Like a Postage Stamp: When Illya Left Katya for Another Woman Eighteen Years His Senior, Katya’s World Collapsed—Years Later, Their Daughter Seeks the Truth About Love, Betrayal, and Second Chances

Author Wanda MirandaReading 7 minViews 2

THE POSTAGE STAMP

Ian has left Kate, Mum said, her sigh heavy as winter fog across the fields.

What do you mean? I blinked in disbelief.

I dont really understand it myself. He was away on business in Manchester for a month. Came back a changed man. Told Kate, Im sorry, I love someone else, Mums gaze drifted out the window, lost in the grey drizzle.

He actually said that out loud? There must be some mistake. Thats appalling, I felt my anger building against Kates husband.

Sophie rang to say Mum wasnt well, called the ambulance. Turns out Kates had some sort of nervous swallowing episode, Mums voice wavered as she blinked rapidly.

Alright, Mum. Calm down. If were honest, maybe Kate did overdo putting Ian on a pedestal. Always dancing attendance on him, bending over backwards. Now shes suffering the consequences. Poor thing. Still, I hope Ians little affair turns out to mean nothing. He adores Kate and Sophie, I couldnt believe what I was hearing.

…When Ian and Kate met, it was a whirlwind romance. Passionate and unstoppable. They married after just two months. Their daughter, Sophie, was born. Life ambled along serenely for years. And nowthis landslide.

Of course, I rushed straight to my sisters side. How can you possibly talk about wounds this raw with your own flesh and blood?

Kate, whats going on? Did Ian even give you an explanation? Has he lost his mind? I fired question after question at her.

Oh, Nina, Im as shocked as you are. I dont even know who this woman is. Like shes bewitched him or something. Ian just ran to her, obsessed. Nothing would stop him. Said to me, Kate, lifes meant to flow, not drain away. He just threw things in a bag and left. It feels like I’ve been dragged face-first down a gravel road. I dont understand any of it Kates tears wouldnt stop, pouring silently.

Lets wait, Kate. Maybe your runaway will come to his senses. Stranger things have happened, I pulled my sobbing sister close.

But the runaway never returned.

Ian settled in Leeds. Newly married.

His new wife, Christine, was eighteen years his senior. The gulf in their ages made no difference to their happiness. The soul has no age, Christine would laugh with careless confidence.

Ian was completely taken with his second wife. She became his lighthouse in the fog.

Christine was a force of nature. Wild, untamed, direct. She could sugar her words with honey or cut deep with icy sharpness. Ian adored her.

Every so often, hed say in awe, Where were you all my life, Christine? Ive spent half my days searching for you

Meanwhile Kate, licking her wounds, swore vengeance on men as a breed.

She was beautiful. No end of heads turned, men and women alike, as she passed through her office.

She started a flirtation with her boss. Made him lose all sense.

Kate, marry me. Ill make you a queen, I swear. Youll never want for anything.

Ive had enough of marriage, David, Kate waved him off, grinning coquettishly. Lets take Sophie to the seaside, she could do with the air.

Lets do it, love

Sam was more straightforward. Fixed up her flat, helped with odd jobs. Never proposedfirmly married already.

Kate kept both of them twisted around her little finger.

Love had nothing to do with it. They just helped her patch up the holes in her heart, that was all.

All the while, her soul ached for Ian. She saw him in her dreams, woke up sobbing useless tears, her heart battering with memories. She was still helplessly drawn to him.

How do you sever the thread between you and someone else? What did I ever do wrong? I was dutiful, caring, did everything for him and never argued. Why wasnt it enough?

Years passed.

Kates life settled into a pattern: a mysterious smile for David one day, passing Sam back to his family the next.

When Sophie turned twenty, she decided she wanted to see her father.

She bought a train ticket. As she sped through the English countryside, she rehearsed what shed say to Christine, whod torn her family apart.

She arrived in Leeds.

Rang at the door.

You must be Sophie, said the intriguing lady who opened it.

Mums far more beautiful, Sophie couldnt help but think.

And youre Christine? Sophie guessed.

Yes, come in. Your fathers out just now, but hell be back soon, Christine ushered her into the kitchen.

How are you? Hows your mother? Christine busied herself with the kettle. Tea? Coffee?

Christine, how did you manage to steal my father? He loved Mum, I know he did, Sophie fixed Christine with a hard stare.

