“We’re going to stay at your place for a while, since we can’t afford to rent a flat!” – My friend declared. I’m a lively woman – even at 65, I still manage to travel widely and meet fascinating people. I look back on my youth with a bittersweet nostalgia: those days when holidays meant going wherever the mood took you! You could spend summer by the seaside, go camping with friends, or set off on a river cruise – all for next to nothing. Sadly, those days are gone. I’ve always loved meeting new people; beach walks, theatre nights – I’ve kept in touch with many acquaintances for years. One day, I met a woman called Sarah while staying at a guesthouse. We parted as good friends and kept in touch by letter every so often. Years passed – until out of the blue I received a mysterious telegram: “The train arrives at three in the morning. Meet me!” No clue as to who it was from. Naturally, my husband and I didn’t go. But at four in the morning, the doorbell rang. To my astonishment, there stood Sarah—plus two teenage girls, a grandmother, and a man, all laden with bags and boxes. We invited them in, bewildered. Sarah asked me: “Why didn’t you meet us? I sent a telegram! And it wasn’t cheap! – Sorry, but we didn’t know who sent it! – Well, you gave me your address. I’m here. – I thought we’d just write letters, that’s all!” Sarah explained one of the girls had just finished school, and the family had all come along to help her start university life. “We’ll be living at your place! We haven’t got the money for a flat or hotel!” I was stunned. We weren’t even related – why should we let them move in? Worse still, we ended up feeding them three times a day. They brought a few groceries, but they didn’t cook; instead they helped themselves to whatever we had, and I was running around after everyone. After three days I couldn’t take it any more and asked Sarah and her family to leave – I didn’t care where they went. Cue a dramatic row: Sarah smashed dishes and screamed hysterically. I was gobsmacked by their behaviour. When they finally packed up, they managed to abscond with my dressing-gown, some towels, and even a large saucepan – no clue how they got it out. But it vanished all the same! That was the abrupt end of our friendship – and thank heavens! I’ve never seen or heard from her again. How could anyone be so shameless? These days, I’m far more careful about befriending strangers.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 1

Well be staying at yours for a while, since we havent got enough money to rent a flat! my friend declared.

Im quite an active woman. Though Im 65 years old, Im always out and about, exploring new places and meeting interesting people. The memories of my youth bring me both joy and nostalgia. Back then, you could go on holiday wherever you fancied! A trip to the seaside was always possible. You could go camping with mates or take a boat trip down any river. And you could do all that without spending a fortune.

But sadly, those days are behind me now. Ive always enjoyed meeting people from all walks of life. Some I met on the beach, others at the theatre. A handful of my acquaintances turned into lifelong friends.

One summer, I met a woman called Charlotte. We were staying at the same guest house for our holidays, and we parted as friends. Years passed. Now and then, we wrote letters to each other.

Until one day, I received a telegram. It wasnt signed. All it said was: The train arrives at three AM. Please meet me!

I had no idea who could have sent such a message. Naturally, my husband and I didnt go anywhere. But at four in the morning, someone knocked on our door. When I opened it, I was stunned. Charlotte stood there, with two teenage girls, a grandmother, and a man. Heaps of luggage surrounded them. My husband and I just stared, amazed. In the end, we let them all in. Charlotte turned to me and said:

Why didnt you meet us? I sent you a telegram! And theyre not cheap you know!
Sorry, but we didnt know who sent it.
Well, you gave me your address. And here I am.
I thought wed just keep in touch by letters, thats all!

Then Charlotte explained that one of the girls had just finished school and was heading off to university, so the whole family had come along to support her.

Well be staying at your place! We havent got the money for a flat or a hotel!

I was gobsmacked. We werent even related. Why was I supposed to let them live with us? We had to feed all of them three meals a day. They brought a bit of food, but never cooked anything themselves. They just ate our meals, and I ended up waiting on them all.

I couldnt put up with it anymore, so after three days I told Charlotte and her family that they needed to move out. I didnt care where they went.

That led to a huge row. Charlotte started smashing crockery and screamed like mad.

I was absolutely appalled by her behaviour. Eventually, Charlotte and her lot packed their things. They even managed to pinch my dressing gown, a few towels, and somehow even my big cooking pot disappeared. Ive no idea how they managed it, but the pot simply vanished.

And that was the end of our friendship. Thank goodness! I never heard from her or saw her again. How could someone be so brazen!

Now, Im much more cautious about who I trust and the friends I make.

