My Friend, 42 Years Old, Finally Found a Wife—He Says She’s a Fantastic Housekeeper and a Brilliant Cook, and That’s All That Matters to Him

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 7

My friend, 42 years old, found himself a wife. He says she’s a wonderful housekeeper and an excellent cook, and thats all he cares about.

Ive known Andrew since we were kids. We grew up on the same street and, naturally, became good friends. When we reached our teens, we used to gather in a group and head into the centre of London, wandering about or simply sitting on a bench in the park. None of us took girlfriends very seriously; we were far more concerned about how our mates would reactwe didnt want to lose face in front of the gang.

Later on, I joined the army, while Andrew managed to dodge service somehow. When I returned, I landed a job and soon got married. My wife and I spent ten years together and had two children. Then it hit us: we had grown into complete strangers. The arguments became frequent, and it was clear that we shouldnt live under the same roof anymore. Not long after, we got divorced.

A couple of years went by, and as a single man, I bumped into Andrew quite by chance. It had been twelve years, and hed changed a great deal: he’d put on quite a bit of weight.

We sat down at a café for a catch-up. Turns out Andrew had been divorced too and was also searching for someone new. Another year passed, and I met a woman. We married.

I happened to see Andrew again, and he told me hed finally found a partner as well. But honestly, I didnt much care for his wife. She was an exceptionally large woman.

What was it about her that attracted you? I asked.

Andrew told me that shes a brilliant cleaner and a fantastic cook. And, above all, he said, she gives me peace! I can sit and enjoy my pint while watching the football or pop out to the pub with the lads. She never nags or tells me what to do. Shes perfect for me.

That really surprised me. To me, a wife means so much more. Of course, its wonderful when a woman can cook a lovely roast or keep the house looking nice, but above all, love is what matters most.

Some people value tidiness and good meals above everything else. As for me, I want the woman I love to be my soulmate, so that were on the same wavelength. Mutual respect and understanding matter most. Its a real blessing when a couple shares interests, like when my wife and I cook or tidy up together.

Its like riding a tandem bicycle: if you’re both pedalling in the same direction, youre far more likely to enjoy a smooth journey together.

