No Magic at All New Year Was Hurtling Towards Lena Like a Runaway Train—and She Didn’t Even Have a Ticket Lena felt breathless at the speed of it all. She stood, figuratively, on the station platform, knowing she had no ticket, no luck, no New Year cheer, and probably never would. Why had she invited guests, anyway? Who wants to ring in the New Year with a failure? * December 31st started with a mini disaster: after ten loyal years, Lena’s washing machine decided it was time for retirement—by flooding the bathroom. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve? A real quest. After spending hours and nerves, Lena succeeded and hoped her bad luck was over. But… That afternoon, her ginger cat, Basil (self-proclaimed foodie), ate all the sausage set aside for the potato salad, leaving Lena only sad peas and pickled cucumbers. But Basil wasn’t done yet. He decided to pursue a blue tit that landed on the open window… A huge potted plant crashed from the windowsill, taking the Christmas tree with it, snuffing out the string of fairy lights Lena loved so much. Pot shards and the baubles she’d kept since childhood mixed with soil. Lena nearly cried as she cleaned up the mess. Next came a shattered decanter, burnt chicken, and, finally, the last straw: just as her guests were about to arrive, Lena realised she’d forgotten to buy a cake. Panicked, she rang her sister. “Kate, disaster! I haven’t got a cake!” “Calm down!” Kate replied cheerfully. “I’m downstairs. Come out—we’ll sort it.” “You’re here already?” “Yes—outside.” Stepping out, Lena was greeted with a sight: next to Kate’s car stood her best friend, Mary, clutching a massive bag, and Aunt Gail with an enormous bowl of jelly. “Why such a massive trifle?” Lena gasped. “Just in case!” Aunt Gail declared, queen of unsolicited advice. “I know how you cook! We’ve got a whole night ahead! I trust you made the potato salad?” Lena shrugged uncertainly… While the girls dashed for a cake, Mary strung up streamers—quickly becoming Basil’s latest victim as he transformed himself into an alien creature. Kate’s husband, Ian, arrived straight from work and rescued Basil, who didn’t put up a fight until he saw Lena, charging toward her and leaving Ian’s hand scratched and bleeding. The ladies patched up Ian, who gallantly volunteered to “help” in the kitchen, mostly waxing lyrical about how “salad is a state of soul, not just a bunch of ingredients.” Which Kate and Lena found just fine. “Len, what’s this box?” Mary called. “It says ‘Happy New Year!’ And there’s a note: ‘To be opened tonight. Gran Val.’” Lena ran in. “Oh! I forgot! Kate! Gran left it before she went away, said we’re to open it on New Year’s, at about two in the morning. Promised a surprise!” “What could it be?” Kate examined it curiously. “Let’s check now!” Lena shook her head. “She’ll know somehow! What if there’s a lock or a trick? We have to do as Gran said. Wait.” The intrigue had everyone hooked—even Aunt Gail edged closer, eyeing the box. * Later, they listened to the Prime Minister’s speech, popped champagne, ate cat-nibbled potato salad, laughed, debated—and finally… “Is it two o’clock?” Lena asked. “Perfect timing.” She raised the box. “A surprise from Gran Val!” The only man present was trusted with the unboxing. Ian did the honours and opened the lid. Inside, among cotton wool, lay not money, nor old photos, but dozens of tiny, neatly rolled notes, each tied with coloured ribbon and with a name sticker. “What’s this?” Ian asked, baffled. Lena picked out the first note with her name and read aloud: “Lena, darling granddaughter. Has something gone wrong again today? Washing machine broken? Cat ate your salad? Never mind! Any problem is just an excuse to order pizza and binge your favourite show. You can buy a cake in the morning. What matters is having people nearby to help eat the pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Gran Val.” For a moment, silence hung in the air—then laughter exploded. Lena laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. “How… how did she know?!” “That’s magic,” Aunt Gail whispered. “Me! My turn!” Kate reached for hers. She opened her note: “Kate, darling. Stop arguing with Ian over every little thing. Give him a cuddle—he’s a good one, even if he’s a bit of a philosopher. And if he starts again, just kiss him. It’s the best weapon against male logic. Love you both.” Ian blushed and kissed Kate to cheers from the crowd. Mary giggled as she opened hers: “Mary dear, look for love in the library or local supermarket, not in pubs. There are real people there, just like you—though they don’t wear trendy skinny jeans. And stop dying your hair purple. Natural suits you best!” “How does she know about my hair?” Mary gasped. “I only changed it two days ago!” Now Aunt Gail’s turn. She unfolded her note, as if uncovering a great secret. “Gail, my dear. You’re the wisest, always in the know. But here’s a secret even you don’t know: kindness and wise advice are good, but sometimes it’s best to stay quiet and just eat some cake. Hugs, my dear.” Aunt Gail sat red-faced, mumbled something, grabbed a slice of cake, and fell silent—the first time she’d gone an evening without giving any advice. The laughter and chatter lasted till dawn. The girls video-called Gran Val, who sat smiling in her armchair miles away. “My dears! I’m so glad the surprise worked. There’s no magic. I just know you well. And I love you all so much!” Next morning, cleaning up, Lena gathered the notes into a lovely jar and put it in pride of place. They weren’t just wishes, they were Gran’s recipe for happiness: don’t fear chaos, laugh off failures, value those around you, eat what you want (within reason), and remember the real gift is knowing someone out there loves and understands you—always.

