Promise Denis calmly gripped the steering wheel as he confidently navigated the motorway, with his friend Kirill beside him. The two were returning from a neighbouring city after a two-day business trip sent by their boss. “Kir, we really nailed everything today—signed that contract for a huge sum. The boss is going to be thrilled!” Denis smiled cheerfully. “Absolutely, mate. We got lucky with this one,” agreed Kirill, his friend and office colleague. “It’s brilliant heading home when someone’s waiting for you,” Denis went on. “Ari’s pregnant and struggling a bit with morning sickness. I feel for her. But we wanted this baby so much, and she said she’d endure anything for our little one.” “Kids are a blessing. Wish we could say the same—Marina and I just can’t seem to catch a break,” Kirill confided. “Second round of IVF coming up. The first was a bust. We’re still hoping…” Denis had married late, at thirty-two. Sure, he’d been with other women, but never felt swept off his feet. That changed when he met Ari. He fell head over heels and never looked at anyone else. When Denis introduced Ari to Kirill and then asked him to be his best man at their wedding, Kirill felt a tinge of envy—Ari was beautiful, gentle, definitely the type anyone could fall for instantly. A light autumn drizzle spattered the car windows, and the wipers flicked occasionally. The friends chatted happily until Denis’s phone rang. “Hi, Ari! Yes, we’re on our way. Should be home in about two hours. You’re holding up? Don’t lift anything heavy, okay? I’ll do it all when I get back. Love you, see you soon!” Kirill listened and pictured Ari waiting anxiously for Denis, worrying about him—so different from Marina, who never fussed. She was practical, focused strictly on work and home. Suddenly, Denis jerked the steering wheel. A van was hurtling towards them—a collision seemed inevitable. At the last second, Denis swerved, smashing the car into a roadside post on his side, sending them off the carriageway. Kirill came to, his head pounding and blood running down his arm. The car was upright; his door was hanging ajar. He glanced at Denis—he wasn’t moving. Strangers hurried over, cars stopped at the verge. Kirill lay on the wet grass, his head and arm throbbing, waiting for the paramedics. Denis was pulled from the car and stretchered away. Kirill bent over him as Denis whispered faintly: “Look after Ari…” They were taken to hospital. Kirill had a fractured arm and a severe concussion but was awake, always asking staff: “How’s Denis? My mate?” Then a nurse told him. “I’m sorry—Denis has passed away…” Kirill was crushed. He couldn’t attend the funeral. Marina went and described how Denis’s wife Ari sobbed inconsolably, barely able to stand at her husband’s side. After leaving the hospital, Kirill and Marina visited Denis’s grave. Kirill silently made a vow: “Don’t worry, mate—I promise, I’ll look after your wife, just like you asked…” Two days later, Kirill visited Ari. She burst into tears upon seeing him. “How do I go on without him? I just can’t accept that Denis is gone.” “Ari, I promised him I’d help you. We’ll get through this together. Call me whenever you need anything—I’ll come by.” Time passed. Ari slowly recovered, terrified that grief would end her pregnancy—the doctor warned her too. Kirill visited twice weekly, brought groceries, picked up vitamins, sometimes drove Ari to the surgery. She didn’t take advantage, only asked for help when desperate. “Kirill, I feel bad taking up your time.” “It’s no trouble. I promised Denis.” Kirill’s feelings for Ari were complicated—she was the woman of his dreams, but he was torn. While Ari dealt with pregnancy sickness, Kirill and Marina underwent more tests—again disappointment… Childlessness was the ache they had come to expect. Marina didn’t know Kirill was helping Ari; he hadn’t explained. In his phone, Ari appeared under the name “Charity,” just in case Marina ever saw the calls. After their second failed IVF attempt, tension built between Kirby and Marina. Marina blamed Kirill for their troubles; he’d long stopped arguing. She noticed Kirill was distracted, occasionally irritable, often out “on errands.” She doubted he was cheating—otherwise, their relationship was intact. Despite his messy home life, Kirill excelled at work. He picked up the major project he’d started with Denis and completed it with huge success. As Ari’s pregnancy progressed, she grew more vulnerable. Her parents lived far off in northern England, no close relatives nearby. She suffered headaches and swollen feet but rarely complained. One day, Kirill arrived to deliver groceries and found Ari balanced on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I just finished cleaning the window,” she said brightly. “Time for fresh curtains!” “Get down—now,” Kirill ordered, eyeing her swollen belly. “If you fall, you’ll risk the baby—it’s not worth it.” He helped her down, and the brief closeness made his heart race. “Thanks, Kir…” she hurried to the bathroom as morning sickness took hold again. Kirill wiped sweat from his forehead, thinking, “I wonder if Denis can see us from wherever he is now? You asked for this, mate.” Later, Ari hinted, “Denis, could you help me sort out the nursery? I won’t have time once the baby’s here. I spotted some lovely wallpaper…” Kirill spent his weekends redecorating the nursery, unwilling to let heavily pregnant Ari overexert herself. Together—mostly with Ari’s moral support—the job was done. Kirill felt pulled in two directions: on one side Marina, drifting deeper into depression over childlessness; on the other, Ari, with her due date approaching. Marina’s instincts told her to save the marriage, she had to stay busy. She wrote magazine articles, and when a popular publication offered her a column, she seized the opportunity, elated with her new income. She came home smiling with a pack of treats and a couple of bottles of wine. “What’s all this? Looks like a party!” Kirill said as he came in from work. “Got paid a decent sum—time to celebrate! Been waiting for this contract.” Their favourite film played on TV, and they shared some wine, trying to recapture the warmth of their earlier days. Suddenly, Kirill’s phone went off. Marina glimpsed the screen: “Charity.” Kirill quickly stepped into the kitchen. “What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Sorry, Kir, but I think I’m going into labour… already called an ambulance.” “But isn’t it a bit early?” “It’s been seven months—early, but possible,” he could hear pain in her voice. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He hurried to dress. Marina watched anxiously. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he improvised a story on the go. “Boss called about charity work—urgently needs to discuss it. I’ll explain later. Trust me.” Marina didn’t buy it. “Charity? Your boss? Pull the other one, Kirill.” He raced to the maternity ward. Ari had already arrived. After waiting two hours, a nurse told him she’d delivered a baby boy. Relieved, he went home, drained. Marina was waiting, her stare sharp. “Your charity work really took it out of you, didn’t it?” she said, icy. Kirill sank onto the sofa, still dressed. “Yes, Marina… Ari had a baby boy. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s completely alone,” he confided honestly. “So that’s it. It all makes sense now…” Marina whispered. “Next up, you’ll be spending your time helping with Ari’s newborn, right?” “Right,” Kirill answered. “Well, you know me—I won’t accept you spending all your time with somebody else’s child, especially since we may never have our own. So I’ll file for divorce. You do as you please. Maybe I’ll meet someone else, have a baby of my own.” Kirill looked at her, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “Your decision, Marina. I won’t argue. I have to help Ari and her baby.” Time passed. Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Ari, helping with baby Daniel. Eventually, they got married. Two years later, they welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and your support. Wishing you every happiness!