Wouldnt you agree? Sometimes, what truly matters isn’t just what someone does for you, but whether you’re moving forward side by side through life. Thats where real happiness lies.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and immediately shivered as a biting wind cut straight through her thin jumper—she’d left the house without her coat. She wandered through the gate and simply stood there, glancing around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her face. “Annie, why are you crying?” She jumped, startled to see Michael, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older, his hair sticking up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just—” Annie lied. Michael looked at her for a moment, then reached into his pocket and held out three sweets. “Here, but don’t tell anyone or they’ll all come running. Go inside now,” he ordered sternly, and Annie quickly obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Michael already understood and nodded, heading on his way. Everyone in the village knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He often visited the only local shop, begging the shopkeeper, Valerie, for credit until payday. She scolded him but caved in. “How haven’t they sacked you yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie slipped back inside her home. She’d just come from school—she was nine years old. There was hardly ever proper food at home, but she wouldn’t tell anyone she was hungry. Otherwise they’d take her away to a children’s home—and she’d heard awful things about those places. Besides, what would Dad do without her? He’d go completely to pieces. She’d rather stay, even if the fridge was always empty. That day, Annie had come home earlier—two lessons were cancelled as the teacher was ill. It was late September; a sharp wind tore yellow leaves from the trees and whipped them across the yard. This September was a cold one. Annie’s old coat and boots let in the damp when it rained. Her dad was asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring. Two empty bottles sat on the kitchen table, another under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—nothing inside, not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate Michael’s sweets and decided to do her homework. Pulling her knees onto the stool, she opened her maths book, staring at sums she couldn’t bring herself to tackle. Instead, she gazed out the window, watching the wind bend trees and scatter yellow leaves around the yard. The garden, once lush, was now dead—raspberries shrivelled, strawberries gone, weeds everywhere, even the old apple tree dried up. Mum used to look after everything, cherishing every sprout. She’d bake sweet apple pastries and heart-shaped buns. But this August, Dad had picked all the apples early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he grumbled. Dad, Andrew, hadn’t always been like this—he used to be kind and jolly. With Mum, they’d go for walks in the woods, watch telly together, share tea and Mum’s fluffy pancakes in the mornings. Mum baked apple jam pies and heart-shaped buns. One day, Mum fell ill. Taken to hospital—with a heart condition, Dad said. She never came back. “Your mum is watching over you now,” Dad said through tears, and Annie cried too, clinging to him, her only comfort. Afterwards, Dad sat for hours with Mum’s photo, lost in thought. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men turned up at the house. Annie would hide away or slip outside to sit on the bench. Annie sighed and returned to her sums, finishing her homework quickly—she was clever and picked things up easily. She packed her books and lay down on her bed. Her bed always had Timmy, her old soft rabbit. Mum had bought him ages ago—she’d loved him forever, calling him Timmy since she was little. He was grey now instead of white, but still her favourite. “Timmy,” she whispered. “Do you remember Mum?” Timmy was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered too. Annie closed her eyes—memories blossomed, vivid and joyful. Mum in an apron, hair tied back, hands dusted with flour. “Come on, darling, let’s bake some magic buns.” “How are buns magic, Mum?” Annie had asked. “They just are,” Mum smiled. “We’ll make heart-shaped ones—and if you eat a magic bun, you should make a wish. It’ll come true.” Annie loved shaping dough into little hearts, though they came out crooked. Mum just smiled fondly: “Every love has its own shape.” Annie would wait excitedly for the buns to bake, eager to eat a hot one and make a wish. Mum, Dad and Annie—tea together, magic buns filling the house with sweet vanilla. Annie wiped away tears from those happy memories. That was then… The clock ticked in the corner—she felt hollow and sad, missing Mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Timmy, “how I miss you.” On a Saturday, with no school, Annie went for a walk after lunch—Dad was asleep on the sofa again. She layered an old jumper under her coat and set off towards the woods. There was an old house nearby, once belonging to Old George, who had died two years back. But there were still apple and pear trees in his orchard. She’d often climb through the fence and collect fallen fruit. She told herself, “I’m not stealing, it’s just the windfalls—no one else wants them now.” She remembered Old George only vaguely—he was kind, gave out apples, pears, and sometimes sweets to the kids. He was gone now, but the trees still bore fruit. Annie squeezed through the fence, picked up two apples, rubbed one on her coat, and took a bite. “Hey! Who are you?” Annie jumped—on the doorstep stood a woman in a coat. Annie dropped her apples, startled. The woman came closer. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing… just the windfalls…” Annie stammered, “I didn’t know anyone was here—there never used to be…” “I’m George’s granddaughter. Just arrived yesterday—I’ll be living here now. How long have you been collecting apples here?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked, and tears swelled. The woman embraced her. “There, there, don’t cry. Come in and have some tea—I’m Anna. Just like you, really—when you’re older, you’ll be called Anna too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life hard. They stepped inside. “Take off your shoes. I’ve put the house in order, still got suitcases to unpack. Let’s get you fed—I made chicken soup this morning.” Anna looked at Annie—thin shoulders, old coat, too-short sleeves. “Is the soup with meat?” Annie asked quietly. “Of course—with chicken,” Anna replied gently. “Take a seat.” Annie was too hungry to be shy. Her stomach rumbled as she sat at a chequered table, warmth and light filling the house. Anna placed a bowl of soup and bread before her. “Eat up—have as much as you like, there’s plenty,” Anna urged. And Annie did, finishing every last bit, mopping up with her bread. “Would you like some more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you, I’m full,” Annie replied. “Then let’s have tea!” Anna brought out a basket covered with a cloth—underneath, heart-shaped buns filled the room with a vanilla scent. Annie took one, bit into it, and closed her eyes. “Just like Mum’s buns,” she murmured, “my mum made them too.” Afterwards, Annie sat, rosy-cheeked and relaxed, while Anna said, “So, Annie, tell me your story—where do you live, with whom? After, I’ll walk you home.” “I don’t need walking home, it’s just four doors down…” Annie hesitated, not wanting Anna to see the mess. “I insist,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home greeted them with silence—her father snoring on the sofa, empty bottles, cigarette butts, and clutter everywhere. Anna looked around and shook her head. “I see… Right, let’s have a tidy up,” she said, sweeping rubbish from the table, bagging bottles, opening curtains, shaking out the dirty mat. Annie said suddenly, “Please don’t tell anyone about our house. My dad’s a good man, just can’t get straight. If people find out, they’ll take me away. I don’t want that—he’s a good dad. He just misses Mum.” Anna hugged her. “I won’t tell a soul—I promise.” Time passed. Annie now rushed to school with neatly-plaited hair, smart new coat, backpack, and shiny new boots. “Annie! My mum says your dad’s remarried, is it true?” asked Molly, a classmate shyly. “You look so lovely—and your hair’s all pretty.” “It’s true—my new mum is Auntie Anna,” Annie said proudly, hurrying to school. Andrew had given up drinking—with Anna’s help. Now, he walked tall and smartly dressed beside Anna, strong and confident, always smiling with Annie between them. The years flew. Annie became a university student, coming home on holidays to burst through the front door. “Mum, I’m home!” she’d shout cheerfully. Anna would rush to greet her, wrapping her in a hug, “Hello, my brilliant professor, welcome back!” Both would laugh, and in the evening Andrew would return from work, beaming with happiness at his family. Every love has its own shape.

