“My Son Needs Fifty Thousand, Stepan—Fifty, On Top of Thirty Thousand in Child Support: When Family Savings Become a Battleground Between Responsibility and Betrayal”

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

Fifty thousand, Simon. Fifty. On top of the thirty grand in maintenance already.

Eleanor threw her phone onto the kitchen table, sending it skittering dangerously close to the edge. Simon snagged it just before it toppled, which made Eleanor bristle with even more irritation.

Lily needed trainers and a kit for football club, Simon put the phone face-down, as if trying to erase the evidence. Shes growing, Ellie. Kids always grow, don’t they.
Trainers for fifty quid? Is she joining England’s Olympic squad?
And a backpack. And a new coatits nearly autumn.

Eleanor turned away, not wanting to look at her husband. She already knew about these transfers. Every month. Without fail. Always the same reason: daughter, responsibilities, obligations. Noble-sounding words, masking hard figures leaching from their shared budget into someone elses account.

I love her, Simon stepped closer, pausing a foot behind her. Shes my daughter. I can’t just…
I never said forget your child, did I? Im asking why you spend so much on top of the maintenance? Thirty thousand every month isnt nothing, is it? Is Anna not working?
She is.
So whats the problem?

Simon said nothing. His silence was so familiar to Eleanorit meant he had no answer. There was only the tired habit of agreeing, helping, never arguing. Being the model ex-husband, the responsible dad, the good man. Always paid for by their family.

Eleanor turned, bracing herself against the sink.

I keep track, you know. In my head. How much goes out every month. Do you want the total for this past year?
Not really.
Nearly six hundred thousand. Without the extra fifty from today.

Simon rubbed the bridge of his noseanother gesture that meant “lets drop it.” But Eleanor couldn’t not speak any longer. Shed kept quiet for too long, played the understanding wife too hard.

We planned a holiday, remember? You promisedNovember, the seaside, two weeks. So wheres the money now?
Ellie, I get it. But Anna called, said it was urgent…
Anna. Always Anna. Theres always something urgent about her.

Simon slumped onto a stool, elbows on knees. Eleanor suddenly realised he looked exhausted. Not from work, but from being pulled back and forth between two women. Sympathy flickered in her belly, but she smothered it, refusing to let it surface.

She wants to buy a flat, Simon mumbled, still not meeting her eyes. So Lily can have her own room.
Hang on. What flat?
Larger. Theyre cramped in a studiosurely you remember. She says theres not enough space.
Theres not enough space. And who pays?

Simon finally looked at her, a guilty glimmer in his eyes. Eleanor felt a chill creep over her.

Youre not seriously considering…
She asked me for help. With the deposit. Im only thinking about it for now.
Thinking? Simon, thats… thats massive! How can you even consider paying that?
Weve managed to save a bit. For the car.
We saved! For our car! For our family!

Her voice cracked into a shout, and Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth as if she could force the words back inside. Uselesstheyd already flown, hanging in the charged space between them.

Simon stood, wandered to the window, hands in his pockets.

Lilys my family too. I cant just pretend she isnt there.
No one asked you to, but theres maintenancelegal, official. The rest? Thats up to you. And up to me, mindbecause its our money.
I know.
But that doesnt stop you.

Silence. The neighbours telly chattered through the walls, laughter from some silly sitcom. An absurd soundtrack for their argument.

Eleanor slid into her usual chair, fussed with the tablecloth. Anger, hurt, confusion burned inside her, but her words came out evenly.

So, whats she after? How much?
Two hundred thousand for the deposit.

The number hung in the air. Eleanor laugheda short, mirthless bark.

Two hundred thousand. Thats all weve got.
I know.
Are you actually going to give it to her?
Its for my daughter.
I won’t allow it. Its my money toodont forget.

Simon didnt reply. Nothing more to say.

A week later, Eleanor logged onto the banking app, mechanically checking if her pay had come in. She scrolled to the savings accountthree years worth of scrimping.