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

A Promise

I steered my car calmly along the A3, my best mate Tom sitting next to me. We were on our way back up to London after a two-day business trip to Oxford, sent there by our boss to clinch a deal.

Tom, we did brilliantlycontract sorted for a huge amount. The boss is going to be chuffed, I said, grinning.

Absolutely. We make a good team, Tom replied, smiling. We’d both been at the same firm for years, working side by side.

Its cracking to come home when theres someone waiting, I went on. My wife, Emily, shes pregnant. Morning sickness has her feeling rough. I do feel for her, but we really wanted this baby and she keeps saying shell push through anything.

Kids are a blessing. Me and Sophie have been trying for ages, no luck, Tom shared. He and his wife had been married for seven years, always hoping for a little one. Were heading for a second round of IVF after the first was a non-starter

Id gotten married latein my thirty-second year. Course thered been women before, but none ever knocked me off my feet. Meeting Emily was different; I fell so hard I couldnt see anyone else.

When I introduced Tom to Emily, he was witness at our wedding. I think he was a little enviousEmilys beautiful, gentle, the kind you fall for straight away.

Fine drizzle streaked the windscreen, wipers working now and then as we chatted. My mobile rang and I answered.

Hi, love, yes, were on our wayshould be home in about two hours. How are you feeling? Still the same? Don’t lift anything heavy, alright? Ill take care of everything when Im back. Love you, see you soon.

Tom listened and pictured Emily waiting anxiously. He thought, Sophie never rings, never worriesreckons Im hers for keeps. Shes not like Emily at all; everything strict, job, house. No fuss.

Suddenly, I had to swervean oncoming van was right on top of us. There was no way to avoid impact. At the last split second, I caught the side of a lamppostmy sideflipping us off the road.

Tom came to, head thumping, arm bleeding. The car was upright, his door open. He glanced overI’d stopped moving.

People ran up, cars pulled over. Tom lay in the wet grass, hurting, waiting for the ambulance. They pulled me out, onto a stretcher.

Tom leaned in close as I whispered, Help Emily

They took us to hospital: Tom had a broken arm and a severe concussion but stayed conscious. He kept asking the nurses, Hows Dan? Is my mate alright?

Later, a nurse told him, Dan passed away

Tom was shattered. He couldnt attend the funeral but heard from Sophie that Emily had cried her heart out, hardly able to stand.

