Black Widow Charming and clever Lily, just before graduating from university with a journalism degree, meets Vlad—a man much older than herself. Unsurprisingly, it was Vlad Romanov who first noticed the graceful and delicate Lily. Vlad was well-known in town as a songwriter whose tunes were popular and often heard around the city. He was everybody’s friend, familiar with almost everyone at the local TV station, so it was easy for him to get Lily a job as the host of her own show once she finished her studies. Soon after, Lily’s first programme, “Heart-to-Heart Conversations”, aired, featuring a well-known psychologist and several other guests in a format of questions, answers, and real-life stories. “Well done, Lily,” Vlad praised her after watching the show. “We must celebrate this.” At forty-five, Vlad had been married three times. His boundless energy and countless friends made family life impossible. He was creative—a self-declared distinguished composer—and he could often be found in restaurants, cafés, and saunas, drinking heavily. Time passed and Lily became a local celebrity, married Vlad, and her show became a hit. She dressed with taste, was always polite and cheerful, and had nothing remotely devilish about her—just the beautiful woman from TV, as people called her. But she soon realised she hadn’t married the right man, especially after Vlad was perpetually drunk. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Vlad,” his friend Simon once told him when Vlad, drunk, tried to humiliate Lily. “This girl will put you in your place.” “I’ve never chosen clever wives,” Vlad replied, seeing himself as the only smart one, then pinched Lily’s cheek as they sat in a café. When Vlad was courting Lily, he behaved like a gentleman—flowers, gifts, writing two songs for her, and listening with attention. But once she became his wife, all his interest faded, and he barely gave her more attention than the household cat. “I naively thought I’d become a star thanks to him,” Lily thought. It turned out differently. She’d studied French at university—hardly the most useful language for travel. Vlad constantly nagged her: “Learn English. Abroad, you look like a country bumpkin. Skip the gym, stop wasting time, and focus on English.” Out of spite, Lily refused to study English—until Simon, Vlad’s well-read friend, said at dinner, “English is as essential to an elegant woman as wearing heels.” Lily signed up for English classes the next day. “Well done, Simon—you’ve inspired my wife. She’s bought textbooks, takes lessons, and in the car she listens to English, not music!” Vlad joked. Lily and Vlad lived in a large flat inherited from his grandfather, a professor of medicine. Their housekeeper, Vera, a lonely forty-three-year-old woman, was skillful at hiding her envy and bitterness. All day, she saw everything. One morning, Lily woke to find Vlad missing again—passed out drunk on the sofa in his study. In the kitchen, Vera held an empty cognac bottle. “It was full last night. What should I give him for breakfast?” she asked. “Pickle juice,” Lily grumbled, heading to the shower. After seven years of marriage, Lily had no children—Vlad didn’t want any, already having a son from his first marriage. Lily, disillusioned with family life, focused on her career. After breakfast, she sent Vera to check on Vlad, who lay face down, a red stain on the pillow. “Lily!” Vera cried out. “Call an ambulance!” Fifteen minutes later, Lily rode in the ambulance with her husband. Vlad went straight to intensive care, and the doctors said, “It’s complicated. We can’t promise anything.” That evening, she got the call: “Your husband has died.” “I… I can’t believe it,” she whispered, shaken. “He wasn’t that old.” The funeral was lovely; Simon gave a touching speech: “Let’s not mourn—Vlad lived a full, exciting life and earned his rest. He’s free now.” After the funeral, Lily struggled to adjust to life without Vlad. The house felt empty; Vera watched her anxiously, unsure if she’d be dismissed. Colleagues said, “Lily, don’t be sad. You’re young, free, and financially secure.” Money from Vlad’s accounts was split between his son and Lily, but she earned well herself. She met friends or visited cafés to avoid being alone. One day, after filming her show, Lily stopped at a nearby café. She sipped Spanish wine, lost in thought, when a big man approached with a friendly smile, asking if he could join her. “Of course,” she nodded. “I’m Kenneth,” he said. “Why so glum? Someone as lovely as you shouldn’t be sad.” Kenneth was in his forties—burly, dark-haired, and with teddy-bear features that instantly amused Lily. “Let me treat you. Wine? Cocktail? Dessert?” he offered. “Just some cake, thank you,” she replied. Kenneth, though not handsome, was charming—warm and funny, full of fascinating stories. Lily laughed and enjoyed his company; he walked her home and they arranged a date. The next day, Lily told Vera, “I don’t need your help anymore. I can take care of myself.” “But Lily dear, I’ve been loyal all these years. Where will I go?” “You’ll find another family or become a porter somewhere.” “You’re throwing me out?” Vera cried, then wiped her tears. “Oh, I’ll be fine. At least I won’t have to wash windows and toilets,” Lily mused. But seeing Vera so upset, Lily relented. “Alright, if you insist, you can stay.” Vera cheered up and even kissed Lily’s cheek. “I’ve come to love you and Vlad as if you were my own,” Vera explained. Life went on, and Kenneth—Kenny, as Lily affectionately called him—became a frequent guest. He adored Lily, and within three months, they married. Lily insisted on a modest wedding, but Kenneth whisked her off to the Maldives