The Number 13 Spanner He called that morning, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary: “Can you pop round? Need a hand with the bike, really. Don’t fancy doing it on my own.” The words “can you pop round” and “don’t fancy” sounded oddly together. Usually Dad would say “got to” and “I’ll sort it myself.” His grown-up son, grey already at the temples, caught himself looking for the catch in this invitation, like in their old conversations. But there was no catch—just a simple request, and that somehow made it more uncomfortable. He arrived just before lunch, climbed to the third floor, hesitated on the landing as the key turned in the lock. The door opened straightaway, as if Dad had been standing behind it, waiting. “Come in. Shoes off,” Dad said, stepping aside. Everything was in its place in the hallway: doormat, side table, a neat stack of newspapers. Dad looked just the same, only his shoulders seemed smaller, and when he adjusted his sleeve, his hands trembled for a moment. “Where’s the bike?” his son asked, just so he wouldn’t have to ask anything else. “On the balcony. Put it there out of the way. Thought I’d manage myself, but… ” Dad waved it off and led the way. The balcony was glazed, but cold, full of boxes and jars. The bike stood by the wall, covered with an old sheet. Dad pulled it off as if uncovering something precious, and brushed his hand gently over the frame. “It’s yours,” he said. “Remember? Got it for your birthday.” His son remembered. He remembered riding around the estate, falling, his father silently picking him up, brushing the grit from his knees, checking the chain. Back then, Dad hardly ever praised, but always looked at things as if they were alive, as if he was responsible for them. “Tyre’s flat,” the son observed. “That’s nothing. Hub’s rattling, rear brake’s gone. Tried it yesterday, made my heart skip,” Dad said with a short, uneasy grin. They carried the bike into the room that doubled as Dad’s “workshop” — not a real one, just a corner with a table by the window, a mat, lamp, and a box of tools. Pliers, screwdrivers, and spanners hung on the wall, all sorted. His son automatically noticed this, as he always did: Dad kept things orderly where he could. “Can you find a number thirteen spanner?” Dad asked. The son opened the tool box. The spanners lay in neat lines, but somehow the thirteen wasn’t there. “Here’s twelve, fourteen… no thirteen.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “How can it be missing? It’s always…” He fell quiet, as if he didn’t want to say “always.” The son rummaged through the tools, pulled out the desk drawer. Old nuts, washers, tape, a bit of sandpaper. The spanner turned up under a pack of rubber gloves. “Here it is,” the son said. Dad took the spanner, weighed it as if testing it. “So I put it there. My memory,” he grunted. “Right, let’s have the bike, then.” They set the bike on its side, son tucking a rag under the pedal. Dad crouched next to it, carefully, as if his knees might betray him. His son noticed, but pretended he didn’t. “Wheel off first,” Dad instructed. “You hold, I’ll loosen the nuts.” He gripped the spanner, twisted. The nut resisted; Dad tightened his lips. His son took the spanner and together they shifted it. “I’d manage,” Dad muttered. “I’m just trying to help—” “I know. Hold it steady.” They worked in silence, communicating with short phrases: “hold this,” “don’t pull,” “here,” “watch the washer.” The son realised he found this easier. When words are kept to the job, there’s nothing to guess at. They took off the wheel and set it aside. Dad fetched the old pump and checked the hose. It was battered and worn. “Tube’s probably fine. Just dried out,” Dad said. His son wanted to ask how he was so sure, but didn’t. Dad always sounded confident, even when he wasn’t. While Dad pumped, his son inspected the brake—pads worn down, cable rusty. “Cable needs replacing,” he said. “Cable… think I’ve got a spare.” Dad searched a cupboard under the table, brought out box after box. Each was neatly labelled. His son saw in this not just tidiness, but a need to keep time from slipping—the more things are labelled, the less likely they are to drift. “Don’t see it,” Dad snapped, closing a box with frustration. “Maybe in the cupboard?” his son offered. “There’s chaos in there,” Dad confessed, as if it were a crime. The son grinned. “You? Chaos? That’s new.” Dad gave him a sideways look, but there was gratitude in it for the joke. “Go on, have a look. I’ll get on with this.” The small cupboard was crammed with boxes. The son flicked on the light, rummaged, and finally found a coil of brake cable wrapped in newspaper on the top shelf. “Got it,” he shouted. “Knew I had,” Dad called back. He handed the cable over. Dad tested the ends. “All good. Need to find the right end caps though.” Dad rummaged again, producing some small metal sleeves. “Right, let’s do the brake,” Dad said. Son held the frame, Dad undid the bolts. His father’s fingers were dry and cracked, nails close-cut. His son remembered, as a boy, thinking those hands were invincible. Now, there was a new strength in them: patient, measured. “Why are you looking at me?” Dad