Sophie, not everything in life can be planned for. There arent guarantees in love. Sometimes passion just takes over and one meeting changes everything. Its as if the heavens decide for you, and you just have to swap partners for the next dance. Theres no logic to it, Christine sank wearily onto a chair.

But you could have stopped yourself. Theres still a responsibility to your family Sophie couldnt see the sense in Christines words, her gaze ice-cold.

No, darling, Christine replied shortly.

Thank you for your honesty, Sophie refused the coffee.

Sophie, would you like a bit of cheeky advice? Christine gave a sly smile. A mans like a postage stamp: the more you spit on it, the more it sticks. And really, with a man you have to be steel one day, velvet the next Oh, by the way, your dad and I have had a huge row.

Thanks for the tip. Should I wait for Dad here? Sophie was anxious.

Not sure. Hes been living in a hotel this week. Ill write down the address, Christine scribbled on a slip of paper, handing it over. Go on.

Sophie felt a guilty relief. Now she could talk to her father without witnesses.

Thanks for the coffee. Goodbye, Sophie murmured quickly as she left.

She found the hotel, knocked on her fathers door.

Ian was overjoyed to see his daughter, though he looked uncomfortable.

Sophie, I was planning to come home today you know, after all the arguments

Dad, thats your business. I just wanted to see you, Sophie carefully reached for his hand.

Hows your mum? Ian asked, almost absently.

Were alright, Dad. Weve got used to life without you, Sophie sighed.

They spent a gentle evening in the hotel: quiet talk, snatches of laughter and tears

Dad, do you love Christine? Sophie asked at last.

Very much. Im sorry, love, Ian answered without hesitation.

I see. Well, Ive got a train to catch, Sophie gathered herself together.

Come back and see me, Sophie. Youre my family, Ian dropped his eyes.

Of course of course, Sophie murmured as she slipped away.

Returning home, she resolved to follow Christines advice: not to love too fiercely, not to set too much store by a man’s words, not to care overmuch.

But three years later, someone extraordinary crossed her path. Charles.

He was made for her, sent by fate itself.

Sophie felt it instantly. She just knew.

When the real thing comes along, nothing else can compare.

Charles wrapped her in an embrace straight from the hearthe seemed to touch her soul. Sophie fell. No expectations, no conditions. Utterly.

