Don’t Leave, Mum: A Family Story Folk wisdom says: people are not like nuts, you can’t crack them open all at once. But Tamara Bennett was convinced that was nonsense—she prided herself on being an excellent judge of character! Her daughter, Millie, got married a year ago. Tamara had always dreamed Millie would find a worthy young man, have children, and that she, the grandma, would reign over a big, happy family just as she always had. Russell turned out to be a smart guy—and as such, not exactly poor. He seemed quite proud of that fact. But they started living on their own; Russell had his own flat, and it seemed they didn’t want her advice! She could tell he was a bad influence on Millie! This was not at all the kind of relationship Tamara had planned for her daughter. Russell began to get on her nerves. “Mum, you just don’t understand—Russell grew up in care. He’s achieved everything himself. He’s strong, kind, and a good man,” Millie protested. But Tamara could only purse her lips, always finding new faults with Russell. Now, she saw him as completely different to the man he pretended to be for her daughter! It was her motherly duty to open her daughter’s eyes to this empty man, before it was too late! He had no real education, he was stubborn, and had no interests! He just spent weekends glued to the telly because he was “tired” from work! How could her daughter want to spend her whole life with someone like that? Tamara was certain Millie would thank her one day. And what would happen when the grandchildren came—her grandchildren—what kind of father would he be? All in all, Tamara was completely disappointed. Russell, feeling her disapproval, kept his distance too. They spoke less and less, and Tamara refused to visit their home at all. Millie’s father, a gentle soul who knew his wife well, just stayed neutral. But one night, Millie phoned Tamara, her voice worried and trembling: “Mum, I didn’t tell you, I’m away on a work trip for two days. Russell caught a cold at the building site—came home early today, wasn’t feeling well. Now he’s not answering his phone.” “Why are you telling me this?” Tamara snapped. “You both want to live your own lives, don’t care about your dad and me! No one asks how I feel! And now you’re phoning in the middle of the night to tell me Russell’s unwell? Are you serious?” “Mum,” Millie’s voice broke, really anxious now, “please, it just hurts that you don’t want to understand. We love each other. You think Russell is empty, unworthy, but he isn’t! How can you think I—your daughter—would fall for a bad man? Don’t you trust me?” Tamara was silent. “Mum, please, you have a key to our flat. Please, will you go check on him? I feel like something’s wrong! Please, Mum!” “All right, only for your sake,” Tamara said, already waking her husband. No one answered the bell at her daughter and son-in-law’s flat, so Tamara opened it herself. They stepped inside—it was dark, was he even home? “Maybe he’s out?” her husband suggested, but Tamara gave him a stern look; she was feeling her daughter’s worry now. They entered the lounge—and Tamara froze. Russell was lying awkwardly on the sofa. He was burning with fever! The paramedic brought him round: “Don’t worry, your son—it’s a complication from his cold. He must work a lot?” “Yes, he does,” Tamara nodded. “He’ll be fine, just monitor his temperature and call if needed.” Russell slept on, and Tamara sat beside him, feeling strange—to be sitting by the bedside of the son-in-law she thought she hated. He looked so pale, his hair stuck to his forehead with fever. She suddenly felt sorry for him. In sleep, he looked younger, gentler—not how he seemed when awake. “Mum,” Russell murmured in his sleep, taking her hand, “don’t leave, Mum.” Tamara was stunned, but she didn’t dare pull her hand away. She stayed with him until morning. At first light, Millie called: “Mum, I’m sorry, I’ll be home soon, you don’t need to go anymore. I think he’ll be all right.” “He definitely will,” Tamara smiled, “Already sorted, love. We’re waiting for you. Everything’s fine now.” ***** When her first grandchild was born, Tamara instantly offered help. Russell kissed her hand in thanks: “See, Millie! And you said your mum wouldn’t want to help us.” And Tamara, proudly carrying little Timothy in her arms, strolled about the flat chatting to the baby: “Well, Timmy, aren’t you lucky? You’ve got the very best parents—and a grandma and grandad, too! You’re a lucky boy!” Turns out, the saying was right: you can’t judge a person straight away. And only love helps you see the truth.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 5 minViews 1

Dont Leave, Mum: A Proper English Family Affair

Theres an old saying that goes: You cant judge a book by its cover.

