The Caregiver for a Widower A month ago, she was hired to look after Regina White—an Englishwoman bedridden by a stroke. For four weeks she turned her every two hours, changed her sheets, and kept watch over the IVs, never missing a beat. Three days ago, Regina passed away quietly in her sleep. The doctors wrote it off as a second attack—no one to blame. No one, that is, except the caregiver. At least, that’s what Regina’s daughter believed. Zina rubbed the pale scar on her wrist—a faint white line from an old burn at her first job in the NHS. Fifteen years ago, she’d been young and reckless. Now, nearly forty, she was divorced, her son living with her ex-husband, and her reputation hanging by a thread. “You turned up here, too?” Christina, her late patient’s daughter, appeared out of nowhere, hair pulled so tight her temples had gone white, red eyes betraying sleepless nights. For the first time, she looked older than her twenty-five years. “I just wanted to say goodbye,” Zina said, calmly. “Goodbye?” Christina whispered bitterly. “I know what you did. Everyone will know.” She stalked off—to the coffin, to her father who stood, stony-faced, one hand shoved deep in his blazer pocket. Zina didn’t try to explain. She understood: whatever happened, the world would blame her. Two days later, Christina’s post appeared online. “My mother died in mysterious circumstances. The carer we hired may have hastened her passing. The police refuse to investigate, but I won’t rest until the truth comes out.” Three thousand reposts. Sympathetic comments, mostly. And a handful urging people to “find this monster.” Zina read it on the bus home from the GP’s surgery—a former place of work, now closed to her. “Miss Zina Paulson, you must understand,” the head doctor said, not meeting her eyes. “With all this attention, the patients are worried. The staff’s on edge. Just for a while—until things settle down.” Just for a while. Zina knew what that meant. Never. Her flat—one room with kitchen and shower, third floor, no lift—greeted her with silence. Twenty-eight square metres to survive, not to live. Her phone rang as she set the kettle on. “Miss Paulson? This is Ilya White.” The widower. That deep, gravelly voice she remembered from her month with the family. Nearly fifty, grey at the temples, broad-shouldered, stooped more now than before. Always with his right hand shoved in his pocket. She almost dropped the kettle. “I need your help. Regina’s things… I can’t face it. And Christina certainly won’t. You’re the only one who knows where everything is.” She paused. “Your daughter is accusing me of murder. Are you aware?” A long, heavy silence. “I know.” “And still you’re calling me?” “I’m still calling.” She should have refused. Anyone sensible would. But something in his voice—less a request than a plea—made her agree. “Tomorrow at two.” The White family’s house stood just beyond Oxford—a spacious, empty, two-story affair. Zina remembered it differently: nurses bustling, machines beeping, TV always on in Regina’s room. Now, silence and dust. Ilya answered the door. Stooped. He kept his right hand in his pocket—something metallic bulging against the fabric. A key? “Thank you for coming.” “No need to thank me. I’m not here for you.” He arched an eyebrow. “Then for whom?” “For myself,” she thought. “To understand what’s happening, why you’re silent, why you won’t defend me when you know I’m innocent.” Aloud, she said, “To set things in order. Where are the bedroom keys?” Regina’s room smelled of lilies—sweet, heavy, her perfume still clinging to the walls. Zina worked methodically: emptying cupboards, boxing clothes, sorting documents. Ilya remained downstairs, his footsteps echoing from corner to corner. On the bedside table sat a photo. Zina picked it up to pack and froze. Ilya, young—mid-twenties—and beside him, a smiling blonde: not Regina. She flipped the photo. “Ilya & Lara. 1998,” faded ink read. Strange. Why would Regina keep a photo of her husband with another woman by her bed? Zina pocketed the photo and continued. Kneeling by the bed, her fingers brushed something wooden—a box. Not locked. Inside, neat stacks of letters, all in the same feminine hand, all carefully opened and resealed. She picked up the top envelope: Ilya A. White, from L.V. Melnikova, Manchester. Dated November 2024—just last month. She sorted through them—the oldest dated 2004. Twenty years. For twenty years, someone had written to Ilya—letters Regina intercepted. She kept them. Didn’t throw them out—kept them. For what? Zina brought the envelope to her nose—the scent was lilies. Regina held them, read and re-read them, their creases worn thin. Zina placed the box on the bed and sat. Her hands trembled. This changed everything. “Ilya.” She found him as before, sitting at the kitchen table, untouched mug of tea before him. “All done?” “No.” She set an envelope in front of him. “Who is Larissa Melnikova?” His face changed—not pale, but hardening. His hand in his pocket clenched. “Where did you find this?” “Box under the bed. Hundreds, spanning twenty years. All opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.” He was silent for a long time. Then, turning to the window, he replied in a low voice, “Three days ago, after her funeral, I found the box. I thought I could handle her things alone.” “And you still say nothing?” “What can I say? For twenty years my wife stole my mail. Read letters from the woman I loved before her. Kept them—for trophies, for punishment, who knows? Am I to tell Christina, who idolised her mother?” Zina stood. “Your daughter blames me for killing your wife. I’ve lost my job. The internet is tearing my name apart. And you stay silent—afraid of the truth?” He moved towards her. His eyes were tired, dark. “I stay silent because I don’t know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zina. Larissa wrote—but I thought she’d forgotten me, moved on, had a family. And all along…” He trailed off. Zina lifted another envelope. “Manchester—a return address. I’ll go.” “Why?” “Someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then I will.” …Larissa Melnikova lived in a small Manchester flat, geraniums on the windowsill, a cat stretched in the sun. Zina knocked, unsure what to say. A woman about Ilya’s age answered, light hair knotted loosely, wrinkles by her eyes, wary but not unkind. “You’re Larissa Valerie Melnikova?” “That’s me. And you?” “I found your letters. Every one—opened, read, hidden.” Larissa stared at the envelope as if it might bite. Then looked up. “Come