A New Family Means More Than the Old One

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 3

Mum, meet Emily, my fiancée, I declared as soon as I stepped through the door, gently holding my girlfriend around the waist. We registered at the town hall today.

Congratulations, my mother, Margaret, managed, a bit thrown off as she dried her hands with the tea towel. Shed just finished preparing supper. Come in, dont just stand in the hallway.

Truth be told, Mum looked far from pleased. I was her pride, her purpose in life, always polite and easy-going. She must have felt blindsided now, hearing about my engagement at the last minute and not from me directly.

Margaret really struggled with being left out of the loop. Did I think of her as some beast who wouldnt understand my wish to settle down? Quite the opposite shed have been happy for me, would have helped with the wedding…

Im sorry for not telling you sooner, I said, awkwardly hugging her. Everything happened so quickly I fell in love like a schoolboy! It was love at first sight, for good.

You are a schoolboy yet, arent you? Is 25 even an age? Mum tried to hide her hurt with a smile. Lets talk about whats next. Where are you two going to live?

With you, for now, if thats alright, I replied, breathing a sigh of relief that she wasnt angry. Later, well look for a place of our own.

Why would I mind? she said, genuinely surprised at my question. Its a big flat, plenty of room for everyone.

Emily, whod been quietly hovering in the doorway, smiled sweetly but quickly switched to a more neutral expression. Her main goal right now was to win my mother over she could show her true colours after the wedding.

******************************************

The wedding was wonderful. Mum went all out for her precious boy, dipping into her carefully-guarded savings. She even paid for a seaside honeymoon, telling us to enjoy our time together before life got too busy especially since Emily had just told us shes expecting.

Its not that Mum disapproved of my choice entirely, but there was something about Emily she found rather suspicious. She always agreed with everything, smiled sweetly at every word…

Mums sister, Aunt Linda, just laughed when Mum voiced her worries.

Count yourself lucky with a daughter-in-law like that! But give her time shell show her true self once she thinks shes in charge. Still, keep your guard up if youve got a bad feeling. Sometimes people look angelic around their bloke, but turn out to be the devil in disguise.

Lindas words proved spot on. After Emily got that all-important marriage certificate, she seemed to transform overnight. With me working long hours, she gradually made life unbearable for Mum.

Emily grew bold enough to tell Mum she wasnt welcome in their homeher own home! The first time my mum heard that, she nearly fell off her chair. Outraged but trying to keep the peace, Mum came to me and asked me to have a word with my wife.

Mum, youve misunderstood her, I waved it off, refusing to believe my darling Emily would ever say such a thing. Shes wonderful and kind, honestly the best!

Hearing my defence, Emily flashed a smug little grin. Everything was falling into place for her.

A few days later, Emily greeted me at the door in floods of tears, claiming she was too frightened to be alone in the flat with my mother.

“You remember Im terribly allergic to honey,” she sobbed, “and today, when I couldnt sleep, I wanted to help your mum make breakfast. I came into the kitchen and there she was, pouring honey into the pancake mix! Im scared!”

I lost it. I stormed in to confront Mum. I told her I wasn’t a child anymore, that I could make my own choices, that no one was going to harm those I loved. My shouting drowned out Mums attempts to explain. She just looked so pale and confused, her hands shaking as she reached for her medication, but I didnt see that. I just kept shouting.

Finally, she couldnt take it. Mum grabbed her coat and headed to Aunt Linda’s. I doubt she even knew what shed done wrong to deserve all this. It drove her to tears.

She only got a few yards from Linda’s block before she collapsed right there on the pavement.

******************************************

It had been two weeks since Mums funeral. I was a shell of my former self, wracked with guilt. Emily kept bringing me glasses of water, ever the picture of comfort.

Darling, I know youre grief-stricken, but we need to focus on the living, she cooed, stroking her baby bump. Seeing you like this is making me ill too.

I just sat there in silence, which clearly riled Emily. Her plan had workedeven if the result was more extreme than shed hoped. Shed just wanted to swap the flat, not go this far. Still…perhaps things had turned out better for her.

Suddenly, there was the sound of the front door. Aunt Linda let herself in with her set of keys.

How dare you just barge into our home? Emily said through gritted teeth, glaring at Linda.

Well, funny you should mention that, Linda smirked. Actually, I am at home. Didnt you know? This flats mine.

The glass slipped from Emilys hand and smashed. All that effort…wasted? The flat wasnt even mine to give…

Arthur, whats going on? she screeched.

Its just as she says, I answered, numb. Mum was saving to buy this flat from Aunt Linda. She spent it all on our wedding instead.

And I was going to transfer it to your baby, Linda finished for me. But not anymore. Youve got three days to move out. Stay and Ill call the police.

***********************************************************

P.S.

I stayed on in my aunts flatalone. That very night, Emily packed up every last one of her things, announced the baby wasnt mine at all, and left.

