divorced
Sometimes a good divorce is better than a bad marriage.
A Tale of Rekindled Love
In the quiet suburban neighbourhood of Willowbrook, where maple trees painted the streets with autumn hues, lived Sarah and David, a couple whose love had weathered many storms. Their home, nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, was a haven of warmth and affection—or so it had been until a tempest of emotions swept through one fateful evening.
Wet Signature
Even as I shove the wide white envelope through the metal slot, the gummy stickiness of its licked seal sticks to my tongue. A nervous energy spitball foams in my mouth. I swallow hard. The nasty taste lingers as the envelope vanishes.
Christy MunsonPublished 2 months ago in FamiliesFOCUS ON YOURSELF NOT OTHERS
Today, I want to challenge you to embrace the difficulties that come your way. Embrace them with open arms and accept them as part of the life journey. Today, I want you to fall in love with the process, with the journey itself, rather than just focusing on the destination. Because, truth to be told, the journey is where the growth happens, where the lessons are learned, and where true transformation occurs.
Mastering Stealth Attraction
Mastering Stealth Attraction Introduction: In the realm of human connections, the art of attraction often takes center stage, weaving its intricate threads through the tapestry of social interactions. One fascinating facet of this art is Stealth Attraction, an approach that emphasizes subtlety and discretion in the pursuit of building connections. In this exploration, we will delve into the nuances of Stealth Attraction, uncovering the psychological underpinnings, essential skills, and guiding principles that contribute to its mastery.
Bamidele FranckPublished 2 months ago in FamiliesAisha
Once upon a time in a quaint little town nestled between rolling hills and lush greenery , there lived a young girl named Aisha. With her curly brown hair bouncing in the wind and her eyes sparkling with curiosity , Aisha was always ready for adventure . She lived with her parents in a cozy cottage at the edge of the forest , where she spent most of her days exploring the wonders of nature .
hassen fraihPublished 2 months ago in FamiliesWhat are the best anti-aging skin products?
Anti-aging skin products are a popular choice for many individuals who want to maintain a youthful appearance. With so many options on the market, it can be overwhelming to determine which products are truly effective. However, by understanding the key ingredients and their benefits, you can make an informed decision about the best anti-aging products for your skin.
HEALTHY SPACE FOR YOUR LIFEPublished 2 months ago in FamiliesSad Songs
I knew who Roberta Flack was at a very early age; God knows I heard every song she sang. I love her still, yet undoubtedly she reminds me of him. Daddy sat with his record player on the floor, his legs crossed in what some called, "Indian style" which by the way is not correct to say now. I don't know any other word to describe it though. He would smoke Marlboros, drink cheap beer or dark wine and cry. Daddy cried a lot. I did not know why way back then. As a broken woman now, well, I guess he had good reason. Nothing soothes the soul more than music. We remember who we are, where we were, why we smiled, all because of music. Late at night I miss him despite his need to keep moving, not only place to place but woman to woman. I was his only until I wasn't. My Momma loved him even when he was cheating, threatened with statutory rape by an underage girl's parents and that left us broke, Momma scarred and lost in his wake. Momma took up more than one job and he didn't help us one bit. He told everybody he did help us though. He was always so charming, as smooth as chenille, and oh so handsome just like a movie star. His lies were so believable it made anyone who contradicted him look bad, let's just say, he had a hold on people; good people who believed in him sometimes questioned other good people who were also up against a wall with their truths, their own 'believe it or not stories', that were entwined with his lies. There were so many others than me with their own broken up dreams, their need to feel safe, to be heard. I was part of his tribe until I began to remember and as always girls like me are just considered delusional. I have half sisters and brothers, too. None of them really want to know my story 'cause it messes up theirs. I remember his fourth wife coming to live with us. She did not want a daughter older than she, I mean who would? She believed in him after I had given up a million times and damn, she was cold. It was clear there would be no place for me in my nostalgic, narcissistic, father's life once she set foot in the door. Where should I be, where should I go? She not only wanted me out from my father's home, but just gone, like in disappear. It was a slow burning fire and I was not about to see my, at that time, only baby sister be distanced from me. Suddenly, at least to me, this wife became the accessible one, the reliable one, the Alpha. Losing my baby sister's faith in me when I had taken care of her alone, when he was drunk and falling all over the place felt like a wasp sting in the heart, hell, a whole hive of wasps stinging me to near death. To watch him manipulate and groom this new woman younger than myself was, and still is, an unnerving experience. I know deep down my sister loves me, yet she became the good one and nobody saw the good in me anymore. So, back to my father's love of a good time I remember us flying down the highway in a convertible and blue grass music was blasting; I hated the wind so I was scrunched down into the backseat floorboard. He had a girlfriend I liked a lot who had a dachshund named Lucy. Anyway, in that little space between two leather bucket seats I saw my daddy's hand slip over to his girlfriend's legs, then he moved it up to the top of her pants and wedged it down the front. What the heck was he doing? He then started talking about cotton, rubbing her and saying how he missed her little cotton. I was frozen. It did not come to my mind until I was a young teen; after babysitting somebody from church's kids the father drove me home. He smelled like booze and at a side road he slowed the car down, he put his nasty hand on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me. I knew right then to push him away as no way he was going to try to touch my cotton. He said something about he had the wrong impression. I was fourteen, what impression did I give him? When I got home and went inside, just like always I said nothing. The wife of this man would call and ask me to babysit and I'd say no and Momma didn't understand; I was so afraid to tell her. What is wrong with me? I ask myself this a whole lot lately. My little me pushes through and wants grown up me to deal with my creepy past; I wish my memories could be stolen. I'd do anything to sleep through the night and not remember no more.
Love Has Become Rational
Deep down we all want to feel loved regularly. We forget that even the love from our parents at times was not felt every moment of every day. We seek to feel understood, valued and wanted. We want to believe it is possible to create a family of our own that is better than the one we were born with.
Relentless Kindness LilaPublished 2 months ago in FamiliesThings That Capture Women's Attention (Overlooked by Men)
In the intricate dance of social interactions, women possess a unique radar for subtle nuances often overlooked by their male counterparts. These nuances, often hidden in plain sight, contribute to the rich tapestry of female perception, shaping their responses and connections in social settings. Let's delve into these often unnoticed aspects that capture women's attention, exploring the depth of their emotional intelligence and intuitive understanding.
Benard MusyokiPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesSomehow, Someday
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I vow to paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; how will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry, a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a "fix it alright" kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, short three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils for me to cherish hidden in my bag and said nothing. I fled, I flew, yet I would return. For no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail. I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
A Hardworking Mother and Her Two Daughters
Once upon a time, in a small town nestled between rolling hills and charming meadows, lived a determined single mother named Sarah Brown. Sarah was a woman of resilience and grace, facing life's challenges with a determined spirit. Her days were a testament to hard work, dedication, and unconditional love for her two daughters, Emma and Lily.
Nagarathinam BPublished 3 months ago in FamiliesHappy Couples
Numerous essential traits and behaviors that support the prosperity and contentment of their relationships are frequently shared by happy couples. Although each marriage is different, happy couples tend to have certain characteristics, such as:
Vijay KumarPublished 3 months ago in Families