“Hello… Vasya?” “This isn’t Vasya, it’s Helen…” “Helen? Who are you?” “Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasily’s girlfriend. Were you looking for him? He’s still at work…” My head was spinning as I noticed red drops on the floor and doubled over in pain, certain that my baby was about to be born. For five years, my husband Vasily has travelled abroad for work—first trucking in Germany, then building repairs in Poland—all to secure a better future for our two sons in England, knowing we’d never achieve much back home. We felt settled, but months ago, I sensed something wrong in my body; at 45, the signs pointed to a pregnancy I never expected. Hiding my condition, I wasn’t ready for another child, with adult sons and grandchildren needing me more than nappies and late nights, and not enough money for a third. When I finally tried to tell Vasily the news on Valentine’s Day, he returned, furious and accusatory, and I was left injured and alone, going into labour just as the paramedics arrived. By the time help came, I held our newborn daughter—and handed her over, unable to take on motherhood again, praying she’d find love and a family elsewhere while I waited for my husband to return, believing God alone can judge my choice: I choose my marriage over my baby.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 min

14th February

Today was supposed to be just an ordinary day, but it ended up shaking my whole world. My hands are still trembling as I write this. Ill start from the beginning, so I dont lose track.

I tried ringing Tom as usual after dinner but instead of hearing his familiar grunt, a woman answered the phone.

Hello Tom?

Its not Tom. This is Chloe.

Chloe? And you are?

Excuse me, who are you? Im Toms girlfriend. Are you after something? Hes not here; hes working late.

I hung up immediately, feeling my stomach drop. The floor blurred in front of me, and I found splashes of red trickling around my feet. My belly ached fiercely; I doubled over with the pain, knowing the baby was ready to arrive.

Tom has been working abroad for a good five years now. First it was driving lorries in Germany, then building work in Poland, all in pursuit of a better wage. Our two boys deserved more than we could offer here in Birmingham, so we made the sacrifice; anything to give them the best possible future.

Funny enough, things seemed to be on track. Every month Tom sent home parcels stuffed with preserves, rice, cooking oil, and sweets for the kids. He transferred money into my account too, and I put it all into savings enough, eventually, for our eldest to buy a flat of his own.

I thought our life was stable. But a few months back, I started feeling off first I blamed the change on the menopause. It wasnt, though. I gained weight, slept all the time, couldnt stop eating, and my mood swung wildly. I checked online: every sign pointed to pregnancy. Forty-five, pregnant? I didnt believe it until I saw those two glaring pink lines on the test.

I kept quiet. Why let our sons and their wives laugh behind my back, sneering at me for losing my mind at my age? It was winter, so I hid behind thick coats whenever I went out; nobody suspected.

Truth is, I didnt want another baby. Some will say Im heartless, but at forty-five, with grown sons and grandkids, I just wanted peace. I wanted to spoil my grandchildren, not chase after nappies again. We couldnt afford a third child. Tom would have to go abroad yet again, and I couldnt face another lonely year.

Doctors told me it was too late and risky for an operation. So I tried to convince myself itd all work out. Maybe Tom would be pleased, maybe hed want another child. I called him on Skype, voice-only so he wouldnt see the bump.

Hello, Tom

Its not Tom, its Chloe.

Chloe? Who are you?

Excuse me, who are you? Im Toms girlfriend. Hes not here, hes working late.

I threw down the phone and wept bitterly, realizing I might have lost my husband to someone else. I almost filed for divorce and packed his things, determined to erase him from my life entirely.

Still, hope lingered in me. I dreamed hed come back to the family once he found out about the baby. I knew he was scheduled to visit in February, for our boys birthdays. I even dreamt the three of us walked together in the park, with Tom holding our little girls hand on one side, me on the other.

On St. Valentines Day, Tom finally came home. I made a romantic supper, lit candles, and played soft music. I wanted everything calm and perfect.

Tom, Ive got a surprise for you. Im having a baby. They say itll be a girl.

You wretched cheat! he shouted, face red with rage. He swept the plates off the table, pounded his fists on the wood.

So while Im slogging my guts out abroad, youre sleeping around? And now you want me to raise someone elses kid?

Tom, please let me explain

Get away, I dont want to see you! he shoved me hard, and my belly crashed into the edge of the table as I fell.

