While My Friends Buy Flats and Spend on Renovations, My Girlfriend Squandered All Our Savings Chasing a Higher Return—Everyone Else Has a Lovely Wife, but I Ended Up with a Fool Who Lost Our Money on Dodgy Investments

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

My friends snap up flats around the city, tweaking every inch with new wallpaper and fancy taps, while my girlfriend burned through every pound of our savings, promising she was growing our fortune.

Everyone else seems to end up with a lovely wife, and here I am, waltzing through my dream with a fool.

Shed parade to anyone whod listen that, straight after the wedding, wed be breezing into a new flat guests would stuff our envelopes with crisp notes, our families would step in to help, it would all be frightfully simple. But honestly, her parents just scoffed You married a nobody estate agent at twenty, with barely a GCSE to your name, youll sort out your own place. They actually laughed, echoing around like the chime of a broken clock, and I had to usher my wife back to my parents house.

Farcical family games.

My brother already lives there, squeezed into the spare room with his pregnant girlfriend. Its cluttered, noise and shoes everywhere. My parents drop hints, thick as Yorkshire pudding, about how nice it would be for us to move even just to a rented flat somewhere off the High Street. But I wanted us to scrimp and save, build up enough for a mortgage one day. My wife nodded along, said she craved a place of her own. But what did she do, in the end? Took our little nest egg and bought shares.

For what? To make our savings multiply, apparently.

My mother all but fainted when she heard about it. My heart feels trampled underfoot, too the shares are worth less every day, and it takes ages to sell them. Either we cut our losses and watch a chunk of years savings vanish, or we gamble, wait, and pin all our hopes on the market rising one misty morning. So thats our lot while the rest have families in new build flats, weve only got stocks and broken promises.

My wife sobs now, undone by the feeling shes been hoodwinked. She even paid these so-called experts to teach her the secrets of investing. And I cant help but think about leaving. My love is battered if Im constantly dwelling on walking away, if my mind obsesses only over all the pounds I scraped together for so long now crumbling to dust, then maybe I was never built for this marriage.

Thinking back, maybe we were doomed from the start. The whole thing feels like a shadowy patch I cant escape, like I married a silly girl and keep waking up to the same glum morning, waiting for the sun but finding only fog.

