My Boyfriend’s Mother Humiliated Me in Front of Everyone, Unaware That I Was Dating Her Son.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

The mother of my boyfriend humiliated me in front of everyone, never realising I was seeing his son.

Claire and I first crossed paths in a corner shop on the outskirts of Maidstone, where I was doing a weekend shift while studying. At nineteen I wanted to be financially independent, to stash a few pounds for a rainy day, so I took on extra afternoons. My parents swelled with pride: I was juggling exams and a job, enough to buy a new laptop or even save for a short break abroad. James, who was still living at home, told me my parttime gig was a solid start, even if he himself wasnt earning a bob.

Our romance sparked slowly. James brought me fresh daisies from his garden, I slipped him chocolate truffles after his shifts, and on a few late nights we lingered behind the counter, whispering while the aisles fell silent.

The bliss lasted only about two weeks. Then Jamess mother, Mrs. Harper, tore me apart, and I could no longer bear to see her son. I felt a hot flush of shame settle deep in my chest.

During an evening shift she walked in with James arminarm. She didnt notice James winking at me, the brief smile we exchanged. At the till, the register jammed, and a regular customer started huffing. Ive been shopping here a million times, she snapped, and youre the only one who cant get a receipt right. Youre a cheat, trying to nick my money!

See, James? Mrs. Harper scolded, her voice dripping with contempt. Thats why you need to study hard, so you never have to stand here mumbling about a stuck till!

The sting was awful, not just because she was my boyfriends mother but because a queue of familiar facespeople Id seen beforewatched, their eyes flicking over me like a bad gossip.

James begged me to forgive his mother, saying shed simply had a bad day. I could not. I walked away, handed in my notice, and, by sheer luck, landed a position overseas. The pay was modest£1,200 a monthbut the hours were longer and I never had to endure another encounter with a Mrs. Harper.

Ive learned that every job has its worth, especially when youre a student with limited options. Some people grow up with overprotective parents who see their children as destined for greatness, yet that doesnt mean life wont one day hand a graduate a checkout slot in a modest shop.

