My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife and Their Children to Our Holiday Celebration, So I Packed My Bags and Spent New Year’s Eve with My Best Friend

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 16 minViews 3

Tell me youre joking, Oliver. Please dont tell me youre being serious. Or maybe I misheard because of the tap running?

Natalie shut off the water, dried her hands on her apron, and slowly turned to face her husband. The kitchen was thick with the scent of steamed veg, fresh parsley, and clementinesproper Christmas spirit. Only six hours to go until New Years. Chopped ingredients for the potato salad towered over the counter, a roast duck sizzled patiently in the oven, and the bacon-wrapped prawn terrine was setting in the fridge, having boiled since 3am.

Oliver shuffled awkwardly in the doorway, as guilty as a lad caught nicking biscuits. He was fiddling with the button on his old flanneleven he could feel how ridiculous this was, but he wasnt about to back down.

Natalie, love dont start, please, he pleaded, voice pitched somewhere between apologetic and grovelling. Louises place is floodedwell, not flooded, but the waters off. And no heating! Imagine, sat there freezing on New Years Eve with the boys. I couldnt say no. They are my sons, after all.

The boys? Yes, theyre yours, Natalie said, struggling to keep her tone steady. Inside, she was prickly with indignation. And is Louise your child too? Cant she stay at her mums? Or a mates? Or, God forbid, a hotel? She gets more than enough in maintenance to book a Presidential Suite, doesnt she?

Her mums at the spa, friends all up north, you know how it is, Oliver avoided eye contact. Anyway, its a family holiday, isnt it? The lads will love being with their dad. Itll be fine, Natalie, well have dinner, watch the fireworks. Theres loads of space in the flat for everyone.

Natalie looked around the kitchen. Yes, the place was massive, but it was their space. Hers and Olivers. Shed spent a week doing a deep clean, ordered festive napkins to match the curtains, splashed out on expensive aftershave hed dropped hints about all year. Shed imagined a quiet night: candles, soft fairy lights, a spot of Sinatra, and just the two of them. Their first New Year in three years of marriage when they werent rushing about, not hosting anyone. Idyllicuntil now.

Oliver, we agreed, she said quietly. We agreedthis New Years just us. I dont mind your sons, you know I dont. I always welcome them, weekends and all. But Louise Youve invited your ex-wife to share our table. Do you see how that looks?

Youre blowing this up, Oliver waved a hand, feigning a confidence he clearly didnt feel. Come onwere civilized, Natalie. Louise is fine, shes just the boys mum, thats all. Dont be selfish, love. No need to be heartless at Christmas. Theyll be here in an hour.

He spun round and legged it from the kitchen, as though expecting her to lob a saucepan at his head. Natalie stayed, hands braced against the worktop. The duck crackled cheerily from the oven, and her appetite died a sudden death. Dont be selfish. That stung more than burnt onions. Shed tried to be the perfect wife, put up with the weekend visits, fixed Louises never-ending emergenciesthe dodgy sink, the mysterious feline illnesses, you name it. And this was her reward.

She robotically started chopping potatoes, hoping her temper would fademaybe it wouldnt be so bad. Maybe Louise would behave. After all, Christmas and New Year were the seasons for miracles or so they said.

No miracle arrived. Bang on the hour, the doorbell trilled. Natalie barely had time to swap her fleece for a party dress and slap on some makeup before Oliver hurtled for the door, grinning like hed just found a tenner down the sofa.

In bustled the whole lot of themLouises little circus; first, the ladsten-year-old Alfie and seven-year-old Danielcrashing in on muddy boots, tearing through the living room, leaving the sort of tracks that thrilled even the best detergents. Then, in came Louise herself, royal as the Queen Mary in a cherry-red dress with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, arms straining under a mountain of shopping bags. Her perfume hit with the force of a brick, wrestling Natalies faint clementine aroma into submission.

Oh at last! Louise boomed, flicking snow off her fur coat straight onto the carpet. Traffics a nightmare, nearly had to bribe the cabbie to get a move on! Oliver, grab the bagsgifts for the boys, and PROPER bubbly, not that cooking plonk you usually buy.

Natalie managed a smile, as polite as teatime with the vicar.

Evening, Louise. Hello, boys.

Louise gave her the once-over, lingering at Natalies simple navy dress.

All right, Nat, she said, barely glancing up. Blimey, bit stuffy in herecrack a window? And, Oliver, where are my slippers? Those pink ones I left last time when I popped in for the child support?

Just a mo, Lou, Oliver nearly dived into the coat cupboard, rummaging for ex-wife-special slippers.

Lou now, was it? Natalie felt her insides coil tight as a spring. Special slippers kept just for Louise? Oliver knew where they were, too?

The guests spilled into the lounge. The boys whacked the volume up on the telly and began bouncing on the new sofaher precious light-grey sofa, which shed spent weeks hand-picking (and equally long cleaning).

Alfie, Danielsteady on the sofa, darlings, please, Natalie tried, gentle as ever.

Oh let them be, kids need to let off steam! Louise cut in, flopping into an armchair. Oliver, bring some watermy mouths like the Sahara!

What followed could only be described as the One-Woman-Louise Christmas Pantomime. She had something to say about everythingthe decorations (Bit dull, in my day we had tinsel everywhere), the table setting (Why all the forks, Nat, are we expecting the King?), even how the children were being handled. Oliver trailed dutifully after, adjusting pillows, wrestling with the remote, supplying device chargers, never once looking at Natalie.