Author Walton MerrittReading 7 minViews 3

No Magic at All

The New Year once hurried toward us, relentless as an express train thundering down the tracks.

That rush always made my breath catch, back when I was Eleanor. I remember feeling as though I stood on the cold platform, watching the festivities speeding by, with no ticket in my hands and no hope of catching joyor the so-called New Years spirit. Happiness seemed as distant as the stars, probably lost for good.

Why on earth had I invited anyone? Who would want to see in the New Year alongside someone who cant get her life together?

***

December the 31st arrived laced with disaster: after ten faithful years, my old washing machine chose this morning to give up the ghost, triggering a minor flood in the bathroom.

Finding a plumber on New Years Eve is a challenge worthy of legend. I spent an age calling around, nerves frayed, before someone finally answered the summons. When at last the pipes were sorted and the worst was mopped up, I sighed in relief, foolishly thinking the days mishaps were done.

Not quite.

That afternoon, my ginger tomcat Chesterself-appointed connoisseurgobbled up all the sausages set aside for the potato salad, leaving me only a pitiful handful of peas and some pickled onions.

Evidently, Chester considered this only an appetiser. Next, he took it upon himself to hunt a robin that had foolishly perched on the open window ledge.

A huge rubber plant toppled from the sill, careened into the Christmas tree, taking with it the old string of fairy lights Id always loved, rendering them dark forevermore.

The fragments of pot and childhood baubles Id treasured all my days mixed together amidst the potted earth.

I nearly wept as I mopped up the remnants of merriment.

There followed a shattered decanter, a burnt roast chicken, and the final straw: as guests were due to arrive, I realised in horror Id entirely forgotten to buy a pudding. In a panic, I called my sister.

Claire, its a disaster! Ive got no pudding!

Calm down! came her cheery reply. Im just outside. Grab your coat. Well get what we need.

Where are you exactly?

I told youIm parked outside!

When I descended, the scene could have been a painting: beside Claires little car stood Mary, my oldest friend, balancing an enormous carrier bag, and Aunt Hazel, proudly bearing an immense bowl of jellied beef.

Aunt Hazel, whatever made you bring thatan entire bowlful? I exclaimed.

Just in case! she announced with her usual gravitas. Ever a fan of unsolicited advice, Aunt Hazel flourished her spoon. I know exactly what you young people call cooking! Weve the whole night ahead! You have made that salad, I hope?

I shrugged, helpless.

While we dashed out for the pudding, Mary hung up bunting, which Chester promptly tangled himself in, converting into a creature from another world.

Rescuing the cat fell to Claires husband, John. Hed come straight from work, just in the nick of time.

Chester didnt objectuntil he saw me. Then, with joyous abandon, he leapt from Johns grasp and left a neat line of crimson on Johns arm in the process.

We patched John up. Ever stoic, he declared hed help on the food front, though this mostly involved pontificating: Salad, after all, is a matter of the soul, not just the ingredients. For Claire and me, that was inspiration enough.

