The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the building watched curiously as a new family moved into the second-floor flat – the family of the workshop manager from the major local factory, a key business in their small English provincial town. “Why would they choose to live in this old estate?” mused Mrs. Nina Andrews, a retired neighbour, to her friends. “With the connections he’s got, surely he could’ve snapped up a flat in one of those new developments.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna, a lively, single thirty-year-old with bold makeup, replied. “They say these are classic Victorian flats – high ceilings, spacious rooms, a huge hallway and a balcony like another room… Besides, they’ve had a phone line installed straight away. Not everyone here has one – only three phones for nine flats!” “You’d be on that phone all day if you could,” chided her mother, “You’ve already worn out the neighbours. Don’t go pestering the newcomers – they’re busy, important people…” “Oh, they’re not that serious. They’re young – their daughter’s only nine, Natasha’s her name,” Anna retorted defensively. “They’re almost my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be polite and friendly – Lida worked at the school library and Ivan had a decade behind him at the factory. Anna filled in her mother and the other women about every new detail each evening as they gathered in the courtyard. “How do you know all this, Anna?” asked the ladies, teasing her for her inquisitiveness. “I pop over to use their phone – unlike some,” Anna said with a smirk, alluding to refusals from other neighbours wary of her marathon calls to friends about every imaginable topic. Soon, Anna was regularly calling friends and colleagues from the newcomers’ flat, often lingering in her best outfits or comfortable dressing gowns, with an obvious hope of striking up a friendship with the friendly couple. One day she noticed Ivan deliberately shutting the door to the TV room whenever she arrived for a call. This became a pattern. Anna thanked Lida after each call, peeking into the kitchen, only to be met with a polite nod and a reminder to pull the door tight. “I can’t, my hands are in flour,” Lida would say. “And our French lock snaps shut by itself.” “Oh – what are you baking? More pastries? You always have something lovely in the oven… I wish I could bake,” sighed Anna. “Yes, I’m making cheesecake buns for tomorrow’s breakfast, just prepping now as mornings are hectic,” Lida would reply, turning back to her dough. Anna would wrinkle her nose – it was clear Lida wasn’t ready for more than neighbourly politeness. “I think it’s time to say no when she wants to use the phone,” Ivan said to Lida that evening, “My friends can’t get through, and she treats our place like her own lounge.” Lida agreed, so when Anna next perched on the hallway stool, gossiping on the line, Lida politely interrupted: “Anna, will you be much longer? We’re expecting an important call.” Anna nodded, hung up – but then pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket. “I brought something sweet! How about tea, to celebrate our friendship?” She marched to the kitchen, placed the chocolate on the table. “No, please, take it away. Natasha can’t have sweets, she has allergies. We avoid chocolate at home – it’s our family rule. Sorry, no tea,” said Lida firmly. Anna flushed. “I just wanted to thank you.” “No thanks necessary. But unless it’s for the doctor or the fire brigade, try not to call by, alright? Ivan gets work calls, Natasha’s doing homework, we keep the flat quiet. Hope you understand,” Lida added gently. Anna left, chocolate in hand, frustrated and convinced Lida was simply jealous. “She knows I’m better looking than her,” Anna told her mother later. “She’s just jealous – I brought my own chocolate, for goodness’ sake!” “You’re stubborn, Anna,” Nina sighed. “Maybe I didn’t raise you quite right. You mustn’t wedge into another family’s life. Start your own traditions – get your own phone, maybe your neighbours will come round to you.” Anna made one last attempt to break the ice – arriving with a notepad to ask Lida for the pastry recipe. “You’d better ask your mother,” Lida replied in surprise. “My mum taught me everything – and I bake by eye, never by a recipe. Besides, I really must dash.” Anna blushed again and trudged home, where she knew, tucked in the kitchen cupboard, was her mother’s tattered recipe book, filled with handwritten instructions for every dish imaginable. She thumbed through until she found exactly the pastry recipe she needed, surprising her mother. “Are you really going to bake?” Nina gasped. “Why shouldn’t I?” Anna played it cool, bookmarking the page. Her mother grinned. “So things with Slava are on again?” “You never know!” Anna quipped, secretly planning to win over her young man with baked treats just as her mother once had. A few days later, the scent of homemade baking filled the flat. “Well, I never! Smells like pastries! You must be in love, Anna!” Nina laughed. “Don’t shout across the landing! Just come in and try one – look, proper English curd buns!” Anna grinned. “Not bad at all,” her mother said after tasting. “You’ve not forgotten everything, after all.” Soon Slava was popping round ever more often, staying for Anna’s baking, their rows growing fewer, laughter ringing out from the kitchen. When Anna announced they’d filed for a registry office wedding, Nina Andrews wiped away happy tears – finally! Anna began slimming for the big day, while Slava pleaded, “Why have you stopped baking those buns? Promise we’ll have pies for the wedding tea?” For the simple home celebration, Anna, her mum, and her aunt prepared food for two days for twenty close family. The newlyweds set up in a big room in the family flat. Soon, every flat in their building finally had a telephone. Now Anna made her calls – short and sweet – before rushing back to the kitchen, where her dough grew and her happiness blossomed. She was expecting their first child, but still baked and cooked for Slava, who adored her – and her delicious, homely cheesecakes. A taste of happiness, found right at home.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