On the Edge of This Summer Working in the local library, Dana always found her life dull—there were hardly any visitors these days, with everyone online. She often rearranged books, dusting them off as she went. The only real perk was that she’d read an unimaginable number of books: romance, philosophy, and everything in between. Yet at thirty, she suddenly realised romance had passed her by. A respectable age—surely time to start a family—yet her looks were unremarkable, her job not well paid. It hadn’t even occurred to her to change careers; she was content enough. These days only university students, the occasional schoolchild, and a few pensioners visited the library. Recently, a regional professional competition took place. To Dana’s complete surprise, she won the grand prize: an all-expenses-paid fortnight at a seaside resort. “That’s brilliant. I’ll definitely go,” she cheerfully told her friend and her mum. “On my salary, I could never afford it, so this is happiness dropped in my lap.” Summer was drawing to a close. Dana walked along the deserted beach—the cafe was busier, with most holidaymakers staying inside as the sea was especially rough today. Her third day by the sea, she felt like wandering alone, to think and to dream. Suddenly, she saw someone swept from the pier by a wave—a young man. Without thinking, she rushed to help. Luckily it was close to the shore, and while she wasn’t a brilliant swimmer, she’d always been able to hold her own in water. The waves helped her haul the boy by the collar, then dragged them back, but Dana persevered, finally managing to reach shallow water and get to her feet. She realised, standing there in her soaked dress, that the “young man” was a boy of about fourteen—just tall for his age. “What were you thinking, swimming in this weather?” she asked, but the boy simply thanked her, then staggered away. Dana just shrugged and watched him go. The next morning, sunny and warm, Dana smiled as she looked out at the gently lapping blue sea—the waves seemed almost apologetic for yesterday. After breakfast, she stretched out on the beach, and later wandered to a small funfair in the park. Spotting a pop-up shooting range, she decided to have a go; she’d been good at marksmanship at school and university. First shot missed, second was a bullseye. “Well done! That’s how it’s done, son!” said a man behind her. Turning, Dana saw yesterday’s teenager with his father. The boy looked worried when he recognised her—a secret perhaps best kept. The man, introducing himself as Anthony, was amiable and asked if she’d show them a thing or two. Dana agreed, and soon the three of them were eating ice cream in a seaside café, then riding the Ferris wheel. Dana expected the boy’s mother to turn up, but no one else came; father and son were relaxed, unhurried. Anthony turned out to be great company, easy to talk to, and Dana found herself warming to him more with every passing minute. “Dana, have you been here long?” “No, just started my first week. I’ve another one left.” “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” To their amusement, they soon realised they all lived in the same city—small world indeed. For the next week, they met every morning on the beach, parted late at night, even went on day trips together. With time, Dana noticed the boy, Jamie, seemed preoccupied, but perhaps she was imagining things. She learned that father and son were staying at the hotel next door to hers. One day, only Jamie turned up at the beach. “Hi—Dad’s come down with a temperature. I told him you’d look out for me, if that’s alright. Didn’t fancy a day stuck in the room!” Dana got Anthony’s number and rang to check in. “Don’t worry and do enjoy yourselves. Jamie promises he’ll listen to you!” Anthony said, trying to sound upbeat. After a swim, Jamie looked up at Dana and said, “You’re a real mate, you know that?” She smiled. “Why do you say that?” “Thanks for not telling Dad about what happened the other day. I really got caught out by that wave.” The conversation drifted—Dana gently enquired about his mum. Jamie hesitated, then decided to trust her and began to tell their family story. Anthony, it turned out, worked away now and again. When he was gone, Jamie stayed with his mum, Marina. They seemed, outwardly, the perfect family, but reality was different. Anthony had been sent to London for a work course—if it went well, he’d get promoted, and money would be better for them all. His wife seemed pleased, if anything, when he left. Two days later, Marina announced she’d invited her colleague, Arthur, and his daughter, Ciara, over for the evening. Jamie was to take Ciara out for ice cream. Ciara was a couple of years older and pretty streetwise. As the days went by, she let slip that her dad “paid her” to distract Jamie so their parents could “entertain themselves” at home. Jamie found it hard to believe, but the truth stared him in the face. Soon after Anthony returned, Jamie overheard his parents arguing. “Yes, I’ve been seeing someone else,” his mum admitted. “Fine,” replied Anthony, “I’ll file for divorce. Jamie stays with me—you seem not to need him.” “Fine by me—I’ll have a new family soon.” Jamie stayed in bed the next morning, listening to his mum pack. “Don’t worry, son,” Anthony tried to explain, but Jamie cut in: “No need, I know everything. I love you, Dad. We’ll be fine.” Anthony smiled, ruffling his hair: “You’ve grown up, son. Stay in touch with your mum, if you like—she’s left me, not you.” Jamie admitted he didn’t feel ready to see her again—not yet. That day, Jamie and Dana visited Anthony with some fruit. He promised to join them at the beach soon. Three days later, Anthony and Jamie had to leave; Dana stayed on a few more days. Summer was ending—on the edge of this summer, they said goodbye. Anthony promised to meet Dana at the airport. Jamie smiled beside him. Dana made no plans, just basked in the sweet texts Anthony sent, telling her how much he missed her already and how eagerly he awaited her return. Soon after, Dana moved in with Anthony and Jamie—perhaps happiest of all was Jamie, for his dad, for Dana, and for himself. On the Edge of This English Summer