asked, not looking up. “Just… wondering how you remember it all.” Dad snorted. “I remember. Just not where I put the spanners. Funny, isn’t it?” The son wanted to say “It’s not funny,” but understood Dad didn’t mean ha-ha. He meant scary. “It’s normal,” the son said quietly. “I get it too.” Dad nodded, accepting it as permission not to be perfect. Taking apart the brake, they found a spring missing. Dad stared at the empty spot, then met his son’s eyes. “Mucked about yesterday—could’ve dropped it. Did look on the floor.” “Let’s have another go then,” his son replied. They knelt, feeling round the floor, checking under the table. His son found the spring by the skirting, near a chair leg. “Here it is.” Dad took the spring, peered at it. “Thank God. Otherwise…” He didn’t finish. The son knew he’d meant, “or I’d really be losing it.” But didn’t say it. “Tea?” Dad asked suddenly, as if tea would fill up the silence. “Yes, please.” In the kitchen, Dad put on the kettle, got out two mugs. His son sat, watching old routines—familiar, but a little slower now. Dad poured tea and set a plate of digestives in front of his son. “Eat. You’re looking thin.” His son wanted to protest, but let it pass. In that phrase was all the care Dad could put into words. “How’s work?” Dad asked. “Alright. Project finished, starting a new one.” “Good. As long as they pay you on time.” The son smiled. “Always about the money, Dad.” “What else should I talk about—feelings?” Dad stared at him, frank. “Feelings?” His son felt something tighten inside. He never thought he’d hear Dad use the word. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Dad was quiet, then cradled his mug in both hands. “I sometimes think you just come here out of obligation. Ticking a box,” he said. The son put his mug down. The tea was hot; it scalded his fingers but he didn’t move. “And do you think it’s easy for me, coming here?” he asked. “It’s like being a kid again. You always know better.” Dad half-laughed, not unkindly. “I do think I know better. Old habit.” “And also,” the son breathed, “you never really asked how I am. Not for real.” Dad looked into his mug, as though it held the answer. “I was afraid to ask. If you ask, you have to listen. And I…” He met his son’s eyes. “I don’t always know how.” His son felt unburdened. Dad didn’t say sorry or explain himself. Just admitted not knowing. It was truer than any big speech. “I don’t know either.” Dad nodded. “Guess we’ll learn, eh. With the bike, for starters.” There was a wry smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it. They finished tea and went back. The bicycle was still there, wheel off, the new cable on the table. Dad dived back in. “Right. You thread the cable, I’ll do the pads.” His son tried, less deft than his father, annoyed with himself. Dad noticed. “No rush. It’s not about strength, it’s about patience.” His son looked at him. “You mean just with the bike?” “With everything,” Dad replied, and turned away, as if he’d said too much. They lined up the pads, tightened the bolts. Dad tested the brake lever a few times. “Much better.” His son pumped up the tyre, checked for leaks. Tube held. They put the wheel back and tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the number thirteen spanner, and his son handed it over wordlessly. The spanner fitted Dad’s hand like it belonged there. “That’s it,” Dad declared. “Let’s give it a go.” They wheeled the bike outside. Dad held the handlebars, son beside him. The estate was empty, just a neighbour with her shopping bag nodding at them. “Go on, have a ride,” Dad said. “Me?” “Well, I’m no acrobat any more.” He climbed on. The saddle was low, knees high—like childhood. He circled the patch of grass, braked. The bike stopped obediently. “It works,” he said, dismounting. Dad took the bike, tried a cautious lap, then stopped, foot on the ground. “Not bad. Time well spent.” His son saw Dad wasn’t talking about the bike. He was glad he’d called. “Take the toolkit home with you,” Dad said suddenly, nodding at the tools. “I’ve got plenty. You’ll need them more. You’re always doing things yourself.” His son thought to argue, but realised this was Dad’s way. Not “I love you”—but “take these, make life easier.” “Alright, I will. But keep the number thirteen spanner. That one’s yours.” Dad smiled. “I’ll put it back where it belongs now.” Back inside, his son put on his coat in the hallway. Dad stood nearby, unhurried. “Will you pop round next week?” Dad asked, as if casually. “The cupboard door in the box room sticks. Could use some oil—but my hands aren’t what they were.” He said it simply, no excuses. His son heard an invitation, not a complaint. “I’ll come. Call first, though, so I don’t barge in.” Dad nodded and, as the door closed, added quietly, “Thanks for coming.” His son walked down the stairs, carrying a few of Dad’s spanners and screwdrivers in an old rag. They felt heavy, but not burdensome. Outside, he looked up at the window on the third floor. The curtain twitched—maybe Dad was watching. He didn’t wave. He just went to the car, knowing now he could come round not just for a “favour,” but for what they’d both finally learned was truly important.