for their honeymoon—a luxury he could afford as a businessman. Lily expected a typical holiday: direct flight, decent hotel, standard tourist attractions. But Kenny’s idea of a dream vacation was quite different: first-class travel, a private yacht to their island, greeted as VIPs with fireworks, cocktails, and dancing. Their villa was gorgeous—four bedrooms, two baths, a private pool, and a secluded beach. “Goodness, how much did my teddy bear spend?” Lily wondered. She’d never cared about Kenneth’s wealth, just knew he had money. He was incredibly caring—making sure she ate a proper breakfast, tucking her in at night. “Vlad was a nightmare—always belittling me, insisting I owed my success to him. Kenny may not be a looker, but he lives for me and always listens. I like that,” Lily thought. Vera praised Kenneth and was happy living with them in his grand country house. The only downside: Lily once saw Kenneth inject himself. “What’s that?” she asked, alarmed. “Just insulin—I’m diabetic, but it’s nothing. I live a full life.” Lounging in the Maldives, Lily mused, “Did I just win the happiness lottery?” She loved the luxury, though she sometimes wished for a muscly husband instead of a cuddly bear. She suggested Kenny work out, but he admitted, “I’ll try if you want, but my metabolism is a problem. I’m insulin-dependent—I’ll never be an Adonis.” “That’s fine,” Lily decided. Back to work, Lily often felt unfulfilled, wondering if she’d ever feel true passion. She wanted to experience love; instead of a teddy bear, she wished for a handsome, athletic man. At work, colleagues teased, “Don’t you ever cheat on your bear? Are you really so virtuous?” But she wasn’t all that moral—she just didn’t want to hurt her kind husband. That New Year’s Eve at the office party, after a few drinks, her colleague Chris called his friend Archie to take her home. “Lily, need a lift?” Chris asked, drunk. She accepted. Archie, a handsome man with an expensive car, couldn’t take his eyes off Lily. He offered a lift, got her phone number, and outside her house, pinned her against his jeep with a fierce kiss. She didn’t resist—she liked his roughness and strength. Archie turned out to be the perfect lover. With Kenny, she was affectionate; Archie wasted no time, passionately sweeping her off her feet. It suited them both. Kenny, busy with his business, never suspected a thing. One day Lily arrived at Archie’s flat, ready for a rendezvous, when someone buzzed the door bell persistently. “Who’s calling now?” Archie grumbled, heading to the door. Lily recognised two voices: Kenny and Archie’s. Terrified, she scrambled to get dressed as Kenny silently appeared in the doorway. It would have been easier if he’d shouted. “Kenny… this isn’t… what it looks like…” Archie stood by, not defending her. “Who betrayed me?” Lily wondered. “What’s the point now? Though I didn’t believe it, I had to check.” Kenny looked dreadful, pale and sweating, then collapsed. Lily checked—he was breathing heavily. “Call an ambulance, quick!” Archie called for help. Lily found Kenny’s insulin pen, injected him—but he didn’t improve. The paramedics arrived: “He’s gone.” Lily was stunned. Archie drove her home. Vera greeted her, asking, “Lily, what happened? You look ill!” Suddenly Lily suspected Vera had tipped off Kenny—Vera disliked Archie and had been nosy about him. She kept quiet; Vera would never confess. After her second husband’s funeral, Lily took a long time to recover. Kenny’s heart attack was ruled the cause of death. Afterward, his daughter from his first marriage—now married to a lawyer—evicted Lily, threatening legal action and handing over a thick envelope of cash as severance. Lily, uninterested in inheritance battles, moved back into her spacious flat with Vera—the one that had belonged to Vlad Romanov. Time passed. Archie was her support and companion, but never proposed. She knew he wasn’t husband material. Then one day, her colleague Chris gave her shocking news: “Lily, brace yourself… Archie died in a car accident. Instantly.” It hit her hard. “Why do all my men die? Am I a black widow—doomed to be called that? Is there something cursed about me?” Some time later, Lily hosted a young man named Matthew on her show. She sensed he was utterly captivated by her, and after filming, he invited her to a café. “Alright,” she agreed—it was time to move on. Matthew swept her off her feet; Lily fell for him deeply, plunging into happiness. “So this is love,” she thought. “I can’t breathe without Matthew, let alone live.” She feared for his safety, though. Matthew reciprocated, and their days together were joyful. Lily didn’t know much about his background, only that he had no family save a distant father. Matthew lived with Lily, and one afternoon, out of curiosity, she looked him up online. What she found stunned her: Matthew, her sweet and unassuming love, was listed among the country’s wealthiest. She was in shock. “I can’t believe my eyes! Incredible!” Then she panicked, “What if something happens to him too?” She calmed down and went to work. Later, when she rang Matthew’s mobile and his office, the secretary informed her, “He’s been taken to hospital.” Rushing to the hospital, Lily demanded, “What’s wrong with him?” The doctor reassured her, “Nothing serious—a slight heart scare. He’ll be fine.” “May I see him? Please…” “Ten minutes.” Lily entered Matthew’s room; he was waiting, smiling. She sat beside him, and he took her hands. “All will be well. I love you! Once I’m out, let’s get married. Will you?” “Of course!” she cried, kissing him. “There’s a whole life and real happiness ahead.” Thank you for reading, subscribing, and your support. Best wishes!