So she simply laid the table in silence, ferrying plates and glasses, feeling more like a waitress at someone elses work do than a wife at her own celebration.

Natalie! Louise hollered from the lounge. Potato salad with ham? Really? Thats so last century. Oliver likes his with roast beef. Didnt you know? We always did it that way.

Well, hes happily eaten mine for three years, Natalie shot back, setting the salad bowl down with a satisfying thud.

Oh, sweetheart, thats just him being polite, Louise cackled. Poor old Oliver, just suffering in silence for your sake.

Oliver hovered awkwardly in the doorway, grinning sheepishly and, crucially, saying nothing. Not, Leave off, Natalie cooks beautifully. Just a nervous silence.

That was Strike One. Strike Two was when the duck came outgloriously browned, it was the pride of her culinary year. Natalie set it centre-table with the flourish of a Michelin chef.

Tuck in everyoneduck with Bramleys and prunes.

The boys crowded forward, recoiling immediately.

Ew, its burnt! Daniel declared. Not eating that. Dad, can we order pizza?

Its crispy, Daniel, not burnt, Natalie tried, with a weak smile.

Honestly, kids cant eat that, Louise leapt in, stabbing the duck with visible disgust. So rich and whats with the prunes? Who puts prunes with meat? Oliver, order them a pizza. And get me one as well, not risking that duck. My stomachs delicate.

Oliver looked mortified.

Maybe thats best, Nat. Kids want a treat. Ill be quickthirty minutes tops.

Youre youre serious? Natalies voice wobbled. I spent four hours on that bird. A whole day marinating.

Dont be upset, Oliver tried to hug her but she shrugged him off. Some people just have different tastes, you know? Duck and pizzaeveryone wins, right?

Without waiting for genuine agreement, he busied himself with the takeaway app, asking Louise if she wanted mushrooms or just pepperoni.

Natalie slumped into a chair. This was surreal. Her house, her holiday, her kitchenand here she was, an extra in the background while her husband and his ex debated pizza toppings and her roast was scrutinized like a failed chemistry experiment.

Louise, meanwhile, poured herself a glass of prosecco (help herself, obviously), and chirped, Remember 2015, Oliver? That holiday park? When you dressed as Father Christmas, and your beard nearly set fire to the BBQ? We laughed so hard!

Oh God, yes! Oliver beamed. And you as Mrs. Claus, and you fell into that snow drift in your heelspriceless!

Off they went, stories tripping over each other: beach days, dodgy car sales, little Alfies first steps. They belonged to a shared world that didnt include Natalie at all. She sat at her precious table, feeling invisible. More like an ottoman than a wife.

The children were running amok wheninevitablyone crashed into the wine glass, tipping dark red all over the blindingly white tablecloth (which had taken her an hour to iron). The stain bloomed red and wide, like a murder scene.

Oh marvellous, Louise huffed. Oliver, dont just stare, get it up! And whose idea was it to put wine on the edge, anyway? Natalie, got any salt? Although, to be honest, its only a Wilkos tablecloth, isnt it?

Natalie got up, almost floating. All she could hear was static; voices from the living room faded out. She watched Oliver dashing for the salt, obeying Louises every order, and never once glancing at his own wife. He was busy rescuing Christmas for his former family.

In that second, Natalie knew: she simply didnt exist for him. Physically present, but everything elseher feelings, her presenceoverlooked. There was Louise, there were the boys, his endless guilt to appease. Natalie? Just the one who arranged the furniture.

Without a word, she left the lounge. No one noticed. Louise was in full flow about some disastrous trip to her mother-in-laws. Oliver was laughing too hard to care.

In the spare room, Natalie felt nothing but a rare, icy clarity. She reached for her gym bag: jeans, jumper, change of clothes, washbag, phone charger. Passport, toohabit, just in case. Out went the blue dress, on went the boots. The face in the mirror looked tired but unflinching.

As she crossed the hallway, the doorbell rangthe pizzas.

PIZZA! the boys thundered.

Oliver, pay the man! Ive only got twenties! Louise barked.

Natalie walked down the hall. Oliver was at the doorway, handing a handful of cash to the pizza boy. She waited until he carried the boxes inside.

Hey, pizzas are here! Oliver crowed.

Natalie slipped out unnoticed, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click. She called the lift, exhaling only when the doors closed.

Outside, big snowflakes drifted down. All around, London was gearing up for midnightfireworks, laughter, chaos. Natalie called her best friend.

Chloe, you awake?

What kind of question is that? Its New Years Eve! Ed and I have already cracked open a bottle. Natwhats wrong? You sound like youve just auditioned for a ghost story.

Ive left Oliver. Can I come round?

My Godof course you can! Ed, set another place, Natalies coming. Where are you? Ill call you a cab right now!

Forty minutes later, Natalie was sitting in Chloes tiny kitchen, blanketed in calm and cinnamon. Ed tactfully retreated to the living room to fix the wifi, leaving the friends alone.

So spill, Chloe handed her steaming tea with lemon. Whats that clown done now?

Natalie told her everythingthe broken pipes, the potato salad, the nostalgia, the uneaten duck.

Its not even really about them turning up, Natalie said, hands curled around her mug for warmth. Its Oliver. He went straight into servant mode. He forgot about me. I stood there like the help while they played happy families. If he cant let go of the past, why am I still here?

