Even now, some nights I still wake up and wonder: when did my dad manage to take everything from us? I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but tidy house—there was furniture, the fridge was full on shopping days, and the bills were almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. It all began to change when my dad started coming home later and later, never greeting anyone, tossing his keys onto the table and heading straight to his room with his mobile in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you think this house runs itself?” And he’d reply dryly, “Leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to it all from my room with headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him talking on his phone outside in the garden, laughing quietly and saying things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straight away. I felt a strange knot in my stomach but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw an open suitcase on the bed. Mum was standing at the bedroom door, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted, “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He snapped back, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I cried and asked, “What about me? My school? Our house?” He just replied, “You’ll be fine.” He packed his suitcase, grabbed the documents from the drawer, took his wallet, and walked out without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to withdraw money from the cash machine and her card was blocked. The next day, the bank told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they had saved together. We also learned he’d left two months of bills unpaid and had taken out a loan without telling anyone, putting my mum down as guarantor. I remember Mum sitting at the table, checking receipts on an old calculator, crying, saying, “There’s just not enough… not enough for anything.” I tried helping her sort out the bills, but I didn’t understand half of what was going on. A week later the internet was cut off, and soon after, nearly the electricity too. Mum started looking for work—cleaning houses. I started selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing at break with my bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because we barely had enough for the essentials at home. There was a day I opened the fridge and saw only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried alone. That evening we had plain rice for dinner, nothing else. Mum kept apologising that she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook—Dad and that woman in a restaurant, raising glasses of wine. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that he never called. Never asked if I graduated, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He just disappeared. Today I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of the money, but because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us struggling and carried on with his life as if nothing had happened. And even now, many nights I wake with the same question weighing on my chest: How do you survive when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out how to get through life while you’re still just a kid?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 1

Even now, there are nights I wake in darkness, my mind wandering backwondering how my father managed to take everything from us.

I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a modest, yet tidy house on the outskirts of Norwich. It wasn’t grand, but we had solid furniture, the fridge was full on grocery days, and the bills were nearly always settled on time. I was in Year 10 at school, fretting only over passing maths and saving up pocket money for a pair of trainers I dearly wanted.

Then things began to shift. My father started coming home later and later. He’d stride in wordlessly, toss his keys onto the hall table, and disappear straight into his room clutching his mobile. My mother would call after him:
Back late again? Do you think this house runs itself?
And he’d reply, with a blank voice:
Leave me be, I’m knackered.

I listened to their exchanges from my room, headphones clamped over my ears, pretending nothing was amiss.

One evening, I happened to glimpse him in the garden, speaking on the phone. He was chuckling quietly, saying things like Its nearly sorted and Dont worry, Ill handle it. The moment he saw me, he hung up. A strange feeling settled in my stomach, but I kept silent.

The day he left was a Friday. I returned home from school and found his suitcase open on the bed. My mother stood by the bedroom door, eyes red from crying. I asked:
Wheres he off to?
He didn’t even look at me, just said:
Ill be away for a while.

My mother snapped:
A whilewith whom? Just tell the truth!
He exploded, replying:
Im leaving with another woman. Ive had enough of this life!

I burst into tears and pleaded:
And me? My school? Our home?
He merely shrugged:
Youll manage.

He packed his suitcase, grabbed the papers from the drawer, took his wallet, and leftno goodbye.

That night, Mum tried to withdraw some cash at the ATM, only to find her card blocked. Next day, she went to the bank and was told the account was empty. Hed taken every pound theyd put aside. We soon learnt hed left two months bills unpaid, and had even taken out a loan with Mum as guarantor, without telling her.

I still remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table with an old calculator, flicking through receipts, tears streaming down her cheeks, muttering:
Its not enough its just not enough

I tried to help tally up the bills, but I was losthalf of it made no sense to me.