She Couldn’t Wait Any Longer “I’m filing for divorce,” Vera calmly announced as she handed her husband a mug of tea. “Actually, I already have.” She said it so matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather or what would be for dinner. “May I ask what the… Hm, never mind, not in front of the kids,” Arthur lowered his voice when he noticed their two worried faces. “What did I do wrong? And let’s not forget, children need their father.” “You think I can’t find them another one?” Vera rolled her eyes. “What did you do wrong? Everything! I hoped life with you would be like a quiet lake, but it’s more like a raging river!” “Right, boys, have you finished eating?” Arthur didn’t want to continue this in front of the children. “Go play. And no eavesdropping!” he called after them, knowing how nosy his sons were. “Now, where were we?” Vera pursed her lips. Even now, he’s trying to take charge. Father of the year, of course… “I’m tired of living like this. I don’t want to spend eight hours a day at work, smiling at colleagues, grovelling to clients… I want to sleep till noon, shop in expensive stores, spend afternoons at beauty salons. But you can’t give me that. So enough! I gave you the best ten years of my life…” “Can we skip the dramatics?” Arthur interrupted dryly. “Weren’t you the one who did everything possible to marry me those ten years ago? I wasn’t exactly desperate to wed.” “Mistakes happen.” The divorce was quick and quiet. Arthur reluctantly agreed to leave the boys with their mum, as long as they spent every weekend and all holidays with him. Vera easily agreed. Six months later, Arthur introduced the boys to his new wife. Smiling, high-spirited Lucy won their affection instantly, and the boys started looking forward to weekends with their father—much to their mother’s annoyance. She was even more annoyed when Arthur inherited a fortune from a distant uncle, bought a large house in the countryside, and seemed to be living his best life. He kept his job, paid only modest child support, preferred to personally provide for the boys himself, got them every gadget imaginable, and—worst of all—supervised every financial detail! If only Vera had waited six more months! If only she’d known… She’d have made very different choices. But maybe not all was lost… *** “Fancy a cuppa? Like old times?” Vera asked flirtatiously, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. Her short dress showed off her best features, and her perfect makeup made her look years younger. She had worked hard to look absolutely irresistible. “I’m busy,” Arthur replied coolly, barely glancing at his ex-wife. “Are the boys ready?” “They can’t find something, will be another ten minutes or so,” Vera replied, disappointed but undeterred. “Maybe we could spend New Year’s Eve together? The boys spent half the day decorating the tree.” “We already agreed the holidays are mine. We’ll be celebrating in a charming little village—lots of snow, skiing, snowboarding. Lucy’s arranged everything.” “But it’s a family holiday…” “That’s exactly why I’ll spend it with my family. Argue, and I’ll fight for full custody.” The door barely closed behind Arthur and the happy children before Vera, furious, smashed the wedding china. Lucy again! Why does she always interfere, pretending to adore the boys? Surely she’s simply counting the days until they go back home. After all, Vera knew how demanding her sons could be. But maybe… Just maybe… the situation could still be salvaged and Arthur’s fortune would end up in her hands. *** “What’s all this?” Arthur asked, eyeing the suitcases on his doorstep. “What do you think? Clothes. For Colin and Harry,” Vera nudged a bulging suitcase. “Since you’ve got your perfect new life, it’s my turn. Not many men will accept another man’s kids, so now the boys are yours. I’ve already spoken to Social Services, just need to sign the paperwork. That’s on you. I’m off on holiday with someone very promising.” She left Arthur standing stunned in the doorway as she sauntered towards her waiting taxi. Let’s see how long “Saint Lucy” lasts—one week, maybe two? Arthur’ll have to pick between his boys and his new wife, and he’ll definitely pick the boys. And then come running back to her—with the money in tow. A fortnight passed. A month. Two. But there was no desperate call to collect the kids. Lucy never so much as raised her voice, judging by reports from the boys. Had her mischievous devils become angels? Impossible! “How are the boys? Not worn out yet?” Vera rang, unable to resist. “They’re absolutely brilliant. Obedient, helpful—angels,” Arthur replied warmly. “Just golden.” “Really?” Vera replied, bewildered. “They were little terrors with me…” “You have to engage with kids,” Arthur sniffed. “But you were always glued to your phone. By the way, we’re moving soon. I’ll bring the boys for the holidays if you like.” “But… they’re my children too!” “You signed away your rights, remember?” Arthur laughed. “Some mother you are.” Vera was left with nothing but regret. No husband (or, more importantly, his fortune), no new boyfriend, and her children far away. Not that she missed them much—she quite enjoyed having all her time to herself. Ten years of patience, quitting six months before cashing in… So unfair…

