Natalie Was Returning from the Shops Laden with Heavy Bags When She Noticed a Strange Car Parked Outside Her Gate. “Who Could That Be? I’m Not Expecting Anyone,” She Wondered. As She Stepped Closer, She Spotted a Young Man in the Yard—Her Son Viktor! Rushing to Embrace Him, She Was Stopped Short: “Mum, Wait. I Have Something to Tell You, and You’d Better Sit Down…” – How a Summer Visit Changed a Family Forever in a Charming English Village, and a Grandmother Found the Grandson She Never Expected.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 2

So, listen, I have to tell you about what happened to Margaret the other day. She was just on her way back from the shops, lugging these absolutely heavy bags, bless her. She was nearly by her front gate when she saw a car parked right outside. She was a bit taken aback, you know, thinking, Who on earth could that be? Im not expecting anyone. As she got closer, there was a young man standing in the garden. Suddenly, Margarets eyes lit up it was her son, Edward! She dropped the shopping and ran to give him a big hug, but he held her off and said, Mum, just wait a second. Theres something I need to tell you. Well, that made Margaret a bit nervous. She sank onto the old wooden bench in the garden, bracing herself for the worst.

Margaret Elliott lived alone in a lovely little village. Her husband had passed away two years back, and Edward, her only son, had moved away to London to study after his National Service, and never really came back to live with her after that. He worked as an engineer at a factory, first renting a tiny flat, but things had recently changed for him quite a bit. Only, he never really told his mum all the details.

He used to visit only once in a blue moon until he bought himself a second-hand car. Then, this past year, he started popping round more often. Sometimes hed just show up unannounced with bags of shopping or some clothes for her. Margaret would protest, but he never took no for an answer. The last time, he even brought her a gorgeous hand-knitted woollen shawl.

But he always kept conspicuously quiet about his personal life. Everythings fine, Mum. Dont you worry, was all she ever got out of him. Still, as is often the case in a small village, she heard things. Her neighbour Grace, a kind-hearted younger woman, often travelled into town.

Feeling sorry for Margaret, Grace had once taken a basket of treats for Edward into the city: some homemade jam and her famous pickled mushrooms. She got his number from Margaret, phoned him up, and managed to meet him.

Grinning, Grace reported back, Oh Margaret, he turned up in this car with a lady rather glamorous, I must say! Took everything, said to send his love, and that hed visit soon.

Margarets eyebrows shot up. A lady, you say? Who was she?

Dont ask me! She never even got out of the car. Mind you, Margaret, Id swear shes a good bit older than Edwardfive years at least, and rather made-up, if you get what I mean.

Margaret started to wonder. Her son never told her about his relationships. She decided to ask him next time he visited. She didnt have to wait long.

So, one day, Margarets trudging home from the Co-op and she finds Edward not alone in the garden, but with a little boy in tow. The car was parked by the gate.

Hes here! she said, hurrying to greet her son, but again Edward gently nudged her aside and said, Mum, this is George. Hes like a son to me now.

Well, come in then! No need to stand out in the yard.

Margaret quickly set the table as best she could. Thankfully, the potatoes in the pot were still warm. There was some pickled cabbage, homemade pickles, and tender boiled beef.

Young George sat gloomily at the table, picking at his food without looking at anyone. They ate, had some tea, and then sent the boy out to the garden to play, so Margaret and Edward could have a private word.

Mum, I need to tell you something, Edward began, his voice serious. I got married last year. Or rather, Olivia and I quietly signed the papers. George is her son. I didnt tell you because, well, Olivia isnt keen on meeting her mother-in-law.

Margaret looked hurt. Why ever not? Im not so bad, am I? Or is it because Im from the country?

No, Mum. Her first marriage didnt end well. Her exs mum was rather awful to her, there were constant rows, and it drove Olivia to leave. Her ex-husband passed away about a year after, then the mother-in-law too. Olivia was left with her boy and the flat, and when we met she invited me to move in, and we got married. But now, shes wary of mothers-in-lawshe just doesnt want to deal with it again.

Then why bring George? Margaret asked, genuinely confused.

Its summer now, and Olivia is expecting another babydue in August. George is quite a handful and shes struggling. Im at work all day. I was hoping youd keep an eye on him until September, and then Ill take him back.

Margaret smiled, Of course Ill look after himwhy wouldnt I? But will George want to stay with his granny?

Doesnt matter. Olivia says its decided.

