Mum, I’m Getting Married! – announced Victor cheerfully. “That’s nice,” his mother, Mrs. Sophia Parker, replied rather flatly. “Mum, what’s wrong?” Victor asked, surprised. “Nothing… Where do you plan to live?” his mother squinted at him. “Here, if that’s alright? It’s a three-bedroom flat, surely we’ll all fit?” Victor responded. “Do I even have a choice?” his mother asked. “Well, renting’s really expensive…” Victor said glumly. “So, no choice then,” Mrs. Sophia muttered, resigned. “Mum, rent is so high these days, we’d barely have money for food!” Victor pleaded. “It’s not forever, we’ll save for our own place. We’ll get there much quicker this way.” Mrs. Sophia shrugged. “I hope so… Here’s the deal: you move in, stay as long as you need, but there are two conditions—bills split three ways and I’m not the housemaid.” “Of course, mum, agreed!” Victor replied immediately. The newlyweds had a simple wedding and moved in together: Mrs. Sophia, Victor, and his bride, Irene. From the very first day, Mrs. Sophia always seemed to have somewhere urgent to be. When the young couple came home from work, she was out, leaving empty pans and a messy flat—just as the newlyweds had left it. “Mum, where were you?” Victor asked one evening. “Oh, darling, I was invited to join the Folk Song Choir at the Community Hall. You know I have a voice…” “Really?” Victor said, surprised. “Yes! You’d forgotten, but I mentioned it before. It’s mostly other pensioners like me. I had a lovely time! I’ll go again tomorrow!” Mrs. Sophia said excitedly. “And tomorrow—choir again?” Victor asked. “No, tomorrow is a poetry evening. We’ll read Shakespeare—my favourite, you know.” “Really?” Victor repeated, bewildered. “I told you! You never listen to your own mother,” Mrs. Sophia chided gently. Irene, the daughter-in-law, watched quietly without saying a word. Ever since her son married, Mrs. Sophia seemed to catch a second wind. She joined all sorts of senior clubs; her circle of friends grew, and they’d often visit for late-night tea and biscuits, bringing snacks, chatting, and playing bingo. Sometimes Mrs. Sophia was out for walks—or she’d get so engrossed in her dramas that she didn’t hear the kids come in. She pointedly avoided all housework, leaving everything to Victor and Irene. At first, they said nothing. Then Irene began to give side-eye, then grumbled with Victor, then Victor started to sigh loudly. But Mrs. Sophia paid them no mind, delightedly living her active, golden-years life. One day, she came back home beaming, humming “Greensleeves” under her breath. She breezed into the kitchen where the young couple were glumly eating their soup and announced: “Children, you can congratulate me! I’ve met a wonderful man—we’re off tomorrow to a spa retreat together! Isn’t that lovely?” “It is,” Victor and Irene agreed in unison. “And is it serious?” Victor asked, wary about a new housemate. “Too soon to say—I’ll know after the spa!” Mrs. Sophia declared, helping herself to soup and seconds with a hearty appetite. After the trip, Mrs. Sophia returned disappointed: Alex wasn’t her match, she said, but she insisted her best days were still ahead. Her clubs, walks, and gatherings continued in full force. In the end, one evening the young couple came home to an unkempt, empty kitchen—nothing to eat. Irene had enough, slammed the empty fridge door, and snapped: “Mrs. Parker! Would you mind helping out with the housework? The flat’s a tip and the fridge is bare! Why should we do all the chores and not you?” “And why are we so cranky?” Mrs. Sophia replied, taken aback. “If you lived alone, who’d clean up for you?” “But you’re here!” Irene objected. “I’m not your servant, I’ve done my years of housework! I told Victor, I’m not the maid—those were my terms. If he forgot to mention them to you, that’s not my fault. I’m not doing it! If you’re unhappy, you’re free to live elsewhere!” declared Mrs. Sophia, heading to her room. The next morning, humming “Early One Morning” to herself, dressed in a smart blouse and bright red lipstick, Mrs. Sophia set off for the Community Hall—her Folk Song Choir was waiting.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 5 minViews 39

Mum, Im getting married! I said cheerfully.

Thats nice, replied Margaret, my mother, without much enthusiasm.

Come on, Mum, arent you happy? I asked, surprised.

Oh, I am Where do you plan to live? she asked, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly.