My Husband Meant More to Me Than Any Bitter Grievance “Igor, that was the last straw! That’s it, we’re getting divorced! Don’t bother dropping to your knees like you always do—it won’t work this time!” With those words, I drew a firm line under our marriage. Of course, Igor didn’t believe me. He was convinced it would all follow the usual script: he’d kneel, apologise, buy me another ring, and I’d forgive him, just like always. But this time, I was truly determined to break the chains of our matrimony. My fingers, right down to the pinkies, glittered with rings—yet I had no life. Igor drank himself into a stupor, day after day. And yet, it all started so romantically. My first husband, Eddie, went missing back in the 1990s—those were frightening times to be alive. Eddie was never easy to live with, always rushing headfirst into every scuffle as if he were invincible. Just as they say: eagle’s eyes, mosquito’s wings. If anything rubbed him the wrong way, he’d kick off a right dance—always trouble. I’m convinced today that Eddie got killed in some dodgy row; there was never a word from him again. I was left alone with two little girls—Lizzie, five, and Rosie, only two. Another five years went by after his mysterious disappearance. I thought I’d lose my mind. I truly loved Eddie, despite his explosive temper. We were as thick as thieves, two halves of one whole. I resigned myself: life was over, I’d just raise my girls alone. Gave up on myself. But then… It wasn’t easy in those turbulent times. I worked at a factory and got my pay in… irons, which I’d have to flog at the market for money to buy food. That was my weekend routine. One winter, numb with cold while selling irons, a man approached. He was concerned for me. “Cold out, miss?” he asked gently. “How could you tell?” I tried to joke, but my teeth chattered. Still, his presence brought a feeling of warmth. “Right, silly question. Maybe we can warm up in a café? I’ll help with those irons you didn’t sell.” “Well, lead the way, or I’ll die of frost here,” I croaked out. We never made it to a café. I led him close to home, asked him to watch the bag of irons while I dashed to fetch the kids from nursery. By then, my legs were stone-cold, but my heart felt warm again. Returning with the girls, I saw Igor (that’s how he introduced himself) waiting outside, shifting from foot to foot, smoking. I thought, “I’ll offer him tea, and then—who knows what’s next!” Igor helped me lug the bag to my sixth-floor flat (of course, the lift didn’t work). While I got the girls up to the third floor, he was already coming back down to leave. “Wait, my hero! You’re not leaving before you have some hot tea!” I caught his coat sleeve with my icy fingers. “Well, I don’t know—am I intruding?” Igor eyed the kids. “Don’t be silly! Take the girls’ hands, I’ll dash ahead and put the kettle on,” I said with no hesitation. I didn’t want to let this man slip away—he already felt familiar somehow. Over tea, Igor offered me a job as his assistant, with a better wage than years at the factory could bring. Naturally, I nodded my obedience, itching to thank him a hundred times over… Igor was on his second divorce, with a son by his first marriage. And so it began. Soon after, we married—Igor adopted my girls. It was as if we danced through life. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with sharp furniture and gadgets. We built a lovely cottage. Every year, we holidayed by the sea. Life was a bowl of cherries… Seven years of cloudless happiness passed. Then, as if reaching the summit of bliss, Igor started hitting the bottle hard. At first, I didn’t react—it’s stressful work, I thought, everyone needs to unwind. But when Igor started drinking at work, I grew uneasy. Persuasion didn’t help. I should mention—there’s an adventurer in me. To distract him from his drinking, I decided… to give him a child. By then, I was nearly thirty-nine. My friends were shocked—but supportive. “Go on, Tanya! Maybe we’ll decide to be young mums at forty too!” they laughed. I always say, “If you end a pregnancy, you might regret it bitterly later, but if you have the baby—even if it was unplanned—you’ll never be sorry.” Igor and I had twins. So now, we were raising four girls in total! Igor’s drinking didn’t stop. I put up with it for a time, but then I craved country living—a farm, some animals, fresh air for the kids. And maybe, with work to do, Igor wouldn’t have time for drink. We sold our flat and our cottage. We bought a house in a small English town and opened a lovely café. Igor took up shooting—bought a shotgun and hunting kit. Lots of game in the woods. Things rolled on, more or less fine, until Igor got drunk one night. I don’t know what poison he drank, but he went wild—smashed everything, even pulled his rifle and fired into the ceiling! The children and I ran to the neighbours, terrified. The next morning, all was still. We tiptoed home to carnage—everything broken, nothing to sit, eat, or sleep on. Igor lay on the floor in a drunken stupor. I gathered what little was left and, with the children filed out to Mum’s, who lived nearby. “Tanya, what am I supposed to do with this gaggle of girls? Go back to your husband—families go through things, it’ll all come out in the wash!” Mum said. She always believed “grin and bear it, at least your man’s handsome.” A few days later, Igor showed up. That’s when I finally drew the line. For what it’s worth, he didn’t even remember his wild rampage. He didn’t believe a word of it. But I was beyond caring. I broke all ties—burned all bridges. What to do next, I didn’t know. But I decided: better to starve and live than be killed by a drunken husband. We sold the café for peanuts, just to get away, and settled in a tiny house in a nearby village. The older girls eventually married. The twins were in year five at school. All the girls loved their “Daddy Igor” and kept in touch. Through them, I heard Igor was begging for me to come back. The girls pleaded too: “Mum, stop being so stubborn. Dad’s changed, he’s apologised a hundred times!” But I wanted a quiet life, free from drama. Two years went by. Loneliness gnawed at me. All the rings Igor gave me were pawned and never bought back. I missed what we had—our house was always full of love, Igor loved all the girls, was never cruel to me, always tried to make amends. We were exemplary, really. What more did I want? Now even the older daughters just called; no time to visit. I understood—they were young and busy. Soon, the twins would fly the nest too, and I’d be left all alone. Girls are like ducklings—they feather up and then they’re gone. So I asked the twins to find out how their dad was getting on—maybe someone else was in the picture? They asked everything. Turned out he lived and worked in another city, hadn’t touched a drop, and was single—no one in his life. He left the girls his address, just in case… Long story short, we’ve been back together for five years now. I did tell you, I’m an adventurer at heart…