Margaret was a bit surprised by that but didnt comment. She didnt really know Olivia and couldnt judge. George was eightold enough to not get under her feet too much. And soon shed have her own grandchild to fuss over. What a joy!

Next morning, Edward had to leave for London. George stood sullenly by the window, arms crossed.

Margaret went over and said, Come on then, lets sort out our routine. You can call me Granny Margaret if you want. What year are you in at school?

Year Three, he mumbled, eyes glued to the floor.

Ill show you the chickens, and maybe the veg patch. The strawberries are almost ready for picking, you know. Ours are always early.

Im not going, he snapped.

Whats that for? I promise I wont hurt you, and my dog Monty out there is harmless, in case youre worried.

Mum said youre not nice. And I wont be here long. I dont care about your Monty.

Well thats a fine start! And how does your mum know if Im not nice? Weve never even met, she chuckled. Suit yourself. Ill be outside getting on with things, young man.

Margaret left him there. She felt sorry for the boy. Olivia must have really been put through the wringer with her exs mother that now she wanted nothing to do with Edwards. Well, no matterMargaret was sure shed win him round with kindness.

She got on with weeding and pottering. She didnt have a big garden to tend at her age, just a few chickens and a couple of ducks. Shed buy milk, cheese, and cream off the neighbour, Mrs. Smith, and in return shed drop off spare eggs or a jar of jam. Quite the little barter system.

A week went by, and George started venturing out a bit more. Hed pet Monty or sneak a few strawberries from the patch. He wasnt one for helping much, but Margaret didnt mind. One day, when she was off to the shop, she invited George to come along and to her surprise, he agreed.

On the walk back, he just wouldnt stop chatting. From that moment, something changed. He started tidying up, watering the veggies, and insisted on feeding Monty all by himself. He even made friends with the lads from next door, and by the evening, you couldnt get him inside.

He seemed happier, and even picked up an old, battered copy of Robinson Crusoe that used to be Edwards. He read it chapter by chapter, filling Margaret in with a running commentary and giggling about Friday, while she sat knitting by the fire. It reminded her so much of Edwards own childhood, always cheerful and chatty.

In August, Edward turned up looking proud as anything. Weve had a little girlEmma! he beamed. Olivia and the baby come home tomorrow, but I wanted to let you know and check on George.

Dad, I love it here with Granny Margaret! Can I stay a bit longer? Ill come see Emma before school starts.

So he stayed until September. Margaret sent new-baby gifts: tiny socks, a sweet little bonnet, a feather-light blanket, and some hand-knitted mittens for Olivia. Edward thanked her, gave her a big hug, shook Georges hand like a man, and headed back.

Near the end of summer, George was tearing about in the lane with his mates, playing football, when a car pulled up. Everyone paused to stare as the visitors arrived. Out stepped Olivia, a sturdy woman with the baby in her arms, and then Edward. Edward took little Emma, and George raced over, shouting, Mums here! but tripped and fell on a stone.

He didnt cry, though. Instead, he picked up a dock leaf and pressed it to his knee, just like the boys had taught him. Olivia kissed her son, took his hand, and followed Edward into the house.

Whats George doing running around the street unsupervised? she snapped instead of hello.

Hello to you too, Margaret replied with an easy smile. Nice to finally meet. The boys are always running about here, and George has been a wonderful help. He deserves to play, dont you think?

Margaret then peeked at her new granddaughter, who was fast asleepan absolute cherub. Margaret felt tears prick her eyes.

She fed her guests a hearty stew, some fresh bread, and got them settled in before she started asking after their news.

Weve come to fetch George, Olivia stated, all business. He must be ready to get back to city life surely youre fed up with him by now?

George suddenly stood up and said loudly, I dont want to go back! I want to stay with Granny Margaret. Mum, you lied shes not mean. Shes lovely!

Olivia flushed bright red, hurt in her eyes.

Dont say things like that to your mother, George, Margaret murmured gently. Say sorry and go play in the garden, but stay where I can see you.

The boy lowered his head, muttered Im sorry, I wont do it again, and went outside.

Dont worry about him, Olivia, Margaret said softly. Hes a good lad, well-mannered youve done a wonderful job. Honestly, Ive cherished having him all summer. Thank you, Edward, for leaving him with me. Hes welcome any summer he wants to come.

Just then, Emma started crying so Olivia darted off to tend to her. The family ended up spending two days there. Edward fixed a few things round the place, Olivia barely left her daughters side, and Margaret cooked up a storm for everyone. George, meanwhile, floated between helping his dad, his granny, and cuddling his baby sister, all while sharing his adventures from the summer.

