I’m at a Loss Explaining to My Daughter-in-Law that My Son is Suffering from Gastritis and Needs Special Dietary Food

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

28November2025

Im at a loss for how to make my daughterinlaw understand that my son suffers from chronic gastritis and needs a strict dietary plan.

James is 27. Just six months ago he tied the knot. His wife, Poppy, received a lovely twobedroom flat from her parents as a wedding gift, and the two of them now live there together.

Theres nothing against Poppy personally; shes pleasant, intelligent and beautiful, coming from a wellestablished family. Her father works as a doctor, her mother is a schoolteacher, and Poppy herself is completing her medical degree.

Still, Im increasingly worried about James. Ive noticed that Poppy isnt a particularly diligent housekeeper and doesnt look after my son as well as I would hope.

James has a hereditary stomach ulcer problem; he needs treatment in spring and autumn and must watch his diet all the time. My late husband also suffered from gastric ulcers.

When James lived with me, I made sure his meals were appropriate. As soon as he married, I warned Poppy that she should be preparing his food on a diet. She agreed in theory but never follows through.

I try not to intrude on their private life and visit only rarely. Yet every time Im there I see piles of empty pizza boxes. They claim theyre from friends who stopped by.

Opening the fridge, I never find anything sensiblejust sausage, cheese, ketchup and mayo. No soup, fruit, yoghurt, dairy, or eggs.

Ive brought over rabbit, turkey and chicken, asking Poppy to make a broth for James, but she never does. The meat I bought still sits frozen in the freezer.

I understand Poppy is still young; perhaps she feels pressed for time. But when I was her age I was already a mother of two and coped with a household. She cant even seem to look after her own husband!

I offered to help: If youre struggling, let me step in. Ill cook and bring the food. Yet she always declines. James says little, keeping his head down. Recently he spent a night in hospital with an acute flareup.

I dont know how to change this. I dont want to damage my relationship with Poppy or cause further tension, but it pains me that she ignores my concerns. My sons health is my constant worry, and Im unsure how to influence Poppy without overstepping.

If anyone has any advice, I would be grateful.

