For My Birthday, My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a Cookbook With an Obvious Dig—So I Gave Her the Gift Right Back

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 13 minViews 1

Did you make this salad yourself, or is it another one of those tasteless shop-bought mixtures you keep feeding my son with? Patricia raised her eyebrows, poking at the smoked salmon canapé on her plate with obvious distaste.

Claire took a deep breath, smoothing her dress. Shed just turned thirty-five. A milestone. A day when she wanted to feel like a queen, bask in good wishes, and simply enjoy life. Instead, she was standing in her own sitting room laying out cutlery, feeling like a scolded schoolgirl.

Patricia, its from an Italian restaurantthe chefs got a Michelin star and the ingredients are really top quality, Claire replied, determined to keep her smile. You know I work until gone eight, I simply dont have the time to cook for fifteen people.

Yes, yes, work, Patricia sighed, rolling her eyes at the framed photo of her son on the mantelpiece, as if seeking support from it. We worked too, in my day. And we raised children, tended gardens, put food on the table. But expecting my boy to eat ready-made plates on his birthday well, dear, thats just not on. Poor Oliver, he looks worn out. Look, bags under his eyes!

Her poor son Oliver, thirty-eight and a sturdy man with rosy cheeks and a hearty appetite, strolled in at that moment, rubbing his hands together.

Mum! Claire! What a spread! And the smells! Claire, are these the aubergine rolls? I love these!

Patricia shot her son a look full of wounded maternal pride but let it pass. Guests were due any minute. Claire hurried to the kitchen for the roast, tension tight in her chest. This wasnt newfive years of waging a cold war with her mother-in-law over Olivers stomach. Every weekend came a delivery: shepherds pie, stews, chicken casseroles, all with biting remarks: Heres some real food, Claires got no time, being our little business lady. Claire tried to swallow the insults. As head of logistics at a major company, she earned more than her husband and firmly believed there was nothing wrong with paying for a cleaner and a bit of top-notch food delivery. It bought her time for herself, her books, her sport, or just a glass of wine with her husband.

Patricia saw it differently. In her view, a woman who couldnt boil an egg or whip up a proper roastwell, something was definitely missing.

The doorbell rang; the party began in earnest. The flat filled with laughter, perfume, and flowers. Friends, colleagues, even Claires parents. People raised their glasses and gifted cards stuffed with cash and spa days. Claire relaxed, telling herself to ignore Patricia’s withering glances.

But then, after dessert, as Claire was about to cut the cake, Patricia stood up and tapped her crystal glass for silence.

My dear friends, she intoned, her voice laced with formality. Id like to say a few words in honour of our birthday girl. Thirty-five is a serious age. Wisdom, patience, and, most of all, the art of keeping a warm homethese should now be ours.

She paused dramatically, rummaging in her large shopping bag.

Money comes and goes, she continued, holding up a chunky, glittery package. Beauty doesnt last. But skillstrictly home skillskeep a family strong. Ive spent ages thinking what to buy you, Claire. In the end, I knew what you needed most. Knowledge.

With a loud thud, the present landed in front of Claire. Awkward silence swept the room. Oliver coughed.

Trying not to let her hands tremble, Claire unwrapped the paper. A gigantic cookbook: The Grand Encyclopaedia of Home Cooking and Domestic Bliss. The Golden Collection. Its cover featured a cheerful woman in an apron, holding a steaming casserole.

Its not just a book, Patricia explained sweetly. Its practically an heirloom. I got it specially for you, and Ive gone through and marked important bitswhat Oliver likes, how to make roast beef just right, how to iron a shirt so your husband looks respectable. It really is for you, dear. Learning never stops. You can always become a proper wife.

A couple of guests giggled nervously. Claires mother flushed, ready to speak up, but Claire pressed her hand beneath the table. Not now, not in front of everyone.

Thank you, Patricia, Claire said evenly. Such a weighty present. Ill be sure to study it.

She placed the book carefully at the end of the table and quickly refocused everyone on cake. She kept up her cheerful smile, poured the tea, and made small talk through the rest of the evening, but inside she was reeling. That wasnt a giftit was a public slap, wrapped in shiny paper.