The Recipe for Happiness

Everyone in the block watched as the new neighbours moved into the second-floor flata family led by a factory supervisor, a notable job in their small English market town.

Fancy them picking an old building, mused retired Mrs Brenda Harrington to her friends. With their connections, they couldve got something brand new.

Oh, Mum, dont be so quick to judge, her daughter Jane replied, a single woman in her thirties with a fondness for bold makeup. Why would they want a new build when this is a classic Georgian place? High ceilings, big rooms, a properly spacious hall and that lovely sunroom off the lounge. They even got a telephone line right away, which only three flats out of nine have in this block!

Brenda tutted. Youd just use it to chatter all evening. No bothering them now, they seem a serious lotbusy people.

Theyre not that serious, Mum. Theyve got a daughter, only nine, Hannah her name is, Jane countered. Theyre barely older than me, five years maybe.

Their new neighbours, Liz and John Mason, were polite and approachable. Liz worked as a librarian at the local primary school, while John already had a decades experience at the factory. Jane relayed these details to her mothers friends each evening while they sat outside.

How do you know all this, Jane? the ladies would tease. Youd make a good detective.

I pop round to use their phone, Jane confessed. They dont mind, unlike some people here who pretend theyre out when I call.

Before long, Jane was a regular visitor at the Masons, ringing colleagues and chatting to friends, undeterred by the length of her calls. She would arrive in new clothes or a cosy dressing gown, clearly hoping to win the familys friendship.

But once, she noticed John closing the sitting room door as soon as she started talking, and after that, it became a pattern. Still, Jane would smile at Liz, thank her while poking her head in the kitchen, but Liz only nodded and asked her to pull the door shut.

I cant, my hands are covered in flour, Liz would say, showing her hands. The latch catches itselfFrench, you know.

Oh, baking again? Jane tried. Youre always at it! I wish I couldI havent a clue.

Just some cheese scones for breakfast, Liz replied, her attention soon back on the dough. No time in the mornings, so I prepare it now.

Jane would frown, leaving disheartened, feeling increasingly unwelcome.

One evening, John raised the issue quietly: I know its tricky being blunt, but our phones never free after tea time. My mates cant get hold of me, its becoming too much.

Ive noticed Janes made herself at home, Liz agreed. She treats it as her lounge.

That evening, Jane, all glammed up, perched on the hallway pouffe with the phone to her ear.

Jane, will you be long? Were waiting on a call, Liz said after ten minutes.

Jane nodded and hung up, but then she popped a chocolate bar from her bag. Look, Ive brought some chocolate! Lets have tea togetherget to know each other.

She set the bar on the kitchen table.

Oh, youll have to put that away, Liz said firmly. Hannah isnt allowed sweet thingsshes allergic. Teas off, Im afraid. Sorry, but chocolates a no-go in this household.

Really? Gosh, all right, Jane flustered, I just wanted to say thank you.