Default Breakup “All will be well,” Vova whispered softly, trying to sound confident. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be a challenge—but how could it be otherwise? Meeting the parents is never easy… The door opened almost immediately. On the threshold stood Mrs. Alice Peterson. She looked impeccable—her hair styled perfectly, her tailored dress neat, and her makeup subtly applied. Her gaze flicked past Lara, paused briefly on the basket of biscuits, her lips tightening for just a moment—so subtle it was almost missed, but Lara caught it. “Come in,” Mrs. Peterson said, her voice cordial but not particularly warm, stepping aside for them to enter. Vova stepped inside, studiously avoiding his mother’s eyes, while Lara followed, careful as she crossed the threshold. The flat greeted them with soft lighting and the mild scent of sandalwood. The place was cosy, yet deliberately flawless—every book perfectly shelved, no scarf flung aside, every detail a testament to order and control. Mrs. Peterson led them into the lounge—a spacious room with a large window veiled by cream curtains. In the centre was a massive sofa upholstered in expensive fabric, beside it a low, dark-wood coffee table. With a gesture she indicated they sit. “Tea? Coffee?” she asked, still not meeting Lara’s eyes. Her voice sounded businesslike, as though fulfilling an obligation, rather than trying to make them feel at home. “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Lara replied politely, striving for a calm, friendly tone. She placed her basket on the table, delicately untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. The aroma of fresh biscuits quickly filled the room. “I brought some biscuits—homemade, if you’d like to try…” Mrs. Peterson paused a moment on the basket, then nodded. “Very nice,” she said, heading towards the kitchen. “I’ll bring the tea out.” As soon as she left, Vova leaned toward Lara and whispered, “Sorry. She’s always just… reserved.” “It’s all right,” Lara smiled, squeezing his hand. “I get it. What matters is you’re with me.” With Mrs. Peterson out of the room, a gentle hush settled over them. Lara glanced around—the flat was immaculate and high-end, but felt oddly cold and unwelcoming, more like a show home than somewhere people truly lived. Soon Mrs. Peterson returned, balancing a tray with delicate porcelain cups adorned in floral patterns, a silver teapot, and a small plate with the biscuits neatly arranged. She set it on the coffee table, poured the tea at a measured pace, and settled into the armchair opposite, folding her hands gracefully in her lap. “So, Lara,” she said, scrutinising her with an appraising gaze that took in her hair, her expression, even the way she held her cup. “Vova mentioned you’re studying—childcare, is it?” “Yes, I’m in my third year,” Lara nodded, keeping her hands steady as she set the cup down. “I really do enjoy working with children. Helping them grow and learn—it feels meaningful.” “With children,” Mrs. Peterson repeated with the faintest trace of irony, raising an eyebrow. “That’s certainly noble. But are you aware how little nursery workers earn? Nowadays one must think about the future—about security.” Vova bristled. “Mum, seriously, must you start with the money? Lara loves what she does, and that’s important. Things will work out. We’ll support each other—surely that matters more.” Mrs. Peterson turned her head to her son, but didn’t respond straight away. Instead she sipped her tea, as though weighing her words. “Being passionate about your work is wonderful,” she said finally, once more addressing Lara. “But sometimes passion just isn’t enough. Have you thought about what you’ll do after you qualify? Any plans for the next few years?” Lara inhaled deeply, choosing her words with care. She knew this was more than polite questioning—it was a test. “Yes, of course,” she replied evenly. “I want to work in a nursery at first, gain experience. Later, I hope to take extra training—I’d love to specialise in helping children with additional needs. It’s challenging, but I really feel it’s my calling.” Mrs. Peterson nodded silently, her gaze unreadable, taking a moment before replying. She continued watching Lara as though trying to decipher her true intentions. “I don’t intend to live off Vova,” Lara added, her resolve growing. “I want to work, to grow, and be independent. I believe a strong relationship means both partners contribute—not just financially. Doing what I love matters to me.” “Interesting outlook,” Mrs. Peterson remarked, tilting her head. “But have you considered something more lucrative? With your abilities, you’d do well in sales, or marketing. Higher pay than childcare, you know.” Vova started to object, but Lara stopped him with a look. She sensed this was her battle to fight. “And what is it you do, Mrs. Peterson?” she found herself asking, holding her gaze levelly. The question slipped out, firm and unflinching, surprising Lara with her own confidence. Mrs. Peterson hesitated, caught off guard for a split second, but soon regained composure. “I… I don’t work,” she admitted. “My husband provides for us. I keep the household running, support him with organisational matters, keep things in order. It’s work too, even if not paid work.” “I understand,” Lara nodded, her conviction solidifying. “So if you’ve chosen not to work, why would you insist I must take a higher-paid job? Why should I give up what brings me joy simply for money? I’m not expecting Vova to support me!” An uncomfortable silence stretched. Mrs. Peterson stared at Lara as though seeing her anew. “My husband offered that life,” Mrs. Peterson replied at last. “He could provide for us. But Vova…” Vova shifted awkwardly, feeling tension twisting inside. He glanced at his mother, her face unreadable, then at Lara—upright, proud, though bewilderment flickered in her eyes. “Lara, you do understand…” he began, faltering, his words coming out hushed, “Mum just worries about us. Wants us to avoid hardships.” Lara looked at him, surprised by his sudden change of tone—he’d just defended her, now he seemed to falter. Disappointment pricked at her—if ever she needed him at her side, it was now. “So you agree with her?” she asked, striving for a level voice. “You think I shouldn’t do what I love? That I should only take a job for the paycheque?” “That’s not what I’m saying…” Vova wavered, twisting his fingers. “But Mum’s right—stability is important. We can’t just live for today… We must think ahead, about practicalities.” At last Mrs. Peterson favoured her son with a brief, approving glance—just enough for Vova to know he’d said what she wanted to hear. She then turned to Lara, her tone gentler but just as insistent: “Tell me, Lara, do you really think my son should abandon his dreams? He’s always wanted to be a journalist, to travel and write… It’s not just a job for him—it’s a passion. Must he give it up now, to provide for a family all alone?” Lara opened her mouth, but Vova interrupted: “Mum, I—” “No, Vova, be honest,” Mrs. Peterson snapped, eyes fixed on him. “Are you truly ready to throw away your dreams for this girl? To give up travel, reporting, the things you’ve always loved?” Vova was silent. He looked at Lara. Hurt flashed in her eyes, but she was silent, letting him find his own answer. He felt torn in two—part of him wanted to defend Lara, to believe they could make it work; another part feared his mother’s warnings. “I…” he faltered. “I don’t want to give up on my dreams. But I don’t want to lose Lara either. I believe we can find balance. I can still write, maybe not as often, but… and Lara will be there for me, as I will for her.” Mrs. Peterson shook her head but said no more. She sank back, as though she’d said her piece and was now waiting to see what would happen next. “How fascinating,” Lara said, unable to keep the slight, bitter smile from her lips. “So Vova can’t give up his dream, but I’m supposed to give up mine? I’m to chase money, while he chases his passion? Isn’t that a bit… odd?” Vova dropped his gaze, nervously rattling his teacup, his mind spinning. “Well… maybe we’ll have to compromise…” he muttered. “Compromise?” his mother echoed, and now there was iron in her voice. “You know it’s impossible. Either you give your all, or you don’t.” Vova wanted to argue, to say that times had changed, that people do balance work and life—but the words stuck. His mother’s stare still made him feel like a scolded schoolboy. “I think that’s enough for today,” Mrs. Peterson announced, rising with the same unhurried grace. “It’s getting dark, and our area’s not the safest. Better that you head home, Lara. Vova, we need to talk—now.” It was a statement, not a suggestion. Vova tried to object, “Mum, maybe I should walk Lara out—at least to the bus stop—” “Don’t even think about it!” she barked without looking back. “I’d worry. Stay.” He slumped, understanding resistance was useless. When his mum decided, it was final. “Sorry, Lara,” he muttered. “It’s probably best. Call a cab, okay?” Lara nodded, saying nothing more. She put down her cup, picked up her bag, and stood. “Thank you for the tea,” she said, a chill edge to her voice now. No more pretending or trying to please—a formality, nothing more. “Goodbye,” Mrs. Peterson said shortly, her gaze already averted. Lara walked to the door. She moved calmly, not rushing, even as her heart pounded. At the threshold she glanced back—Vova still sat, head bowed, not meeting her eye, making no move to stop her. She stepped out, and breathed in the cool evening air. It washed away some of the tension but not the swirl of emotions—hurt, anger, disappointment—all tangled tightly inside. Now it was clear: Vova would always choose his mother, even if that meant choosing against her. Lara set off down the road, slow at first, then faster, as her thoughts chased after her. “He didn’t even try to defend me. For him, it’s more important to please her than support me.” She found her fists clenched, her lips pressed tight against tears. She reached her flat at dusk. The street was empty, lamplight glimmering on the wet pavement. She let herself in, locked up, sat heavily on the hallway stool. Silence wrapped around her; here, she no longer had to smile, no longer had to fight. She sat, staring into space, until the storm inside finally ebbed. This wasn’t the end of the world, she realised. Only the end of a story that maybe never should have started. She took a deep breath. Tomorrow was another day—and she’d be ready for it. ***** The next day, Lara ignored Vova’s calls. She needed time—time to figure out what she wanted. Even if they stayed together, she saw it now: she’d always be competing with his mother, while Vova would forever be torn between them. Every decision, every conversation would hinge on Mrs. Peterson’s opinion. The very thought made her weary. Days passed in a blur of classes and tasks, all done on autopilot. She tried not to think of Vova, but her mind returned again and again to that silent evening, to the way he hadn’t stood up for her. A few days later, returning home, she saw a familiar figure outside her building. “Lara!” She turned. Vova waited by the door, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking sheepish, his former confidence gone. “We need to talk,” he said, staring at the pavement. “Mum’s explained her view… She thinks you’re not right for me.” Lara’s insides twisted. Still, she kept her voice even. “And what do you think?” He hesitated, eyes dropping, shuffling awkwardly. “Well… she’s my mother,” he said at last, shrugging faintly. “She’s just worried. I don’t want to upset her.” There was no firmness to it, no conviction. It wasn’t an explanation, just an excuse. “So you agree with her?” Lara asked, although she already knew. “I’m not saying that,” he said hurriedly. “But she’s my family. I can’t just turn away from her.” He fell silent again, waiting for Lara to rescue him, to come up with a solution. This time, she stayed quiet. Her thoughts tumbled: “What if this never changes? Will every decision always come down to his mum’s opinion? Will I always come second?” “Do you want to be with me?” Lara asked, looking him straight in the eye. Again, hesitation—a pause, a sigh, a dropped shoulder. No answer came; just silence. Lara nodded to herself. Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Vova standing on the kerb. He watched her go, unable to call her back. That evening, Lara went for a walk. The street was quiet, lamplight shining in the autumn air. She paced without destination, just letting herself move. Suddenly, she laughed—a sudden, freeing laugh, light and genuine. She stopped, gazing at the distant city lights, and realised: Even if there are more struggles ahead, she’s ready. She has nothing more to prove, nothing to apologise for. She’s free. And that, she knew now, was what mattered.