Balance: £1,047.50…

She blinked. Refreshed the app. Checked again.

One thousand instead of two hundred thousand…

Her phone slipped from her fingers, thudded onto the rug.

Eleanor stood in the middle of the lounge, unable to move. Two hundred thousandthree years of sacrifice, skipped holidays, careful notes for every large purchase. Nowjust a thousand left. A stub. A shadow of their shared future.

She retrieved her phone, checked the transaction history. Transfer made to Anna Jennifer Smith.

Not even trying to hide it.

Simon sat on the sofa with his laptop when she burst into the room. He looked up, began to smilethen froze at her expression.

You gave away all our savings to your ex?!

Her voice was a shriek, and Eleanor didnt care. Let the neighbours hear, let the whole block.

Ellie, wait, I can explain…
Explain?! Two hundred thousand, Simon! Two! That was our money!

He set aside the laptop, rose slowly. No guilt in his eyes now, just a bizarre resoluteness.

Its for Lily. She needs a proper room, real space. Im her father, I have to
You have a family. Me! Not the woman you left years ago!
Shes the mother of my child.
And what am I?!
Youre my wife. I love you. But Lily
Stop hiding behind Lily! Eleanor stepped towards him, and Simon shrank back. You bought Anna a flat. Not for the childfor her! The deed is in her name, isnt it? Shell live there, she holds the keys, she can sell it tomorrow and do whatever she likes. Whats that got to do with Lily?

Simon opened and shut his mouth. Nothing to say. Of course notbecause Eleanor was right and they both knew it.

You still love her, Eleanor whispered, almost inaudibly. Thats what this is about. Not Lily. You just cant refuse her. You never could.
Thats not true.
Then why? Why didnt you ask me? Why decide for both of us?

Simon reached out, arms extended:

Ellie, please. Lets talk this through. I know youre angry, but its for my daughter…

Eleanor recoiled from his touch.

Dont touch me.

Three wordsa wall sprung up between them. Simon froze, arms hanging, something like understanding finally registering on his face. Far too late.

I cant do this, Eleanor walked past him into the bedroom, grabbed her bag. I cant stay with someone who makes decisions without me. Who lies. Who…
I didnt lie!
You didnt tell me. Same thing.

She stuffed the essentials into the bagclothes, documents, phone charger. Simon watched from the doorway as his life split apart.

Where are you going?
Mums.
For long?

Eleanor zipped up, swung the bag on her shoulder. Gave Simonthis grown man with lost eyesa look as hard and cold as winter grass.

I dont know, Simon. Honestly, I dont.

Three days in her mothers flat passed in a haze. The first day Eleanor lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Mum brought tea, asked nothing, stroked her hair like she was six again. The next daythe anger came: sharp, relieving, crisp. By the thirdclarity.

She called the solicitor.

I want a divorce. Yes, absolutely. No, theres no chance for reconciliation.

Simon rang every day. Sent messageslong, rambling, stumbling apologies and explanations. Eleanor read them but never replied. What was left to say? Hed made his choice. Now it was hers.

A month later, Eleanor moved into a tiny rented studio halfway across London. Small, overlooking the train yards, but hers alone. She picked the curtains herself, arranged the furniture, decided where each pound would go.

The divorce papers were signed quicklySimon didnt fight, just agreed. Maybe he hoped shed change her mind. But she didnt.

Sometimes, at night, Eleanor sat by the window and marvelled at how strange life could be. Three years ago shed believed shed found her person. Nowshe was alone in a quiet, empty flat. And oddly, that felt alright.

Eleanor opened her notebook, wrote a single word: zero. A new beginning. Next to ita plan for the month, the next half-year, the next twelve months. How much to save, where to invest, which courses would help her level up.

For the first time in ages, the future depended entirely on her.