Author Walton MerrittReading 11 minViews 1

He rang me up in the morning and said it like it was nothing at all:

Could you pop round? Got a bicycle to move and Id rather not mess about with it on my own.

The words could you and Id rather not sounded strange coming from him. Normally Dad just said, Needs doing, Ill sort it. Even now, with greying hair at my temples, I caught myself searching the invite for a catch, just like I always used to. But there wasnt a catch this time, just a simple request. Somehow that made it awkward.

I turned up just before lunch, climbed to the third floor, and stood on the landing a moment while I fiddled the key into the lock. The door opened more or less right away, as if Dad had been standing there, waiting.

Come in. Shoes off, he said, as per tradition, shuffling aside for me.

Everything in the hall was just where it always was: the mat, little side table, newspapers stacked in neat piles. Dad looked pretty much the same toomaybe his shoulders a bit narrower, his hands trembling just for a second as he straightened his sleeve.

Wheres the bike? I asked, dodging more loaded questions.

On the balcony. Put it out there to keep it out the way. Thought Id sort it myself, but He waved a hand and led the way.

The balcony was glazed-over, but you could still feel the chill. Boxes everywhere, jars and tins, the works. The bike stood in the corner under an old sheet. Dad whipped the sheet off like he was revealing something precious and ran his hand down the frame with a sort of gentle respect.

Yours, that one, he said. Remember? Got it for your birthday, years back.

I did remember. Racing round the square, falling off, Dad picking me up in silence, brushing gravel from my knees, checking the chain wasnt bust. He never praised much, but he always looked at things like they meant something and they were his responsibility.

Back tyres flat, I pointed out.

Thats the least of it. Hubs rattling and the back brakes gone funny. Gave the wheel a spin last night, nearly had a heart attack, he said with a dry sort of grin.

We carried the bike into the front roomDads so-called workshop, really just a corner with a table under the window, a mat, lamp, toolbox. Tools hung perfectly laid out: pliers, screwdrivers, all ordered by size. It struck me, as it always did, how he kept order wherever he was able.

Can you find the thirteen mil spanner? Dad asked.

I rummaged in the box. The spanners were lined up, but for some reason the thirteen mil had vanished.

Theres the twelve, and the fourteen but no thirteen.

Dad frowned. No, that can’t be. Should be He trailed off before finishing the word always.