After the last glass was washed and the dishwasher hummed in the kitchen, Claire sat on the sofa with the book in her lap. Oliver, who had scrupulously avoided the cookbook all night, sat down next to her, draping an arm over her shoulder.

Claire, dont be upset. You know what shes like. She just cares, in her way. Maybe she went a bit far?

A bit? Claire opened the book to the inside cover.

It was plastered with sticky notes. Patricias handwriting looped across the flyleaf: To my dear daughter-in-lawin hopes my son will remember what home-cooked food tastes like.

She turned the pages. There were comments everywhere.

Next to fish pie: Make your own pastry! Shop-bought means lazy and useless.

Under Cleaning: Dust under the bed is the mark of a sloven! Yours could grow potatoes.

On Ironing: A crease should cut paper. Poor Olivers shirts are a disgrace.

This was no cookbookit was a logbook of grievances disguised as care. Patricia must have spent hours penning her complaints, positively gleeful at the thought of presenting this manual of life.

My mumshe just worries, Oliver muttered after reading a couple of the notes. He looked awkward, ears turning pink. Shall I put it away in the loft? We can forget it.

No, said Claire, slamming the book shut with a bang. We wont hide it. Gifts shouldnt be hidden. Well deal with it appropriately.

Over the next couple of days, Claire was quiet. No arguments, no dramaOliver half expected a row. She worked, ordered dinners, and sometimes flicked through the wretched book before bed, jotting her own notes in a pad.

Saturday arrivedthe usual day for lunch at Patricias. Claire, to Oliver’s surprise, started getting ready early.

Youre going to Mums? he asked, watching her fix her hair.

Of course. It would be rude not to visit after such a generous celebration. I even have a present for her. A little quid pro quo.

Oliver tensed.

Justdont start a row. Shes not young anymore

Im not starting a war. Im ending it.

They arrived to the heady aroma of fried onions and polish spray, the flat spotless as ever. Patricia welcomed them, apron tied just so, beaming with confidence that her lesson had worked and Claire had come to ask for advice.

Come in, come in, Patricia cooed. Ive just taken pies out of the ovencabbage, Olivers favourite. Hope youre hungry, not living on takeaways again…

The lunch was cordial. Claire complimented the pies, asked after Patricias aches, chatted about family. Patricia glowed.

When the teacups were empty, Claire reached into her bag and pulled out the cookbook. Patricias eyes shone.

What is it, Claire? Stuck on something? Dont be shy, that yeast dough chapter is a tough one

Patricia, Claire said softly, but with steel in her tone, Ive read your present. Cover to cover. Every comment.

Patricia nodded proudly.

And I realisedit is a real treasure. The sum total of your life, your experience, your way of looking at the world.

Quite right! Patricias face lit up.

Thats exactly why, Claire continued, gently pushing the weighty tome towards Patricia, I cant honestly keep it myself.

The smile slid from Patricias face.

What? Youre returning my gift? Thats shockingly rude!

Please, let me finish. Claire raised her hand, halting the protest. It isnt about rudeness. Its about honesty. This book is about the ideal woman. Someone up at dawn baking pies, who sees dust as a tragedy and lives to serve her family. Thats you, Patricia, and you do it brilliantly. But its not me. I earn a living with my mind, not my hands. The cost of an hour of my work is more than a week’s groceries. If I spent hours making dumplings by hand, wed miss out on an annual holiday. We actually did the sums.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Oliver, but he stayed quiet, admiring his wife more than ever.

And most importantlyyour comments. Lazy, useless, shameful. They arent kind. Theyre well, lets just say, not from a place of happiness. Happy people dont scribble put-downs in a present.

Patricia flushed crimson.

How dare you! Ive spent my life

Yes, youve poured a lifetime into housekeeping. I want to pour my life into living with your son. Loving him, not just feeding him. Talking, walking, travelling, not just slaving at the stove.

Claire pulled out an envelope from her handbag.

Im giving the book back; I dont need it. Our home has different values. But I dont want to leave empty-handed. You gave me a manual for housekeeping; Im giving you a reminder that youre a woman, not just a cook.

She set the envelope on the book.