Eventually, it was time to go. Edward, George, and baby Emma said their goodbyes in the garden, and then Olivia came over, hugged Margaret, and whispered, Thank you, Mum. I lost my own mother so long ago, and I never thought mothers-in-law could be like you. Please forgive me. I love Edward dearly hes such a good man.

Margaret smiled. Hes yours now, love. And Im just pleased to bits. Bring George back, wont you? Ive grown to love that boy as my own.

And so they parted, with everything finally falling into place. Come winter, they even moved Margaret in to help with the children and the house. And Margaret and Olivia, the once-sceptical daughter-in-law and the country mother, got on like a house on fireto the delight of Edward and clever little George.

“You’re Driving Me Up the Wall!… You Never Eat Right, Dress Right, You Can’t Do Anything Properly!” Pavel’s Voice Finally Broke Into a Shout. “And You’re Useless! Can’t Even Earn Decent Money, Never Help At Home…” Marina Burst Into Tears. “And We Have No Children…” She Whispered. Belka – a ten-year-old, white-and-ginger cat – Watched Another “Tragedy” Unfold from atop the Wardrobe, Wondering Why Mum and Dad Hurt Each Other with Such Bitter Words When They Clearly Love Each Other So Much. Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Sat Chain-Smoking, and Belka Wondered: “A Family Needs Happiness… and Happiness Means Children… But Where to Find Them?” Belka Couldn’t Have Kittens (She’d Been Neutered), and Mum – Well, Doctors Said She Might, but Nothing Worked Out… The Next Morning, Once Her Owners Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window for the First Time and Popped Over to See Her Neighbour, Paws, for Advice. “Why Would Anyone Want Kids?” scoffed Paws. “Mine Drive Me Mad—Hide From Them All Day! Covered In Lipstick One Minute, Squashed the Next!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Good Kids… Just Not Sure Where To Find Them…” “Well,” mused Paws, “Street Cat Maisie Downstairs Has Five… Take Your Pick…” Taking a Deep Breath, Belka Braved Her Way Down, Squeezing through Railings and Calling, “Maisie! Please, Can I Talk to You?” From the Depths of the Basement Came Tiny, Desperate Squeaks. Belka Crawled Over—Five Scruffy, Blind, Hungry Kittens Huddled Under the Radiator, Clearly Abandoned for Days. Heart Heavy, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten Up to Her Building’s Entrance. Curling Protectively Around Them, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Return. When Pavel and Marina Arrived, Stunned to Find Belka (Who’d Never Been Outside Alone) Surrounded by Five Squeaking, Colourful Kittens, They Could Only Stare in Amazement. “How On Earth…?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina, Scooping Up the Cat and Kittens and Hurrying Indoors. Cradling the Purring Feline and Her Furry Brood, Pavel Asked, “What Now?” “I’ll Bottle-Feed Them… When They’re Bigger, We’ll Find Them Homes. I’ll Ring My Friends,” Marina Replied Softly. Three Months Later, Stroking Her Cat Family, Marina Whispered Again and Again, “Things Like This Don’t Just Happen… It’s Impossible…” But Soon She and Pavel Were Laughing Through Their Tears, Holding Each Other Close, and Dreaming Aloud: “I’m Glad I Finished the House!” “It’s the Perfect Place for a Child!” “The Kittens Can Roam, Too!” “We’ll Fit Just Fine!” “I Love You So Much!” “Oh, And I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together.