No need to thank me, but please, only use the phone for emergenciesdoctor, ambulance, fire, that sort of thing. My husband gets calls for work, and Hannahs distracted when youre here. Shes doing homework in the evenings, so we try to keep things quiet.

Jane scooped up her chocolate and left, stung by the rebuff. She convinced herself Liz was simply jealous.

She knows Im younger and more attractive; its pure jealousy, Jane told her mother later. I wanted to be friendly, and she wouldnt even let me brew us a teame, with my own chocolate!

Silly girl, Brenda chided gently. You cant push into someone elses family, whatever your excuse. They dont want your calls. Its their home, not a social club. Of course, they set boundaries. Instead of pouting, find a boyfriend, marry, get your own phone line and let neighbours call you!

Janes last bid for friendship was to ask Liz for her famous cheese scone recipe. Not wanting to be brushed off again, she arrived with a notebook.

Could I trouble you for your recipe? I want to start bakingtime I learnt.

Id try your mumthe older generation learned proper home baking, Liz replied, a little surprised. Im not much help, really; I never measure, just do it by feel. Hands know best! Anyway, Im in a rush. Ask Brenda, shell know!

Jane blushed and returned to her flat, where she remembered the battered old recipe book stuffed in their kitchen cupboardthe one with pages filled by her mothers elegant handwriting. Salads, casseroles, soups, even jellied fish, and plenty of cakes and bakes.

She really didnt want to bake, and Brenda hadnt in ages, conscious of her weight and its effect on her blood pressure. But, curious, Jane pulled out the book and, half-heartedly flipping through it, found the exact cheese scone recipe that matched Lizs.

So, fancy a spot of baking, do you? Brenda asked, surprised.

Why not? Jane replied, quickly marking the page.

Is this to impress Michael again? Thought youd fallen out! Brenda pressed.

Oh, were all right, Jane retorted. If I wanted, hed be round in a flash.

Then go on, do it! Find yourself a husband. Want any help baking?

No thanks, just getting in the mood.

But a few days later, Brenda returned home to the unmistakable smell of fresh baking.

Well, I never! Smells like a bakery in here! she exclaimed. You must be in lovethats not like you at all.

Keep your voice down, Jane laughed. Come, have a tasteits not cake, theyre cheese scones.

Shed set the table: kettle boiling, teapot ready, and a plate of golden scones glowing with promise.

Not bad at all! Brenda smiled. Didnt think you remembered, but youve done grand.

Is it really good, or are you just being nice? Jane asked, seeking reassurance.

Try it yourself! Youve inherited your fathers touchhe always said Thats proper food! Brenda reminisced.

Right, Ill bake these for Michael next time. Do you reckon hell like them?

Hell love themyour dad swore by these scones, and me too! Brenda grinned. Bake, invite, and meanwhile Ill go over to watch telly with Sandra next door. Good to see you settling down; charm isnt just about pretty clothes and lippy.

Soon enough, Michael started dropping round more often. They argued less, and Brenda grew used to Jane spending more time in the kitchen, often helped by Michael, their laughter drifting down the corridor.

And when Jane finally announced theyd booked the registry office, Brenda wiped away happy tearsabout time, she thought.

Jane slimmed down, trying to look her best for the wedding. Michael teased, Youre not going to stop baking my favourites, are you? Will there be scones at the wedding?

Ahead of their small wedding at home, Jane, Brenda, and Aunt Pauline spent two days preparing food, though just twenty guests were expected.

The newlyweds settled into a large room in their three-bedroom flat. Within the year, every flat was fitted with a telephone. Jane was pleased; she rang everyone at first, but now kept calls brief.

Oh, Kate, Id better go, the doughs ready and Michaels due back. Bye!

She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough was rising, and prepared for her maternity leave, still baking and cookingher cheese scones had become a staple.

Happiness, Jane realised, didnt come from pushing into others lives but from learning to create warmth, comfort, and joy in her own home. Sometimes, the recipe for happiness is closer than you thinkall it takes is kindness, a bit of self-discovery, and the willingness to try.

