This was the last thing she needed…
Marina lived alone. She and her husband had never had children—first, they hoped, tried, then considered adoption. She had made the decision; her husband hadn’t cared much either way. He was content with things as they were. Perhaps Marina had taken too long preparing for such a serious step, hesitating, overthinking, while time marched on. By forty, she abandoned the idea—she was afraid, if she was honest.
Her husband, Oliver, loved hiking—backpacking, camping, singing by the fire. He played the guitar well, sociable, always up for get-togethers. In their younger years, Marina had enjoyed it too. But age brought fatigue. Weekends spent trudging under a heavy pack, returning Sunday evening just to wash and drag herself to work on Monday—mosquito bites, wind-chapped skin, unkempt nails—it lost its charm. She craved lazy lie-ins, hot showers, warm toilets, not freezing river dips or bare skin sacrificed to bugs.
Too much adventure becomes exhausting. Her back ached, her joints protested. Eventually, she stopped joining him.
Oliver stayed home a few times in solidarity, but she saw his restlessness, his sadness. So she urged him to go without her. He was relieved.
“Letting your man wander off alone? Mark my words, some woman will snap him up. He’d have settled down in time,” scolded her friend, Evelyn.
“If no one ‘snapped him up’ in his youth, why now?”
“You’re naive. Men don’t age like women—they’re always in demand,” Evelyn tutted.
“And what? Drag myself along in pain just to keep him faithful? If he wants to cheat, he’ll do it at home. Besides, it’s the same group every time.”
Evelyn only sighed.
Oliver stopped inviting her. Gradually, they drifted apart—no shared stories, no common ground. But she noticed nothing unusual until one evening, he returned distant, distracted.
“Where’d you go this time?” she asked, reheating soup.
“Same old route. We had newcomers.”
“Photos? Did you take any?” She tried to engage him.
“Like I said, same route.” He stared at his plate, avoiding her eyes.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew—Evelyn’s warning had come true.
Three days of silence, then he spoke.
“I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Didn’t think it could happen to me.”
“Just like that?”
“She came instead of you. A few trips now. I can’t imagine life without her.”
“Is she young?”
He said nothing.
“I see. What now? Leaving me for her?” Marina kept her voice steady, refusing hysterics.
“She’s divorcing too. Has a son. No place to live—she can’t come here. Let’s sell the flat, split it.” He finally met her gaze.
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, I… I don’t know.” He paced, agitated.
The flat was jointly owned. Indignation flared, but after days of thought, she agreed—on the condition she chose her share. His joy stung.
“I knew you were foolish, but not *this* foolish,” Evelyn said, twirling a finger at her temple.
“You’re right. But there’s a child involved. The boy’s innocent. Why keep a big flat for just me?”
Luck landed her a bright one-bed, same neighborhood, freshly renovated. She didn’t ask about Oliver’s new life. Why bother?
Alone now, no husband, no children. She’d adjust.
Then, late one night, her brother rang—rare, save for their father’s funeral years prior.
Marina had left their tiny village for university, married, built a life. To her family, she was wealthy—city job, own flat. They expected lavish gifts. Visits dwindled under their envy. Her younger brother, Richard, was their parents’ golden child—their future caretaker. She, the outsider, stopped going.
“Richard? What’s wrong?” she braced for tragedy. “Mum—?”
“No, she’s alive. But ill. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. Come fetch her.”
Relief. “Not now. Maybe next month.”
“Look… Rebecca left me. Said she’s done caring for Mum too. Two households, you understand. Took the boys. I’m a working man—can’t keep house. Now I’m with Molly—she’s expecting. Can’t dump Mum on her. Take her in.”
“Who—?”
“Mum, obviously.”
“And Molly—?”
“My partner. We’re not married.” His grin was audible.
“Where would I put her? I’ve a one-bed, divorced now.”
“Even better—company, and her pension. Mum hates Molly. Fetch her, or she’ll rot there.”
Resistance was futile. She took unpaid leave, returned to her village. How proud Mum was of Richard—yet he’d pawn her off.
Mum, frail and shriveled, recognized her without joy. Agreed to go. Richard, she realized, was drinking. No wonder his wife fled.
They took nothing—rags, all of it. Richard bought clothes, tossed her hand-me-downs. He waved them off at the train. Never called again.
Home, Marina’s mistake was clear—she should’ve bought a second bed. Her sofa was hers alone, chosen for her bad back. She splurged on same-day delivery, shoved hers aside for Mum’s by the window.
Mum shuffled about, disastrously—spilled soup, left taps running, couldn’t manage the stove. Marina cleaned nightly: scrubbing toilets, scraping dried food off carpets. She switched to remote work to supervise. Six months later, Mum was bedridden.
Richard skipped the funeral. Too busy.
Back at the office, the stench of urine and age clung to Mum’s sofa. She couldn’t throw it out.
Life stabilized—until Richard called again. Early Saturday, her heart sank.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?”
“You? No. What now?”
He laughed. “How’s your health?”
“My back hurts. Joints. Blood pressure’s erratic.”
“Perfect!”
“Perfect?!”
“Someone’s got to look after you, sis. Remember my eldest, Tony? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s uni material. No colleges here, though. Thinks he’s Einstein—wants to study in the city. He’ll live with you. Just a year, til he gets halls.”
She gaped. Again, no asking—just demands.
“It’s a one-bed! How—?”
“Four of us lived in one room! Worried about your reputation? He’s quiet.” Another laugh. “Share your soup—no trouble. Nice to have someone around.”
“And if something happens?”
“If you’re ill, he’ll call an ambulance.”
Tony arrived sullen, glued to his laptop. At least he wouldn’t break dishes. But his presence unnerved her. Returning early once with a migraine, she found him naked with a girl on her sofa.
The girl dressed and left. Tony shrugged. “That was Jean.”
“Not Sarah, not Emma—*Jean*? Unacceptable. I’ll speak to your uni about halls.”
“Don’t, Aunt Marina. I’ll go.”
Two days later, he left. Relief? No—guilt. Richard imposed, unbothered, while she agonized. She braced for his fury, but silence held. Finally, she called.
“Busy,” he grunted.
“Me too. But you call when you need to dump someone.” She unloaded—Tony got halls easily. No orgies in her flat. Did he know Richard sold their childhood home? Her share? Don’t expect her to take the younger son. Rent him a flat if he’s got money.
She hung up. Richard never called again.
Alone once more, she wondered: what when she’s old? Maybe she’d been hasty. But would Tony or his brother care for her? Or hasten her end for the flat?
The phone rang. A stranger’s number. She nearly ignored it—but something made her answer.
“Marina? It’s me.”
Oliver’s voice flooded her—joy, then bitterness.
She exhaled.
*This was the last thing she needed…*
Sometimes, solitude is better than being taken for granted. Love shouldn’t come with conditions, nor family with burdens. You can’t pour from an empty cup—boundaries aren’t selfish, they’re survival.