03

When He Got Home from Work, the Cat Was Gone Patrick was a modest lad, no bad habits to his name. On his 25th birthday, his parents gifted him a flat—well, they helped him with the deposit to get his first mortgage. He moved in and started living on his own. As a programmer, Patrick enjoyed a quiet life and kept mostly to himself. To stave off boredom, he decided to adopt a kitten. The little cat had deformed front paws. The previous owners, who had the mother cat, were going to have him put down, but Patrick couldn’t bear the thought and took him in. He named him Handsome, and they got along famously. Patrick rushed home each day to find Handsome waiting for him in the hallway. After a while, Patrick started seeing a clever young woman from work. She quickly charmed him and moved in less than a month later. She took an immediate dislike to Handsome and asked Patrick to give him away, but he refused, explaining how much the cat meant to him. Maria didn’t let up, repeatedly asking Patrick to get rid of the cat. He told her Handsome was staying. Maria argued the cat ruined their image; guests were put off by his paws. Patrick felt torn between his girlfriend and Handsome, loving them both. Incidentally, his parents didn’t approve of his choice. They found Maria cheeky and rude, telling their son not to rush into anything permanent with her. Then Maria’s parents came to visit. Patrick realised he didn’t want a future with Maria when her father laughed at Handsome, calling him a freak as soon as he walked in. Patrick defended his cat, but all evening, Maria and her dad made fun of the cat’s looks, suggesting places to get rid of him, while Maria’s mum joined in the laughter. The following day, when Patrick returned from work, Handsome was gone. When he asked Maria where the cat was, she said she’d taken him to the vet and left him there. Patrick immediately set off searching for Handsome, hunting for five hours… and eventually found him. Handsome purred quietly in Patrick’s arms, content to be reunited. Back home, Patrick told Maria to pack up and leave. He never wanted to see her again; she had become repulsive to him. The next morning, Maria packed her things and left quietly, offended. She never imagined the cat would matter more than her. Now Handsome and Patrick live together, with the cat happily greeting his owner after work.