Here, if thats alright? Surely you dont mind? I replied. The flats got three bedrooms theres plenty of space for us all.

Do I really have a choice? she asked.

Well, renting a place now isnt an option, is it? I said, rather glumly.

So, I see. I dont have much of a say, then, Margaret replied with a sigh.

Mum, youve seen how dear renting has got. If we take a flat, whatll we have left for food? Itll be hard going. We promise its not forever; were both working and saving up for a place of our own. This way, itll be much quicker, I said.

She shrugged. I hope so. Alright then, you two can move in and stay as long as you need. But two conditions we split the bills equally between the three of us, and Im not acting as the housekeeper.

Thats fair, we agree, I replied instantly.

We had a modest wedding and settled into the flat together: Mum, Helen my wife, and me.

From the very first day the newlyweds arrived, Mum suddenly developed all sorts of urgent activities. Helen and I would get home after work and Mum wouldnt be in. No dinner waiting, and the flat was just as messy as when wed left nothing touched, clothes and things still strewn about.

Mum, where were you? Id ask, surprised, in the evening.

Well, you know, dear, the community centre phoned and invited me to join the Village Choir. They know I sing you remember my voice

Really? I was astonished.

Of course! Youve just forgotten, but I told you before. Its all retired folk like me, we sing together and its a lovely time. Ive so enjoyed it Im going again tomorrow! she declared, full of energy.

Is it choir again tomorrow? I asked.

No, tomorrow its a literary evening, reading Shakespeare. You know how I love Shakespeare.

I blinked. Do you?

Of course! Ive told you so many times! You never pay attention to your own mother, she feigned a mild reproach.

Helen watched silently throughout our exchange.

Ever since I got married, it was like Mum found a new lease of life: she went off to every club for pensioners; her circle of friends expanded and theyd often drop by in riotous little groups, occupy the kitchen until late at night, brew endless cups of tea, munch biscuits theyd picked up on their way, and play bingo. Sometimes she took long strolls, other times shed get lost in a TV drama, so absorbed she wouldnt even hear us come home or greet her.

Mum flatly refused to do housework, leaving all domestic chores to Helen and me. At first, we managed, but gradually, Helen grew resentful, then we started muttering complaints, and I ended up sighing heavily. But Margaret didnt pay the slightest attention, sweeping onwards with her busy social life.

One evening, she came home unbelievably cheerful, humming Daisy, Daisy. She strolled into the kitchen, where Helen and I were gloomily tucking into freshly made soup, and announced radiantly:

“Guess what, darlings! Congratulate me Ive met a wonderful man and tomorrow were off together to the seaside for a break! Isnt that splendid news?”

“It is,” Helen and I chorused.

“Is it serious?” I asked, nervously wondering if we’d soon have another person living with us.

“Too soon to say. Perhaps after the trip it’ll be clearer,” she replied, ladled herself some soup, and tucked in with gusto, even going for seconds.

After her holiday, Mum returned disappointed. Apparently, Alan was not her level and theyd parted ways. But she assured us her best days were still ahead. Clubs, outings, and lively gatherings pressed on.

Eventually, Helen and I arrived home one evening to the usual chaos: untidy rooms, empty pans, not a thing to eat. Finally, Helen cracked, slammed the empty fridge in frustration, and snapped:

“Margaret! Couldn’t you help at home as well? This place is a mess! Theres nothing in the fridge! Why should we do all the housework while you do nothing?”

“Why are you both so grumpy?” Mum asked, looking startled. “If you were living on your own, whod do the chores for you?”

“But youre here!” Helen argued.

“Im not here to be your servant, you know. I’ve done my share, thank you very much. And I told Victor from the start I wasnt going to be the housekeeper; that was my condition. If he failed to warn you, thats not on me,” Margaret replied.

“I thought you were joking,” I said, feeling helpless.

“So, you want to live here happily, with me tidying up all your mess and cooking massive meals? Not happening! I said I wouldnt do it, and I wont! If you dont like it, youre welcome to find your own place,” declared Mum, before retreating to her room.

The next morning, entirely unfazed, she hummed “Greensleeves” under her breath, slipped into a lovely new blouse, put on a splash of red lipstick, and merrily headed off to the community centre, where her choir awaited her.