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 14 minViews 1

Black Widow

So, let me tell you this story, mate. There was this clever, pretty girlher name was Emily Miller, just about to finish uni, where shed studied journalism. Right before graduation, she met Edward, a chap much older than her. It was, of course, Edward Higgins who first spotted herslim, delicate Emily, looking a picture as always. Edward was well-known about town, wrote songs people genuinely liked, and everyone around here would hum them.

Edward was one of those blokes you see everywhere, such a social butterflyworked at the local TV station, knew practically everyone in media circles. It was easy for him to pull a few strings and help Emily land a job presenting her own television show after she finished uni. Not long after, her first programme airedcalled Heart to Heart. She had a well-respected local psychologist on, together with a couple of other guests. The show ran on audience questions and real-life examples.

Nicely done, Emily, Edward praised after watching the episode. We should celebrate this, you know.

Edward Higgins was about forty-five, been married three times. All that energy and endless mates didnt mix well with family life, honestly. He was creative, wrote songs, considered himself on par with any distinguished composer. Hung out in pubs, restaurants, even saunas, and had a habit of drinking rather a lot.

Time ticked on. Emilys show gained popularity, she ended up marrying Edward, lots of people around town watched her show. She always looked amazing, dressed elegantly, was unfailingly polite and friendly. There was nothing devilish about her; people called her the local TV beauty. But marrying Edward well, he really wasnt the right fit, and she figured that out quickly, especially once he was always half-cut.

Edward, dont get cocky, his mate Simon said once after Edward tried to embarrass Emily in front of everyone while tipsy. Shell outshine you in no time.

Nah, Simon. I never pick brainy wives, Edward shot back, convinced he was the smart one, and pinched Emily on the cheek as they sat in the café.

Back when Edward was still winning her over, he was a class actflowers, gifts, even wrote two songs for her, listened to her like she was the only person in the world. But the second she became his wife, the charm evaporated. She got no more attention than the house cat, and hed shout at her over nothing.

Emily used to think, Maybe I can become famous with his help. But life turned out different. At uni, she’d studied Frenchnot especially handy for travel, as it went. Edward constantly nagged:

Why dont you learn English? Youre hopeless abroad, like someone from the middle of nowhere. You waste no time on exercise but apparently can’t find a moment for English lessons?

It wound her up so much she refused to study English just to spite him. Yet, SimonEdward’s bright, well-read friendonce remarked at their dinner party:

For a striking woman, speaking Englishs as natural as wearing heels.

Next day, Emily enrolled at evening classes with a top-notch teacher.

Youve worked wonders, Simon! Edward chuckled. Shes bought half the Waterstones, cramming every night, listening to English in the car instead of music.

Emily and Edward had this huge flat, inherited from Edwards granddad, a retired surgeon. They had a housekeeper, Veraforty-three, single, jealous and grumpy, but masked it well. Vera was always around, living through every detail of their family life.

One morning, Emily woke up to find the bed emptyEdward was passed out on his office sofa again, the usual state after coming in late (and drunk). She wandered into the kitchen where Vera was glaring at an empty cognac bottle.

It was full last night. What shall I give him for breakfast?

Brine, Emily mumbled, heading to the shower.

Seven years went by. Emily hadnt had a childEdward didnt want one, had a son from his first marriage anyway. She was more focused on her career than parenthood. After breakfast, she asked Vera to check on Edward. Vera found him lying face-down, with a red stain on his pillow.