Tom stormed off, grabbed his bag, and slammed the door behind him. I felt faint, the room spinning, and noticed red spots staining the floor. My stomach clenched in agony I thought Id collapse before I could call for an ambulance. But I knew the baby wouldnt wait.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I was cradling our daughter in my arms. She lay there quietly, fast asleep, not making a sound.

Ready to come with us, mum? a nurse asked.

No. Take the baby, I dont want her.

Sorry?

Just take her! That child ruined my family. Maybe someone will love her, but it wont be me. Thats enough take her, please!

I let the nurse take my daughter with no remorse at all. They checked me over; no tears, everything calm. When the ambulance left, I cleaned the house, took a shower, and went straight to bed.

None of my children know I gave my daughter away. Every day now, I visit the local church and pray shell find a loving home and enjoy a happy life. Deep inside, I know I couldnt cope with another round of motherhood. All I want is for Tom to come home. But hes now back in Germany and only speaks to our sons.

Call me mad or selfish if you will, but I chose my husband over a child. Only God can judge me now.

Today, I learned that sometimes your heart leads you down roads you never imagined, and even in the sharpest pain, you have to live with your choices.

“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Want to Leave Home!” – My Daughter Told Me My daughter became pregnant at 15, keeping it secret for months. My husband and I only discovered the truth when she was five months along. There was never any question of an abortion. We never did find out who the father was. My daughter said they’d only dated for three months, then broke up. She wasn’t even sure how old he was. “Maybe 17, maybe 18, or even 19!” she would say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked at the news of her pregnancy. We knew it would be extremely tough on all of us. Even so, our daughter insisted she wanted the baby and wanted to be a mum. I realised she didn’t understand what being a mother really meant. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful, healthy baby boy. But the labour was difficult, and she needed four months to recover. There’s no way she could have coped without my help, so I left my job to care for her and my grandson. Once her strength returned, she didn’t want anything to do with her son. She slept at night and refused to look after him during the day. I did what I could. I pleaded, explained, begged, even shouted at her for not helping. That’s when she said, “You love him. Why not adopt him? I’ll just be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go clubbing! I want to have fun!” I thought maybe she had postnatal depression, but it turned out she simply didn’t love her baby. Eventually, my husband and I arranged to get legal custody of our grandson. Our daughter became utterly unpredictable, ignoring us completely. She’d leave the house at night and come home in the early morning, never caring for her son. That’s how we lived for a few years. We thought things would never change. Our grandson grew up, getting smarter all the time. In two years he changed a lot: walking, talking, and always smiling. He was always thrilled when my daughter came home – running to her, hugging her, chatting away. And, quite suddenly, her heart melted: she became a wonderful mum. Now she spends all her free time with her son. Always hugging, always kissing him. She often says, “I’m so happy to have my son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I’ll never give him up!” My husband and I are incredibly happy that peace has finally returned to our family.

