“He didn’t come because his wife wouldn’t let him,” she said. “She claims we keep asking for favors and that she doesn’t even want our house.”
“Well, he’s not coming…” Valentina sighed bitterly. “My husband and I don’t even get upset anymore—we’re used to it. It’s always the same. Promises first, then silence.”
“What happened this time?” I asked. “Was it his wife again? I remember you two never quite got along…”
“Maybe she said no. Though my son never admits it outright. But you can tell… He used to visit more often. Now? Nothing. She’s found a way to keep him. We’ll have to fix the roof with hired help—apparently, he can’t spare even a single day,” Valentina muttered, barely holding back her bitterness.
She was talking about her son, Arthur, now forty years old. He left their village twelve years ago, settled in Manchester, and works as a mechanic. Once a hands-on repairman, now he just oversees things. He married in the city, bought his own place—all on his own. His wife, Evelyn, came into his life late—neither of them were young when they met.
“She’d never been serious with anyone before him,” Valentina continued. “And I know why. She’s got a temper… difficult. We clashed from the start. I tried, honestly. But she acted like I was the enemy from day one.”
“I’ve heard her on the phone,” a neighbor chimed in. “Even her ‘hello’ sounds mocking. I don’t know what Arthur sees in her.”
Evelyn barely speaks to Arthur’s parents. Once a year, if she permits it, he can visit them—alone. This spring, he’d promised to come and help fix the roof. He’d even bought train tickets. Then, of course, Evelyn changed the plan.
“She’s pregnant,” Valentina said, irritated. “Now, apparently, he can’t leave her alone. As if a grown woman, a nurse, is helpless! Two weeks of nagging, and he caved.”
“How ridiculous,” her husband grumbled. “Does he hold her hand at work? Her parents live nearby—let them help. Why must he give up everything for her?”
“Exactly,” Valentina agreed. “I’m sure it’s her mother whispering in her ear: ‘Don’t let him go, he might come back and leave you.’ Her younger sister ended up a single mum—now she lives with their parents.”
“But Arthur isn’t like that,” I argued. “He’s decent. Why not come together?”
“Don’t even suggest it!” Valentina waved a hand. “Evelyn would never set foot here. My husband called her once, and she threw such a fit, he told me to stop ringing them altogether. Pointless.”
“What did she say?”
“That we’re always demanding things. That we’re keeping him from his family. That she’s ‘exhausted’ dealing with us. That his holiday should be with his wife and child, not ‘coddling old people.’ And that she doesn’t want our house—we can keep it.”
“How vile! And Arthur?”
“Says it’s not his fault. That he won’t stir trouble. That he’s worried about the pregnancy. I understand… but it isn’t fair. We raised him, gave him everything. Now he can’t spare one day?”
Her husband finally snapped. He told Arthur he wouldn’t wait—he’d hire workers, do it himself. If his wife mattered more than his parents, fine.
“But he doesn’t see,” Valentina whispered. “Wives can be replaced. Parents… you only get one set. And they won’t be here forever.”