Chloe shook her head. Textbook Nice Guy syndrome. Tries to keep everyone happy, ends up stabbing you in the back. You did the right thing by leaving. If youd let it slide, hed have thought it was normalthe green light to treat you like an old shoe.

Natalies phone, facedown, buzzed about an hour after shed gone. Apparently, theyd noticed the missing chef at last.

It was Oliver calling. She ignored it.

He rang. And rang.

Then the texts arrived:

Natalie, where are you? Cant find you anywhere.

Are you at the shop? The pizzas getting cold.

Pick up, Nat, this isnt funny. The guests are asking for the hostess.

Did you storm off? This is childish! Come back, Louise is starting to feel awkward!

Natalie laughed bitterly at the last one. Louise feeling awkwardhe was worried about his exs embarrassment, not his wifes humiliation.

Dont answer, Chloe advised. He can play butler for his Lou and do the washing up himself.

Natalie powered her phone off.

That New Years, she wasnt making any resolutions. She drank prosecco with Chloe and Ed, watched a daft rom-com, and for the first time in ages, felt lighterlike the worlds heaviest shopping bag had slipped from her shoulders.

New Years Day was bright and frosty. Natalie awoke on the sofa to the smell of coffee. Turning on her phone, she saw: fifty missed calls, twenty texts. The tone went from stern to panicky, finishing up at full woe.

The boys smashed your favourite vase. Sorry.

Louise went spare, moaned the sofas too hard.

They left. Nat, its a war zone. Ive no idea where to start.

Natalie, sweetheart, forgive me. Im an idiot. Please call.

Around midday, Chloes doorbell rang. Oliver stood there looking like hed spent the night in a hedge: hair vertical, shirt crumpled and stained, panda eyes. He gripped a bouquet of battered rosesthe last from some poor petrol station, probably cost him a fortune.

Chloe, opening the door in full battle-axe mode, kept herself wedged firmly in the doorway.

Well, look whos turned up. The prodigal prat. What do you want?

Chloe, can I see Natalie please? I know shes here. I need to talk to her.

Natalie appeared in the hallway. On seeing him, she felt nothing except total exhaustion.

Natalie! he started towards her, but she stared him down coldly.

Natalie, Im so sorry. I get it now. The second you left, everything went to pot. Louise started barking orders; the boys tore the place upflipped the tree upside down. Louise said I was a rotten dad, and ruined the party In the end, I put them in a taxi at 3am. It was chaos.

He met her eyes.

I see now how I hurt you. I turned into a doormat to keep everyone happy and ended up stomping all over you. Youre my family, Nat. Just you. Please forgive me. Come home. Its empty without you. Ive tidied up most of it.

Natalie eyed the drooping roses, water dribbling onto the mat.

You didnt just hurt me, Oliver. You showed me my worthas a sort of cross between a chef and a chaise longue. You let her take over my house, and you just let it happen.

Itll never happen again! Oliver burst out. Ill block Louise everywhere. From now, only speak to her about the boys, and only in a public place. No more guests. No phone calls at all hours. I swear Ill change.

Natalie was silent. He meant it, she could tellhe was scared and sorry. But could she forget sitting at her own table, feeling invisible?

Im not coming back today, she said eventually. I need some time. Ill stay at Chloes for a bit. Youyou should go home and have a good think. Not about how to win me back, but about how you got us here in the first place. Why your exs opinion mattered more to you than your wifes feelings.

Ill wait, he said softly, head bowed. As long as it takes. I love you, Nat. Properly.

He set down the roses and slunk off. The door shut quietly behind him.

Natalie rejoined Chloe in the kitchen, where fresh tea was poured.

Well? Are you going to forgive him? Chloe asked.

I dont know. Maybe. Hes a good manjust a very lost one. But if I do, things will have to be different. No more playing second fiddle. Ever.

She gazed out at the city, white with snow, clean as a blank notepad. Life was rolling on, and this time, Natalie knew exactly whose hand should be holding the pen.