Grandson Not Wanted — “Mum thinks Irka’s the weak one,” my husband finally blurted out. “She needs more help, since she doesn’t have a husband. Supposedly, we’re the stable ones…” — “Stable?” Vera turned. “Slav, I put on fifteen kilos after giving birth. My back’s killing me, my knees are shot. Doctor says if I don’t start taking care of myself, in a year I won’t even be able to lift Pavlik. I need to go to the gym. Twice a week, for an hour and a half. You’re always at work, your shifts keep changing. Who am I supposed to ask to watch our son? Your mum couldn’t care less about her grandson – she’s got her precious granddaughter!” Slava said nothing. She was right—who could they ask? Vera pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, watching the old Nissan as her mother-in-law backed out of their drive. The red brake lights flashed a farewell and then vanished around the bend. The kitchen clock read exactly seven. Nadezhda Petrovna had stayed for precisely forty-five minutes. In the living room, Slava tried to entertain their one-year-old son. Little Pavlik spun the wheel of a plastic dump truck, occasionally glancing at the door where his grandmother had just disappeared. — “She’s gone then?” Slava looked in, rubbing his aching neck. — “Flown away,” Vera corrected, not turning round. “Apparently, ‘Pashenka’ was overtired and she didn’t want to disrupt his schedule.” — “Well, he did squeal a bit when she picked him up,” Slava grimaced a smile. — “He squealed because he doesn’t recognise her. We haven’t seen her for three weeks. Three!” Vera turned sharply from the window and began stacking dirty mugs in the sink. — “Don’t, Ver,” Slava came up behind, tried to hug her, but she dodged, reaching for the sponge. “Mum just… she’s used to Lizzie. She’s four now, it’s easier with her.” — “No, Slava. She’s just more interesting to your mum. Lizzie’s Irina’s daughter. And Irina’s her favourite. And us? We’re just… there, just in the way.” Last Friday, it was déjà vu. Nadezhda Petrovna popped in ‘for a minute’, brought Pavlik a cheap plastic rattle and already eyed the door. Slava barely had time to mention he’d be out on site Saturday and could Mum watch Pavlik for a couple of hours while Vera went to the chemist and shop. — “Oh no, Slava, not possible!” Nadezhda Petrovna waved her arms. “We’re off to the puppet theatre with Lizzie, then Irina wants her all weekend. Poor girl works so hard, needs a break to sort out her personal life.” Slava’s sister raised her daughter ‘alone’—but only on paper. While Irina was ‘finding herself’ and changing boyfriends, Lizzie lived at Gran’s. Gran collected her from nursery, took her to dance class, bought painfully expensive clothes, knew all the dolls by name. — “Have you seen her status?” Vera nodded to the phone on the table. “Look what your mum posted.” Slava reluctantly picked it up and scrolled. Clips flashed by: Lizzie eating ice-cream, Gran pushing her on the swings, modelling clay together on a Saturday evening. Caption: “My greatest happiness, my joy.” — “She spent the whole weekend with them,” Vera bit her lip not to cry. “And she managed ten minutes here! Over there—it’s perfect happiness. Slava, Pavlik’s only a year old. He’s her grandson. Your son. Why is he treated like this?” Slava stayed quiet—he had no answer. He remembered last month, when Mum called in the night—her tap had burst, everything was flooding, so he dashed across town to fix it. Paid off her payday loan, so she could buy Irina a new phone for her birthday. Spent every weekend in May digging the allotment for her, while his sister and niece sunned themselves on loungers. — “Let’s ask her again,” Slava suggested. “I’ll explain, it’s about your health, not a whim.” Vera knew nothing good would come of it. *** The new conversation happened Tuesday evening. Slava put the phone on speaker so Vera could hear. — “Mum, hi. Listen, this is about Vera’s health — the doctor’s prescribed exercise for her back…” — “Oh, Slava, what gym?” Nadezhda Petrovna’s voice was bright, Lizzie giggling in the background. “She can just work out at home. She should eat fewer buns, then her back wouldn’t hurt!” — “It’s not up for debate. The doctor’s ordered it. Could you mind Pavlik on Tuesdays and Thursdays from six to eight? I’ll pick you up and bring you home.” Silence. — “Slava, you know my routine. I get Lizzie from nursery at five, we have activities, then a walk in the park. Irina’s working late, she depends on me. I can’t abandon a child just