But Maureen found that bit of folk wisdom dreadfully overratedshe was convinced she could size up any person before their first cup of tea was gone.

Her daughter Lucy got married last year.

Oh, how Maureen had dreamt of Lucy finding a suitable chap, with children quickly to follow, and Maureen herself presiding as the matriarch of a bustling, biscuit-fuelled household once more.

Instead, Lucys husbandBenturned out to have a head on his shoulders and, correspondingly, a tidy sum in his bank account. He took pride in both, which Maureen found only mildly insufferable. Worst of all, Ben owned his own little flat, and the pair had moved in there, thus rendering Maureens pearls of wisdom seemingly obsolete.

It was obvious to Maureen: Ben had a dreadful influence on her daughter!

This arrangement simply didnt fit into Maureens carefully curated master plan. And so, Ben grew increasingly annoying in her estimations.

Mum, you dont understandBen was raised in foster care. He built his whole life from scratch, hes strong and kind, Lucy would say, exasperated.

Maureen would just purse her lips and scan Ben for fresh flaws.

To her mind, he was a wolf in gentlemans clothing, hoodwinking her dear daughter! Surely her maternal duty was to open Lucys eyes to this feckless fellowbefore it was too late!

No education to speak of, uncooperative, no proper hobbieswhat next?

The weekends, hed just sit there glued to the telly, oh-so-tired from the week! And this was the man Lucy intended to live with for the rest of her days? Over Maureens dead body! One day, Lucy would thank her.

And what of the future grandchildrenher grandchildren? What could a father like Ben possibly teach them?

So, Maureen was sorely disappointed. And Ben, detecting that mother-in-law chill, also kept a safe distance.

Their conversations became as rare as a sunny British summertime, and Maureen downright refused to visit their flat.

Lucy’s dad, the cheerful sort, wisely adopted the role of neutral observer, knowing far better than to intervene.

Then, one evening, Lucy rang Maureen. Her voice was shaking.

Mum, I didnt mention, Im away on a work trip for a couple of days. Ben got a chill at the site, came home early, feeling rough. Ive called him, but hes not picking up.

Why are you telling me this? Maureen snapped, Youve made it quite clear you and Ben run your own lives! Nobody seems terribly fussed about how your dad and I are feeling. Now you call me in the middle of the night to say Bens got a sniffle? Honestly, Lucy, do listen to yourself!

Mum, Lucys voice wobbled, I just wish you understood that Ben and I love each other. You keep saying hes no good, but he isnt what you think. How could you believe Id choose someone unworthy, Mum? Dont you trust me?

Maureen said nothing.

Mum, please, you still have a key to our flat. Please go check on Ben, Im really worried. Please, Mum, Im begging you.

Oh, all right. But only for your sake, Maureen huffed, rousing her husband for backup.

When they rang the bell at Lucy and Bens, nobody answered, so Maureen let them in with her key.

The flat was dark. Maybe hed gone out after all?

Maybe hes just not here? her husband ventured, to which Maureen gave such a stern look he wisely held his tongue. Somewhere along the line, her own worry matched Lucys.

She peered into the living roomand stopped, mortified. Ben was draped across the sofa in a very odd fashion, clearly running a fever.

The paramedic soon revived Ben.

Try not to worry, he told Maureen kindly, looks like your sons caught a nasty bug and ignored it. Works long hours, does he?

Yes, always working Maureen managed.

Hell be fine. Just keep an eye on his temperature and ring if it gets worse.

Ben drifted off to sleep, while Maureenunable to remember the last time she felt so awkwardperched in the armchair, guarding the sofa.

He lay there, cheeks pale and hair stuck to his forehead. In sleep, Ben seemed much younger. Softer, toomore her Lucys type than shed realised.

Mum, Ben whispered, delirious, and reached for her hand, Dont go, Mum

For once, Maureen was gobsmacked. And this time, she didnt even try to retrieve her hand.

She sat there the whole night.

At dawn, Lucy called again.

