Women in Block 17

Author Mria McNillanReading 10 min

Women of Building 17
Building 17 on SanMartín Street was an old, creaking structure that seemed to have survived centuries by sheer habit and dampness. Its walls were cracked, the stairs squeaked, and the lift had long since stopped working. The doorman, DonBasilio, had died years ago and nobody had taken his place. Residents managed on their own: each swept their own flat, took out the trash, and occasionally stuck notes on the hallway door complaining about foul smells, noise, or leaks. More often, however, they bickered with one another.
On the third floor lived Rosa, a plump woman of about fifty with rosy cheeks and a fierce temperament. Widowhood forced her to earn a living by tailoring clothes for the neighbors and selling fried pastries on Sundays. Though notorious for meddling and gossip, no one could deny that she possessed a generous heart, even if she hid it behind sarcasm.
Directly below, on the second floor, lived Lucía, a thin, nervous woman whose hair was always tied in a messy bun. At thirtyfive she was separated and worked in a pharmacy. She was quiet, but when angered her voice echoed through the entire building. Lucía shared the flat with her mother, DoñaTeresa, an authoritarian old lady with a razorsharp tongue who had raised Lucía alone and never missed a chance to remind her daughter to stay strong.
The remaining apartments were occupied by young families, solitary retirees, students, and the occasional temporary renter. Yet the daily saga of Rosa and Lucía, and their endless quarrels, provided the neighborhoods constant entertainment.
The dust and the spark
One Tuesday morning, with the sun barely peeking through the clouds, Rosa decided to shake out the rug in her living room. She hoisted it out the window and began beating it vigorously, sending a cloud of dust swirling upward before it settled, inevitably, on Lucías open window.
Lucía was watering her plants when the fine particles settled on her hair and on the green leaves of her jasmine. She coughed, brushed the dust away, and looked up to see Rosas rug flapping like a flag.
Hey, chubby! Watch that rug! Its getting dust in my hair! Lucía shouted, irate, thrusting her head out the window.
Rosa, still shaking the rug, replied with a dry tone:
Darling, your hair is a disaster already. Dust or no dust, it makes no difference.
Lucía clenched her teeth, almost hurling a flowerpot, when her mother appeared, broom in hand.
Rosa! the old woman screamed, banging the upper window with the brooms handlestop dirtying my daughter, you elephant!
Rosa leaned out, hands on hips, and retorted:
Youll break my window, giraffe!
Youre always looking for trouble, arent you? Hippopotamus! DoñaTeresa firebacked.
The insult exchange escalated, and soon the whole building was filled with shouts. Neighbors shut their windows, accustomed to the battles between the third and secondfloor women.
Crossed stories
Rosa and Lucías fights were nothing new; they were part of the buildings routine. Yet beneath the namecalling and dust lay untold histories, old wounds, and shared loneliness.
Since becoming a widow, Rosa had hardened herself. Her husband, Ernesto, had been both love and support. When he died, she had to learn to fend for herself in a world that shows no mercy to the weak. Sewing and selling fried pastries became both refuge and a way to stay busy, keeping thoughts of absence at bay.
Lucía, on the other hand, grew up under a demanding mother. DoñaTeresa constantly reminded her that life was a battle and a woman must be tough, ruthless, unyielding. Lucía tried to meet those expectations, but often felt suffocated in her own apartment, surrounded by the pharmacy, her plants, and her mothers reproaches.
Despite their differences, Rosa and Lucía shared more than they imagined: isolation, daily struggle, and a hidden yearning to be understood.
The thief watches
That afternoon, as the women argued at the windows, a tall, gaunt man paced the opposite sidewalk. His beard was unkempt, his eyes restless. His name was Ramiro, but locals knew him only as ElRata. No one could pinpoint his origins, but everyone agreed it was best to avoid him after ten at night.
Ramiro stopped in front of the building, surveyed the scene, and smirked maliciously.
Women always fighting each other. I could certainly profit from this, he thought, whistling as he walked away.
