My husband has always said I’m not feminine enough. At first, he’d just mention it in passing—suggesting I should wear more makeup, put on dresses, or try to be “softer.” But I’ve never been like that. I’ve always been practical, straightforward, not particularly vain. I get things done, I solve problems—I’ve always just done what needs to be done. He knew me like this. I never pretended to be someone else. Over time, his comments became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to our friends’ wives, to colleagues. He’d say I looked more like a mate than a wife. Sometimes I argued back, but mostly I just listened and carried on. I never thought it was all that serious—I put it down to just normal differences in a relationship. But the day I buried my father, all of that stopped seeming unimportant. I was in shock. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating, I couldn’t think about anything except getting through the funeral. I threw on the first black clothes I found, didn’t put on any makeup, did nothing with my hair except what was absolutely necessary. I simply didn’t have the strength. Before we left the house, my husband looked at me and said: “Is that really how you’re going? Can’t you try to make a bit more effort?” At first, I didn’t understand. I told him I didn’t care how I looked; I’d just lost my father. He replied: “Yes, but still… people will talk. You look a mess.” I felt something strange in my chest, like someone had crushed me from the inside. At the wake, he was with the others. He greeted people, expressed condolences, kept a serious face. But with me he was distant. He hardly hugged me. Didn’t ask how I was. At one point, as we passed the mirror in the living room, he quietly told me I should “pull myself together a bit,” that my father wouldn’t want to see me like this. After the funeral, back at home, I asked him if that was really the only thing he noticed that day. Did he not see how broken I was? He told me not to exaggerate, that he was just giving his opinion, that a woman shouldn’t let herself go “even in moments like this.” Since then, I look at him differently. But I can’t leave him. I feel like I can’t live without him. ❓ What would you say to this woman if she were sitting in front of you?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

My husband has always told me Im not feminine enough. At first, hed just drop comments in passingsuggesting that I should wear more makeup, that I should put on dresses, that I should try to be softer. But Ive never been that type. Ive always been practical, straightforward, not particularly concerned with my appearance. I work, I solve problems, I do what needs to be done. He knew me like this from the very beginningIve never pretended to be anyone else.

As time went by, those remarks became more frequent. He started comparing me to women we saw on social media, to the wives of our friends, even to his colleagues. He once said I looked more like a mate than a wife. I used to listen, sometimes wed have a bit of an argument, but we always moved on. I never thought it was something seriousjust the usual differences that crop up in relationships.

The day I buried my father, all that suddenly stopped feeling trivial. I was in shock. I barely slept, barely ate, and couldnt concentrate on anything except getting through the funeral. I pulled on the first black clothes I found, didnt bother with makeup, and barely touched my hair. I simply had no strength left for any of it.

Before we stepped out the door, my husband looked at me and said, Are you really going out like that? Couldnt you at least tidy yourself up a bit?

For a moment, I didnt understand. I told him I didnt care what I looked likeId just lost my father. He replied, Yes, but still… People will talk. You look a mess.

Something odd twisted in my chest, as if Id been crushed from the inside.

At the service, he stood with the othersshaking hands, offering condolences, looking serious. But he kept his distance from me. He didnt hold me much or ask how I was coping. At one point, as we passed a mirror in the lounge, he muttered that I ought to pull myself together, because my dad wouldnt want to see me like this.

After the funeral, back at home, I asked him if that truly was the only thing he noticed about me that dayif he couldnt see how utterly shattered I was. He said I was making a fuss, that he was just sharing his opinion, and that a woman ought not to let herself go, even at times like this.

Since then, I look at him differently.

Yet I cant bring myself to leave him.

I feel like I cant cope without him.