Default Breakup “It’ll all be fine,” Vova whispered quietly, trying to sound confident as he drew a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be tense—how could it be otherwise? Meeting the parents was never easy… The door opened almost at once. On the threshold stood Mrs. Alexandra Peterson. She looked immaculate—her hair styled into a neat chignon, an elegant dress, makeup done just so. Her sharp gaze flickered to Lara, lingered on the basket of biscuits, and her lips tightened—for the briefest instant, but Lara noticed. “Come in,” Mrs. Peterson said coolly, barely stepping aside to let them pass. Vova entered, doing his best not to meet his mother’s eyes, Lara trailing after him, stepping over the threshold with care. The flat greeted them with muted lighting and the woody scent of sandalwood. Everything was cosy, yet almost ostentatiously perfect. No clutter, no stray scarf tossed aside or a forgotten book. Every detail screamed order and control. Mrs. Peterson led them into the sitting room—a spacious place with a large window, heavy cream drapes, an imposing sofa upholstered in expensive fabric, and a low mahogany table. She indicated the sofa with a precision that brooked little argument. “Tea? Coffee?” she asked, still not looking Lara’s way. Her voice was even, emotionless, as if going through social motions rather than being truly welcoming. “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Lara replied politely, striving to sound calm and friendly. She set the basket on the table, undid the ribbon, lifting the lid gently. The smell of fresh biscuits filled the room. “I brought biscuits I baked myself—if you’d like to try.” Mrs. Peterson glanced at the basket, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll bring some tea.” Whilst she was in the kitchen, Vova hunched near Lara and murmured, “Sorry. Mum’s always… like this.” “It’s okay,” Lara smiled, squeezing his hand. “I understand. What matters is that you’re with me.” When Mrs. Peterson returned, she carried a tray with fine bone china teacups, a silver teapot, biscuits neatly arranged on a plate. She poured the tea with care and took her seat, arms folded in her lap, directly opposite her guests. “So, Lara,” she began, her gaze picking over every detail—hair, eyes, how Lara held her cup. “Vova said you’re at university—training to be a nursery teacher, isn’t it?” “I am, yes, I’m in my third year,” Lara replied, steadying the teacup so her hands wouldn’t tremble. “Teaching children is something I genuinely love. Helping them learn and grow means a lot to me.” “With children,” Mrs. Peterson echoed, a hint of irony in her arched brow. “Admirable, I suppose. But you do realise the pay for that work is… modest? These days, one must consider the future, security.” Vova jumped in, a bit more heated than intended: “Mum, must it always be about money? Lara loves what she does. That’s more important. Money will come—we’ll support one another, that’s what matters.” Mrs. Peterson turned her head toward her son, but didn’t reply right away. She sipped her tea, as if weighing every word with care. “Loving your work is wonderful,” she said at last, returning her gaze to Lara. “Still, love alone rarely pays the bills. Have you considered what comes after university? Any plans for your future?” Lara drew a deep breath, gathering her thoughts—she sensed this was more than mere curiosity; it was a test. “Of course I have,” she replied steadily. “I plan to start in a nursery, gain experience, and maybe take courses to work with children with special needs. Challenging, but I feel it’s my calling.” Mrs. Peterson nodded, silent, eyes keenly watchful. “I don’t intend to be a burden on Vova,” Lara added, “I want to work, to be independent, to help build a strong family with more than just financial contributions. It’s important to do work I find fulfilling.” “An interesting perspective,” said Mrs. Peterson, tilting her head slightly. “But with your skills, have you not thought of something more lucrative? Sales, or marketing perhaps—those pay much better.” Vova tried to interject, but a subtle gesture from Lara stopped him. She sensed now was the time to speak up for herself. “And what is it you do?” she asked, surprising both Mrs. Peterson and herself with her firmness. Mrs. Peterson flinched, caught off guard, then collected herself. “I… I don’t work. My husband supports our family. I run the household, assist him in practical matters, keep order. That’s work in its own way—though unpaid.” “I understand,” Lara nodded, resolve growing within her. “So if you chose not to pursue a career for money, why expect me to give up what I love just for higher pay? I’m not asking Vova to provide for me.” A heavy silence settled. Mrs. Peterson stared at Lara, as if reassessing her. “My husband offered me that life. We could afford it, you see. But Vova…” Vova fidgeted uncomfortably at this. He cast his eyes at his mother, whose face remained impassive, and then to Lara, who sat upright, her expression proud but now shadowed by uncertainty. “Lara, you know—” he began haltingly, searching for the right words, his voice catching. “Mum only wants the best for us, you know. She doesn’t want us to face hardships we can avoid.” Lara looked at him in surprise—wasn’t he on her side a moment ago? How quickly his loyalty shifted. It hurt in ways she hadn’t anticipated, right when she most needed him. “So you agree with her, then?” she asked, voice steady but cool. “You think I should abandon my passion, take any job just because it pays more?” “Not exactly… but… Mum has a point: we need to think about the future, stability. We can’t just live for today, right? We need to know how we’ll manage.” Mrs. Peterson now gave Vova a small, approving glance. Then she turned back to Lara, arms still crossed, her tone softening, if only in form: “Tell me, Lara, do you truly believe my son should give up his dreams? After all, he’s always wanted to be a journalist—to travel, write, create. It’s not just a job—it’s who he is. But he’d have to leave that behind to provide for a family, wouldn’t he?” Lara opened her mouth, but Vova spoke first. “Mum, I…” “No, Vova, be honest,” Mrs. Peterson snapped in, not taking her eyes off him. “Are you ready to give up everything you’ve worked for—your dreams, chances to travel, new projects—just for this girl?” Vova stilled, torn. He looked to Lara—her hurt was visible, but she waited, letting him decide. He felt the tug of two versions of himself: one wanted to fight for Lara, the other feared his mother’s logic. “I…” he faltered, then inhaled deeply. “I don’t want to let go of my dreams. But I don’t want to lose Lara, either. I believe we can find a balance; maybe I can pursue journalism, if not as much as before, and Lara will be by my side—as I will, for her.” Mrs. Peterson sighed and shook her head, but said nothing more, reclining in her chair as if to signal she’d said all she meant and would wait for fate’s verdict. “How curious,” Lara said, her voice sharp now, “So Vova can’t give up his dreams, but I must? I’m the one meant to get a high-paid job, while Vova enjoys his life? Doesn’t seem very fair, does it?” Vova lowered his eyes, clutching his teacup tight, his hands trembling so the cup clinked gently against its saucer. Thoughts churned. He found no words to appease them all—mother, Lara, or himself. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to juggle things then…” he mumbled, staring into the cup as if answers hid inside. “Juggle?” his mother scoffed, voice ironclad with certainty. “You can’t have everything. You must decide—career or family. Half-measures don’t work.” Vova swallowed hard, wanting to retort, to say times had changed—that people learn to balance love and work—but her stare reduced him again to a nervous boy, lost for words. “Well then, I think that’s enough for today,” Mrs. Peterson declared, rising with unhurried grace. “It’s getting late, and our neighbourhood gets rough after dark. Lara, it’s best you head home now. Vova—we need to talk. Right now.” No room for discussion—her words were law. “Mum, maybe I should walk Lara to the bus stop—at least—” “Don’t even think about it!” she shot back, not even glancing at him. “I’d be worried. Stay put.” Vova deflated, his shoulders hunched and hands limp. When his mother made up her mind, there was no arguing. “Sorry, Lara,” he mumbled, eyes down. “Best not to upset Mum. I won’t walk you out. You should book a taxi, alright?” Lara nodded. She didn’t argue, didn’t protest. She set her cup down, collected her bag, and rose to her feet. “Alright,” she said with cold calm, though her insides burned with pain and disappointment. “I’m off then.” She stood, smoothed down her jumper, as if that one act could assemble her thoughts. She made no attempt to smile—her smile felt false, irrelevant now. All she wanted was to be gone from this home where every pristine detail screamed she didn’t belong. “Thank you for the tea,” she said politely, her voice edged with chill—a mere formality now, the last word before her exit. “Goodbye,” Mrs. Peterson responded briskly, still not meeting her eye. As if Lara no longer existed. Lara made for the door, step by step, carrying the tension, not hurrying though every muscle screamed to bolt. At the threshold she looked back—Vova sat, head bowed, hands limp in his lap. He never looked up, never tried to stop her, never said a word. That silence told Lara everything. Relief hit her as she stepped out into the cool evening air, though the tangled surge of anger, sadness, resentment wasn’t so easily chased away. Now it was plain: Vova would always be his mother’s boy—never hers. She walked down the street, slow at first, then faster, as if she could outpace her thoughts. But they chased her: “He couldn’t even defend me. Couldn’t say he respected my choice. Pleasing his mother matters more than supporting me.” She barely noticed her quickening pace, her balled fists, choking back tears. Home at last, she shut the door, kicked off her shoes, slumped onto the hallway stool. The quiet cocooned her—and finally, she let herself breathe. The storm inside her eased. This wasn’t the end of the world—just the end of a story that perhaps should never have begun. Lara inhaled, exhaled. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, was a new day. She would cope. ******************* The next day, Lara ignored Vova’s calls. Her phone buzzed repeatedly, but she only glanced at the screen and tucked it away. She needed time—to think, to figure out what she really wanted. Over and over, her mind returned to their last conversation, to his silence, to the way he failed her when it mattered most. For days, she went through the motions: university, assignments, friends, but in a haze. She tried not to think of Vova, but the thoughts crept back: he would always be torn between her and his mother. Every important decision, every little thing, would pass through the filter of Mrs. Peterson’s judgment—a future Lara dreaded. A few days on, heading home from class, Lara spotted a familiar figure by her building. As she neared, she heard her name: “Lara!” She turned. Vova stood by the door, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his jacket. His look was apologetic, but had none of his former assurance. “We need to talk,” he started, not quite meeting her eye. “Mum explained to me…well, she thinks you’re not right for me.” Lara arched a brow, bracing herself for the familiar ache, but her face stayed calm. “And what do you think?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. Vova hesitated, eyes down, shuffling from foot to foot. He seemed to be searching for words that never came. “Well… she’s my mum,” he said at length, with a nervous shrug. “She just wants the best for me. I don’t want to upset her.” No strength or conviction in his tone—no explanation, just an excuse. Lara watched him, trying to see if he meant it or simply couldn’t face the truth. “So you agree with her?” she pressed, but she already knew. “I’m not saying I agree—” he blurted, meeting her gaze, “But she’s family. I can’t just turn away from her.” He fell silent, as if waiting for Lara to patch things herself, to find some solution. But she was in no rush—her mind was already moving on: “What if he never changes? What if he’ll always put his mum first? I’ll never be anything but second.” “Do you want to be with me?” she asked, quietly, directly. He stalled again. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead, he only sighed, shoulders slumping, as if conceding he couldn’t give her what she needed. Lara nodded—a gesture more for herself than for him. She didn’t argue or ask for explanations. She just turned and entered the building, leaving Vova staring after her. He watched her disappear through the doors, feeling oddly hollow, unsure if he’d said what he really meant. That evening, Lara went for a walk. The street was quiet, lamplight spilling over wet pavements. The air was autumnal—leaves, rain, something fresh and free. She walked with no destination, letting her feet set the pace. Suddenly, she laughed. The sound was light, almost flippant, surprising her as much as anyone. She stopped, watching far-off lights flicker, and it struck her: trouble might lie ahead, but she was ready for it. Because now she knew—she didn’t need to twist for someone else, or explain herself, or prove her worth. She was free. And that was all that mattered.