Emily! Vera shrieked, We need an ambulance!

Whats wrong?

No idea!

Fifteen minutes later, Emily was bundled into the back of an ambulance, heading to hospital with Edward. Straight to intensive care for him. The doctors were blunt:

Its serious. We cant promise anything yet.

That evening, the phone rang.

Your husbands passed away.

Emily felt numb. I just I cant believe it. Hes not that old. The funeral was beautifulSimon made sure of it, loads of people turned out, Edward was such a public figure. Even at the wake, Simon spoke up:

Lets not mourn. Edward lived a full and colourful life, and hes earned his rest. Now hes free and unburdened.

He had it all, Emily overheard someone whisper.

At first, Emily struggled to accept the quiet emptiness at home. Vera eyed her cautiously, waiting to see if shed be kept on or booted out. Colleagues chirped,

Emily, youve nothing to be sad about. Young, independent, and, most importantly, comfortable. Edward left two decent bank accounts, split between his son and her, plus she had her own income. She avoided staying in alone, frequently met friends, or popped into a café near home.

One evening after filming, she stopped in that café, sipping Spanish wine, lost in thought. A big fellow smiled and politely asked to join her.

May I? She nodded. James, he introduced himself; she did too. Why so glum? Someone as lovely as you shouldnt be sad.

Just feeling a bit blue.

James was about forty, broad-shouldered, brunette, not exactly a looker with his strong featuresreminded Emily of a teddy bear, which lifted her mood instantly.

Let me treat youa glass of wine, a cocktail, a sweet treat? Whatever you fancy.

“Just a little cake,” she repliednot much of a sweet tooth.

Though he wasnt handsome, James was an absolute delight. Full of witty stories, sparkling with humour, totally captivating. Emily found herself laughing loads, and he walked her home afterwards. They planned another date.

Next morning, Emily broke the news to Vera:

I wont need your help anymore. I can manage my own house.

Oh Emily, Ive been loyal all these years and youre throwing me out. Where am I supposed to go?

Youll find another placemaybe housekeeping or reception somewhere.

Youre kicking me out? Vera burst into tears. Im so used to this.

Emily thought, I wont go broke keeping her, at least the windows and loo get a proper clean. She watched Vera wiping her eyes.

Fine, Vera. If you want to stay, you can keep working, and Vera perked up and even hugged her.

I loved you and Edward, I felt like family here. Losing Edward so suddenly and now you trying to send me off

So they carried on, only now Jameswhose pet name was Jimmyvisited often. He doted on Emily. Soon enough, she married him. Emily insisted they keep the wedding small, but for their honeymoon, Jimmy whisked her off to the Maldives. He could afford ithe ran his own business.

Emily expected that trip to be similar to her old lifedirect flight, decent hotel, the usual for tourists. But Jimmy had other ideas. They flew first class; at the airport, a guide led them to a private boat. On the island, they were greeted as VIPscomplete with fireworks, cocktails, and local dancers.

Their villa was gorgeousfour rooms, two bathrooms, private pool, their own stretch of beach.

Blimey, how much did my teddy bear spend on this? Emily wondered.

Shed never bothered about his wealth; just knew there was plenty. Jimmy was sweetsuch a big softiealways adjusting her blanket, stroking her hair, making sure she had a proper breakfast. Not just coffee, but a real meal.

She thought, Edward was a mean so-and-so, always putting me down, acting like I was lucky to be with him. Jimmy, even if hes no Adonis, lives for me and is always there to listen. I love that.

Even Vera had lots of praise for himhappy to move with them out to Jimmys big place in the countryside. One awkward moment: Emily once saw Jimmy inject himself with a tiny needle.

Whats this? she panicked.

Just insulin. Ive got diabetes, but its under controlIve still got plenty of life.

Lounging by the pool, Emily mused, Did I hit the jackpot this time or what?

She loved the luxury but wished sometimes she had a sporty husband rather than a cuddly, awkward one. “I should get my teddy bear on a diet and into the gym.”

She brought it up with him, and Jimmy went a bit quiet:

Ill start working out if you want, but my metabolisms rubbishand Im stuck with these insulin shots. Sorry love, you wont get an Apollo from me.

Fair enough, she decided.

Back to work after the holiday, Emily found herself brooding. Will I ever feel real love? Whats passion really like? She craved those big feelingsmaybe a fit, handsome bloke beside her instead of her teddy bear. Colleagues teased her at work parties:

Come on Em, you cant be so moral. Surely you go wandering from your teddy now and then?