for your Vera to faff about at the gym!” — “Mum, Pasha is your grandson, too. He deserves your attention as well. You see him once a month!” — “Don’t start. Lizzie’s a little girl, she really loves me. Pasha’s just a baby, he doesn’t understand. When he’s older, we’ll bond. I’m busy now, we’re about to do some drawing. Bye.” Slava set the phone on the table, stunned. — “Did you hear that? So my son has to *earn* her attention? Reach some threshold before Gran will notice him?” — “Slava, I always knew,” Vera snapped. “From the day we left maternity, when she was two hours late because Lizzie needed new tights! It’s not for me—I don’t care what she thinks of me. But it hurts for Pashka. He’ll grow up and ask, ‘Mum, why is Gran always with Lizzie and never with me?’ What do I say? Her favourite is your aunt, and your dad’s just a free handyman and wallet?” Slava began pacing the kitchen. After ten minutes, he stopped. — “Remember the kitchen renovation for her birthday?” Vera nodded. They’d spent half a year saving for a surprise for Nadezhda Petrovna’s big day. Slava had picked out the units, found a builder, arranged a discount. The cost matched a year’s membership at the city’s best gym with a pool and a personal trainer for Vera. — “No renovation,” Slava said firmly. “I’ll call the showroom tomorrow and cancel. — “Are you serious?” Vera’s eyes widened. — “Dead serious. If my mother only has time and energy for one granddaughter, she can solve her own problems, too. Irina can sort her plumbing, fetch her veg, and cover her debts. We’ll hire you a nanny when you need the gym.” *** The next morning, Nadezhda Petrovna called herself. — “Slava, you said you’d look at my extractor fan this week? It’s broken, the kitchen’s full of smoke. And Lizzie misses her uncle, keeps asking where you are!” Before, Slava’d have already be planning a trip to the DIY store. But not now. — “Mum, I won’t be coming,” he said calmly. — “What do you mean? But the extractor! I’ll suffocate in here!” — “Ask Irina. Or her new boyfriend. I’m busy—Vera’s health comes first, so I’ll be looking after Pasha. My free time is now all for my family.” — “Over this nonsense?” Mum scoffed. “You’re choosing your wife’s whims over your own mother?” — “I’m not abandoning anyone. Just prioritising—like you. Your priority is Lizzie and Irina, mine is Pasha and Vera. Seems fair.” — “How dare you! I did everything for you! Raised you! Made you a decent man! And this is how you treat me?” — “What’s ‘everything’, Mum?” said Slava, evenly. “Helping Irina—with my money? Giving her a break while I worked your garden? Oh, and that kitchen unit we were buying you? That’s cancelled. The funds go to our family. We need a nanny, since Pavlik’s own grandma is too busy for her grandson.” Within seconds, the phone erupted: — “How DARE you! I’m your MOTHER! I gave you everything! You’re bewitched by that Vera! Lizzie’s practically an orphan, she needs me! And your Pashka’s living in luxury, rolling in comfort! Why do you think I should love him? My heart belongs to Lizzie—she means everything to me! Ungrateful! Don’t call again! Don’t dare set foot in my house!” Slava hung up. His hands shook, but he felt strangely relieved. He knew the fallout was only beginning. Now Mum would call Irina, who’d start spewing angry texts, accusing them of greed and cruelty. There’d be tears, threats, guilt trips. And that’s what happened. That evening, when he got home, Vera met him at the door. She’d already heard—her mother-in-law had left a five-minute ranting voice message, calling her, among other things, a “venomous snake.” — “Are we doing the right thing?” she whispered as they sat down. “She’s still your mother…” — “A real mother loves all her children, all her grandchildren. Not just the favourite, using the rest as resources. I let it go for years, thinking it was just her way. But when she said she didn’t care about your health or Pasha, because it clashed with ‘her Lizzie schedule’… No. That’s enough.” ** The row dragged on. Irina and her mother, deprived of their regular handouts, clogged Slava and Vera’s phones—insulting, begging, threatening, trying every emotional lever. They held firm, ignored calls, deleted messages. Two weeks later, Irina turned up in person. She started shrieking on the doorstep, called her brother a “spineless ingrate” and demanded he pay Mum’s bills and fork out for her shopping and medicine. Slava simply closed the door in her face. He’d had enough of being the “dutiful son”.