02

You Took My Father From Me – Mum, I’ve finally moved in! Can you believe it? Anna cradled her phone between her shoulder and ear, all while wrestling with the stubborn front door lock. The key turned with difficulty, as if the flat itself was testing out its new owner. – Oh darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is everything alright? Her mum’s voice was anxious and excited at the same time. – It’s perfect! Bright, spacious. The balcony’s east facing—just like I wanted. Is Dad there? – I’m here, I’m here! boomed Victor’s voice. – We’ve switched to speakerphone. Well, has the fledgling finally flown the nest? – Dad, I’m twenty-five—not exactly a fledgling anymore. – You’ll always be my fledgling. Have you checked the locks? The windows—any draughts? The radiators… – Victor, give her a chance to settle in! interrupted her mum. – Anna, just be careful. It’s a new build—heaven knows who your neighbours are. Anna laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. – Mum, this isn’t some shoddy seventies bedsit. It’s a decent place with decent people. Everything’s going to be fine. The next few weeks blurred into one endless marathon between DIY shops, furniture stores, and her own flat. Anna fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up debating which shade of grout would best suit her bathroom tiles. On Saturday she stood in her new living room, inspecting curtain fabric samples, when her phone rang again. – How’s it going? Dad asked. – Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” Thoughts? – I think those are the same colour, just different sales pitches. – Dad, you know nothing about shades! – But I do know electrics. Are the sockets wired properly? Renovations devoured time, money, and patience, but every new touch transformed the empty walls into a real home. Anna picked milk-beige wallpaper for her bedroom, found her own handyman to fit the laminate, and cleverly arranged the furniture to make even the tiny kitchen feel bigger. Once the last builder cleared away the rubble, Anna sat cross-legged on the gleaming living room floor. Soft light fell through her new curtains; the air smelled fresh—with just a hint of paint. Her first real home… Anna met her neighbour three days after the big move. She was fiddling with her keys when the flat opposite clicked open. – Oh, the new girl! A woman in her early thirties poked her head out: short hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. – I’m Alison. I live right across from you. So, neighbours now! – Anna. Lovely to meet you. – If you ever need sugar, salt, or just a natter—knock away. Being alone in a new block’s weird to start with, I remember. Alison was easy company. They drank tea in Anna’s kitchen, swapping tales about dodgy lettings and the quirks of their new building. Alison was a fount of useful information: where to get decent broadband, which plumber did a good job for a fair price, which local shop had the best fresh veg. – Listen, I’ve got a recipe for apple cake—it’s out of this world! Alison scrolled her phone. – Takes half an hour, tastes like you spent all day baking. – Oooh, send it! I haven’t tried out my oven yet. Days became weeks, and Anna counted herself lucky to have such a friendly neighbour. They kept bumping into each other on the landing, occasionally popped round for coffee, even swapped books. On Saturday, Victor dropped by, tools in hand, to help with the shelf that refused to stay put. – You got the wrong rawl plugs, he said, peering at the fittings. – These are for plasterboard; you need concrete. I’ve got proper ones in the car. An hour later, the shelf was perfectly fixed. Victor packed away his tools, inspected his handiwork, and nodded in satisfaction. – That’ll hold for twenty years now. – Dad, you’re a legend! Anna hugged him. They headed downstairs, chatting about work and life. Victor asked about her job; Anna grumbled about her new boss who kept missing deadlines and losing papers. Outside their block, Alison appeared laden with supermarket bags. – Oh, hello! Anna waved. – Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison—my neighbour I told you about. – Pleased to meet you, Victor said, wearing his usual easy smile. Alison paused oddly, her eyes flicking between Victor and Anna. Her smile turned stiff—almost pasted on. – Likewise, was all she said before hurrying inside. After that, everything changed. The next morning, Anna bumped into Alison on the landing and greeted her as usual but got only a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited Alison for tea—Alison made an excuse and barely listened. Then the complaints started. The first time, the community officer knocked at nine at night. – We’ve received reports of excessive noise—loud music and disturbance. – What music? Anna was taken aback. – I was reading a book! – Well, the neighbours have complained… Next came more complaints—footsteps, constant banging, music at night. The officer appeared regularly, each time apologising and shrugging helplessly. Anna knew where the complaints were coming from—but not why. Every morning became a lottery—what now? Egg shells smeared on the door? Coffee grounds wedged in the frame? Potato peelings thoughtfully tucked under her doormat? She started rising half an hour earlier just to clean up before work. Her hands were raw from cleaning products, and the lump in her throat never quite went away. – This can’t go on, she muttered one night, researching a video peephole online. The installation took twenty minutes—a tiny camera hidden inside what looked like an ordinary door viewer. Anna synced it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At three a.m., her phone buzzed with movement. Anna stared in disbelief as Alison—dressed in dressing gown and slippers—methodically smeared a dark mess across her door. Calm, precise—like a chore she’d repeated many times. The next night, Anna stayed up, listening for every sound in the hallway, and at half past two, she heard a rustling outside. Anna yanked open the door. Alison froze, a leaking bag in hand. – What did I ever do to you? Anna surprised herself at how pitiful her voice sounded. – Why are you doing this to me? Alison slowly lowered the bag. Her features twisted, beautiful face grimacing into a mask of old bitterness. – You? You never did anything. But your daddy… She almost shouted, careless of anyone listening. – Because he’s my father too! Only he cared for you—cherished you—while he abandoned me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called! Mum and I scraped by while he played happy families with your mum! So, really, you took my father from me! Anna staggered back, bumping into her doorframe. – You’re lying… – Am I? Ask him yourself! Ask if he remembers Marina Sloane and a daughter Alison—who he discarded like rubbish! Anna slammed the door, sinking to the floor. One thought spun in her head: Not true, not true, not true. Dad couldn’t have. He couldn’t. The next morning she went straight to her parents’ house. All the way she rehearsed what to say, but when she saw her dad—calm as ever, reading the paper—her words stuck. – Anna! What a surprise! Victor stood and smiled. – Mum’s out shopping, but she’ll be back soon. – Dad, I need to ask… Anna sat on the sofa, twisting her bag strap. – Do you know a woman called Marina Sloane? Victor froze. The newspaper slipped from his hands. – How do you… – Her daughter—my neighbour. The one you met. She says you’re her father. Silence. It seemed to last forever. – Let’s go see her, Victor said abruptly. – Now. This needs sorting out. The drive to Anna’s flat took forty minutes. Both were silent. Anna stared out the window, struggling to piece together her shattered world. Alison opened instantly, as if waiting for them. She shot them both a hard look, but let them in. – Come to confess, Victor? Thirty years late? – I’ve come to explain, Victor pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket. – Read this. Alison snatched it, suspicious. Her face shifted as she read—anger to shock, shock to confusion. – What…? – DNA test result, Victor said calmly. – I took it when your mother filed for child support in court. Test showed—I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my daughter. Alison dropped the paper. Anna left with her father. At home, she moved to him, burying her face in his jacket. – I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I believed it. Victor stroked her hair—just like when she came to him after playground fights as a little girl. – You’ve nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. Other people are to blame. Things were never settled with Alison. But Anna didn’t want to try. After everything, any respect for her neighbour was gone forever…