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I Know Best — What is going on? — Daniel crouched wearily in front of his daughter, eyeing the pink patches on her cheeks. — Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely grown-up. She was used to these examinations, her parents’ worried faces, endless creams and tablets. Maria came over and knelt next to her husband, gently brushing a lock of hair from Sophie’s face. — These medicines aren’t working. At all. It’s like giving her water. And the doctors at the surgery… they’re not doctors, just… who knows what. Third time they’ve changed her treatment plan — no effect. Daniel stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the sky was grey, and the day showed every sign of being as bleak as the last. They packed up quickly — wrapped Sophie in her warm coat, and half an hour later, sat in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. — So little, and already so much medicine. What a strain on her body, — she sat Sophie on her lap, and the little girl leaned against her, comforted. — It’s awful to see. — We’d love not to give her anything, — Maria perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers clenched. — But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve removed everything. Seriously, everything. She’s only eating the most basic foods — and she’s still covered in a rash. — What do the doctors say? — Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. More tests, more samples — but the only outcome… — Maria waved her hand. — Just her cheeks. Olga sighed and straightened Sophie’s collar. — Maybe she’ll grow out of it. Children do sometimes. For now, it’s just… not encouraging. Daniel looked at his daughter. Small and thin, her big, watchful eyes. He stroked her head and a memory of his own childhood floated up — sneaking pies that his mum baked on Saturdays, pleading for sweets, scooping jam right out of the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no sweets, no normal kid food. Four years old, on a stricter diet than many ulcer patients. — We don’t know what else to cut, — he said quietly. — Her diet is almost nothing. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the back seat, and Daniel kept glancing at her in the mirror. Sleeping at last. At least, not scratching. — Mum called, — Maria spoke up. — She wants us to bring Sophie round next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. — Theatre? — Daniel changed gear. — That’s good. Distraction is good. — That’s what I thought. It’ll do her good. Saturday, Daniel parked up at his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from her car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her fists — early wake-up, still tired. He scooped her up, and she nestled her nose in his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Patricia drifted out onto the porch in a flowery housecoat, hands outstretched as if greeting a shipwreck survivor. — Oh, my darling girl, my sunshine! — She gathered Sophie to her enormous bosom. — So pale, so thin. You’ve run her ragged with your diets, poor child is suffering. Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets, reining in his irritation. Same old story, every time. — It’s for her own good. Not for fun, believe me. — For her good? — Patricia pursed her lips, glancing at her granddaughter as if returning from a prison camp. — Nothing but skin and bone. She’s supposed to be growing, and you’re starving her! She carried Sophie inside without looking back, and the door clicked shut. Daniel stood on the steps, something nagging at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. He rubbed his forehead, listened to the quiet of the unfamiliar garden, then headed for the car. A childless weekend felt odd, almost forgotten. Saturday, he and Maria wandered the supermarket, pushing a trolley, stocking up for the week. At home, Daniel finally fixed the leaking bathroom tap, Maria cleared out the cupboards and packed old clothes for donation. Everyday chores, but the flat felt wrong, too empty without a child’s voice. That night, they ordered pizza — the kind with mozzarella and basil Sophie wasn’t allowed. Opened a bottle of red wine. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing much — like they hadn’t done in ages: work, holiday plans, that unfinished home decorating. — It’s nice, — Maria began, then hesitated, biting her lip. — I mean… you know. Just peaceful. Quiet. — I know, — Daniel covered her hand with his. — I miss her too. But a break isn’t unwelcome. On Sunday, he drove to collect Sophie just before dusk. The setting sun bathed the street deep orange; his mother-in-law’s house nestled behind old apple trees, almost inviting in the golden light. Daniel got out, pushed the garden gate — hinges squeaked — and stopped mid-stride. On the porch was his daughter, with Patricia seated beside her, face beaming. In her hand was a pie. Large, golden, oily. And Sophie was eating it. Cheeks messy, crumbs on her chin, and her eyes — shining, happier than he’d seen her in months. Daniel stared for a moment, then heat and anger surged in his chest. He strode forward and snatched the pie from Patricia. — What the hell is this?! Patricia recoiled, blushing crimson from her throat to her hairline. She flapped her hands, trying to ward off his anger. — It’s just a tiny bit! No harm done, it’s just a pie… Daniel wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up — she clung to his jacket, frightened and quiet — and carried her to the car. Strapped her in, hands shaking with fury. Sophie watched him with wide eyes, lips trembling — near tears. — It’s alright, sweetheart, — he stroked her head, voice steady as he could manage. — Wait here a moment. Daddy’ll be right back. He shut the door and marched back to the house. Patricia still waited on the porch, fiddling with her robe, splotched with red. — Daniel, you don’t understand… — I don’t understand?! — he stepped closer, temper unleashed. — Six months! Six months we didn’t know what was happening with our daughter! Doctors, hospital visits, allergen tests — do you know how much that all cost? How many sleepless nights? Patricia shrank back. — I just wanted to help… — Help?! — Daniel stepped in. — She lived off water and boiled chicken! We cut everything out! And you sneak her fried pies?! — I was building up her immunity! — Patricia suddenly squared up. — I gave her tiny bits so she’d get used to it. Another week or two and she would’ve been fine, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three children! Daniel stared at her, not recognising this person. The woman he tolerated for years, to keep peace for his wife — poisoning his child, believing she knew better than doctors. — Three children, — he said quietly, watching Patricia pale. — So what? Every child is different. And Sophie isn’t yours, she’s mine. You won’t see her again. — What?! — Patricia clutched the rail. — You can’t do that! — I can. He turned and walked to the car. Her shouts echoed behind him, but Daniel didn’t look back. Started the engine, saw her waving in the mirror, pressed the pedal. At home, Maria was waiting in the hall. One look at her husband’s face, their tearful child, and she understood instantly. — What happened? Daniel told her. Brief, guarded. Emotionless — he’d left that behind in Patricia’s garden. Maria listened, her face hardening every second. Then she grabbed her phone. — Mum. Yes, Daniel told me. How could you?! Daniel took Sophie to the bathroom — washed off the pie and tears. Behind the door, Maria’s angry, unfamiliar voice rang out; he’d never heard her speak to her mother that way. At the end: “Until we sort out her allergy — you’re not seeing Sophie.” Two months later… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. On the table: sponge cake with cream and strawberries. Sophie tucked in with a big spoon, smearing cream over her cheeks. Not a spot in sight. — Who’d have guessed, — Olga shook her head. — Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. — Doctor said one in a thousand kids, — Maria spread butter on her bread. — Swapped to olive oil, rash gone in two weeks. Daniel watched his daughter, couldn’t look away. Pink cheeks, bright eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, eating proper food at last. Cake, biscuits, all the treats — as long as sunflower oil was avoided. Relations with Patricia stayed chilly. She rang, apologised, cried. Maria kept her replies short and dry. Daniel didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, Olga pushed the plate nearer. — Go on, love. Eat up, enjoy. Daniel leaned back in his chair. Rain drummed on the window, but indoors was warm and fragrant with baking. His daughter was better; nothing else mattered.