The Fool Everyone thought Annie was a fool. She’d lived with her husband for fifteen years, and they had two children—Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband was blatantly unfaithful; he’d cheated on her the second day of their wedding— with a waitress, no less— and from then on, who could count the affairs? Her friends tried to open her eyes, but Annie would just smile sweetly and stay silent. Annie worked as an accountant at a toy factory: the pay, she said, was tiny, and the workload enormous—reports and late nights, even on weekends. Her husband earned well, but Annie was a useless homemaker—no matter how much money she got, it was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she managed for meals was borscht or some sausage and pasta. Everyone was amazed to see Val with a new fling, coming home dry as a bone, as if nothing had happened. “Oh Annie, what a fool, why does she put up with that philanderer?” they’d say. On the day Sam turned ten, her husband came home and announced he wanted a divorce—he’d fallen in love and didn’t want a family anymore. “Don’t be upset, Annie, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re a cold fish—if you were a good housewife at least, but you’re not even that.” “Alright. I agree to the divorce.” Val nearly fell off his chair, expecting a scandal, tears, hysteria—but not this calm. “Alright, then pack your things. I won’t get in your way. When you leave tomorrow, just leave your key under the doormat.” Annie looked at him silently, with a strange little smile. Val thought it odd but quickly forgot, already picturing his happy new life without children or a tired old wife. The next day he returned with his new girlfriend. No key under the mat—it annoyed him but, “No matter, I’ll just change the locks,” he thought. But his key didn’t fit. He rang the bell. A broad-shouldered man in slippers and a robe opened the door. “What do you want, mate?” “This is my flat, actually,” Val said, suddenly uncertain. “Got documents? If not, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” He had no documents on him, so they didn’t let him in. Then he remembered—his passport, with his address. He found it and handed it over. The man in the robe flipped through, handed it back with a smirk. “When was the last time you looked at this, mate?” Val frantically opened to his registration stamp. Two stamps: one to register, one to remove, two years earlier. How had this happened? He didn’t argue with the bouncer, called Annie—no answer. He waited outside her work, only to learn Annie hadn’t worked there for a year. His daughter had gone to university abroad, his son had switched schools a year ago, and “sorry, we can’t give out those details if you’re not his father.” Crushed, he sat on a bench with his head in his hands. His timid, mousy ex-wife had pulled off some kind of heist—she’d even managed to sell the flat out from under him! But never mind, he’d sort it out in court—the divorce was in a week. He showed up furious, determined to expose his wife and get everything back. And at the hearing, it all became clear—he had forgotten that two years ago he’d signed a power of attorney over to Annie. Back then, he was infatuated with Eliza and tried to get Annie off his back by giving her the legal power she needed for their daughter’s university paperwork. He had, with his own hand, given away everything he owned. In the end, he was left on the street, and—most galling of all—when Eliza found out he was homeless, she disappeared without a trace. But Annie would get no maintenance from him—he’d make sure of that! But then another twist: instead of a summons for child support, he got a summons to contest paternity. Both ‘his’ children turned out not to be his. On their wedding day, Annie had seen him cheating with the waitress, and something snapped. She never understood exactly how or why, but she decided to get her own back, one step at a time. Step one: cheat for cheat. Then she started to scrimp, hiding every penny her husband gave her. The fridge was empty, but the children were fed and clothed at her mother’s house. “Revenge will destroy you and hurt the children,” her mother warned. But Annie was possessed, determined—and she’d succeeded. She’d even done DNA tests, though she already knew neither child was Val’s. That blow hurt more than losing the flat. Beware the woman you wrong; when she is angry, she is capable of anything.