There Will Be No Forgiveness “Have you ever thought about finding your mother?” The question caught Vicky so off guard that she involuntarily flinched. She was in the middle of sorting through documents she’d brought home from work, carefully steadying the wobbly stack on the kitchen table with her palm. Now, her hands froze midair, her gaze slowly lifting to Alex. Genuine astonishment flashed in her eyes—where on earth had he gotten such an idea? Why would she ever want to track down the woman who had callously derailed the course of her life? “Of course not,” Vicky replied, keeping her voice steady. “What a ridiculous idea. Why would I ever do that?” Alex looked briefly embarrassed, running a hand through his hair as if collecting his thoughts. His crooked smile seemed to say he’d already started to regret the question. “I just… well, I’ve heard that children in foster care often dream of finding their birth parents. So I thought… If you ever wanted to, I’d help. Really.” Vicky shook her head, her chest suddenly tight as if an invisible hand squeezed her ribs. She drew a steadying breath, willing away the rising irritation, then looked him in the eye once more. “Thank you for offering, but don’t bother,” she said, her voice a shade louder than before. “I won’t look for her. That woman stopped being my mother a long time ago. I will never forgive her!” Yes, it sounded harsh. But there was no other way. Otherwise she would be forced to dredge up ugly memories, pouring her heart out in front of the man she loved. And some things you never want to share, even with those closest to you. So she reached for the stack of documents again, feigning intense busyness. Alex frowned, but didn’t push further. It was clear her blunt answer unsettled him. Deep down, he simply couldn’t grasp her position. To him, a mother was something almost sacred—regardless of her involvement, the woman who carried a child for nine months and gave birth was worthy of reverence. He honestly believed there was a special, unbreakable bond between mother and child, impervious to time or circumstance. But Vicky not only dismissed this notion—she utterly rejected it, without a shadow of doubt. For her, it was all clear cut: how could someone long to see the person who had once shown such terrifying lack of care? Her so-called “mum” hadn’t just sent her to care; the details were darker. They cut deeper. Years ago, as a teenager, Vicky had finally worked up the courage to ask what she’d long wanted to know. She went to see Mrs Wilkinson, the head of the home—a strict but fair woman, universally respected by the children. “Why am I here?” Vicky asked softly but firmly. “Did my mum die? Or was she stripped of her parental rights? Something serious must have happened, right?” Mrs Wilkinson paused, putting aside the paperwork on her desk. She sat for a moment in silence, weighing her answer, then sighed and nodded to the chair. Vicky sat, fingers clenched tightly to the edge, anxiety churning within. She sensed she was about to learn something that would forever reshape her view of the past. “She was stripped of her rights, and faced criminal charges,” Mrs Wilkinson began carefully, watching Vicky with concern. She would spare no euphemism—a twelve-year-old deserved the truth, however much it might hurt. Better a harsh truth than gentle ignorance. She paused, collected herself, then continued, “You were brought to us aged four and a half, reported by someone who spotted a small, lost girl walking alone. It turned out a woman had left you on a railway station bench and boarded a train. It was autumn, damp and cold. You wore just a thin coat and wellies. Several hours outside meant a long hospital stay. You were very ill, it took ages to recover.” Vicky sat unmoving, almost petrified. Her knuckles whitened, but her face was expressionless—only her eyes seemed darker, stormy. She listened, taking in every word, even as a hurricane tore at her inside. “Did they find her? And what did she say for herself?” Vicky managed, voice barely above a whisper. “They did. She was found and tried. Her excuse?” Mrs Wilkinson gave a bitter half-smile. “She didn’t have money, apparently found a job, and her employer wouldn’t allow children at the site—you were in the way. So she left you and started over, free of ‘burdens.'” Vicky’s fists slowly unclenched as her hands dropped to her knees. She stared ahead, as if seeing nothing, mind drifting to that forgotten October morning. “I see,” she said in an empty, even voice, then looked Mrs Wilkinson in the eye. “Thank you for being honest.” That moment Vicky vowed, with finality, never to seek her mother. Not ever. The passing curiosity to see the woman’s face and ask “why?” was gone forever. To leave a child on the street—how was it possible? Did the woman who gave her life lack even a hint of compassion? Anything could have happened to a child alone on a rainy English street! “That’s not the act of a person; it’s the act of a beast!” Vicky silently screamed, her heart pierced anew by sharp, splintered pain. She tried to find excuses—perhaps her mother was desperate, with no other way? Perhaps thinking it was better for Vicky? But each rationalisation crashed against the hard reality: Why not surrender her officially? Why leave a four-year-old on a cold station platform? No explanation softened the pain or made the betrayal less deliberate. It was a choice—cold and calculated—to be rid of a child like she was an unwanted object. With every sweep of these thoughts Vicky’s resolve solidified. No. She would never go searching, never forgive, never even try to understand. No understanding could ever unmake what was done. Forgiveness was simply beyond her. And with that certainty, she felt a strange, almost physical sense of freedom… ******************** “I’ve got a surprise for you!” Alex practically glowed with excitement, fidgeting in the hallway like a child about to unwrap a present. “You’re going to love it! Come on, we mustn’t keep people waiting!” Vicky paused at her bedroom door with a mug of cooling tea. She studied him, puzzled, before setting her cup aside. What was this surprise? And why, despite his cheerful tone, did she feel a chill of foreboding tighten inside? “Where are we going?” she asked, disguising unease with forced calm. “You’ll see soon!” Alex grinned wider, leading her eagerly outside. “Trust me—it’s worth it.” Vicky followed, anxiety churning beneath her skin. She slipped on her coat and shoes and stepped out with him. All the way to the park she tried to guess: tickets for a concert? Meeting old friends? Her thoughts raced, but nothing fit. In the park, Vicky immediately noticed a woman perched on a bench by the path. She was plainly but neatly dressed—a dark coat, scarf, and a small handbag on her knees. There was something familiar about her face, but Vicky struggled to recall where she’d seen the woman before. Perhaps a distant relative of Alex’s? A family friend? Alex led her straight to the bench. The woman looked up and smiled gently. In that instant, something within Vicky jolted—she knew exactly where she’d seen that face. In the mirror, if you added thirty or forty years. “Vicky,” Alex announced with ceremony, as though making a grand declaration, “I’m so pleased to say: after a long search, I’ve found your mum. Aren’t you happy?” Vicky stood frozen—her world stilled. How could he? She’d made it perfectly clear she never wanted to see this woman. “Darling! You’ve grown up into such a beautiful woman!” the lady cried, sweeping forward for a hug. Tears sparkled in her eyes, her arms wide in a hopeful embrace. Vicky recoiled, her expression turning icy. “It’s me—your mum!” the woman pressed on, as if willing herself not to see the wall before her. “I looked for you for so long! I never stopped thinking about you, worrying…” “Yes, it wasn’t easy!” Alex jumped in, beaming. “I had to ask friends, make so many calls, search all sorts of contacts… But I’m glad it worked out!” A sharp, stinging slap broke his words. Vicky’s hand flew instantly, tears of grief and fury in her eyes. She stared at Alex with utter disbelief: how could he? How could he betray her trust so deeply? “What are you doing?” Alex gasped, clutching his cheek, stunned. “I did this for you! I wanted to help—” Vicky was silent, literally unable to speak as outrage and pain boiled inside. It felt as if Alex—her own fiancé—had ripped away her foundation, breaking the one rule that mattered most: do not touch the past she’d worked so hard to bury. The woman hovered between them, lost for words, glancing between her daughter’s icy face and Alex’s shock. “I never asked you to find her,” Vicky managed at last, voice trembling but flat. “I made it very clear I didn’t want this. And you did it anyway!” Alex lowered his hand but was speechless. He searched her expression for the faintest sign she might relent, but found only bitter determination. “I was clear: I don’t even want to hear about that woman!” Vicky’s voice shook with rage, old wounds torn wide. “That ‘mother’ left me on a railway platform at four—alone—among strangers, in just a thin coat! You think I should forgive that?” Alex went pale, but stood his ground, drawing himself up: “She’s your mother! No matter what, she’s still your mum!” The woman, edge of the group, stepped forward at last, voice small and tentative. “You were ill a lot, I couldn’t afford medicine,” she began. “That job was a chance to fix things. I’d have come for you—once things were better, we could be together again…” Vicky spun to face her, her eyes sharp as glass. “Come for me from where—the cemetery?” Her voice was harsh now, but she couldn’t hold back. “You could have called social services, filled in the right forms, left me safely in hospital—but not abandoned me in the cold! Not alone!” Alex, desperate to end the rising confrontation, tried to reach for her hand. Vicky snatched it away. “The past is the past, let’s live in the present,” he pleaded. “You always said you longed for family at our wedding—well, now you’ll have it…” Vicky’s look was so raw with disappointment Alex backed away. “I’ve already invited Mrs Wilkinson from the children’s home, and Miss Evans, my care worker,” she told him, her voice quieter but unwavering. “They are my real mothers. They were there when I needed someone. They taught me, supported me, cared for me. They are my family.” Wrenching her arm out of Alex’s grip, Vicky turned and fled the park. Her feet carried her far as the storm inside made it hard to breathe. This betrayal—she could never have seen it coming. She had hidden nothing from him—shared the ugly truths of her childhood without gloss, told him about those long days in care when she still hoped her mother would return. He had listened, nodded, claimed to understand. And yet, he’d hunted her mother down and brought her here. “She’s your mother, and that’s that”—his words echoed, bringing fresh waves of bitterness. “Never,” Vicky decided fiercely. She would never let that woman back in her life. Never pretend nothing had happened. She walked from the park, barely noticing her surroundings, her mother’s face haunting every step. Vicky clenched her fists, willing the memory away—needing only to get far, far away from it all. She didn’t go back to Alex’s for her things; luckily, most were packed at her tiny council flat. No return needed, not while each thought of him burned anew. Her phone wouldn’t stop—Alex called again and again, then left angry voice messages: “You’re acting like a child! I did my best for you, and now you’re being ungrateful—” The next was sharper still: “It’s settled. Lyn will be at the wedding. That’s final. Our kids will call her Gran. Deal with it.” Vicky listened at the bus stop, every word tightening the ache in her chest. She powered her phone off, dropped it in her pocket, eyes on the overcast sky. Her world had just cracked wide open—and she had no idea how to mend it. Eventually, she typed a message: “The wedding’s cancelled. I don’t want to see you or that woman ever again.” Send. She watched the tick mark confirm delivery, then set the phone aside. The screen flashed with Alex’s name—she didn’t move. More messages came, unread. She pulled up his number, blocked him, and finally let herself soak in the silence. No more calls, no more notifications. Only the rare feeling of peace, like a warm blanket. Maybe she’d regret this decision later. Maybe. But right now, it was the only choice that felt right. The storm inside her settled slowly, replaced by calm certainty. It was the right thing to do. She could never have a future with someone who’d betray her like that…