Eleanor, whats with this box? called Mary from the sitting room. It says A Happy New Year! And look, theres a note: Open at midnight. Love, Gran Violet.

I rushed over at once.

Oh, I forgot all about that! Claire! Gran left it for usshe said we must open it on New Years, at about two in the morning. Promised a surprise.

Im intrigued, said Claire, peering at it with interest. Lets have a peek now!

I shook my head.

Dont! Shell find out somehow, youll see. What if shes rigged it with a trick lock? Wed ruin everything. Lets do as she asked. We can wait.

The mystery hovered tantalisingly. Even Aunt Hazel drew closer, eyeing the box with uncharacteristic restraint.

***

We listened to the Prime Ministers address, drank champagne, entirely unawares, ate feline potato salad, laughed and argued, and then, at last

Is it already two? I asked breathlessly. Then its time. I raised the box in both hands and solemnly declared, A surprise from Gran Violet!

The honour of opening the box was given to the households lone man.

John fiddled with it and eased off the lid.

Insideresting on cotton woolwerent pound notes, nor ancient photos, but dozens of tiny scrolls neatly tied with brightly coloured ribbons. A sticker graced each one, bearing a name.

Whats all this, then? John muttered in confusion.

I unrolled the first, marked Eleanor, and read aloud:

Dearest Eleanor, my wonderful granddaughter. Has something gone awry today? Washing machine broken? Cat devoured the salad? Never fear! Remember: any catastrophe is merely an excuse to order takeaway and put on your favourite series. The pudding can be bought in the morning. What matters most is having someone beside you to share that dessert. I love you to the moon and back. Yours always, Gran Violet.

For a fleeting moment silence filled the room before collapsing into laughter.

I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks.

How how did she know?!

Its magic, Aunt Hazel whispered.

My turn! Claire reached out eagerly.

Her note read:

Darling Claire, stop bickering with John over every little thing. Give him a hug. Hes a good man, even if he does ramble on. If he starts again, simply kiss him. Its the best remedy for misplaced logic. Love to you both.

John flushed crimson and kissed Claire to applause.

Marys turn next. She giggled as she unraveled her scroll:

Lovely Mary. Seek love not in the pubs but in the library or the greengrocers round the corner. Thats where the real gems arepeople like you, who dont strut about in the latest skin-tight trousers. And please, let your hair grow natural again. You suit it best!

How does she know about my hair? Mary gasped. I only changed it two days ago!

Finally, Aunt Hazels hands trembled as she opened hers, as if she expected a spy code inside.

Dear Hazel, I know youre the wisest one here and always in the know. But heres one secret left. Wisdom and kind advice are blessings, but sometimes, its best simply to hold your tongue and enjoy a slice of cake. Love to you, dearest.

Aunt Hazels expression reddened as she read, before she quietly helped herself to cake and said nothing. It was the first evening in memory she hadnt doled out a single piece of advice.

Laughter and chatter carried us through till dawn.

We rang Gran Violet by video, and there she was, beaming from her armchair in another town, saying, My darlings! Im so glad the surprise worked! No magic neededI simply know you well, and I love you deeply.

The next morning, as I tidied away the remains of the party, I gathered up those little notes and stored them in a glass jar for all to see. They werent just well wishesthey were Grans recipe for happiness: dont fear chaos, laugh at misfortune, cherish those at your table, eat what delights your heartbut not to excess. And above all, remember, the finest gift is knowing someone somewhere loves and understands you. Always.