Its a pass to the citys best dance studioa full course of tango classes. And ten sessions with a massage therapist. I noticed your backs always troubling you from standing in the kitchen.

Silence. The grand clock ticked out the moment. Patricia gazed at the book, the envelope, and her daughter-in-law in disbelief. Her script had been shredded. Her barbs returned, but wrapped in warm concern. If she objected now, she looked the fool; if she refused, it was weakness.

Dancing? At my age? she eventually managed.

The best kind, smiled Claire. Theres a group of your age. Very refined crowd. Maybe itll show you theres more to life than checking for dust under beds.

Claire stood.

The pies were delicious, thank you. Oliver, shall we head off? Were off to the cinema.

Oliver, whod sat hunched, straightened up. He glanced at his mother, then at Claire, then rose and went to his wife.

Mum, thanks for lunchthose pies are brilliant! But Claires right. She doesnt need to cook for me. I love her, just as she is. And honestly, Mum? I like trying new food from all sorts of places. Its fun. Dont be hurt.

He kissed his mother, took Claires arm, and they left.

As they slipped into their coats, the kitchen was eerily quiet. Patricia sat before her Golden Encyclopaedia and the tango voucher.

When they reached the car, Oliver blew out his cheeks.

Well, you handled that. I thought World War Three was going to break out. But you you were so calm! Economic sense! Whod have thought?

Well, am I wrong? Claire fastened her seatbelt. I just set boundaries. Your mums not a monster, Oliver. Shes just clinging to her old world. She thinks if shes not slaving away, a days wasted. She wants me to do the same, to justify her own sacrifices. I dont want that.

Think shell go dancing? Oliver grinned as he started the car.

No idea. She might even bin the pass. Or shell give it a go. Either way, she wont hand me that book ever again, or lecture me about the right way to keep house.

A week passed. Patricia phoned just once, checked in on them, didnt mention the book.

A month later, on a rare lie-in Saturday morning, Olivers phone buzzed.

Yes, Mum? What? No lunch today? Why? Oliver listened, eyes widening, then put his mother on speakerphone.

our showcase is in two weeks! Patricias voice glittered with energyshe sounded younger, excited. My partner Peterhe was in the Army, strict as anything, but a marvellous leadso Im afraid youll have to manage without my pies. Order, I dont know, a pizza! Must dash, my shoes still need breaking in!

Click. Silence. Oliver and Claire locked eyes and burst out laughing.

It worked! Claire flopped back into the pillows. Peter, ex-Army! Poor manlets hope she doesnt start telling him off about shirt creases!

But at least shes out of our hair, Oliver sighed contentedly. Shall we order sushi?

Lets. The biggest platter theyve got.

Claire gazed at the ceiling, feeling lighter than she had in years. It turned out, to end the battle with a mother-in-law, you didnt need to fight fire with fire, or chase impossible approval. You just had to return her expectations and offer something that might open a new chapter. The poisonous cookbook was history; today was peaceful, with the love of a husband who cherished her for herself, not for her pies. The best family recipe never printed in any encyclopaedia.

If youve ever received a suggestive gifthow did you respond?