00

The Real Son “Lena, you won’t believe it! Matvey and I have decided—we’re off to Turkey again next year!” My stepdad was practically glowing with happiness. “He says he needs that hotel with the sea view all over again. What can I do? My own son makes the call, you know?” That word—*own*—slipped out so naturally, as if it mattered. “I’m happy for you,” I answered, thinking back to better times, before Matvey appeared on the scene. “Your own son… And you always said we were a family. That there was no difference, whether a child was born to you or not.” He used to say that. That I was his daughter, and that’s all there was to it. “Here you go again… Oh, Lena! You’re my daughter, that’s not up for debate! You know I love you as if you were my own. But still, Matvey is my son…” He didn’t even realize he’d just proven my point. “Matvey’s your son. So I’m just…what, an acquaintance?” “Lena, what are you talking about? I just said, you’re like a daughter to me!” “Like a daughter… Did you ever take me to the seaside? In the fifteen years you’ve called yourself my dad?” Nope. Never did. Arthur was always saying there was no difference between me and Matvey, but I could hear it in how much he did for his son—there was a world of difference. “It just never worked out, Lena. You know money was always tight in the past. You’re not a kid, you know what two weeks in a five-star hotel costs… It’s expensive.” “I get it,” I nodded. “Expenses. It’s a bit much to take me there. But for Matvey, whom you only discovered six months ago, you’re already thinking of buying a flat, so he’s got somewhere to bring his wife?” I smiled thinly, “Guess that’s a minor expense if it’s for a son?” “I’m not buying anyone a flat. Who told you that, eh?” “People.” “Tell your ‘good people’ to stop spreading gossip.” For a minute, I felt a flicker of hope. “Really, you’re not?” “Of course not. Oh, by the way! Guess where we’re going with him this Saturday? Karting! Back when he was at uni, he did some sort of racing, and I just tag along.” “Karting?” I repeated, “Sounds thrilling.” “Doesn’t it just?!” “Can I come with you two?” The question popped out before I could stop it. Arthur, clearly not wanting me there, spluttered: “Uh… Lena… You’d be bored, honestly. It’s a guy thing, really. Matvey and I, we’ve got our… you know, father-son stuff to talk about.” Ouch. “So… it might be entertaining for you, but not for me?” “That’s not quite it…” Arthur fidgeted, “It’s just, well, we haven’t seen each other for a lifetime. We’re trying to make up for lost time, just the two of us, you understand?” Understand. “You understand” had become the cruellest phrase in our new family lexicon. I was supposed to understand that flesh and blood always comes first, that now my place is somewhere out in the cold. And to be fair, Matvey was a great guy. Grew up without a father—his mum never told Arthur she’d had a child. And yet he’d done well for himself: clever, good-looking, kind. Everything a father could want from a son. “Dad, I helped out at the animal shelter. Fixed up the dog kennels,” Matvey would say. “Dad, by the way, you know I graduated top of my class?” “Dad, look, I fixed your phone!” He wasn’t just a son. He was the ideal son. That evening, after Arthur left, I found myself flipping through old photos. Arthur and Mum’s wedding (Mum, gone five years now, just leaving Arthur and me). Us at the allotment… Me on my school graduation day… Nothing would ever be as it was. * “Lena, you up? I’ve got an urgent question.” Arthur turned up at eight on the dot the next morning. “What’s so urgent?” I pushed back my fringe and started the coffee machine. “It’s about the flat for Matvey.” “So it’s true, then?” I breathed out. “Sorry, but yes. True.” “And you lied to me.” “I just didn’t want to upset you. But I need your advice! I’m thinking I should move quickly. He’ll want to get married sooner or later, and it’s best to help him while he’s still young. Give him a roof over his head. You know what I went through…” “Take out a mortgage,” I said tightly, dreading this whole conversation. Matvey really had landed on his feet. “I know, I know. But you know my credit history is a mess… Matvey deserves help from a dad he never had before.” “So what exactly do you want from me?” “Here’s the thing. I’ve got £20,000 saved. That’s enough for a deposit. The bank will never approve a loan for me. But they’d approve