why should I skip my family’s holiday for your whims?”
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“My whims?” I said, my voice rising despite myself. “I’ve done this for you every single year since we started dating, Peter. Every. Year.”
“Oh, here we go,” he said with a bitter laugh. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You didn’t like this, you didn’t like that. What about me? Why don’t you care if I’m happy?”
“Peter,” I said slowly, keeping my voice as steady as possible, “we’ve already talked about this. I just want one season with my parents. If that’s too much for you, maybe we should celebrate separately.”
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His eyebrows shot up.
“Season? Are you saying you’re skipping Christmas with my family too?”
“Yes,” I replied firmly, though my stomach churned.
“This year, I’m spending the holidays with my parents.”
He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound.
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“Fine. Then you can explain that to my parents.”
“I will,” I said, keeping my tone quiet and even.
I felt wrung out, as if every ounce of energy had been drained by this conversation. I just wanted it to be over.
We stood in the aisle for a moment, the silence between us louder than the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.
He grabbed the cart handle and pushed it forward without another word.
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I followed, clutching the napkins to my chest, trying to hold on to the excitement that had felt so real just hours ago.
The tension hung heavy in the car as we neared my parents’ house.
Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set in a way that warned me not to push too hard. But I couldn’t let it go entirely.
“Peter,” I started softly, “please, just be kind to my parents. They’re excited to see us, and they’re nervous about making a good impression.”
He let out a sharp laugh.
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“Oh, great! Now you’re giving me instructions? Should I juggle for them too? Or maybe do a little dance?”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “I’m not asking for much. I just want this to go well.”
“Well,” he shot back, his voice rising slightly, “maybe you should’ve just invited them to join us at my family’s house. Wouldn’t that have been easier?”
I shook my head, exasperated. “Peter, they’re old. Traveling for the holidays isn’t easy for them.”
“Great. Just perfect!” he muttered, throwing one hand up dramatically before gripping the wheel again.
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The rest of the drive was silent except for the hum of the engine.
I focused on the frosty trees lining the road, trying to calm the knot in my stomach.
When we arrived, I forced a smile and rang the doorbell.
My mom, Charlotte, opened the door almost immediately, her face lighting up as she threw her arms around us.
“I’m so happy to see you! Finally, you’re here!” she exclaimed, her warmth like a balm to my nerves.
Behind her, my dad, Kevin, offered a small, reserved smile, his usual quiet presence grounding the moment.
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Peter muttered a half-hearted “hello” and walked inside without eye contact.
I gave my mom an apologetic look, silently willing her to understand. Then, with a deep breath, I followed him into the house.
Inside the warm glow of the house, my mom and I moved around the dining room, setting the table with care.
The soft clatter of plates and the occasional hum of her voice filled the space as we arranged the dishes.
In the living room, Peter sat stiffly on the couch, his arms crossed, while my dad quietly flipped through a magazine beside him.
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Mom glanced toward Peter, her movements slowing. “Is Peter okay?” she asked softly. “He seems… upset.”
I hesitated, trying to find the right words.
“He’s just… frustrated, I think,” I said finally, keeping my voice low. “He wishes we were spending the holiday with his family.”
Her hands paused mid-air, holding a serving spoon. “Oh,” she said, her tone tinged with confusion and sadness. “Did we do something wrong?”
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“No, Mom,” I said quickly. “It’s not you. It’s just—” I stopped, unsure how to explain the unspoken tension between Peter and me. “It’s complicated.”
She looked at me, her brows drawn together.
“We’re not family to him?” she asked quietly, almost to herself.
Her words hit me like a cold wind. I didn’t know how to respond.
Was that how Peter saw it? My family, my parents—were they nothing to him? The thought stung more than I wanted to admit.
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“I’m sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. For Peter’s mood? For his indifference? For years I’d put my family on hold for his?
Mom placed a hand on my arm, her touch warm and steady.
“You don’t have to apologize, sweetheart,” she said gently.
But her eyes still held a shadow of hurt, and it lingered in the air as we finished setting the table in silence.
The table was set beautifully, with crisp white linens, shining silverware, and the aroma of roasted turkey filling the room.