in.” At her tiny kitchen table, the two women sipped at cold tea. “For twenty years I wrote to him.” Larissa faltered. “Monthly, sometimes more. Never a reply. I thought he hated me for…letting him go.” “Letting him go?” She gripped her mug. “We dated three years, since uni. He wanted to marry. I panicked—I was twenty-two, thought I had all the time in the world.” “I said wait. He waited six months. Then Regina appeared—beautiful, certain. I lost.” “When they married, I moved to England, to my aunt. Tried to forget. But after five years, I started writing. Not to win him back—just so he’d know I still cared.” “He never replied, not once.” “Not once.” Larissa’s smile was bitter. “Now I see why.” Zina drew out the photo. “I found this by Regina’s bed. ‘Ilya & Lara. 1998.’” Larissa’s fingers shook as she took the photograph. “She kept it—by her bed?” “Yes.” A long silence. “You know,” Larissa said at last, “I hated her all my life—the woman who stole my love. But now…I pity her.” “Twenty-five years with a man, living in fear he might remember someone else. Reading my letters every day—hiding them. That’s hell. Her own, self-made hell.” Zina stood to leave. “Thank you for your honesty.” “Wait,” said Larissa, rising. “Why does this matter to you? You’re not family, not a friend.” Zina hesitated. “They’re accusing me of her death. Christina thinks I wanted her out of the way—to take her place.” “And you want to prove your innocence?” Zina shook her head. “I just want the truth. The rest will follow.” Zina called Ilya on the way back—“I’m coming home.” He waited out front, the evening sun casting long shadows. “You were right,” said Zina. “She wrote for twenty years. Never married, always waiting.” He said nothing, but his right hand clenched and unclenched. “You’ve something in your safe,” Zina said, nodding to his blazer. “You never let go of the key.” A pause. “This way.” Ilya led her to an old safe in his study. Inside was an envelope, Regina’s handwriting—clumsy, angular. “She left this, two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral papers.” Zina unfolded the letter. It ran to the margins. “Ilya. If you’re reading this, I’m gone and you’ve found the box. I knew you would, eventually. And still, I couldn’t stop. “I started intercepting her letters in 2004—five years after we married. You’d changed, became distant. I found her first letter, I realised: she never let go. I should have showed you, should have asked. But I was afraid—to lose you, for you to choose her. So I hid it, then the next, and the next… “For twenty years, I stole your mail. Read another’s love, hated myself, but couldn’t stop. “I loved you so much I destroyed everything. Your choice. Her hope. My conscience. “Forgive me, if you can. I don’t deserve it. But I ask anyway. Regina.” Zina lowered the paper. “Does Christina know?” “No.” “She should. You know that?” He turned away. “She idolised her mother. This would break her.” “She’s broken already,” Zina said. “She’s lost her mother, and now fears losing her father—so she lashes out at me. She needs a villain, or she’ll have to face her grief—and you can’t fight grief.” Ilya was silent. “If you tell her the truth, she may hate you for a while. But she’ll understand one day. Hide it, and she’ll never forgive—neither you nor herself.” He finally looked at her, tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Since Regina fell ill… we stopped speaking.” “Then start learning. Tonight.” Christina arrived an hour later. Zina watched through the window as she stepped from her car, ripped the band from her ponytail, froze at the sight of her father on the porch. Their conversation lasted a long time. At first, Christina shouted; then she sobbed; then came silence. When Christina emerged, holding Regina’s letter, her face was blotchy from crying, and her eyes—no longer wild, but lost. She approached Zina. Zina braced for anger or blame. “I deleted the post,” she said quietly. “Posted a retraction. And… I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Zina nodded. “Grief makes us cruel.” Christina shook her head. “Not grief. Fear. I was terrified of being alone—mum left, then dad became a stranger. And you… You saw mum’s last days, you knew her in a way I didn’t. I thought you wanted to take her place, steal my father.” “I don’t want to steal anyone.” “I know. Now I know.” She offered her hand—awkward, as if she’d forgotten how. Zina shook it. “My mum—she was unhappy, wasn’t she? Her whole life?” Zina thought of the letter, of twenty years of fear and jealousy, of love turned into a cage. “She loved your father. In her way. Not well. But she loved him.” Christina nodded, sat on the steps, and wept quietly. Zina sat beside her, saying nothing, only present. Two weeks passed. The surgery gave Zina her job back—after Christina personally rang, vouching for her. Reputation is fragile, sometimes repairable with effort and truth. Ilya called that evening—his familiar velvet timbre. “Miss Paulson. I called to thank you.” “For what?” “For the truth. For not letting me run from it.” Pause. “I’m going to Manchester tomorrow—to see Larissa. I don’t know what I’ll say, or if she’ll even see me. But… I have to try. Twenty years is too long a silence.” Zina smiled. He couldn’t see, but likely heard. “Good luck, Ilya.” “Ilya. Just Ilya.” A month later, he returned—but not alone. Zina learned of it by accident: spotting them together at the market, Ilya with shopping bags, Larissa choosing tomatoes. An ordinary scene—two people picking out vegetables—but their ease together told another story. Ilya saw her and lifted a hand in greeting. The right hand, out of his pocket. Zina waved back and walked on. That evening, she flung open her little window. Outside, May smelled of lilac and diesel—ordinary. Alive. She thought about Regina—her lilies, her locked box of letters, her love turned prison. About Larissa—twenty years of patience, hope against hope. Ilya—his silence, his hidden key, the man who finally chose. And then she let the thoughts drift. She just sat by the window, listening to the city, waiting—though for what, she didn’t know. Her phone rang. “Miss Paulson? Ilya here. Just Ilya. We’re having dinner—Larissa’s making pie. Care to join us?” Zina looked at her flat—twenty-eight square metres of silence. Then at the open window. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up, took her keys, and stepped outside. The door shut softly behind her, and over London’s rooftops, the sunset flared red and warm—promising a gentler tomorrow…