On the Brink of This Summer While working in a small-town library, Dana felt her life was painfully dull—there were barely any visitors these days, since everyone was online. Most days she spent shuffling books on dusty shelves, her only comfort the endless novels and philosophy tomes she devoured. By thirty, Dana realized that all the romance she read about in books had utterly bypassed her own life. Her age was “respectable,” as her mother put it, and it was high time to think of starting a family. Not that her modest looks, low-paying job, or general inertia helped matters; she’d never seriously thought of changing things up. The only visitors at the library were the odd student, a stray pupil, or an elderly pensioner. Recently, though, she’d been entered—quite unexpectedly—into a county-level professional competition, and, to her own astonishment, had won the grand prize: a fully-paid, two-week seaside holiday. “That’s fantastic. I’m definitely going!” she announced to her mum and best friend, beaming. “It’s not like my salary could ever pay for something like this—just pure luck!” As summer faded, Dana walked along the deserted shore. Most holidaymakers hid in cafés, as the sea was unusually wild that day. It was only her third day at the sea and she’d wanted a little solitude to wander the beach, contemplate, and daydream. Suddenly, she spotted a boy swept off the pier by a crashing wave. Not thinking twice, and despite never being a strong swimmer, Dana raced into the water—thankfully not far from shore. The waves helped and hindered in turns, but she managed, half-standing in the surf, to drag the boy to safety. Gasping and soaked, her summer dress clinging ungracefully to her skin, Dana checked on the teenager—tall for his age but surely no more than fourteen. “What on earth possessed you to swim in this weather?” she scolded gently, relieved as he wobbled to his feet and mumbled his thanks before heading off shakily, leaving Dana bemused. The next morning, sunshine glittered over the rippling waves. Dana, in much brighter spirits, wandered once more to the shore, basked in the warmth, then, nearer sunset, took a stroll through the park, stopping by the shooting gallery. She hadn’t fired a shot since her school and uni days—missed wildly with her first, but nailed the second. “Oi, look here, son, that’s how it’s done!” came a cheerful voice. Turning, she saw yesterday’s boy—and the man beside him, presumably his father, smiling warmly. The boy—Zhenya—seemed startled to recognize Dana, as if worried she might mention his mishap, but she only smiled knowingly. “Maybe you’d give us a masterclass?” the tall, amiable father—Anton—asked, chuckling as he introduced himself and his son, admitting neither was much good at these amusements. The three spent the evening together, sampling ice creams and riding the Ferris wheel. Dana wondered if Zhenya’s mother might join them, but neither father nor son seemed to expect anyone else. Anton proved wonderful company—curious, witty, and easy to talk to—and with every moment, Dana found herself drawn to him. “And how long’ve you been on your holidays here, Dana?” Anton asked as the sun dipped lower. “Just a week so far. I’ve got another to go! Where are you from?” “A bit funny, really—same city as you!” Anton laughed and soon the three were sharing stories about home. That night, as they said goodbye, father and son walked Dana back to her hotel, arranging to meet again at the beach the next day. She arrived early. Her newfound friends were late, nearly an hour so. “Good morning, Dana!” called Anton. “I’m terribly sorry, honestly—we just plain overslept. Forgot to set the alarm!” “Dad, I’m off for a swim!” Zhenya declared, running towards the surf. Dana’s heart leapt. “Stop! You can’t swim!” “Can’t swim?” Anton looked puzzled. “He’s a champion at school! Won swim meets and everything…” She blinked, embarrassed—had she imagined his struggle? Or had something else been troubling him… With evenings spent strolling or lingering over seaside fish and chips, their days together grew idyllic. Dana sensed Zhenya was troubled and longed for a chance to speak with him privately. That chance finally came—Zhenya arrived alone at the beach, informing her his father was ill in bed with a fever. After some friendly prompting, Zhenya thanked her for keeping his earlier accident secret. He admitted the waves had caught him off guard—he really did panic, just that once. Dana hesitated, then gently asked about his mum. Zhenya, after a moment, quietly confided: things at home weren’t easy. His parents’ marriage—a picture of happiness—had been slowly falling apart. When his father travelled for work, his mother spent more and more time with a colleague; eventually, her infidelity led to divorce and she left. Zhenya opted to stay with his dad—he didn’t care for his mum’s new partner or their daughter, Kira. He was angry, but loved his father fiercely, relieved to be away together by the sea. A few days later, when Anton recovered, they made the most of their remaining time—excursions, banter, lazy days in the sun. But soon, summer would end. Anton and Zhenya’s coach drew near; Dana had two days left, and they promised to meet again at home. Anton said he’d pick her up from the airport; Zhenya grinned with approval. Though Dana dared not plan too far ahead, her heart soared with each affectionate message from Anton, counting down days until their reunion. And soon—much to Zhenya’s delight—Dana found herself moving into their comfortable flat, feeling like, at the edge of that unforgettable summer, she’d finally walked into the pages of her own long-awaited love story. On the Brink of This Summer