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My mom, Charlotte, stood back to admire her work before clapping her hands.
“Everything’s ready! Come and eat!” she said with cheerful warmth, her voice echoing into the quiet living room.
We all gathered around the table. My dad, Kevin, pulled out my mom’s chair for her, and I couldn’t help but smile at his small gesture of old-fashioned chivalry.
Peter followed sluggishly, barely making an effort to engage, and slumped into his seat with a sigh.
The meal began, but the air was tense like a storm waiting to break. My mom tried valiantly to spark a conversation.
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“So, Peter,” she started brightly, “how’s work going? Busy this time of year?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt, stabbing a piece of turkey with his fork.
“Dad’s been working on the deck in the backyard,” I chimed in, trying to fill the silence. “It’s really coming together.”
My dad nodded. “It’s slow, but it keeps me busy. Maybe you could come by and give me some tips, Peter.”
Peter didn’t even look up. “Yeah, maybe,” he muttered, flicking a crumb off the table.
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Peter,” I said softly, leaning toward him, “what’s wrong? Can I help?”
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He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter and leaned back in his chair. “Everything’s wrong!” he snapped, his voice loud enough to make my mom flinch.
“How is this even Thanksgiving without my mom’s chocolate pudding?”
“Pudding?” my mom echoed, her voice unsure, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for her glass of water.
“It’s fine,” I interjected quickly, trying to calm the situation. “His mom always makes it for him. It’s no big deal.”
Peter scoffed, his eyes blazing. “No big deal? Of course! Because nothing I want ever matters. It’s always about Sarah, isn’t it? What Sarah wants. What Sarah needs.”
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“Peter, please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “This is supposed to be a happy day.”
He pushed his chair back, the chair’s legs screeching against the floor. “Listen, I’m done! We’re leaving. Get your coat, Sarah!”
“NO, YOU LISTEN!” my dad shouted after Peter, jumping up from his chair. But Peter just ignored him and walked right past! I saw my dad clutch his chest.
The weight of the moment pressed on me as I stood slowly. My mom’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, Mom,” I said, my throat tightening. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix this.”
I walked to the doorway, where Peter stood waiting, arms crossed.
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“Put your coat on! We’re leaving!” he barked.
“No,” I said, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. “You’re leaving. I’m staying.”
“What? You’re my wife. You’re supposed to listen to me!”
I took a deep breath, meeting his glare.
“You don’t respect my parents, you don’t respect me, and behaving like this, you don’t even respect yourself. I’ve put up with your selfishness for years, hoping the loving man I married was still there. But now, I don’t believe he is.”
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“You want to talk about respect?” he sputtered, disbelief written all over his face.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “Leave, Peter. It’s over.”
His mouth opened, but no words came. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
I returned to the dining room, my heart pounding, and found my parents sitting quietly, their faces a mixture of sadness and concern.
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“I’m sorry, Mom. Dad,” I said, my voice soft but resolute.
“I let this go on for too long. But not anymore.”
Charlotte stood and wrapped me in a warm hug. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters,” she whispered.
For the first time in years, I felt free. I had chosen the family that truly mattered and wouldn’t trade them for anything.
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At 55, I Fell for a Man 15 Years Younger than Me, Only to Discover a Shocking Truth – Story of the Day
I came to the island searching for peace, a fresh start to heal from my past. Instead, I found HIM—charming, attentive, and everything I didn’t know I needed. But just when I started to believe in new beginnings, a single moment shattered it all.
Even though I’d spent decades there, my living room felt like a stranger’s space. At 55, I stared at the open suitcase, wondering how my life had come to this.
“How did we get here?” I asked the chipped “Forever & Always” cup in my hand before tossing it aside.
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I ran my hand along the couch. “Goodbye to Sunday coffee and pizza fights.”
Memories buzzed in my mind, unwelcome guests I couldn’t evict. In the bedroom, the emptiness hit harder. The other side of the bed stared back at me like an accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “It wasn’t all my fault.”
Packing became a scavenger hunt for things that still mattered. The laptop sat on my desk like a beacon.
“At least you stuck around,” I said, patting it.
