Five Homes in the Family, Yet We Still Have to Rent: How Our Parents’ Property Portfolio Leaves Us Struggling for a Place of Our Own

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 2

There are five homes in our family, and yet here we are, forced to rent.

Ive become so numb to the absurdity that nothing surprises me anymore. Let me explain how we ended up with five homes in the family, yet my husband and I have to scrape by, paying rent.

My husbands parents own a nice house, along with two other flats scattered across different areas of town. Those flats? They let them out for extra income. They smile as they tell us they earned every bit themselves, and they expect us to do the same. Its as though theyre blind to the fact that, back in their youth, homes were handed out by the council, or you could nab one if you secured a job at the local factory. These days, saving up for a place of your own while also paying rent feels nearly impossible.

My own parents, if Im honest, arent much different from my in-laws. When my grandmother died, she left her flat to me, but I was just a child then. My parents decided to rent out Grans place until I turned eighteen. Well, Im an adult now, but my parents have grown quite fond of the monthly rent coming in, and they wont let me live there.

For the past few years, my husband and I have been crammed into a tiny studio, barely big enough for the two of us. Most of our wages disappear on rent alone. There were times wed scrape together what little was left for dinner, and even now, Im on maternity leave. My pay was never brilliant, but before the baby, we just managed to make ends meet. My husband is trying his best, working two jobs, but in England now, you need a good degree to earn a proper wage. He doesnt have thathe joined the army straight after school, then we met, and there wasnt time for university.

Its maddening. My mum calls nearly every week, wanting advice on which frock to buy, while Im wracked with guilt that I can’t afford basic vitamins or fruit for our child. Shes always lecturing us on financial independence and reckons its us who should be helping her and Dad. They want to cruise around the world, live the good life.

Honestly, Im so tired of the way our parents behavethey have everything, and still, they wont lift a finger to help their children. Of course, Im not expecting them to go without, but surely, if you can help your own kids, why wouldnt you? I completely fail to understand how people can be so cold-hearted. I vow, when I have children of my own, Ill make sure they have all they need and more.

Friends and family try to reassure us, saying that one day well inherit a fortune. But, truth be told, I feel so hurt, I dont want a penny from them. Let them keep their houses, even into the next life.