The night of fear
Later that night, Lucía returned late from the pharmacy, exhausted and dreaming of a hot shower and her bed. She hurried, clutching her purse to her chest, when she felt footsteps behind her.
Turning a corner, a strong hand seized her arm.
Dont scream. Just come with me, a rough, threatening voice ordered.
Lucía tried to break free, but the man shoved her into a dark alley.
Where are you taking me? she asked, trembling.
He smiled, exposing yellowed teeth.
To that dark alley over there. Well have some fun.
She tried to shout:
Help!
He grabbed her hair and covered her mouth.
If you scream again, Ill tear you apart, he snarled.
Lights in the building flickered on and a few windows opened. Neighbors watched, then, fearing the danger, quickly drew the curtains, startled.
Did you see? the robber mocked. All these women are terrified of me. Look at them theyre a joke!
Paralyzed by fear, Lucía was dragged toward the deepest part of the alley, her heart pounding as if it would make her faint.
The unexpected answer
Suddenly a shout rang through the night:
Hey you! Let her go right now!
The thief spun and saw Rosa, the plump thirdfloor resident, clutching a broom with both hands, her cheeks flushed with fury.
Crook, release that girl now or youll regret it! Rosa commanded, advancing fearlessly.
The robber laughed.
You? Alone? Listen, hippo, you were just fighting her earlier, and now you want to play hero?
Rosa fixed him with a fierce stare.
We may have our differences, but Ill never let anyone hurt a woman. I might be alone, but we are many. We always look out for each other!
The thief chuckled again.
Youre weak, all of you!
Behind Rosa, more women emerged: DoñaTeresa, Lucías mother, and several neighbors, all armed with pans, knives, forks, and brooms. Determination and strength glinted in their eyes.
Fear began to gnaw at the robber, and his thoughts turned chaotic:
Why am I scared? I shouldnt feel intimidated theyre just women! Ive fought strong men, even armed police I shouldnt be threatened by a bunch of housewives. Somethings wrong if I dont run, theyll kill me.
The atmosphere grew tense, as if at any moment those fierce women could pounce like wolves on a helpless prey.
Come on, ladies! Rosa yelled.
They advanced bravely, and the thief, seized by panic, fled, screaming:
Help!
He tumbled into a puddle, scrambled up frightened, slipped on a trash can, nearly fell again, but managed to scramble away like a madman.
The women chased him briefly, then stopped, breathed, and, like an angry army, shouted, brandishing whatever they couldbrooms, knives, pans as if ready to devour him.
Aftermath
When the chaos subsided, Rosa approached Lucía.
Are you okay? she asked.
Yes thank you. I thought no one would help me, Lucía replied, visibly moved.
Rosa smiled.
If we, women, united more often, the world would be a better place. Together were stronger.
DoñaTeresa, still holding her broom, looked at Rosa with respect.
Today you covered my daughters mouth, Rosa. Thanks.
Rosa shrugged.
No problem. Tomorrow well probably argue again, but today we were a team.
The other women gathered, embraced Lucía, and celebrated the victory. That night Building17 felt different. For the first time in ages, the women set aside their disputes and felt part of something larger.
Voices of the building
News of the attempted assault spread quickly through the neighborhood. Residents who once eyed the women with suspicion now greeted them with admiration.
Bravo, youre brave! said DonMario, the corner kiosk owner.
Thats how its done! applauded the baker.
Even the local kids looked at the women with new eyes. Rosa became a sort of local heroine, though she laughed and claimed shed only done what was necessary.
More importantly, the building itself changed. The women began meeting for mate, exchanging recipes, and helping each other with chores. Arguments didnt vanish, but respect and camaraderie grew.
Lucía, who had once avoided Rosa, started visiting her for chats. They discovered a shared love of plants and sewing. DoñaTeresa, still stern, admitted that Rosa was a good neighbor.
Building17, once full of complaints and loneliness, transformed into a community.
What the thief never knew
Ramiro never returned to the area. Some said he moved to another city; others believed he had learned his lesson. In any case, after that night, no one dared trouble the women of the building again.