02

Well, Dad, this is a welcome! Why ever did you need that health resort when you’ve got “all inclusive” at home? When Dmitry handed her the keys to his flat, Eva realised: her Bastille was conquered. Not even DiCaprio waited for his Oscar as eagerly as Eva waited for her Dmitry—with her own little nest, no less. Despondent and thirty-five, she found herself increasingly casting sympathetic glances at stray cats and browsing “Craft Supplies” shop windows. Then came Dmitry: single, having spent his youth on his career, kale salads, the gym, and other nonsense like “finding himself,” and childless to boot. Eva had been wishing for this moment since she was twenty—her very own flat key. Perhaps, high above, someone finally realised she wasn’t joking. “I’ve got my last work trip of the year, and then I’m all yours,” Dmitry said, handing over those precious keys. “Just don’t be shocked by my bachelor den. I only come home for sleep!” He jetted off to another time zone for the weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush and face cream and set off to investigate the bachelor pad. Trouble started at the door—Dmitry had warned her the lock’s temperamental, but she hadn’t expected this. She spent forty minutes storming the door: pushing, pulling, inserting the key fully, politely trying a gentle twist, but it stubbornly refused her entry. Eva resorted to psychological pressure, as taught behind school sheds years ago. A neighbour’s door opened at the commotion. “Why are you forcing your way into someone else’s flat?” asked a concerned lady. “I’m not forcing—I’ve got a key!” growled a sweaty Eva. “And who are you, exactly? Never seen you before…” “I’m his girlfriend!” Eva declared, hands on hips, though her claim was heard only through a crack in the neighbour’s door. “You?” said the woman, genuinely surprised. “Yes, me. Is that a problem?” “Oh no, just—he’s never brought anyone home before (Eva loved Dmitry even more at that moment)—and suddenly, someone like…” “Someone like what?” Eva demanded. “Well, it’s none of my business. Sorry,” and the neighbour closed the door. Determined to win, Eva jammed the key in with a vengeance fit to twist off the entire doorframe. The door finally gave way. All Dmitry’s inner world was suddenly exposed—and Eva’s soul frosted over. Of course, young single men are known for austerity, but this was a monk’s cell. “Poor thing, your heart’s long forgotten—or never known—comfort,” Eva murmured, surveying the spartan quarters she’d now frequent. But, to her delight, the neighbour hadn’t lied: no female touch had ever graced these walls, floors, kitchen, or uncoloured windows. Eva was the first. Unable to resist, Eva dashed out to the nearest shop for a pretty shower curtain, a bath mat, and potholders and towels. At the shop, she was swept away: along with the mat and curtain came air fresheners, handmade soaps, and handy cosmetics organisers. “Adding little touches to someone else’s flat isn’t too cheeky,” Eva reassured herself, adding a second trolley to her haul. The lock gave up resisting. In fact, it ceased functioning altogether—like a hockey goalie forgets his mask on game day. Realising she’d made a mess, Eva spent the night wresting out the old lock with kitchen knives, and bought a new one the next morning. The knives had to go, too—along with new forks, spoons, a tablecloth, cutting boards, trivets… soon enough, curtains were on the list. On Sunday, Dmitry rang to say his trip was running long. “I’ll be thrilled if you bring some warmth and comfort to my place,” he smiled down the line, when Eva confessed a few liberties taken with his decor. By now, Eva had truckloads of cosiness arriving, distributed with plans and documentation. Years of pent-up longing—and with her hands untied, she just couldn’t stop. By Dmitry’s return, only the spider beside the air vent remained from the old flat. Eva considered evicting it—then, seeing its eight startled eyes, decided to leave it as a symbol of respecting another’s property. Dmitry’s home now looked as if he’d been happily married for eight years, grown disillusioned, then happy again despite it all. Eva hadn’t just transformed the flat—she’d made sure the whole building knew who the new mistress was, and directed all queries her way. No ring yet, but that was strictly technical. Initially, neighbours eyed her warily, but soon shrugged: “As you say, it’s your business.” On Dmitry’s return day, Eva prepared a proper homemade meal, decked herself out in her prettiest—perhaps even a bit much—outfit, scattered incense, dimmed the new lights, and waited. He was delayed. As the outfit started pinching uncomfortably, the key turned in the new lock. “It’s brand new, just give it a push—it’s not locked!” Eva called, a little flustered but sultry. She feared no judgement. She’d worked too hard on the flat. She’d be forgiven. Just then, Eva received a surprise text from Dmitry: “Where are you? I’m home. Place looks exactly the same. My mates warned me you’d drown everything in face cream.” Eva only read it later, for at that moment, five complete strangers entered: two young men, two schoolkids, and one very elderly grandad who, spotting Eva, stood tall and smoothed his sparse grey hair. “Well, Dad, you’re getting quite the reception. Really, why bother with a spa when home’s all-inclusive?” joked one man, earning an immediate scold from his wife for ogling. Eva stood in the doorway with two full glasses, frozen in shock. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t move. The spider giggled happily in the corner. “Excuse me, but who are you?” Eva squeaked. “I own this little nest. And you must be from the surgery, come to change my dressing? But I said I’d manage,” replied Grandad, eyeing Eva’s nurse get-up. “Ah yes, Adam Matveevich, it’s awfully cosy and homely in here,” piped up the younger man’s wife. “Quite a change—used to feel like a tomb. And you, miss, what’s your name? Isn’t Adam Matveevich a bit old for you? Granted, he’s got his own place…” “E-E-Eva…” “Well! Impressive, Adam Matveevich, your people skills! Can’t deny it!” Judging by his twinkling eyes, Grandad found this coincidence most agreeable. “Where’s Dmitry?” whispered Eva, nervously downing both glasses. “I’m Dmitry!” chirped an eight-year-old boy. “Not yet, sweetheart, wait your turn,” mom hushed, shepherding both kids and her husband out to their car. “E-excuse me, I seem to be in the wrong flat,” Eva began, gathering her wits and recalling her lock adventure. “This is Lilac Street, eighteen, flat twenty-six?” “Nope—this is Beech Road, eighteen,” Grandad rubbed his hands, ready to unpack his luck. “Right,” Eva sighed dramatically. “My mistake. Please settle in, I’ll just step out to make a call.” She grabbed her phone and retreated to the bathroom, barricading herself with a towel. That’s when she read Dmitry’s text. “Dmitry, I’ll be right over—just held up at the shop,” she replied hastily. “Alright, I’m waiting. If you can, pick up a bottle of red,” Dmitry requested by voice message. Eva still planned on bringing red—but it would be in her cheeks. Tucking her mat under one arm and snatching down the curtain, she waited for the strangers to move into the kitchen before darting from the bath. She scooped her things into a bag and dashed out. *** “I’ll explain later,” Eva muttered, as Dmitry opened his door. Moving in a fog, she passed straight by him and went first to the bathroom to install her curtain and mat, then collapsed on the sofa and slept until the stress and red flushed away. Upon waking, Eva found a puzzled Dmitry before her, awaiting answers. “Sorry, what’s this address again…?” “Butler Avenue, eighteen.”