Once discharged, Tom and Sophie visited my grave. Tom made a silent promise: Dont worry, mateIll be there for your wife, just like you asked.

A few days later, he went to see Emily. She burst into tears at the door.

How do I live without him? I cant accept that Dans gone

Emily, I promised him Id help you. Well get through it together. Call me whenever you need, Ill be here.

Time passed. Emily steadied herself, though she feared her pregnancy would falter after all the heartache; her doctor had warned it could happen. Tom visited twice a week, fetched groceries, bought vitamins, drove her to appointments. Emily was never a bother, only called when it was absolutely necessary.

Tom, I feel awkward taking up your time, she said.

Its no troubleDan asked me to, and I promised.

Tom felt a mix of emotions. Emily was everything hed ever dreamed ofbut under these circumstances, he was unsettled.

While Emily managed her sickness, Tom and Sophie kept trying, more doctors, more testsstill nothing. Infertility was a constant ache. Sophie didnt know about his help for Emily; hed saved her contact as Charity on his phone, just in case. He trusted Sophie would see it innocently, if ever.

The second IVF failed, and there was tension between them. Sophie blamed Tom, and he, well, he stopped caring so much.

Sophie noticed he was distracted, sometimes irritable, disappearing on mysterious errands. An affair seemed unlikelyhe wasnt cold to her in that way.

His personal life was a mess, but work was flying. He finished the project I’d started, landed another smashing contract.

Emilys condition became more fragile as her bump grew. Her family were up in Newcastle, no immediate support around London. Swollen feet, headachesshe bore it all without complaint.

One evening, Tom dropped by with shopping and found her on a ladder, putting up new curtains.

I cleaned the windows, she said, chipper. Just wanted to hang these up.

Down you get! Tom barked, eyeing her pregnant belly. If you fall, you risk losing the babydont be daft.

He helped her down; standing close, he felt electricity run through him.

Thanks, Tom, she said, but sped off to the bathroom againstill ill.

He wiped sweat from his brow, thinking, Does Dan see us from wherever he is? He insisted I help

Next time, Emily asked, Tom, think you could sort out the nursery for me? I won’t have time later. Ive got an idea for the wallpaper.

So Tom got stuck in. He couldnt let a pregnant woman struggle alone. They tackled the job togethershe mostly gave moral support, and handed him the odd tool. Nursery done.

At home, Toms wife was low, always talking about their missed chances, while Emily was inching towards her due date.

Sophie realised to keep the family together, she needed to immerse herself in work. She wrote for magazines, and just then a top publication offered her a regular column. Paid well too. She came home gleaming, bags of fancy food and a couple bottles of wine.

Ooh, special occasion? Tom asked, arriving in from work.

Yep, got paid properlyfinally landed that column, she replied. Lets celebrate.

They shared a spread in front of their favourite film, sipping wine, trying to recapture happier days.

Then Toms phone buzzed. Sophie clocked the screenCharity. He hurried to the kitchen to answer.

Whats up? he asked quietly.

Tom, sorrythink Ive gone into labour. Already called the ambulance.

But its early, isnt it?

I know, thirty weeksbut it can happen. She was brave, but in pain.

Ill meet you at the hospital.

Tom got dressed quickly. Sophie watched, suspicious.

Where are you off?

Boss called about a late charity meetingurgent, Ill explain later. Trust me, I have to.

But she didnt buy it.

What charity, what boss? Hes spinning me a line

Tom dashed out and sped to the maternity ward. Emily was already there. He waited two hours, and finally the nurse came out: Emily had given birth to a son. Tom could breathe at last, exhaustion washing over him.

Back home, Sophie couldnt sleep, glaring as he entereddrained and pale.

That charity has worn you out, she said, sarcasm seeping through.

Tom slumped onto the sofa.

Yes, Sophie. Emilys just had a boy. I promised Danshes alone, I had to help.

Now it all adds up she whispered. Next comes helping with a newborn, right?

Yes, Tom answered truthfully.

Well thenyou know I wont have it. Youre not spending your time raising someone elses child, not when we dont have our own and probably never will. Im filing for divorce. Maybe Ill meet someone else and finally have a child myself.

Tom gazed at her and realised she blamed him for their struggles.

Thats your choice, Sophie. I wont argue. I need to help Emily.

Time went by. Sophie did divorce him. Tom moved in with Emily, helping her raise young Charlie. Not long after, they marriedand two years later, welcomed a daughter.

If tragedy ever strikes and things fall apart, I know now that the real measure of a man is keeping his promises, even if the path leads somewhere unexpected.