Real Son “Lynn, you won’t believe it! Matty and I have decided—we’re off to Turkey again next year!” My stepdad was beaming. “He says he needs that same hotel with the sea view again. What can I do—he’s my son after all.” He didn’t even realise he’d emphasised *real* son. “I’m happy for you both,” she replied, remembering the happier days before Matty appeared. “Real son… You always told me we were a family, that it didn’t matter who was actually related.” He had. He’d said she was his daughter, no matter what. “Not this again, Lynn! You’re my daughter, no question. You know I love you as if you were my own. But Matty…” He didn’t even realise he’d proved her point. “Matty’s the son. And I’m just someone you know, apparently.” “Lynn, don’t be like that! I told you, to me you’re as good as family!” “As good as… But did you ever take me to the seaside? Not once in fifteen years of being my ‘dad’?” He hadn’t. Arthur loved to claim there was no difference between her and Matty, but Lynn saw how much more he did for his actual son. The difference was enormous. “It was never possible, Lynn. You know money was tight. You’re old enough to know what two weeks in a five-star hotel costs… It’s expensive.” “I get it,” said Lynn. “Too expensive to take me. But Matty—who you only met six months ago—you’re willing to get a mortgage to buy him a flat so he’d have a place for a wife. I suppose that’s a ‘minor’ expense, as long as it’s for your son?” “I’m not buying him a flat, who told you that?” “Nice people.” “Well, tell those nice people to stop spreading rumours.” Lynn perked up a bit. “So, you’re really not?” “Of course not. Oh, guess where we’re going Saturday?” He answered himself: “Go-karting! He used to race a bit at uni, I’m just tagging along.” “Go-karting,” Lynn repeated. “Sounds thrilling.” “Exactly!” “Can I come with you?” The words burst out before she could stop them. Arthur clearly hadn’t wanted her along and stammered, “Uh… Lynn… You’d be bored. Honestly. It’s a… bloke thing. Matty and I need to have a father-son talk.” How much that hurt… “So… it’s fun for you, but not for me?” “Not quite… We just—we never spent any time together, and we’re trying to make up for it. Just us two. I hope you understand.” Understand. That was their new, most cruel phrase. She was supposed to understand that real was more important than adopted, and that she should now know her place outside the fence. Matty, in fairness, was amazing. Grew up without a father—his mum had never told Arthur—yet he’d done so well. Smart, handsome, kind. “Dad, I helped at the shelter today—fixing the dog runs.” “Dad, did you know I got a first-class degree?” “Dad, look, I fixed your phone.” He wasn’t just a son. He was the perfect son. That night, after Arthur had left, Lynn sat sorting through old photos—Arthur’s wedding to her mum (who’d died five years ago, leaving her and Arthur alone). Their holiday at the cottage… Lynn’s graduation photo… Nothing would ever be the same again. *** “Lynn, are you up? Got an urgent question.” Arthur turned up at eight in the morning. “What’s so urgent?” Lynn swept her fringe back with a headband and started the coffee machine. “It’s about Matty’s flat.” “So it’s true after all?” she breathed. “Sorry, but yes… true.” “And you lied to me.” “I didn’t want to upset you. But I need your advice! I really think I should hurry. He’ll want to marry someday, needs a place of his own. I remember what it was like for me…” “Just take out a mortgage,” Lynn muttered, who really did not want to discuss buying Matty a flat. What a cushy deal for Matty. “Yes, yes, I know. But you know my credit score… But Matty needs help. He deserves his dad to buy his very first home.” “And what are you getting at?” “Would you help? If I asked?” “Depends how.” “I’ll explain. I’ve got £20,000 for the deposit, but the bank won’t lend to me. You’d get approved. Your credit’s perfect. We’ll put it in your name, I’ll make all the payments. Promise.” The illusion that “there’s no difference” between them shattered for good. There was. They weren’t putting Matty’s neck on the block. “So Matty gets the flat, I get the debt—is that it?” Arthur shook his head, looking so wounded, it was as if Lynn had made the suggestion. “Don’t talk nonsense! I’ll pay. I’m not asking you to do anything but put it in your name. Think about it…” “You know, Arthur, I’m not even thinking about signing the loan. I’m thinking about how you don’t see me as your daughter anymore. Now you have a son. Known him for half a year, known me for fifteen, but that doesn’t matter—he’s *real*.” “That’s not true!” Arthur flushed. “I love you both equally!” “No. Not equally.” “Lynn, that’s not fair! It’s just—he’s my real son…” Curtain. She was done being his daughter. She was the stand-in, acceptable only until the real thing came along. “Fine,” she said politely. “I can’t, Arthur. I’ll need a place myself one day. Can’t take a second mortgage.” Arthur seemed to just remember she had nowhere herself. “Oh, right, you’ll need one too… But for now, before you want to buy your own place, you could help me. I’ve got most of the money, just need a bit more, only for a few years.” “No. I won’t do it.” She didn’t expect Arthur to understand. “All right,” he said. “If you can’t help me as a daughter… so be it. I’ll sort it some other way.” Whether he’d ever really seen her as his daughter no longer mattered. Now she saw Arthur only in photos. One evening, scrolling through social media, she saw it. A photo at the airport. Arthur and Matty, both in light jackets. Arthur, arm on Matty’s shoulder. Caption: “Off to Dubai with Dad. Family is everything.” Family. Lynn put down her phone. She remembered a moment from her own childhood, before her mum met Arthur. She was five. They had little money, and her favourite doll from Grandma broke. She cried, and her ‘real’ father told her: “Lynn, stop crying over nonsense. Don’t bother me.” You never could bother him. He was only ever interested in his bottle. Really, Lynn never had a dad. And thought Arthur had replaced him… Later, Arthur tried once more to persuade her. “Lynn, I think you’re overthinking this trust issue—” “What trust issue, Arthur? I said no.” “You just don’t get it. Matty grew up without a dad. I need to make it up to him. He’s grown up, needs somewhere to live. I’m not asking much—you just need to sign, I’ll pay every penny.” “Who’ll fix my empty spaces, Arthur…” That got to him. “Lynn, enough! I don’t want an argument. I do love you, that’s true! But you must understand—Matty is my real family now. When you have your own kids, you’ll see. Yes, I love you both, just differently, but you matter.” “Sure. As a tool.” “Lynn, cool off! You’re being dramatic.” “You dropped me the moment he turned up, Arthur. I don’t ask you to choose. There’s nothing to choose. You said it yourself—Matty’s your real son. I never was.” Half a year passed. Arthur never called. Not once. One day, scrolling her feed again, she saw a new photo. Arthur and Matty, standing in front of mountains. Arthur in trendy ski gear. Caption: “Teaching Dad to snowboard! He’s a bit old for it, but with a son—anything’s possible!” Lynn stared at the picture a long time. She turned to her desk to finish her report when a message pinged. Unknown number. “Hi, Lynn. It’s Matty. Dad gave me your number—he can’t ring himself. He’s sorted the flat another way, and he’s worried about you. He really wants you to come for the Bank Holiday. He can’t say why, but it matters.” She drafted a reply, deleting and rewriting several times. “Hi Matty. Tell Arthur I’m really glad for him, I’m thinking of him too. But I won’t be coming. I have other plans for the long weekend. I’m going to the seaside.” She didn’t bother mentioning she’d bought that trip herself, and the beach was in Cornwall, not Turkey—and she was travelling with a friend, not a dad. Lynn hit send. And realised she could still be happy, even without him.