What Ramiro never realized was that his attempted assault sparked something new. Women who had once eyed each other with mistrust now protected one another. They discovered that true strength lies in unity.
Epilogue: A different building
Months later, Building17 looked renewed. Residents painted the walls, repaired the lift, and organized terrace parties. Women led the improvements, proving that together they could achieve what once seemed impossible.
Rosa kept selling fried pastries, now with helpers. Lucía opened a small plantandflower workshop in the lobby, teaching neighborhood kids how to tend greenery. DoñaTeresa, though still gruff, smiled more often.
Spats still occurred, but they ended in laughter and embraces. The building, once cold and hostile, became a home.
Thus, in the old Building17, the women showed that sisterhood overcomes fear, that unity is the best defense, and that when women stand together, no thiefnor life itselfcan defeat them.

GRANDMA, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never remembered her parents. Her father left her mother when she was pregnant and vanished from their lives. Lena’s mother died of cancer when Lena was only one. It was her grandmother, Grandma Dorothy, who raised Lena, dedicating her life to her late daughter and granddaughter after losing her own husband young. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a deep spiritual bond; Dorothy always seemed to know exactly what Lena needed, and between them, there was always complete understanding. Everyone loved Grandma Dorothy—neighbors and schoolteachers alike. She’d often attend school meetings with a basket of freshly baked scones, insisting “it’s not right to sit hungry after work.” Dorothy never gossiped and was always sought out for advice. Lena always felt so lucky to have such a wonderful nana. Lena’s own personal life was always on fast-forward—school, university, work—always in a hurry. She’d dated, but never met the right man, much to Dorothy’s concern. “Why are you still single, darling? Surely there’s a good man out there for a smart and beautiful girl like you?” Lena would laugh it off, though in her heart she knew it was time to settle down—she was 30, after all. Dorothy passed away unexpectedly—she simply didn’t wake up, her heart stopping in her sleep. Lena was lost; going through the motions, but never really present. At home, only her cat, Whiskers, awaited her; she felt terribly alone. One day, Lena was reading on a train when a well-dressed man sat opposite her. He introduced himself as Alex and began talking about books—a subject Lena could discuss for hours. When he invited her to continue their conversation at a nearby café, Lena happily agreed. From that day, their whirlwind romance began. They called and texted daily, though Alex was often busy with work and avoided discussing his past or family life. That didn’t bother Lena—she was happy at last. One weekend, Alex invited Lena to dinner at a restaurant, hinting the evening would be special—it was clear he planned to propose. Lena was overjoyed. That night, as she browsed dresses online, she dozed off and dreamt of her grandmother. Dorothy, in her favorite dress, sat beside her and gently stroked Lena’s hair. “Gran, how are you here? You’re gone…” “I’m always with you, love. I see everything, hear everything—even if you can’t,” Dorothy softly replied. “Don’t see that man again. I’m warning you, he’s no good. Trust your gran.” And with that, Dorothy faded away. Lena woke up deeply unsettled. Why would her grandmother say Alex was bad? Though she tried to brush it off as just a dream, the worry lingered as the ‘big day’ approached. On the night of the proposal, Lena arrived in her old favorite dress, distracted by her grandmother’s words. Alex noticed immediately and tried to cheer her up with jokes, but by the time he knelt and offered her the engagement ring, Lena saw Dorothy standing at the restaurant window—a sign she couldn’t ignore. “Sorry, Alex—I can’t,” she blurted, trembling. “But—why? What did I do?” “It’s not you, I just have to trust my gran,” Lena replied, then rushed outside. Alex chased after her, livid, shaking her by the shoulders and yelling derisively as he stormed off. Shocked, Lena turned to her old friend Andrew, now a police detective, for help investigating Alex. Days later, Andrew called: “Lena, I’m afraid your Alex is a con artist. He targets women, marries them, cons them out of their homes and money, then leaves. You dodged a bullet.” How could Gran have known? Miracles do happen. Thank you, Grandma, for never letting me go and keeping me safe from harm. As Lena walked home with groceries and cat food, she knew she wasn’t truly alone—her grandmother was always close, watching out for her. Some say the spirits of loved ones become guardian angels, guiding us away from harm—I’d like to believe it’s true.