it for you. Clean record, you see? We put it in your name, make the payments together. All above board, I promise.” The illusion that “there’s no difference” between us was shattered forever. Oh, there’s a difference, all right. Not like he’d have put Matvey in this position. “So Matvey gets the flat, and I get the mortgage? Is that the deal?” Arthur shook his head, as if I’d just offered him an insult. “No, no! I’ll make all the payments… I’m not asking you to pay! Just need it in your name. Just think it over—” “I’m not thinking about the mortgage, Arthur. I’m thinking about the fact you don’t see me as your daughter anymore. You’ve got a son now. Him, you’ve known for six months. Me, for fifteen years. And only blood matters.” “That’s not true!” Arthur flared, “I love you both equally!” “No. You don’t.” “Lena, that’s not fair! He’s my real—” Curtain down. I wasn’t his daughter anymore. Just someone convenient to have around, until the real deal showed up. “Right then,” I said as politely as I could. “I won’t be signing anything, Arthur. I’ll need to buy my own flat one day. The bank won’t give me a second mortgage, will they?” Arthur seemed to remember for the first time that I’d be needing a place too. “Oh… I suppose you will, won’t you? But at least for now, before you buy your own, you could help me. I’ve got most of it covered, honestly. It’s just a couple of years—” “No. I’m not having anything registered in my name.” I didn’t expect Arthur to understand. “Fine,” he said, “If you can’t help me as a daughter… then I’ll have to manage by myself.” Whether he actually ever saw me as a daughter didn’t matter anymore. Now, Arthur existed only in the photographs. One evening, scrolling through my feed, I saw it. Arthur and Matvey at the airport, both in matching light jackets. Arthur’s hand, proudly on his son’s shoulder. The caption: “Off to Dubai with my dad. Family means everything.” Family. I put my phone down. A memory came back—me at five, years before Mum married Arthur. Life was tough then. My favourite doll broke, the one Gran had given me, and I sobbed and sobbed. My real father just shrugged: “Lena, why cry over a silly toy? Don’t bother me!” He was a man who never wanted to be bothered. His main interest was a bottle. I never really had a father, not until Arthur. Or so I thought. Arthur tried once more to change my mind. “Lena, we need to sort out this trust issue between us…” “What trust issue, Arthur? I said no, clearly.” “You really don’t understand. Matvey… he never knew his dad. Not ever! I have to make it up to him, somehow. He’s a grown man—he needs somewhere to live. And you wouldn’t have to do anything except sign! I promise, not a penny out of your pocket.” “Who’s going to make it up to me?” That hit a nerve. “Lena, enough! I don’t want any more arguments. I do love you, I do! But you have to understand—Matvey is my real family now. Maybe you’ll get it if you have your own kids one day. Yes, I love you both, but it’s different. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” “You need me. As a resource.” “Lena, cool off! You’re being dramatic.” “You switched to him in six months, Arthur,” I said. “I never asked you to choose. There never was a choice. You’ve told the truth: Matvey is your real one. I never was.” Six months went by. Arthur didn’t call. Not once. One day, I saw a new photo in my feed. Arthur and Matvey, this time in the mountains, both wearing expensive skiing gear. The caption: “Teaching Dad to snowboard! He’s a bit old for it, but with a son by your side, anything is possible!” I looked at it for a long while. I reached for my laptop to finish my report, when I got a text from an unknown number. “Hi Lena, it’s Matvey. Dad gave me your number, but he can’t bring himself to call. He wanted me to let you know he sorted the flat without your help, and he’s worried about you. He also wants to invite you over for the May bank holiday. He can’t explain why, but he’s really hoping you’ll come.” I typed and rewrote my reply three times. “Hi Matvey. Tell Arthur I’m really glad things are going well for him. I think about him too. But I won’t be coming. I have my own plans—I’m off to the seaside.” I didn’t mention that I’d bought my own ticket, and that it was only Brighton, not Turkey, and I wasn’t going with my dad but with a friend. I hit send. And realized that happiness was still possible, even without him.