Mum’s Not Exactly Winning Any Awards – Anna, have you left a wet towel hanging in the bathroom again? Her mother-in-law’s voice rang out from the hallway just as Anna stepped in after work. Valerie stood there, arms folded, eyes boring into her daughter-in-law. – It’s drying, – Anna kicked off her shoes. – That’s what the hook’s for. – In decent homes, towels go on the drying rack. But how would you know? Anna walked past without replying. Twenty-eight, two university degrees, a managerial post – and here she was, getting told off about towels. Every single day. Valerie watched her go, unimpressed. The way she always went silent, ignored her, acted like she was queen of the manor. Fifty-five years had taught Valerie how to read people, and she hadn’t liked this girl from the start. Cold. Arrogant. Max needed a warm, homely wife, not some ice sculpture. In the days that followed, Valerie watched. She noticed. She remembered… – Archie, tidy up your toys before tea. – Don’t want to. – I’m not asking. Tidy up. Six-year-old Archie puffed out his cheeks but shuffled off to collect his scattered soldiers. Anna didn’t even glance over, chopping vegetables as if nothing had happened. Valerie watched from the sitting room. There it was – the coldness she’d spotted. No smile, no kind word, just orders. Poor boy. – Gran, – Archie climbed onto the sofa beside her after Anna disappeared to sort the washing, – why’s Mummy always so mean? Valerie stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. – You know, sweetheart… Some people are just like that. They can’t show love. It’s sad, really. – Can you show love? – Of course I can, darling. Gran loves you heaps. Gran’s not mean. He snuggled closer and Valerie smiled. Every time they were alone, she painted more of her picture – gently, gradually. – Mum wouldn’t let me watch cartoons today, – Archie grumbled a week later. – Oh, poor you. Mummy’s strict, isn’t she? Sometimes Gran thinks she’s a bit too harsh as well. But don’t worry, you can always come to me. I’ll always understand. The boy nodded, soaking up every word. Gran was kind. Gran understood. And Mummy… – Some mums just can’t be cuddly, – Valerie would whisper conspiratorially, – but it’s not your fault, Archiekins. You’re wonderful. It’s just that you’ve got a rubbish mum. Archie hugged Gran, and something cold and strange began to creep into his heart when he thought of his mother. A month later, Anna noticed the change. – Archie, sweetheart, come for a cuddle. He pulled away. – Don’t want to. – Why not? – Just don’t want to. He ran off to Gran. Anna stood in the middle of the nursery, arms outstretched, and felt something break in the everyday rhythm of their life – something she couldn’t name. Valerie watched from the hallway, a satisfied smile on her lips. – Darling, – Anna knelt beside Archie that night, – are you upset with me? – No. – Then why don’t you want to play with me? He shrugged, his gaze distant and unfamiliar. – I want Gran. Anna let him go. The ache in her chest grew heavier. – Max, I don’t recognise Archie any more, – she told her husband late that night, when everyone else was asleep. – He avoids me. He never used to. – Oh, come on. Kids go through phases. It’ll pass. – This isn’t just a phase. He looks at me as if… as if I’ve done something bad. – Anna, you’re overthinking. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. Maybe he’s just got attached. Anna opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. Max had already turned away, eyes fixed on his phone. – Your mum loves you, – Valerie told Archie when she put him to bed on evenings when work kept his parents late, – but in her own way. Cold, strict. Not all mums know how to be kind, you know? – Why? – It happens, sweetheart. But Gran will never hurt you. I’ll always protect you – not like Mum. Archie fell asleep with those words. Each morning, he eyed Anna a little more warily. Now he made his preferences clear. – Archie, want to go for a walk? – Anna reached out her hand. – I want to go with Gran. – Archie… – With Gran! Valerie quickly took his hand. – Oh, leave