Mum, Im sorry. Ill be back soon, so you dont have to gohes probably fine.

Its all sorted now, darling, Maureen replied, Were waiting for you. Alls well.

*****

The day her first grandchild arrived, Maureen was the first to offer help.

Ben, grateful, kissed her hand. See, Lucy? You said your mum wouldnt help, but here she is.

Maureen, cradling little Harry, marched round the flat, chatting away to the baby: Harry, arent you lucky? Best parents in the world, and a smashing granny and granddad, too! Youre one fortunate chap!

So, perhaps the old adage is truea persons not so easily read as the tabloids at the corner shop.

And sometimes, only love helps you figure out the whole muddle.

Open Up, We’re Here: When Relatives Arrive Uninvited and Boundaries Matter – Julie, it’s Aunt Natalie! – The voice on the phone rang with such forced cheer it made Julie grit her teeth. – We’ll be in town in a week, need to sort some paperwork. We’ll stay with you for a week or maybe two, okay? Julie nearly choked on her tea. So, no “hello,” no “how are you,” just straight to “we’ll stay.” Not “may we?” or “is it convenient?” Just “we’ll stay.” Period. – Aunt Natalie, – Julie tried to keep her voice gentle, – nice to hear from you. But about staying… Could I help you find a hotel instead? There are some good, affordable options. – What hotel? – Aunt Natalie scoffed as if Julie had said something utterly ludicrous. – Why waste money? You have your dad’s old three-bedroom flat! A whole flat for one person! Julie closed her eyes. Here we go. – It’s my flat, Auntie. – Yours? – Something sharp crept into Natalie’s voice. – And who was your dad? Not one of our family? Blood’s thicker than water, Julie! We’re not strangers, and you shove us off to a hotel like stray dogs! – I’m not shoving anyone. I just can’t have you stay. – Why not? “Because last time you turned my life into a living hell,” Julie thought, but she said instead: – Circumstances, Auntie Natalie. I can’t host you. – Circumstances! – Now Aunt Natalie made no attempt to hide her irritation. – Three empty rooms and you’ve got ‘circumstances’! Your dad would never have turned family away. You’re just like your mum, aren’t you… – Auntie… – What – Auntie? We’ll be there Saturday, around lunchtime. Maxim and Paul are coming too. You’ll greet us properly. – I told you – I can’t. – Julie! – Her voice went hard and commanding. – I’m not discussing this. See you Saturday. The dial tone beeped in Julie’s ear. She slowly placed the phone onto the table and stared at it for a minute. Then she exhaled and slumped back in her chair. Always the same. Two years ago Aunt Natalie had already ‘visited.’ They arrived as a foursome, promised three days – stayed for two weeks. Julie still remembered the chaos: Maxim sprawling on her sofa in outdoor shoes, flicking through her TV channels all night; Paul, the overgrown “child” at twenty-three, raiding the fridge and never washing up. Aunt Natalie reigned over the kitchen, criticised everything from curtains to the “wrong” tiles. After they finally left, Julie discovered a scorched armchair, a broken bathroom shelf, and odd stains on the living room rug. No one mentioned money – not for food, not for utilities, which shot up over those two weeks. They just packed and went, tossing out, “Thanks, Julie, you’re a real star.” Julie rubbed her temples. No more. However much Aunt Natalie shouts about Dad and family ties. If she comes Saturday, the door stays locked. She opened the browser on her phone. Time to find them a hotel. A good, decent one, with all the comforts. Send the address, explain clearly: that’s all she’s prepared to do. If they don’t get it, that’s not her problem. Two days of blissful quiet passed. Julie worked, went for walks, cooked dinner for one, and nearly convinced herself Aunt Natalie’s call was a bad dream. Maybe they’d change their minds. Maybe find other relatives to impose on. Her phone rang on Thursday near evening: “Aunt Natalie” flashed and sick dread curled in her stomach. – Julie, it’s me! – The chirpy voice shattered her peaceful flat. – We’re coming tomorrow, our train gets in at two! Meet us and have a proper meal ready – travel wears you out! Julie slowly sank onto the edge of the sofa. Her knuckles whitened on the handset. – Aunt Natalie, – she said slowly and carefully, – I’ve already said. I’m not letting you stay. Please don’t come to my flat. – Oh, don’t be silly! – Aunt Natalie chuckled like it was a joke. – You big baby. Not letting us, letting us… We’ve bought