I Know Best – What’s going on here? – Dmitry sighed, crouching in front of his daughter and studying the pink patches on her cheeks. – Not again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely serious for a child. She’d already grown used to these check-ups, to her parents’ worried faces, to endless creams and tablets. Mary came over and knelt beside her husband, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. Not at all. It’s like giving her water. And the NHS doctors… honestly, who are they? Third time they’ve changed her prescription and it’s made no difference. Dmitry stood up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the morning was grey, and the day promised to be as bleak as the last. They got ready quickly – wrapped Sophie up warm – and within half an hour were sitting in Dmitry’s mum’s flat. Olga was tutting, shaking her head, stroking her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on all these medicines. What a strain on her little body, – she settled Sophie on her lap and the girl immediately snuggled into her grandma. – It’s heartbreaking. – We’d be happy to stop them, – Mary perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers locked tight. – But the allergy isn’t going away. We’ve cut out everything. Absolutely everything. She eats just basic foods – and the rash still appears. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing specific. They can’t pinpoint it. Blood tests, allergy testing, but the only result… – Mary waved a hand – is this, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and adjusted Sophie’s collar. – I just hope she outgrows it. Sometimes kids do get better as they get older. But for now, it’s just so tough. Dmitry gazed at his daughter. Small, thin, big watchful eyes. He stroked her hair, remembering his own childhood – sneaking pies from the kitchen when mum baked on Saturdays, begging for sweets, eating jam straight from the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled chicken. Water. No fruit, no treats, none of the things normal children eat. Four years old – and her diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else to cut out, – he murmured. – Her diet’s already… there’s barely anything left. They drove home in silence. Sophie dozed off in the back seat, and Dmitry watched her in the mirror. At least she’s sleeping. Not itching for once. – Mum called, – Mary spoke up. – She wants us to bring Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for a puppet show, wants to take her out. – The theatre? – Dmitry changed gears. – That’s good. She needs a distraction. – That’s what I thought too. She could do with a break. …On Saturday Dmitry parked outside his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily and rubbed her eyes – dragged out of bed early, not fully awake yet. He picked her up and she pressed her nose to his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor swept out onto the porch in a flowered dressing gown, hands thrown up like she’d spotted a castaway. – Oh my darling, sunshine, – she scooped Sophie to her ample bosom. – So pale, so thin, cheeks all hollow. You’ve wasted her with your diets, you’re ruining the child. Dmitry shoved his hands in his pockets, suppressing his irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing this for her own good. Not by choice, trust me. – What good is that? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though she’d just staggered back from a war zone. – Skin and bones. She needs to grow, and you starve her. She carried Sophie inside without a glance back, door snicking shut behind them. Dmitry stood for a long moment, something sharp flickering at the edge of his mind – a suspicion, refusing to fully form, dissolving away like morning fog. He rubbed his forehead, lingered by the gate, listening to the quiet, then turned and walked to the car. Having the weekend without his daughter was strange, an almost forgotten feeling. On Saturday he and Mary drove to the supermarket, pushing the trolley down aisles and stacking up groceries for the week. At home, Dmitry wrestled with the leaking bathroom tap for three hours while Mary sorted the cupboards, old clothes packed up in bags for donation. Normal household busyness, but without a child’s voice the flat felt wrong, too empty. That evening they ordered pizza – the one with mozzarella and basil that Sophie couldn’t have. Opened a bottle of red. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing and everything – work, holiday plans, the never-ending renovation. – It feels good, – Mary started, stopping herself, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Restful. – I get it, – Dmitry put his hand over hers. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday he went to collect Sophie around sunset. The house glowed in the orange light, tucked behind old apple trees and, just for a moment, looked almost inviting. Dmitry climbed out, pushed the gate – hinges squeaked – and stopped dead. On the porch sat his daughter, Mrs Taylor beside her, blissful grin plastered on her face. In her hands was a pie – huge, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was eating it, crumbs smeared on her cheeks and chin, eyes sparkling with joy like Dmitry hadn’t seen in months. For a few heartbeats he simply watched. Then a wave of anger surged through him, hot and fierce. He strode forward, snatched the pie from Mrs Taylor’s hands. – What is this?! Mrs Taylor flinched, recoiling, her face flushing from chin to hairline. She fluttered her hands at him, as if to fling away his fury. – It’s just a tiny bit, honestly! It’s just pie, what’s the harm… Dmitry didn’t listen. He scooped Sophie into his arms – she shrank away, clutching his jacket, eyes scared. He strapped her into the car seat, hands shaking, voice taut. – You’re alright, sweetheart. Just sit tight. Daddy’ll be back in a minute. He shut the door and stalked back to the house. Mrs Taylor was still on the porch, worrying the edge of her gown, blotchy-faced. – Dmitry, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he halted two steps away, rage spilling out. – Half a year! Six months we’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with our daughter! Tests, appointments, allergy checks – do you have any idea what it’s cost? The nights we haven’t slept? Mrs Taylor backed toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dmitry advanced – Water and boiled chicken for months! We cut out everything! And you sneak her fried pies? – I was building up her immunity! – she suddenly squared her shoulders. – Little by little, so she’d get used to it. A bit more and she’d have recovered, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three kids! Dmitry stared, barely recognising her. The woman he’d tolerated for years, for the sake of his wife and family peace, was poisoning his child, convinced she knew better than the doctors. – Three kids, – he repeated coldly. Mrs Taylor paled. – But all kids are different. And Sophie is my daughter, not yours. You won’t be seeing her again. – What?! – She clung to the railings. – You can’t do that! – I can. He turned and walked away. She shrieked after him but Dmitry didn’t look back. He got in the car, started the engine. In the rear-view mirror he saw Mrs Taylor running after them, waving furiously. He pressed the accelerator. Back home, Mary met them in the hall. Saw Dmitry’s face and Sophie’s tears, and understood instantly. – What happened? Dmitry told her. Brief, emotionless – he’d already let it all out at the house. Mary’s expression turned to stone. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, Dmitry told me. How could you? He led Sophie to the bathroom, washing away the pie and tears. Behind the door Mary’s voice rang out, sharp and unfamiliar, scolding her mother like Dmitry had never heard before. There was one clear line at the end: “Until we get this allergy sorted – you won’t see Sophie again.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was already a tradition. Today there was cake: a sponge, topped with cream and strawberries. And Sophie was eating it. On her own, with a big spoon, covered in cream. Not a pink spot on her cheeks. – Who would have thought, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil allergy. So rare. – The doctor said it’s one in a thousand, – Mary spread butter on bread. – Once we cut it completely and switched to olive oil, her skin cleared up in two weeks. Dmitry watched his daughter, couldn’t stop smiling. Pink cheeks, sparkling eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally allowed normal food. Cakes, biscuits, anything made without sunflower oil – so much more than he’d ever guessed. His relationship with Mrs Taylor stayed frosty. She called, apologised, cried. Mary was curt, never warm. Dmitry never spoke to her. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga slid the plate closer. – Eat up, darling. Enjoy every bite. Dmitry leaned back. Rain pattered outside, but inside it was warm and sweet with the smell of baking. His daughter was well again. Nothing else mattered.