him be. Can’t you see he doesn’t want to? Come on, Archiekins, Gran will get you an ice cream. They left. Anna watched them go, weighed down by the knowledge that her own son was turning away from her and she couldn’t work out why. That night, Max found Anna at the kitchen table, staring vacantly at her cold tea. – Anna, I’ll talk to him. I promise. She just nodded, words escaping her. Max went to chat with Archie. – Archie, tell Daddy – why don’t you want to be with Mum? The boy looked away. – Just because. – Just because isn’t an answer. Did Mum upset you? – No… – So what is it? Archie said nothing. A six-year-old can’t explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. Gran said Mummy was mean and cold. So it must be true. Gran never lies. Max came out of the nursery no wiser. Valerie, meanwhile, was planning her next move. Anna looked totally defeated now – it was obvious. Just a bit longer and she’d pack her bags. Max deserved more. A real wife. Not an ice queen. – Archiekins, – she caught him in the hall the next day while Anna was in the shower, – you know Gran loves you most in the world? – I know. – And Mummy… well, she’s a bit rubbish, isn’t she? Can’t cuddle properly, always grumpy. My poor boy. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. – Mum. Valerie turned. Max stood in the doorway, face white. – Archie, off to your room, – his voice was quiet but brooked no argument. The boy vanished. – Max, I was just… – I heard everything. Silence stretched. – You… – Max swallowed. – You’ve been poisoning him against Anna? All this time? – I’m looking out for him! She treats him like a prison guard! – Have you lost your mind? Valerie took a step back. She’d never seen her son look at her like that – with disgust. – Max, listen… – No, you listen. – He came closer. – You’ve turned my son against his mother. My wife. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? – I only wanted what’s best! – Best? Archie flinches from his own mum! Anna’s beside herself! That’s best? Valerie lifted her chin. – It’s for the best. She’s not right for you. Cold, nasty, heartless… – Enough! The shout stopped them both. Max took a shaky breath. – Pack your things. Tonight. – You’re throwing your own mother out? – I’m protecting my family. From you. Valerie opened her mouth, then shut it. In his eyes, the verdict was already passed. No argument. No second chances. She left an hour later. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in the bedroom. – I know why Archie changed. Anna looked up, her eyes red. – My mum. She’s… she was telling him you’re mean. That you don’t really love him. She’s been poisoning him against you. Anna froze, then let out a slow breath. – I thought I was going mad. I thought I was a terrible mum. Max sat beside her, hugged her close. – You’re a wonderful mum. It was my mum… I don’t know what came over her. But she’s not coming near Archie again. The weeks that followed were hard. Archie asked after Gran and couldn’t quite understand why she’d disappeared. His parents spoke to him gently, patiently. – Darling, – Anna stroked his hair, – what Gran said about me isn’t true. I love you. So, so much. Archie eyed her suspiciously. – But you’re mean. – Not mean, just strict. Because I want you to grow into a good person. Sometimes, being strict is love too – do you see? He thought for a long time. – Will you give me a cuddle? Anna wrapped him in her arms until Archie laughed… Gradually, day by day, the real Archie returned – the one racing to show his mum his drawings, nestling into bed to her lullabies. Max watched Anna and Archie laughing and playing, thinking about his own mum. She called a few times. Max never picked up. Valerie sat alone in her flat. No grandson. No son. All she’d wanted was to save Max from the wrong woman. And now she’d lost both. Anna laid her head on Max’s shoulder. – Thank you for fixing things. – Sorry it took me so long to see what was right in front of me. Archie scrambled onto his dad’s lap. – Mum, Dad, can we go to the zoo tomorrow? Turns out, life was starting to look up after all…