You Just Can’t Find a Way to Connect With Him “I’m not doing it! And stop bossing me around—you’re nothing to me!” Daniel slammed his plate into the sink so hard that water splashed across the counter. Anna froze for a second, stunned. The fifteen-year-old glared at her with the kind of anger that made it seem as if she’d single-handedly ruined his entire life. “I only asked you to help with the washing up,” Anna said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s a simple request.” “My mum never made me wash dishes! I’m not some girl! Who are you to tell me what to do, anyway?” Daniel spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Moments later, music began to blare from his bedroom. Anna leaned back against the fridge, eyes closed, taking a shaky breath. Just a year earlier, things had seemed so different… Max had come into her life by chance. He was an engineer in the office next to hers at one of London’s major construction firms. They’d kept crossing paths at meetings—first sharing coffee during breaks, then dinner after work, and finally late-night, hours-long phone conversations. “I’ve got a son,” Max confessed during their third date, nervously twisting a napkin between his fingers. “Daniel. He’s fifteen. His mum and I divorced two years ago. He’s… having a rough time.” “I understand.” Anna placed her hand gently over his. “Divorce is hard on kids. And fifteen’s a tough age.” “Are you sure you’re ready… for the both of us?” At the time, Anna truly believed she was. At thirty-two, one unsuccessful childless marriage behind her, she was desperate to create a real family. Max seemed like the solid, genuine Englishman she could actually build a future with. Six months later he proposed, awkward and endearing, the ring hidden in a box of her favourite Marks & Spencer biscuits. Anna laughed and said yes without hesitation. They opted for a modest wedding: a handful of family members, a few close friends, and a reserved table in a small, stylish pub. Daniel sat in his suit all evening, glued to his phone, not once looking up at the newlyweds. “He’ll come round,” Max whispered, seeing Anna’s uncertainty. “He just needs time.” Anna moved into Max’s spacious three-bed home in West London the very next day. Bright, modern, a big kitchen, and a balcony overlooking the communal garden. Yet from the first moment, Anna couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a guest—an outsider in someone else’s life… Daniel treated her like furniture; he ignored her, looked straight through her. When she entered a room, he’d pointedly put on his headphones. If she dared ask a question, he’d respond with clipped answers, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. The first few weeks, Anna assumed it was just adjustment. After all, it was difficult for any boy to accept a stepmother. Surely, things would improve. They didn’t. “Daniel, please don’t eat in your bedroom. We’ll never get rid of the mice.” “Dad always let me.” “Daniel, have you done your homework?” “None of your business.” “Daniel, could you tidy up after yourself, please?” “Do it yourself. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” Anna tried to discuss things with Max, treading carefully so as not appear the wicked stepmother. “I think we need some ground rules,” she suggested one evening after Daniel went to his room. “No eating in bedrooms, clean up after yourself, homework finished by a certain time—” “Anna, he’s struggling,” Max groaned, rubbing his brow. “The divorce, a new person in the house… Let’s not push him.” “I’m not pushing. I just want some order.” “He’s just a child.” “He’s fifteen, Max! Fifteen-year-olds can learn to wash their own mugs.” But Max just sighed and turned up the telly, making it clear the discussion was over. Every day, things got worse. When Anna asked Daniel to take out the rubbish, he looked openly disgusted by her. “You’re not my mum. You’ll never be my mum. You can’t boss me around.” “I’m not bossing. I’m asking you to help in the house we all live in.” “This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. Mine.” Anna went to Max again. He promised to talk to Daniel. But either those talks never happened or they had no effect at all—Anna couldn’t tell anymore. Daniel started returning home well past midnight with no warning, no text. Anna lay awake, listening to every noise in the flat. Max snored away beside her, seemingly oblivious. “Can you at least ask him to message us where he is?” Anna pleaded over breakfast. “Anything could happen.” “He’s old enough, Anna. We can’t control him.” “Old enough? He’s fifteen!” “I was out late at his age, too.” “Yes, but can you at least talk to him? Explain that we worry?” Max just shrugged and left for work… Every attempt to set any boundaries led to a row. Daniel would shout, slam doors, accuse Anna of ruining their family. Every time, Max sided with his son. “He’s having a hard time after the divorce,” he’d repeat like a mantra. “You have to understand.” “But what about me?” Anna finally snapped. “I’m living in a house where I’m openly despised and you pretend everything’s fine!” “You’re exaggerating.” “Exaggerating? Your son told me directly I’m nothing to him. He said that. Word for word.” “He’s a teenager. They’re all like this.” Anna phoned her mum—no one steadies her quite like Mum. “Sweetheart,” her mum’s voice was anxious. “You sound miserable. I can hear it in