On the Edge of This Summer Working at the library, Dana considered her life dull—there were few visitors these days, as everyone was online. She often rearranged books on the shelves, dusting them off, but the highlight of her job was reading countless books of every genre: romance, philosophy… And by thirty, she realized that romance had somehow passed her by. At her age, she should probably start a family, but she wasn’t striking in appearance, her job paid little. It had never really crossed her mind to change her job, since she was content. The library mainly saw students, and occasionally schoolchildren or pensioners. Recently, a professional competition was held at the county level and, to her own astonishment, Dana won the grand prize—a fully paid two-week holiday by the seaside. “That’s fantastic. I’ll definitely go,” she cheerfully told her friend and mother. “On my salary I’d never get this far—this is happiness handed to me!” Summer was drawing to a close. Dana walked along the deserted beach; most holidaymakers were at cafes, since today the sea was especially rough. It was her third day at the seaside, and she wanted to stroll the shoreline alone, think, and dream. Suddenly, she saw a young man swept off the pier by a wave. Without a thought for herself, she rushed to help—it was close to shore, and though not a strong swimmer, she could manage in the water. The waves helped her pull the boy, holding him by the collar, until she finally managed to stand waist-deep on solid ground. One idea filled her mind: stay on her feet. She finally managed it. Standing there in her lovely dress, now clinging to her body, she looked at the boy in surprise. “He’s only fourteen, maybe a bit older, just tall and a little taller than me,” she thought and asked, “What were you thinking, swimming in this weather?” The boy got up, thanked her, and, swaying a little, walked off. Dana just shrugged and watched him go. The next morning, she woke with a smile—the weather was stunning, the sun shining bright, the sea sparkling blue and calm, apologising for yesterday’s roughness. After breakfast, she wandered down to the beach, basked in the sun, and later headed for a walk in the park. There, spotting a shooting range, she remembered her sharp aim from school and university. The first shot missed, but the second hit the target. “See, son, that’s how you shoot!” came a man’s voice behind her. She turned, surprised to see the boy from yesterday. The boy’s eyes flashed with fear—he recognised Dana—and she realised his father had no idea his son had nearly drowned. She smiled slightly. “Perhaps you can give us a lesson?” suggested the tall, friendly-looking man. “Zhenya here can’t shoot, and sadly, neither can I,” he added with a warm smile. Afterwards, they wandered together, enjoyed ice cream at a café, and rode the Ferris wheel. Dana half expected Zhenya’s mother to join them soon, but both father and son seemed content and were expecting no one. The boy’s father, introducing himself as Anton, was a fascinating conversationalist, intelligent, and with every passing minute Dana found herself ever more drawn to him. “Dana, have you been here long?” “No, just started my first week—I’ve got another left.” “And where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” As it turned out, father and son were from the same town as Dana. All three laughed. “Funny, isn’t it? We never met at home, but here—even by chance,” Anton smiled warmly, clearly taken by the charming, composed woman beside him. Zhenya, now at ease, chatted freely—realising Dana wouldn’t tell his dad about the previous day’s mishap. They parted late, Anton and Zhenya seeing Dana to her hotel, promising to meet the next morning. Dana arrived at the beach first; her new friends were nearly an hour late. “Morning!” came Anton’s familiar voice. “Forgive us, Dana, we totally forgot to set the alarm and overslept!” he laughed apologetically, settling beside her. “Dad, I’m going swimming,” said Zhenya, heading toward the water. But Dana shouted, “Wait! You can’t swim!” Anton looked surprised. “Of course he can, he does competitions at school,” he replied. Dana fell silent. Surely, he couldn’t swim? Perhaps she’d been mistaken. They all stayed in a neighbouring hotel. The next days were magical. They met every morning at the beach, parted late, went on sightseeing trips. Dana longed to talk with Zhenya alone—she felt he had something weighing on his mind. In fact, she learned father and son lodged in the neighbouring hotel. The chance soon came. One morning, only Zhenya appeared. “Hi. Dad’s got a fever,” he said, “but I asked if I could come—I told him you’d keep an eye on me,” he smiled. “Sorry I decided that, but I just didn’t want to sit cooped up.” “Zhenya, can I get your dad’s number to call and check on him?” He dictated it. “Hello?” answered Anton, “Maybe not a ‘good’ morning, feeling rough with a fever. Please look after my boy—he’s promised to do everything you ask…” “Don’t worry, just get well. He’s nearly grown and very sensible. I’ll look in later to check on you,” Dana assured him. After a swim, Zhenya sprawled on a sunbed beside Dana and said, “You know, you’re a real friend.” She looked at him, he smiled. “What makes you say that?” “Thanks for not telling Dad about what happened,” Zhenya said, blushing. “I was swept off the pier by a wave, and I panicked for a moment.” “You’re welcome,” Dana smiled, and after a pause, asked, “Zhenya, where’s your mum? Why are you here with just your dad?” Zhenya hesitated, thinking, but then seemed to decide he was grown up enough. Anton’s job sometimes took him away on business trips—Zhenya would stay with his mum, Marina. To everyone else, they looked like a happy family. But as it turned out, it was just an act—because of Marina. One day Anton told his wife, “I’m being sent to London for three weeks for training—afterwards, my boss hinted at a promotion and a pay raise…” His wife seemed pleased. While he was gone, Marina told Zhenya, “We’re having guests—my colleague Arthur and his daughter Kira. Arthur and I need to work on some plans, so you need to entertain Kira. She’s a couple years older than you.” Kira was lively, decisive. Soon, she suggested, “Let’s hang out in the park or something…” Marina agreed and handed her son twenty pounds. “Treat her to an ice cream!” The days passed. With Kira, Zhenya found new experiences—she was older, wise beyond her years. Before his father returned, Kira said, “Well, little man, lucky your dad’s finally coming back. Frankly, I’m tired of keeping you busy—it’s only to keep you out of the way while our parents have fun.” Zhenya was disgusted; still, he could no longer ignore the truth. Back home, he saw his mother’s coldness to his father. The family was on the verge of breaking. He considered whether to tell his dad. Soon enough, he overheard his parents argue. “Yes, I’ve been cheating. So what?” he heard his mother shout as he entered from training. “Nothing. I’ll just file for divorce. You don’t care for our son, so he’ll stay with me…,” said his father. “Fine,” his mother replied, “I’ll have another family.” Hearing the door slam as she left, Zhenya was certain—he wanted to stay with his dad. When Anton tried explaining everything, Zhenya said, “No need. I already know. I love you, and I think we’ll be better off alone.” “You’re a grown-up now,” his father ruffled his hair. “Stay in touch with your mum if you wish—she’s left me, not you.” But Zhenya wasn’t ready to forgive. After the beach, Dana and Zhenya brought fruit to Anton, now feeling better. He promised they’d be at the beach the next day. Three days later, father and son had to go home, but Dana still had two days left. Summer was ending. On the edge of that summer, they said goodbye. Anton promised to meet Dana at the airport; Zhenya smiled. Dana made no plans, just happily reread Anton’s affectionate messages, as he confessed he missed her already and looked forward to her return. Soon, Dana moved into Anton and Zhenya’s flat—perhaps most delighted of all was Zhenya, happy for his father, for himself, and for Dana.