I shifted through the drawer: old bolts, washers, a strip of tape, bit of sandpaper. Found the right spanner tucked beneath a pair of rubber gloves.

Got it, I said, handing it over.

He weighed it in his hand. Mustve stuffed it there myself. Memory, eh? He gave a half-laugh. Right, lets get to it.

I set the bike on its side, propping a rag under the pedal. Dad crouched down slowly, knees creaking, and I pretended not to notice.

Well whip the wheel off first, he said. You hold it, Ill loosen the bolts.

He got the spanner on, twisted with a grunt. It wouldnt budge, his jaw tight. I stepped in and gave it a twist, and off it came.

I could’ve managed, Dad muttered.

Just a bit stuck, thats all.

Yeah. Hold it steady.

We worked in silence, just snippets of speechhold that, not too hard, just here, easy with that washer. I realised I found it easier this way, words only when needed. Less risk of saying the wrong thing.

Got the wheel off, set it down. Dad found the old pump and checked the hose. The pump had seen better days, worn paint on its handle.

Bet the inner tubes just dried out a bit, he said.

I wanted to ask how he knew, but held my tongue. Dad always sounded certain, even when he wasnt.

While he pumped the tyre, I had a peer at the brake. The pads were worn, cable rusting.

This cablell need swapping, I told him.

Cable, cable He paused, wiping his palm on his jeans. Theres a spare somewhere.

He went rooting under the table, sifting through boxes. Each one labelled, parts wrapped and stacked. It wasnt just being organised, it was his way of holding back the tideif everything had a place, maybe nothing else would slip away.

Not here, he said with a frustrated sigh, banging the box lid on.

Check the cupboard, maybe? I suggested.

Cupboards an absolute tip, he admitted, with a look that almost begged forgiveness.

I grinned. You, with a messy cupboard? Theres a first.

He shot me a look but almost smiledhalf annoyed, half grateful for the joke.

Go on then. Check, Ill keep at this.

I squeezed into the cupboard, shoving aside the bags and boxes. On the top shelfthere it was, a roll of cable wrapped in last months newspaper.

Found it! I called.

Told you, came his reply.

I handed him the cable. He tested the ends, bent it, nodded approval.

Decent enough, just need the little end caps.

He dug around and found some. Right, lets get the brake apart.

I held the frame while he undid the fixing. Dads hands were dry and cracked, nails cut close. As a kid, those hands had seemed indestructible. Now their strength came from somewhere quieterpatience, or maybe necessity.

What you looking at? he asked, not looking up from his task.

Oh, just wondering how you remember all this stuff.

He grunted. Got a good memory for partsjust not always for where I leave things. Bit daft, really.

I nearly said, Its not daft, but realised he was really saying he found it scary.

Happens to me, too, I answered. More than I like.

He nodded, accepting that as permission to be less than perfect.

Once we dismantled the brake, we realised a spring was missing. Dad stared at the gap for ages, then finally looked up, defeated.

I was fiddling with this yesterdaymustve dropped it. Checked the floor but didnt see it.

Lets go over the floor again, I said.

We got on our knees, running fingers by the skirting and under the table. I spotted the spring by the chair leg.

Here it is.

Dad picked it up, held it close to his eyes.

Thank goodness. I was worried I was well. He didnt finish the thought.

I knew he wanted to say losing it for good. But he didnt.

Fancy a cuppa? he said briskly, like tea could close that tiny crack in the day.

Yeah, please.

In the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on, pulled out two mugs. I sat at the table, watching him shuffle back and forth, a bit slower, a tad more cautious. He poured out the tea, laid out a plate of biscuits.

Eat. Youre looking thin.

I almost protested that was just the coat, but kept quiet. That one sentence was everything he could ever say about caring.

Hows work? he asked.

All fine. Just wrapped up a project, so Im on something new.

Good. Just make sure they pay you on time.

I laughed. You always think about money.

What else is a dad supposed to worry about, eh? Tell me’feelings’?

That landed heavier than Id expected. Dad actually said feelings.

I dont know, I admitted.

