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“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.

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Im so fed up with you! The way I eat isnt right, I dont dress properly, absolutely everything I do is wrong! Davids voice broke into a shout.

You cant do anything! Cant even earn any proper money! I can never get any help around the house from you! Sarah burst into tears, and we havent even got any childrenshe added, barely audible.

Muffin, our white-and-orange tabby, probably about ten years old, had perched herself atop the wardrobe, quietly observing the latest drama as she always did. I know, she could tellshe could feel itthat Mum and Dad truly love each other. Maybe even a lot. Which is why I never understand why they say such dreadful things that just end up hurting everyone.

Mum darted off to the bedroom in tears; Dad just sat and smoked, one cigarette after another.

Muffin must have sensed how our family was coming apart. She seemed to reason with herself: What this house needs is happiness and happiness means a child Ive just got to find a way to bring children here

She herself couldnt have kittensshed been spayed long ago. And Mum, well the doctors said she could, but apparently, something just wasnt quite right.

That morning, after Mum and Dad had headed off to work, Muffin did something shed never done before. She hopped out the little window and made her way over to our neighbours housespecifically, to talk to Tigger, the cat next door.

Why on earth would you want children? Tigger scoffed. Every time my lot come over with theirs, I hide from themone minute theyre smearing lipstick on my whiskers, the next theyre squeezing me so hard I can barely breathe!

Muffin sighed. We just want some decent little ones if only I knew where to get some

Hmm That stray down the roadMaisieshes just had a litter theres five of them choose whichever you like, Tigger mused.

With a mix of trepidation and resolve, Muffin hopped from balcony to balcony, finally slipping out onto the street. Trembling slightly, she squeezed through the iron bars beneath the basement window and called out:

Maisie, could you come here for just a moment, please

From the depths of the cellar there was a faint, desperate squeaking.

Creeping forward and glancing anxiously around, Muffin let out a low whimper. Under the radiator, straight on the cold gravel, huddled five tiny, completely helpless kittens, blindly crying for their mother. With one sniff, Muffin instantly knewMaisie hadnt been there for days, at least three, and the little ones were starving

Muffin nearly shed a tear, but determinedly and gently carried each kitten, one by one, up to our front porch.

Trying to keep the plaintively squeaking, hungry group from wandering off, she lay beside them, peering anxiously towards the end of the garden where she knew Sarah and David would soon be returning.

David, silent as ever, met Sarah at the door as she got home from work. As they neared the house, they stopped in astonishmentthere was Muffin, who, it must be said, had never once before set foot out of the house by herself, lying on the front step as five tiny, mewing kittens clambered over her, mewling for milk.

What on earth? David was utterly baffled.

Its a miracle Sarah breathed, and gathering up Muffin and the kittens, they rushed inside.

As Sarah settled Muffin and her pile of kittens into a cardboard box, David asked:

What shall we do with them all?

Ill feed them with a pipette Ill find them homes once theyre older Ill ring my friends, Sarah whispered quietly.

Three months later, Sarah sat in the kitchen, stroking her little feline pack, murmuring to herself in disbelief: Things like this just dont happen things like this just dont happen

Soon, she and David were in tears of happiness, he swept her up in his arms, and with their voices tumbling over each other, they chattered away

I knew there was a reason I finished building the extension!

Nothing better for a child than country air!

And the kittens can play there, too!

Well fit just fine!

I love you!

And I love you! So much!

Wise old Muffin wiped a tear away with her pawlife really was looking up at last.

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02
“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.
03
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.
06
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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.
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“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.