every word.” “Mum, I don’t know what to do. Max won’t even recognise there’s a problem.” “Because for him, there isn’t. He’s comfortable. You’re the one who’s suffering.” Her mother paused, then quietly added: “You deserve better, Anna. Please, think about that.” Feeling untouchable, Daniel really let loose. Music blared until 3 a.m. Dishes showed up everywhere—the coffee table, the windowsill, even the bathroom. Socks covered the hallway; textbooks piled up on the kitchen counter. Anna cleaned, unable to stand the mess. But cleaning made her cry from frustration and helplessness. Eventually, Daniel stopped even acknowledging her existence—except to throw out a nasty remark or sneer. “You just don’t know how to relate to kids,” Max declared one night. “Maybe you’re the problem?” “Relate?” Anna gave a sad, bitter laugh. “I’ve been trying for six months, and he literally calls me ‘that woman’ in front of you!” “You’re being dramatic.” Anna gave it one last try. She found Daniel’s favourite recipe—roast chicken in honey glaze with herby potato wedges—online, bought the best ingredients, and spent four hours cooking. “Daniel, dinner’s ready!” she called as she laid the table. Daniel came in, glanced at the plate, and grimaced. “I’m not eating that.” “Why not?” “Because you cooked it.” He left. Minutes later, the front door slammed—Daniel had gone out to his mates. Max came home, saw the cold dinner and Anna’s defeated face. “What’s happened?” Anna explained. Max sighed. “Come on, Anna… Don’t be upset with the boy. He doesn’t mean it.” “Doesn’t mean it? He goes out of his way to humiliate me. Every. Single. Day.” “You’re too sensitive.” A week later, Daniel brought home five mates from school. They raided the fridge, left food everywhere. “Out, now!” Anna commanded, finding the group sprawled across the living room. “It’s nearly eleven!” Daniel didn’t even turn his head. “This is my house. I’ll do what I want.” “This is our home. There are rules here.” “What rules?” one of Daniel’s friends sniggered. “Dan, who is she, anyway?” “No one. Ignore her.” Anna retreated to the bedroom and called Max. He came home an hour later, after the mates had left. He glanced at the mess, at his exhausted wife. “Anna, stop being so dramatic. They were only here for a bit.” “A bit?” “You’re blowing this out of proportion. In fact—” Max frowned “—it feels like you’re pitting me against my own son.” Anna stared. She barely recognised her husband. “Max, we need a serious talk,” she said the next day. “About us. About our future.” Max stiffened but sat opposite her. “I can’t do this anymore,” Anna said, weighing her words. “For six months I’ve put up with disrespect—Daniel’s rudeness, your total indifference to my feelings.” “Anna, I—” “Let me finish. I tried. I genuinely tried to be part of this family. But there isn’t one. There’s you, your son, and me—the outsider, tolerated because I cook and clean.” “You’re being unfair.” “Unfair? When was the last time your son said anything kind to me? When did you ever take my side?” Max stayed silent. “I love you,” he finally whispered. “But Daniel’s my son. He comes first.” “Before me?” “Before anything.” Anna nodded. Her chest felt hollow and cold. “Thank you for being honest.” Two days later, Anna found her favourite blouse—her mum’s birthday present—shredded on her pillow. There was only one suspect. “Daniel!” Anna stormed in, holding the scraps of fabric. “What is this?!” He just shrugged, eyes glued to his phone. “I’ve no idea.” “That’s my property!” “So?” “Max!” Anna rang her husband. “Come home. Now.” Max arrived, looked at the blouse, at Daniel, at Anna. “Dan, did you do this?” “No.” “See?” Max spread his hands. “He says he didn’t do it.” “Who then? The cat? We don’t own a bloody cat!” “Maybe you tore it by accident—” “Max!” Anna looked at her husband and realised it was pointless. He would never change. He would never take her side. She was nothing but a handy housekeeper to him, and Daniel was all that mattered. “Daniel misses his mum,” Max echoed yet again. “You have to see that.” “I do,” Anna replied quietly. “I understand everything now.” That evening, she pulled out her suitcase. “What are you doing?” Max stood frozen in the doorway. “Packing. I’m leaving.” “Anna, wait! Let’s talk!” “We’ve been talking for six months. Nothing’s changed,” Anna replied as she folded her clothes. “I have a right to be happy too, Max.” “I’ll change! I’ll talk to Daniel!” “It’s too late.” She looked at him—the grown man who’d never learned to be anything but a father. Not a husband. And a father who’d spoiled his son rotten with blind devotion. “I’ll file for divorce next week,” Anna said, zipping up her suitcase. “Anna—” “Goodbye, Max.” Without glancing back, she left the flat. In the hall, she caught sight of Daniel—for the first time, his eyes held something besides disdain. Uncertainty? Fear? Anna no longer cared. Her new rented flat was small but cosy—a North London one-bed with a view across a peaceful street. Anna unpacked, made a cup of tea, and sat on the window ledge. For the first time in months, she felt calm. The divorce was complete two months later. Max tried to call, asking her to come back. Anna politely refused—no. She’d survived. She wasn’t bitter. She simply realised that happiness isn’t endless sacrifice and patience. Happiness is being respected and valued. And someday, she’d find it. Just not with this man.