You Just Don’t Know How Lucky You Are — Half a million? — Karina read the notification on her phone three times before the numbers made sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dimitri sat on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not even glancing up. — Oh, that… Yes, just a small thing, for Mum’s house renovations. You know, her pipes are leaking, the flooring’s ruined, the wallpaper’s going mildewy… — Hold on. — Karina sank into the nearest armchair, her legs too weak to stand. — You took out a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mother? Without saying a word to me? Dimitri finally looked up, baffled, as if his wife was asking about something perfectly normal. — Karina, it’s my mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else would help her? — What about discussing it with me? — Karina was shouting now, unable to stop. — Asking my opinion? At least warning me? — You’d have started arguing, — Dimitri shrugged. — And Mum needed the money urgently. Four years. Four years she’d put up with that woman who called every evening to check what Dima had eaten for dinner. Who turned up without warning and commented on the state of the flat. Who always sat Karina at the far end of the table during family meals. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, — Dimitri said in his usual calm tone. — We’ll manage. We can pay it off quickly, it’s no big deal. It’s family. Hot, angry tears burst forth. Karina wiped them away, smearing mascara across her cheeks. — Family? Am I “family”? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mum decided it was time we switched cars and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the spare room because she “couldn’t sleep surrounded by someone else’s junk”? When on my birthday, you and she went fridge shopping for her? — All details, — Dimitri waved off. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karina looked at the man she married—tall, soft-featured, those dimples she once found charming. Now, all she saw was a thirty-something child, unable to cut the apron strings. — We’ll get through it, — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karina stood up and walked to the bedroom. Two large duffle bags sat on the top shelf—the ones she’d brought when she first moved in. She hauled them down, opened the wardrobe and started packing. Twenty minutes later, Dimitri appeared, just as the first bag was stuffed full. — What are you doing? Karina, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not serious, are you? She didn’t answer. Folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Reached for her jewellery box—gifts from parents and friends, nothing from him. — Where will you go? Back to your mum? She’s in Manchester! She zipped the second bag. Checked her handbag—passport, card, keys to her mum’s flat, kept just in case. — Karina, say something! You can’t just leave. I love you! She gave him a long look. Then picked up her bags and walked out. …Next morning, Karina stood at the register office holding the divorce application, feeling a strange calm inside, despite the grey drizzle outside. The decision was made. The first call came at 2.30am. Karina, startled on Lena’s sofa, confused about where she was. — We need to talk, — Dimitri was ragged, incoherent. — I understand now, I’ll change. Give me another chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karina, I can’t live without you. You are my reason to go on. By morning, forty-three messages had arrived—tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week later, he began showing up at her work. Karina went for lunch and found him by the sandwich shop. Headed for the Tube, spotted him across the street. — Just passing by, — he’d smile when she demanded an explanation. — Wanted to see you. One evening, the doorbell rang at Lena’s flat. Expecting the pizza delivery, Karina opened the door. Dimitri stood there—bouquet of red roses. — Just one chance, — he whispered. — That’s all I’m asking. Karina shut the door. He stood outside for two hours before neighbours threatened to call the police. Eventually, she learned to live with it—as one does with chronic pain. Ignoring messages, screening calls from unknown numbers, not looking over her shoulder. She switched jobs for remote work, moved to a sleepy suburb where Dimitri was unlikely to show up. The divorce was finalised three months later. Karina walked out of court, paper in hand, tears streaming—not of grief, but relief. At first, freedom was terrifyingly empty. She’d always checked her choices with someone, even if that someone always decided anyway. Now, she could buy any yoghurt in the shop, without worrying if Elena Victoria approved. Watch any film she liked, without being told “proper women don’t watch that”. She could breathe. She signed up for English lessons—a long-held dream, which Dimitri dismissed as “a waste of money”. Started attending sunrise yoga. Took a solo weekend trip to Cornwall, wandering the streets and eating clotted cream fudge. After six months, the calls and messages stopped. Karina waited another month, then realised she could finally relax. Landed a job at a marketing agency—bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at a work do her colleague, Mary, convinced her to attend. — This is our lead programmer, — Mary introduced her to a tall man in wire-rimmed glasses. — Andrew, meet Karina from marketing. He shook her hand—firm but gentle. Smiled, simple and sincere. — You ducked out of karaoke too? — he nodded at the stage, where finance was butchering “Wonderwall”. — Got to preserve my nerves, — Karina grinned. They talked all evening—books, travel, life’s quirks. Andrew listened more than he spoke. He asked questions and waited for the answers—never lectured or explained how she should live. When he discovered she was divorced, he simply nodded and changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, picking a cosy, light-filled flat in a quiet London square. — Are you sure you like this one? — Karina checked, viewing the place. — Do you? — Andrew replied. — I love it. — Then it’s settled. Those small things—the right to her own opinion, respected—mattered far more than grand declarations of love. He proposed on the building’s rooftop at sunset, the sky awash in gold and pink. Produced a tiny box—inside, a diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches, — Andrew admitted. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you’re willing to put up with my snoring and my love of bad coffee. Karina laughed through tears and nodded… …One May evening, as usual, Andrew stayed late at work—deadline panic, a final bug in the code. Karina was making pasta, humming with the radio, when the doorbell rang. Sharp, insistent, demanding. She looked through the peephole—and recoiled. Dimitri stood on the landing. Pale, hollow-eyed, rumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence—and now, he was here. — Karina, open up! — his fist pounding the door. — I know you’re in there! We need to talk! Karina grabbed her phone and dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We still love each other! — Dimitri shouted from outside. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s wrong! The door shook—he threw his whole weight against it, trying to break in. Karina pressed her back to the door, bracing hard. — Go away! — she screamed. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice cracked. — You were mine, you’ll stay mine! Two years I waited for you to come to your senses! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s not over! — he shoved the door again. — I’ve changed! Mum says you don’t appreciate your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! Through the peephole, his face twisted—obsessed, unrecognisable. Karina dialled three digits. — Dima! One call; the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dimitri froze. Silent. Then turned and stormed off down the stairs. The main door slammed below. Karina slid to the floor, her heart pounding. Thirty minutes passed before she could ring Andrew. She filed a police report the next day. The local officer—a kindly, mustached man—took down details, listened, nodded. — We’ll handle it. He’ll get a warning. What he said to Dimitri, Karina never knew. But her ex-husband never showed up again. No calls. No texts. No “chance” encounters. The wedding took place in early June, at a small country pub—twenty friends, just those closest to them. No fuss, no groom’s side relatives laying down “traditions”. Karina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, holding his warm hands. Outside, the birch trees rustled, carrying scents of flowers and fresh-cut grass. — Do you…? — the registrar began. — I do, — Karina interrupted, and everyone laughed. Andrew slipped the ring on—a thin gold band, engraved inside. Three words: “Forever with you”. Karina lifted her gaze to this man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not a possessive stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and loved. Ahead lay a life where her voice finally mattered…