When My Mother-in-Law Declared, “I’m in Charge Here,” I Was Already Holding a Small Blue Envelope She never raised her voice. Women like her don’t shout—they simply raise an eyebrow. The first time she did it was the very day we moved into our “new” home—a home I’d decorated down to the last detail, where I chose the curtains and every mug had its place. She marched in like an inspector, surveyed the living room, the kitchen, and then me. “Mmm… it’s very… modern,” she said. “I’m glad you like it,” I replied calmly. She didn’t answer me directly. Instead, she leaned towards my husband and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “Son, I just hope it’s at least clean.” He smiled awkwardly. I smiled for real. The problem with mothers-in-law like her isn’t that they attack; they claim territory. Like cats—with pearls around their necks. And when a woman starts marking her ground, you have two choices: stand your ground immediately or eventually become a guest in your own life. Over time, she started coming more often—”Just dropping something off,” “Only five minutes,” or “Let me show you how to make a proper roast.” Those five minutes became dinners, then comments, then rules. One morning, I found her rearranging my cupboards. Mine. When I caught her, I calmly leaned on the counter. “What are you doing?” I asked. Without a hint of guilt she replied, “Helping. This just makes more sense. You don’t seem to understand organisation,” and smiled like a woman who had already placed her crown. That’s when I realised: this wasn’t help. This was conquest. And my husband? He was one of those who believed, “Women will sort it out.” He saw “little domestic issues.” I saw something else: a quiet campaign to edge me out. The tipping point came on my husband’s birthday. I’d prepared a dinner—elegant, homely, understated. Candles. Glasses. Music. Everything just as he loved. She arrived early. And not alone. She brought a “friend”—a distant relative—who immediately sat in the lounge as the audience. I knew what was coming. When a mother-in-law brings a witness, it’s a show. The meal went smoothly—until she raised her glass for a toast. “I have something important to say,” she began, in that verdict-announcing voice. “Tonight, we celebrate my son, and one thing needs to be clear: this house…” She paused. “…is a family home. Not one woman’s.” My husband froze. The relative smiled slyly. I didn’t move. She continued, boldly: “I have a key. I come when I need to. When he needs me. And a wife…” She glanced at me like an unfamiliar piece of furniture, “…should remember her place.” And then came the line that gave her away altogether: “I make the decisions here.” The rooms’ silence was taut as a wire. Everyone waited for me to be humiliated. Most women would cry. Argue. Break. But I just straightened my napkin—and smiled. The week before, I’d visited someone. Not a solicitor, not a notary, but an elderly former neighbour who knew much more than she ever said. She’d invited me for tea and got right to the point: “She’s always wanted control. Even when it wasn’t hers to take. But there’s something you don’t know…” She pulled out a little blue envelope—plain, unmarked. She handed it to me as if it were the key to the whole truth. Inside was a postal receipt—a copy—for a letter sent long ago to my husband’s address, but… retrieved by his mother. The letter was about the house. He’d never seen it. The neighbour whispered, “She opened it. Alone. Not in front of him.” I took that blue envelope without emotion—but my mind flashed cold with understanding. The birthday dinner continued with her toast and satisfaction. And then—just when she expected everyone to nod along—I stood up. Not quickly, not dramatically. I simply stood. Looked at her calmly and said, “Fantastic. Since you’re deciding… let’s settle something tonight, too.” She smiled, ready to crush me: “Finally, you understand.” But I turned to my husband. “Darling… did you know who took a letter addressed to you?” His eyebrows shot up. “What letter…?” That’s when I pulled out the small blue envelope from my bag and placed it on the table, right in front of my mother-in-law. Just like a judge presenting the evidence. Her eyes narrowed. The relative was agape. I said, clearly, firmly, in a voice that allowed no argument, “While you were deciding for us… I found the truth.” She tried to laugh it off: “What nonsense…” But I’d started. I explained to my husband—how the letter was meant for him, how she’d taken it, how she’d hidden house-related information. He picked up the envelope with shaking hands, looking at his mother like he was seeing her true face for the first time. “Mum…why?” he whispered. She tried to turn it into “care”: “Because you’re naive! Women…” I cut her off with the sharpest weapon: silence. I let her words land like mud on her own dress. Then I delivered the finishing line: “While you were telling me my place… I reclaimed my home.” No yelling. Just a symbol. I took her coat from the rack, handed it over with a smile and said, “From now on… when you visit, you’ll ring the bell. And you’ll wait to be invited in.” She looked at me like a woman losing her power. “You can’t…” “I can,” I interrupted gently. “Because you’re not above me anymore.” My heels echoed on the floor like a full-stop to the sentence. I opened the door. I saw her out—not as an enemy, but as someone ending a chapter. She left. The relative followed. My husband stayed—shocked, but awakened. He looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry…I didn’t see it.” I looked back calmly: “Now you do.” And then I locked the door. Not hard—just final. The last thought in my head was crystal clear: “My home is not a battlefield for someone else’s power.” ❓And you—if your mother-in-law tried to run your life—would you stop her right away, or only after she’d already pushed you aside?