Our Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to a Lavish Dinner – So I Closed the Fridge and Served Them Nothing “Serg, are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder will be enough? Last time they cleared out everything, even wiped up the gravy with the last bits of bread. And remember how Becky asked for a container ‘for her dog’, then posted photos of my roast online calling it her own culinary masterpiece?” Irene anxiously fiddled with the edge of the kitchen towel, surveying the battlefield her kitchen had become. It was only noon, and she was already exhausted. She’d been up since six: first to the market for the freshest meat, then at the supermarket scouting out posh booze and delicacies, then endless slicing, boiling, roasting. Her husband, Steve, stood at the sink peeling potatoes with quiet irritation he tried (and failed) to hide. “Irene, honestly, how much more do you want? Three kilos of meat for four guests and us two? That’s half a kilo each. We’re not catering a wedding, just a delayed housewarming.” “You don’t get it,” she retorted, stirring a thick sauce. “It’s Becky and Dave, Lisa and Tom. Old friends – coming all the way across town. Can’t have them thinking we got cocky now we’ve bought this place and turned stingy. If the table looks poor, they’ll talk.” Irene always had this generous streak in her, inherited from her gran, who could put on a feast from thin air and feed half the regiment. A meagre spread was, to Irene, a personal insult. She had spent a week planning the menu, finding recipes, saving up from her pay to afford that one bottle of posh cognac Dave liked and the particular French wine Becky preferred. “Wouldn’t kill them to bring something for a change,” Steve grumbled. “Remember Tom’s birthday? We brought a pricey present, our own booze, and you even baked a cake. What did they give us? Cheap tea bags and stale biscuits last time we dropped in.” “Don’t be so petty, Steve,” Irene said, trying to sound magnanimous. “They were strapped then: mortgage and renovations. But now Dave’s got his promotion, and Lisa’s bought herself a new coat, remember? Maybe this time they’ll bring something—a cake, some fruit. I dropped a hint to Becky about dessert.” By five, the flat was spotless. The table looked like a boutique deli display window: in pride of place, a stunning centrepiece of cold tongue in aspic, a chorus line of bowls brimming with fancy salads and seafood, homemade brawn and ham slices, red salmon caviar, fish starters. The oven held that special pork shoulder and potatoes with mushrooms. The fridge was full of Finlandia vodka, posh Cognac, and three nice wine bottles. Irene, tired but satisfied, dressed for the occasion and settled herself, waiting for the doorbell. “Bit nervous,” she confessed as Steve buttoned his shirt. “First get-together in our new place. I want it all to go perfectly.” The bell rang exactly at five. Punctual, as ever. In poured the crowd: Becky, swanning in that new mink coat, Dave in a leather jacket, Lisa with bright makeup, Tom already a bit tipsy. “Yay! Housewarming!” Becky trilled, enveloping the hall in a cloud of sickly perfume. “Come on, show us around the palace!” They noisily shed coats—dumping them for Steve to hang up. Irene smiled, glancing at their hands. All four were empty-handed. Not a bag, not a cake box, not a bottle, not even a token bar of chocolate. “Where’s…” started Irene, then thought better of asking. Perhaps they left something in the car? “Wow, you’ve lost weight!” Lisa air-kissed her and stomped straight down the hall. “Hmm, quite plain in here, isn’t it? Walls need some proper wallpaper—much too impersonal.” “We like minimalism,” Steve said, jaw tight. “Come on into the lounge, everything’s ready.” As soon as Dave saw the table, his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “Cor, look at this spread! Irene, you legend—I knew you’d pull out the stops. We’ve been keeping empty bellies all day for your famous roast!” Everyone found their places, forks diving into salads before the first toast. Irene hurried to the kitchen to fetch hot starters, her mind racing with just one thought: Maybe the gift’s in an envelope this time—money, not a present? But when she returned, the guests were already helping themselves, barely waiting for a toast. “Mmm, this is a cracking salad!” Tom moaned, mouth full. “Steve, pour us a drink, will you? Thirsty work, all this talking.” Steve poured out vodka for the blokes, wine for the women. “To your new home!” Dave toasted. “May the neighbours be civil, may the walls not crumble. Bottoms up!” He downed his shot, sniffed his sleeve, and instantly reached for the smoked salmon. “Irene,” he muttered between mouthfuls, “Why’s the vodka warm? Should’ve chilled it in the freezer.” “It’s straight from the fridge, Dave,” Irene replied quietly, the first twinge of irritation simmering. “Five degrees, like you’re supposed to.” “Supposed, eh…Vodka should be ice-cold, but I’ll survive. Where’s the Cognac?” “It’s here,” Irene ground out. “Perhaps after we eat?” “Why wait?” Tom cackled. “All part of the fun!” The meal picked up pace. Food vanished at speed, as if the guests hadn’t eaten for a week. And the criticism followed: “Bit dry on the herring salad, isn’t it, Becky?” remarked, filling up her plate again. “Stingy on the mayo?” “I made it fresh—homemade mayo, not so greasy,” Irene said. “Oh, don’t bother with all that palaver,” Lisa scoffed. “Shop version is better and quicker. And this caviar’s a bit on the small side. Cheapskate salmon, huh? Should’ve got the bigger kind.” Irene glanced at Steve, who sat red-faced, knuckles white on his fork. “So, what’s new with you lot?” Steve asked, forcing a smile. “Becky, you were in Dubai, right?” “Oh, it was fabulous!” Becky gushed. “Five-star hotel, all-inclusive, lobsters, champagne, the lot. Bought a Louis Vuitton for two grand—worth every penny. Dave grumbled, but I told him: ‘We only live once!’” “Women, eh?” Dave grinned, reaching for the Cognac. “I’m saving up for a new SUV—won’t waste a penny on boring things like home improvements.” “Meaning what?” Irene asked sharply. “Oh, just…walls are