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.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 1

SILLY GIRL

Everyone thought Molly was a bit of a fool. Id been married to her for fifteen years. We had two children togetherLucy was fourteen, and Billy was seven. Id made no secret of having affairs; in fact, the first time was on the second day of our wedding, with a barmaid. After that, there was no keeping count. Her friends tried warning her, but Molly always just smiled sweetly and kept quiet.

Molly worked as an accountant at a childrens toy factory. According to her, the pay was pitiful, and the workload never seemed to end. She was often asked to come in on weekends. When it was time for quarterly and annual reports, shed sometimes stay all night working and not come home.

I was earning a decent wage myself. Yet, Molly never seemed to manage the house well. No matter how much money I gave her for groceries, the fridge was always half empty. The best shed whip up was perhaps a stew or mince and mash. That was our life. Friends and family would raise their eyebrows every time they saw me with a new fling. I had a habit of coming home stone-cold sober, which seemed odd given my gallivanting.

Daft old Molly. Why does she put up with him? theyd mutter.

On Billys tenth birthday, I came home and announced I wanted a divorce. I told her Id fallen in love and couldnt bear the family any longer.

Molly, I dont want to hurt you, but Im going to file for divorce. Youre as cold as a fish. At least if youd been a half-decent housewife, but theres not even that.

All right. I agree to the divorce.

I almost fell off my chair. I expected a meltdown or floods of tears, not this unnerving calm.

Well, she said, youd better start packing, and I wont get in your way. Ill be back tomorrowjust leave your key under the doormat.

Molly looked at me with a strange, suspicious sort of smile. It was all so odd, but I soon stopped thinking about it, too busy daydreaming about my bright new future, without the kids and the dull wife.

The next day, I came back home with my new girlfriend. I checked under the doormat, but the key was missing, which rather soured my mood.

No matter. Ill just have the locks changed, I decided, and tried putting my own key in the lock. No luck. I knocked. A massive bloke, wearing slippers and a dressing gown, opened the door.

What dyou want, mate?

This is my flat, I replied, a bit unsure of myself.

Well, I beg to differ. Any paperwork to prove it? Lets see your documents.

Of course, I didnt have any documents on me, nor would he let me in to fetch them. Suddenly, I remembered my passportit should have my address on it. I scrambled through my bag and finally found it.

Here! My passportsee, its got my address.

Dressing-gown-man took it, leafed through, then handed it back, a mocking grin on his face.

Whens the last time you looked at this, mate?

A sinking feeling in my gut, I flicked to the page with my address. There were two stampsone showing when I moved in, the other showing Id moved out, dated two years ago.

How could that be? I didnt argue with the bruiser. I tried phoning Molly, but her number wasnt connecting.

I decided to wait for her at her work gatebut no luck there, either. Turned out, Molly hadnt worked there for a year. Lucy was studying abroad, and Billy must still be going to school, surely? But when I went there, they told me Billy had transferred the previous year, and since I wasnt listed as his parent, they couldnt give me any information.

Utterly defeated, I found a bench and buried my head in my hands. How had it all come to this? My ex-wife, the quiet wallflower, and she pulled off something like this? And how had she managed to sell the flat? Well, Id get it sorted in courtour divorce was due in a week.

I walked into the courtroom angry and determined to expose her as a cheat and get back what was mine. There, everything became clear. I had completely forgotten: Id signed over a full power of attorney to Molly two years prior. That was when Id first met Lisa, a real head-turner, and was so giddy Id forgotten everything else. Meanwhile, Molly had been pestering me about some forms Lucy needed to get into schoolmy signature was required, and after consulting a solicitor, Id stupidly signed the authority over.

And so, with my own hand, I had signed away all I owned. Now I was left out in the cold. Lisa, hearing that I no longer had a flat, disappeared faster than a coin down a drain.

I told myself at least I wouldnt be paying her maintenance. Thatd show her. But once again, I was disappointed. Instead of a court summons for maintenance, I got one disputing paternity. Turned out, neither of Mollys children were actually mine.

Shed seen me cheating with that barmaid on our wedding night. Something snapped in her brain. She didnt even know how or why she did what she did, but it was payback. First was revenge cheating, but soon after, she started saving. Every penny I handed over for housekeeping she stashed away. The cupboards at home were empty, but the children were always well-dressed and fed at her mums. Mollys mother only shook her head and warned,

Revenge will eat you up and wreck the kids, too.

But Molly carried on, driven by purpose. When the time was right, she even did DNA tests, though shed always known the truth about the childrens real father.

That was a blow below the belt. Losing the flat was nothing compared to learning the kids werent mine.

Never underestimate a woman crossedtheir fury has no bounds.

That day I learned that neglecting those who trust you can come back to haunt you in the most unexpected ways. I suppose I lived up to everyones opinion of a foolonly, in the end, it was me who wound up looking like the real one.

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.

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?

043

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.