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 3

The Carer for the Widower

A month ago, she had been hired to care for Reggie Williamsa woman left bedridden after a stroke. For thirty days, she turned her every two hours, changed the sheets, monitored the drips.

Three days ago, Reggie passed away. Quietly, in her sleep. The doctors signed off: a second stroke. No one blamed anyone.

No one, that is, except the carer. At least, thats what the deceased womans daughter believed.

Zoe rubbed the thin white scar on her wrista remnant of a burn from her first job at the local surgery. Fifteen years ago, shed been young and careless. Now, close to forty, divorced, and with her son living with her ex-husband, her reputation was on the brink of ruin.

Youve got the nerve to show your face here?

Christina appeared beside her as if out of nowhere. Her hair was yanked into a painfully tight ponytail, her temples pale, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. She looked older than her twenty-five years for the first time.

I just wanted to say goodbye, Zoe replied, her voice steady.

Goodbye? Christina hissed. I know what you did. Everyone will know.

She spun on her heel, heading for the coffin, to stand by her father, his face set and his right hand buried in his jacket pocket.

Zoe didnt chase after her. She didnt bother to explain. Shed realised by now: whatever had happened, shed be made the scapegoat.

Christinas post appeared online two days later.

My mother died in mysterious circumstances. The carer we hired may have hastened her death. The police refuse to investigate. But Ill get to the truth.

Three thousand shares. Most comments were supportive. Some called for justice, a few for revenge on the monster.

Zoe read the post on the bus home from the surgerythe place shed once moonlighted.

You understand, Zoe, dont you? the head doctor told her, not meeting her gaze. All this attentionits unsettling for the patients. Everyones nervous. Just until things blow over.

Just until. Zoe knew what that really meant. Never.

Her roomwith its tiny kitchen and combined bathroomgreeted her with silence. Her whole world since the divorce: a twenty-eight square metre flat on the third floor, no lift. Enough to survive, not enough to live.

The phone rang as she set the kettle on.

Zoe Williams? Its Ian Williams.

She nearly dropped the kettle. His voice was low, hoarseshe remembered it. Hed barely spoken to her during the month she cared for Reggie, but when he did, shed listened carefully to every word.

Im listening.

I need your help. With Reggies thingsI cant face it. Christina even less so. Youre the only one who knows where anything is.

Zoe hesitated. Then asked, Your daughters accusing me of murder. Did you know?

A long, heavy pause.

I know.

And still, youre calling?

Im still calling.

She ought to have refused. Any sensible person would have. But something in his voicenot a request, almost a pleamade her respond: Tomorrow, at two.

The Williamss house stood beyond the city, two spacious, empty stories. Zoe remembered it differently, bustling with nurses, beeping monitors, daytime TV murmuring from Reggies room. Now, silence lay over everything like dust.

Ian answered himself. Fifty-ish, greying at the temples, broad-shoulderedthough hed stooped since last month. His right hand stayed in his pocket. The outline of something metal. A key?

Thank you for coming.

No need for thanks. Im not doing this for you.

He raised an eyebrow. Then for whom?

For myself, she thought. To make sense of things. Why wont you speak up? Why wont you defend me, knowing Im innocent?

Out loud, she said, For order. Where are the keys to the room?