walls, aren’t they?” Lisa explained. “We’ve got the same wallpaper since moving in—spend our money on trips, labels, restaurants instead. You two throw cash at concrete. Bit dull, honestly.” “Speaking of restaurants,” Tom cut in, dabbing greasy lips with a napkin and dropping it back on the tablecloth, “We were at that fancy place in Soho last night. Bill came to £150, but what a meal! Not like home grub. Irene, when’s the main course out? I’m starving for some meat.” Irene got up to clear plates, shaking inside. These friends had just raved about spending fortunes on Dubai holidays and five-star dinners, yet turned up in her home empty-handed. Not even a potted plant, let alone a chocolate bar. She went to the kitchen. Becky followed, pretending to help. “Irene, you’re a star,” Becky whispered. “Lovely spread, but you can see you’ve overdone yourself. The wine’s rather basic, isn’t it? We only ever have that stuff at barbecues. Surely you could get something better?” “It’s French, £25 a bottle,” Irene said, forcefully loading the dishwasher. “Oh, come on, you’ve been conned! Tastes like vinegar. By the way, do you think there’ll be leftovers to take home? For the hangover tomorrow, I mean. No point it going to waste—too much for you two.” Irene stopped, plate in hand, turning slowly. “You want me to pack you up some food to take?” “Well, yeah, why not?” Becky giggled. “It’s what we always do. Budget-friendly! And, um, is there a proper dessert? Got a craving for cake.” “You said dessert was on you,” Irene quietly replied. “Did I? You must be imagining things. I’m on a diet—I wouldn’t buy sweets. I figured you’d make your famous Victoria sponge. Or at least pick up something nice. We came empty-handed because, well, you’ve got everything now. Owners and all that—must be rolling in it.” Irene put the plate down with a decisive clatter. “So you thought we’re rich now, and have everything?” “Well of course!” Becky said breezily. “You’ve got the mortgage, the new flat. Us, we’re just saving for our Maldives trip. Now, go on, bring out the meat—the blokes are famished.” Flooded with memories—of lending Becky money for a last-minute holiday she only repaid in dribs and drabs, of Dave borrowing Steve for a move and never even paying petrol, of them always eating her out of house and home but only inviting the couple round for a cheap tea once in a blue moon—Irene had had enough. She glanced at the oven: inside, the gorgeous roast with mushrooms and herbs. On the fridge, the huge berry pavlova she’d splurged £50 on for a surprise, even after the dessert talk. She closed the oven. Turned off the hob. Walked to the fridge and pressed the door tightly shut. “There’ll be no meat,” she stated loudly. “What do you mean?” Becky’s face fell. “Did it burn?” “No. But you’re not getting any.” Irene strode into the lounge. The men were pouring themselves more drinks. Steve looked defeated. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Irene rang out, voice tight as wire, “the party is over.” Everyone stared. Dave, mid-toast, froze. “Irene, what’s up? We haven’t had the main yet! You promised roast!” “I did,” Irene said. “I’ve changed my mind.” “What?” Lisa spluttered. “We’re hungry! Bring out the food!” “The roast is staying in the oven. As for you—don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or why not pop down to that Soho place you like so much?” “Have you lost your mind?” Tom roared. “Steve, control your wife! We’re guests!” Steve stood up. He saw Irene’s trembling hands, her eyes brimming with frustrated tears. He understood. “Irene isn’t drunk,” Steve said quietly. “She’s just had enough. You showed up empty-handed, drank my Cognac, mocked my wife’s cooking, called our wine vinegar and our home ugly. And now you *demand* the main course?” “Oh come on, it was all jokes!” Becky yelled. “So we forgot the dessert! Big deal. We came for your company—brought the fun!” “Fun at our expense?” Irene said, scorn dripping. “No, thank you. I spent half my salary on this meal for you. And all you do is gobble, criticise, and brag. Leeching cheapskates, the lot of you. Swanning off to Dubai but can’t manage a fiver for a thank-you treat.” “Is that how it is?” Dave exploded, chair crashing over. “Fine. Keep your stingy roast! We’re leaving! Don’t expect us back—ever!” “Don’t forget your take-home containers,” Steve added evenly as he flung the door wide. “They’re still empty.” The guests tumbled out, shrieking. Becky huffed she’d never speak to Irene again. Lisa whined about a ruined evening. The men cursed. Silence. Irene stood in the ruined lounge, surrounded by dirty plates, wine stains, crumpled napkins. Steve wrapped his arm around her. “You alright?” he asked quietly. “Still shaking,” she confessed. “Maybe I was mean…they were guests, after all.” “You were just taking back your self-respect, Irene. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m proud of you. If you hadn’t spoken up, I certainly would have.” She sighed and leaned into him. “And the roast?” Steve asked, a sly smile creeping in. “Still in there? Because it smells fantastic!” Irene laughed, for the first time that evening. “It is. And the pavlova’s in the fridge. Let’s eat.” They sat amid the chaos, carved the roast, sliced the pavlova, poured themselves two glasses of that “vinegary” Bordeaux (which was, in fact, a wonderful velvety Saint-Emilion). “To us,” Steve toasted, clinking glasses. “And to only inviting people who come with open hearts, not empty hands.” They ate the best dinner of their lives, relishing the peace. An hour later, Irene’s phone buzzed: Becky’s text read, “You total cow! We’re at McDonald’s choking down burgers because of you! You ought to be ashamed, honestly!” Irene smiled, hit “Block”, then did the same for Dave, Lisa, and Tom. Her contact list was four names shorter—but life suddenly felt roomier and full of air. The fridge and house belonged to her and Steve alone, with a week’s worth of good food left. And not a crumb for those who didn’t deserve it. This story reminds us: friendship is a two-way street, and sometimes slamming the fridge door is the best way to hold onto your self-respect.