02

“I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Whispered Nick. “Do You Understand? I Just Couldn’t. Nick Was Fourteen, And It Felt Like The Whole World Was Against Him—Or At Least No One Wanted To Understand Him. “Here Comes That Troublemaker Again!” Grumbled Auntie Clare From Number Three As She Hurried Across The Estate. “Raised By A Single Mum—And Here’s The Result!” Nick Walked Past, Hands Stuffed In The Pockets Of His Ripped Jeans, Pretending Not To Hear—But He Heard. His Mum Was Working Late Again. On The Kitchen Table: A Note—“Meatballs In The Fridge, Heat Them Up.” And Silence. Always Silence. He Was Coming Home From School, Where The Teachers Had Yet Another “Talk” About His Behaviour. As If He Didn’t Know He Was The Problem Child. Oh, He Knew. But So What? Suddenly Uncle Victor, The Neighbour From Downstairs, Called Out: “Oi, Kid! You Seen A Lame Dog Around Here? We Should Chase Him Off.” Nick Paused And Looked Closer. Near The Wheelie Bins, Sure Enough, Lay A Dog. Not A Puppy—A Full-Grown One, Ginger With White Patches. He Lay Still, Watching People With Intelligent—And Sad—Eyes. “Somebody Shove Him Off!” Added Auntie Clare. “He’s Probably Sick!” Nick Walked Over. The Dog Didn’t Move, Just Wagged His Tail Weakly. There Was A Ragged Wound On His Hind Leg, Dried Blood Crusted Over. “What Are You Stopping For?” Victor Snapped. “Grab A Stick, Get Rid Of Him!” And Something Inside Nick Finally Gave Way. “Just You Dare Touch Him!” He Shouted, Standing Between Them. “He’s Not Hurting Anyone!” “So We’ve Got A Defender, Have We?” Victor Chuckled. “And I’ll Keep Defending Him!” Nick Squatted Down, Stretching Out A Hand To The Dog. The Dog Sniffed His Fingers And Gently Licked His Palm. Nick Suddenly Felt Something Warm Spread Through His Chest. For The First Time In Ages, Someone Was Kind To Him. “Come On,” He Whispered To The Dog. “Come Home With Me.” At Home, Nick Made A Bed For The Dog Out Of Old Jackets In The Corner Of His Room. Mum Wouldn’t Be Home Till Evening—So No One Would Shout And Chuck Out The “Pest.” The Wound Looked Bad. Nick Dug Around Online For First Aid Guides For Animals, Frowning At The Medical Words But Memorising Them All. “I Need To Clean It With Peroxide,” He Muttered, Searching The Medicine Cabinet. “Then Dab The Edges With Iodine. Carefully, So It Won’t Hurt.” The Dog Lay Quietly, Trusting, Offering His Injured Leg. He Looked At Nick With Thanks—The Way No One Had For A Long Time. “What’s Your Name?” Nick Whispered As He Wrapped The Leg. “Ginger? Shall I Call You Ginger?” The Dog Barked Softly—Almost Like He Was Agreeing. That Evening, Mum Came Home. Nick Braced For Trouble, But Mum Quietly Inspected Ginger And The Bandages. “You Dressed The Wound Yourself?” She Asked Quietly. “Yes. I Looked Up How To Do It.” “What Will You Feed Him?” “I’ll Think Of Something.” Mum Looked From Her Son To The Dog, Who Was Licking Her Hand Gently. “We’ll Go To The Vet Tomorrow,” She Said. “See About His Leg. Got A Name Yet?” “Ginger,” Nick Answered, Beaming. For The First Time In Months, There Was No Wall Between Them. The Next Morning Nick Got Up An Hour Early. Ginger Tried To Stand, Whimpering With Pain. “Lie Down,” Nick Soothed. “I’ll Get You Some Water. And