A week later, our internet stopped working, closely followed by nearly losing the electricity. Mum started searching for work, cleaning whatever houses she could. I began selling sweets at school. I felt embarrassed standing at break with a tatty bag of chocolates, but I did it, because we barely had enough for basic necessities at home.

There was a day I opened the fridge to find only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat alone in the kitchen and wept. That night, we ate plain rice for supper with nothing on the side. Mum kept apologising for not being able to give me what she used to.

Much later, I chanced upon a photo on Facebookmy father and that woman, raising wine glasses in some London restaurant, beaming. My hands shook as I messaged him:
Dad, I need money for school supplies.
He replied:
I cant afford two families.

That was our last conversation.

He never called again. He never asked if I finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He simply vanished.

Now, I earn my own wage, pay my bills, and help Mum however I can. But the wound lingers. Its not just about the moneyits the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and went on with his life, as though wed never existed at all.

Yet even now, some nights, the same question weighs heavy in my chest:
How does one recover, when your own father takes everything, leaving you to learn survival before youve even grown up?

Let Them In and Regret It: When Dad Crossed the Line in My Flat and Brought Trouble Home — Dad, what’s with all these new vintage bits? Did you raid an antique shop or something? — Kristina frowned in confusion, eyeing the white knitted doily on her dresser. — Never knew you were into old lady collectibles. Your taste is straight up Grandma Zoe… — Kristina, darling! What are you doing here without calling first? — Oleg Peterson popped out of the kitchen looking guilty. — You clearly weren’t expecting me, — Kristina huffed, heading for the living room—where even more surprises waited. — Dad… Where did all this come from? What’s going on here? Kristina hardly recognised her own flat… Once upon a time, after inheriting the place from her grandmother, it was a time capsule—dodgy 70s furniture, a TV that belonged in the tip, rusty radiators, peeling wallpaper. Still, it was hers. Kristina invested her savings into a proper renovation, going full-on Scandinavian: bright colours, minimalism, tasteful accents and fluffy rugs… Now, blackout curtains had been swapped for cheap netting. Her Italian sofa was buried beneath an awful synthetic tiger-printed throw. The coffee table held a lurid pink plastic vase with matching fake roses. But the worst was the smell—greasy fish drifting from the kitchen, cigarette smoke, and her dad didn’t even smoke… — Kristina, see… — Oleg finally ventured, — I’m not alone. I meant to tell you, but I just… didn’t get round to it. — Not alone? — Kristina was stunned.—Dad, that was not our agreement! — Kristina, you know my life didn’t end when your mum and I split. I’m still a young man—I’m not even close to pension age. Am I not allowed a private life? Kristina froze. Technically, fair enough. But not in her flat. Her parents’ divorce a year ago had been uneventful—her mum shrugged off the cheating, dove into self-improvement and a social whirl. Her dad, though, was blindsided. His old bachelor pad had been trashed after years of tenants—one nearly burned it down with a lit cigarette, money for repairs was nowhere in sight. The place was ruined. — Kristina, I don’t know how I’ll live… — he’d sighed, looking broken. — It’s dangerous in there, and I can’t fix it before winter. I can’t afford the lot. If I freeze, then so be it… Of course Kristina couldn’t let the man who raised her rot in those conditions. She’d recently moved in with her husband; her flat was empty. With Dad’s history as a hapless landlord, it was best not to rent it out. — Dad, stay in mine for a while, — she offered. — Everything’s set up. Fix your place slowly; then move back. Just one rule: no visitors. — Really? — Dad lit up. — You’re a lifesaver! I promise, it’ll be quiet and peaceful. Peaceful? Right… As Kristina recalled this, her bathroom door flew open in a cloud of scented steam. Out glided a woman in her fifties—wearing Kristina’s favourite robe, draped over her voluptuous frame. — Oleg, love, is that a guest? — she croaked, shooting Kristina a condescending smile. — You could’ve warned me—I’m just in loungewear. — And you are…? — Kristina glared.