I Called Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Cold!” She Turned, Waved Her Shovel and Laughed, “I’m Doing This for You Lazy Lot.” The Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Heartache… Every Time I See That Pathway, My Heart Feels Squeezed as If an Invisible Hand Grips It. I Took That Photo on the Second of January… I Just Happened to Pass By, Saw Her Footprints in the Snow—And Stopped. I Took a Picture Without Really Knowing Why. Now, It’s All I Have From Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s, as Usual, All Together as a Family. Mum Was Up Early on the 31st. I Woke to the Smell of Fried Cutlets and Her Voice from the Kitchen: “Get Up, Love! Help Me Finish the Salads, or Your Dad Will Eat All the Ingredients Before We Even Notice!” I Came Down in My Pyjamas, Hair a Mess. She Stood at the Hob in Her Favourite Apron Covered with Peaches—the One I Gave Her Back in School. She Was Smiling, Cheeks Flushed Red from the Oven. “Mum, Please, Let Me Have a Coffee First,” I Groaned. “Tea After! First, the Potato Salad!” She Laughed and Lobbed Me a Bowl of Roasted Veg. “Chop Them Fine, Like I Like. Not Like Last Time—Chunks as Big as Golf Balls.” We Chopped and Chatted About Everything. She Told Me What New Year’s Was Like When She Was Young—No Fancy Salads, Just One Plate of Herring and a Few Tins of Mandarin Oranges Her Dad Managed to Bring Home. Later, Dad Arrived with the Tree. Huge, Almost Touching the Ceiling. “Alright ladies, Check Out This Beauty!” He Boomed from the Door. “Blimey, Dad, Did You Fell Half the Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Came Out, Surveyed the Tree, and Spread Her Arms: “Lovely, but Where On Earth Will It Go? Last Year’s Was Smaller at Least!” Still, She Helped Decorate. My Little Sister and I Hung Tinsel and Fairy Lights, While Mum Dug Out Old Ornaments—Ones from When I Was Little. I Remember Her Taking Out a Tiny Glass Angel and Whispering, “I Bought This for Your First Christmas, Remember?” “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. I Actually Didn’t, But Seeing Her Face Light Up, I Couldn’t Spoil It. My Brother Showed Up Later, Bags, Gifts, and Bubbly in Tow. “Mum, I’ve Got Proper Champagne This Time! Not That Sour Stuff From Last Year.” “Oh Son, Just Don’t All End Up Sloshed,” Mum Giggled and Hugged Him. At Midnight, We All Went Out Into the Garden. Dad and My Brother Set Off Fireworks, My Little Sister Squealed with Delight, and Mum Stood Beside Me, Her Arm Around My Shoulders. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful?” She Whispered. “What a Wonderful Life We Have…” I Hugged Her Back. “We’re the Luckiest, Mum.” We Passed Champagne Round, Laughing as a Firework Zoomed Toward the Next-Door Shed. Mum, a Bit Tipsy, Danced About in Her Wellies to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”, and Dad Picked Her Up and Spun Her Around. We All Howled with Laughter. New Year’s Day Was Spent Lounging. Mum Kept Cooking—Now It Was Dumplings and Jellied Meat. “Mum, Give It a