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After two years of work, my novel was inside. It wasn’t finished, but it was mine—proof I wasn’t entirely lost.
Then, Lana’s email came:
“Creative retreat. Warm island. Fresh start. Wine.”
“Of course, wine,” I laughed.
Lana had always been good at making disasters sound appealing. The idea felt reckless, but wasn’t that the point?
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I stared at the flight confirmation. My inner voice was relentless.
What if I hate it? Or if they hate me? What if I fall into the ocean and get eaten by sharks?
But then another thought crept in.
What if I enjoy it?
I exhaled and closed the suitcase. “Here’s to running away.”
I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something.
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***
The island greeted me with a warm breeze and the rhythmic sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore. For a moment, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the salty air fill my lungs.
This is exactly what I needed.
But the peace didn’t last. As I approached the retreat, the serenity of the island was replaced by loud music and bursts of laughter. People mostly in their 20s and 30s lounged on brightly colored beanbags, holding drinks that seemed more umbrella than liquid.
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“Well, this isn’t exactly a monastery,” I muttered under my breath.
A group near the pool burst into laughter so loud it startled a bird from a nearby tree. I sighed.
Creative breakthroughs, huh, Lana?
Before I could retreat into the shadows, Lana appeared, her sunhat tilted at a jaunty angle and a margarita in hand.
“Thea!” she shouted, as though we hadn’t emailed just yesterday. “You made it!”
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“Regretting it already,” I murmured but plastered on a smile.
“Oh, stop,” she said, waving a hand. “This is where the magic happens! Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“I was hoping for something… quieter,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Nonsense! You need to meet people and soak in the energy! Speaking of which,” she grabbed my arm, “I have someone you must meet.”
Before I could protest, she dragged me through the crowd. I felt like a frumpy mother at a high school party, trying not to trip over discarded flip-flops.
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We stopped in front of a man who, I kid you not, looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. Sun-kissed skin, a relaxed smile, and a white linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive but not sleazy.
“Thea, meet Eric,” Lana said with excitement.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Thea,” he said, his voice as smooth as the ocean breeze.
“Likewise,” I said, hoping my nervousness didn’t show.
Lana beamed as if she’d just set up a royal engagement. “Eric’s a writer, too. He’s been dying to meet you since I told him about your novel.”
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My cheeks flushed. “Oh, it’s not finished.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Eric said. “The fact that you’ve poured yourself into it for two years… that’s incredible! I’d love to hear about it.”
Lana smirked and backed away. “You two talk. I’ll find more margaritas!”
I glared after her. But in a few minutes, whether it was Eric’s undeniable charisma or the enchanting ocean breeze playing tricks on me, I found myself agreeing to a walk.
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“Give me a moment,” I said, surprising even myself.
Back in my room, I rummaged through my suitcase and pulled out my most flattering sundress.
Why not? If I’m going to be dragged around, I might as well look good doing it.
When I stepped outside, Eric was waiting. “Ready?”
I nodded, trying to act casual, even as my stomach did an uncharacteristic flutter. “Lead the way.”
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Eric showed me parts of the island that seemed untouched by the chaos of the “retreat.” A secluded beach with a swing hanging from a palm tree, a hidden trail leading to a cliff with a breathtaking view—places that weren’t in any guidebook.
“You’re good at this,” I said, laughing.
“Good at what?” he asked, sitting on the sand nearby.
“Making someone forget they’re wildly out of place.”
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His smile widened. “Maybe you’re not as out of place as you think.”
As we talked, I laughed more than I had in months. He shared stories of his travels and love for literature, which matched mine. His admiration for my novel felt sincere, and when he joked about framing my autograph one day, I felt a warmth I hadn’t in a long time.
But beneath the laughter, something tugged at the edge of my thoughts. A faint unease I couldn’t explain. He seemed perfect, too perfect.
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***
The next morning started on a high note. I stretched, my mind buzzing with ideas for the next chapter of my novel.
“Today’s the day,” I murmured, reaching for my laptop.
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I woke it up. But when the desktop appeared, my heart stopped. The folder where my novel had lived—two years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights—was gone. I searched every corner of the hard drive, hoping I had misplaced it. Nothing.