tickets! – That’s your problem. – Julie, what’s wrong with you? – Her tone flared with confusion, then returned to its usual pressure. – You’re family! You HAVE to help – it’s sacred! – I don’t owe anyone anything. – Of course you do! Your dad, rest his soul— – Auntie, enough about Dad. I said no. That’s final. A heavy sigh – dramatic, as if she were steeling herself for a wilful child. – Julie, nobody cares about your opinion, you know? We’re family. You’re just being difficult. Tomorrow at two, don’t forget! – I keep telling you— – That’s enough. See you! The line went dead. Julie stared at the blank screen for a few seconds. Something hot and furious surged in her chest. She threw the phone onto the sofa and paced the room – three steps there, three back, like a caged animal. So, her opinion doesn’t matter? Wonderful. Just great. She stopped abruptly. Think again, dear Aunt. Julie grabbed her phone and flicked to Mum’s contact. – Hello? Julie? – Her mum sounded warm and slightly puzzled. – Is something wrong? – Hi Mum. Listen, I want to come visit. Tomorrow. For a week, maybe a bit longer. Pause. – Tomorrow? Love, you were only here last month… – I know. But I need it. I work remotely, doesn’t matter where. Can I come? Her mum was silent a second longer; Julie could almost see her brow furrowing, trying to puzzle out what was up. – Of course, come. You know I’m always happy to have you. Are you sure everything’s okay? – Yes, Mum. I just miss you. Julie hung up and allowed herself a smile. Tomorrow at midday, Aunt Natalie would arrive at a locked door. She could ring, knock, shout all she wanted – the owner would be gone. Not popped out to shops or a friend, but three hundred miles away in another city. Julie booked the morning train, 6:45. Perfect. By the time Auntie hit her building, Julie would be sipping tea in her mum’s kitchen. Blood may be thicker than water – but sometimes family needs to hear “no.” On the train, Julie listened to the rhythmic clatter of the tracks and wondered what Auntie’s face would look like at the locked door. Her eyes drooped, head hummed, but peace settled inside. Mum met her at the station, gave her a tight hug, whisked her home. Pancakes with cheese, tea, and marched her off to bed. – We’ll talk later, – said Mum, taking the empty cup. – Rest first. Julie crashed into sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. She woke to her phone’s shrill trill. Groggily, she fumbled it off the side table, blinking at the “Aunt Natalie” display. – Julie! – The woman screeched so loudly she had to hold the phone away. – We’ve been outside your door for twenty minutes! Why won’t you open?! Julie sat up, rubbed her face. Outside, sunset glowed; she’d slept half the day. – Because I’m not there, – she answered. She couldn’t help smirking. – What do you mean, not there?! Where are you?! – In another city. Silence. Then an explosion: – You’ve got a nerve! You knew we were coming, and you just vanished?! How could you?! – Easily. I warned you I wouldn’t let you in. You didn’t listen. – How dare you! – Aunt Natalie was frantic with indignation. – Someone must have your keys! The neighbour, a friend! Call them! We can manage without you, we’re not kids! Julie paused. Wow. That’s bold. – Auntie, are you serious? – Absolutely! We’re tired and you’re playing games! – I’m not living with you in my flat. And I’m not letting you in without me, either. – You’re— The bedroom door creaked: her mum, hair tousled and eyes steely, stepped in. She silently held out her hand, and Julie handed over the phone. – Natalie, – her mum’s voice was icy, – it’s Vera. Listen to me carefully, don’t interrupt. Muffled gurgle from the phone. – Yuri couldn’t stand you, – Mum continued. – His whole life, he couldn’t. And I knew it best. So why bother his daughter? What do you want from her? Julie heard Aunt Natalie stammering, flustered. – Good, – Mum clipped. – Don’t call Julie ever again. She’s got people to turn to, and you’re not one. End of conversation. She hung up and handed Julie’s phone back. Julie stared at her mum as if seeing her for the first time. – Mum… You… I’ve never seen you like this. She snorted, adjusted her dressing gown. – Your dad taught me. Said with Natalie you have to bark once, proper, and she won’t show up for years. She suddenly smiled, crow’s feet dancing. – Still works, imagine! Julie burst out laughing, heartily, all the stress draining away. Mum joined in. – Come on, – she waved towards the kitchen, – let’s get some tea. You owe me the full story.