Twelve Years Later — Please, I’m begging you, help me find my son! — The woman’s voice trembled on the verge of tears. — I don’t want anything else in this life! Catherine sat down next to the host on the sofa, wringing her hands theatrically. She’d dressed as modestly as possible and spent a sleepless night before the broadcast to look pale and exhausted. She wanted to appear the image of a suffering mother — someone people would rush to help. — My biggest dream now is to rebuild my relationship with my son, — she whispered, as if each word was a painful effort. — I’ve tried everything I could think of. I went to the police, hoping for help… But they wouldn’t even let me file a report! They told me Adam was an adult, left years ago. They said if I hadn’t cared before, why come now… The host listened, head tilted sympathetically. In truth, he doubted her sincerity. It all seemed far less dramatic than Catherine described. She’d fallen out with her son, ignored him for years, and now suddenly burst in… Still, the show’s ratings relied on stories like this — oh, how people loved these tales. — So, a row with your son led to you being estranged? — he asked calmly, casting glances at the audience. Some looked sceptical, while others genuinely pitied the “unfortunate” mother. Catherine nodded, eyes shining with tears again. She took a deep breath, gathering strength. — Yes, it all started twelve years ago. My son fell desperately in love and was determined to marry. I did understand his feelings, but that girl… She really didn’t sit right with me! I could see exactly how it would end. She smoked, drank, hung around shady places all night… The worst part — she was pulling Adam into it as well! She paused, reliving the memory. The host gave her time to compose herself. — I tried to warn him, to explain it wasn’t the right path. He wouldn’t listen — I was just the overbearing mum refusing to let her son grow up. Then one evening things came to a head. He slammed his fist on the table: “I’m moving out!” Catherine choked up and the host immediately offered her a tissue. She dabbed her eyes, careful not to ruin her makeup. After a moment, she continued: — He left. Packed his things while I was at work. Just vanished — no note, no explanation. Changed his number, cut off everyone: friends, family, all of us. And all because of some girl… Her voice wavered and she closed her eyes, clearly battling her emotions. — Sorry, it’s so hard to keep it together, — she whispered, clutching the tissue. She lowered her head, hair falling forward to partly hide her face — a deliberate gesture, designed to amplify her grief for the cameras. The script called for an outpouring of tears, a display of wounded maternal love. In truth, Catherine didn’t feel even a fraction of the pain she was acting out. Inside, she simply waited — would her performance win the audience’s sympathy? The host saw through her, but played along. — We understand your pain, — he nodded, gesturing for an assistant to bring water. — Take your time, tell us when you’re ready. He let the silence stretch, milking the moment for drama. When the timing was just right, he continued. — Do you know anything about your son now? — he leaned in, feigning concern. Catherine’s gaze held a carefully measured blend of desperation and hope. — A friend spotted him in London recently, — she began, voice trembling — whether genuinely or for effect was hard to say. — She said Adam even changed his surname! How can I find him? I’m powerless alone, please help. Maybe someone watching has seen him? She looked into the camera with the expression of unutterable sorrow she had practised. Her gaze seemed to linger on the lens, intent on reaching the viewers’ hearts. — Recently I was in hospital, — now true worry coloured her voice, — and realised time isn’t on my side. Who knows how long I have? I dream of seeing my son, hugging him, forgiving everything… and asking his forgiveness… A photo appeared on screen: a young man, perhaps twenty. Blonde, blue-grey eyes, tall — good-looking, but unremarkable. Catherine stared; he’d surely changed over the years. Maybe grown a beard or wears glasses now… It felt almost hopeless, but she pushed that thought away. — If anyone’s seen someone matching this young man, please contact our studio — the number’s on your screen, — the host announced solemnly. Filming ended, and as Catherine said goodbye to the crew and left, she kept up the performance all the way to the car park. Outside, her friend — the one who’d encouraged this little act — was waiting. Catherine’s face broke into a careful, satisfied smile. — What do you think? — she asked quietly, with a smirk. — Did I get their sympathy? Tamara, who’d watched the audience the whole show, nodded in triumph. — The women in the studio were in tears! — she gloated. — I’m sure you’ll track down your golden boy now, and get him to cough up a bit for all you invested. Fancy that — he’s living the high life, and gives his mum nothing! Catherine grimaced — her friend’s blunt cynicism was a touch too much, though there was truth in her words. Until recently, Catherine had barely thought of Adam. Only when Tamara bumped into an acquaintance — who’d seen Adam in London — did everything change. The friend described an expensive car, bespoke suit, custom watch… And when Adam exited one of the city’s grandest restaurants, it was clear: money was no object. Catherine’s interest in her son was not in his life, but his wallet. After all, she was his mother! Surely, he owed her — for giving him life. — Don’t worry, we’ll find him, — she repeated, mainly to herself. — Soon enough, and I’ll be set up for life… She was certain Adam wouldn’t risk a public scandal — men of his standing depended on reputation. He’d have to play the perfect son for the cameras. After all this media fuss, he’d have no choice! How naïve she was… She had no idea she’d just stepped right into her own son’s masterful trap. *************************** Twelve Years Ago. Adam came home at nine in the evening, exhausted after his hardest university exam. He just wanted to collapse in bed — but he knew that luxury wasn’t in the cards tonight. He heard voices through the door: a man’s sharp, dissatisfied tone, and a woman’s anxious, explaining one. Him again… Adam bristled. That man always seemed to be around when Adam came home, as if planning it for maximum disruption. He slid his key in, hoping to slip to his room unnoticed, when he tripped over duffel bags by the door. Adam stared. Why were his own suitcases at the entrance? — What’s this? — he called, struggling for calm. — My stuff? What’s going on? His sharp voice silenced the apartment. His mother soon appeared, her face set in a pinched frown. Without a word she turned away, and Adam followed her to the kitchen. There sat Anatole — the man he’d heard. Confident, one arm on a chair and the other nursing tea, Anatole barely glanced up. All focus was on Catherine. Adam gritted his teeth. — What’s he doing here? — he demanded. — You haven’t told him? — Anatole smirked, fiddling with his phone. — And don’t speak about me as if I’m not here! — Adam barked. — I’ve the right to be in this flat. Not like you! Who are you anyway? Why is your son moving in? But his mother finally turned to him, her tone chillingly calm. — From today, you’re not living here anymore. Your old room is for Anatole’s son now. Adam stood, numb. No hint of warmth in her eyes. — Dad was going to leave me the flat… — his voice trailed, searching for hope. Catherine folded her arms, expression briefly mournful. — He died unexpectedly — never changed his will. As it stands, I own this flat. From now on, you’re not allowed here. You’re a grown man — time to cut the apron strings, don’t you think? Every word hurt like a slap. She’d kicked him out — no warning, no discussion. — Any idea where I’ll sleep? — he asked quietly, trying not to let anger boil over. — Oh, you’ll manage, — she replied breezily. — You’ve friends, I’m sure you’ll find somewhere. And by the way, I took the money for your last year of university. You’ll have to earn it yourself now — I need the funds for my own wedding. That hit the hardest. She was ready to cut him off completely. But he would not beg. He began planning then: a job, time off uni, whatever was needed to pay his own way. He nodded, looked at his mother for a glimmer of warmth, but saw only cold resolve. He knew then: he could never forgive her. *************************** — Have you seen it? — Nick leaned over the table, mobile in hand, excitement in his voice. — My mate from back home sent this over. The show just aired. Adam put down his papers, knowing focus was impossible. He smiled wryly. — I’ve seen it, — he replied. — Tamara’s husband couldn’t wait to let my mum know. Which is exactly what I wanted. Let her see what she threw away. He leaned back in his chair, replaying moments from the TV segment: his mother, feigning grief, telling the nation about her “missing” son. Twelve years ago, she’d shown him the door, taken his university money, shut him out. Now, she was desperate to play the doting mother card. But Adam had done well — not with scandal, but quiet success. A new life, a new country, a good job, bright prospects. No thanks to her. Now his mother knew how well he’d done. She might even guess she’d have had support, had she not treated him so cruelly. But she would soon learn the most important thing of all — she’d get nothing. No money, no help, not a word, not a chance at reconciliation. Adam had decided: the past is past. The future is his to make, entirely on his own. The woman who bore him would never reach him. Not now, not ever. And that, above all, is what matters…