Food.” No Dog Food At Home. So Nick Gave Him The Last Meatball, Softened Some Bread In Milk. Ginger Ate Eagerly, But Carefully, Savoring Every Crumb. At School, Nick Didn’t Snarl At Teachers For Once. He Was Thinking Only Of Ginger—Was He Okay? Did His Leg Hurt? Was He Lonely? “You Seem Different Today,” His Form Tutor Remarked. Nick Just Shrugged. He Didn’t Want To Explain—They’d Only Laugh. After School, He Rushed Home, Ignoring Neighbours’ Disapproving Looks. Ginger Greeted Him With A Joyful Yip—He Could Stand On Three Legs Now. “Want To Go Outside, Mate?” Nick Made A Lead Out Of Rope. “Easy Now—Look After Your Leg.” Something Was Changing In The Block. Auntie Clare Nearly Choked On Her Sunflower Seeds When She Saw Them. “He’s Taken That Dog Into His Flat! Nick—you’ve Lost Your Mind!” “What’s So Bad?” Nick Replied Calmly. “I’m Helping Him Heal. He’ll Be Fine Soon.” “You’re Healing Him?” Clare Approached. “And Where Do You Get Money For Medicine? Steal It From Your Mum?” Nick Clenched His Fists, But Held Back. Ginger Pressed Close To Him—Feeling The Tension. “I Don’t Steal. I Spend My Own. I’ve Been Saving My Breakfast Money,” He Said Quietly. Victor Shook His Head: “You Realise He’s Alive, Yeah? Not A Toy. You’ll Need To Feed Him, Treat Him, Walk Him.” Each Day Now Started With A Walk. Ginger Got Better Quickly—Soon He Was Jogging, Though He Still Limped. Nick Taught Him Tricks—Patiently, For Hours. “Sit! Good Boy! Give Paw! That’s It!” Neighbours Watched From Afar. Some Shook Their Heads. Some Smiled. But Nick Noticed Nothing But Ginger’s Loyal Eyes. He Changed. Not All At Once—Bit By Bit. He Stopped Being Rude, Started Cleaning At Home, Even Got Better Grades. He Had A Purpose. And It Was Just The Beginning. Three Weeks Later, What Nick Feared Most Happened. He Was Walking Ginger One Night When A Pack Of Strays Leapt Out From Behind The Garage. Five Or Six Dogs—Snarling, Hungry, Eyes Glowing In The Dark. The Biggest, A Huge Black Dog, Bared Its Teeth And Advanced. Ginger Instinctively Tried To Hide Behind Nick. His Leg Still Hurt—He Couldn’t Run Fast. The Pack Spotted The Weakness. “Get Back!” Nick Shouted, Waving The Lead. “Go Away!” But The Pack Surrounded Them. The Black Leader Growled Louder, Ready To Pounce. “Nick!” A Woman’s Voice Cried From Above. “Run! Leave The Dog And Run!” It Was Auntie Clare, Leaning Out The Window. Other Neighbours Gathered Behind Her. “Don’t Play The Hero!” Victor Shouted. “He’ll Never Outrun Them On Three Legs!” Nick Glanced Back At Ginger. The Dog Was Shaking But Refused To Flee—Pressing To Nick’s Side, Ready To Face Anything. The Black Dog Leapt First. Nick Shielded Himself With His Arms, The Bite Tore Through His Jacket And Into His Shoulder. But Ginger, Despite His Bad Leg, Despite His Fear—Leapt To Defend His Human. He Clamped Onto The Leader’s Leg With His Teeth, Hanging On For Dear Life. It Was Chaos. Nick Kicked And Punched, Trying To Protect Ginger From The Jaws. He Got Bitten, Scratched, But He Didn’t Give An Inch. “Oh God, What’s Happening!” Auntie Clare Screamed Above. “Victor, Do Something!” Victor Was Running Down The Stairs, Grabbing Whatever Came Hand—A Stick, A Metal Rod. “Hold On, Kid!” He Shouted. “I’m Coming!” Nick Was Nearly