My Beloved Wife —How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s the secret?—my brother would ask me every time he visited. —Love and enormous patience. That’s the whole secret,—I’d always reply. —That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. As for living with a book I’ve already read—no, thank you,—my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride was ten years his senior. Kind-hearted Anna fell hopelessly in love with Peter for life. For Peter, she was little more than a fleeting amusement. Anna became a proper part of her husband’s household—one bustling with relatives—and gave birth to a son, Michael. The newlyweds received a tiny room to themselves. Anna treasured her delicate collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, all displayed proudly on an old dresser. Our large family knew how precious they were to her. She’d often stand, gazing at them in quiet admiration. Back then, I was only getting ready to start a family of my own, searching for that one special woman to be my wife for life. To my delight, I found her and we’ve now been married for over fifty years. Peter and Anna were married for ten years, but it brought Anna little to boast of. She tried her best to be a devoted wife and loving mother, compliant, gentle, agreeable. Still, something was missing for Peter. One evening, my brother came home the worse for drink. Something about Anna annoyed him—her look, her manner—so he started picking at her, joking crudely, grabbing her arms. Sensing an argument brewing, Anna silently left the room, taking little Michael outside. Suddenly, a terrible crash rang out. Anna knew instantly—it was her figurines. She rushed inside and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her beloved collection lay smashed on the floor, all but one piece miraculously spared. Anna picked up the lone survivor, kissed it, but said nothing to her barbarian of a husband. Only her tear-filled eyes spoke. After that, a deep rift formed between Peter and Anna. I think Anna, in her mind, grew distant from the family. She still did all her wifely duties, kept house well, but it was with effort, without enthusiasm. Peter turned more often to drink. Vulgar women and shady friends began turning up. Anna guessed what was going on, but closed into herself and grew distant, untethered. Peter all but abandoned his family, and Anna—watching his antics—realised you can’t chase the wind across a field. In the end, Anna and Peter quietly divorced—without shouting or blame. Anna took Michael and moved back to her hometown. The sole surviving figurine stood on the dresser, left behind in memory. Peter didn’t mourn. Instead, he dived headlong into a wild, reckless life. He fell in love easily and parted ways even more so. He married and divorced three more times, drank heavily, and partied without restraint. Yet, curiously, Peter was a respected economist at a university, often called to consult in other cities. Even a textbook bore his name. His future looked bright, but alcohol and chaos ruined everything. One day, our family thought Peter had finally settled down and was marrying a “stunning” woman. We attended a modest wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son, and it quickly became clear that Peter and the lad would never get along. They were simply too different. Peter ignored the obvious, but after five years, a furious row between the two ended in divorce. Afterward, a string of fleeting “current” sweethearts—Lila, Natalie, Sarah—flitted through Peter’s life. He adored each one, certain he’d found his forever. But life had other plans: at fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. By then, no women were left by his side. Only my sisters and I cared for him as his illness confined him to bed. —Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Fetch it,—Peter whispered, too weak to move. I found a dusty suitcase and opened it. Inside—carefully wrapped in soft cloths—was a collection of porcelain figurines. —I gathered these for Anna. I’ve never forgotten that silent reproach when she saw her smashed collection. She endured so much because of me. Remember my business trips? I bought figurines wherever I could. There’s a false bottom—take the money from there. It’s all my savings. Give it to Anna. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never see each other again. Promise me you’ll give everything to Anna,—Peter turned to the wall. —Alright, Peter. I promise,—I choked out, knowing I’d soon lose my brother for good. —Anna’s address is under my pillow,—he added, never turning to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town. Michael was seriously ill, the doctors perplexed. “Go to Europe,” they said, “perhaps you’ll get help there.” I discovered this from Anna’s letter hidden under Peter’s pillow. Anna and Peter had quietly kept in touch, but only through her letters; Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last request. I met Anna at a quiet railway station. She was delighted to see me: —Oh, Simon, you look so much like Peter! Two peas in a pod. I handed Anna the suitcase, as Peter wished: —Anna, forgive your wayward husband. This is for you. There’s money, and something else from Peter. You’ll see at home. Remember, you were always Peter’s beloved wife. With that, Anna and I parted for good. Some time later, I received a single letter from her: “Simon, thank you to both you and Peter. I am grateful God brought Peter into my life. We sold the figurines for a good price—a true collector bought them. I could never look at them without remembering they once passed through Peter’s hands. It’s a pity he left so soon. With the money, Michael and I moved to Canada, as my sister had long invited us. I had nothing left holding me back. I’d hoped Peter would ask me to stay—he didn’t, but he still saw me as his beloved wife. So he didn’t forget me after all. By the way, Michael is doing much better here, and he is happy. Farewell.” No return address.