Give Me, Please, a Reason “Have a good day,” Denis leaned in, brushing her cheek with his lips. Anastasia nodded automatically. Her cheek stayed cool and dry—no warmth, no irritation. Just skin, just a touch. The door shut, and silence settled over the flat. She lingered in the hallway for ten more seconds, listening for something within herself. When had it happened, exactly? When did something inside snap and just… switch off? Anastasia remembered sobbing in the bathroom two years ago because Denis forgot their anniversary. She remembered shaking with anger a year ago when he left her to pick Vasily up from nursery—again. Six months ago, she was still trying, talking, explaining. Asking. Now—nothing. Just an empty, scoured field. Anastasia walked to the kitchen, poured herself coffee, and sat down. Twenty-nine years old. Seven of them married. And here she was, sitting in an empty flat with a cooling cup, realizing she’d fallen out of love with her husband so quietly, so ordinarily, she hadn’t even noticed it happen. Denis carried on by habit. Promised to pick up their daughter—never did. Said he’d fix the dripping tap in the bathroom—the tap had been leaky for three months. Swore they’d finally take Vasily to the zoo on the weekend—on Saturdays his friends had sudden plans, on Sundays he’d just sprawl on the sofa. Vasily stopped asking when Daddy would play with her. At five, her daughter already understood: Mummy is reliable. Daddy is someone who sometimes appears in the evenings and watches TV. Anastasia didn’t make scenes anymore. Didn’t cry into her pillow. Didn’t plan how to fix things. She simply erased Denis from her life’s equation. Need the car serviced? She made the call herself. Broken lock on the balcony door? She phoned the locksmith. A snowflake costume needed for the school play? Anastasia sewed it at night, while her husband snored in the next room. Their family became a strange invention: two adults, living parallel lives under one roof. One night, Denis reached for her in bed. Anastasia quietly shifted away—a headache, she said. Then tiredness. Then various ailments that didn’t exist. With every gentle refusal, she built a wall between them, and each time that wall grew a little higher. “Let him have an affair,” she thought, coldly. “Let him give me a real reason. A clear, understandable reason that my parents and his mum will accept. One I won’t have to explain.” Because how do you explain to your own mother that you’re leaving your husband just because he’s… nothing much? He doesn’t hit her, doesn’t drink, brings money home. So he doesn’t help around the house—“men are like that.” So he keeps his distance with the child—“men just don’t know how to be with kids.” Anastasia opened a separate bank account, started saving part of her salary. Joined a gym—not for him, but for herself. For that new life beckoning somewhere beyond the inevitable end. In the evenings, after Vasily was asleep, Anastasia put on headphones and listened to English podcasts: conversational phrases, business correspondence. Her company worked with British clients, and fluency might open entirely new doors. Two nights a week, she took evening courses. Denis grumbled that he’d have to stay with Vasily—though his “watching her” meant just putting on cartoons and staring at his phone. Weekends, Anastasia spent with her daughter: parks, playgrounds, milkshake cafés, matinee movies. Vasily got used to Mummy time—just the two of them. Daddy existed somewhere about the place, like a piece of furniture. “She won’t even notice,” Anastasia told herself, clinging to that hope. “When we divorce, nothing will really change for her.” Convenient thought. She clung to it like a life raft. And then… something shifted. It took a while before Anastasia noticed. One evening, Denis offered to put Vasily to bed himself. Then he picked her up from nursery, unprompted. Then—cooked dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta with cheese, but no reminders, no coaxing. Anastasia watched skeptically. What’s this? Guilt? A momentary blip? Was he hiding some mistake she hadn’t found out about? But the days passed, and Denis didn’t slip back into indifference. He started getting up to take Vasily to nursery. Fixed the leaky tap. Signed her up for swimming, took her every Saturday. “Daddy, Daddy, watch me! I can dive now!” Vasily would shout, running around the flat, imitating a swimmer. Denis would scoop her up, toss her laughing, and