My Ex-Wife… Two years ago, as my work assignment was ending and I prepared to return home to Altham, I had three hours to spare after buying my ticket. Wandering the city, I was suddenly approached by a woman I immediately recognised—my first wife, whom I had divorced twelve years earlier. Zina looked much the same, though her face was paler. Our meeting seemed to affect her just as deeply as it did me. I’d loved her intensely—painfully so—which led to our divorce. My jealousy was overwhelming; I suspected her of everyone, even her mother. Whenever she was late, my heart pounded and I felt like I was dying. Eventually, Zina left; she couldn’t stand my constant questioning. I remember coming home from work one day with a puppy to cheer her up, only to find a note on the table. She wrote that although she loved me dearly, my suspicions had worn her down, and she had to leave, begging me not to look for her… Now, after twelve years apart, we met by chance in the city where I was on business. We talked for a long time, and I began to worry about missing my coach home. At last, I said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go or I’ll miss my bus.” Zina asked a favour: “Alex, please, do me this one kindness. I know you’re in a hurry, but for the sake of what we once shared, don’t refuse me. Come with me to an office just for a moment—it’s important, and I can’t go alone.” I agreed, but warned, “Only if it’s quick!” We entered a large building, wandering up and down staircases, moving from one wing to another—it felt like only fifteen minutes. People of every age—from children to the elderly—passed us, but I didn’t wonder why so many, especially children, were in such a place. My attention was fixed on Zina. She finally disappeared behind a door, giving me a look as if saying farewell, and said, “How strange—it seems I could be neither with you, nor without you.” I waited for her to return, wanting to ask what she meant, but she never came back. Suddenly, reality hit: I was running late and still standing there. Glancing around, I panicked. The building was derelict, its windows just gaping holes. There were no stairs—only some planks I had to carefully use to make my way out. I missed my bus by an hour and had to buy a new ticket. When I finally did, I learned the bus I’d missed had crashed into a river and no one survived. Two weeks later, I stood at my former mother-in-law’s door; I’d tracked her down through records. Mrs. Allen told me Zina had died eleven years earlier, just a year after our divorce. I didn’t believe her, thinking she feared I’d resume my jealous pursuit. When I asked to see Zina’s grave, she surprisingly agreed. Hours later, I was at a gravestone, staring at the smiling face of the woman I’d loved all my life—the woman who, in an inexplicable way, had just saved mine.

