The Taste of Freedom — We finished the renovation last autumn, — began Vera Ignatievna’s story. For ages, we discussed wallpaper choices, vigorously debated bathroom tile colours, and smiled remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed of owning this very three-bedroom flat. “Well,” my husband said with satisfaction as we celebrated the end of our home improvement saga, “now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his bride here, they’ll have kids, and our home will finally be lively and full.” But his dreams weren’t meant to come true. Our eldest daughter, Kate, returned home with two suitcases and two children. “Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she said, and with those words, all our plans vanished. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t protest—just shrugged: “It’s fine, I’ll have my own place soon.” “Own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat—the one with the lovely renovation we rented out to a young family. Each month, the modest yet vital sum appeared on our account—a “safety cushion” for the day when my husband and I might become frail and unwanted. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée, Lara, passing that building, craning their necks and discussing something animatedly. Of course, I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. And one day I overheard: “Mrs. Green, Misha proposed! We’ve even picked out a venue! Imagine—they have a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden…” “So, where will you live afterwards?” I couldn’t help asking. “Such a wedding must cost a fortune!” Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. “We’ll stay with you for now. After that… we’ll see.” “We already have Kate and her kids living with us. It’s more like a hostel than a home,” I protested. Lara pouted. “Well then, maybe we’ll look for a real hostel. At least there, no one will pry into our lives.” That barbed “no one will pry” stung. Had I been prying? I was just trying to keep them from making a foolish move. Later, I had a conversation with Misha—the last attempt to reach him. “Son, why do you need all this fuss? Just get married quietly and put the money towards a deposit instead!” My voice trembled. He stared out the window, face set. “Mum, why do you and Dad celebrate your wedding anniversary at the Golden Dragon every five years? You could just stay home—it’d be cheaper.” I had no answer. “See?” he said with bitter amusement, “you have your tradition—now we want ours.” He compared our modest family dinner every five years with their half-a-million-pound spectacle! In Misha’s eyes, I wasn’t his mother but a judge passing sentence: hypocrite. You allow yourself everything, but deny me every joy. He forgot Dad and I still pay off the loan for his car. The precious “safety cushion” didn’t occur to him. Now he demanded a lavish wedding! Naturally, my son and his future wife resented me—especially when I refused to hand over the keys to Grandma’s flat. *** One evening, coming home late on a nearly empty bus, I caught my reflection in the dark window: a tired woman, looking older than her years, clutching a heavy shopping bag—with fear in her eyes. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised: I did everything out of fear. Fear of being a burden. Fear my children would leave. Fear of the future. I wasn’t denying Misha the flat because I was stingy, but because I was afraid—afraid of being left with nothing. I made him “work for it,” but clipped his wings by paying his way—just in case he failed and was disappointed. Asked for mature actions, yet treated him like a child incapable of understanding or doing anything. But what did Misha and Lara want? Just a beautiful start to life. With a carriage and harp. Yes, foolish and extravagant. But in the end, they have that right! On their own dime. First, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find new accommodation. After a month, I called Misha: “Come over. We need to talk.” They arrived warily, ready for battle. I put tea and the keys to Grandma’s flat on the table. “Take them. But don’t get too excited: it’s not a gift. You have use for one year. During that time, you must decide: either get a mortgage, or stay longer and we’ll talk terms. I’ll lose a year’s rent, but never mind—consider it my investment. Not in your wedding, but in your chance to become a real family, not just flatmates.” Lara’s eyes widened. Misha looked at the keys, bewildered. “But Mum… what about Kate?” “Kate’s in for a surprise too. You’re both grown up now. Your lives are your responsibility. We’re not your background or your wallet anymore—just parents who love, but don’t rescue.” The silence was deafening. “And the wedding?” Lara asked, her voice uncertain for the first time. “The wedding?” I shrugged. “Do what you want. If you find money for the harp—have your harp.” *** Misha and Lara left, and suddenly I was terrified—tears in my eyes. What if they failed? What if they resented me forever? Yet, for the first time in years, I breathed freely. I’d finally said “no!”