“If You Don’t Like It, You Can Leave!” – Julia Finally Stands Up to Her Unwelcome Relatives Julia had spent thirty years in silence. If her husband spoke, she nodded. If her mother-in-law arrived unannounced, Julia put the kettle on. When her sister-in-law showed up with suitcases, Julia put her up in the spare room—“Just for a couple of days,” her guest would say, but three months would pass. Julia just gritted her teeth, not wanting to seem a troublemaker or a heartless wife, while everyone slowly took over her life and home. Her husband Anatoly was a simple, no-nonsense man, fond of dinner toasts and a grumble about the boss. He called Julia his “little housekeeper” and never understood her late-night tears. After he died, Julia was left alone in her three-bedroom flat in East London. The family came and went after the funeral, and Julia thought: perhaps now I’ll get some peace. But that was just the beginning. Her sister-in-law called next, insisting her grown son needed to stay “just until uni starts.” Soon enough, Julia’s home was overtaken—dirty plates, loud music, demands for more. Later, her late husband’s daughter arrived, full of old grievances and claims on the flat. Julia tried, gently and then more firmly, to explain the situation. But the relatives didn’t want understanding; they wanted to carve up her flat. With every visit, the pressure grew: “Why do you need three bedrooms alone? Sell it and help the family! Be fair to the kids!” One day, sitting at her own kitchen table as they discussed her home like it was community property, Julia looked at them—and found her courage. “If you don’t like it,” she said quietly, “you can leave.” A stunned silence followed, then the outrage began. But Julia stood her ground. In that moment, decades of silent patience finally ended. She told them—all of them—to pack up and go for good. After thirty years of pleasing everyone else, Julia finally chose herself. Now, learning to live her own life, independence feels strange but liberating. And as the door finally closes on her demanding relatives, Julia discovers the happiness of saying “no”—and not being afraid to be alone. Have you ever had to stand up to family outstaying their welcome? Share your story and don’t forget to subscribe for more real-life tales!