You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious? The Savoy? That’s at least five hundred pounds for dinner! Per person.” Igor threw his keys onto the sideboard so they rattled against the wall. Olga turned from the hob, where she was stirring the sauce, and instantly noticed her husband’s whitened knuckles gripping his phone. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore and abruptly hung up. “What happened?” Instead of answering, Igor slumped into a kitchen chair and stared at his plate of potatoes. Olga switched off the burner, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat opposite. “Igor…” “She’s gone absolutely mad. Lost it, completely.” He looked up; Olga saw such a mixture of anger and helplessness in his eyes that her heart clenched. “Remember I told you about that… Victor? From the dance class?” Olga nodded. His mum had mentioned her new companion about a month ago—shyly, fidgeting with the corner of the tablecloth. It had seemed quite sweet: a 58-year-old widow, five years alone, and now—a ballroom dancing club at the community centre, a charming gent who could twirl her in a waltz. “Well.” Igor pushed his plate aside. “She’s taken him to the Savoy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit for four grand. Last weekend they took a trip to Bath—guess who paid for the hotel and tours?” “Mrs Taylor.” “Bingo.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “Mum saved that money for years. For a new boiler. For a rainy day. Now she’s blowing it all on a man she’s known for six weeks. Unreal…” Olga fell silent, choosing her words. She knew her mother-in-law well—romantic, open, almost guilelessly trusting. The sort of woman who believes in true love even after half a century on earth. “Listen, Igor…” She covered his hand with hers. “Your mum’s an adult. Her money, her choices. Don’t interfere. She won’t hear anyone right now.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Yes. And she has a right to. And frankly, you’re exaggerating.” Igor shrugged, but didn’t pull away. “I just can’t watch her—” “I know, love. But you can’t live her life for her.” Olga stroked his wrist. “She has to take responsibility—even if we don’t like it. She’s perfectly capable.” Igor nodded morosely. …Two months passed in a flash. Talk of Victor faded—his mum phoned less and seemed evasive, as if she were hiding something. Olga decided the romance had fizzled and stopped worrying. So when the doorbell rang on Sunday evening and Mrs Taylor was on the doorstep, Olga didn’t know what to think. “Darlings! My dear darlings!” She swept into the flat, trailing clouds of sweet perfume. “He proposed! Look! Look!” A ring with a tiny stone sparkled on her finger. Cheap, but Mrs Taylor looked at it as if it was a great diamond. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s so, so…” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and laughed—a bright, girlish sound. “I never thought, at my age… That I’d ever feel this again…” Igor hugged his mum, and Olga saw his shoulders relax. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe Victor really did love her, and they’d only been worrying for nothing. “We’re happy for you, mum.” Igor let go and smiled. “You deserve to be happy.” “And I’ve already signed the flat over to him! Now we’re a proper family!” Mrs Taylor announced, and time seemed to freeze. Olga stopped breathing. Igor jerked, as if he’d walked into a glass wall. “What… what did you say?” “The flat.” She waved her hand, oblivious to their faces. “So he knows I trust him. It’s love, darlings, real love! And love is built on trust.” A silence thick enough to hear the clock ticking in the sitting room. “Mrs Taylor.” Olga spoke first, slowly, carefully. “You’ve signed your flat over to a man you’ve known three months? Before the wedding?” “And?” Mrs Taylor tilted her chin. “I trust him. He’s a good, decent man. Not what you imagine. You think badly of him, I know you do.” “We don’t think anything,” Olga stepped forward. “But maybe you could’ve waited until after the ceremony. Why rush?” “You don’t understand. This… This is proof of my love.” Mrs Taylor folded her arms. “What do you know about real feelings? About trust?” Igor finally unclenched his jaw: “Mum—” “No!” She stamped her foot, suddenly more stubborn teenager than grown woman. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it for me!” She spun and rushed out, banging the door so hard the glass rattled in the cabinet. The wedding was small—a registry office in Enfield, charity shop dress, and a three-rose bouquet. But Mrs Taylor glowed as if she was marrying in Westminster Abbey. Victor—a portly man with a receding hairline and oily smile—played the perfect gentleman. Kissing her hand, pulling out her chair, topping up her prosecco. The ideal groom. Olga watched him over her glass. Something wasn’t right. His eyes—when he looked at Mrs Taylor, the pupils stayed cold, calculating. Practised affection. Rehearsed care. She kept her thoughts to herself. What was the point of talking when no one listened? The first months, Mrs Taylor called every week—bubbling with excitement, listing restaurants and theatres he took her to. “He’s so thoughtful! Yesterday he brought me roses—just because!” Igor nodded along, then hung up and sat in silence, staring into space. Olga said nothing. She waited. A year passed in a blur. Then—the doorbell… Olga opened the door to a woman she barely recognised. Mrs Taylor looked ten years older—deeper wrinkles, hollow eyes, hunched shoulders. One hand gripped her battered suitcase, the very one that once went to Bath. “He threw me out.” Mrs Taylor sobbed. “Filed for divorce and threw me out. The flat… it’s his now. Legally.” In silence, Olga let her in. The kettle boiled quickly. Mrs Taylor sat clutching her cup with both hands, crying quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so. I did everything for him. And he just…” Olga didn’t interrupt. Just rubbed her back as the tears ran dry. Igor returned an hour later, paused in the doorway, and his face went hard. “Son.” Mrs Taylor rose, held her hands out. “Son, I’ve nowhere to go… You wouldn’t turn your mum out, would you? Give me a room—I won’t take up much. Children are meant to care for their parents, that’s—” “Stop.” Igor raised his hand. “Stop, mum.” “I have no money. None. I spent it all on him, every penny. The pension’s small, you know—” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you.” Igor sank onto the sofa, heavy as if the world’s weight was on him. “Said don’t rush. Said get to know him. Said don’t sign over the flat. Do you remember what you told me?” Mrs Taylor’s eyes dropped. “That I didn’t know true love. That we were just jealous. I remember everything, mum.” “Igor…” Olga tried to stop him, but he shook his head. “No. Let her hear it.” He turned to his mum. “You’re a grown woman. You made your choice. You ignored everyone who tried to stop you. And now, you want us to deal with the fallout?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” Igor shot to his feet, voice cracking. “I’m tired, mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away, then run to me for rescue!” Mrs Taylor shrank, small and pitiful. “He lied to me, son. I really loved him, I trusted—” “Trusted him so much you handed the flat to a stranger. Brilliant, mum. Just brilliant. And what about the fact that Dad bought this flat!” “Forgive me.” The tears flowed again. “Forgive me. I was blind, I know. But please… let me have one more chance. I’ll never—” “Adults bear the consequences of their choices.” Igor’s voice was quiet, tired. “You wanted independence? You’ve got it. Sort your own accommodation. Find a job. You’re on your own.” Mrs Taylor left, sobbing loudly on the landing. Olga spent the whole night beside Igor—silent, just holding his hand. Igor didn’t cry. Just lay staring at the ceiling, sighing from time to time. “Did I do the right thing?” he murmured at dawn. “Yes.” Olga stroked his cheek. “It was hard. It hurt. But yes.” In the morning, Igor called his mum and rented her a room in a house-share at the edge of town. Paid six months up front. It was the last help he agreed to. “From now on, you’re on your own, mum. On your own. If you go to court, we’ll help with legal fees. But living here—no.” Olga listened and wondered about justice. About how, sometimes, the harshest lesson is the only one that works. Mrs Taylor got exactly what her blindness brought. And somehow that was both bitter and comforting. And she knew, deep down, this wasn’t the end, and somehow, things would work out. She didn’t know how—but they would…

