I’m a Prostitute—And Today My 18-Year-Old Son Booked Me Without Knowing. Episode 2 ✍️💝 I didn’t sleep that night. I lay on the cold hotel floor long after David left, my wig tossed aside, mascara stained across my cheeks, staring blankly at the ceiling as though it could offer answers. Every breath felt like punishment. How did I get here? How did I become the kind of mother whose own son unknowingly tried to buy her for pleasure? I replayed the moment again and again—his voice, his nervous laughter, the way he said I reminded him of someone he loved. What if he had touched me before I stopped him? What if I hadn’t turned away fast enough? What if I had spoken too late? The thought alone made me throw up twice before morning. I didn’t go home that day. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to look at David and pretend everything was normal. I switched off my phone and sat under a bridge until the sun went down again. I cried like a woman mourning a living child. When I finally got home the next night, he was sitting at the door, looking pale and confused. “Mummy,” he said softly, standing up. “Where did you go?” I stared at him. At the same innocent eyes that once stared at me from his cot. “I had an emergency,” I said, voice dry. “Work.” He didn’t look convinced. But he didn’t ask further. He just said, “I made okra soup. There’s still some left.” I nodded and walked past him into the house, into the small, dim kitchen that had once been filled with laughter, radio music, and the sounds of his baby feet. I couldn’t eat. I just stood there, pretending to be okay. But the shame followed me like a shadow. I started watching him closer. Was he acting differently? Did he suspect anything? Had he gone back and searched my profile? Had he looked closer at the picture and realized what he’d done? Three days later, I got my answer. He came back from school and stood quietly by my bedroom door. “Mummy,” he said. “Yes?” “Can I ask you something?” “Of course.” He hesitated. “Do you… have someone who looks exactly like you? Like… I don’t know… maybe a sister or something?” My heart dropped. I pretended to smile. “No. Why?” He looked away, shuffled his feet, then said, “No reason. Just thought I saw someone.” I nodded. “Well, maybe you were tired.” He forced a smile and went to his room. But I knew he knew something. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried silently into my towel. That same evening, I got a message on my fake profile. It was him. “Who are you? Your voice… your face… I need to know. Please.” I froze. My hands shook. He knew. I deleted the account immediately. That night, he didn’t sleep in his room. I heard him pacing the sitting room. I didn’t come out. I couldn’t. The next morning, I woke up and found him gone. No note. No text. Just gone. Panic hit me like thunder. I called his school—he hadn’t arrived. I called his best friend—he hadn’t seen him. I rushed to the one place I hoped he wouldn’t go: the hotel. He wasn’t there. I searched bars, parks, even the bridge where I used to sit and cry. Nothing. Then I saw him. At the bus stop. Sitting alone. Head bowed. Tears on his cheeks. I didn’t call him. I walked slowly and sat beside him. He didn’t look at me. “Did you know it was me?” he whispered. “That night?” I swallowed hard. My chest felt like it was ripping in two. “Yes.” He nodded, still looking away. “So it’s true.” “Yes.” Silence. He wiped his face. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about your life?” I blinked fast, holding back tears. “Because I wanted you to believe I was someone better than I really am. I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to protect you from the ugliness that raised you.” He turned slowly to face me, and his eyes broke me. “I thought I lost my mum that night,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought I saw a ghost in that hotel. But now I realize… maybe you lost yourself long before I was even born.” I couldn’t breathe. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. He stood up. And then he did something I never expected. He hugged me. Tightly. He cried into my shoulder like a child again. And whispered, “Let’s go home.” To be continued…….. ✍️✍️✍️✍️💝 Some of you just read and like without commenting and when I drop next episode and tagging people ur name will not pop up because you're not commenting, until I trace the previous Episode and replied you next episode has been posted, it's always stressful for doing that. Please ✍️✅✅✅ Thank you All 🙌❤️

Encouragement is like water to the soul, it makes everything grow

Understanding the Liturgical Colors and Signs If you’ve ever attended Mass at different times of the year, you’ve probably noticed that the priest’s vestments and church decorations change colors. These aren’t random fashion choices—they are rich symbols that help us enter more deeply into the mysteries of our faith. Here’s what they mean: 1. White (or Gold) – Joy, Purity, and Victory Used during Christmas, Easter, feasts of the Lord (except His Passion), feasts of Mary, angels, and saints who were not martyrs, white symbolizes the glory of the Resurrection, holiness, and celebration. Gold may replace white for special solemnities. 2. Red – The Holy Spirit and Martyrdom Red is worn on Palm Sunday, Good Friday, Pentecost, and feasts of martyrs. It represents the blood of Christ and the martyrs, as well as the fire of the Holy Spirit. 3. Green – Hope and Growth Seen during Ordinary Time, green symbolizes spiritual growth, hope, and life in Christ. It reminds us that even in ordinary days, we are called to grow in holiness. 4. Purple (Violet) – Penance and Preparation Used during Advent and Lent, purple is a color of repentance, humility, and preparation for great feasts. It’s also worn for the Sacrament of Reconciliation and Masses for the dead. 5. Rose – Joy in the Midst of Penance Rose is used only twice a year: Gaudete Sunday (third Sunday of Advent) and Laetare Sunday (fourth Sunday of Lent). It signals a lightening of the penitential tone, reminding us that joy is near. 6. Black – Mourning and Hope in the Resurrection Though less common today, black may be worn for All Souls’ Day and funerals, symbolizing mourning while trusting in Christ’s victory over death. Signs Accompanying the Colors The liturgical year also uses symbols like incense (prayer rising to God), candles (Christ as the Light of the World), and banners or flowers (festivity or solemnity) to draw our hearts into the mystery being celebrated. 📖 The Church’s use of colors and signs is not just visual beauty—it’s catechesis in action. Every shade, every symbol speaks the language of the Gospel. 📌 Follow our page to deepen your understanding of Catholic traditions and signs of faith. #catholic