I Looked After My Grandkids for Free—Then My Daughter Handed Me a List of Parenting Criticisms and Demands “Really, Mum, not shop-bought gingerbread again! We agreed—only gluten-free biscuits from that bakery on Churchill Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed the crime of the century—not just given a snack to two little boys. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want the boys breaking out in eczema again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Mrs. Nina Goodwin sighed, gently brushing crumbs into her palm. She wanted to say that the gluten-free biscuits (priced like they were made of gold) had been declared “cardboard” and flat-out refused, while the classic gingerbread was demolished with delight. But she kept quiet. Increasingly, silence was her tactic—better not to fan the flames. Marina, her only daughter, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking her watch. She was late for a big meeting, but apparently her lecture about nutrition outweighed London traffic. “Mum, they were starving after their walk,” Nina tried, rinsing cups beneath the tap. “They only picked at the soup and left half their dinner. They need the energy.” “Energy comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, grabbing her bag. “Right, I’m off. Oleg will be home by eight. Make sure they finish their speech therapy. And no screens—I’ll be checking the browser history!” The door slammed, leaving a trail of perfume and a swirl of tension. Nina Goodwin sank onto a chair, her back aching. Sixty-two years old. Two years ago, coaxed by her daughter and son-in-law, she’d left her stable job as head accountant for a small company to devote herself to her grandsons, Theo and Paul. “Why work, Mum?” Oleg, her son-in-law, had pleaded. “We earn enough for the mortgage, our careers matter. We need backup. Nursery workers are strangers—and nannies cost the earth. With you here, we’re at ease, and you avoid the commuter crush.” At the time, it sounded logical—even tempting. Nina adored her grandkids, and numbers were becoming tiresome. She’d pictured peaceful park walks and storytime cuddles. The reality was different. Now, her days started at 7am, traversing half of London from her modest flat to the children’s modern terrace, arriving before the boys woke. Marina and Oleg left early, returned late; all housework, medical appointments, clubs, and laundry landed on Nina’s shoulders. Five-year-old Theo was bouncing off the walls; three-year-old Paul was stubborn and prone to tantrums. That evening unfolded as usual. Nina built castles with the boys and explained s versus sh for speech therapy. Then the usual dinner battle—broccoli fell to the mighty sausage, which she’d boiled on the sly, unable to resist hungry eyes. Baths, bedtime stories, lights out. When Oleg clicked the lock, Nina could hardly stand. “Marina home yet?” he asked, sandwich in hand. “Delayed—a meeting,” Nina replied, collecting her bag. “I’d better head or I’ll miss the last bus—can’t afford, these taxi fares.” “Yes, sure,” Oleg called, phone in hand. “Thanks, Mrs Goodwin. Make sure the door locks.” On the bus home, gazing at the city lights, Nina reflected that Oleg’s thank you felt as flat as a washing machine’s end beep. Nobody asked about her health—even as her blood pressure soared. Then, a weekend bombshell: Marina called. “Mum, can you come Sunday for a family chat? We need to talk seriously.” With trepidation, Nina arrived, cabbage pie in hand (Oleg’s favourite). The atmosphere was brisk rather than homey. The boys were tucked away with cartoons (normally forbidden), and the grownups sat around the dining table. Oleg opened a laptop. Marina laid out a notepad. The pie perched, awkward and out of place. “Mum, Oleg and I analysed the past six months,” Marina began, eyes averted. “We need to regularise the boys’ upbringing. Some things just aren’t good enough.” “Not good enough?” Nina felt her hands go cold. “What do you mean?” “We’ve made a list,” Oleg said, revealing an Excel spreadsheet. “Nothing personal, Mrs Goodwin, just constructive criticism to optimise processes.” “Oh, look,” said Marina, ticking down her list, “Point one: Nutrition. You routinely break the boys’ diet—gingerbread, sausages, cakes. We want strict adherence to