—Why are you wearing my robe? — I’m Janet, your father’s partner. What’s the fuss? I grabbed the robe—it wasn’t being used. Kristina’s blood boiled. — Take it off. Now. — Kristina! — Dad begged, — Don’t start! Janet just— — Janet just wore someone else’s clothes in someone else’s home! — Kristina snapped.—Dad, are you serious? You dragged your girlfriend here, let her rummage through my stuff?! Janet rolled her eyes and plonked herself down on the tiger throw. — Such a brat, — she declared. — If I were Oleg, I’d have spanked you, regardless of age! How do you even talk to your father? His choice of companion isn’t your business, young lady. Kristina reeled. Some stranger was scolding her in her own home. — Not my business, — she agreed.—As long as it isn’t happening in my house. — Your house? — Janet glanced at Oleg, eyebrow raised. Oleg shrank, eyes darting between his furious daughter and his audacious girlfriend, praying the storm would blow over. — Oh, did Dad forget to tell you that? — Kristina said, coldly. — Well, let me clarify: He’s just a guest. This is my flat—everything in it is mine. I let him stay, but didn’t expect him to parade his “partners” through! Janet flushed red. — Oleg? —she snapped. —You told me it was yours. So you lied? Dad wilted in shame. — Well…Janet, I meant…you misinterpreted—I do have a place, just not this one. I didn’t want to overwhelm you… — Didn’t want to overwhelm?! Brilliant! Now I’m getting grief because of you! Kristina’s patience snapped. — Out, — she said quietly. — What? — Janet blurted. — Out. Both of you. You’ve got an hour. After that, I’ll deal with it legally. Shouldn’t have opened my door to you… Kristina moved for the door, and Dad finally peeled off the wall. — Sweetheart! You’re throwing your own father out onto the street? You know what my place is like! I’ll freeze! He clung to her sleeve, dredging up childhood guilt, duty, pity… But then Kristina saw Janet—lounging insolently in her robe, glaring pure hate. If she gave in now, tomorrow Janet would be changing locks and wallpaper. — Dad, you’re an adult. Rent somewhere, — said Kristina, jerking free.—You broke our agreement, brought a random woman, let her use my things, and ruined my home… — Well, choke on your precious flat! — Janet spat. — Come on, Oleg—don’t grovel. She’s ungrateful… Half an hour’s packing and it was done. Dad shuffled off, dejected. Kristina would never forget his wounded, rain-soaked glance. But she held firm. Once they’d gone, she aired the flat to banish the smell of fish, smoke, cheap perfume. Robe, throw, Janet’s debris—all in the bin. She hired cleaners and a locksmith. She never wanted that woman’s stain—physical or emotional—ever again. Four days passed. Now Kristina’s flat was her sanctuary again—no tacky fake flowers or lingering stench. She lived with her husband, but the peace was back. She hadn’t spoken to Dad. Four days in, he rang. — Kristina…? — Dad sounded drunk.—Happy now? Janet’s gone. She dumped me… — What a shock, — Kristina retorted.—Let me guess, she saw your real flat, realised the work needed, and bolted? Dad sniffed. —Yeah…I put a heater in, slept on an air mattress. She lasted three days, then called me a pauper and a liar, and ran off…We loved each other, Kristina! — Love? More like both of you trying to land somewhere comfy—and you both miscalculated. Silence. — It’s awful being alone here, sweetheart, —Dad pleaded.—Can I come back? Alone this time—I swear! Kristina’s heart ached—her father, alone in the mess he’d made. But he’d brought this on himself: cheating, lying, deceiving. She did feel sorry for him. But pity could poison them both. — No, Dad. I won’t let you back in. Hire workers, fix your place. Learn to live in the mess you created. All I can do is refer you to some good tradesmen. Sorry. If you need to, just ask. She hung up. Harsh? Maybe. But Kristina was done with people leaving stains—on her robe and her soul. Some dirt can’t be cleaned away; sometimes you just have to keep it out.