07

She Gave Birth Quietly and Planned to Give Up Her Baby As a midwife with many years’ experience, I’ve witnessed both heartwarming and heart-wrenching moments. Nursing staff rarely get involved in the personal affairs of expectant mothers and their families, but recently I had to step in for a young student who gave birth to a wonderful baby girl—and immediately wanted to put her up for adoption. Lilly, as the young woman was called, was admitted to hospital. She had carried the baby for nine months and had never seen a doctor. She was unwilling to answer my questions about why, and I didn’t get a chance to ask before the birth. Lilly gave birth perfectly—a textbook delivery, unlike those who’d attended antenatal classes. The expectant mother whimpered softly in the ward, following my instructions, and everything went smoothly. When the little girl was in my arms, crying loudly and announcing herself to the world, Lilly looked on and also began to cry. Tears streamed down her face. I assured her the baby was healthy and that we should celebrate her arrival. But once on the maternity ward, Lilly declared she would give her baby up for adoption. She asked for the proper authorities to be notified. We tried to persuade her not to make a hasty decision, but the young mother refused to breastfeed her daughter and asked to be left alone. Unlike other babies, the little girl rejected formula, but enthusiastically opened her mouth at the scent of milk, straining to find a breast that wasn’t there… She started to lose weight, so on my next shift, against advice from others, I took the baby to her mother again. I explained to Lilly that her actions were endangering her child’s wellbeing and all but insisted she feed her. When Lilly finally put her daughter to her breast, the baby began to suckle eagerly; I made an excuse to leave them alone. Half an hour later, I returned to find both fast asleep, the mother gently cradling her baby. Soon after, Lilly came out to the corridor, sat by my desk, and began to speak. She explained that the baby’s father was a well-known local businessman—married, unhappy about the pregnancy, and had urged her to have an abortion. Lilly refused. Upon hearing Lilly’s decision, the businessman confessed everything to his wife, who accepted his remorse but then harassed the unfortunate student, demanding she get rid of the child. Neither money nor threats worked; the businessman disappeared from town, and his wife kept pressing for adoption. At the end of her story, Lilly looked me straight in the eye and said, – I want to keep her, but I don’t know how I’ll manage in a student hall with no money… Hearing this, I praised her and tried to reassure her. Our department chief had connections in town and easily reached out to the baby’s father, asking for a meeting. Surprisingly, the businessman didn’t try to avoid us—he arrived hours later, and we discussed everything concerning Lilly and her child’s future. To our credit, we didn’t expect him to be so decent about it. After Lilly was discharged, she rented a flat for a year, paid for up front by the baby’s father, who also gave her a generous sum to get started and pledged to support his daughter in future. Perhaps his conscience had finally awoken, and he realised his responsibility. I don’t know what the future holds for Lilly and her baby; I can only hope she builds a loving family for her wonderful little girl.