011

I Know Best – What on earth is going on? – Dimitri wearily crouched before his daughter, inspecting the rosy patches on her cheeks. – Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and oddly grown-up, already used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, endless ointments and pills. Maria approached and sat beside her husband, gently tucking a strand of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. At all. May as well be giving her water. And the doctors at the clinic… they aren’t doctors, more like who knows what. This is the third new treatment, and it’s made no difference. Dimitri stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside, the world was grey—the day promised to be as dull as all the others before it. They hurriedly packed up—Sophie bundled in her warm coat—and half an hour later, they were seated in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on so many medicines. It’s such a strain on her body, – she perched Sophie on her knee, and the little girl nestled close—familiar comfort. – It’s heartbreaking. – We wish we didn’t have to give them, – Maria sat at the edge of the sofa, fingers intertwined. – But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve eliminated everything—absolutely everything. She only eats the most basic foods, and still, the rash persists. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. We do tests, take samples, and the result… – Maria waved a hand – this result, here, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and smoothed Sophie’s collar. – Hopefully she’ll outgrow it. Kids sometimes do. But for now, no comfort. Dimitri gazed at his daughter. Small and thin. Big, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and memories flickered—snatching pastries from the kitchen as a child, begging for sweets, eating his mum’s jam straight from the jar… But his daughter? Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no treats, no proper children’s food. Four years old, on a diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else there is to cut, – he spoke quietly. – Her diet’s nearly nothing as it is. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the backseat; Dimitri checked her in the mirror every so often. At least she wasn’t scratching. – Mum called, – Maria spoke up. – She wants Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. – Theatre? – Dimitri changed gear. – That’ll be nice. Good distraction. – I thought so too. She could use it. …On Saturday, Dimitri parked outside his mother-in-law’s and carried Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes—woken too early. He picked her up, and she snuggled into his neck, warm and weightless as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor appeared on the porch, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a shipwreck survivor. – Oh, my dear, my little ray of sunshine, – she scooped up Sophie, hugging her close to her vast chest. – So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are hollow. You lot have worn her out with your diets, you’re ruining her. Dimitri thrust his hands in his pockets, holding back irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing it for her sake. There’s a reason, you know. – What sort of sake? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though—just returned from a prison camp. – Skin and bone. Some childhood—she should be growing, not starved. She carried Sophie inside, not looking back, leaving the door to click shut. Dimitri lingered at the gate, a sensation nagging at the edge of his mind, some half-formed hunch that vanished like mist. He rubbed his forehead, waited one more minute listening to the quiet of this foreign yard, then sighed and returned to the car. A weekend without their daughter—a strange, nearly-forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Maria trawled the supermarket aisles, piling up groceries for the week. At home, he spent three hours fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Maria emptied wardrobes and packed old things into bags for the tip. The usual chores, but the absence of Sophie’s voice made the flat feel wrong, too empty. In the evening, they ordered pizza—the mozzarella and basil kind, forbidden to Sophie. Opened a bottle of red, sat talking about nothing much—work, their postponed holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. – It’s nice, – Maria said, then paused, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful. – I know, – Dimitri covered her hand with his. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday, he went to pick up their daughter just before sunset. The garden glowed orange beneath old apple trees. Mrs Taylor’s place, in the evening light, seemed almost cosy. Dimitri stepped from the car, pushed open the gate—its hinges groaned—and stopped short. Sophie was sitting on the porch. Mrs Taylor beside her, radiating sheer happiness. In her hands was a pastry. Big, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was devouring it. Cheeks smeared, crumbs on her chin, eyes sparkling—happier than he’d seen in ages. For a moment, Dimitri simply stared. Then a surge of hot anger swept up from his chest. He strode forward, snatched the pastry away. – What’s this supposed to be?! Mrs Taylor jumped, shrank back, her face turning red from neck to hairline. She flailed her hands, desperate to wave away his fury. – It’s just a tiny piece! No harm done, honestly. Dimitri wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up—she went quiet, clutching his coat in fright—and headed for the car. Buckled her in, hands trembling with rage. Sophie gazed at him, lips quivering, about to cry. – It’s okay, darling, – he stroked her head, forcing his voice to sound calm. – Just wait here for Daddy, alright? He shut the door and marched back to the house. Mrs Taylor was rooted to the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown, blotchy and pale. – Dimi, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he stopped short, exploding. – Six months! Six months, and we couldn’t work out what was wrong with our daughter! Tests, allergy screenings—do you have any idea what it all cost us? The stress, sleepless nights?! Mrs Taylor edged back toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dimitri advanced. – She’s been on boiled chicken and water! We’ve cut out every single possible allergen! And you—you secretly feed her fried pastries? – I was building up her immunity, – Mrs Taylor suddenly bristled, chin raised. – A little at a time, to get her body used to it. One bit more and it would’ve cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing—I’ve raised three kids! Dimitri looked at her, unrecognising. This woman he’d endured for years, for his wife, for peace—she was poisoning his child. On purpose. Convinced she knew better than any doctor. – Three kids, – he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. – Doesn’t mean they’re all the same. Sophie isn’t your daughter—she’s mine. And you won’t see her again. – What?! – Mrs Taylor clutched the rail. – You have no right! – I do. He walked to the car, shouts erupting behind him. But Dimitri didn’t look back. Started the engine. In the rear-view, his mother-in-law’s frantic silhouette flared behind the gate as he pulled away. At home, Maria met them in the hallway. One look—his face, their tearful daughter—and she understood. – What happened? Dimitri explained. Briefly, coldly, all emotion spent outside. Maria listened, face hardening. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?! Dimitri got Sophie into the bath—to wash away the pastry and tears. In the next room, Maria’s voice—sharp, unfamiliar—rang out. She scolded her mother as he’d never heard before. Her words finished loud and clear: “Until we’ve sorted the allergy—no visits, Mum.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. Today, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries sat on the table. And Sophie was eating it herself, big spoon, getting cream everywhere. Her cheeks—perfectly clear. – Would you believe it, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. – Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, – Maria spread butter on her bread. – The moment we cut it out and switched to olive oil—her rash vanished in two weeks. Dimitri couldn’t stop watching his daughter. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally able to eat real food—cakes, biscuits, everything made without sunflower oil. Turns out, that’s a lot. Relations with his mother-in-law stayed chilly. Mrs Taylor called, apologised, cried down the phone. Maria kept her replies short and brisk. Dimitri didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga moved the plate closer. – Go on, love. Eat as much as you like. Dimitri leaned back in his chair. Outside, rain fell; inside, warmth and the scent of baking. His daughter was better. Nothing else mattered.