He went quiet, both hands on his mug.

Truth is, sometimes I think you just pop in out of duty. Tick a box. Off you go again.

I set my mug down. Burned my fingers a little on the rim but didnt mind.

And you reckon its easy for me? I said. Its like I walk in here and Im instantly twelve again. And you always know best.

He grinned. Old habits.

And you never really asked how I wasproperly.

Dad stared into his tea for ages as if the answer was swirling there.

I was scared to ask. Because then you have to listen. And I Im not always good at it.

Hearing him admit that, honestly, lifted something inside me. He didnt say sorry or give reasons. Just admitted it. That was better than anything else.

Im not good at it either, I replied.

He nodded. Well then, well have to practicestarting with fixing bikes together, eh? His voice had a lighter note, as though he found it a bit funny too.

We finished our tea and headed back. The bike, the wheel, cable all waiting. Dad tackled it with new resolve.

Right, you thread the cable, Ill set the pads.

I fiddled the cable through, doing my best but feeling clumsy compared to Dad. He picked up on my frustration.

Slow down. Its about patience, not strength.

I looked up. That only about the cable?

He shrugged. About everything. Looked away like hed said too much.

We fixed the pads, tightened the bolts. Dad squeezed the brake lever a few times, checking.

Much better.

I pumped the tyre up as far as it would go, double-checked for leaks. The tube held. We slotted the wheel back in, tightened the last nuts. Dad held out his hand for the thirteen mil spanner. I passed it over. It sat in his hand, back where it belonged.

All done, he said. Lets see if it works.

We wheeled the bike outside. Dad held the handlebars; I walked with him. The square was empty apart from Mrs. Fletcher with her shopping. She gave us a nod.

Go on, give it a whirl, Dad prompted.

Me? You sure?

Im not exactly a circus act these days.

I climbed on. The seat felt as low as it did when I was seven, knees up round my ears, but I pedalled a couple of circles, pressed the brake and stopped sharp.

Works great, I said, hopping off.

Dad tried pushing the bike himself, careful, just a few steps, but smiled when he stopped.

Good work. Was worth the faff.

The way he said it, I realised he didnt really mean the bike. He meant calling me over.

Take the tools with you, would you? Dad said suddenly. Youll get more use from themand Im fine with what Ive got.

I was going to argue but I realised, that was how Dad said I care. Not with words, but with an offer to make life easier.

Alright, Ill keep them. But you hang on to that thirteen mil. Thats your lucky charm.

He grinned. Ill remember where it is this time.

Back indoors, I grabbed my jacket in the hall. Dad stood by, no rush.

Youll come by next week? he said, almost as if he didnt much care. The overhead cupboard doors started sticking. Id oil it myself but, you know, hands arent what they were.

He sounded so matter-of-fact. I knew it wasnt a complaint, but an invite.

Ill come by. Just give me a ring first, so I dont barge in on the run.

Dad nodded, and as I stepped out, he quietly added, Thanks for coming.

Down the stairs, I carried Dads toolsall wrapped up in an old rag. They felt weighty, but not in a bad way. I glanced up at his third-floor window as I left. The curtain twitched, just a fraction. Maybe he was watching. I didnt wave, just headed for the car, knowing I didnt have to visit just for repairs anymore. Now we both understood what really mattered.