010

Dandelion Jam The snowy winter has finally ended. It wasn’t very harsh this year—just mild and filled with flurries—but even so, it’s worn out its welcome, and now everyone longs for green leaves, colourful sights, and the chance to shed their heavy winter coats. Spring arrives in a sleepy English market town. Tasha adores spring, eagerly awaiting the return of nature—and finally, she’s rewarded. Peering from her third-floor flat window, she muses: “With these warm spring days, the whole town seems to have woken from a long, wintry slumber. Even the traffic hums differently now, and the market is alive again. People in bright jackets and coats bustle here and there, and the morning birds are noisier than our alarm clocks. Oh, spring is lovely, but summer… that’s even better!” Tasha has lived in this five-storey block for years. Now, she shares it with her granddaughter, Vera, who’s in Year Four. Vera’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, entrusting their daughter to her gran. “Mum, we’re leaving Vera in your care. No dragging her halfway across the world! We know you’ll watch over your favourite granddaughter,” Tasha’s daughter declared. “Oh, of course I will—I’ll be happier with company! Now off you go, Vera and I’ll manage just fine,” Tasha replied. “Yay, Gran! Just you and me—plenty of trips to the park, and more time together. Mum and Dad are always too busy!” Vera cheered. After serving breakfast and sending Vera off to school, Tasha busied herself with housework—time slipped away. “I’ll pop to the shop before Vera gets back—she earned a treat for her top marks,” she thought, pulling on her boots. She left her flat to find two neighbours already perched on the communal bench, cushions beneath them to soften the chill. Mrs Simmons—ageless and living alone, perhaps seventy, perhaps more—keeps her birthday a secret and occupies a ground floor studio. Valerie, a lively 75-year-old, well-read and brimming with tales, is Simmons’s opposite—always laughing and full of life. As soon as the snow melts and the sun warms the ground, this bench is never empty, and Simmons and Valerie are its regulars. They spend all day chatting, with the briefest interlude for lunch at home. They know everything about everyone in the block—not even a fly gets past their watchful eyes. Sometimes Tasha joins them to swap stories—TV shows, books, the latest local news. Mrs Simmons is fond of discussing her blood pressure. “Morning, ladies!” Tasha grinned. “Already on duty?” “Morning, Tosh! Of course—otherwise they’d mark us absent. Off to the shop, are you?” Simmons declared, eyeing Tasha’s shopping bag. “Spot on. Vera’s expecting something sweet for her stellar grades,” Tasha waved, heading off. The day passed in a blur. Tasha picked up Vera from school, fed her supper, then Vera buried herself in homework while Tasha watched a bit of television. “Gran, I’m off to dance!” Vera chirped. Vera’s been in dance class six years now—she loves it, performing at all the local events. And proud Tasha can’t help but glow when speaking of her talented granddaughter. “All right, Vera dear—off you go!” said Gran, sending her to rehearsals. Later, Tasha waits alone on the bench for Vera to return from dance. “Feeling lonely?” Her second-floor neighbour, Mr Gordon, took a seat beside her. “How could I be, on a day like this? It’s spring. Gorgeous weather!” Tasha replied. “Yes, the sun’s warming up, the birds are singing—everywhere’s turning green, and those yellow coltsfoot flowers look just like tiny little suns,” Mr Gordon smiled. At that moment, Vera sneaked up and flung her arms around Gran’s neck. “Woof, woof!” “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tasha laughed. “Now, now—bit soon to joke about that!” chuckled Mr Gordon, patting her shoulder. “Come along, mischief. I’ve grated carrots with sugar and fried your favourite meatballs. You