My Husband Suggested We Live Apart to Test Our Feelings—So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, I feel like we’ve grown apart. Everyday life just wears us down. I’ve been thinking… maybe we need to live separately for a while,” Ben announced, so casually that it was as if he were suggesting switching from white to brown bread for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his bowl of stew, soaking up another piece of bread, while I stood frozen with the ladle in hand, hot broth burning my wrist, but I barely noticed. The ringing in my ears was like a vacuum cleaner set to full blast right next to me. “What do you mean, live separately?” I managed to ask, trying not to let my voice shake. I set the ladle down, afraid it would slip right out of my numb fingers. “Is this about a work trip?” “No, not a work trip,” Ben grimaced, finally meeting my eyes, with the tired, slightly annoyed look of a teacher forced to explain something obvious to a wayward pupil. “I’m talking about a break. Testing our feelings. You know, the spark is gone. I come home and I feel… stifled. It’s always the same: work, dinner, telly, bed. I want to know—do I really want to be with you, or is it just habit?” I slowly sank into a chair across from him. Twenty years of marriage. Two kids, both now away at university. The mortgage paid off three years ago. The DIY renovations, pulling off old wallpaper together at weekends. And now—’stifled’? “And where exactly will you live, while you’re… testing?” I asked quietly. “I’ve rented a studio flat. For a couple of months. Near work, so I don’t get stuck in traffic,” he replied a little too quickly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I’ve already started packing up, my stuff’s in the bedroom.” So he’d made up his mind ages ago. While I was planning new plants for the garden and picking up a jumper for him in the sales, he was flat-hunting. Paying deposits. Keeping it all quiet. “And what about how I feel?” I looked at my husband, searching for any trace of the young man I married. In his place sat a stranger, greying, pudgy, shifty-eyed. “Helen, don’t start the dramatics,” Ben set his spoon down. He’d lost his appetite after all. “I’m not asking for a divorce. Yet. Just a break. Loads of couples do it; it’s healthy. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t be without each other—and it’ll be like a second honeymoon. Or… well, at least we’ll be honest if we split.” He got up, tossed his napkin on the table, and went to the bedroom. I heard the wardrobe doors, the rustle of bags. I sat in the kitchen, staring at his favourite stew—just the way he liked, with beans—and felt a cold emptiness growing inside. The evening passed in a fog. Ben bustled about, moving suitcases to the front hall with military efficiency. He took his laptop, the coffee machine (it was a present from my work, but he used it most), his warmest jumpers. “Alright, I’m off,” he said at the front door, looking both solemn and a bit guilty. “Don’t ring me, okay? Let’s agree on no calls for a month. For the experiment’s sake.” “What if there’s a plumbing disaster?” I asked foolishly. “Call a plumber. You’re a grown woman. I’ll keep my keys on me, in case I need to pop back for anything. Well, goodbye. Don’t pine.” The door slammed and the lock clicked shut. I was alone; the flat had never felt so big or so eerily quiet. For the first three days, I did almost nothing. Got up to get water or go to the loo, but that was it. I replayed the past months over and over—had I nagged too much about his socks? Had I put on weight? Was I just boring? On the fourth day, my sister, Kate, showed up. She swept in, arms loaded with shopping bags—and a bottle of wine. One look at me, sobbing in my dressing gown with greasy hair, and she just shook her head. “Come on, love, get yourself in the shower while I slice the cheese,” she ordered. An hour later, over a glass of wine in the kitchen, I recounted everything. Kate listened intently. “A ‘test of feelings’? He’s ‘stifled’?” she snorted. “Helen, you’re a smart woman—you juggle spreadsheets all day. But here, you’re missing two plus two. He’s got another woman.” “No, don’t be daft,” I waved her off. “He’s fifty-two, has a dodgy back and acid reflux. Honestly, who’d want him?” “Oh, please! Reflux never stopped anyone. The classic: ‘studio flat’, ‘don’t call me’, ‘testing our feelings’—he wants to see what it’s like with the other woman, but keep you as backup. If it works out, he’ll file for divorce. If not, he’ll crawl back begging. Seen it a hundred times.” Her words crashed down on me. I tried to defend Ben, but I knew deep down she was right. The change in his phone password, the late nights at work, the new shirt he’d bought himself (he hated shopping). “So what do I do?” I asked, anger finally firing up inside. “What you do is live, Helen! Go get your hair done. Buy something for yourself. Most importantly, stop jumping every time your phone beeps. This flat—whose is it?” “Mine. I inherited it from mum,” I answered automatically. “Ben’s still registered at his mum’s; we never bothered with the paperwork.” “Perfect! Means you call the shots. Listen, don’t sit around weeping. He thinks you’ll be waiting, all soggy pillows. Surprise him.” I couldn’t sleep that night. I wandered the flat, switching on every light. In the bathroom, I spotted his shaving cream on the shelf, grabbed it, and chucked it straight in the bin. The hollow thud as it hit was like the opening shot in a new war. Over the next fortnight, things changed. I forced myself back to work; colleagues put my weight loss down to a ‘spring detox’. I started noticing things: the flat was tidier without Ben. No crumbs, no dirty jeans tossed over chairs. Food lasted longer. I didn’t need to cook huge meals; I was happy with salad. I rediscovered the joys of evenings to myself—picked up my old knitting again. The silence became healing, not frightening. No one ranting about politics or switching over my films. But still, doubts lingered. Maybe Kate was wrong. Maybe Ben really was living alone, missing me. Everything came to a head that Friday. I was in the shopping centre, picking up some wool, when I saw them. Ben was outside a jeweller’s, arm-in-arm