Reggies room smelled of lilies of the valleya sweet, cloying fragrance. Perfume. The scent lingered on, soaked into the walls.

Zoe set to work: sorting the wardrobe, folding clothes into boxes, collecting documents. Ian stayed downstairs. She heard his footsteps, circling restlessly.

On the bedside table sat a photograph. Zoe picked it up to put awaythen froze. Ian, in his mid-twenties, stood next to a smiling, fair-haired womannot Reggie.

Zoe turned over the photo. Written on the back, faded: Ian and Laura. 1998.

Strange. Why would Reggie keep her husbands photograph with another woman on her bedside table?

Zoe slipped the photo into her bag and carried on. Kneeling by the bed, reaching under for a boxher fingers grazed something wooden.

A small chest. Unlocked. She opened it.

Insideenvelopes, neatly stacked. Same round, feminine handwriting. All carefully opened and resealed.

Zoe picked up the top one. Addressed to Mr Ian Williams. Sender: L. V. Melton, Bristol.

DateNovember 2024. Last month.

She skimmed through the pile. The oldest, from 2004. Twenty years. Someone had written to Ianall intercepted by Reggie.

And kept. Not thrown awaystored. Why?

Zoe brought an envelope to her nose. That same lily scent. Reggie had held them, read and re-read themthe creased folds revealed as much.

She placed the box on the bed and sat down. Her hands were shaking.

This changed everything.

Ian?

He looked up from the kitchen table, untouched mug before him.

Finished?

No. She slid an envelope across. Who is Laura Melton?

His face set. Not palehard, like stone. His hand in his pocket gripped tighter.

Where did you find this?

In a box under your wifes bed. Hundreds of them from twenty yearsall opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.

He said nothing, for an agonising span. Then, he got up, moved to the window, turned his back to her.

You knew? Zoe asked.

Only three days ago. After the funeral, sorting through her things. I thought I could handle it. I found the box.

And you say nothing?

What am I supposed to say? He whirled on her. My wife stole my post for twenty years. Stole letters from the woman I loved before her.

Maybe she kept them as trophies. Or as some self-imposed punishment. Now whatshould I tell my daughter? Who worshipped her?

Zoe stood up.

Your daughter blames me for her mothers death. Ive been dismissed. My name trashed online. You stay silentafraid of the truth?

He stepped forward, eyes dark and weary. Im silent because I dont know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zoe. Laura wrote to me. And I thought shed forgotten me. Moved on. Married, settled down. But she

He faltered.

Zoe raised the envelope. Return addressBristol. Ill go.

Why?

Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.

Laura Melton lived in a council flat on the edge of Bristol. Ground floor, geraniums in the window, a tabby cat sprawled on the sill. Zoe rang, unsure what to say.

The woman who answered couldve been Ians peer. Light hair messy in a knot, smile lines by her eyes, wary but not unkind.

Youre Laura Melton?

I am. And you are?

Zoe handed her the envelope. I found all your letters. Every one. Opened, readand hidden.

Laura stared at the envelope as if it might bite her. Then looked up.

Come in.

They sat in a kitchen as small as Zoes. The tea turned cold.

Twenty years I wrote to him, Laura began, then faltered. Monthly. Often more. Never a reply. Thought he hated mefor letting him go.

Letting him go?

Laura gripped her mug.

We were together three years. From uni. He wanted to marry. Iwas frightened. I was twenty-twothought life was just starting, why rush?

Told him to wait. He did. Half a year. Then she cameReggie. Stunning, confident, knew what she wanted. Ilost.

Zoe gave a sympathetic silence.

When they married, I left for my aunt’s in Bristol, told myself Id forget. Didnt. Five years later, started writingnot to get him back. Justso he knew. That I was there. That I still cared.

He never once replied.

Not once, Laura smiled sadly. Now I know why.

Zoe took the photograph from her bag.

She kept this at her bedside. Ian & Laura, 1998.

Lauras hands shook as she took it.

She keptthis? By her bed?

Exactly.

Silence.

You know, Laura finally said, I hated her all my life. The woman who took my love. NowI pity her.

Imagine, living twenty-five years in fear your husband would remember someone else. Reading my letters every day, hiding them. Thats hell. A hell of her own making.

Zoe stood.

Thank you for telling me.

Wait. Laura rose too. Why are you here? Youre not family. Not a friend.

Zoe hesitated.

Ive been blamed for her death. Ians daughterthinks I killed her to take her place.

And you want to prove your innocence?

Zoe shook her head.

I want to understand the truth. The rest will follow.

She phoned Ian on the way homesaid shed return. He waited on the porch, as the sun went down, tree shadows long across the grass.

You were right, Zoe told him. She wrote you letters for twenty years. Never married, waited for you.

He said nothing. Only his hand in his pocket clenched and unclenched.

Youve something in the safe, Zoe said. You practically guard the key.

Pause.

Come with me.

The safe was in the studyold, heavy. Ian opened it and took out an envelope, handwriting sharp and spikyReggies.

She wrote it two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral documents.