“And What Have You Achieved With All Your Complaining?” Asked Her Husband—But What Happened Next Left Him Stunned When life squeezes your chest at five in the morning, Marina sits on the edge of the bed and stares out the window. Her heart’s lost its rhythm: two beats, silence, three beats, quiet. Yesterday, the doctor diagnosed panic attacks. He sent her for further tests. After eighteen years, Marina had changed from a driven young woman with an economics degree to… what, really? An accessory to her husband’s business? A makeshift bookkeeper handling his paperwork? The cleaner who mops up at night because Andrew’s blind to mess? “Awake?” Andrew said, shuffling into the kitchen, looking rumpled and put out. “Didn’t sleep last night again?” Marina only nodded, made his coffee, and plucked the usual yogurt from the fridge. “By the way,” he said, sipping, “I’m off to Manchester today. Three days. Meeting with a supplier—important one.” “Andrew.” She knew not to start. She knew that look—like she’s begging for sympathy he doesn’t have. Yet she said, “Please, not now. I’m really unwell. The doctor insists on tests.” He paused, set his cup down, and exhaled sharply—the patience of a man who’s heard it all before. “And what have you achieved with all your complaining?” His voice almost calm now, not even annoyed. More indifferent. “I need to work, Marina. Not listen to your drama about how hard it all is. Honestly, who isn’t tired?” He began packing as if by habit—expecting silence, expecting her to swallow her hurt, to blame herself. But Marina, for once, didn’t stay silent. “Andrew,” she stood slowly. “Do you even remember who the mortgage is under?” He scoffed. “Does it matter? Probably both of us.” “It’s just me. Only me.” Something seemed to snap in the air. His face changed. “What’s your point?” “Eight years ago, when we bought this flat, you were in serious debt. The bank would never have approved you. Remember?” He was silent. “So yes—the mortgage is in my name. The flat as well. Plus, I’m co-signer on your business loans. Guarantor. Without me, you can’t extend, expand, or even operate.” Andrew slowly returned to the table, legs suddenly weak. “Why are you telling me this?” “Just reminding you. And…” She opened the drawer and took out a folder. “I know about Sophie.” Andrew fixated on the folder. She spread bank statements in front of him—ushering them out like cards at a casino. “These transfers: forty thousand, fifty, seventy. Monthly.” He said nothing. “And here’s your email printout. Did you really think I didn’t know your office password? I created it two years ago.” Andrew scanned the pages, growing pale. “Where did you get these?” “Does it matter?” she said, her hand just faintly trembling. “The point is, you funnelled money through her. Think the tax office would be interested?” He jumped up, almost yelling. “How dare you?! You’ve leeched off me all your life! Never earned a penny! Lived here like a hanger-on!” “Hanger-on?” Marina let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. The hanger-on who signed your loan agreements. The one who did all your accounts while you were ‘at meetings’. The one whose name is on this flat and every credit line.” “You’re threatening me?” “No,” Marina walked to the window, “I’m just laying out the facts. Since you seem to have forgotten the basics.” She turned. “In the last six months, I renewed my degree, did night courses—between panic attacks and insomnia. I got a job offer. Not fancy, but enough for me and Clara.” “Clara?!” he gasped. “Are you taking my daughter?!” “Have you even seen her this last month?” He said nothing. He genuinely couldn’t remember. Marina put a neurologist’s report on the table. “Chronic nervous exhaustion. Panic attacks. Prescribed environment change, therapy—removal from stress. See this line—‘prolonged exposure to trauma’. Know what that means for you?” “Marina—” “If I file for divorce, the court sides with me.” She laid down one more document. “And unless I sign, you can’t renew your business loan next week. Your pal Dave phoned—he said the bank needs documents. My signature, specifically.” Andrew sank back, ashen. “What do you want? Money?” Marina laughed—a brief, almost soundless giggle. “Money? Andrew, I want something simpler. I want you to finally admit