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val opened the creaking garden gate with great effort, hobbled to the front door, struggled with the old rusty lock for a while, entered her cold, unheated cottage, and sat down on a chair by the chilly fireplace. The house smelled empty and unlived-in. She’d only been gone three months, yet already the ceilings were shrouded in cobwebs, the ancient chair groaned mournfully, the wind rattled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How will we get through the winter now? “Just a moment, my dear house, let me catch my breath… I’ll fire up the stove, we’ll soon be warm again…” Only a year ago, Granny Val was bustling about the old house: whitening the walls, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before the icons, tended the kitchen, and darted through the garden, somehow finding time to plant, weed, and water. The house, in turn, seemed to rejoice with its mistress—floorboards creaked cheerily under her light, hurried footsteps, doors and windows flew open at the gentle touch of her weary hands, and the oven diligently baked fluffy pies. They were good together, Val and her beloved old house. Widowed young, she raised three children, educated them all, and sent them off into the world: one son now a ship’s captain overseas, the other a colonel in the military, both far away and rarely able to visit. Only her youngest daughter, Tamara, stayed behind in the village as chief agronomist—always at work, popping in to see her mother on Sundays with pies to cheer her heart, but gone for the rest of the week. Her main comfort was granddaughter Sweetie (or, as the neighbours called her, “Our Svetlana”): tall and beautiful, with huge grey eyes, a golden mane of hair, and a delicate presence that stopped the local lads in their tracks. A clever girl too—agricultural college in the city, returned to work in the village as an economist, married the local vet, and, thanks to a scheme for young families, moved into a new, solid brick house. Though her new home was modern, it lacked the blooming garden of Granny Val’s beloved cottage. Svetlana, though a country girl, had always been shielded from hard work by her grandmother, and with the birth of her son, Vasya, tending the garden fell by the wayside. She begged Granny Val to come live with her in the new house—no more fire to light, everything modern and easy. At eighty, Granny Val’s health began to fail—her once quick legs grew heavy; weary from a lifetime of work, and she finally gave in. Yet after a few short months, she heard, “Gran, I do love you! But you’re always sitting—you worked all your life, but here you just rest. I want to run a bigger household, and I need help…” “But my legs… They don’t work anymore, pet—I’m getting old…” “Hm… You got old just as soon as you moved in with me, it seems…” Soon, Granny Val—having “failed” her granddaughter—was returned to her own home, heartbroken she couldn’t be the support she wished to be. Her steps grew slower, the journey from bed to table a challenge, and church now too far to reach. Father Boris, longtime family priest and once her partner in all parish duties, stopped by and quickly sized up the cold cottage, the threadbare cardigan, the battered shoes. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared out the stove, fetched extra wood, got the fire going, and set the kettle to boil. He helped Granny address envelopes for her monthly letters to her sons—her trembling hand writing large, shaky letters: “I’m living very well, dear son. I have everything, thank God!” The blots on the page betrayed the truth—those stains were salty tears. Neighbour Anna took Granny Val under her wing, a helpful hand only twenty years younger. Father Boris made sure to visit, provide confession and communion, and on holidays Anna’s husband, old sailor Uncle Pete, would bring Granny to services on his motorbike. Life slowly settled again. But tragedy struck—Svetlana, her cherished granddaughter, grew gravely ill. What she thought was a stomach problem turned out to be lung cancer; within six months, she was gone. Her husband took to sleeping by her grave, relying on bottles for comfort. Four-year-old Vasya was left homeless, dirty, unloved. Tamara took in her nephew Vasyenka, but her work kept her too busy. With nowhere else to turn, Vasya was put on the list for council care. The local home was reputable enough—a caring headmaster, proper food, children sent home on weekends. But it wasn’t family, and Tamara’s job kept her out late. Then on a rainy Saturday, Granny Val turned up at her daughter’s with Uncle Pete at the helm. “I’ll take Vasya home with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk, how will you manage?” “While I live, I won’t send Vasya to a home,” Val replied—and that was final. The usually gentle Val’s firmness stopped Tamara in her tracks, and Vasya’s things were quickly packed. Neighbours tutted: “She needs help herself, yet brings a child into that cold cottage—what is Tamara thinking?” Father Boris visited with dread—would he find a hungry, dirty child and Granny faint with exertion? But in the warm kitchen, he found Vasya clean and happy, listening to nursery stories from a battered record player. Granny Val was bustling around the kitchen as though her legs had never failed—beating eggs, kneading dough, cheerfully preparing tarts for their tea. “Father dear! I tried making your Alexandra some cakes—wait a bit, I’ll send a warm treat home for you!” When he got home, Father Boris recounted the miracle to his wife. Alexandra pulled out an old family diary and read aloud the story of Vera Yegorovna, her great-grandmother, who recovered from her own deathbed rather than leave her new great-grandchild uncared for, saying with a wry smile, “It’s not time for me to go yet—I’ve still got work to do at home!” She lived another ten years, helping to raise her great-granddaughter. And Father Boris smiled at his wife—knowing, as all old houses and loving hearts do, that there’s still work to be done at home.