“Whose Girl Are You, Love?.. Let Me Carry You Home to Warm Up — I Lifted Her in My Arms, Brought Her to My Cottage, and the Village Was Ablaze With Gossip: ‘Goodness, Anna, Where Did You Find Her?’ ‘What Will You Do With That Child?’ ‘Anna, Have You Lost Your Mind? How Will You Feed Her?’ The Floor Creaked Underfoot — Again I Remind Myself I Should Fix It, But Never Find the Time. Settling at My Table, I Opened My Faded Diary: Pages Yellowed Like Autumn Leaves, Yet Its Ink Preserved My Thoughts. Outside, the wind howls and a birch tree taps the window, begging to be let in. ‘Why All The Fuss?’ I Ask It. ‘Just Wait — Spring Will Come Soon Enough.’ It’s Funny to Talk to a Tree, I Know, But When You Live Alone, Everything Feels Alive. The war left me a widow — my dear Stephen gone, his last letter still folded tight and worn with rereading. He promised to return, promised love, promised happiness… A week later, I learned the truth. God did not grant me children—perhaps merciful, as there was little to feed them in those harsh years. The farm boss, Mr. Nicholas Evans, tried to comfort me: ‘Don’t worry, Anna. You’re young yet, you’ll marry again.’ ‘I won’t remarry,’ I always replied. ‘I’ve loved once, that’s enough.’ The day begins at sunrise and ends at sunset at the farm. The foreman, Mr. Peterson, often shouts: ‘Anna Evans, go home already! It’s getting late!’ ‘I’ll manage,’ I reply. ‘As long as my hands work, my soul stays young.’ My little farm: stubborn nanny goat Maggie and five hens that woke me better than any rooster. My neighbour, Claudia, liked to tease: ‘You’re not a turkey, are you? Why do your hens crow before the others?’ I kept a garden — potatoes, carrots, beets. All from my own soil. Each autumn, I’d jar pickles, tomatoes, mushrooms — winter’s jar cracked open brought summer right back to my kitchen. I recall that day vividly: March, damp and cold. Morning drizzle turned to an evening freeze. Off to the woods for kindling, I gathered an armful. Passing the old bridge, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was just the wind, but no — clear, childlike sobs. Beneath the bridge I found a little girl, caked in mud, soaked and ragged, terrified eyes wide and silent. She froze at seeing me, shivering like a leaf. ‘Whose girl are you?’ I whispered, not to frighten her. She didn’t answer, just blinked. Blue lips, swollen red hands. ‘You’re freezing,’ I murmured. ‘Let me carry you home and warm you up.’ Tiny and featherlight, I wrapped her in my scarf, pressed her to my chest, wondering — what sort of mother leaves a child under a bridge? Couldn’t comprehend it. I left the kindling behind, the child more urgent. All the way home she clung tight and quiet. At the cottage, neighbours gathered — news travels fast in English villages. Claudia arrived first: ‘Good grief, Anna! Where did she come from?’ ‘Found her under the bridge — abandoned, so it seems.’ ‘Oh, dear… What’ll you do with her?’ ‘I’ll keep her.’ ‘Anna, you’ve surely lost your mind! How will you feed a child?’ ‘I’ll feed her with what God provides,’ I retorted. First, I stoked the fire hotter than ever and heated water. The poor girl was all bruises, ribs sticking out. I bathed her gently, dressed her in my old jumper — nothing else fit. ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked. She nodded, shy. Yesterday’s soup and a slice of bread — she ate hungrily but neatly. Not a street child, I reckoned, but someone’s family. ‘What’s your name?’ She stayed mute, whether fearful or not knowing the words. That night I tucked her in my bed, myself taking the bench. Woke several times to check on her — she slept curled, crying softly in dreams. At dawn, I marched to the parish office — notified Mr. Stephen Jones, the Council Chair: ‘No child’s been reported missing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps someone from town abandoned her…’ ‘What now?’ ‘By law she goes to the children’s home. I’ll call the district today.’ My heart clenched: ‘Wait, Mr. Jones. Give me time — maybe her parents will come. Until then, I’ll care for her.’ ‘Anna Evans, think carefully…’ ‘No need. I’ve decided.’ I named her Mary, after my mother. I kept hoping her family would appear — none ever did. Thankfully; I was already smitten with her. At first, she hardly spoke, only searched the room with her eyes. At night, she woke screaming — I’d hold her, stroke her head: ‘It’s all right, darling. Everything will be fine.’ Out of my old dresses, I stitched her some clothes — dyed them blue, green, red. Simple but cheerful. Claudia clapped when she saw: ‘Anna, you’re a wizard with your hands! I thought your talent stopped at the spade.’ ‘Life makes you a seamstress and a nanny too,’ I replied, secretly proud. But not everyone was so clever — especially old Mrs. Martha, crossing herself at the sight of us: ‘Nothing good comes of this, Anna. To take in a foundling is to call trouble. Must have been a wicked mother — an apple never falls far from the tree…’ ‘Hush, Martha!’ I snapped. ‘Not your place to judge another’s sins. That girl is mine now, and that’s final.’ The farm boss also frowned at first: ‘Why not send her to a proper children’s home, Anna Evans? They’ll feed and dress her well.’ ‘And who will love her?’ I asked. ‘Plenty of orphans in homes already.’ He shrugged, but soon started helping — sending milk, oats. Mary thawed slowly; words came, then sentences. The first time she laughed, I was knocked off my stool hanging curtains. Sat on the floor, groaning, and she burst out with honest, child’s laughter — so bright my pain vanished. In the allotment, she’d “help” — tiny hoe in hand, copying me, mostly trampling weeds into the beds. I never scolded, just pleased to see life spark in her. Then disaster: poor Mary fell sick with fever. Red and raving. I ran to our paramedic, Simon Peterson: ‘Please, you must help!’ ‘Anna, I’ve three aspirin for the whole parish! Maybe some will arrive next week.’ ‘Next week? She might not last till morning!’ Off I trudged nine muddy miles to the hospital. Shoes battered, feet blistered, but I made it. The young doctor, Alex Mitchell, took one look at wet, filthy me: ‘Wait here.’ He returned with medicine, explained the dosages: ‘You don’t owe me, just nurse her back to health.’ For three days I didn’t leave her side. Whispered every prayer I knew. Changed compresses round the clock. On the fourth day, the fever broke: ‘Mum… water.’ Mum — her first word for me. I wept for happiness, for exhaustion, for everything at once. She wiped my tears with her little hand: ‘Mum, why are you crying?’ ‘Not pain, darling — joy.’ Afterwards she blossomed — chatty, cheerful. Soon school beckoned; her teacher couldn’t praise her enough: ‘Such a quick learner!’ Village folk warmed in time, stopped whispering. Even Mrs. Martha softened — shared pies, especially after Mary helped her light the fire during a nasty cold snap. Martha, laid up with arthritis, no wood chopped. Mary offered: ‘Mum, should we check on Mrs. Martha? She must be freezing alone.’ They became friends — the old grump and my girl. Martha shared stories, taught knitting, never again speaking of foundlings or bad blood. Years passed. At nine, Mary began asking about the bridge. One evening while I darned socks and she cradled her homemade doll: ‘Mum, remember when you found me?’ My heart skipped, but I nodded: ‘I remember, darling.’ ‘I remember a bit too. It was cold. I was scared. There was a woman crying, and then she left.’ My needles dropped. She continued: ‘I don’t remember her face, just a blue scarf. She kept saying “Please forgive me…”’ ‘Mary…’ ‘Don’t fret, Mum, I’m not sad. I just remember sometimes. You know what? I’m glad you found me that day.’ I hugged her tight, throat knotted. So many times I wondered — who was that woman in blue? What drove her to leave a child under that bridge? Starvation? Cruelty? Not for me to judge. That night sleep would not come. I thought: life seems so empty, so unfair, until the moment it prepares us for what matters — to warm a lost child. Often, Mary would ask about her past. I held nothing from her, always gentle: ‘Sometimes people are driven to desperate choices, darling. Maybe your mother suffered terribly.’ ‘You’d never do that?’ she would ask, searching my eyes. ‘Never. You are my joy, my blessing.’ Years raced on. Mary shone at school, rushed home: ‘Mum! Mum! Today I recited a poem at the board, and Miss Jane said I have talent!’ Her teacher, Miss Jane Williams, often said: ‘Anna Evans, that girl ought to go further. Gifted, especially with words. You’d be amazed at her stories.’ ‘How? We’ve got no money…’ ‘I’ll tutor her for free. Can’t bury that kind of gift.’ Miss Williams coached her in our cottage. I brought tea with raspberry jam, listened in as they debated Shakespeare, Dickens, Eliot — my heart swelling. At sixteen, Mary fell for a new lad who’d moved to the village. Wrote poems in a notebook, hidden under her pillow. I played innocent, knowing all too well — first love, tender but bittersweet. After school, she applied to teacher training college. Gave her all my savings, even sold our cow — fond Zora, but what could I do? ‘You can’t, Mum!’ protested Mary. ‘How will you manage?’ ‘Potatoes for me, eggs from the hens. You must go.’ When her acceptance letter arrived, the village rejoiced. Even the farm boss came round: ‘Well done, Anna! You raised and educated a daughter. Now we’ll have a student from our village.’ On the day she left, we stood at the bus stop. She hugged me, crying. ‘I’ll write every week, Mum.’ ‘You will,’ I choked, heart breaking. When the bus vanished round the bend, Claudia joined me: ‘Come, Anna. Chores are waiting at home.’ ‘You know, Claudia,’ I said, ‘I’m happy. Others have children by blood; mine was Heaven-sent.’ True to promise, Mary wrote often. Each letter a holiday. I memorised every line — tales of college, friends, the city, but always between the lines, her longing for home. Second year, she met her own David — a history student. He crept into her letters, at first in passing, but I knew. At summer, she brought him home. A solid lad, handy too: fixed the roof, mended the fence, won neighbours over. On the porch he shared stories of history — captivating. Clearly loved my Mary. When Mary visited, the whole village gathered to see the beauty she’d become. Even Mrs. Martha, aged and slow, crossed herself: ‘Dear me! I was so wrong when you brought her home. Forgive me, foolish old woman. Look at this joy!’ Mary became a teacher herself, at city school now. She’s married to David, happy as can be. They’ve given me a granddaughter — Annabella, named for me. Annabella — the spit of Mary at that age, only bolder. When they visit, not a moment’s peace. Wild with curiosity, always exploring. Brings life to the house — without a child’s laughter, a home is silent as a church without bells. I sit, writing in my diary again, while the wind howls outside. Still the floor creaks, still the birch taps, but the quiet is peaceful now — gratitude for every smile from Mary, for fate guiding me to the old bridge that day. On my table: a photo of Mary, David, little Annabella. Beside it, my tattered scarf, the one I wrapped her in all those years ago. I keep it safe — sometimes I lay it out, stroke it, and the warmth of those distant days floods back. Yesterday a letter arrived: Mary’s expecting again. A boy! David’s picked the name Stephen, for my late husband. The family line goes on — someone will remember. The old bridge is long gone, replaced by sturdy concrete. I rarely pass that way now, but I always pause, remembering: how one day, one chance, one child’s cry on a damp March night… changed everything. They say fate tests us with loneliness, so we cherish those we love. I believe something else — life prepares us to meet those who need us most. Blood means nothing; only the heart’s truth matters. And under that old bridge, my heart did not fail me.”