with a younger woman—thirty, at a stretch, in a flashy red coat. He was smiling at her, just the way he used to smile at me aged twenty. They laughed, arm-in-arm, looking like the perfect couple. I shrank back. My heart hammered in my skull as I watched my ‘stifled’ husband who ‘needed time alone’ holding another woman as if she were the most precious thing. In that moment, something in me died—and something else, cold and calm, was born. I didn’t make a scene. Didn’t follow them. I drove home in silence. First thing when I got in, I dug out my flat’s deeds—ownership in my name, from my mum. No Ben. He was never on the deeds, always dismissed sorting the paperwork with, “No point, I’m at my mum’s on paper anyway.” I called a locksmith. “Hello—can you change the locks on a metal front door? Yes, I have the deeds. How soon? An hour? Perfect.” The locksmith, built like a rugby prop, came quickly and didn’t ask questions. “Fit the most secure you’ve got,” I ordered. “Even if someone’s got an old key, I don’t want them getting in.” “No problem, love. We’ll fit a Chubb—no one’s getting through without a battle.” The whine of the drill was sweet music. Metal shavings fell on the doormat as the old lock clattered out—a perfect sound for shedding old pain. When he’d finished, I took my new, gleaming keys, locked the door tightly—click, click, click, click. Four strong turns. Four walls of my own castle. I packed up all of Ben’s things—winter jackets, shoes, fishing rods, tools—into black bin bags, staking them in the corridor outside the flat. A week passed. Not a peep from Ben—the ‘test of feelings’ with his younger muse was apparently going well. I filed for divorce online (it’s surprisingly painless). Saturday morning, the bell rang. Persistent, insistent. I checked the peephole—there he was, looking dishevelled but smug, holding a bag of groceries and a bunch of carnations. I didn’t open. Pressing my forehead to the cool metal of the door, I waited. He tried his key: scrape, scrape. Nothing. Again, with more force. Fail. He pulled it out, blew on it, tried again. “Helen!” he shouted. “Helen, are you home? What’s wrong with the lock?” I kept silent. “Helen, open up! I know you’re there—the car’s outside!” He started banging. “What’s this, a joke? I came back, with flowers! We agreed a month, but I wanted to see you sooner! I missed you!” I took a breath. Calmly, clearly: “Your things are in the black bags to the left of the door. Take them and go.” Silence on the other side. He’d seen the bags. “Have you lost your mind? What bags? Open up—now! I’m your husband, I have a right to come in!” “This isn’t your home, Ben,” I replied. “This is my flat. You wanted to live separately? Fine. Go live separately—from me. Forever.” “You…you changed the locks? How dare you! I’ll call the police! Get emergency services—someone will break this door down!” “Be my guest,” I replied. “Show them your registration. Tell them how you left to ‘test your feelings’ with your girlfriend. I’m sure they’ll have a good laugh.” “What girlfriend? Nonsense! I lived alone!” “I saw you at the shopping centre, Ben. Jeweller’s. Red coat. Enough lies. The experiment’s over. You’ve got your result.” There was a stream of expletives, then he kicked the door. “You’ll be sorry! You’ll end up alone—no one wants a washed-up forty-five year old! I only came back out of pity! I’ll take half your stuff—the car, the holiday home!” “The car and the cottage—we’ll split through the courts, as the law says,” I replied. “You’ll never get the flat. Leave now, Ben, or I’ll call the police and tell them a strange, aggressive man is banging down my door.” He raged for another minute, then threw the flowers on the floor, dragged the bags, and disappeared. I slumped onto the floor, legs trembling, tears streaming—but not tears of sadness. Just relief, emptying the old pain. After ten minutes, I stood, washed my face. Met my own stare in the mirror—tired eyes, but my chin held high. A text from Kate: “So, our Romeo was parked outside—how’d it go?” I replied: “Gone. Took his things. The new locks work brilliantly.” “Good on you! Proud of you! I’ll bring cake tonight and we’ll celebrate your new beginning!” In the kitchen, I put the kettle on. Spotted his abandoned carnations through the peephole—they were still there. Good thing I’d never opened up. Carnations. Twenty years, and he’d never remembered I hate carnations. I love tulips. A month later, the divorce came through—quick, since our kids were adults. The cottage was sold and we split the money; Ben kept the car, paid me off, and I put the cash towards my first solo holiday. As I heard from mutual friends, Ben’s “muse” ditched him as soon as she realised he’d lost his comfy flat and was facing an uncertain future. He couldn’t keep up the rent and moved back in with his mum in the old council maisonette on the edge of town. I found out by accident, but it didn’t bother me. I’d just got back from Turkey, tanned, with a new dress—maybe even a holiday romance with a charming German. Nothing serious, just a reminder that I was still attractive. One evening, coming home from work, I heard my name. “Helen?” Ben stood by the bench, thinner, in a crumpled jacket, looking battered. “Hi,” I said, barely breaking stride. “Helen, can we talk? I was stupid, made a mistake. Mum nags me to death. I miss our home—your stew… Maybe we could try again? You can’t just forget twenty years…” I looked at him and, to my surprise, felt nothing—no anger, no pain, no pity. Just emptiness, as if a stranger had asked me for change. “You can’t erase twenty years,” I agreed. “But the past belongs in the past. I’ve got a new life, Ben. There’s no room in it for old mistakes—or you.” “I’ve changed! I really get it now!” “So have I,” I smiled. “And now I know—it’s not stifling being alone. It’s freedom.” I took out my bright, new keys, and strode into my building. The intercom beeped, letting me through, cutting Ben and his regrets off behind me. In the lift, I started planning which new paint to pick for the hallway. Peach, maybe. And I’ll buy myself that comfy new armchair for knitting in the evenings. Life was only just beginning—and the keys to it were finally, and completely, in my hands.