*She saved a Captured Mermaid at the Riger. 7 days Later, This happened...* The mermaid tied to the tree lifted her hand, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Please help me… they will sell me,” she whispered, voice shaking like dry leaves. Amanda’s knees turned to water; every part of her said run. But those wide, sorrowful eyes held her still. Hunters’ laughter drifted closer—boots crunching the undergrowth. One heartbeat. One breath. Amanda balanced a clay pot on her head and walked toward the river before sunrise. The cool mist touched her cheeks, and the dew on the grass wet her bare feet. She chose this hour because the path was quiet—no gossiping neighbours, no children splashing water, just birds waking up and frogs croaking in the bush. Amanda was a widow, living in a one‑room mud hut at the edge of Ajoa Village. She had two children, Dara and Kemi, and not enough money to feed them well. Each morning she fetched water, pounded cassava, and prayed the roof would not leak when the heavy rains came. That morning felt like any other until she filled her pot, lifted it onto her head, and decided to take the shorter bush track home. Halfway along the narrow path, she heard deep voices and loud laughter. Three hunters leaned against a mango tree, rifles on their shoulders, leather bags full of traps hanging at their sides. Amanda greeted them politely, “Good morning,” and kept walking, but their talk floated after her like smoke. “Ah, we are rich now,” one hunter bragged. “I still can’t believe we caught that captured mermaid near the river last night.” Another slapped his thigh. “The big man in the city will pay anything for her. Mermaid scales bring plenty money.” Amanda’s heart jumped. A mermaid? Caught by hunters? She hurried on, but their words stuck in her ears. She reached a fork in the path and slipped behind the tall bamboo, hoping to avoid the men completely. As she stepped through the grass, a small cry reached her—weak, shaky, and full of fear. “Help… please… someone help me…” Amanda froze, set her heavy pot on the ground, and listened. The cry came again. She moved toward a bunch of bamboo shoots and peeked through the green stems. A young woman—no, not a woman, something else—was tied to a thick tree trunk. Her wrists were wrapped with rough rope, her long wet hair stuck to her cheeks, and tears rolled down her face. But what made Amanda gasp was the silver tail where legs should be. Scales shone faintly even in the dim light. The hunters had spoken true: a real mermaid, captured, helpless. “Please,” the mermaid whispered, lifting a trembling hand. “They will come back. They will sell me. Help me.” Amanda’s first thought was to run. Every village story warned that mermaids lured people to watery graves. But the creature before her did not look dangerous; she looked frightened. Amanda looked around—no hunters in sight. Yet the rope at the mermaid’s tail and wrists was thick and tight, tied by men who knew knots. “Are… are you real?” Amanda asked, voice small. “Yes,” the mermaid breathed. “My name is Lira. Let me go.” Amanda’s legs shook. She heard distant footsteps—maybe hunters returning. She stepped closer and touched the rope. The knot scraped her fingers, and fear pounded in her chest. Should she risk her life for a being she didn’t understand? Lira’s eyes, dark and full of pleading, answered her. Amanda pulled at the knot. It barely moved. She worked faster, nails digging, sweat starting to bead on her forehead. Voices drifted nearer. “Let’s check on the catch,” a hunter said. Full story here 👇 https://youtu.be/AFWfQCymels

Imagine how many people dislike you because they didn't hear your side of the story. Only God

"Time moves on, but memories linger — like the echo of laughter in an empty room."

You should take this mixture one hour before going to bed with your partner. Remember, if you're over 50, this powerful blend will make you feel like you're 18 again 👇👇👇

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"I don’t always feel like I’m winning. But I’m still in the game."

Never assume someone likes you by their sweetness. Sometimes, you are just an option when they are bored.

Never assume someone likes you by their sweetness. Sometimes, you are just an option when they are bored.

Peter Obi is sincere to serve 4-year single term. After which the people can reward him with another 4 -year to consolidate achievements . Note that Nelson Mandela did it in South Africa- one single 5-year term(1994-1999). Nigeria need a sincere leader like him at this crucial time of the country's crossroads!