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“That’s odd,” I said to myself.
My laptop was there, but the most important part of my life’s work had disappeared without a trace.
“Okay, don’t freak out,” I whispered, clutching the edge of the desk. “You probably just misplaced it.”
But I knew I hadn’t. I bolted out of the room and headed straight to Lana. As I passed the hallway, muffled voices caught my attention. I froze, my heart pounding. Slowly, I moved toward the sound. The door to the next room was slightly ajar.
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“We just need to pitch it to the right publisher?” he said.
My blood ran cold. Eric’s voice was unmistakable. Peeking through the gap, I saw Lana leaning in, her voice a low hum of conspiracy.
“Her manuscript is brilliant,” Lana said, her tone syrupy. “We’ll figure out how to position it as mine. She’ll never know what hit her.”
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My stomach churned with anger and betrayal, but also something worse—disappointment. Eric, who’d made me laugh, listened to me, and who I’d started to trust, was part of that.
I turned away before they could see me and headed to my room. I slammed my suitcase shut, stuffing clothes into it haphazardly.
“This was supposed to be my fresh start,” I whispered bitterly.
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My vision blurred, but I refused to cry. Crying was for someone who still believed in second chances, and I was done with that.
By the time I left the island, the bright sunshine felt like a cruel joke. I kept my gaze ahead, refusing to look back. I didn’t need to.
***
Months later, the bookstore was buzzing with excitement. Rows of seats were filled, and the air hummed with conversation. I stood at the podium, holding a copy of my novel, and tried to focus on the faces smiling back at me.
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“Thank you all for being here tonight,” I said, my voice steady despite the swirl of emotions beneath the surface. “This book is the result of years of work and… a journey I never expected to take.”
The applause was warm, yet I felt an ache deep in my chest as I looked out over the crowd. The novel was my pride, yes, but the road to its success had been anything but smooth. The betrayal still lingered in my mind.
After the signing line dwindled and the last guest left, I sank into a chair at the corner of the store, exhausted. That’s when I saw it—a small folded note on the table.
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“You owe me an autograph. Café around the corner when you’re free.”
The handwriting was unmistakable. My heart skipped a beat. Eric.
I stared at the note, my emotions a confusing mix of curiosity, irritation, and something else I wasn’t ready to name.
For a moment, I considered crumpling it up and walking away. But instead, I sighed, grabbed my coat, and headed for the café. I spotted him immediately.
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“You’re bold, leaving me a note like that,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Bold or desperate?” he replied with a wry smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Neither was I,” I admitted.
“Thea, I need to explain. What happened on the island… At first, I didn’t realize Lana’s true motives. She convinced me it was all to help you. But the moment I discovered what she was really planning, I took the flash drive and sent it to you.”
I stayed silent.
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“When Lana involved me, she said you were too modest to publish your novel yourself,” Eric continued. “She claimed you didn’t believe in your talent and needed someone to surprise you, to push it forward. I thought I was helping.”
“A surprise?” I shot back. “You mean taking my work behind my back?”
“That’s what I thought at first. The moment she told me the truth, I grabbed the flash drive and went to find you, but you were already gone.”
“So, what I overheard wasn’t what it seemed?”
“It wasn’t. Thea, I chose you the second I understood the truth.”
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I let the silence settle, waiting for the familiar anger to surface. But it wasn’t there anymore. Lana’s manipulations were in the past, and the novel had been published on my terms.
“She always envied you, you know,” Eric said quietly, breaking the silence. “Even back in university, she felt overshadowed. This time, she saw an opportunity and used both our trust to try and take what wasn’t hers.”
“And now?”
“She’s gone. Disappeared from every circle I know. She couldn’t face the fallout after I refused to back her lies.”
“You made the right choice. That counts for something.”
“Does that mean you’ll give me another chance?”
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“One date,” I said, holding up a finger. “Don’t mess it up.”
His grin widened. “Deal.”
As we left the café, I caught myself smiling. That one date turned into another and then another. Before I knew it, I fell in love. And that time, it wasn’t one-sided. What started with betrayal had blossomed into a relationship built on understanding, forgiveness, and, yes, love.
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This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
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