Zoe opened it. Inside, a handwritten letter, words filling the page.

Ianif youre reading this, then Im gone and youve found the box. I always knew this day would come. And yet, I couldnt stop.

I started intercepting her letters in 2004, five years after we married. You changedbecame distant, withdrawn. I thought you no longer loved me. Then I found the first letter in the post. And I realised.

She never let you go.

I should have shown you that letter. Should have asked you about it. But I was afraid youd leavethat youd choose her. So I hid it. The next one, too. And so on.

For twenty years, I stole your post. For twenty years, I read someone elses love for you. And every day, I hated myself. But I couldnt stop.

I loved you so much I destroyed everything: your right to choose. Her hope. My own conscience.

Forgive me, if you can. I know I dont deserve it. But I still ask.

Reggie.

Zoe folded the letter.

Does Christina know?

No.

She needs to. You know that.

Ian turned away.

She adored her mother. Thiswould break her.

Shes already broken, Zoe said softly. Shes lost her mum and fears losing her dad, so she lashes out, looking for blame.

Ian said nothing.

If you tell her the truth, she may hate youfor a while. But then, she might one day understand. If you stay silent, shell never forgive either of us. Not you. Not herself.

He turned. His eyes were wet.

I dont know how to talk to her. Since Reggies illnesswe barely spoke.

Then learn. Tonight.

Christina arrived an hour later. Zoe watched her from the windowstepping out, pulling at her ponytail, freezing when she saw her father.

They talked for a long time. Zoe heard only voices at firstChristina shouting, then sobbing, then silence.

When Christina emerged, she held Reggies letter. Her face was swollen with tears, but the anger had drainedleaving only loss.

She approached Zoe, who waited for accusations or blame.

Ive deleted my post, Christina said quietly. Written a retraction. And Im sorry. I was wrong.

Zoe nodded.

I understand. Grief can make us cruel.

Christina shook her head.

No, not grief. Fear. I was scared of being left alone. Mum was gone, Dad becamea stranger. And you were there. You saw her last days. You knew her. I thought you wanted her place. To take Dad.

I want nothing to steal.

I know that, now.

Awkwardly, Christina reached out and Zoe squeezed her hand.

Mumshe was unhappy, wasnt she? Christina asked softly. All her life?

Zoe thought of the letter. Twenty years of fear and jealousy. A love turned cage.

She loved your dadin her way. Not always rightly. But she loved him.

Christina nodded, then sat on the step and weptquiet, soundless tears.

Zoe sat beside her. Not hugging, just there.

Two weeks passed.

Zoe got her job backChristina called the head doctor in person. Reputation is fragile, but sometimes it can be mended.

Ian rang one evening, much like he had that first time.

Zoe Williams. I wanted to thank you.

For what?

For the truth. For not letting me hide.

A pause.

Im going to Bristol tomorrow. To see Laura. I dont know what Ill say, or if shell even want to see me. Butafter twenty years, I have to try. Silence can last too long.

Zoe smiled into the phonehe couldnt see it, but perhaps he heard it.

Good luck, Ian.

A month later, he returnedwith company.

Zoe found out by chance, spotting them at the Saturday market. Ian carrying bags, Laura choosing tomatoes. A simple scenetwo people shopping. But their easy togetherness gave away something more.

Ian noticed her, raised his hand in greetingthe right hand, out of his pocket.

Zoe waved back and walked on.

That evening, she opened her window. The dusk of May smelled of lilac and petrolordinary, alive.

She thought of Reggieher lilies, the box of letters, a love turned prison. Of Lauratwenty years of waiting, of hope kept alive. Of Ianhis long silence, the key in his pocket, the man who finally chose.

Then she stopped thinking. Just sat quietly, listening to the city, waiting for somethingshe wasnt sure what.

Her phone rang.

Zoe? Its Ian. Just Ian. Were having dinner here. Lauras making pie. Would you like to join us?

Zoe glanced around her tiny flattwenty-eight square metres of quiet. Then out the open window.

Ill be there in an hour.

She hung up, took her keys, and left.

The door shut with a soft click. Outside, sunset burned over the rooftopsfiery, gentle, promising a peaceful tomorrow.

Sometimes, even after years of heartbreak and misunderstanding, the truth still finds its wayand with it, the chance to begin again.