After Speaking with the Adopted Girl, I Realised Not Everything Was as It Seemed Next to me on a park bench sat a five-year-old girl, swinging her legs as she told me about her life: “I’ve never seen my dad, as he left Mum and me when I was very little. Mum died last year. The grown-ups told me she passed away.” She looked at me and continued: “After the funeral, Aunt Izzy—Mum’s sister—came to live with us. They told me she was ever so noble for not sending me to a children’s home. Now Aunt Izzy is my guardian, and I live with her.” The girl paused, glanced at the ground beneath the bench, then resumed her story: “After I moved in, Aunt Izzy started tidying up the house—she put all of Mum’s things in a corner and wanted to throw them out. I cried and begged her not to, so she let me keep them. Now I sleep tucked up in that corner, on my mum’s things. At night, lying there, I feel warm—as if she’s beside me. Every morning, Aunt Izzy gives me something to eat. Her cooking’s not as nice as Mum’s, but she asks me to eat it all. I don’t want to upset her, so I eat everything she makes. I know she puts in effort, even if she can’t cook like Mum. Afterwards, she sends me out to play, and I’m not allowed to come home until it gets dark. Aunt Izzy is really, really nice! “She loves to tell the other aunties she knows all about me. I don’t really know them, but they often come round for tea. Aunt Izzy chats with them, tells funny stories, and says nice things about me. She spoils the aunties and me with sweets. After saying that, the little girl sighed, then went on: “I can’t eat just sweets all the time. Aunt Izzy’s never told me off—not ever. She’s good to me. One time she even gave me a doll. Of course, the doll’s a bit poorly—it’s got a bad leg and its eye keeps squinting. My mum never gave me a broken doll.” The little girl jumped off the bench and started hopping on one foot: “I have to go because Aunt Izzy said the aunties are coming today, and I need to dress nicely before they arrive. She said she’ll give me a yummy slice of cake afterwards. Bye!” She skipped away to run her errands. I sat there for a long time, and my mind kept circling around this “kind” Aunt Izzy. What was the point of her so-called kindness? Why did she need everyone to believe she was noble? Could anyone really be indifferent to a child who sleeps on the floor, wrapped in her late mother’s clothes…?

A Life Put Right: “Lada, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! They’ve got their life, we’ve got ours. Have you been ringing Natasha again? Complaining about me? I warned you.” Bogdan gripped my shoulder painfully. As usual in these arguments, I retreated to the kitchen, fighting back bitter tears. I’d never once complained to my sister about my home life; we simply talked, especially about our aging parents. But Bogdan loathed Natasha—her family had peace and plenty, unlike ours… When I married Bogdan, I was the happiest girl in all of England. He swept me off my feet, and I didn’t care that he was a head shorter than me, or that his mother arrived at our wedding barely able to stand. Only later did I learn she was a longtime alcoholic… Blinded by love, I saw no evil—but after a year, I began to doubt my promised bliss. Bogdan drank heavily, stumbling home drunk, then came a string of affairs. I worked as an NHS nurse—hardly a generous wage. Bogdan preferred spending time with his drinking buddies and provided nothing for me. Once, I’d dreamed of children; now I poured my love into a pedigree cat. The thought of having children with my drunken husband no longer crossed my mind, even though I still loved Bogdan. “Lada, you silly thing! Look at all those blokes eyeing you, but you stay glued to your little leprechaun! What do you see in him? Always covered in bruises, thinking no one notices beneath that concealer? Leave him before his anger gets you killed.” That was my friend—the colleague who always tried to save me. Yes, Bogdan often gave in to unprovoked rages. Once, he locked me in our flat and took the key. After that, I lived in terror. My soul shrank, heart pounded whenever I heard the key in the lock. I imagined he blamed me for not giving him a child, for being a ‘bad’ wife. So, I never fought back—just took the pain, the insults, the mockery… Why did I still love Bogdan? I remembered his mother, a real witch, telling me: “Lada, do as your husband says. Love him with all your heart—forget your family, your friends, they’ll only lead you astray.” So, I did—I gave up everything for Bogdan. I even liked it when he begged forgiveness, knelt and kissed my feet. Make-ups were sickly-sweet, magical, our bed strewn with roses. I knew full well he pinched them from the garden of a mate’s wife—a fellow drunk. The wives would swoon over their stolen roses and forgive. Most likely, I’d have stayed a slave to Bogdan for life, rebuilding my fantasy heaven from broken pieces, had fate not intervened. “Let Bogdan go,” an unknown woman said to me once. “I’ve got his son—you’re barren. Just let him go for my child’s happiness.” I snapped, “Get out of here, now.” Bogdan tried to deny it, but when I demanded he swear the boy wasn’t his, he could only stay silent. And I understood everything… “Lada, you never look happy. Trouble at home?” my boss, the hospital director, unexpectedly asked. “Everything’s fine,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “It’s good to have everything in order—then life’s wonderful,” he said with a mysterious smile. The director, Dr. Herman Lewis, was single again after a rocky marriage; he wasn’t striking, but up close, something about him set my heart fluttering—a heady scent, or maybe it was just kindness. His simple words unsettled me: “It’s good when everything is in order.” Me—my life was a mess. But time doesn’t wait for anyone to sort themselves out… So, I left Bogdan, went home to my parents. “Did he throw you out?” Mum asked. “No, I’ll explain later,” I lied—too ashamed of my marriage. Later, Bogdan’s mother rang and screamed curses, but I’d straightened my back and drawn a deep breath. Thanks, Dr. Lewis… Bogdan stalked and threatened me, not realising he’d lost all control over my life: “Don’t waste your time, Bogdan. Take care of your son. I’ve turned our page,” I told him calmly. Finally, I returned to my sister Natasha and our parents. I became myself again, not someone else’s puppet. “You’re a different woman, Lada. Glowing, happy—a true bride,” my friend smiled. Then Dr. Herman Lewis proposed: “Lada, marry me! I promise, you won’t regret it. Only one thing—just call me ‘Herman’ at home.” “But do you even love me, Herman?” He smiled and kissed my hand. “Sorry, I forgot women need words. Yes—I probably love you, but I trust actions more.” I said yes—with more joy than I’d ever known. …Ten years have flown by. Every day Herman proves his love—not with empty words, but with care and protection. We never had children together—perhaps I really was ‘barren’. But Herman never blamed or hurt me. “Lada,” he’d say, “just means we’re meant to be together—just us.” His daughter gave us a granddaughter, little Sasha—our beloved girl. And as for Bogdan, he drank himself to death before turning fifty. His mother shoots me evil looks if we meet at the shops, but her hateful arrows melt away in thin air. I just feel sorry for her. As for us, well—everything is in order. Life is beautiful.