— I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors to the reception hall slowly opened, releasing a warm golden glow into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, quietly holding the hem, doing my best to hide the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was exactly as Artem and I had dreamed. Almost. As I steadied my breathing before our entrance, squealing brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors, I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door flew open, and out tumbled a noisy crowd: Aunt Sally, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already dashing circles around the car. A chill ran down my spine. “Not this…” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “They came after all?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with kids.” We stood in the doorway, ready to join our guests, when instead we froze—like two actors on opening night who’d just forgotten their lines. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold it together now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, you need to go back a few weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing for sure: it would be a small, intimate, cosy celebration. Just 40 guests, live jazz, warm lighting, and a relaxed mood. And—no children. Not because we dislike kids. We just wanted a peaceful evening without little feet thundering about, shrieks, trampoline mishaps, spilled juice, and other people’s parenting dramas. All our friends understood. My parents were fine with it. Artem’s parents were a little surprised at first, but quickly accepted it. The extended family, however… First to call was Aunt Sally—a woman whose voice volume seems coded in her DNA. “Ina!” she began, skipping any greeting. “What’s this I hear about no kids at your wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Sally,” I calmly replied. “We want a quiet evening, so the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” she exploded, as if I’d suggested banning babies nationwide. “Don’t you know we’re a close family? We always do everything together!” “This is our day. We’re not making anyone come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Well, fine then. We won’t come,” she snapped, and hung up. I stared at my phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button that triggers a disaster. Three days later, Artem came home with a troubled look. “Ina… We need to talk,” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three children aren’t some sort of delinquents, but real people. And if they’re not invited, neither she, her husband, nor his parents will come.” “So, minus five people?” “Eight,” he corrected, sitting down wearily. “They think we’re breaking tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with a tinge of desperation. “Tradition? You mean the one where kids knock over trays of food at weddings?” Artem cracked a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re already fuming.” But the campaign didn’t end there. A week later, we went to a family dinner at his parents’ house. And that’s where a surprise awaited me. His grandmother—gentle, quiet Mrs. Parker, who usually prays not to get involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she gently scolded. “A wedding without them feels… empty.” I was about to respond, but Artem’s mother jumped in. “Oh, Mum, that’s enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings are chaos. You’ve always complained about the noise. Remember how many times we had to catch little ones under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “And family should respect the couple’s wishes,” his mum calmly replied. I wanted to stand and applaud. But Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the conflict had turned into a full-blown family saga—Game of Thrones-level drama. And we were the crowned couple they were all trying to overthrow. The knockout punch came soon after. Another call. It’s Uncle Michael—generally the calmest, most laid-back, “this doesn’t concern me” type. “Ina, hello,” he began gently. “There’s just… we thought—my wife and I—why no kids? They’re part of the family. We always bring them to weddings.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a quiet evening. No one’s banned from coming…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But look, my wife says if our kids aren’t allowed, neither is she. And I’ll be with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more gone. By now, our guest list was thinner than a Vogue model. Artem sat next to me and hugged my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he whispered. “Otherwise, it’s not really our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Gran would hint that “it’ll feel dead without children’s laughter.” Katya would post a dramatic message in the family group chat: “So sad that some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And finally—the wedding day. That minivan pulled up to the steps. The children leapt out first, stamping across the cobblestones like they’d rehearsed a parade. Aunt Sally followed, adjusting her hair. “I’m going to lose it…” I muttered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.” We stepped forward. Aunt Sally was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Well, hello, newlyweds!” she announced, arms outstretched. “Sorry we’re late. But we had to come. We’re family! We just couldn’t leave the kids. But they’ll keep quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem murmured, watching the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Sally… We agreed,” I said calmly and clearly. “There would be no children. You knew that.” “But weddings are…” she started. Then Gran spoke up. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But children are family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Mrs. Parker,” I replied gently, “we really value you being here. Honestly. But this is our choice. If that’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I never finished. “Mum!” Artem’s mother suddenly called, coming out of the hall. “Stop spoiling their day. Adults celebrate—children stay home. That’s it. Let’s go.” Gran faltered. Sally froze. Even the children fell quiet—picking up on the mood shift. Sally sniffed. “Well… alright. We didn’t want to fight. Just thought it was best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I told her. “But the children do need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silence—then they quietly walked the kids back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home, leaving the adults. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect—candlelight, jazz, a gentle buzz of conversation. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen cleared the way, a waiter handed us champagne. And I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artem bent down to me. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. We danced our first dance with no children weaving between our feet. No one shouted, no desserts crashed to the floor, no cartoons blared on phones. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours later, Gran approached us. “Ina, Artem…” she said gently. “I was wrong. Tonight has been… lovely. Really lovely. Without all the commotion.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.” “It’s just…” she sighed. “Old folks cling to old ways. But I see now—you knew best.” Those words meant more than any toast that night. At the very end of the celebration, Aunt Sally came over, clutching her glass like a shield. “Ina…” she lowered her voice. “I was too harsh. Sorry. It’s just, we’ve always done things as a family. But tonight… it’s beautiful. So peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thank you for coming,” I replied honestly. “We so rarely get time as adults. Tonight… I finally felt like a person again,” she confessed. “Almost makes me wish I’d thought of it sooner.” We hugged. Weeks of tension finally melted away. When the evening ended, Artem and I stepped outside under the soft glow of the streetlights. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. Traditions, too. But having your boundaries respected matters just as much. And when a bride and groom say “no children,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turns out, even the oldest family habits can change—if you make it clear your decision is final. This wedding taught everyone a lesson—especially us: sometimes, to save the day, you have to be able to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes a truly happy celebration.

I Told You Not to Bring Your Kids to the Wedding! The doors of the reception hall slowly opened, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, clutching the hem, trying not to show the tremble in my hands. Soft jazz was playing, guests were smiling, waiters were arranging champagne glasses… Everything was exactly as Artem and I had dreamed. Almost. As I tried to steady my breathing before entering, brakes screeched outside. Through the glass doors, I saw a battered silver people carrier pull up. The door slid open and out tumbled a chaotic crowd: Auntie Gail, her daughter with husband… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Not this…” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “They actually came?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with the kids.” We stood in the doorway, ready to greet our guests — or rather, frozen like two actors who’ve forgotten their lines on opening night. And that’s when it hit me: if I lose my nerve now, the entire day will fall apart. But, to explain how we got to this mess, let’s go back a few weeks. When Artem and I decided to have a wedding, we knew one thing: it would be quiet, intimate, cosy. Just 40 guests, live jazz, soft lights, a warm vibe. And — no children. Not because we’re “anti-kid.” We just dreamed of an evening without sprints, shrieks, trampoline accidents, spilled juice, and someone else’s parenting drama. All our friends understood. So did my parents. Artem’s parents were surprised, but accepted it quickly. It was the distant relatives… Auntie Gail was the first to call — her voice volume is genetically built-in. “Inna!” she began, no greeting. “What’s this about children not being allowed at your wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We want a quiet evening, so the grown-ups can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She was so scandalized it was as if I’d called for a ban on babies across the country. “You do realise we’re a close family?! We do everything together!” “It’s our day. No one has to come, but that’s the rule.” A pause. Heavy as granite. “Well, fine. We just won’t come,” she snapped, then hung up. I sat there, phone in hand, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button for family disaster. Three days later, Artem came home with a grim face. “Inna… Can we talk?” he said, taking off his coat. “What happened?” “Katya’s in tears. Says it’s an insult to the family. Her three kids aren’t wild monsters — they are people. And if they can’t come, neither will she, her husband, or his parents.” “So that’s five