Dad’s Country Cottage Olga learnt, quite unexpectedly and by chance, that she and her dad’s beloved cottage had been sold. It happened over the phone, as she called her mum from the post office in another town—like something out of a film, when you become the third, unwilling participant in a conversation, except all she did was overhear two people talking. Some cosmic mix-up or perhaps the operator’s error had merged her call with two others—across two cities, two voices sharing in those paid-for minutes what mattered most: the country cottage was gone, sold for a good price, and now there was so much you could do … they might even help Olga out a bit with the money! Olga’s mum and her sister Irene—voices so achingly familiar, separated by seventy-five miles, their words converted to electric signals and relayed down the wires. Physics always baffled Olga, her dad made her study. * “Dad, why is the September sun so different?” “How do you mean, Olly?” “I don’t know … I can’t explain it. The light’s softer. It’s certainly sunny, just not like August.” “You need to study physics—celestial positions in September are totally different! Catch!” Dad laughed and lobbed her a huge, slightly lopsided apple. Shiny, red, smelling of honey. “Is it a Pippin?” “No, of course not, not ripe yet. It’s a striped Russet.” She bit into it with a crunch, a mouthful of sweet white froth, all the warmth of summer rain and earth’s own juice. Apple varieties, like physics, were not Olga’s strong suit—and that was today’s main problem, because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been in love with her physics teacher for two years. Life had become all rays of light, split-open heavens and laws of matter and space that refused to fit into the neat lines of a school notebook. And Dad … he understood, simply by her distant eyes and poor appetite. Olga told him, of course, last year. Wept all night, like a child on his lap. Mum was away at the spa; her older sister studied in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy, whistling tunes, always musical. At home, never; Mum and sister took centre stage there, when Irene came home. Mum was unbelievably beautiful, head librarian at the military library, tall, striking—a spirited northerner with a fiery copper mane she dyed with henna. Every couple of months, Mum would emerge from the bath with a gigantic turban of hair, trailing scents of herbs and rain. Her beauty caught every eye. Dad, a head shorter, nearly a decade older, was unassuming. That’s how Mum described him once—Olga overheard and was hurt. “Sasha’s unremarkable. But men aren’t meant to be pretty.” Unremarkable next to Mum’s blazing copper hair, grand gestures with crockery-smashing and a wild temper. Mum adored order and comfort; Dad’s “soldier-boys”—as he called them—sometimes slept right on their tiny lounge floor. While Dad was in the army, they visited often—some just passing through, others needed a leg up finding work. Dad’s boys. In 1960, he’d come under Khrushchev’s giant army reduction—“One million, three hundred thousand soldiers and officers.” He was discharged a major, then worked as chief mechanic at the telegraph office. Those soldier-boys later helped Dad build the cottage—worked for nothing, swapped shifts, dug virgin soil side by side. A little house: one room and a veranda; in summer, Olga loved to read on the roof. Dad would hand up bowls of gooseberries, cherries, or strawberries. The happiest times. Mum disliked the cottage, came rarely—she looked after her hands. Beautiful, well kept with big nails. Olga admired them, Dad kissed them. “Hands like yours are made for issuing books—not digging up beds!” he’d laugh, wink at Olga. * The first drops of September rain drummed across the veranda roof, lively but not mournful. Olga packed away her book. “Olga, come down—Mum and Irene will be here soon, we need to start lunch,” Dad’s quiet voice rang, unexpectedly cheerful at the cottage. Olga lingered, face tilted at the swelling, grey, but gentle sky. Rain dampened her cheeks; she hugged herself against the chill. Only from the roof—closer to the sky and further from the earth—could she see the sun’s rays breaking through clouds over neighbouring cottages. She forgot all about physics and its stubborn laws. In her first year at journalism school, life followed its own rules. Olga was housed in the dorm almost at once, but spent her first September week in a rented flat with the landlady—other students occupied the next room. During lectures, she was plunged into literature and language; professors the whole group fell for—a magnetic, intellectual allure. After class came waves of homesickness; she had no friends yet. Quick bites in the student canteen, wandering the big city until dark—its strange beauty was cold and lonely, so lonely it felt as if it wasn’t Olga walking that steep slope by the university’s main building, not her going home and hearing barking dogs, not her scuffing her new patent shoes. The kitchen was filled with the scent of Dad’s apples, which he’d given the landlady as thanks. Their sweet, slightly musty smell made Olga tear up, her soul pounding in its cage. When she finally moved into halls, her neighbours were German students—Viola, Maggie, Marion. The German language split her head by evening, so she’d escape outside for air. The Germans would scamper after her, scrounging cigarettes and always paying her back—our girls were shocked. They marvelled at Mum’s pickled tomatoes, gobbling them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s stores ran out, the Germans produced sausages—unimaginable luxuries back then, but never shared them. By May, they finished