the flat would ring with his daughter’s delight. Anastasia watched from the kitchen, barely recognising her husband. “I can take Vasily on Sunday,” Denis mentioned one evening. “You’ve got a coffee date with friends, haven’t you?” Anastasia nodded. No date planned—she just wanted some time alone with a book in a café. How did he even know about her friends? Was he paying attention? Weeks blurred into a month, then another. Denis didn’t give up, didn’t revert. “I booked a table for the two of us at that Italian place,” he announced one day. “Friday. Mum’s agreed to watch Vasily.” Anastasia looked up from her laptop. “What’s that for?” “No special reason. I just want to have dinner with you.” She agreed. Out of curiosity, she told herself. Just to see what he was up to. The restaurant was warm, softly lit, with live music. Denis ordered her favourite wine—Anastasia was startled he remembered what it was. “You’ve changed,” she said, straight out. Denis rolled his glass in his hands. “I was blind. Completely foolish—a classic idiot.” “Hardly news.” “I know.” He smiled, but not happily. “I thought I was working for the family. That you wanted more money, a bigger house, a better car. I was really just… running away. From responsibility, real life, all of it.” She let the silence hang. “I noticed you changed. You… didn’t care anymore. And that… that was scarier than any argument. When you yelled or cried, at least it meant something. But then you just… stopped. As if I didn’t exist.” He set the glass down. “I almost lost you. You and Vasily. That’s when I got it—I was doing everything all wrong.” She stared at him, uncertain. Too late? Or not quite? “I was going to leave, you know,” she said softly. “Waiting for you to give me a reason.” Denis paled. “God, Ana…” “I was saving money. Looking for a flat.” “I had no idea it was that bad…” “You should have known,” she interrupted. “This is your family. You should have seen.” Heavy silence. The waiter skirted their table instinctively. “I want to work on this,” Denis said, finally. “On us. If you’ll let me try.” “One chance.” “One is more than I deserve.” They stayed until the lights went out—talking properly, for the first time in years. About Vasily, about money, about chores and expectations. It was a real conversation, not accusations or autopilot small talk. It was slow, rebuilding. Anastasia didn’t embrace him with relief the next morning. She observed, waited, watched for backsliding. Denis kept at it. He took over weekend cooking. Learned the ins-and-outs of the school WhatsApp group. Mastered plaiting Vasily’s hair—wonky and bumpy, but he did it himself. “Mummy, Daddy made me a dragon!” Vasily burst in, waving a cardboard-and-paper monstrosity. Anastasia smiled at the lopsided, one-winged dragon. Six months swept by. December: the whole family went to Anastasia’s parents’ cottage—an old, timber-fragranced house wrapped in snow. Anastasia sat at the window with a mug of tea, watching Denis and Vasily build a snowman. Her daughter gave commands—nose here, eyes higher, scarf tied all wrong!—and Denis complied, giggling, tossing Vasily up into the air as she shrieked with joy. “Mummy! Come on!” Vasily called, waving. Anastasia shrugged on her coat and stepped out into the clear sunlight. Snow bit her cheeks; a snowball suddenly hit her side. “It was Daddy!” Vasily instantly tattled. “Traitor,” Denis muttered, grinning. Anastasia scooped a handful of snow and lobbed it back—missed. Denis laughed, she laughed, and within moments all three were rolling in the drifts, forgetting snowmen, forgetting everything. That evening, Vasily fell asleep on the sofa before her film was finished. Denis carried her gently to bed, tucked her in, brushed her hair from her forehead. Anastasia sat by the fire, warming her hands on a cup. Outside, the snow drifted down, soft and thick, cocooning the world in silence. Denis sat beside her. “What are you thinking?” he asked. “That I’m glad I didn’t get the chance.” He didn’t ask what she meant. He understood. Love takes work—small, everyday effort: to listen, notice, give a hand. Anastasia knew there’d still be rough days, squabbles over nothing, patches of distance. But here and now, her husband and daughter were beside her: real, living, loved. Vasily woke up and snuggled in between them on the sofa. Denis hugged them close, and Anastasia thought—some things are still worth fighting for…

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