the meal plan on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina! They’re children; they want something nice.” “Tastes are set young,” Oleg interrupted, “Point two: Sleep. Paul went to bed at 9:30 last week, not 9:00. This disrupts melatonin. That can’t happen.” Nina remembered that night— cradling a poorly Paul, soothing him. “Point three: Education,” Marina fired on. “Theo still confuses his colours in English! Aren’t you using the flashcards? You let them play with cars instead of working on their cognitive abilities.” “He’s five! He needs a childhood!” Nina protested. “We read together and count pinecones in the park—” “Pinecones are outdated,” Marina brushed her off. “And most importantly, discipline. You spoil them. This isn’t a professional approach.” The word “unprofessional” stung most of all. “And finally,” Oleg concluded. “We’re implementing a schedule and a list of KPIs—key performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If there’s no improvement in English, we’ll have to hire a tutor—which our budget can’t afford. We expected you’d manage.” Nina stared at her cooling pie, her dearest family transformed into office managers conducting a performance review. Two years flashed through her mind—dragging sledges through snow, sitting vigil through fevers, scrubbing their floors, skipping new coats to buy quality LEGO for the boys. She thought all of this was for love, for family. But now she realized they saw her as unpaid outsourced labour, failing to meet targets. Silence thickened. Children’s TV murmured from down the hall. “So, a list of complaints?” Nina asked, voice unexpectedly steely. “Oh Mum, it’s not a list of complaints, just points for growth,” Marina grimaced. “We just want a system.” “I see,” Nina stood. “Oleg, email me the file. I want a detailed look.” “Yes, certainly—” Oleg brightened, thinking she’d play along. “Now listen to me,” Nina drew herself up. Decades as head accountant taught her to stay composed through audits. “You’re asking for a teacher, nutritionist, chef and cleaner, all in one. With skills in English, Montessori methods and military discipline. That’s fine—just one thing missing.” “What’s that?” Marina tensed. “A work contract and payment,” Nina said calmly. “Since you love a spreadsheet! In London these days, a nanny-governess earns £15–£20 an hour. I’m here 12 hours a day, 5 days a week. That’s at least £900 a week, nearly £3,600 a month—minimum, not counting overtime or meals I prep.” Oleg tried a nervous laugh, “Mrs Goodwin, come on—you’re family! You’re Grandma.” “Grandma,” said Nina, “means Sunday baking, treats, and stories when I feel like it. Someone who’s sent a list of targets and gets scolded for falling short is an employee—and employees are paid. Slavery ended in 1833.” Marina shot upright: “Mum! How can you put a price on this? We thought you helped because you love the boys!” “I love them more than anything,” Nina’s eyes glistened, but she was firm. “That’s why I ran myself ragged these two years. But today, you made it clear—I’m not helping, I’m offering substandard services. And in that case—with regret—I resign.” “What?” both gasped. “You heard me. From tomorrow, find a professional who ticks your boxes—one who cooks broccoli, teaches Mandarin in their sleep, and runs bedtime by stopwatch. I’m returning to being Grandma. I’ll visit on Sundays. With gingerbread.” She grabbed her bag. “Eat the pie, it’s nice. Goodbye.” Nina stepped out to stunned silence, hearing only Marina’s muffled cry: “What do we do now?!” She didn’t so much ride the bus home as float. It was scary, but also an enormous relief, like dropping a bag of bricks. That night, for the first time in two years, she made herself herbal tea, put on a classic film, and switched her phone off. The next week was a flood of calls. First guilt, then pleas. Nina was serene: “My doctor’s ordered rest, Marina. No, I’m busy tomorrow. Hair appointment. Theatre on Thursday. You’ll cope—systematic people that you are.” She actually did go to the theatre with a friend, bought herself a new dress, started sleeping soundly again. Life glowed with colours she’d forgotten. News from the “front” came in snippets. At first the children took time off. Soon after, the agency sent them a nanny. A month later, as