Keep Your Distance! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Besides, How Do I Even Know That Child Is Mine? Maybe She Isn’t Mine at All? That’s what Victor—who was only in their village on business—told a stunned Valentina. She couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. Was this really the same Victor who had once declared his love and treated her like a princess? Once, he’d called her “Valyusha,” promised her the world, but now he looked like a sullen stranger… Valentina wept for a week after waving Victor goodbye forever. At thirty-five, plain and resigned to the unlikelihood of finding happiness, she made the decision to become a mother. When her time came, Val—now on her own—gave birth to a noisy little girl she named Mary. Mary grew into a quiet, undemanding child, almost as if she knew that crying would get her nowhere… Val cared for her daughter, made sure she was fed, clothed, and had toys—but real motherly affection seemed absent. A hug, a cuddle, a walk—these simple acts rarely happened. Little Mary would reach for her mother, but Val would brush her aside: busy, tired, a headache… Maternal instinct just never woke in her. When Mary was seven, something unexpected happened—Val met a man and even brought him home! The village gossips were shocked: “Has Val lost her mind?” Her new partner, Igor, was an outsider, didn’t have steady work, and nobody really knew anything about him. Maybe a rogue… Val didn’t listen to the whispers. She seemed to know this was her last chance at happiness. Soon, though, opinions shifted: Igor, it turned out, was handy and kind. He fixed the porch, patched the roof, raised the fallen fence—every day he improved their tired old house. People started to seek his help, and he’d tell them, “If you’re poor or old, I’ll help for free. Otherwise, pay with cash or food.” Sometimes money, sometimes homemade jam or eggs or ham. Val had a vegetable patch but no livestock—until Igor, and soon their fridge had fresh cream and milk. Val even softened—she smiled more, became gentle, and started showing Mary little acts of love. Mary, now in school, thrived under Igor’s quiet care: he cooked, told her stories, bandaged her knees, taught her to fish, and bought her first bike. At Christmas, he gave her white skates and carved a patch of ice on the river for her to learn. He held her hand every time she fell. She learned to stand and glide, and one day, overjoyed, she hugged him and whispered, “Thank you, Dad…” Igor brushed away tears so she wouldn’t see. Even as Mary grew up and moved to the city, he was always there—at her graduation, carrying groceries to her student flat, walking her down the aisle at her wedding, and cradling his grandchildren with boundless love. When Igor was gone, at his graveside, Mary and her mother mourned deeply. Throwing a handful of earth and sighing, Mary whispered, “Goodbye, Dad… You were the best father in the world. I’ll always remember you.” And in her heart, Igor lived on—not as stepfather, not as ‘Uncle,’ but as her true Dad. Because a Father isn’t always the one who gives life, but the one who raises you, who shares your sorrows and joys, and who’s always by your side. A Touching True-Life Story: Thank you for reading—don’t forget to follow for more incredible stories!