“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Finally Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Relatives, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My Home The intercom didn’t just buzz – it howled, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The only day I’d planned a lie-in after closing the quarterly report, and definitely not a day for visitors. On the video screen appeared my sister-in-law’s face. Svetlana, my husband Igor’s sister, looked ready to storm the barricades, with three wild-haired kids bobbing in the background. “Igor!” I called without picking up. “Your family’s here. Deal with it.” He shuffled out of the bedroom pulling his shorts on backwards, knowing from my tone that my patience for his relatives was long gone. While he mumbled into the intercom, I waited arms crossed in my own hallway—my flat, my rules. I’d bought this central London three-bed years before we got married, slaved through the mortgage, and the last thing I wanted was a house full of strangers. The door banged open and in tumbled the clan. Svetlana, weighed down with bags, didn’t even greet me—just shouldered past like I was a piece of furniture. “Thank goodness we made it!” she announced, dropping her bags right onto my Italian tiles. “Alina, why are you rooted at the door? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said evenly, while Igor shrank into his shoulders. “What’s going on?” “What, he didn’t tell you?” she answered, immediately in innocent mode. “We’re having major renovations! New pipes, new floors, impossible to live at home, dust everywhere. We’ll just stay with you for a week. Plenty of space in this palace of yours, isn’t there?” I turned to Igor, who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating, clearly dreading what would come later. “Igor?” “Oh come on, Alina,” he pleaded, “She’s my sister. Where are they supposed to go? Just a week.” “One week,” I replied. “Seven days. You feed yourselves, no running around the flat, no touching the walls, keep away from my office, and absolute silence after ten.” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “You’re such a fun sponge, Alina. Alcatraz couldn’t compete. Anyway, where do we sleep? Not on the floor, I hope?” And so began the nightmare. A week turned to two. Then three. My spotless flat designed with care now resembled a barn. The hallway was a hazard of filthy shoes, the kitchen a disaster zone: greasy stains on quartz, crumbs, sticky puddles. Svetlana behaved like a lady of the manor, and I was the staff. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she complained one night. “The kids need yogurts, and Igor and I want meat. Can’t you spoil your relatives a bit, now you’re on such a good salary?” “You’ve got a bank card and shops,” I replied, not looking up from my laptop. “Delivery’s 24/7.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take your money with you to the grave, you know.” It wasn’t even the worst. One day coming home early, I found my nephews in my bedroom. The eldest bouncing on my extortionate mattress, the youngest drawing on my bedroom wall. With my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “OUT!” I barked, scattering the children. Svetlana rushed in, saw the ruined wallpaper and broken lipstick and just shrugged. “What’s the fuss? They’re kids! It’s just a mark on the wall. You’ll sort it. It’s only a lipstick. Buy a new one, you won’t go broke. Oh, by the way, we’ve realised our builders are useless, so we’re probably here until the summer. Anyway, it must be nice for you, not so lonely with all of us around!” Igor quietly stood by, saying nothing. Pathetic. I left for the bathroom before I did something criminal. That evening, Svetlana went to shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen table. The screen lit up: “Marina Lettings – Svetlana, sent you next month’s rent; the tenants are happy, asking if they can stay through August.” Then her bank pinged: “+£800 received.” Everything clicked. There was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for easy money and decided to live off me—free food, free bills, and a profitable passive income. All at my expense. I snapped a photo of her screen. My hands didn’t tremble; I’d never been calmer. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” When he saw the photo, the blood drained from his face. “It might be a mistake, Alina…” “The only mistake here is you not kicking them out. They’re gone by lunchtime tomorrow, or you’re all out. You, your mum, your sister—the lot of you.” “But where will they go?” “I don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can afford it.” In the morning, Svetlana breezed out for a shopping spree—clearly spending her rent windfall—leaving the kids with Igor. As soon as the door shut: “Igor, take the kids out for a long walk. I’m ‘dealing with pests.’” As soon as they left, I called an emergency locksmith, then our local police station. Hospitality was over. It was time for a clean sweep. While the locksmith fitted a monster lock, I gathered up everything: Svetlana’s bras, kids’ tights, scattered toys, all into big black sacks. I didn’t fold—I stuffed. Her cosmetics, all of it. Within forty minutes, there was a pile by the door: five bin bags and two suitcases. When the police officer arrived, I produced all my documents, proving sole ownership. “Relatives?” he asked. “Ex-relatives,” I said. “Property negotiations are over.” Svetlana returned smiling, arms full of designer shopping, until she saw the pile and me with a copper. “What the hell, Alina? You’ve lost it! Where’s Igor? I’m calling him!” “Go ahead. He’s explaining to his kids why their mum is so enterprising.” She redialled; voicemail. Maybe at last Igor developed a backbone—or just feared divorce (and leaving with nothing). “You can’t do this! We’ve nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Give Marina my regards. See if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll be moving back in yourself.” She froze, colour draining from her face. “Lock your phone next time, entrepreneur. You’ve lived off me for a month, eating my food, trashing my home, while letting your own for profit so you can save for a new car? Nice try. But it’s over.” She snatched her bags, swearing, hands shaking as she called a taxi. The lift doors closed behind her, taking all her baggage—literally and figuratively. I turned to the copper: “Thanks for the help.” “Just get decent locks,” he grinned. I locked the door. The satisfying click of the new lock was music to my ears. The smell of disinfectant lingered—clean-up crew opening every room. Igor returned, alone. He looked around warily. “Alina… she’s gone.” “I know.” “She was shouting awful things…” “I don’t care what rats scream as they’re chased off a sinking ship.” I sat in my spotless kitchen, drinking coffee from my own unbroken mug. The lipstick-marks were scrubbed away; only my food in the fridge. “You knew about the letting?” “No! Honestly, Alina! If I’d known—” “You’d have said nothing. Remember this, Igor: one more stunt from your family and your bags go out with theirs. Understood?” He nodded, eyes wide. He knew I meant it. I took a long sip of coffee. It was perfect—hot, strong, and, most importantly, enjoyed in the peace and quiet of my very own home. My crown? It fit just right.