promised, Nina visited. The house was chaos; shoes everywhere, dirty dishes piled up. The boys leapt on her, nearly knocking her over. “Gran! It’s Gran!” From the kitchen emerged a stern-faced woman. “Theo, Paul! No hugging! Go straight to the lounge for activities!” “Hello, I’m Grandma,” Nina said. “Gail, the nanny,” the woman muttered. “Don’t spoil them, we’re on schedule.” The boys followed, as if to the gallows. Marina emerged—exhausted, shadow-eyed. “Tea, Mum?” she muttered. “Gail, would you make some?” “Not part of my job,” the nanny snapped. “I was hired for the children, not the house. Make your own. And you still owe me overtime—fifteen minutes last Wednesday.” Marina gritted her teeth and reached for the kettle. It was hopeless. Nina saw the strain on her daughter, Oleg’s twitching eyelid as he worked even on weekends. The nanny never let the boys smile, barking at the smallest lapse. “Nice lady?” Nina whispered when the nanny left the room. “Agency sent her,” Marina sighed. “’VIP staff’, three languages, references from CEOs.” “Expensive?” “Eighty grand a year plus food,” Oleg muttered, “She eats for England—demands farm produce.” “At least she’s professional,” Nina couldn’t resist. Marina burst into tears. Quiet, hopeless tears. “Mum, this is hell. She drills the boys like soldiers. Paul’s wetting the bed again. Theo begs to see you. No screens allowed, not even learning games. She’s always on her phone while they silently do puzzles. We’re terrified to fire her—she’s our third in a month. We’ve maxed out the credit card.” Nina saw her daughter’s pain and felt her heart soften—but she knew: if she gave in, it would all repeat. Next week, another list, more dismissal of her efforts. “Don’t cry,” she handed over a tissue. “Experience is costly, but valuable.” “Mum, come back? Please?” Oleg pleaded. “We were idiots. No more Excel at Grandma. We took you for granted. Can you forgive us? Please.” Marina nodded, sniffling: “No more lists, no more criticism. Give them gingerbread, anything—just come back! We’ll pay you more than the nanny!” Nina sipped her tea. From the playroom, the nanny’s parade-ground voice could be heard. “No payment,” she said. “I’m not an employee. Family and money don’t mix. But I’m nobody’s house-slave, either.” She handed over a paper with her terms—already prepared. “My conditions: I mind the boys three days a week only—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, nine to six. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridays—sort yourselves out or get a temp.” “Deal!” Oleg agreed at once. “Second, no instructions about how I handle my own grandchildren. I raised you, Marina—and you turned out all right. If I think a biscuit will make them happy, they have a biscuit. If they need Winnie-the-Pooh on TV, that’s what we’ll watch. Otherwise, call the agency.” “We like it, Mum, it’s perfect!” Marina wept. “And finally, respect. One complaint about ‘professionalism’, one sour look over unwashed pans, and I’m gone again. I help with the kids, not the whole house. That’s your job.” “Of course, Mum. We’ll hire a cleaner. Anything.” “We’ve agreed then,” Nina smiled. “Now go and sack that woman. My heart breaks listening to her rant at Paul.” When Gail, spluttering and demanding her severance (which Oleg meekly paid), finally left, the flat filled with peace. “Gran! Is the scary lady gone?” Paul ran and flung himself at Nina. “She’s gone, love, for good.” “Can we bake cakes again?” asked Theo, full of hope. “Yes, on Tuesdays. And now Grandma will read a story and then go home. Grandma has her day off, too.” That evening, Oleg called her a “Comfort Plus” taxi. Marina packed delicacies meant for the nanny. They farewelled her like she was off on an adventure. In the plush car, Nina gazed at the city night. It wouldn’t always be easy—old habits and chores would try to creep back. But she knew her worth now—and, just as crucially, so did her children. Sometimes, to be valued, you just have to step back and let people see the difference. Love is vital, but healthy boundaries make it stronger. Leave the spreadsheets to the office—Gran has her own time-honoured ways, built on love, not on tick-boxes. Thank you for reading this story. Please like and subscribe—your support means the world.