A Promise Kept Denis steered calmly and confidently along the motorway; his friend Kirill sat beside him as they returned from a business trip to Manchester, sent by their boss for two days. “Kirill, we really pulled it off! The contract is signed for a huge sum – the boss will be thrilled,” Denis grinned. “Absolutely, we’re lucky,” Kirill agreed. They worked in the same office. “It’s great going home to someone who’s waiting for you,” Denis said. “My Arisha’s pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. I feel for her, but we wanted this baby so badly, she said she’ll endure anything for our child.” “A baby – that’s wonderful. Marina and I haven’t managed it yet… She can’t carry a baby. We’re about to try IVF again; the first round didn’t work,” Kirill confided. He and Marina had been married seven years and desperately wanted a child. Denis had married late, at thirty-two. He’d had other relationships, but none swept him off his feet – until he met Arina. He fell in love so deeply he couldn’t imagine anyone else. When Denis introduced Arina to Kirill and then married her, Kirill, as his best man, had felt a twinge of envy. Arina was beautiful and gentle; he understood Denis’s feelings. A fine autumn drizzle spattered the windshield and the wipers flicked now and then as they chatted cheerfully. Denis’s phone rang and he answered. “Hi, Arisha! Yes, we’re driving home now, should be there in a couple of hours. How are you? Same old, huh? Don’t lift anything heavy; I’ll do everything when I get back. Love you, see you soon.” Kirill listened and pictured Arina waiting, worrying. He thought: “Marina never calls or worries. She thinks I’m bound to her, and she’s nothing like Arisha – everything is tidy, work and home.” Suddenly Denis swerved; a delivery van was careening towards them. The collision was inevitable but they managed to hit a post on Denis’s side and spun off the road. Kirill came to with a throbbing head and blood on his arm. The car sat upright but his door was open. Denis wasn’t moving. Bystanders rushed over; cars stopped. Kirill lay on the wet grass, waiting for an ambulance. Denis was stretchered away; Kirill bent over his friend and heard him whisper, “Help Arisha…” Both were taken to hospital. Kirill had a broken arm and concussion. He anxiously questioned the medics: “How’s Den, my friend?” A nurse finally told him: “Denis passed away…” Kirill was devastated and couldn’t attend the funeral. Marina told him Denis’s widow wept uncontrollably, barely able to stand by his coffin. After discharge, Kirill visited the cemetery with Marina, lingering by Denis’s grave and promising silently: “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll look after your wife, as you asked…” Two days later, he went to Arina’s place. She burst into tears on seeing him. “How do I go on without him? I can’t accept that Den’s gone.” “Arisha, I promised to help you. We’ll manage together. Call me for anything; I’ll visit,” Kirill assured her. Time passed. Arina tried to adjust, fearing her grief might end the pregnancy. The doctor also warned her to stay calm. Kirill visited twice a week, bringing groceries and vitamins, driving her to appointments. Arina didn’t take advantage; she asked for help only as needed. “Kirill, I feel bad that you spend your time on me.” “I don’t mind. I promised Den.” Kirill felt mixed emotions for Arina: she was his dream woman, but the situation overwhelmed him. While Arina endured her sickness, Kirill and Marina pursued more fertility treatments, facing familiar disappointments. Marina was unaware of Kirill’s help for Arina; on his phone, Arina was saved as ‘Charity’ to avoid suspicion from Marina. After another failed IVF attempt, tension grew between Kirill and Marina. She thought he was to blame; he simply stopped caring. Marina became suspicious—her husband seemed distracted, sometimes irritable, off running errands. An affair seemed unlikely; they hadn’t lost that spark. Despite personal troubles, work went well: Kirill returned to the project he’d started with Denis and landed a big contract. Arina’s pregnancy advanced, making her more helpless. Her parents lived far away in Scotland; she had no close friends in London. She suffered headaches and swollen feet but rarely complained. One day, Kirill arrived to find Arina on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I just cleaned the window,” she said cheerily, “and I’m putting up new drapes.” “Get down right now,” Kirill barked, eyeing her large belly. “If you fall, it’s no joke.” He helped her down and, standing close, felt a tremor. “Thanks, Kir,” she said, then quickly dashed to the bathroom, morning sickness returning. Kirill wiped his brow, thinking, “Is Denis watching from somewhere? He did ask for my help.” Next, Arina asked, “Kirill, could you help me set up the nursery? I’ve found some wallpaper I like.” Kirill had to tackle the nursery renovation. He couldn’t let Arina strain herself. They worked together; she helped and cheered him on. Between his depressed wife, always upset over infertility, and Arina nearing her due date, Kirill felt torn. Marina sensed their marriage was in jeopardy, threw herself into work, landed a magazine column, and brought home treats and wine to celebrate. “Ooh, what’s this? A party?” Kirill asked, arriving home. “Yes, I landed a big contract—let’s celebrate!” Their favourite movie played on TV; snacks and wine filled the room as they tried to rekindle the old warmth. Kirill’s phone rang. Marina glanced over his shoulder: ‘Charity’ on the screen. He hurried to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. “Kir, sorry, but I think I’m going into labour… Already called an ambulance.” “But it’s early!” “Seven months—it’s possible,” she said, fighting pain. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He dressed quickly; Marina eyed him with concern. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he improvised. “The boss called about charity work, needs me urgently. I’ll explain later.” But Marina didn’t buy it. “What charity, what boss, what rubbish?” Kirill sped to the hospital; Arina had already arrived. After two hours, the nurse brought news—Arina had a baby boy. Kirill breathed a sigh of relief. At home, Marina eyed him coldly. “That charity work’s worn you out,” she said scornfully. Kirill sat heavily, still dressed. “Yes, Marina, yes… Arina gave birth to a son. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s completely alone.” “Now I understand… Next, you’ll help Arina with her newborn son, right?” “Yes,” Kirill replied sincerely. “Well, you know me—I won’t tolerate you giving time to someone else’s child, especially when we can’t have one, and probably never will. So I’m filing for divorce. Maybe I’ll meet someone else and have a baby after all.” Kirill looked at her, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “That’s your choice, Marina, I won’t argue. I need to help Arina and her baby.” In time, Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Arina to help with baby Danny. Later, they married—and, two years on, welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