Overwhelmed When He Heard A Familiar Voice: “Get Off Him!” It Was His Mum. She Rushed Out With A Bucket Of Water And Threw It At The Dogs. The Pack Scattered, Wet And Snarling. “Victor, Help!” She Yelled. Victor Lunged With The Stick, Neighbours Spilled Out Onto The Estate. Realising They Were Outnumbered, The Strays Ran Off. Nick Lay On The Tarmac, Hugging Ginger. Both Bleeding, Both Shaking. But Alive. Safe. “Son,” Mum Knelt Beside Him, Checking His Wounds. “You Scared Me Half To Death.” “I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Nick Whispered. “Do You Understand? I Just Couldn’t.” “I Understand,” She Said Softly. Auntie Clare Came Down, Stood Staring At Nick Like She’d Never Seen Him Before. “You Could Have Died… Over A Dog,” She Said, Voice Wavering. “He Didn’t Die Over ‘Just A Dog,’” Victor Interrupted. “He Risked It For A Friend. See The Difference, Clare?” Clare Just Nodded, Tears On Her Cheeks. “Let’s Go Home,” Mum Said. “We Need To Treat Those Wounds. Ginger’s Too.” Nick Struggled Up, Carrying Ginger In His Arms. The Dog Whined Softly, Tail Wagging—Happy His Human Was Close. “Wait,” Victor Stopped Them. “You’ll Go To The Vet Tomorrow?” “We Will.” “I’ll Give You A Lift. And I’ll Pay For The Treatment—The Dog’s A Bit Of A Hero.” Nick Looked At Him In Surprise. “Thanks, Uncle Victor. But I’m Okay On My Own.” “Don’t Argue. Pay Me Back Later. But For Now…” He Patted Nick’s Shoulder. “We’re Proud Of You, Son. Aren’t We?” Neighbours Nodded In Silent Agreement. A Month Passed. Just Another October Evening, And Nick Was Coming Home From The Vet’s—He Now Helped Volunteers There On Weekends. Ginger Trotted Beside Him—His Leg Healed, Barely A Limp Left. “Nick!” Called Auntie Clare. “Wait A Sec!” Nick Stopped, Ready For Another Lecture. But She Handed Him A Bag Of Dog Food. “This Is For Ginger,” She Said, Flustered. “Good Stuff. You Do Look After Him So Well.” “Thanks, Auntie Clare,” Nick Replied, Smiling. “But We’ve Got Food. I Work At The Clinic Now, Dr Anna Pays Me.” “Take It Anyway. You’ll Need It.” At Home, Mum Was Making Dinner. She Smiled When She Saw Her Son. “How’s Things At The Clinic? Is Dr Anna Happy With You?” “She Says I’ve Got Good Hands. And Patience.” Nick Stroked Ginger’s Head. “I Might Become A Vet. I’m Seriously Thinking About It.” “And School?” “Fine. Mr Peterson From Physics Even Praises Me. Says I’m More Focused Now.” Mum Nodded. In That Month, Her Son Had Changed Completely. No More Backchat, He Helped At Home, Even Greeted Neighbours. Most Important—He Had A Dream. “You Know,” She Said, “Victor’s Popping By Tomorrow. He’s Got A Friend With A Kennel Who Needs Help—Could Be Another Job For You.” Nick Lit Up: “Really? Can I Take Ginger?” “I Think So. He’s Almost A Proper Working Dog Now.” That Evening, Nick Sat Outside With Ginger. They Practised A New Trick—“Guard.” The Dog Obeyed, Looking Up At His Human With Trusting Eyes. Victor Came Over, Sat Next To Him On The Bench. “Going To The Kennels Tomorrow, Yeah?” “I Am—with Ginger.” “Better Turn In Early. You’ll Need The Rest.” After Victor Left, Nick Stayed Out A Little Longer. Ginger Rested His Head On Nick’s Knees, Sighing Contentedly. They’d Found Each Other. And Neither Would Ever Be Alone Again.