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Don’t Like That I Want My Own Family? I Escaped, Started a New Life, and You Came Back to the Same Old Ways – When a City Girl with a Successful Career Follows Her Heart to a Village, Only for Her Fiancé’s Family to Show Up and Stir Up Trouble Again “Zina, don’t worry so much! I know life in the country will be tough for a city girl, but I’ll help!” promised Dima. “I can handle everything, I just want you by my side!” Zina couldn’t help but think, “Why did I have to fall so hard for a country boy? Now I’m 28, with a great job in the city, and he’s 30 with a big family and his own house in the countryside not far from town.” They met by chance at an amusement park—she was dragged along by friends, he’d wandered in while his mum shopped. After swapping numbers, Dima did everything to win her over—kind, attentive, and much more genuine than any city lad. Then he proposed, and Zina said yes. Her mum cautioned: “Well, darling, give it a go. Dima’s a good, hard-working country lad. If it doesn’t work, you can always come home.” So Zina took a week’s holiday, packed her car, and left her hard-earned two-bed flat to join Dima. Life in the country started out fun—sunny evenings watering the veg patch and making dinner together. But then came the family. Dima’s parents and brother (with his wife) arrived and everything changed—the country clan made Zina feel like an unwelcome guest, poking fun at her city ways and questioning the relationship at every opportunity. Amid awkward dinners, rude remarks (“Who even names their daughter Zina? Our cow’s called Zina!”), and being called lazy for not rising with the dawn, Zina wondered if love really was enough. Dima, stuck between his fiancée and his overbearing family, finally stood up for the life they were building together. “You don’t like that I want my own family? I ran away, started making a life of my own, but you turned up and dragged me back to where we started!” he declared to his meddling relatives. In the end, the young couple learned that choosing happiness sometimes means drawing firm boundaries—even if it means facing down the whole family. When Dima finally put Zina first, she knew he truly meant it. And from then on, no unexpected visitor could rattle their home. A heartwarming countryside love story about new beginnings, overbearing in-laws, and having the courage to put your own happiness first!