—not to them, but to my own fears. I’d let my son step into his complex, grown-up, independent life. Whatever it might hold… *** Now, from my son’s perspective. Lara and I dreamed our wedding would be magical. But my sister’s divorce buried our plans. When Mum said a fancy wedding was pointless, something snapped inside me. “So why do you celebrate your anniversary at restaurants? Couldn’t you just stay home? Wouldn’t that be cheaper?” I saw Mum pale. I did intend the blow. I was hurt to my core. Yes, they gave me a car. But I never asked for it! Now they complain about the loan payments. What does that have to do with me? Their choice, their problem. They renovated the flat, supposedly for us. Now we can’t live there. Grandma’s flat—a sacrosanct “safety cushion”—was seemingly more important than their only son’s wedding! So what were we supposed to do? How could we show the world—and ourselves—that we are a unit? One day, Lara said quietly, eyes downcast: “Misha, I don’t have anything to offer you. My parents can’t help; they have their mortgage.” “You’re giving me yourself,” I replied, trying to comfort her. But deep down, I was angry—not at her, but at the injustice. Why should my parents bear the burden? And why did their help come with such bitterness, each pound feeling like another nail in their coffin? That sort of help isn’t warming—it stings with guilt. Unspoken grievances hung in the air. And then a call. Mum’s voice was strange, resolute. “Come over. We need to talk.” We drove over like to an execution. Lara squeezed my hand. “She’s going to refuse any help for the wedding,” she whispered. “Maybe,” I said. *** On the table lay Grandma’s keys, instantly recognisable. Childhood memories flooded back. “Take them,” Mum said. And delivered an uncharacteristically short, revolutionary speech: one year, make a decision, no more acting as our “wallet and background.” The eternal excuse “we’ve nowhere to live” lost its power; the hope “parents will sort everything” crumbled. I took the keys. They were cold, oddly heavy. Suddenly, clarity struck—sharp and uncomfortable. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never actually said: “Mum, Dad, we understand your fears. Let’s talk about how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No—we’d just waited for them to read our minds and fulfil our desires, as if we were still children. “The wedding?” Lara asked softly, confused. “Your wedding?” Mum replied, “If you can afford the harp, have the harp.” Outside, I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. “What now?” Lara asked—not about the flat, but about everything. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Now it’s our problem…” In that frightening, new responsibility, there was a wild, primal freedom. And the first step: did we really need a carriage and harp? Traditions are fine, but should be rooted in something deeper than one extraordinary day… *** So, what happened? Misha and Lara’s adult lives began the very next day. Finally, together! Living in their own flat! Even if it wasn’t theirs yet. It was small, but cosy. Freshly decorated. Just the two of them—at first, with guests. Every day! Well, it was freedom! A month later, they both felt the same itch: a dog! Not just any dog—a big one. Lara had always dreamed of a dog, but never had one; her mum forbade it. Misha had had one as a boy, but it’d run away—a tragedy for him. So, the missing piece arrived quickly: a charming retriever named Lexus. The three-month-old immediately took charge: clawing corners, chewing furniture legs, and making a mess everywhere. When Mrs. Green visited, she was shocked—no one had informed her of the new resident. “Misha! Lara! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! Such a dog needs constant attention—and you leave him home all day! Of course he’s destructive. And the hair! Don’t you clean? That smell! Absolutely not! You must return the dog—tomorrow!” “Mum,” Misha retorted, “you gave us the flat for a year. Are you just going to tell us how to live every time? Maybe you’d like the keys back?” “Oh no,” Mrs. Green retorted. “I’m true to my word. A year means a year. But remember—you must return the flat exactly as you found it. Understood?” “We understand,” Misha and Lara replied. “Until then, don’t expect me around. I don’t want to see this.” *** She kept her word; didn’t visit, even called rarely. Four months later, Misha returned home: he and Lara had split. He spent ages complaining about her—poor homemaker, fed the pup wrong, didn’t walk him, had to return Lexus to the breeder after much persuading. They even bought three months’ dog food in advance—as the breeder insisted, and it wasn’t cheap! “Did you rush things with Lara, son?” Mrs. Green asked, hiding a smile. “You wanted a wedding with a carriage… and a harp…” “What wedding, Mum?! Please! You can rent out Grandma’s flat.” “Why? You must be used to it by now?” “Nah, I’d rather be home,” Misha shook his head. “Unless you object?” “Never,” Mrs. Green replied. “Especially now that Kate and the kids have gone—our house is empty again…”