02

Max held onto his regret for rushing into divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife Max Peterson’s cheerful mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered the building. At home he was greeted with comforting predictability: slippers at the door, the appetising aroma of dinner, a spotless flat, and fresh flowers in a vase. He wasn’t moved: his wife’s at home, what else would an older lady do with her days? Bake pies and knit socks. (Alright, maybe not the socks—but you get the point.) Marina appeared as usual, smiling and ready: “Hard day? I’ve baked pies—cabbage, apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze. She stood there in her trousered, at-home suit, her hair tucked away under a kerchief—her chef’s habit from a lifetime in the kitchen. Her eyes subtly lined, lips sparkling with gloss: another lifelong habit, one Max now found gaudy. Why doll up old age! He shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he spat out: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips quivered; she didn’t reply and didn’t set the dinner for him. It was just as well. The pies were under a towel, the tea brewed—he could handle it himself. After a shower and dinner, kindness began to return to him, along with memories of the day. Swaddled in his favourite bathrobe, Max settled into his reserved armchair and pretended to read. He recalled what that new colleague had said: “You’re quite the handsome man—and interesting, too.” At 56, Max headed up the legal department of a major firm. A recent graduate and three women over forty reported to him; another was off on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya. Max had been on a business trip during her hiring; he met her properly today. He invited her into his office to introduce himself. With Asya came the scent of delicate perfume and the sense of youth. Blonde curls framed her soft face; confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a telling beauty spot. Thirty, she said? He wouldn’t have guessed above twenty-five. Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old son. He saw it as a good sign—for reasons he couldn’t explain. Chatting, he joked about being “the old boss.” Asya fluttered her lashes and protested with words that lingered with him for hours. His wife, her hurt eased, appeared with his nightly chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always at the wrong moment.” But drank it anyway. Suddenly, he wondered what Asya might be doing now, this young, pretty woman—and felt a sting of long-lost jealousy. **** After work, Asya stopped by the supermarket: cheese, a loaf, kefir for dinner. At home, she hugged her son Vasili with routine more than affection. Her dad tinkered in his workshop, mum made tea. Asya announced a headache—no one to bother her, please. Truthfully, she was simply low. Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…