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A Promise Denis steered the car calmly and confidently along the highway, his friend Kirill riding shotgun as they headed back home after a two-day business trip to a nearby city. Their boss had sent them to clinch a major deal. “Kir, we really nailed it! Signed a huge contract, the boss will be thrilled,” Denis grinned. “Absolutely, mate, we’re lucky,” Kirill agreed. They were close friends and colleagues from the same London office. “It’s great to head home when someone’s waiting for you,” Denis said thoughtfully. “My Arisha is pregnant and struggling with morning sickness. I feel for her—but we wished for this baby so much, she’s determined to endure it all for our little one.” “Having a child is wonderful. Marinka and I haven’t had much luck, she can’t carry a pregnancy. We’re preparing for our second round of IVF, the first failed,” Kirill confided. He and Marina had been married for seven years, desperately hoping for a child. Denis had married late, at thirty-two. He’d had relationships, but none swept him off his feet—until he met Arina. From then on, no one else existed for him. When Denis introduced Kirill to Arina and later invited him to be his best man at their wedding, Kirill couldn’t help but envy his friend’s luck. Arina was beautiful and gentle—anyone would fall hard for a woman like her. Outside, a fine October rain spattered the windscreen, the wipers flicked occasionally as the friends chatted. Suddenly, Denis’s phone rang—it was Arina. “Hello, Arisha, yes, we’re on our way, should be home in about two hours. How are you? Still the same? Don’t lift anything heavy, I’ll do everything once I’m home. Kisses, see you soon, love.” Kirill listened and pictured Arina waiting anxiously. He thought, “Marina isn’t like that, she never worries about me. She always thinks I’m just devoted—work, home, everything tidy. So different from Arisha.” Suddenly, Denis swerved—their car headed straight toward a delivery van, collision was imminent. At the last second, Denis veered into a lamp post on his side, sending them off the road. Kirill came to, head throbbing, blood on his arm. The car was upright, door open on his side. Denis wasn’t moving. Bystanders rushed over, cars stopped on the shoulder. Kirill found himself lying on wet grass, waiting for an ambulance. Denis was pulled from the wreck and put on a stretcher. Kirill bent over him—Denis whispered weakly: “Look after Arisha…” They were rushed to hospital. Kirill had a fractured arm and concussion, but was conscious, continually asking about Denis. Hours later, a nurse delivered the news: “Denis passed away…” Kirill was devastated, unable to attend the funeral. Marina told him how Arina sobbed, unable to accept her husband was gone, barely able to stand by his coffin. After hospital, Kirill and Marina visited Denis’s grave. Standing silently, Kirill made a promise: “Don’t worry, my friend—I’ll look after your wife, just as you asked…” A few days later, he visited Arina. She broke down in tears. “How can I live without him? I just can’t accept Denis is gone.” “Arisha, I promised Denis I’d help you. We’ll get through this together. Call me whenever you need, and I’ll come by.” Time passed. Arina slowly steadied herself, terrified that her grief would affect her pregnancy. Doctors warned her. Kirill visited twice a week, brought groceries, vitamins, sometimes drove her to the clinic. Arina never took advantage—she reached out only when she really needed help. “Kirill, I hate to take up your time…” “It’s fine, I promised Denis.” Kirill had conflicted feelings. Arina was the type of woman he’d always dreamed of, but felt thrown by the situation. While Arina endured her struggles, Kirill and Marina continued their journey through IVF—more tests, charts, disappointment. Childlessness was their ever-present pain. Marina didn’t know her husband was helping Arina. He kept Arina in his phone under “Charity”—knowing Marina might check who was calling. A second failed IVF attempt put their marriage under strain. Marina blamed Kirill, while he simply felt lost. She noticed his unusual behaviour—distracted, irritable, leaving often. Infidelity seemed unlikely; their bond, physically at least, hadn’t faded. Work was the only area thriving for Kirill. He took charge of the project he’d started with Denis, securing a successful contract. As Arina’s pregnancy advanced, she grew more vulnerable. Her parents lived far away, up in Newcastle. In London, she had no family. She suffered headaches, swollen ankles—but rarely complained. Once, Kirill arrived to find Arina climbing a step ladder to hang new curtains. “I’ve just cleaned the windows—hanging up fresh curtains,” she said cheerfully. “Get down, Arina,” he said sternly, eyeing her bump. “If you fall, the baby’s at risk!” He helped her down, finding himself trembling with concern. “Thanks, Kir,” but she dashed off to the bathroom, sick again. Kirill wiped sweat from his brow, thinking, “Does Denis see from wherever he is now? Well, this is what he asked for.” Next, Arina asked: “Denis, could you help me set up the nursery? I found some lovely wallpaper for it.” Kirill took charge of the nursery renovations, refusing to let the pregnant Arina exert herself. They worked together—or rather, she encouraged him while he did the heavy lifting. Renovation finished, Kirill felt torn: his wife depressed over infertility, while Arina was nearing her due date. Marina realised she needed to save their marriage, threw herself into her writing. Soon, a prominent magazine asked her to write a column. Delighted, she landed a generous fee, bringing home luxury groceries and wine to celebrate. “Wow, what’s the occasion?” Kirill asked, returning from work. “I got paid well—they finally gave me a contract!” Their favourite film played on TV as they sipped wine and enjoyed the spread. Suddenly, Kirill’s phone rang—Marina peered over his shoulder and saw “Charity” on the screen. He hurried to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” Kirill asked quietly. “Kir, sorry, I think I’m about to have the baby… I called an ambulance,” Arina said. “But it’s too early?” “Seven months—it’s possible,” she grimaced with pain. “I’ll come to the hospital.” He quickly dressed while Marina looked on anxiously. “Are you leaving?” “Yes,” he muttered, inventing a story as he dashed out. “Who was that?” “The boss called late, needs to discuss charity work—I’ll explain later. Please, trust me.” But Marina wasn’t fooled. “Charity work at this hour? Boss calling? He’s lying to me.” Kirill raced to the hospital. Arina was already admitted. After two tense hours, a nurse informed him: Arina had given birth to a son. Relieved, Kirill returned home exhausted. Marina was wide awake, her eyes sharp. “So, your ‘Charity’ wore you out tonight?” she asked sarcastically. Kirill sank onto the sofa, replying honestly: “Yes, Marina. Arina just gave birth to a son. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s all alone.” “I see. The puzzle pieces fit,” said Marina quietly. “Next step, you’ll help Arina with her baby, right?” “Yes,” Kirill replied sincerely. “Well, you know me—I won’t tolerate this. Not spending your time on someone else’s child—especially since we can’t have one and likely never will. So I’ll file for divorce. Maybe I’ll still meet a man and have my own.” Kirill looked at her in surprise, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “That’s your choice, Marina. I won’t make excuses. I have to help Arina and her son.” Time passed. Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Arina, caring for little Daniel. Eventually, they married—and two years later, welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing you all the best in life!