A Taste of Freedom

We finally finished the renovations last autumn, began Vera Goddard, settling herself at the kitchen table.

We agonised over wallpaper samples, argued ourselves hoarse about the shade of tiles for the bathroom, and laughed remembering how, twenty years ago, we would have given anything for this very three-bedroom flat.

Well, my husband announced with satisfaction as we toasted the end of our home improvement saga, now we can think about getting our son married. Michael will bring his wife here, theyll have kids, and our home will truly be lively and full.

But his hopes didnt materialise. Our eldest daughter, Sophie, turned up at the door with two suitcases and her children in tow.

Mum, Ive got nowhere else to go, she said, and those words erased all our plans.

Michaels bedroom went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he wasnt bothered; he simply shrugged. Its alright, Ill have my own place soon.

His own place alluded to my mothers one-bedroom flat, with lovely décor wed sorted a few years back, which we rented to a young couple. The modest monthly rent was our safety net, tucked away for the days when wed be too old, too feeble, and too unwanted.

Once I caught Michael and his fiancée Laura walking past that building, heads tilted back, chatting animatedly. I knew exactly what they were hoping for but said nothing.

Not long after, Laura burst in, radiant. Vera! Michaels popped the question! Weve even found a venue! You have to see ittheres a real horse-drawn carriage! And a live harpist! Theres an open-air terrace tooguests will spill out into the garden

And where will you live afterwards? I couldnt help myself; surely, the wedding alone would cost a fortune!

Laura gave me a look, as if Id asked about the weather on Mars. Well stay with you for a while. Then, well see.

But Sophie and her kids are with us. It would be a boarding house, not a flat, I said with a sigh.

Laura pouted. Yes, youre probably right. Best to look for a real B&B. At least no one there will pry into our business.

The stingpry into our businessgot to me. Had I ever poked my nose in? I just wanted to steer them away from a reckless choice.

There was one last heart-to-heart with Michaela final attempt.

Son, whats the point of all this showmanship? Just sign the registry quietly and save up for a deposit! My voice trembled.

Michael stared out, his jaw tight. Mum, why do you always celebrate your wedding anniversaries at The Golden Swan? You could have a meal at homeitd be cheaper.

I had no answer.

There you go, he said with a glint of triumph. Youve got your tradition, and we want ours.

As if our quiet meal every five years compared to their grand party at £5,000! In Michaels eyes, I saw not my boy but a judge, weighing our behaviour, nudging me: Hypocrite! You let yourselves everything; me, nothing. Meanwhile, he forgot we were still paying off the loan for his car. Hed never stopped to think about our financial cushion.

Now he needed a wedding! And a spectacular one.

In the end, Michael and Laura resented me. Especially because I refused to hand over the keys to Mums flat.

***

One late evening, I rode home on nearly empty bus, staring at my tired reflection in the windowmy face aged beyond its years, clutching shopping bags, eyes filled with dread.

Suddenly, with piercing clarity, I realised: I was ruled by fear.

Fear of becoming a burden. Fear my children would leave me. Fear of what was to come.

I wasnt denying Michael the flat because I was stingy. I just thought, if I let go, Ill be left with nothing.

I pushed him to stand on his own feet but kept clipping his wings, funding his lifejust in case he failed and was disappointed.

I wanted him to act grown up, but still treated him like a child, incapable of understanding or doing anything.

Really, he and Laura only wanted to start their life beautifully. With a carriage and a harp. Silly and extravagant, yes. But its their right! At their own expense.

Straight away, I spoke to our tenants, asking them to look for new accommodation quickly. After a month, I called Michael.

Come round. We need a chat.

They arrived tense, ready for battle. I set out tea and placed the keys to Mums flat on the table.

Take these, I said. Dont get too excitedits not a gift. Youve got the flat for a year. In that time, make up your minds: either get a mortgage or stay on as tenants, but on new terms. Ill lose a years rent, but never mindlets call it an investment. Not in your wedding, but in your chance to become a family, not mere flatmates.

Lauras eyes widened. Michael looked at the keys as if hed never seen them before.

Mum and Sophie?

Sophies in for a surprise, too. Youre adults now. Your life is your responsibility. We wont be your background or your piggy bank. Well just be your parents. We love you, but we wont rescue you.

The silence was deafening.

And the wedding? Laura stammered, sounding unsure for the first time.

The wedding? Do what you want. The harps up to youif you can afford it.

***

Michael and Laura left, and I felt terrifiedtears prickling my eyes. What if they couldnt cope? What if they were resentful forever?

But for the first time in years, I breathed deeply, freely. Because I finally said nonot to them, but to my own fears. I let my son go into adult, challenging, independent life.

Whatever shape it would take

***

Now, from my sons point of view.

Laura and I dreamed of a wedding like no other. But my sisters split put all our plans on hold. When Mum said spending on an extravagant wedding was pointless, something in me snapped.

Then why do you go to restaurants for every anniversary? I shot back. Homes cheaper!

I saw Mum pale. I wanted to strike a nerve. I was truly hurt.

Yes, they bought me a car. So what? I never asked! Now, every loan payment is thrown back in my face. I didnt ask! They decided, they pay.

They renovated the flat, saying it was for us, but now we cant even live there.

Grandmas flat? Thats the familys sacred cowthe untouchable emergency reserveapparently more important than the wedding of their only son!

So what now? How do we show the world, and ourselves, that were herethat were a unit?

One evening, Laura said quietly, eyes to the floor, Mike, Im afraid I have nothing to offer. My parents cant help; theyve got their own mortgage.

Youre giving me yourself, I replied, trying to comfort her. But I was angrynot with her, but with the unfairness. Why did all the pressure land on my parents? Why do they help with such bitterness, like every pound is a nail in their coffin? That help doesnt warm you. It burns with guilt.