“A Good Woman – What Would We Do Without Her? — And You Only Pay Her Two Thousand a Month. — Elena, We’ve Left Her the Flat in Our Will Nicolas slowly rose from bed and shuffled into the next room, his dim eyes falling on his sleeping wife in the glow of the night lamp. He knelt beside her, listening quietly. ‘All seems well.’ He wandered to the kitchen, poured some kefir, popped into the bathroom, then returned to his own room. He lay down but couldn’t sleep: ‘Elena and I are both ninety now. How many years together? Soon we’ll be with God, and no one is left beside us. Our daughters, Natalie—gone before sixty. Maxim too is gone. He went off the rails… There’s a granddaughter, Oksana, but she’s lived in Poland for twenty years. She’s probably got grown-up children of her own by now. Never remembers her grandparents.’ He drifted off without realising. A gentle touch woke him: ‘Nicolas, are you alright?’ came a quiet voice. He opened his eyes. His wife was leaning over him. ‘What is it, Elena?’ ‘You were just lying there, not moving.’ ‘Still alive! Go and sleep!’ Shuffling footsteps sounded. The kitchen light clicked. Elena took a drink, visited the bathroom, then returned to her room, lying down with a sigh: ‘One day I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. What will I do? Or maybe I’ll go first. Nicolas has even prearranged our memorial. I never thought you could arrange such a thing in advance. But on the other hand, who else would do it for us? Our granddaughter’s forgotten us. Only the neighbour, Jean, comes in. She’s got a key to our flat. Granddad gives her a thousand from our pension—she shops, helps us out. Where else would we spend our money? We can’t even go down the stairs from the fourth floor ourselves anymore.’ Through the window, Nicolas watched the elder tree’s fresh green leaves shimmering in the morning sun. He smiled. ‘We’ve made it to summer!’ He went to see his wife, who was sitting lost in thought. ‘Elena, stop fretting! Come, I want to show you something.’ ‘Oh, I’ve no energy left!’ she groaned, struggling to her feet. ‘What have you got planned?’ ‘Come on, come on!’ He guided her gently onto the balcony. ‘Look, the elder’s green! And you said we wouldn’t make it to summer. We did!’ ‘Oh, so it is! And the sun’s shining.’ They sat on the bench together. ‘Remember when I took you to the pictures? Back at school. The elder turned green that day too.’ ‘You never forget such things, do you? Seventy-five years ago now.’ They reminisced for ages. So much is forgotten in old age—even yesterday’s details—but never your youth. ‘My word, we’ve been nattering! We’ve not even had breakfast.’ ‘Elena, make some good tea—not this herbal business!’ ‘We’re not supposed to.’ ‘Make it weak and pop a spoon of sugar in, if you will.’ Nicolas sipped the weak tea and nibbled a little cheese sandwich, thinking of the days when tea was strong and sweet, with pies or pancakes for breakfast. Their neighbour dropped in, smiling warmly. ‘How are you both?’ ‘Still cracking jokes at ninety,’ grinned Nicolas. ‘If you can joke, you’re doing alright. Need anything from the shops?’ ‘Jean, buy us some meat,’ Nicolas pleaded. ‘You’re not supposed to have it.’ ‘Chicken’s allowed.’ ‘Alright, I’ll get some. I’ll make you noodle soup for lunch!’ She tidied, washed up and left. ‘Elena, let’s get some sun on the balcony.’ ‘Let’s.’ Jean came outside. ‘Missing the sunshine, are you?’ ‘It’s lovely out here, Jean!’ smiled Elena. ‘I’ll bring your breakfast out. And start lunch, too.’ ‘She’s a good woman—what would we do without her?’ ‘And you only give her two grand a month.’ ‘Elena, we’ve left her the flat.’ ‘She doesn’t know that.’ They sat outside until lunch. Chicken noodle soup—rich, with pieces of meat and creamy potatoes: ‘I always made soup like this for Natalie and Max when they were small,’ Elena remembered. ‘And now in old age, strangers cook for us,’ Nicolas sighed. ‘Maybe it’s our destiny, my dear Nicolas. When we’re gone, there’ll be no one to cry for us.’ ‘Enough now, Elena—let’s have a nap!’ ‘Nicolas, they say: “Old men are like children.” Everything’s like childhood—soft soup, nap time, and tea.’ After a doze, Nicolas shuffled to the kitchen. Two glasses of juice were waiting, set out by Jean. He carried them carefully to his wife’s room, where she stared into the window. ‘Why glum, Elena? Here’s some juice!’ She sipped some. ‘Can’t sleep either?’ ‘Must be the weather.’ ‘I’ve not felt right today either,’ Elena admitted quietly. ‘I think my time is nearly up. Please make sure I’m buried properly.’ ‘Don’t say things like that, Elena. How will I live without you?’ ‘One of us has to go first.’ ‘Enough! Come onto the balcony with me.’ They sat until evening. Jean made cheese pancakes. They ate, then watched TV as usual. New films were hard to follow these days, so they stuck to old comedies and cartoons. Tonight, just one cartoon before Elena stood up. ‘I’ll go to bed, feeling tired.’ ‘Me too then.’ ‘Let me have a good look at you!’ she suddenly said. ‘Why?’ ‘Just want to.’ They looked at each other a long while. Remembering, perhaps, when everything was before them. ‘I’ll walk you to your bed.’ Arm in arm, they slowly left the room. He tucked her in carefully before heading to his own bed. Something weighed on his heart. He barely slept. He thought he must not have slept at all but saw it was two am. He went to his wife’s room. She lay with eyes wide open. ‘Elena!’ He took her hand. ‘Elena! Oh, Elena—!’ Suddenly his own breath faltered. He returned to his room, put the prepared documents on the table. Back to his wife. He gazed at her for a long time. Then lay beside her and closed his eyes. He saw his Elena, young and beautiful as seventy-five years ago, walking towards a light. He ran to catch up, taking her hand. In the morning, Jean entered the bedroom. They lay side by side, the same peaceful, happy smile on both faces. At last, she rang for an ambulance. The doctor shook his head in wonder: ‘They went together. Must have truly loved one another…’ They were taken away. Jean sank onto a chair. Then she saw the papers—the will, in her name. She bent her head and cried… Please give a like and share your thoughts in the comments below!”