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Someone Else’s Bride Val was in high demand. He’d never advertised in papers or on TV, but his name and number spread by word of mouth – the kind of old-fashioned grapevine you can’t buy. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Want someone to host a birthday or a wedding? Brilliant! He’d even once hosted a graduation at a local nursery school, charming not just the children but the mums as well. It all started simply enough. A close friend was getting married, but the hired toastmaster never showed – as it turned out later, he’d simply gone on a bender. No time to find a replacement, so Val took the microphone himself. Back at school he’d been involved in amateur dramatics, acted with the “Logos” theatre troupe, and at university was a mainstay of Student Spring and the comedy league. The impromptu hosting was a hit, and right there at the reception, two people came up and asked him to lead their own events. After uni, Val took a job at one of the city’s research institutes, earning peanuts. His first gigs on the side inspired him; the pay was good and it was fun. Soon, event work was bringing him almost ten times his researcher’s salary. After a year, he quit the institute, spent his savings on quality AV gear, set himself up as a sole trader, and launched officially into showbiz. At the same time, he started singing lessons – he already had the voice and ear. Soon he was a singing MC, gigging three nights a week as a singer in a restaurant. So by 30, Val was handsome, fairly well-off, known as a talented singer, DJ, and all-around master of ceremonies who could liven up any event. He wasn’t married – why bother? Women practically threw themselves at him; any girl, a snap of the fingers, and she’d agree to anything. But his mates started settling down, kids arrived, and Val slowly began to yearn for the love and comfort of a family. Only trouble was, he just didn’t know where to look! The easy-come crowd was only ever good for one thing; he wanted a wife for life. “You need to meet a girl at school age,” he’d joke to his friends, “raise her up just right, and marry her when she turns eighteen. The perfect wife!” He started taking school graduation gigs, hoping to find the right girl, but the modern young ladies disappointed him – not at all how he’d pictured his future match. But Val wasn’t downhearted, always surveying the young crowd, “on the hunt for rare game,” as he put it. That’s when fate, or the gods, decided to play a little trick on my cousin once removed… At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman rang, name-dropping some mutual acquaintances: “We need someone to host our wedding. Are you free on June 17? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They did. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant for the ground to vanish from under your feet. Introducing herself as Xenia, the woman was dazzling; he’d never seen anyone like her in real life. Articulate, clever, self-assured. Not just beautiful, but clearly intelligent – a rare combination! At first glance, he thought she was about 25, maybe a bit older, but the conversation revealed she’d been a Young Communist League member – so she had to be at least 40. They discussed everything, came to an agreement, signed a contract (despite Xenia’s protests that she trusted him based on references). Val always kept things official – not just for his own security, but for tax records too. While they chatted, a text pinged on Xenia’s phone: “Aha! My fiancé’s here to pick me up. Need a lift?” Val declined but saw her out – partly out of habit, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of jealousy. The groom, he’d imagined, would be a mature man in his forties. But from the car jumped a lad, clearly younger than Val himself. “Xenia, everything alright?” he called. She smiled: “When is it not?” She climbed in, and her fiancé turned: “Are you the MC for our wedding? Brilliant! I’ve heard you’re the best – Slava told me. Sorry, I’m Robert – the groom.” Val shook his hand. From that day on, Val barely slept. He found excuses to ring Xenia, to hear her voice, see her. The wedding drew closer; Val was beside himself. His mate, the only one he confided in, teased him: “What about all those schoolgirls you wanted to raise as the perfect wife?” Val waved him off: “Forget schoolgirls, Xenia is perfect. I need no one else.” “So tell her!” his mate said. “Are you mad? She’s getting married. Clearly she loves him. Why would she want me with my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would pop in, grinning ear to ear: “Here, Xenia asked me to drop this to you…” Val seethed, barely civil. He considered dropping out as host – but then he’d never see Xenia again. He always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Xenia came round to ‘polish off the script’ – at Val’s flat, since his office was being refurbished. They chatted, laughed, everything agreed. Val poured some fizz: “To a perfect wedding.” Xenia grinned, “With pleasure!” The champagne fuelled courage; he kissed her, she kissed him back. The world spun. Val woke up in confusion. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But her perfume lingered on the pillow – it had really happened. Now what? The wedding couldn’t possibly go ahead? He rang Xenia. “Hi,” she answered breezily, “Sorry I slipped out – so much to do, the big day tomorrow and all!” “So…the wedding is still on?” Val asked, hollow-voiced. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s perfect!” Were all women this cynical? How could she go through with the wedding, look her fiancé in the eye after last night? Val was in torment – should he call it all off, ruin the wedding? But he knew he’d take her, even if she was an ice queen. Next day, Val arrived early to the hotel. Decorators gave him sly little glances. And then… Xenia appeared. “Hi. I dashed here right after the register office – I just had to see you,” she beamed. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it,” mumbled Val. “You had the registry? And then ran off?” “Well, obviously, silly. Why ride round town with all the youngsters when I’d rather be with you? Or would you rather I left?” “Wait, what youngsters? I thought you were the bride?” Xenia stared, dumbfounded, then burst into pure, bubbly laughter. Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter’s the bride – Katie! She just flew back from uni in Edinburgh yesterday,” she sobered, “Did you really think I was marrying? And slept with someone else two days before my own wedding? Cheers for the high opinion!” Finally, Val twigged. Xenia had never said “I” or “we” – always “the bride and groom.” Robert never called her Katie, always Xenia, always in the polite form. How had he never noticed? Then came the real question: “And you? Are you single?” She nodded, and he blurted out, “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was a triumph; the MC outdid himself, the guests raved. The happy couple thanked him: “We don’t know how to thank you enough!” Xenia joined them, “I’ll take care of him. Off you go, your limo’s waiting. I’ll handle things here.” Word soon spread that Val was marrying a woman nine years older than himself. Some were doubtful at first, but then they met the bride. “Who could *not* fall in love with her?” Katie and Xenia gave birth just two weeks apart.