06

“Dad, please meet my future wife and your daughter-in-law, Barbara!” Boris beamed with happiness. “Who?!” exclaimed Professor Dr. Roman Fillimore, incredulous. “If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny!” Roman eyed the rough hands and dirty fingernails of his supposed new daughter-in-law with distaste, convinced this country girl had never seen soap or water. “My goodness! How lucky my dear Laura didn’t live to see this disgrace! We tried to teach Boris good manners,” he thought in dismay. “It’s not a joke,” Boris challenged. “Barbara is staying with us, and in three months we’ll be married. If you don’t want to support your son, I’ll manage without you!” “Hello!” Barbara smiled and strode confidently into the kitchen. “I’ve brought pies, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms…” she listed off the items from her tattered bag as Roman watched in horror; a splatter of jam ruined the pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth. “Boris! Wake up! If you’re doing this to spite me, it’s awfully cruel. Which village did you find this uncouth girl in? I won’t let her stay in my home!” the professor shouted in despair. “I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live here,” Boris replied mockingly. Roman realized his son was taunting him and retreated in silence to his study. Their relationship had changed since Laura’s passing. Boris became unruly, dropped out of college, disrespected his father, and lived carelessly. Roman still hoped Boris would return to the thoughtful, kind boy he once knew, but every day his son grew more distant. Now, Boris had brought home a country girl, knowing his father would never approve. Eventually, Boris and Barbara married—without Roman’s blessing. The professor refused to attend the wedding, unwilling to accept this unrefined daughter-in-law. It irked him that Barbara, so uneducated and awkward, replaced the wonderful Laura as mistress of the house. Barbara seemed oblivious to his hostility and tried her best to please him, only making things worse. Roman saw nothing good in her, only bad manners and ignorance. Boris, after his brief stint as a model husband, returned to his old drinking and carousing. Roman often overheard their heated arguments and secretly hoped Barbara would leave for good. One day, Barbara burst in, sobbing. “Professor Fillimore! Boris wants a divorce, he’s kicked me out—and I’m pregnant!” “Out on the street? Surely not—go back to your village,” he replied lightly. “Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship,” he added cheerfully, pleased to finally be rid of his bothersome daughter-in-law. Barbara wept and gathered her things. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or how Boris could toss her aside so carelessly. She was from the countryside, yes, but she had a heart and feelings, too… *** Eight years passed. Roman Fillimore now lived in a care home, his health rapidly declining. Boris wasted no time placing him there, eager to avoid extra responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other choice. After a lifetime teaching thousands the virtues of love and respect—letters of thanks still arrived from former pupils—he’d failed to raise his own son right… “Roman, you’ve got guests,” his roommate said, returning from a walk. “My son? Boris?” Roman blurted, though he knew that was wishful thinking—Boris would never visit; his resentment ran too deep. “Dunno. The nurse said I should fetch you. What are you waiting for? Go on!” his friend encouraged. Roman took his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. As he descended the stairs, he immediately recognized her—eight years on, yet unchanged. “Hello, Barbara,” he said softly, guilt lingering for his past refusal to support this honest, simple woman. “Dr. Fillimore?” Barbara gasped, surprised. “You’ve changed so much… Are you ill?” “Yes, a bit…” he answered with a sad smile. “How did you find me?” “Boris told us. He won’t see his son at all, but the boy keeps begging to visit his dad, or his grandad… Ivan isn’t at fault that you don’t acknowledge him. He’s lonely without family. We’re alone together…,” Barbara’s voice trembled. “Sorry if this was a bad idea.” “Wait!” said Roman. “How’s Ivan now? I remember last time you sent a photo, he was just three.” “He’s at the entrance—shall I call him?” Barbara offered nervously. “Of course, dear—call him!” Roman replied, delighted. Ivan, a ginger-haired boy who resembled Boris, came shyly to meet his grandfather for the first time. “Hello, son! You’ve grown so much…,” Roman said, moved to tears as he hugged his grandson. They spent the day walking through the autumn park, Barbara sharing her struggles: her mother’s early death, raising Ivan and managing the farm alone. “Forgive me, Barbara. I’ve been so wrong. Despite thinking myself clever and educated, I’ve only just realized people should be valued for their sincerity and kindness, not just their intellect and manners,” Roman confessed. “Dr. Fillimore, we have a proposal,” Barbara said, smiling nervously. “Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’d be wonderful to have family close.” “Grandad, come on! We’ll go fishing, pick mushrooms in the woods… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room in our house!” Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go!” Roman said, smiling. “I missed my chance to raise Boris well, but maybe I can give you what I didn’t give him. Besides, I’ve never lived in a village—I think I’ll like it!” “You’ll love it!” Ivan replied, bursting with laughter.

09

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

“Hello… Vasya?” “This isn’t Vasya, it’s Helen…” “Helen? Who are you?” “Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasily’s girlfriend. Were you looking for him? He’s still at work…” My head was spinning as I noticed red drops on the floor and doubled over in pain, certain that my baby was about to be born. For five years, my husband Vasily has travelled abroad for work—first trucking in Germany, then building repairs in Poland—all to secure a better future for our two sons in England, knowing we’d never achieve much back home. We felt settled, but months ago, I sensed something wrong in my body; at 45, the signs pointed to a pregnancy I never expected. Hiding my condition, I wasn’t ready for another child, with adult sons and grandchildren needing me more than nappies and late nights, and not enough money for a third. When I finally tried to tell Vasily the news on Valentine’s Day, he returned, furious and accusatory, and I was left injured and alone, going into labour just as the paramedics arrived. By the time help came, I held our newborn daughter—and handed her over, unable to take on motherhood again, praying she’d find love and a family elsewhere while I waited for my husband to return, believing God alone can judge my choice: I choose my marriage over my baby.