The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering—was it from fear or from the cold? She had left Zlata at a birthday party, in the children’s playroom at a shopping centre. She barely knew the birthday girl’s parents but didn’t worry—this wasn’t the first time she’d left her daughter at a kids’ party, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Only today, she was late—the bus hadn’t come for ages. The shopping centre was in an awkward spot, everyone usually drove there, but Olesya didn’t have a car. So she’d taken Zlata by bus, gone home for her scheduled lessons, which couldn’t be cancelled, then come back—and was just fifteen minutes late, sprinting over the icy car park, out of breath. Now, the birthday girl’s mum, a petite woman with big blue eyes, stared at Olesya in surprise and said: “Her dad picked her up.” But Zlata didn’t have a dad. Well, technically she did, but he’d never met his daughter. Olesya met Andrey by chance—out walking with a friend along the river, her friend twisted her ankle, some lads offered help. Just like in a familiar movie, they lied about being students at Oxford, about generals and professors for fathers. Why they did it, who knows—young and foolish. But when Olesya got pregnant, and Andrey found out she was a trainee primary teacher and her dad was a bus driver, he shoved money for an abortion into her hands and vanished. Olesya didn’t get the abortion, and never once regretted it—Zlata became her lifelong companion, wise beyond her years and utterly dependable. They were always happy together; while Olesya taught lessons, Zlata played quietly with her dolls, and afterwards they’d cook milk soup or eggs in the kitchen, sharing tea and buttered biscuits. Money was always tight—most went on rent—but neither Olesya nor Zlata complained. “How could you hand my child over to a stranger?” Olesya’s voice trembled and tears welled up. “But he wasn’t a stranger,” snapped the blue-eyed woman. “He’s her father!” Olesya could have set her straight, but what would’ve been the point? She needed to speak to the security staff, get the CCTV footage… “When did this happen?” “Just ten minutes ago…” Olesya spun round and ran. Over and over, she’d told Zlata: never go off with anyone you don’t know! Her legs wouldn’t obey, her vision blurred, she bumped into people but didn’t stop, didn’t apologise. On instinct, she cried out: “Zlata! Zlata-aa!” The food court was noisy, most people ignored her shouts, but a few glanced round. Breathless, Olesya had no idea what to do—maybe her daughter hadn’t left yet, maybe… “Mummy!” For a moment, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There was her daughter, coat flapping, ice cream smeared all over her little face, running towards her. Olesya grabbed her and clung on as if letting go would make her collapse right there (and maybe it would). Then she stared at the man. Respectable, short-cropped hair, ridiculous jumper with a snowman, ice cream in his hand. He saw in her eyes all she wanted to say, and babbled: “I’m so sorry! I should’ve stayed right there, but those little monsters were teasing her! Said Zlata didn’t have a dad, and he’d never come, because she’s weird. So I thought I’d teach them a lesson—said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get an ice cream till mummy arrives,’ Honestly, I didn’t realise you’d be so worried…” Olesya was shaking. She wasn’t about to trust a stranger. But had they really been teasing Zlata? She looked into her daughter’s eyes, and Zlata got it instantly. She sniffed, stuck out her chin. “So what! I’ve got a dad now too!” The man spread his hands awkwardly; Olesya still couldn’t say a word. “Let’s go,” she finally managed. “It’s late—we’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” he offered, tentatively waving. “Can I give you a lift? I mean, after all this… No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a weirdo! My name’s Arthur. I’m a good guy! Look, that’s my mum—I promise, she’ll vouch for me.” He pointed to a woman with purple curls at a nearby table, buried in a novel. “If you like, we can go to her—she’ll give the best references!” “I’m sure,” muttered Olesya—still quite tempted to whack him over the head. “Thanks, we can manage.” “Mum…” Zlata tugged on her sleeve. “Let them see daddy’s driving us home!” The birthday girl and her mum were still by the playroom with another child Olesya didn’t know. Her daughter’s eyes were pleading. It would be hard tramping home over icy