I Was Eight When Mum Left Home: She Took a Taxi from the Corner and Never Came Back. My Brother Was Five. From That Day On, Everything in Our House Changed. Dad Started Doing Things He’d Never Done Before—Getting Up Early to Make Breakfast, Learning to Do the Laundry, Ironing Our School Uniforms, Clumsily Brushing Our Hair Before School. I Watched Him Get the Measure of Rice Wrong, Burn Dinners, Forget to Separate Whites and Colours. Yet He Never Let Us Go Without. He’d Come Home Tired from Work, Check Our Homework, Sign Our Books, Make Tomorrow’s Packed Lunches. Mum Never Visited Us Again. Dad Never Brought Another Woman Home, Never Introduced Anyone as His Partner. We Knew He Went Out and Sometimes Stayed Late, But His Personal Life Stayed Outside Our Walls. At Home, It Was Just Me and My Brother. I Never Heard Him Say He Fell in Love Again. His Routine Was Work, Come Home, Cook, Clean, Sleep, Repeat. On Weekends, He’d Take Us to the Park, Wander by the Thames, Visit Shopping Centres—Even Just to Window-Shop. He Learned to Make Plaits, Sew on Buttons, Prepare School Lunches. If We Needed Costumes for School Events, He Made Them from Card and Old Fabric. He Never Complained. He Never Said, “That’s Not My Job.” A Year Ago, My Dad Went to Be With God. It Was Sudden—No Time for Long Goodbyes. While Sorting His Things, I Found Old Notebooks Where He’d Recorded Our Expenses, Important Dates, Notes Like “Pay the Fee,” “Buy Shoes,” “Take the Girl to the Doctor.” I Never Found Love Letters, Photos with Another Woman, or Clues to a Romantic Life. Only the Evidence of a Man Who Lived for His Children. Since He’s Gone, One Question Won’t Let Me Go: Was He Happy? My Mum Left to Find Her Own Happiness. My Dad Stayed, and It Seems He Set Aside His Own. He Never Started Another Family, Never Had a Home With a Partner, Never Became a Priority for Anyone But Us. Now I Realize I Had an Incredible Father. But I Also Understand He Was a Man Who Stayed Alone So We Didn’t Have to Be. And That’s Heavy. Because Now That He’s Gone, I Wonder If He Ever Got the Love He Deserved.