must be tired after all that dancing,” Gran coaxed, ushering Vera home. Mr Gordon rose to follow them. “What? You’re heading inside too?” Tasha asked. “You made those meatballs sound so good, I got hungry! Maybe I’ll come back out for a stroll later.” Mr Gordon winked. “I can’t promise—busy day! Maybe though…” Tasha smiled. She did come back out for a bit in the evening, just in case. Mr Gordon was waiting—and for once, the regular bench warmers had gone home. “Mrs Simmons and Valerie just slipped away for dinner,” Mr Gordon said cheerfully. From that night on, Tasha and Mr Gordon often met in the park, reading the paper together, swapping stories, recipes, and laughter beneath the old linden tree. Mr Gordon hadn’t had an easy life. Once, he had a wife, daughter, and grandson—but he was widowed young and raised his daughter, Vera, alone while struggling to make ends meet on double shifts. He rarely saw her, as she was often asleep when he left and again when he returned. Vera eventually grew up, married, moved to another city, and had a son. She visited infrequently, and their meetings lacked warmth. After fifteen years, Vera separated from her husband and raised her boy solo. “Tash, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Called this morning. Strange… we’ve not spoken in years,” Mr Gordon confided. “Maybe she’s feeling sentimental; getting older makes you treasure family,” Tasha suggested. “I’m not so sure…” he sighed. Vera arrived—sharp, unsmiling, purposeful. Mr Gordon braced for a serious conversation. “Dad, I’m here for a reason. Let’s sell your flat. Come live with us—with your grandson—won’t that be more fun?” Vera said, clearly having made up her mind. But Mr Gordon felt uneasy, not wanting to uproot to a distant city and become a burden to his frosty daughter. He refused, claiming he liked his independence. Vera persisted. Learning of her dad’s friendship with Tasha, she marched over during tea. Tasha served up biscuits and her homemade jam. “So, Vera—what brings you here?” Tasha greeted gently. “I see you’re quite friendly with my father. Can I ask a favour?” “What is it?” “Convince him to sell his flat. Why should one old man rattle around in a space like that? Can’t you think of others?” Vera said, her tone sharp. Startled by Vera’s bluntness, Tasha declined. Vera lost her cool—face red, voice shrill—accusing Tasha of angling for the flat herself, questioning their park strolls, and even their discussion of dandelion recipes. “You two—just a pair of dandelions! Having your little chats, planning your schemes. Have you registered at the registry office yet? Well, it won’t work. Nothing will work—got it, you old hag!” she spat, slamming the door on her way out. Tasha felt embarrassed, hoping the neighbours hadn’t overheard. Soon, though, Vera was gone and Tasha avoided Mr Gordon, rushing home at the sight of him. But fate has its own plans. One afternoon, returning from the shop, Tasha saw Mr Gordon waiting by the bench—he held a bunch of yellow dandelions, deftly weaving them into a garland. “Tasha, don’t rush off,” he pleaded. “Wait a minute. I’m sorry for my daughter. Really. I know what she said… We’ve had a long talk. My grandson will always have my help. But Vera—she’s gone now. Said she no longer has a father. So—here, take this garland. I made dandelion jam; it’s really tasty, very healthy. You must try some. And they’re good in salads too,” he smiled. After that chat, they made a salad together. Tasha enjoyed tea with dandelion jam—she loved it. That evening, they headed to the park again. “I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine,” Mr Gordon said, settling onto their bench beneath the linden tree. Tasha sat beside him, and conversation sparkled—the world faded away, and all that mattered was two friends, together, sharing spring. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!