You’re Loaded, Aren’t You? My Wife’s Sister Borrowed Money and Then Took Off on a Beach Holiday This summer, my wife’s beloved sister came to visit us. I jokingly call her “the golden child” as at every family gathering, Mum, Dad, and everyone else talk about her—she was a star student, graduated from university, landed a job in her field, isn’t she just the perfect daughter? Meanwhile, the eldest (my wife) never finished her studies and got married early. But no one seemed to mind, since I was fairly well-off, running my own business. I owned a flat, a car, and had a good income. Yet despite that, the real star was always my wife’s younger sister. And so it happened that this summer, my sister-in-law showed up on our doorstep asking to borrow money; she wanted to put down a deposit for her first flat but didn’t have enough saved. It wasn’t a huge sum for me, so I agreed to help. She promised she’d pay it back every month—as she worked for the council, she’d said, “You can count on me.” So, I lent her the money—and she pretty much swore she’d pay me back each month. But not even a week later, off she went on a seaside holiday. Honestly, I was left dumbfounded; how could someone skint enough to not afford a mortgage deposit suddenly have cash for a trip to the coast? She told the family she’d saved all year for her holiday, but what was curious is that she still hadn’t applied for any mortgage. When I asked, she just said she’d changed her mind. I politely asked her to return the money, to which she replied she was broke and had spent it all at the seaside. That’s when it hit me—she’d never planned on buying that flat at all. I asked her again, as nicely as I could, to pay back what she owed, explaining that I’d lent her money for a deposit, not a holiday in Blackpool. Her response stung: “I’ll be earning loads soon—you can wait, I haven’t got the cash now.” And how do you think the story ended? Exactly as you’d expect—she told my mother-in-law that I’d asked for the money back too early, insisted that’s not how you treat family, and, once again, she was the angelic youngest daughter and we were just the ‘rich villains’ in the family story!