pavements in this state. Olesya made up her mind. “Alright,” she said, curtly. “Brilliant! I’ll just let my mum know!” “Mummy’s boy,” thought Olesya, not unkindly. The woman gave her a friendly wave, and Olesya spun round, mortified. What a ridiculous situation! On the way, she tried not to meet Arthur’s eyes but couldn’t help noticing how gentle he was with Zlata. Zlata sang like a lark—Olesya had never seen her so happy. But when they stopped outside her block, Zlata suddenly drooped. “Will we see you again?” she asked Arthur quietly, looking furtively at her mum. Olesya realised he was waiting for her permission. She wanted to say, “No, Zlata, you mustn’t,” but seeing her daughter’s anxious little face, she couldn’t. She caught Arthur’s look and nodded. “Well, if your mum says yes, I can take you to the cinema for a cartoon. Have you ever been?” “Really? No—I haven’t! Mum, can I go to the movies with daddy?” Olesya coloured. Now she was the one stumbling over her words. “Right, Zlata, you can—on two conditions. First, it’s not polite to call a stranger daddy—call him Uncle Arthur, alright? Second, I’m coming too, because what did I say? Never go with someone you don’t know, no matter how nice they seem!” “I said the same,” Arthur cut in. “About not going off—I did say.” “So can I go?” “I just said—yes.” “Yay!!!” Olesya knew she ought to nip all this in the bud, but couldn’t. She had no one left in the world but Zlata. If only she had someone to turn to! Like her own mum. Olesya barely remembered her—her mum died when she was five, the same age Zlata was now. A boy fell through an icy pond, no one dared go in, but she did. She saved him, but… she caught pneumonia and, with diabetes already, deteriorated fast. That’s why Zlata had diabetes too—Olesya still blamed herself for passing it down. Olesya worried all week until the weekend, but it turned out she needn’t have: when they went to the cinema, Arthur brought his own mother. “So you know I’m not some nutter, my mum can be my best advert,” he grinned. “Well, he is a bit mad,” his mum said with a smile that showed she doted on her son. And while Arthur took Zlata for popcorn, his mum did, in fact, “advertise” him. “You see… May I call you Olesya? Arthur grew up without a father too. I’ve been married four times, and my last husband was perfect! Absolutely perfect, Arthur’s just like him. But, fate had other plans—he never got to hold his son. Heart attack. I gave birth early, I’ve no idea how I coped. Of course, my first husbands helped… Don’t give me that look! We’re still on good terms—first one still loves me, second was the wrong gender, and third loved women far too much to settle down. They all helped try to be a dad to Arthur, but a dad’s a dad. That’s why he connected so quickly with Zlata—he was bullied, too, at school. Poor lad! I was at the teachers’ office so much! He did all sorts of daft things on a dare, just to prove himself, once nearly got himself killed…” What a character—petite, wiry, purple hair, Chanel suit and a Candace Bushnell novel. Olesya couldn’t help liking her. “Don’t worry, he’s not up to anything—just has a kind heart,” she winked. “And he’s taken quite a shine to you.” Olesya flushed. Just what she needed! She knew she shouldn’t encourage this, but felt so sorry for Zlata… After the film, she tried to pay Arthur for the tickets but he shook his head. “When I invite girls, it’s my treat!” Olesya didn’t like that either—she was used to always paying her own way and being independent. Falling for him—nonsense, that’s not how life works. When Arthur drove them home, Zlata piped up: “Daddy, where will we go next time?” “Zlata!” Olesya scolded. She giggled and covered her mouth. “Maybe the natural history museum?” Arthur suggested, ignoring her slip. “What do you think?” “Great! Mum, can we go?” “You go without me,” Olesya said briskly. “Take Catherine with you—she did say she loves butterflies.” She jumped out first, desperate to put an end to, well, whatever this was. She just about heard Arthur whisper to Zlata: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me daddy.” And that’s how Zlata found herself with a Sunday Dad. Sometimes Olesya went, sometimes she let Zlata go with them if Catherine joined in—she still saw Arthur as a stranger and was suspicious, though every time Zlata told her, wide-eyed, how funny and wonderful Arthur was, Olesya found herself catching the excitement, even as she tried to stamp it down. Life doesn’t work like that—no knights