06

DO I REMEMBER? HOW COULD I EVER FORGET! “Polly, there’s something I need to tell you… Listen, do you remember my daughter from before we were married, Anastasia?” My husband was speaking in riddles again, and I felt uneasy. “Hmm… Do I remember? How could I ever forget! But what’s going on?” I sat down, bracing myself for bad news. “Well, I hardly know how to say it… Anastasia is begging me to take in her daughter—our granddaughter,” my husband stammered. “Why on earth should we, Alexander? And what about Anastasia’s husband? Has he run off?” Now I was curious, properly intrigued. “You see, Anastasia hasn’t got long left. No husband. Her mother married an American years back—lives in the States now. They fell out, haven’t spoken in years. And there’s no one else. That’s why she’s asking,” Alexander confessed, eyes averted. “So? What’s your plan? What will you do?” I already knew my answer. “I wanted to ask you first, Polly. Whatever you decide, I’ll go along with,” he finally looked at me, pleadingly. “How convenient. You sowed your wild oats, and now you expect me to take responsibility for someone else’s child. Is that it?” My husband’s spinelessness infuriated me. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alexander countered. “Oh, really? And when you were cheating, did you consult me? I’m your wife, after all!” Tears welled up, and I ran off to the next room. …Back at school, I was seeing my classmate, Victor, but when new lad Alex walked into our classroom, I forgot everyone else. Poor Victor soon got the heave-ho. Alex started walking me home, showering me with flowers from the park and kisses on the cheek. A week later, he lured me to bed—I never uttered a word of protest. I fell hopelessly in love with Alex and never stopped. We finished school and Alex was called up for National Service in another city. We wrote for a year, and then Alex came home on leave. I was beside myself with excitement, hanging on his every glance. He promised, “Polly, I’ll be back in a year and we’ll get married! I already think of you as my wife.” I felt a wave of utter joy—it was always like this: one sweet look from Alex, and I melted like chocolate by the fire. When he left again, I counted the days. But after six months, I received a letter: Alex wanted to break up, he’d found “real love” in the garrison, and wouldn’t be coming back. Meanwhile, I was pregnant—with his child. So much for my dreams. As Gran always said: “Don’t trust a buckwheat flower in bloom, trust what’s tucked away in the pantry.” …Time passed, and my son Ivan was born. Oddly enough, Victor, my old boyfriend, offered to help. Out of desperation, I accepted, and yes, we became close. There was no sign of Alex. Then one day he returned. Victor opened the door, and there stood Alex. “May I come in?” Alex asked, surprised. “Suppose so, since you’re here,” Victor replied reluctantly. Young Ivan, sensing the tension, started wailing and clung to Victor. “Victor, can you take Ivan out for a walk?” I was flustered. They left. “Your husband?” Alex asked, suspicious. “Why do you care? What brings you here?” I was angry and clueless about his motives. “I missed you. Seems you’ve landed on your feet, Polly. You’ve got a proper family. Didn’t wait for me, I see. Well, I’ll be off. Sorry to intrude.” Alex turned to go. “Wait, Alex. Why are you here, exactly? Just to torment me? Victor’s been helping me raise your two-year-old son,” I blurted, love for him still alive. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” he pleaded. “Come on in, we’ll have dinner,” I said, heart pounding—joy flooding back. He hadn’t forgotten me after all. Why resist? So poor Victor got sent packing again. Ivan needed his true father, not a stepdad. Victor later married a lovely woman with two children of her own. …Years flew by. Alex—Alexander to everyone else, but always Shurik to me—never saw Ivan as his own. He assumed Ivan was Victor’s. His heart wasn’t in it. Frankly, my husband was always one for chasing after other women. He would fall for them, then drop them just as quickly—often with my friends, too. I sobbed and wailed, but never stopped loving, never stopped protecting what I called family. In a way, having all the love meant I could live blissfully unaware. I didn’t have to lie, invent excuses, or make up stories. I just loved him. He was my sunshine. Yes, sometimes I wanted to leave, but at night, regret would wrap around me. Where else would I go? Who else could I ever find? Besides, Shurik wouldn’t stand a chance without me—I was his lover, wife, and mother rolled into one. …Shurik lost his mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep—and perhaps that’s why he always sought comfort in the arms of others. I forgave him everything, pitied him. Once, a fight was so bad I threw him out. He left for his relatives’ place. A month passed, I’d forgotten the row, but still he didn’t return. I had to humble myself and visit his aunt. She was surprised to see me: “Polly, why would you want Alex back? He told us you’d divorced. He’s got a new girlfriend now.” That’s when, thanks to his aunt, I found the girl’s address and turned up unannounced. “Good afternoon! Could I see Alex, please?” I was doing my best to be polite. She smirked and slammed the door in my face. …A year later, Alex came home. By now, the girl had had a daughter: Anastasia. I’ve always blamed myself for letting my husband walk out back then. Maybe if I hadn’t, that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up. Since then, I’ve coddled and cherished him, giving unconditional love. We never spoke of Anastasia—his other daughter—never dared mention it, as though the whole family might collapse if we did. Best to keep some dangerous things bottled up. So Shurik had a child with another woman. It happens. Predatory women shouldn’t throw themselves at married men! Life went on. Over the years, Shurik settled down, became tamer, more agreeable. The flings faded away—he started spending more time at home in front of the telly. Our son married young, and gave us three grandchildren. Then, out of the blue… Anastasia, Shurik’s lovechild, turned up years later—asking us to take her daughter in. Makes you think. How do we explain the sudden arrival of a strange little girl to Ivan? He knows nothing of his dad’s younger adventures. …Of course, we became legal guardians to five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away at thirty, her earthly journey done. Graves get overgrown, but life carries on. Shurik offered to talk to Ivan, man to man. Listening to his father’s confessions, Ivan simply said, “What’s in the past is buried, Dad. I’m not here to judge you. And the girl—she’s family, we should take her in.” We breathed a sigh of relief—what a compassionate son we’d raised. …Alina is sixteen now. She adores ‘Grandad Sasha’, tells him all her secrets. She calls me ‘Nan’ and says she’s the spitting image of me when I was young. I just smile and nod…