Rest! We’re All Practically Rolling!” I Moaned. “You’ll Eat It—New Year Means a Week of Feasting!” She Shooed Me Away. On the 2nd of January, She Was Up Early Again, as Always. I Heard the Door Slam, Peered Outside—She Was in the Garden With Her Shovel, Clearing the Path. In Her Old Puffy Coat and a Headscarf. She Was So Meticulous: From the Gate Right Up to the Porch—a Thin, Straight Passage. She’d Pile the Snow up Neatly Against the Wall, Just How She Liked. I Called From the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Freeze!” She Turned Around, Waved Her Shovel Cheerfully: “If I Left It to You Lazybones, We’d All Be Wading Through Drifts until June! Put the Kettle On, Will You?” I Smiled and Headed to the Kitchen. She Was Back Half an Hour Later, Cheeks Glowing, Eyes Bright. “All Done—Looks Good, Doesn’t It?” “It Does, Mum. Thank You.” That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Voice So Full of Life. On the Third, She Woke Up and Quietly Said, “Girls, There’s Something Funny in My Chest. Not Bad, Just Uncomfortable.” I Got Worried Immediately: “Mum, Shall We Call the Doctor?” “Oh, Don’t Be Silly, Love. I’m Just Worn Out, All That Cooking and Rushing Around. I’ll Lie Down, It’ll Pass.” She Rested on the Sofa, Me and My Sister Beside Her. Dad Went Out to the Chemist for Some Tablets. She Even Joked: “Don’t Look at Me Like That—I’ll Outlive You All, You’ll See.” And Then, Suddenly, She Turned Pale and Grabbed Her Chest. “Oh… I Feel Awful… Really Bad…” We Called the Ambulance. I Held Her Hand, Whispering, “Mum, Hold On, They’ll Be Here Soon, You’ll Be Alright…” She Looked Up at Me, Her Voice Barely Audible: “Love… I Love You All So Much… I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye.” The Paramedics Arrived Quickly, But… There Was Nothing They Could Do. A Massive Heart Attack. It All Happened in Minutes. I Sat On the Hall Floor, Howling. I Couldn’t Believe It. Only Yesterday She Was Dancing Outside Under Fireworks, Laughing… Barely Able to Stand, I Went Into the Garden. Snow Still Gently Fell. I Saw Her Footprints—Those Same Small, Deliberate, Neat Prints. From the Gate to the Porch and Back. Exactly as She’d Always Left. I Stood There Staring For So Long, Asking God, “How Can It Be? Yesterday Someone Walked This Earth, Leaving Their Trace, and Today They’re Gone? The Footprints Remain, but She’s Not Here.” I Kept Thinking Maybe—She’d Gone Out One Last Time on the 2nd—to Clear the Path for Us. So We Could Walk Down It Without Her. I Didn’t Brush Them Away, and Asked Everyone Not To Either. Leave Them Until the Snow Itself Wipes Them Away. It Was the Last Thing Mum Did For Us—Her Care Showing Even After She Was Gone. A Week Later Heavy Snow Fell. I Still Keep That Photo of Her Last Footprints. Every Year, on the Third of January, I Look At It—Then at the Now-Empty Path Outside. It Hurts, Realising: Somewhere Under That Snow, She Left Her Final Steps. Those Steps—I’m Still Following Her Down Them…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 7 minViews 2