You Were My Teenage Mistake A young girl gave birth at sixteen, the child’s father was also just sixteen. Leaving the scandalous details aside, the couple broke up soon after their son was born. When the girl realized the boy wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, she immediately lost all interest in her child. The son was raised by his grandparents—her own parents. At eighteen, the girl moved to a nearby city with a new boyfriend, never called, never wrote. Her parents didn’t seek her out. Shame and pain lingered—how could she abandon her child? They raised their grandson, who still considers them his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. At eighteen, the boy’s cousin got married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters—one ten years old and the other just one and a half. The boy was nervous and excited to meet his mother and sisters—and of course, to ask, “Mum, why did you leave me?” No matter how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even keeping her only surviving photo. His grandfather had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted cheerfully about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right, I should have had an abortion,” she replied nonchalantly, turning away. Seven years later, living in his comfortable two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he got a call from an unknown number. “Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister attends. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family, the dorm is awful, rent is expensive, my husband left, things are hard—one daughter’s a student, one’s just starting school, the littlest one’s off to nursery soon,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong number,” he replied and hung up. He picked up his son, held him close, and said: “Right, let’s get ready—first we’ll meet with Mum, then afterwards, a visit to Grandma and Grandpa, shall we?” “And can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?” his little boy asked. “Of course we can. Family traditions are too important to break!” … Some relatives criticised him for not helping his sister, but he believes his loyalty belongs to his grandparents, not to the woman for whom he was just a mistake.

You Can’t Turn Back the Clock: When Tanya Showed Off Her Wedding Photos, She’d Laugh and Say, “Oh, I suffered in that dress! So beautiful, but heavy and clumsy! Next time I get married, it’ll be in something light and airy.” Everyone thought she was joking—after all, Tanya and her husband had married for love. It began as a classic holiday romance: Tanya, 21; Alex, 28. August on the English coast, sparkling wine, starlit skies, seaside romance… ending with papers at the registry office. In the decade that followed, ‘London–Brighton–London’ became Tanya’s well-worn path—her second home. But that came later. At first, they had to find a place to live. Alex gifted his flat to his dramatic second wife (who had threatened outlandish revenge if left), and Tanya moved to Brighton with him. Tanya’s life seemed charmed: bouquets of flowers, three fur coats, a new pair of shoes for every day, trips to Paris and the Lake District… All preparing to welcome their first child. Daughter Molly was born, and Alex lovingly set up a cosy home for his girls. Tanya, however, longed for her old life in London—her friends, her mum, and the city’s comforting lime trees. While she studied psychology at university, Molly was left with her adoring grandmother. Tanya’s returns home became ever more frequent—and Alex became suspicious and jealous. Eventually, Tanya confessed: she was bored and yearned for freedom. Despite Alex’s pleas, she left—chasing her dreams, her freedom, and even starting her own tailoring business. Alex, desperate to save his family, moved with Molly to London—but Tanya’s mind was made up. Their marriage ended. Years passed. Alex found quiet happiness with a down-to-earth woman and became stepdad to her boys, finally welcoming another daughter. No Parisian trips, no designer shoes—just rubber boots, a warm coat, and a simple life. Tanya, meanwhile, lived with her mum again. Her business failed, her admirers vanished—but her studies paid off; she became a school psychologist. Regrets? Maybe, in the silent depths of her soul. And Molly? All grown up, she married in Odessa—wearing a light, airy bridal dress, just as her mother once dreamed.