06

The Real Son “Lena, you won’t believe it! Matvey and I have decided—we’re off to Turkey again next year!” My stepdad was practically glowing with happiness. “He says he needs that hotel with the sea view all over again. What can I do? My own son makes the call, you know?” That word—*own*—slipped out so naturally, as if it mattered. “I’m happy for you,” I answered, thinking back to better times, before Matvey appeared on the scene. “Your own son… And you always said we were a family. That there was no difference, whether a child was born to you or not.” He used to say that. That I was his daughter, and that’s all there was to it. “Here you go again… Oh, Lena! You’re my daughter, that’s not up for debate! You know I love you as if you were my own. But still, Matvey is my son…” He didn’t even realize he’d just proven my point. “Matvey’s your son. So I’m just…what, an acquaintance?” “Lena, what are you talking about? I just said, you’re like a daughter to me!” “Like a daughter… Did you ever take me to the seaside? In the fifteen years you’ve called yourself my dad?” Nope. Never did. Arthur was always saying there was no difference between me and Matvey, but I could hear it in how much he did for his son—there was a world of difference. “It just never worked out, Lena. You know money was always tight in the past. You’re not a kid, you know what two weeks in a five-star hotel costs… It’s expensive.” “I get it,” I nodded. “Expenses. It’s a bit much to take me there. But for Matvey, whom you only discovered six months ago, you’re already thinking of buying a flat, so he’s got somewhere to bring his wife?” I smiled thinly, “Guess that’s a minor expense if it’s for a son?” “I’m not buying anyone a flat. Who told you that, eh?” “People.” “Tell your ‘good people’ to stop spreading gossip.” For a minute, I felt a flicker of hope. “Really, you’re not?” “Of course not. Oh, by the way! Guess where we’re going with him this Saturday? Karting! Back when he was at uni, he did some sort of racing, and I just tag along.” “Karting?” I repeated, “Sounds thrilling.” “Doesn’t it just?!” “Can I come with you two?” The question popped out before I could stop it. Arthur, clearly not wanting me there, spluttered: “Uh… Lena… You’d be bored, honestly. It’s a guy thing, really. Matvey and I, we’ve got our… you know, father-son stuff to talk about.” Ouch. “So… it might be entertaining for you, but not for me?” “That’s not quite it…” Arthur fidgeted, “It’s just, well, we haven’t seen each other for a lifetime. We’re trying to make up for lost time, just the two of us, you understand?” Understand. “You understand” had become the cruellest phrase in our new family lexicon. I was supposed to understand that flesh and blood always comes first, that now my place is somewhere out in the cold. And to be fair, Matvey was a great guy. Grew up without a father—his mum never told Arthur she’d had a child. And yet he’d done well for himself: clever, good-looking, kind. Everything a father could want from a son. “Dad, I helped out at the animal shelter. Fixed up the dog kennels,” Matvey would say. “Dad, by the way, you know I graduated top of my class?” “Dad, look, I fixed your phone!” He wasn’t just a son. He was the ideal son. That evening, after Arthur left, I found myself flipping through old photos. Arthur and Mum’s wedding (Mum, gone five years now, just leaving Arthur and me). Us at the allotment… Me on my school graduation day… Nothing would ever be as it was. * “Lena, you up? I’ve got an urgent question.” Arthur turned up at eight on the dot the next morning. “What’s so urgent?” I pushed back my fringe and started the coffee machine. “It’s about the flat for Matvey.” “So it’s true, then?” I breathed out. “Sorry, but yes. True.” “And you lied to me.” “I just didn’t want to upset you. But I need your advice! I’m thinking I should move quickly. He’ll want to get married sooner or later, and it’s best to help him while he’s still young. Give him a roof over his head. You know what I went through…” “Take out a mortgage,” I said tightly, dreading this whole conversation. Matvey really had landed on his feet. “I know, I know. But you know my credit history is a mess… Matvey deserves help from a dad he never had before.” “So what exactly do you want from me?” “Here’s the thing. I’ve got £20,000 saved. That’s enough for a deposit. The bank will never approve a loan for me. But they’d approve it for you. Clean record, you see? We put it in your