She wasnt a saint, but just didnt want to hurt her kind husband. At the office Christmas party, she had a load to drinkher workmate Chris called up his mate Tom to give them both a lift home.

Emily, we can drop you off as well, Chris offered, and she accepted.

Tom, driving a flash car, sat Emily beside him and joked, Chris, why havent you introduced me to Emily yet? She stared at him, totally bewitched.

He dropped off Chris, then Emily, asking for her number on the way. When they arrived, he helped her from the car, pressed her up against his Land Rover and kissed her passionately. She didnt resistshe liked Toms rough, muscular style.

He was an ideal lover. At home shed be tender with Jimmy, but Tom skipped the sweet talk. Hed meet her at his bachelor flat, pull her in the moment she arrivedphysical, intense, and then just relaxed afterwards, saying, Its good with you.

They both got what they wanted. Jimmy was busy with work, so he never suspected a thing. One day, Emily dashed over to Toms, already in bed, and just as he was coming out of the shower, the doorbell rang insistently.

Who the bloody hell is that? Tom grumbled, heading for the door.

Emily heard two familiar voicesTom and her husbandand she panicked, scrambling for her clothes. Jimmy stood in the doorway, silent. Wouldve been easier if hed just shouted.

Jimmy its not what it looks likereally

Tom just stood there, couldve blocked her husband from entering.

Who ratted me out? Emily demanded.

Does it matter now? Jimmy replied. I couldnt believe it, but I had to check.

Jimmy looked dreadfulpale, sweating, and suddenly collapsed. Emily sprang over, listening to his breathinglaboured.

Call an ambulancenow! she cried.

Tom phoned for help. Emily checked Jimmys pockets for his insulin pen, quickly gave him a shot. But he still didnt come round. Paramedics arrived, and after all that, declared:

Hes gone.

Emily finally snapped back to reality. Tom drove her home. Vera greeted her:

Emily, whats happened? You look awful.

Emily thought, It must have been Vera who tipped Jimmy off. She never liked Tom, always asking about him. But she said nothing; Vera wouldnt admit anything anyway.

After the funeral, Emily was in pieces for ages. Soon, though, Jimmys daughter from his first marriage, now married to a solicitor, turned up at the house and kicked Emily and Vera out. She said if Emily tried to contest the inheritance in court, shed get nothingneither house nor business. Dropped a fat envelope of cash and gave her three days to pack up.

Emily didnt want the drama, so she gave it all up. She and Vera went back to the big flat shed inherited from Edward Higgins.

Time moved forward. Emily recovered, with Toms help. They kept seeing each other, but he never suggested marriagehonestly, he wasnt the settling type. Then one day, Chris called her up:

Emily, sit down Toms dead. Car accident. Instant.

That really got to her.

Why do all my men end up dead? Im like the bloody Black Widow. Soon everyone will call me that. I must have some cursed aurathey all die.

After a while, a young bloke named Harry came onto her show. She caught him watching her; after filming, he asked her out for coffee.

Alright then, she said, figuring it was time she moved on.

Harry swept her off her feet. Emily fell hard for himfelt this soaring happiness shed never known.

So this is what real love feels like, she thought. I can hardly breathe without Harry, let alone live. Although, she was scared for him.

Harry was smitten too; they spent loads of time togethereasy, comfortable, he knew loads about loads. She never thought too much about his past, just knew he had no siblings and didnt speak to his dad. Harry stayed at Emilys place, went to work, and she had an afternoon in before heading to the studio. Emilys curiosity got the better of hershe opened her laptop, searched for Harrys name, and the very first link stunned her. Sweet, everyday Harry was actually ranked among the countrys top thousand richest men. She was gobsmacked. He had a fortune.

I cant believe it! she laughed, suddenly manic, then panicked, What if something happens to him too?

She calmed herself down, headed to work. Later, she tried ringing Harrys mobile, but got no answer. Phoned his office instead.

Could I speak to Harry, please? she asked the secretary.

And who shall I say is calling? she replied.

Its Emily

Hes been taken to hospital and told her which one.

Emily raced over.

Whats wrong with him? she demanded of the doctor.

He reassured her, Easy there, nothing major. Hell be fine, just a touch of heart trouble. Hes in safe hands.

Can I see him? Just quickly?

Alright, ten minutes.

Emily tiptoed into the room and found him beaming at her. He took her hands and said,

Itll be alright. I love you, and once Im out of here, I want us to get married. Will you?

Of course I will! she cried, kissing him. Weve got a whole life of happiness ahead. Real happiness.

Thanks for listening, mate. Wishing you all the luck in the world!

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.