011

Changed His Mind About Getting Married Late Into the Night, Dr. Archibald toiled away in his lab, endlessly transferring mysterious liquids between test tubes and analyzing granulated powders, his mind consumed by the hope that his painstaking research would soon bear fruit—and that he’d finally unveil his “product,” extracted from the roots of a rare English wildflower, to the scientific community. With all the enthusiasm of a dedicated forty-year-old scientist, Archibald barely registered the awestruck gazes from the institute’s new young cleaner, Sophie, who, forgetting her own work, would linger in his office for hours, propping herself on her mop and watching him intently. Driven by his dream, Archibald noticed neither Sophie’s attentions nor her habit of standing quietly behind him, lost in her thoughts until, one evening, she found her courage: “Dr. Archibald, you’ve hardly left your chair all day,” she said, brightening. “Fancy a cuppa? I happened to bring my electric kettle—and some homemade sausages.” At the mention of sausages, Archibald looked up from his experiments. “Tea with sausages, you say? I’d be mad to pass that up.” Sophie beamed as she rummaged through her backpack, producing first the kettle and then a plastic container of delicious-looking food. “Mother sent me some beef mince from the country yesterday,” she explained, her cheeks glowing with pride, “so I made sausages with a bit of pork fat and roasted them.” Archibald peered into the clear tub, putting his glasses back on for a closer look. “How long has this sat in your bag?” he inquired. “Since this morning, I suppose. Why?” Sophie faltered, apprehensive. “And the lid was sealed tight?” “Yes, it was,” Sophie insisted, now a bit anxious. “You think it’s spoiled already? It’s been cold in the staff room—they haven’t got the radiators on yet.” Archibald weighed his doubts. “Best stick to tea for now. Maybe you should take the sausages home.” Angry at the rejection, Sophie scooped away her container, but curiosity got the better of her, and she opened it anyway. “Smells just fine! Oh, you city types—always worrying! If you won’t have any, more for me.” As the kettle boiled, Archibald eyed Sophie as she tucked in voraciously. The warm aroma and her enjoyment tempted him. He reasoned with himself about food safety, the risk of bacteria, and Sophie’s questionable fridge habits, but the British scientist’s willpower failed under hunger’s persuasion. Finally, he caved—one bite led to another, and Archibald found himself in culinary heaven. “Stunning! Did you really make these yourself?” Sophie smiled through happy tears. “Told you—I’ve been cooking since I was a girl!” The humble supper ended with Archibald offering to see Sophie to the bus stop, and the evening set in motion a chain of unexpected events. Archibald, A Forty-Year-Old Scientist, Visits His Young Girlfriend Sophie’s Eccentric Family in a Snowy English Village—Only to Find Himself Questioning Both Love and Marriage The next day, anxiety gnawed at Archibald as a bumpy taxi ride took him and Sophie to her childhood home in the snow-blanketed English countryside—a crooked-roofed old cottage reminiscent of an eccentric BBC drama. Sophie, headstrong and affectionate, tried to reassure him: “Mum’s understanding. And my stepdad will love you; he agrees with everyone.” Archibald fretted about the age difference. “Your mum’s forty-five, I’m forty. Will she even approve?” “She’ll come round!” Sophie insisted, even vowing, in jest, to invent a pregnancy if her mother disapproved. The cottage was as unwelcoming as Archibald had feared. Sophie’s mother, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown, sized him up sharply, her voice cold. “My little girl’s twenty-three, and you’re twice her age! What’s your game? Looking for a housekeeper?” The tension snowballed into a blazing row involving Sophie’s handsome young stepfather and the whole family, with accusations and furniture flying. Archibald fled into the frosty night, dodging hurled stools and searching the village for any means of escape, ruing the day he ever left his lab for this rural “adventure.” After collapsing from stress and cold, Archibald was nursed back to health by a local medic and Sophie’s unwavering devotion. But as tempers cooled, doubts about love, marriage, and rural English family drama gnawed at him. Archibald found himself longing for the order and coziness of his city flat—and the idea of remaining a confirmed bachelor started to seem far more appealing. A Comedy of Love, Laboratories, and Culture Clashes: When a Middle-Aged London Scientist Visits His Quirky Young Girlfriend’s Eccentric Family in Rural England, He Starts to Rethink His Plans for Marriage