that without me, there’d be no business. No flat. No fancy conference in Manchester.” She grabbed her handbag. “You’ve got until tonight to think. I’m staying with Elise and Clara. If you’re ready to talk properly, call. But don’t expect me to be that silent, suffering Marina ever again.” Six hours later, Andrew called. Marina was at Elise’s kitchen table, sipping peppermint tea, as if she’d surfaced from a swamp she’d been drowning in for years. “Hi,” she answered, her voice steady. “I need to see you.” “I’m listening.” “Not on the phone. Come home.” Marina smirked. “No, Andrew. If you want to talk, come here. Remember the address?” He arrived an hour later—tense, eyes wild, like a man cornered. Elise whisked Clara away. Marina and Andrew stayed in the kitchen. “You’re blackmailing me?” he barked, slamming the table. “No. Just explaining the reality.” “What reality?! You snooped, stole my files, spied on me!” “Do you honestly think attacking me is a smart strategy now?” she sighed. “After what I’ve shown you?” He knew she was right. “Listen,” Marina leaned in, “I’m not trying to ruin you. I’m not sending anything to the tax office or causing a scandal. I just want you to understand—without me, you really have nothing.” “You want a divorce?” his voice rasped. “What do you want?” Andrew looked away, silent for so long. “With Sophie, it meant nothing.” She lifted her hand. “No interruptions. I’ve known about Sophie for six months—about your arrangement, your fake trips. I said nothing. I thought: maybe he’ll change. Maybe this will pass.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Maybe I was just scared to admit our marriage died five years back. We were both just pretending.” “Marina—” “I’m done living as a footnote. As someone whose words mean nothing. You didn’t even notice I was dying beside you.” Andrew, fists clenched, sat white and silent. “You have a choice,” Marina continued. “We start over. No lies, no affairs. “Or you leave, and I take what’s mine.” “No,” Marina shook her head. “I’ll take only what’s rightfully mine. The flat. My share in the business. The loans in my name, you’ll repay yourself. And I’ll live my life.” She stood—conversation over. “Three days, Andrew. Think. When you’re ready, ring me. But know: the Marina you took for granted died at five o’clock yesterday morning.” A week later, Andrew showed up again, This time, without his fake confidence. Just sat, silent, at the same kitchen table. “Dave said—without your signature, the bank won’t renew the credit. The business will shut down.” Marina nodded. “I know.” “What do you want?” She looked him in the eye. “I want a divorce.” Andrew paled. “Are you serious?” “More than ever.” She poured herself tea, hands steady. “I’ll sign. I’ll extend the business loan. On one condition: we divorce, civilly. You buy out my share of the business. The flat stays with me. Clara lives with me.” “Marina—” “My mind’s made, Andrew.” She smiled. “You know the funniest part? For the first time in years, I slept through the night. No pills. No panic. Just sleep.” He was silent. “And now I understand. I’m not sick. I don’t need a doctor. I just needed to walk away from you, from a life where I was invisible.” She stood. “Your choice. Agree to my terms, and we part peacefully. Otherwise, I go to court with all the documents—and you’ll lose more than just business. Decide.” Andrew dropped his head. He realised—he’d lost. The woman he’d thought weak had proved the stronger one. “Fine,” he whispered. “I agree.” Three months later, the divorce was final. Marina took the flat and a respectable sum for her business share. Started her new job. Andrew kept the business and a new apartment. Along with a hollow sort of loneliness—especially in the evenings, with no one to talk to, no one to come home to. As for Sophie, she left a month later. Apparently, she was after comfort, not love. When Andrew was left footing every bill and could no longer keep her in style, that comfort disappeared. Marina heard all this from Dave. She smiled. And felt nothing. Not glee. Not pity. Just… nothing. So, maybe sometimes, isn’t it a good idea to be involved in your husband’s business? What do you think?

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.

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.