“Well, Rusty, shall we?” muttered Val, adjusting the homemade lead fashioned from an old rope. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and shivered. February this year had been particularly vicious—sleet and biting winds that cut straight through. Rusty—a scruffy mongrel with faded ginger fur and one blind eye—had come into his life a year ago. Val was just coming home from the night shift at the factory when he spotted the dog by the bins: beaten, starving, his left eye clouded over. A voice rattled his nerves. Val recognised it at once—Steve Squint, the local “top lad,” barely twenty-five, with three teenage lads swaggering at his side—his “crew.” “Out for a stroll, eh?” Val replied, eyes fixed on the pavement. “Oi, mister, you got a license for that mutt?” one lad jeered. “Ugly thing, innit—look, his eye’s all funny!” A stone hurtled and smacked Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered, pressing himself to Val’s leg. “Sling your hook,” Val said softly, but there was steel in his voice. “Oi, listen to this! Granddad MacGyver’s giving us orders!” Steve strolled closer. “You forget whose patch this is? Dogs walk round here if I say so.” Val tensed. He’d been taught in the army to solve problems swiftly and firmly. That was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a knackered, retired mechanic desperate to avoid trouble. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time, your freak won’t be limping—he’ll be gone for good!” At home, Val couldn’t sleep a wink, replaying the scene. The following day, sleet pelted down. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty perched patiently by the door, eyes brimming with hope, and Val relented. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts—Steve’s crew were nowhere to be seen, probably sheltering from the sour weather. Val was just starting to relax when Rusty froze by the derelict boiler house, one ear cocked, nose sniffing at the damp air. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whimpered, tugging towards the rubble. Strange noises drifted out—half cry, half moan. “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Silence, only the wind howled reply. Rusty insisted, pulling hard on the rope. In his one good eye was pure worry. “What is it?” Val crouched by him. “What have you found?” Then, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped the rope and followed Rusty through the shattered entry. Behind a pile of broken bricks, a boy lay crumpled—about twelve, face battered, lip split, clothes torn. “Good lord!” Val dropped to his knees. “What happened?” “Mr. Val?” the boy croaked, barely opening an eye. “Is it you?” Val peered closer—Andy Mason, his neighbour’s quiet lad from number 5. “Andy! What on earth happened?” “Steve and his lot,” the boy sniffed. “Wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell the copper. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val stripped off his coat, wrapped the shivering boy. Rusty pressed close, covering Andy with his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg… hurts. Bad.” Val felt it—sure enough, broken. Who knew what else was wrong inside. “Have you got a phone?” “They took it.” Val pulled out his ancient Nokia, rang for an ambulance. Help would be there in half an hour. “Hang on, lad. They’re coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy whimpered. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t hurt you again,” Val promised, voice firm. “Not anymore.” Andy looked doubtful: “But last night you ran from them…” “That was different. It was just me and Rusty then. Now…” He left it hanging. How to explain thirty years back, he’d sworn to defend the weak? That in Afghanistan they taught him—a real man never abandons a child? The ambulance arrived faster than expected. Andy was whisked away. Val remained with Rusty in the drizzle, thinking. That night, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came by in tears. “Mr. Grant,” she sobbed, “the doctors said if he’d stayed another hour in the cold… you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val stroked Rusty. “He found your boy.” “What now?” she whispered, eyes darting to the door. “Steve’s not finished. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word isn’t enough.” “It’ll be all right,” Val said, though he hadn’t a clue how. He barely slept, the questions looping—how to protect Andy? And not just him; how many kids here put up with Steve and his gang? By morning, he had his answer. Val donned his old military dress uniform—the lot, medals and all. He checked himself in the mirror—a proper soldier, if a bit battered. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve a job to do.” Steve’s lot lounged outside the corner shop. Seeing Val march over, they cackled. “Oi, Grandad, off to the Cenotaph, are ye?” one jeered. Steve stood, smirking: “Run along, old timer. Your day’s over.” “The day’s just starting,” Val said calmly, stepping up. “What’s up with the fancy dress?” “Serving my country. Protecting the weak from scum like you.” Steve’s grin faded. “Andy Mason—remember him?” “Why bother with that loser?” “Because he’s the last kid you’ll ever hurt round here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “Let’s see who runs things, grandad!” Val didn’t move an inch. Thirty years gone, but the soldier was still there. “The law runs things now.” “What law? You a copper?” “I don’t need a badge—I’ve got my conscience.” Then something wholly unexpected happened. Rusty, who’d sat at Val’s side quietly, rose. The hair on his hackles bristled, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “And your mutt—” Steve began. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in. “Afghan war, bomb squad. He can sniff out a villain from a mile off.” It wasn’t true—Rusty was just a scrappy stray. But Val sounded so convincing, everyone believed it. Even Rusty seemed to believe, straightening proudly, baring his teeth. “He’s found twenty terrorists—tied up every single one,” Val carried on. “Think he can’t handle one junkie?” Steve backed off. His mates froze. “Listen well,” Val stepped forward. “From now on, these streets belong to everyone. I’ll be out every day, every alley, every playground. And Rusty will sniff out any trouble. Then we’ll see…” He left it unsaid. But they understood. “You trying to scare us?” Steve tried bravado. “I make one call—” “Go ahead.” Val nodded. “Just remember—I know more people in prison than you ever will. Plenty owe me favours.” That wasn’t true either. But Steve bought it. “The name’s Val the Para,” Val said. “Remember it. And keep your hands off the kids.” He turned to go. Rusty trotted proudly at his side. Silence settled behind them. Three days on, Steve and his crew vanished from sight. And Val truly did start walking the neighbourhood every day—with Rusty, head held high and chest out. Andy was discharged a week later. His leg hurt, but he could walk. He showed up at Val’s door. “Mr. Val, can I help with your patrols?” Andy asked hopefully. “You’ll have to check with your mum first.” Mrs. Mason couldn’t have been more pleased—at last, her son had a role model. So every evening, you’d see them: the battle-scarred old gent in uniform, a quiet boy, and a scruffy ginger stray. Everyone adored Rusty. Even the mums let the kids stroke him, rough as he looked—there was something proud in his bearing. Val told tales of his army days, of true friendship. The children listened, wide-eyed. One evening, heading home with Andy, the boy asked, “Mr. Val, were you ever scared?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Of not being strong enough.” Andy patted Rusty. “I’ll grow up and help you, Mr. Val. I’ll have a dog just like him—clever, brave.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Of course you will.” Rusty just wagged his tail. And everyone round those streets knew: “That’s Val the Para’s dog. He can spot a hero from a villain in a second.” Rusty bore the title proudly—no longer just a stray. He was the neighbourhood’s protector.