Anna Parker sat weeping alone on a hospital bench. It was her 70th birthday, yet neither her son nor her daughter had come or called. Only her ward-mate, Mrs. Evans, had wished her happy birthday and given a small gift, and young care assistant Molly brought her an apple. The care home was respectable, but most of the staff were indifferent. Everyone knew this was where the elderly were left by children for whom they had become a burden. Anna’s own son had brought her here, saying it was only for a rest and some treatment, but in truth, she was simply in the way of her daughter-in-law. The flat had been Anna’s, until her son convinced her to sign it over. He promised she could continue living at home, but after the family moved in, arguments began—especially with her daughter-in-law, who seemed always dissatisfied. At first, her son stood by her, but soon even he became irritable. Then one morning, he suggested she should stay in a care home for a bit. Anna looked him in the eye and bitterly asked, “Are you putting me in a nursing home, son?” He blushed and protested, “No, Mum, it’s just a convalescent home. Just for a month, then you’ll be home.” He quickly dropped her off, signed the papers, and left, promising to visit soon. He only came once, bringing two apples and two oranges, and dashed away without even hearing her out. She’s been living here ever since—already two years have passed. After a month, when he still hadn’t come, Anna called her old home only to hear strangers’ voices. It turned out her son had sold the flat, and now she had no idea where he was. She cried for a few nights, but realised tears would not change anything—she would never go home again. The saddest part was that Anna had once deeply hurt her daughter for her son’s sake. Anna grew up in the English countryside, married her school sweetheart Peter, and together they owned a house and small farm. Times weren’t easy, but they never went hungry. But a city friend convinced Peter the city promised a better life with jobs and housing. So they sold everything and moved; the council gave them a flat and they bought a second-hand Mini. But then Peter died in a car crash. Widowed, Anna raised her two children alone, cleaning apartment blocks at night to make ends meet. She hoped her children would help her in old age, but life took a different turn. Her son got into trouble with the law; Anna borrowed money to save him from prison and paid off debt for years. Later, her daughter Dasha married and had a child, but the boy became seriously ill. With her husband gone, Dasha depended on Anna’s help, but Anna had little to spare—she refused to give Dasha the deposit money, saving it for her son instead. The pain of this betrayal lingered; Dasha left, vowing not to return or acknowledge her mother. Twenty years passed with no contact. Dasha’s husband recovered, and they moved with their children to the seaside. Anna often wished she could undo the past—but what’s done is done. Slowly, Anna rose from the bench and turned to return to her room, when suddenly she heard, “Mum!” Her heart leapt as she turned. It was her daughter—Dasha—reaching out to steady her as Anna’s knees buckled. “I finally found you… Your brother wouldn’t give me the address, but I threatened court over the flat he sold illegally—then he caved in…” Together, they sat in the corridor. “Forgive me, Mum, for not speaking for so long. First, I was angry; then ashamed. Last week, I dreamed of you walking and crying in a dark forest. I woke up heavy-hearted and told my husband everything. He told me, ‘Go, make peace.’ I came, but strangers lived at your house. I searched everywhere and finally found you. Now pack your things—you’re coming with me. We have a lovely house by the sea. My husband insisted: if your mother needs you, you bring her home.” Anna hugged her daughter and at last, wept tears of joy. Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land the Lord your God is giving you.

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.