Barred Her Daughter from Home — “But why didn’t you let her in?” Veronica finally dared to ask the question that had tormented her most. “You always used to before…” Her mother gave a bitter smile. “Because I’m scared for you, Nicky. You think we don’t notice how you hide in the corner when your sister barges in in the middle of the night? The way you hide your textbooks so she won’t ruin them? She looks at you and she’s angry, angry because you’re normal. You have another life ahead of you, and she drowned hers in a bottle long ago…” Veronica hunched her shoulders, frozen over her open schoolbook—as in the next room, the shouting started once again. Her father hadn’t even taken his coat off—he stood in the hallway, gripping his mobile and yelling. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes!” he roared into the phone. “Where’s all your money gone? It’s been two weeks since payday! Two weeks, Claire!” Tanya peered out of the kitchen. She listened to her husband’s tirade for a moment, then asked: “Again?” Valerie just waved a hand and switched the phone to speaker—immediate wailing from the speaker. Veronica’s older sister had always been able to wring pity from a stone. But years of misery had built their parents a thick skin. “What do you mean, ‘he threw you out’?” Valerie paced the narrow hallway. “He did the right thing. Who would put up with your drunken state forever? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re thirty and look like a battered dog.” Veronica edged her bedroom door open two centimeters. “Dad, please…” the sobbing suddenly stopped. “He threw my things into the stairwell. I’ve nowhere to go. It’s raining, it’s cold… I’ll come stay with you, alright? Just for a couple nights. I just need to sleep it off.” Her mother lunged forward to grab the phone but Valerie jerked away. “No!” he snapped. “You won’t darken our door again. We had an agreement, didn’t we? An agreement. After you pawned the telly when we were away at the cottage, I told you: the door to this house is shut!” “Mum! Mum, say something!” came desperate shrieking from the phone. Tanya covered her face. Her shoulders shook. “Claire, how could you…” she murmured, not meeting her husband’s gaze. “We took you to the doctor, you promised. Last time they said the treatment would last three years. You didn’t even last a month!” “Those treatments are rubbish!” Claire snapped, her tone flipping from pitiful to aggressive. “They just drain your money! I feel awful, can’t you see? I’m just burning up inside, I can barely breathe! And you care about the telly… You love it more than me! I’ll buy you a new one!” “With what money?” Valerie stared blankly at the wall. “What, borrowed from your dodgy friends again? Or did you nick something from that latest boyfriend of yours?” “Does it matter?” Claire yelled. “Dad, I’ve nowhere to go! Do you want me to sleep under a bridge?” “Find a hostel. Go where you want,” her father replied, voice frighteningly calm. “But you aren’t coming here. I’ll change the locks if you so much as come near.” Veronica sat huddled on her bed, hugging her knees. Normally, when her older sister drove their parents to rage, the anger would ricochet to her. “And what are you doing? On your phone again? Are you going to turn out like your sister, utterly useless?”—a phrase she’d heard for the past three years. But tonight, nobody noticed her. No one yelled, no one snapped. Her father hung up, got undressed, and her parents retreated into the kitchen. Veronica tiptoed into the hallway. “Val, you can’t do this,” her mother pleaded. “She’ll end up lost. Completely lost. You know what she’s like when she’s… in that state.” “Am I supposed to be responsible for her?” her father slammed the kettle on. “I’m fifty-five, Tanya. I’d just like to come home and relax in my chair. I’m tired of hiding my wallet under the pillow! Of hearing about her scaring the neighbours or bringing home God only knows who!” “She’s our daughter,” her mother said quietly. “She was—once. Now she just drains us dry. She’s a drunk, Tanya. Nothing helps if she doesn’t want to help herself. And she doesn’t. She likes her life. Wake up, find a bottle, pass out—repeat.” The phone started ringing again. They fell silent for a second, then Valerie answered. “Hello.” “Dad…” It was Claire again. “I’m sat at the station. The police are making the rounds. If I stay, they’ll take me away. Please…” “Listen closely,” he interrupted her. “You are not coming home. End of.” “So what, I might as well kill myself?” Claire’s voice turned sharp. “Is that what you want? A call from the morgue?!” Veronica froze. That was Claire’s trump card, played whenever she ran out of arguments. It used to work. It used to make their mother sob, their father clutch his chest—and Claire would get her way. Money, a bed, food, and a bath. But tonight, her father didn’t flinch. “Don’t threaten us,” he said. “You care too much about yourself for that. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll find you a room. The cheapest, at the edge of town. I’ll pay for one month. I’ll give you a little for groceries. That’s it. You sort yourself out. Get a job, get clean—you’ll manage. If not, in a month you’re out, and that’s your problem.” “A ROOM? Not even a flat? I can’t live alone, Dad. I’m frightened. The other tenants could be dodgy. Besides, what am I meant to do—I’ve got nothing, all my stuff’s still at his place!” “Your mother will put some bedding in a bag. Leave it with the concierge. You collect it. Don’t come up—I’ve warned you.” “You’re beasts!” Claire screamed. “You’re sending your own daughter into some dive! You live in a three-bed house and I’m supposed to scurry around like a rat?” Her mother snapped, grabbed the phone. “Claire, ENOUGH!” she shouted, so loudly Veronica jumped. “Your dad’s right! This is your last chance. Room or street. Choose now, or tomorrow you won’t even have the room!” A long silence on the line. “Fine,” Claire muttered at last. “Send me the address. And some money—transfer it now, I’m starving.” “No money,” Valerie cut in. “I’ll buy food and leave it in the bag. I know what you’d spend the cash on.” He hung up. Veronica decided it was time. She slipped into the kitchen, pretending she just needed a drink. She braced for their anger to descend on her. Her dad would comment on her messy T-shirt. Her mum would scold her for loafing about when they had all these problems. But neither parent looked up. “Veronica,” her mother said quietly. “Yes, Mum?” “There’s old sheets and pillowcases in the cupboard, top shelf. Please get them and pack them in the blue bag in the closet.” “Alright, Mum.” Veronica got the bag, shook out the junk. She couldn’t fathom how Claire would manage on her own. She didn’t even know how to cook pasta. And her bad habit… Veronica was sure her sister wouldn’t last two days without a bottle. She climbed a stool in her parents’ bedroom to fetch the bedlinen. “Don’t forget towels!” her father shouted from the kitchen. “They’re in already,” Veronica replied. She saw her father grab his shoes and head out, taking the bag and the groceries. Must be off to find that “dive”. Veronica went to the kitchen. Her mum hadn’t moved. “Mum, do you want your tablets?” Veronica approached gently. Her mother looked at her. “You know, Nicky,” she began in a strange, blank voice, “When she was little I thought, she’ll grow up and be my help. We’ll chat about everything and anything. And now I sit here and just pray she remembers that address. Just gets there safely…” “She’ll manage,” Veronica said, perching on the edge of the chair. “She always does.” “Not this time,” her mother shook her head. “Her eyes have changed. Dead. Like nothing’s inside anymore—just a shell, craving the drink. And I can see you’re afraid of her…” Veronica was silent. She’d always felt her parents didn’t care about her, too busy saving “lost” Claire. “I thought you didn’t care,” she whispered. Her mother reached out and stroked her hair. “We care. We just have nothing left. You know how on a plane, they say—put your own mask on first, then your child’s? We spent ten years trying to fix her, Nicky. Ten years! Rehabs, healers, expensive clinics. In the end, we almost suffocated ourselves.” The doorbell rang. Veronica startled. “It’s her?” she whispered. “No, Dad has the key. Probably the grocery delivery. He ordered food.” Veronica took the bags to the kitchen and unpacked them. Porridge oats, tins, oil, tea, sugar. Nothing unnecessary. “She won’t eat this,” Veronica said, putting aside the buckwheat. “She only likes ready-made stuff.” “If she wants to live—she’ll learn to cook,” her mother snapped, finding her strength for a moment. “Enough mollycoddling her. We’ll only bury her with kindness.” An hour later, her father returned, looking utterly broken. “Sorted,” he said curtly. “Keys are with me. The landlady’s an old schoolmarm, very strict. She said if there’s any trouble, she’ll kick her out straight away. I told her to do exactly that.” “Valerie…” her mother sighed. “What, Valerie? Enough lies. Let’s be honest.” He snatched up the bag and the food parcels and headed off again. “I’ll drop this off with the concierge. I’ll ring her and tell her where to collect it. Veronica, lock the door behind me. If Claire rings the house, don’t answer.” He left. Her mother shut herself in the kitchen and broke down. Veronica’s heart clenched. How did it come to this? Claire didn’t live, she just existed between binges, and made everyone suffer. *** Their hopes proved false—a week later, the landlady rang Valerie to say she’d thrown the lodger out, with the police. Claire had brought three men back and partied all night. Once more, her parents couldn’t abandon her—Claire was sent to a rehabilitation centre. Closed, secure—they promised a year would get her sober. Who knows, maybe a miracle will happen after all…