their exchange year and left heaps of winter boots by the kitchen bin—German boots! Our girls hurriedly grabbed them when no one was looking. * “Olly, chop the cabbage—I’ll dig up the carrots. Broth’s nearly done.” Windows fogged up with long boiling; a huge cabbage sprawled lace-like leaves on the board. Olga peeled a leaf off—delicious, earthy. She chopped briskly, sweet smell filling the kitchen. The opened window let in scents of leaf mould, bonfire, and apples. She saw Dad’s back, shovel straining in the soil; she knew his spine hurt. She dropped the knife, dashed outside, hugged him tightly. He turned, silently embracing, kissed her head. Sister Irene came alone; Mum’s headache kept her home. * Years passed—university, a student marriage, a job at the “Pioneer” newspaper at an aviation factory, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter’s birth, then divorce. Five years go quickly. Olga’s husband left her for another; she lived with toddler Mary on a rented flat. Dad visited every second weekend, bringing groceries, playing with his granddaughter. “Olga, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less than I do, all right? She gets travel-sick … And you know, I think she’s got a friend these days …” “Dad, no! You, with a beau at your age?” He laughed, bitterly, then fell silent. Olga saw how grey and drooping he’d become—even stopped whistling. “Dad, let me take holiday next week, shall we go to the cottage while it’s still warm, just us and Mary?” * The cottage was covered in leaves, one last warm October week and Indian summer. They stoked the stove, brewed blackcurrant-leaf tea. Olga fried potato cakes; Dad raked leaves, Mary scattered and giggled. Oil sizzled loud and sharp; somewhere in the orchard, Dad whistled tunes. As evening fell, they made a bonfire. The lane was empty, neighbouring cottages shut; Dad threaded thick bread cubes on cherry twigs for Mary to roast. Olga stretched chilly hands to the flames—always entrancing. She remembered her first student work trip in Kazakhstan—singing with guitars, dizzy with love for the starry night and the endless silence of the steppe; missed guitar chords, faces. Faces by firelight were always different—each had a secret, depths in their eyes. She met her future husband there. That week at work, she was called to a party meeting—her nomination for the Communist Party considered. She had crammed the party statutes, congress materials. Suddenly, questions: who caused the divorce, who lacked moral fibre? Olga stammered, near tears. A colleague stood up for her. “This is a gathering of louts, not communists!” Years later, she’d remember it as wild … When dark fell, the fire was doused. A car stopped at the gate, slammed door. Mum! Glamorous in a bright, fashionable coat—her colleague had given her a lift from work. Mary hurled herself at grandma; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that, then?” “Oh Sasha, it doesn’t matter, he just dropped me. You don’t know him …” Over dinner, conversation stuttered; Mary grew fussy. Mum asked about Olga’s job, clearly far away in her thoughts. Dad watched Mum in silence, lowering his shoulders with every minute—a ruined evening … * A year later, Dad was gone. Massive heart attack, gone in two days, early in warm, sunny October. Olga took time off after the funeral—she stayed at the cottage, Mary with her ex’s mum. She fumbled everything; there were more apples than ever. Olga handed bucketfuls to neighbours, stewed jam with mint and cinnamon, as Dad loved. Dad’s old friend arrived, the two of them had made regular trips to the fruit tree nursery together, buying saplings. “I’ll stay a couple days, Olga, dig the garden and prune the trees, if that’s all right.” “Mr. Johnson, of course … Thank you!” From Dad’s old “Olly,” tears sprang; and in that moment, the dreadful sense of finality—grief, helplessness, orphanhood. Until then, it had felt as if Dad would return, as if it were all a hideous dream. The first few mornings after, in the twilight of waking, she ached from something unknowable, before black waves hit—Dad was gone. Then came guilt for not keeping him here. “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll visit, help out. You know, we chose this Bramley together—he talked about you all the way there, more than about your sister. You were a little thing, funny. Said the trees would outlive him. Always took ages picking out saplings—I’d hurry him, get annoyed …” Mr. Johnson stayed three days, dug the garden, pruned apple trees, spread fertiliser; with Olga’s leave, planted three golden chrysanthemums near the porch. “Should plant them earlier, but autumn’s warm, they’ll take. For Sasha’s memory … Need to cover the roses—next time, I’ll do it.” They hugged goodbye. Rain began to fall. Olga stood by the gate, watching him go. He turned, spotted her, waved— “Go inside!” The wind slammed the gate, the porch blanketed with yellow chrysanthemum petals. Everything here was Dad’s, and always would be; the rain, the trees, autumn’s scents, the very earth. Which meant Dad was somewhere near, always. She’d learn everything in time; she’d come with Mary until the first frost, just a two-hour bus ride. Next spring, perhaps she could get heat installed. She’d start saving. And in spring, she’d travel again with Mr. Johnson to the nursery, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted … * Six months later, in early April, when the last snow was thawing, the cottage was sold. Olga discovered it by accident, over the post office telephone on her way home from the nursery. In the cramped phone booth, a sapling white currant wrapped in a damp old baby vest stood gently by her feet.