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Someone Else’s Bride Val turned heads everywhere—never advertising in print or on TV, yet his name and number spread by word of mouth, the talk of the town. Need an MC for a concert? Done! A host for an anniversary or wedding? Sorted! He even hosted a kindergarten graduation once, charming not just the little ones but their mums as well! It all began simply enough. A close mate was getting married, but the hired master of ceremonies failed to turn up—later, it emerged he’d embarked on a bender. With no time to find a replacement, Val grabbed the microphone himself. Back in school, he was centre-stage in amateur dramatics and the “Logos” theatre club; at university, he was always taking the lead in Student Spring and the comedy KVN team. That first impromptu gig went brilliantly, and right there in the banqueting hall, two guests asked him to host their upcoming events. After university, Val landed a junior role at a city research institute, earning peanuts. His first foray into running events proved inspiring—he took any job going, relishing not just the financial rewards but the thrill of it all. Soon, his event earnings far outstripped his official salary. After a year, Val made a bold decision: left the institute, spent his savings on professional kit, registered as self-employed, and made entertainment his day job. He even took singing lessons—turns out he had a voice and talent for music. In no time, he was the singing host, and moonlit as a club singer three nights a week. Now thirty, Val was handsome, comfortably off, and a sought-after musician, DJ, and event MC—the life and soul of any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him, ready to say yes to any invitation. But his friends were settling down and starting families, so he found himself longing for quiet domestic happiness. The only snag: with whom? The easy options held no real appeal; he dreamed of meeting the one—for a lifetime. “You’ve got to meet a schoolgirl, bring her up to your standards, and marry her when she comes of age—the perfect wife!” he quipped. He even started accepting jobs at school proms, hoping to find a future girlfriend, but modern girls weren’t what he’d pictured. Still, he didn’t lose heart, forever on the lookout—as he put it, “on the hunt for a rare catch.” Then fate decided to play a joke on my cousin Val. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang, citing mutual friends: “We need a master of ceremonies for a wedding. Are you free on the 17th of June? Wonderful! Could we meet?” They met. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life he understood the meaning of “the ground shifting beneath your feet.” The woman, introducing herself as Christine, was dazzling—Val had never seen anyone like her. Confident, bright, intelligent—clearly both beautiful and smart, a rare combination. On first glance, she looked about twenty-five, maybe a little older, but in conversation she mentioned being a member of the Young Communists, so she must be at least forty! They discussed the details, came to an agreement, and signed a contract, although Christine objected: “Is it necessary? I trust you; I’ve heard great things.” But Val always insisted on paperwork: “It’s for my accounts, I don’t need any trouble with the taxman.” Though, truthfully, he just wanted tangible proof she existed. Christine’s phone pinged with a text. “Oh, there’s my fiancé come to collect me. Can I give you a lift?” Val declined but saw her out. He always did, especially if the engaged couple arrived separately—good to observe their chemistry. But this time it wasn’t curiosity but envy and jealousy that drove him. The fiancé surprised him—Val expected a man around forty, but out sprang a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christine, all good?” She just smiled, as if everything was always fine. She got in the car; the fiancé shut the door and turned to Val: “So, you’ll be hosting our wedding? Delighted. Slav has sung your praises—said you’re the best!” He offered his hand. “Sorry, didn’t introduce myself—Christine will give me an