down?” “Eight,” he corrected wearily, sinking onto the couch. “They say we’ve broken tradition.” I just laughed — that crazy, teary laugh. “Tradition? Of bringing children to weddings just to knock trays out of waiters’ hands?” Artem smirked too. “Don’t say that to them. They’re already on the brink.” The onslaught didn’t stop there. A week later, we went to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner. That’s when I got a surprise. His nan — usually quiet, hoping no one drags her into anything — found her voice. “Children are a blessing,” she said, reproachful. “Without them, a wedding feels… empty.” I was about to answer, but Artem’s mum beat me to it. “Mum, enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Children at weddings are chaos. You always complain about the noise. How many times have we dragged little runners out from under tables?” “But families are meant to be together!” “Families should respect the wishes of the bride and groom,” she replied, calm. I wanted to applaud. Nan just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” I realised then: our conflict had become a family saga worthy of “Game of Thrones.” And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout came a few days later. Phone call. Artem’s uncle, Michael. He’s the calmest man alive, never troubled. “Inna, hello,” he began gently. “Look, we’ve been thinking… Why can’t children come? They’re part of the family. We’ve always come to weddings together.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a peaceful evening. No one is forced to attend…” “Yes, yes, I know. But Olya says if her children can’t go, then neither will she. And I’m with her.” Eyes closed. Two more down. By now our guest list was on a strict crash diet — 15 relatives down. Artem sat with me, arm around my shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” he whispered. “Otherwise, it won’t feel like our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Nan dropped hints: “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya wrote a dramatic family group chat post: “It’s sad when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then — the day itself. The people carrier stopped at the steps. The children tumbled out, stomping like a military parade. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her curls. “I’m going to lose my mind…” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fine. We’ll handle it.” Out we went. Auntie Gail stood arms wide. “Well, hello, newlyweds!” she announced. “Sorry we’re late. We decided to come. We’re family! There was no one to leave the kids with, but they’ll be quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem breathed, eyeing the kids peeking under the wedding arch. Deep breath. “Gail… We agreed,” I said firmly. “No children. You knew this in advance.” “But it’s a wedding…” she started. Nan intervened. “We’re here to congratulate you,” she said. “But children are family. Separating us isn’t right.” “Mrs. Paterson,” I replied softly, “we appreciate you coming. Truly. But this is our choice. If it isn’t respected — we’ll have to ask…” I didn’t finish. “MUM!” Artem’s mum said sharply, appearing at the door. “Stop spoiling their day. Grown-ups celebrate — children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Nan faltered. Gail froze. Even the kids fell quiet, sensing the change. Gail sniffled. “Well… alright. We didn’t want to start a fight. Just thought it’d be best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said, honestly. “But the kids must go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. After a tense silence, they led the kids out to the car. Katya’s husband drove them home. The adults stayed. For the first time — by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, soft laughter. Our friends raised glasses, the gentlemen made space, the waiter brought champagne. That’s when I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, my wife… Looks like we did it.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was magical. Our first dance wasn’t interrupted by children underfoot. No shrieking, no cupcakes smashed, no cartoons blaring on phones. Guests talked, laughed, enjoyed the music. Later, Nan approached us. “Inna, Artem…” she said quietly. “I was wrong. Today… is lovely. Peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paterson.” “I just… Old people hang onto habits. But I see you knew what you were doing.” Those words meant more than every toast combined. Near the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching a glass like a shield. “Inna…” her voice was softer. “I overreacted. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s always the way we’ve done it. But today was… beautiful. Quiet. Grown-up.” “Thank you for coming,” I replied, sincerely. “We rarely get to relax without the kids. Today… I felt like myself again,” she admitted. “Strange I never thought of it before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the evening ended, Artem and I stepped outside, under lamplight. He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it round my shoulders. “So, how was our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was it, really. Family is important. So is tradition. But so is respecting boundaries. When the bride and groom say “no children,” it’s not a whim — it’s their right. And even the squeakiest family wheels can adjust — once you make it clear the decision is final. This wedding was a lesson for everyone — especially us: sometimes, to save a celebration, you have to say “no.” And that “no” is what truly makes it a happy day.