I called out of the window, Mum, what are you doing out there so early? Youll catch your death! She turned, gave me a wave with her spade and called back, I do it for you lot, the lazybones. The next day, she was gone.

I still cant walk past our old garden without my heart twisting painfully… Every time I see that path, it feels like someones clenched their fist around my heart. It was me who took that photo on the second of January… Id just been wandering outside when I saw the footprints in the snow and paused. I took a picture, not really knowing why at the time. Now, that photo is all I have left from those days…

We celebrated New Years together as usual, all of us crowded into the house. Mum was up at the crack of dawn on New Years Eve. I woke up to the smell of frying bacon and her voice echoing from the kitchen:
Come on, love, up you get! Come help me finish the salads before your dad eats all the ingredients again!
I stumbled in, still in my pyjamas, hair everywhere. Mum was at the stove, wearing her favourite apron with peaches on it the one I bought her when I was at school. She smiled at me, cheeks flushed from the oven.
Mum, let me at least have some tea first, I complained.
Tea later, potato salad first! She laughed and handed me a bowl of roast veg. Chop it up small, how I like. Not like last year, giant chunks everywhere.

We chopped and nattered about everything and nothing in particular. She reminisced about her childhood New Years no fancy salads, just a bit of pickled herring and some tangerines Dad had managed to bring home.
Soon Dad arrived with the tree enormous, nearly scraping the ceiling.
Alright, ladies, come and see the beauty Ive found! he declared as he bustled in.
For goodness sake Dad, did you have to fell half the forest for that? I gasped.
Mum came and looked, arms akimbo, Its lovely, but where on earth are we going to put it? It was smaller last time.
Still, she helped us decorate. My sister Maisie and I strung up the fairy lights and Mum dug out the old baubles the ones from when I was little. I remember her gently picking up the glass angel and saying softly, Bought this for your very first New Year, remember?
Of course I do, Mum, I lied, giving a little nod. She looked so pleased thinking I remembered that tiny angel…

My brother turned up later, as noisy as ever, bursting through the door with bags, presents, and bottles.
Mum, proper champagne this year! he boasted, Not that cheap stuff from last time.
Oh, son, as long as you lot dont get too merry, Mum laughed and gave him a big hug.

When midnight came, we all went outside. Dad and my brother let off fireworks, Maisie shrieked with excitement, and Mum stood next to me with her arm snug round my shoulders.
Look, love isnt it beautiful? she whispered. Arent we lucky?
I hugged her back. Luckiest, Mum.
We passed the bubbly round, sipping from the bottle and laughing when one of the fireworks shot towards the neighbours shed. Mum, a little tipsy, danced about in her wellies to Rockin Around the Christmas Tree and Dad swept her up in his arms. We all laughed till we cried.

New Years Day we lazed about, all of us full and happy. Mum was back at it in the kitchen, whipping up pies and jelly.
Mum, honestly, theres enough food to last a month! I complained.
Oh hush, its New Year its meant to last a week! she waved me off, smiling.

On the second of January, as always, she was up before everyone. I heard the front door slam, looked out the window there she was, shovelling the path, wrapped up in her battered old coat, scarf tied round her head. She was so careful: from the gate to the doorstep, a neat, narrow path. Shed sweep the snow right up against the wall just so, exactly how she liked it.
I called, Mum, do you have to be up so early? Youll freeze!
She turned, gave her usual wave with the spade, What, you want to wade through drifts till spring? Put the kettle on, will you?
I grinned and went back to the kitchen. She came in half an hour later, cheeks glowing, eyes shining.
All sorted now, she said, settling down for her tea, Looks tidy, doesnt it?
Looks great, Mum. Thanks.
That was the last time I ever heard her voice so bright.

On the third of January, she woke saying quietly, Girls, Ive got a bit of a pain in my chest. Not bad, just uncomfortable.
I felt a chill, Mum, lets call the ambulance?
No, dont be silly, love. Ive just overdone it, with all the cooking and running about. Ill rest and itll pass.
She lay down on the settee. Maisie and I sat by her. Dad dashed out to the chemist. Mum even joked,
Dont look at me like that, girls. Ill outlive the lot of you, just you see.
And then, suddenly, she went pale, clutching her chest.
Oh I feel awful really awful…
We rang for an ambulance. I held her hand, whispering,
Mum, hang on, helps coming, youll be alright
She looked at me and said so softly,
Darling I love you all so much I dont want to say goodbye.
The paramedics were quick, but it was too late. A massive heart attack. It all happened in a blur.

I sat on the hall floor, sobbing, not believing it. Only yesterday she was dancing under the fireworks; now…
Barely steady on my feet, I walked out to the garden. There was almost no fresh snow, but her footprints stood out, small and neat, just as shed always made them. From the gate to the doorstep and back. Her mark, still there.
I stood staring at them for ages, asking God, How can it be? Yesterday she was walking here, making those prints, and now shes gone? The prints remain, but shes not.
Maybe it was imaginary, but it felt like Mum had gone out for the last time on the second making sure we had a clear path, so we wouldnt have to wade through snow without her.
I didnt sweep them away. I asked everyone else to leave them too. Let them stay until the snow hides them for good.
That was the last thing Mum did for us. Her kindness showing through, even after shed left us.

A week later, there was a heavy snowfall.
Now I keep that picture of her footprints safe. Every third of January, I look at it, and then out at the empty path beside our house. It hurts so deeply to know somewhere under that snow, she left her final traces for us.
The ones Im still following, every day, behind her.

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.

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?

092

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.