Honestly, unspoken grievances hovered in the air. Then came Mums call. Her voice was unfamiliarfirm.

Come over. We need to talk.

We drove over, dreading it. Laura squeezed my hand, Shell refuse to help with the wedding, wont she?

Maybe, I nodded.

***

The keys to Grandmas flat lay on the tableI recognised the old keyring from childhood.

Take them, Mum said.

She gave a speechnot long, but revolutionary. About a year. About responsibility. About them no longer being our piggy bank and soft background. Our weve nowhere to live excuse was dead; the eternal hope Mum and Dad will sort it out was gone.

I picked up the keys. Cold, surprisingly heavy. Suddenly, it hit mepainfully clear.

All this time, we sulked and wished for things, but never once properly talked to our parents: Mum, Dad, we know youve got worries. Can we work out a way forwardone that doesnt tear you apart?

No. We just waited for them to read our minds and fulfil every wishwith no talks, no conditions, just a smile. Like we were still children.

And the wedding? Laura asked softly, uncertainty in her voice.

Your wedding? Mum shrugged. Get a harp if you can.

We left, keys jingling in my pocket.

What shall we do? Laura askednot just about the flat, but everything.

I dont know, I admitted. Its our problem now

In this frightening new responsibility, there was a wild, exhilarating freedom. And the first step was clear: Did we really need the carriage and harp? Traditions were well and good, but they ought to mean more than putting on a show for one extraordinary day

***

And what happened in the end?

Michael and Lauras adulthood began the very next day.

At last, they lived together! In one flatalbeit borrowed. It was snug and newly refurbished; just right. No one checking up. Friends visiteda novelty every day! Thats the taste of freedom.

A month in, a new urge: they wanted a dog! Not just any, but a big one.

Turns out Laura had wanted a pet all her life, but her mum wouldnt have it. Michael had a dog once, long ago, back at schoolbut shed run away. It was a heartbreak.

So, before long, their happiness was completewith a playful golden retriever named Chester.

Three months old, and already ruling the roostscratching corners, chewing table legs, making a mess everywhere.

When Vera popped by to see them, she was shocked. No one had told her about the new furry resident.

Michael! Laura! How could you? Didnt even ask! Why though? A dog like this needs constant attention, and hes alone all day! No wonder hes tearing the place up. And the hair! Arent you cleaning it? And that smell! Honestly! You have to return him, tomorrow!

Mum, Michael snapped, you gave us the flat for a year. So what, are you going to tell us how to live every time? Do you want the keys back?

No, Im true to my worda year is a year. But remember: you must return the flat as it was, in perfect shape. Understood?

Understood, Michael and Laura replied in unison.

And until then, dont expect me visiting. I dont want to see it.

***

She kept her word. Didnt visit. Called rarely.

Four months later, Michael moved back; he and Laura had split.

He spent ages describing what a dreadful housekeeper she wasalways a mess, didnt walk the pup, barely fed him. Poor Chester had to go back to the breeder. It was quite a challengetook a week of persuasion.

Theyd stocked up on dog food for three months aheadas the breeder insisted. And foods not exactly cheap!

Did you rush things with Laura, son? Vera asked, hiding a smile. You were set on that wedding with the carriage and the harp

What wedding, Mum? Please! Michael scoffed. You can let out Grandmas flat again.

Why? Youve got used to it, havent you?

No, Id rather be home, Michael shook his head. Unless thats a problem?

Im always glad to have you here, Vera replied warmly. Especially now Sophie and the kids have leftit’s quiet agains peaceful again. Perhaps too peaceful, she teased.

Michael grinned. Peace is underrated.

They sat together, the evening light filtering gently through the window, neither rushing to fill the silence. After all the chaos, all the bumps and bruises of letting go, this quiet was a gift.

I suppose, Vera ventured, pouring him tea, one day youll try againwith someone new. But maybe next time, youll remember: its not the carriage or the harp that matters.

He nodded, thoughtful. Freedoms not just leaving home. Its knowing who you are out there. And maybe, just maybe, coming back when you wantto where youre wanted.

Vera reached across and squeezed his hand, feeling the tremor of hope. There was so much theyd both learned. The years, the arguments, the feartheyd woven a complicated tapestry between them. But now, with a little more space and honesty, the pattern was becoming clear: love, tested and changed, was still there.

Whatever happens, Michael, she said softly, this door is always open. Youre welcomeno matter what room you stay in.

Outside, twilight settled over the city, wrapping the building in gentle hush. Inside, mother and son sipped their tea, sharing a smile that spoke of forgiveness and new beginnings. For the first time in a long while, Vera felt truly at homeno longer clutching fears, but opening her heart to whatever came next.

And as the kettle whistled and laughter drifted into the night, it was plain to see: freedom had finally found them all.