05

Winter had blanketed Andrew’s back garden with a soft layer of snow, but his loyal dog Duke, a huge German Shepherd, was acting strangely. Instead of curling up in the large kennel Andrew had lovingly built for him last summer, Duke insisted on sleeping outside, directly in the snow. Watching from the window, Andrew felt a tightness in his chest—Duke had never behaved like this before. Each morning, when Andrew went outside, Duke would look at him with tense eyes. The moment Andrew approached the kennel, Duke would plant himself firmly between Andrew and the entrance, growling softly and gazing at him imploringly, as if to say, “Please, don’t go in there.” This behaviour, so out of character after years of friendship, made Andrew wonder—what was his best friend hiding? Determined to uncover the truth, Andrew came up with a plan—he lured Duke into the kitchen with a tempting bit of steak. While the dog, shut inside, barked furiously at the window, Andrew crept out to the kennel and crouched down to peer inside. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw something that froze him in place… …Inside, wrapped in a blanket, was a tiny kitten—dirty, frozen, and barely breathing. Its eyes struggled to open, its little body shivering with cold. Duke had found it somewhere and, instead of chasing it off or leaving it, sheltered it. He’d been sleeping in the snow so as not to frighten the kitten, standing watch at the entrance like a sentry guarding a precious treasure. Andrew held his breath. He reached in, gently scooped up the tiny creature, and pressed it to his chest. In that instant, Duke raced over and nestled beside Andrew’s shoulder—not growling, but tenderly, ready to help. “You’re a good dog, Duke…” Andrew whispered, hugging the kitten close. “Better than most people.” From that day on, there were no longer just two friends living in the garden, but three. And the kennel, lovingly built, regained its true purpose—as a cosy home for rescued souls.

05

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Friend, 42 Years Old, Finally Found a Wife—He Says She’s a Fantastic Housekeeper and a Brilliant Cook, and That’s All That Matters to Him