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the maternity hospital with her newborn son. There was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun shone down as she wrapped herself in her loose jacket, gathered her meagre belongings and documents, cradled her baby, and stepped outside. She had no idea where to go. Her parents had refused to let the baby come home; her mother demanded she sign him away. But Tanya, herself a child from the care system, had promised never to abandon her own child, no matter what. She’d grown up with foster parents who treated her kindly and sheltered her from hardship, but life hadn’t been easy. She blamed herself for her son having no father. He’d seemed serious, promised to introduce her to his family, but when Tanya told him she was pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready and vanished out of her life. Now, no one was prepared to help—not the baby’s father, not her parents. Only Tanya was willing to take responsibility. Tanya sat on a bench, feeling the warmth of the sun and the weight of her future. She’d heard about centres that support mothers in her situation, but hadn’t dared ask for directions, clinging to hope her family would show up. They never did. With resignation and hope, she decided to travel to a village where an elderly lady—her grandmother—might take her in. She’d help with the garden and find work when her benefits ran out, trusting that luck would smile on her eventually. She adjusted her sleeping son, opened her battered phone to find the nearest bus, and nearly walked into the path of a car. The driver, a tall, gray-haired man, leapt out and scolded her for not looking where she was crossing—saying she’d get them both killed, and that he’d end up in jail for it. Frightened, Tanya wept, which made her baby join in. On learning she had nowhere to go, the man said: “Get in the cab with your boy. We’ll sort this out and see what can be done. I’m Konstantin Gregory. And you?” She replied, “Tanya,” and followed him. At his spacious flat, he gave her and the baby a room and fetched supplies. His neighbour, a doctor, helped list what she’d need, and when he returned, he found Tanya asleep, the baby wakeful. While caring for the child, Tanya woke and panicked at her son’s absence, until Konstantin returned the baby reassuringly and showed Tanya his purchases. He explained his history—a widower whose son was lost in a tragic accident years ago, whose fiancée vanished before he’d had a chance to help. He invited Tanya to stay, insisting she and her baby belonged. Moved by his kindness, Tanya explained she’d been adopted, her own mother abandoning her at an orphanage gate—leaving only a necklace. When Konstantin noticed the familiar pendant and revealed it was one he had made for his late son, both were stunned: the pendant held a lock of his son’s hair. It dawned on them—Tanya was his granddaughter. Her suggestion of a DNA test was waved aside. “No need,” he said, “You’re family—my granddaughter, and that’s my great-grandson.” The past had kept them apart; fate had brought them together—a family at last. By Sofia Coralova

My Husband Only Ever Thinks of Himself: He Eats Everything in the House and Doesn’t Leave a Single Thing for Our Child – “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. – “I ate them, I fancied some.” – “Couldn’t you have left even one for our son’s tea?” – “You’re making a big fuss. You know they sell bananas in shops.” – “So go and buy some.” – “I’ve got a football match—how can I go?” It’s always the same in our house: yogurts, biscuits, apples—nothing’s safe. I have to hide food or my son might go hungry with a dad like this. We’ve been married five years. Our son’s nearly two. We’ve got a mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband thinks he’s the breadwinner since he gave us a home (he only sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit—my parents helped too). My mum says Adam’s a total egotist, and honestly, I sort of agree with her. One day we were prepping for a birthday party. I was cooking for the guests, and he kept sneaking in for “tastes”—even got into the birthday cake I’d left on the balcony. There I was, ready to slice it up, and all that was left was a chunk of decorated chocolate sponge! You can imagine how embarrassed I was. It’s a constant issue. Sure, he earns, but some basic consideration wouldn’t hurt. His excuse? “Don’t worry, we’ll buy more!” Fine, don’t care about me—but how do you not care about your own child? It’s not like we’re rolling in money; we rely on that food. In a week, he’ll eat a month’s worth. “Why are you having a go at him?” says my mother-in-law. “He’s a working man—let him eat. If you’re that bothered, just cook more.” She’s always on his side. But it doesn’t matter how much I cook—he’ll eat it all. Buying extra food isn’t an option with our bills, mortgage, and everything else. Eventually I told my husband that if he did it again, I’d want a divorce. We’d split the flat and live our own lives. He sulked, ran to his mum—and now my mother-in-law won’t even speak to me. But I’m sure I’m right. What do you think?

011