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“A Good Woman—What Would We Do Without Her? —And You’re Only Paying Her Two Thousand a Month. —Helen, We Put the Flat in Her Name Nikolai got out of bed and slowly made his way to the next room. In the glow of the night light, he peered at his wife with ageing, blurry eyes. He sat beside her, listened. ‘Seems everything’s fine.’ Standing up, he wandered to the kitchen, opened the milk, popped to the bathroom, and then returned to his own room. He lay down but couldn’t sleep. ‘Helen and I, both ninety years old. How long have we lived? Soon it’ll be our time, and there’s no one left nearby. Our daughters, Natalie passed before sixty. Max as well. He drank… There’s our granddaughter, Oksana, but she’s lived in Poland for twenty years now. She doesn’t remember her grandparents, probably has grown children herself…’ He didn’t notice when he fell asleep. He awoke to the touch of a hand. ‘Nikolai, are you alright?’—a faint voice. He opened his eyes. His wife was leaning over him. ‘Helen?’ ‘Just checking—you’re lying so still.’ ‘Still alive! Go to sleep!’ Shuffling steps echoed. The kitchen switch clicked. Helen went for a glass of water, visited the bathroom, then returned to her own room. Lay on her bed: ‘One morning I’ll wake up, and he’ll be gone. What’ll I do then? Or maybe I’ll go first. Nikolai’s already arranged our funeral. Never thought you could plan such a thing in advance, but maybe it’s for the best. Who else would do it? Our granddaughter’s forgotten us. Only our neighbour, Janet, pops by. She’s the only one with a key to our flat. Grandpa gives her a bit from our pension each month. She buys groceries and the things we need. Where else would we spend our money? And we don’t go out from the fourth floor ourselves any more. Nikolai opened his eyes. Sunlight peeped through the window. He went onto the balcony, saw the fresh green leaves of the bird cherry tree. A smile broke across his face. ‘We’ve made it to summer!’ He went to check on his wife. She was sitting thoughtfully on the bed. ‘Helen, enough sadness! Come, let me show you something.’ ‘Oh, I have no strength left!’ she wearily stood. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Come on, come on!’ Supporting her carefully, he led her to the balcony. ‘Look—it’s all grown green! And you said we wouldn’t make it to summer. But we did!’ ‘Oh, and the sun’s shining too.’ They sat on the bench on the balcony. ‘Remember how I first took you to the cinema? We were still in school. The bird cherry was green that day too.’ ‘How could I forget? How many years has it been?’ ‘Seventy odd… seventy-five.’ They sat a long while, remembering their youth. So much slips away with age, sometimes even yesterday—but youth you never forget. ‘Oh, we’ve been nattering on!’ she eventually stood. ‘And we haven’t had breakfast.’ ‘Helen, do make a proper tea! Tired of all these herbs.’ ‘But we’re not supposed.’ ‘Just a little, and one spoon of sugar.’ Nikolai sipped the weak tea with a tiny cheese sandwich, remembering the days when breakfast meant strong, sweet tea with pastries or pancakes. Their neighbour came in, smiled warmly. ‘How are you both?’ ‘What business can ninety-year-olds have?’ the old man joked. ‘If you’re still joking, you must be alright. Need me to buy anything?’ ‘Janet, get us some meat!’ asked Nikolai. ‘You’re not meant to have it.’ ‘Chicken will do.’ ‘Alright. I’ll make you noodle soup!’ She tidied the table and went. ‘Helen, shall we sit on the balcony and enjoy the sun?’ her husband suggested. ‘Let’s!’ Janet brought over some porridge, started the soup for lunch. ‘She’s a good woman,’ he said as Janet left. ‘What would we do without her?’ ‘And you only pay her two thousand a month.’ ‘Helen, we’ve left her the flat.’ ‘She doesn’t know that.’ They stayed out on the balcony until lunch. For lunch was chicken noodle soup, tasty with chunks of meat and soft potatoes. ‘I always made this for Natalie and Max when they were young,’ Helen recalled. ‘And now, in our old age, it’s strangers cooking for us,’ sighed her husband. ‘Maybe that’s our fate, Nikolai. Once we’re gone, there’ll be no one to even shed a tear.’ ‘Alright now, Helen, no more gloom. Let’s rest a while!’ ‘They say: “Old folk and children are much the same.” Soft soup, nap time, afternoon snack—the lot.’ Nikolai dozed for a bit, then got up, unable to sleep. Maybe the weather was changing. He went to the kitchen. On the table were two glasses of juice—Janet’s doing. He carried them carefully to his wife’s room. She was looking pensively out the window. ‘What’s wrong, Helen?’ he smiled. ‘Some juice?’ She took a sip. ‘Can’t sleep either?’ ‘Must be the weather.’ ‘Been feeling off since morning,’ she sighed. ‘I can sense there’s not much time left for me. Bury me kindly, won’t you.’ ‘Don’t talk like that, Helen. How would I live without you?’ ‘One of us will go first, no matter what.’ ‘Enough! Let’s go to the balcony!’ They stayed there until evening. Janet made cheese pancakes. They ate, then watched TV. Always before bed. They preferred old comedies and cartoons now—new ones didn’t make much sense. This time, just one cartoon. Helen got up: ‘I’m off to bed. I’m tired.’ ‘I’ll go too.’ ‘Let me have a good look at you!’ she said suddenly. ‘Why?’ ‘Just let me…’ They looked at each other for a long time. Maybe thinking of their youth, when everything was still ahead. ‘I’ll walk you to your bed,’ Helen offered. She took her husband’s arm and together they moved slowly away. He tucked her in, then went to his own room. Something weighed heavy on his heart. He couldn’t sleep for ages. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all, but the clock showed it was 2am. He got up and went to his wife’s room. She was lying there, eyes open. ‘Helen!’ He took her hand. ‘Helen, what’s wrong? He-len!’ Suddenly, he struggled to breathe. He made it to his room, fetched the prepared documents, placed them on the table. Returned to his wife, gazed at her face. Then he lay beside her and closed his eyes. He saw his Helen, young and beautiful, as she was seventy-five years ago. She was walking towards a distant light. He hurried after her, caught her hand. In the morning, Janet entered their bedroom. They were lying side by side, identical happy smiles still on their faces. Finally, Janet called the ambulance. The doctor shook his head in surprise. ‘Gone together. Must have loved each other very much…’ They were taken away. Janet sat down, exhausted, then noticed the documents and the will made out in her name. She lowered her head onto her arms and wept… Leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments!

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📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

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