name, make the payments together. All above board, I promise.” The illusion that “there’s no difference” between us was shattered forever. Oh, there’s a difference, all right. Not like he’d have put Matvey in this position. “So Matvey gets the flat, and I get the mortgage? Is that the deal?” Arthur shook his head, as if I’d just offered him an insult. “No, no! I’ll make all the payments… I’m not asking you to pay! Just need it in your name. Just think it over—” “I’m not thinking about the mortgage, Arthur. I’m thinking about the fact you don’t see me as your daughter anymore. You’ve got a son now. Him, you’ve known for six months. Me, for fifteen years. And only blood matters.” “That’s not true!” Arthur flared, “I love you both equally!” “No. You don’t.” “Lena, that’s not fair! He’s my real—” Curtain down. I wasn’t his daughter anymore. Just someone convenient to have around, until the real deal showed up. “Right then,” I said as politely as I could. “I won’t be signing anything, Arthur. I’ll need to buy my own flat one day. The bank won’t give me a second mortgage, will they?” Arthur seemed to remember for the first time that I’d be needing a place too. “Oh… I suppose you will, won’t you? But at least for now, before you buy your own, you could help me. I’ve got most of it covered, honestly. It’s just a couple of years—” “No. I’m not having anything registered in my name.” I didn’t expect Arthur to understand. “Fine,” he said, “If you can’t help me as a daughter… then I’ll have to manage by myself.” Whether he actually ever saw me as a daughter didn’t matter anymore. Now, Arthur existed only in the photographs. One evening, scrolling through my feed, I saw it. Arthur and Matvey at the airport, both in matching light jackets. Arthur’s hand, proudly on his son’s shoulder. The caption: “Off to Dubai with my dad. Family means everything.” Family. I put my phone down. A memory came back—me at five, years before Mum married Arthur. Life was tough then. My favourite doll broke, the one Gran had given me, and I sobbed and sobbed. My real father just shrugged: “Lena, why cry over a silly toy? Don’t bother me!” He was a man who never wanted to be bothered. His main interest was a bottle. I never really had a father, not until Arthur. Or so I thought. Arthur tried once more to change my mind. “Lena, we need to sort out this trust issue between us…” “What trust issue, Arthur? I said no, clearly.” “You really don’t understand. Matvey… he never knew his dad. Not ever! I have to make it up to him, somehow. He’s a grown man—he needs somewhere to live. And you wouldn’t have to do anything except sign! I promise, not a penny out of your pocket.” “Who’s going to make it up to me?” That hit a nerve. “Lena, enough! I don’t want any more arguments. I do love you, I do! But you have to understand—Matvey is my real family now. Maybe you’ll get it if you have your own kids one day. Yes, I love you both, but it’s different. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” “You need me. As a resource.” “Lena, cool off! You’re being dramatic.” “You switched to him in six months, Arthur,” I said. “I never asked you to choose. There never was a choice. You’ve told the truth: Matvey is your real one. I never was.” Six months went by. Arthur didn’t call. Not once. One day, I saw a new photo in my feed. Arthur and Matvey, this time in the mountains, both wearing expensive skiing gear. The caption: “Teaching Dad to snowboard! He’s a bit old for it, but with a son by your side, anything is possible!” I looked at it for a long while. I reached for my laptop to finish my report, when I got a text from an unknown number. “Hi Lena, it’s Matvey. Dad gave me your number, but he can’t bring himself to call. He wanted me to let you know he sorted the flat without your help, and he’s worried about you. He also wants to invite you over for the May bank holiday. He can’t explain why, but he’s really hoping you’ll come.” I typed and rewrote my reply three times. “Hi Matvey. Tell Arthur I’m really glad things are going well for him. I think about him too. But I won’t be coming. I have my own plans—I’m off to the seaside.” I didn’t mention that I’d bought my own ticket, and that it was only Brighton, not Turkey, and I wasn’t going with my dad but with a friend. I hit send. And realized that happiness was still possible, even without him.

09

📌 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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