040

The Fool Everyone thought Anna was a fool. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years, with two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband cheated almost openly—starting with the waitress on their second day of marriage and more flings than anyone could count. Friends tried to open Anna’s eyes, but she just smiled sweetly and kept quiet. Anna worked as an accountant at a children’s toy factory for a tiny salary, buried under work, often even on weekends. Quarterly and annual reports meant she’d sometimes not come home at night. Her husband earned plenty, but as a homemaker Anna was also hopeless. However much money she got, there was never enough for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she’d manage was borscht or meatballs with pasta. That’s how things were. Everyone wondered when they saw Derek with a new girlfriend. He’d often come home stone-cold sober, too. “Oh Anna’s such a fool, why does she put up with that womanizer?” they’d mutter. On the day Sam turned ten, Derek came home and told Anna he wanted a divorce—he claimed he’d fallen in love and the family no longer suited him. “Anna, don’t take it badly, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re as cold as a fish. If you were at least a good cook, but even that you’ve not mastered.” “All right, I agree to the divorce.” Derek nearly fell off his chair. He expected scandal, tears, and hysterics—not this calm. “Fine, then start packing your things, I won’t get in your way. Leave your key under the mat tomorrow.” Anna smiled at him a little too pleasantly. Derek thought it all a bit strange, but shrugged it off, picturing his new happy life without kids and a boring wife. Next day, he came home with his new flame. Looked under the mat—no key, which slightly soured his mood. “Oh well, I’ll just change the locks—easy,” he thought, but when he tried his own key, it no longer worked. He rang the bell, and a burly man in slippers and a dressing gown opened the door. “What d’you want, mate?” “This is my flat,” Derek blurted out. “Well, I’d argue with that. Got documents? If so, let’s see them.” Of course, Derek didn’t have any documents on him and wasn’t let in. Suddenly he remembered—his passport should have his residency listed! He hunted for it and finally found it. “Here’s my passport, the address is in there.” The man flicked through the passport, smirked, and handed it back. “When’s the last time you opened this little book?” Feeling uneasy, Derek checked the registration page. Two stamps. One for moving in, another one, dated two years ago, for moving out. How could this have happened? He didn’t dare argue with the giant and called Anna, but she was out of reach. He waited outside her work, only to learn Anna hadn’t worked there for a year. The daughter was studying abroad, but Sam should be at school. Even there, disappointment—Sam had transferred last year and, as Derek obviously didn’t know this, no one would tell him where. Completely defeated, Derek sat on a bench, his head in his hands. How could the quiet, mousey Anna pull this off? And how did she sell the flat? Oh well, he’d sort it in court. At the divorce hearing, Derek was ready to expose the fraud and get everything back. And in court, everything finally came out. Two years earlier, distracted by his affair with the stunner Elise, he’d signed a power of attorney over to Anna for paperwork their daughter needed for university, on a solicitor’s advice. So, by his own hand, Derek had stripped himself of everything. Now he was alone, out on the street, and to make matters worse, when Elise heard he’d lost the flat, she vanished without a trace. “Well, at least she’ll have to sue me for child support—that’s one thing I can deny her,” Derek thought. But instead of a maintenance claim, he received a summons for a paternity dispute. Turns out both children were fathered by another man. Anna had seen her husband’s first betrayal, with the waitress, on their wedding day. Something inside her snapped. She didn’t quite know what drove her, but she chose an unusual path: revenge through infidelity, stashing away the money Derek gave her, and seeing that the children were always well fed and cared for at their grandmother’s. Anna’s mother warned her: “Revenge will destroy you and ruin the children’s lives.” But Anna was determined. She even got DNA tests done—though she already knew the truth about the children’s father. That blow hit Derek harder than losing the flat. Beware the women you’ve wronged—there’s nothing so formidable as a woman scorned.