earful. I’m Rob, the groom.” All Val wanted was to sock Rob, wipe that grin off his face, but he simply shook his hand: “Val. Pleasure.” From that moment on, Val lost his peace of mind. He sought any excuse to call Christine, to hear her voice, to see her. The wedding day drew nearer; Val thought he was losing his mind. The one friend he confided in asked mockingly: “What about those schoolgirls—the ‘ideal wife’ project?” Val just waved him off: “Forget that! Christine is the ideal woman, and I don’t need anyone else.” “Tell her!” the friend suggested. “Are you mad? She’s getting married—she must be in love. Why would she care about my feelings?” Occasionally, a beaming Rob would pop in: “Christine asked me to drop this off…” At those moments, Val had to bite his tongue to avoid a sharp retort. He contemplated pulling out of the wedding, reputation be damned! But then he’d never see Christine again—and he always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Christine visited once more, “to polish the script and make sure it’s perfect.” The office was undergoing renovation, so they met at Val’s flat. They chatted, joked—on top form. Finally, the last detail was settled; Val suggested a glass of champagne. “To a perfect wedding!” Christine agreed playfully: “Gladly!” Christine laughed, impossibly beautiful. Emboldened by champagne, Val kissed her—and she kissed him back. Their heads spun. Val woke up suddenly. He sat up in bed. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But the pillow beside him had her distinct perfume—so it had really happened. Was the wedding still happening? Val called Christine. “Hi…” She greeted him as if nothing had happened: “Hello! How are you? Sorry I slipped away, but you know, so much to do before the wedding tomorrow!” “So, the wedding’s still on?” Val asked hollowly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine!” Are all women so cold? How could the wedding still go ahead? How could she look her fiancé in the eye? Val was beside himself—should he crash the wedding? Did he really want such a callous woman? He asked himself honestly: Yes, he did. Whatever happened. Next day at the restaurant, decorations were being finished, and Val spotted Christine. “Hi. I left straight after the ceremony—couldn’t wait to see you,” she said, beaming. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it—so the registration went ahead? And then you left?” “Of course, you silly man. Why should I go traipsing round town with the youngsters when I can spend time with you? Or don’t you want me to?” “Wait—‘youngsters’? Aren’t you the bride?” Christine stared, then burst out laughing, so joyfully that Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! It’s my daughter, Chrissie! She’s at uni in Edinburgh—just flew in yesterday.” Christine suddenly went serious. “Did you really think I was the bride?” “And that, two days before getting married, I’d sleep with someone else? What must you think of me?” Only then did Val realized: Christine had never said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Rob had never called her Chrissie, just Christine, and always been formal. How did he not notice? It was all rather hilarious… Then he asked the most important question: “And you? Are you single?” When she nodded, he blurted out, “Marry me, please…” The wedding was a triumph—the host surpassed himself, the guests were thrilled. The newlyweds thanked Val at the end: “Thank you! We honestly don’t know how to thank you for a magical evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” Christine chimed in. “You run along; your limo’s waiting. I’ll see to everything here.” The news that Val was marrying a woman nine years his senior spread like wildfire among relatives. There was hesitation at first—until they saw the bride. Then everyone agreed, “How could you not fall for her?” Christine and Chrissie both gave birth two weeks apart.

06

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.

010

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!

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

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