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…”

Always Her First – Going back to her again? Marina already knew the answer when she asked. Dmitri nodded, not meeting her eyes, pulling on his coat, checking his pockets—keys, phone, wallet. Everything in place. Ready to leave. Marina waited. For a word. At least a “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But Dmitri simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked softly—a polite apology for its owner. Marina went to the window. The courtyard below was lit by weak street lamps; she spotted his familiar figure easily. Dmitri walked quickly, determinedly. Like a man who knows exactly where he’s headed. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old daughter, Sophie. Marina pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She had known. From the very beginning she knew what she was signing up for. When they met, Dmitri was still married—technically. The stamp on the marriage certificate, joint flat, child. But he no longer lived with Anna; rented a room somewhere else, only coming back for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” Dmitri said. “I couldn’t forgive her. Filed for divorce.” And Marina believed him. God, how easy it was to believe. Because she wanted to. Because she was in love—foolishly, desperately, like she was seventeen again. Dates in cafés, long phone calls, that first kiss outside her block in the rain. Dmitri looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, plans together, talk of the future. And then it began. First—the calls. “Dima, bring Sophie her medicine, she’s ill.” “Dima, the tap’s leaking, I have no idea what to do.” “Dima, our daughter’s crying, wants to see you, come right now.” Dmitri dropped everything and went. Every time. Marina tried to understand. A child was sacred. Their daughter not to blame that her parents had split. Of course he should help, be there. Sometimes Dmitri listened to her, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna would simply change tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, you’re upsetting her.” “She asked me why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And Dmitri would give in. Every time. Tried to refuse yet another urgent request—Anna knew exactly how to wound him. Within a week, Sophie repeated her mother’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t come up with that herself. Dmitri returned from these conversations shattered, guilty, his eyes dulled. He’d rush back at Anna’s slightest summons—just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t look at him like a stranger. Marina understood. She truly did. But she was exhausted. Dmitri’s figure disappeared around the corner. Marina pulled away from the window, absently rubbed her forehead—a red mark left from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. It was almost midnight when a key turned in the lock. Marina sat in the kitchen, staring at a cold mug of tea. She hadn’t touched it—just watched a dark film spread across the surface. Three hours. Three hours she’d waited, listening for every sound on the staircase. Dmitri entered quietly, slipped off his coat, hung it up. Moved cautiously, as though hoping to pass unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Marina was surprised how calm she sounded. She’d rehearsed that phrase for three hours, and by midnight all emotion seemed charred away inside. Dmitri was silent a moment. “The boiler broke. Had to fix it.” Marina slowly raised her eyes. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to enter. Staring past her, into the dark window at her back. “You don’t know how to fix boilers.” “I called a professional.” “And you had to wait with her?” Marina pushed away her mug. “You couldn’t have called from here? Over the phone?” Dmitri frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened, unpleasant. “Maybe you still love her?” Now he looked up. Sharply, angrily, wounded. “Nonsense. This is all for my daughter. For Sophie! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen; Marina instinctively pulled her chair back. “You knew when you got involved with me that I have to go there. You knew I had a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I see my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Marina had wanted to reply sharply, with dignity, but instead her eyes stung, the first tear slid down her face. “I thought…” she faltered, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. At least make an effort.” “Marina, give it a rest…” “I’m tired!” Her voice rose, and she startled herself. “Tired of being not even second best! Third! After your ex, her whims, broken boilers at midnight!” Dmitri slammed his palm against the doorframe. “What do you want from me? To abandon my daughter? Never go to her?” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Marina leapt up; the mug wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me—to her! Anna!” “I’m tired of your tantrums!” Dmitri grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?!” The door banged in reply. Marina stood in the kitchen as tea dripped onto the linoleum, her ears ringing. She snatched up her phone, dialed his number. The ringtone, again, again. “The person you are calling is unavailable.” And again. And again. Silence. Marina slowly sank onto the chair, pressing the phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Again to her? Or just wandering the night, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Which made it all the worse. The night dragged endlessly. Marina sat on her bed, phone in hand—the screen dimming, flaring. Call, listen to the ring, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Another: “Please answer.” And: “I’m scared.” Send—and watch each lonely grey tick appear below. Not delivered. Or delivered, unread. Not that it mattered. By four a.m., Marina stopped crying. The tears simply dried up somewhere inside, leaving a strange hollow ache. She rose, turned on the bedroom light, opened the wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. She found her dusty suitcase on top of the cupboard, tag torn from some old trip. Threw it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. No sorting, just shoving everything inside she could reach. If he didn’t care—neither did she. Let him come back to an empty flat. Let him call, text messages she’d never read. Let him know how it felt. By six, Marina stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, one bag slung over her shoulder, her coat buttoned unevenly—one side longer than the other. She stared at her bundle of keys. She needed to remove hers, leave it on the hallway table. Her fingers wouldn’t work. She wrestled the ring, tried with her nail, but the key stuck, her hands shook, tears boiled in her eyes—how were there any left? “Oh, for God’s sake!” The bunch clattered to the floor. Marina watched for a second, two—and slumped onto the suitcase, hugging herself, sobbing hard, messy, gulping breath, just like as a child, breaking Mum’s favourite vase and convinced the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Marina…” Dmitri knelt in front of her, straight onto the cold hallway tiles. He smelled of smoke and the night city. “Marina, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up—her face wet, swollen, mascara smeared in dark streaks. Dmitri gently took her hands in his. “I was at my mum’s. All night. She gave me such a talking to….” He gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve had my head sorted, basically.” Marina said nothing. Just looked at him, unable to decide whether to believe or not. “I’m taking Anna to court. I’ll demand a fixed schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, through the authorities, as it should be. She won’t be able to control things or turn my daughter against me anymore.” He squeezed her hands tighter. “I’m choosing you, Marina. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something flickered in her chest. A small sprout of hope, stubborn and silly, she’d tried all night to tear up by the roots. “Really?” “Really.” Marina closed her eyes. She would believe Dmitri. One last time. And then—let life decide…

📌 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