in shining armour swoop in out of nowhere. And Arthur’s mum praised him so much Olesya started wondering what was wrong with him. After all, why would a mother be matchmaking her son with a girl like her? But gradually, Olesya’s heart melted. Arthur handled things so gently—leaving a chocolate bar on the shelf as he left, always asking before taking Zlata anywhere, watching for Olesya’s opinion. She especially liked Catherine—if Arthur hadn’t been her son, she’d have loved her as a friend. One day, Arthur rang to talk about films, Zlata appeared immediately—whispered: “Is it Arthur?” And flopped on the sofa happily. “Of course, she’d love to come,” Olesya replied by habit. “Wait… I meant both of you. I mean, just us. On our own.” Catherine piped up in the background. “At last!” “Mum, stop eavesdropping! Sorry, Olesya… She’s hopeless.” Zlata whispered: “He invited you to the movies?” Olesya laughed. “I’ve got spy ears too! Listen, Arthur, I…” “Please don’t say no! One chance, I promise to be a perfect gentleman!” “Mum, tell her about her eyes—what you said to me, that they’re just like her mum’s…” Suddenly, Olesya felt ice water on her face. What did her mum have to do with any of this? Arthur yelled at his mother, then said: “Olesya, I’ll come over and explain, alright?” She’d appreciate some explanations… Olesya paced until he arrived, Zlata quietly drawing, as if she knew. “I should’ve said straight off,” Arthur started. “I meant to, but I liked you too much… I was afraid you’d think I only cared because of your mum—and I was frightened you’d hate me. Because… she died saving me.” He stumbled, jumping from one thing to another, eyes pleading. Olesya shook, just like when she’d thought Zlata lost. “Will you forgive me?” Olesya didn’t say a word the whole time, finally forcing out: “I need to think.” “Mum, forgive daddy!” Arthur widened his eyes at Zlata, reminding her of the deal. Olesya repeated: “I need time. Please understand?” She wanted to ask a million questions, but couldn’t. When Catherine rang, though, everything changed. She told Olesya the facts. “He never knew she died—I was trying to protect him as a child. Later I slipped, and Arthur decided to find you. That evening he hoped to meet you and offer help—but then all the mix-up with Zlata… He loved you at first sight! He was worried you’d misunderstand. Don’t blame him—it was a dare, he wanted to prove he was a man even with no dad. All the kids were afraid of the ice, but he went…” Catherine didn’t push, just defended her son gently. But Zlata did push, hard! “Mum, he’s lovely! And he loves you, he told me! He could be my real daddy, don’t you see?” Olesya did see. But still… wasn’t it wrong? Nearly a month passed, and Olesya couldn’t talk to Arthur. She ignored his calls, his messages. The longer it went on, the more she wanted to pick up the phone—and the harder it became to do so. Zlata woke her in the night, crying, clutching her stomach. She’d complained earlier, and Olesya thought it was just bad yoghurt. Now she was burning with fever. With shaking hands, Olesya called the ambulance. And—for no reason she could fathom—Arthur. He arrived with the paramedics, in pyjamas, ruffled and bleary, and came along to hospital, calming her and promising it would be alright, his own voice shaky. “Appendicitis isn’t that scary,” he said. “She’ll be fine, I know it.” Olesya held his hand—whether to calm herself or him, she didn’t know. The waiting room was cold, neither wore warm clothes, so they sat huddled together, sharing warmth. Arthur leapt up to ask the surgeon about the operation. Olesya sat still, terrified to move. If anything happened to Zlata, she’d never recover. But Zlata pulled through. The doctors did a brilliant job; Zlata fought hard, though the doctor said it was a near thing. “It’s like a guardian angel is looking after her,” the doctor said, and Olesya whispered: thank you, mum! Arthur kept thanking him, but the doctor told them both to go home—they couldn’t see Zlata yet anyway, she was in intensive care, and her parents needed rest. He dropped her at her door, and Olesya expected him to invite himself in, but he stayed silent. So she said: “It’s almost morning. Would you like to come in for coffee?” And realised she really wanted him to come in. And maybe, to stay. For good. Zlata recovered quickly—to the amazement of every doctor and nurse. “That’s because I’ve got a mum and a dad,” she said. And no one but Olesya and Arthur understood why that made her so happy…