The Mother-in-Law Anna Peterson sat in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, only to remember too late: the milk would rise, overflow, and she’d wipe the stovetop in frustration. In those moments, she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since the birth of her second grandchild, the whole family seemed to have come off the rails. Her daughter looked exhausted, thinner, spoke less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes went straight to his room. Anna saw it all and thought: how can you just leave a woman to manage alone? So she spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then her son-in-law. And then, she noticed something strange: her words didn’t lighten the atmosphere—they made it heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, her son-in-law grew sullen, and Anna went home feeling as though she’d done something wrong—again. That day, she went to see Father Matthew—not for advice, but because she simply had nowhere else to go with these feelings. “I must be a terrible mother,” she began, eyes cast down. “I keep getting it wrong.” The priest was seated at his table, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I only wanted to help. But I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her carefully, but kindly. “You’re not terrible. You’re tired. And you’re very anxious.” She sighed. It felt true. “I worry about my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different now, since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “He acts like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you see what he does?” Father Matthew asked. Anna thought. She recalled how, last week, he’d quietly done the dishes late at night, believing no one saw. How on Sunday he’d taken the pram out, though he looked like he just wanted to sleep. “He does… things,” she admitted. “But not the way he should.” “And what way would that be?” Anna was ready to answer, but then realised she wasn’t sure. In her mind there was only: more, better, kinder. But what, exactly—she couldn’t say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” Anna said. “Then say that,” Father Matthew replied quietly. “But say it to yourself, not to him.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re fighting her husband, not fighting for your daughter. And fighting brings tension. That exhausts everyone—you included.” Anna was silent for a long time. “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words—actions. Not against anyone, but for someone.” On her way home, she turned all this over. She remembered how, when her daughter was small, she hadn’t lectured her—just sat nearby when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day she dropped in, unannounced, bringing soup. Her daughter was surprised, her son-in-law embarrassed. “I’m not staying long,” Anna said. “Just here to help.” She watched the children while her daughter napped. She slipped away without saying how hard things were, or how they “should” live. A week later, she came again. And the week after that. She still saw that her son-in-law wasn’t perfect—but now she noticed other things: how gently he lifted the baby, how in the evenings he covered her daughter with a blanket, thinking no one saw. One day, Anna couldn’t help but ask him in the kitchen: “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked. “It’s hard,” he replied after a pause. “Very.” And said nothing more. But after that, something sharp in the air between them vanished. Anna realised: she’d been waiting for him to change. But what she needed was to begin with herself. She stopped criticising him to her daughter. When her daughter complained, she no longer said, “I told you so.” Just listened. Sometimes she took the children so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she called her son-in-law just to check in. None of it came easily. Anger was much easier. But gradually, the home became quieter. Not better. Not perfect. Just—quieter. The ever-present tension faded. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now—instead of against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood one simple thing: reconciliation isn’t when someone admits fault. It’s when someone is first to stop fighting. She still wished her son-in-law were more attentive. That feeling never left. But another, more important wish grew alongside it: that the family be at peace. And each time the old feelings resurfaced—frustration, hurt, the urge for a sharp word—she asked herself: Would I rather be right, or make things easier for them? The answer almost always guided her next steps.

Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.