When the Key Turned in the Lock, His Heart Nearly Burst from His Chest, and His Soul Raced to Meet Her… 🤔 “How many more mistakes can you make?! Your errors are just ridiculous! Look at this!” – Allison Edwards jabbed her immaculate manicure into the monthly report, nearly snapping a nail extension. “Go on! Redo it. And frankly, if you can’t cope – quit!” Her boss, though generally polished and attractive, could morph into a demon when angry. Lisa left the office in silence. Just over an hour left of the workday—she needed to finish, even though her bonus had already been taken away. It felt like she was trapped in an endless string of bad luck, peppered with obstacles. Last week, she’d called her mum only for another row to erupt out of nowhere, ending with accusations, slammed phone, and an ache she could never get used to. Now Lisa was even frightened to call again. Just two days ago, she lost her bank card and had to block it and order a new one. And yesterday, her only companion, Fenella—a year-old calico cat—went after a bird on the balcony and tumbled down from the third floor. Lisa saw Fenella get up, shake herself off, and walk away, but when she went down, the cat was nowhere to be found. A whole day had nearly passed, and still no sign of Fenella. Lisa finally submitted her wretched report and made her way home, too drained to even think about stopping at the shops. Collapsing onto the sofa, she wept bitterly, the tears drying up half an hour later with no relief. Dark thoughts slithered through her mind: What was the point? Her mother didn’t want her, she had no family, and now even her cat was gone. Somehow, her decision made everything easier. “They can break their own nails and run the place to bits for all I care!” she thought grimly. At least she wouldn’t have to go to work tomorrow, or call her mum to beg forgiveness for things she hadn’t done. Strangely, a maniacal giddiness swept over her. And just as she teetered one small step away from it all—a phone rang. An unknown number glowed on the screen. She almost didn’t answer, but the idle thought struck: what if this is the last human voice I ever hear? “Hello?” she said. But there was silence. “Well, you called—are you going to say something?” Her irritation flared. “Good evening…” A deep male voice crackled through the speaker. “Please, don’t hang up.” “Who are you? What do you want?” Lisa snapped, impatient with the interruption to her crucial plan. “I just wanted to hear someone’s voice… I haven’t spoken to anyone all week. I thought if no one answered me, that would be it…” He drew a shuddering breath. “What do you mean? Can’t you just get out and chat to someone in the park? It’s not hard!” Lisa clambered up onto her broad bay window. “I can’t. I live on the fifth floor. My wife left last week…” His voice faltered. “I probably would have left you, too! Man up—what’s your problem?” Lisa had little patience for whatever his complaint was. “I’m in a wheelchair. It’s only been this way for less than a year. Five flights of stairs, no lift… I’m not likely to make it.” His voice grew steadier. “No legs?” Lisa blurted in horror, then immediately regretted it—but the words were out and couldn’t be caught back. “No, just a spinal injury. I can’t walk.” She thought she even heard him exhale and smile. They talked for another half hour. Lisa noted down his address, and an hour later she was at his door, laden with two huge Tesco bags. A young, handsome man in a wheelchair greeted her. “I’m Lisa!” Only now did she realize she didn’t even know his name. “Arthur!” he replied with such warmth and beaming joy, it was as though he’d been waiting for her his whole life. They didn’t live far apart at all. Lisa visited every day, quickly realizing her problems were mere trifles next to his. Troubles that had made her want to give up now seemed tiny. Lisa changed—she became stronger, more determined, more caring as she looked after Arthur. As if by magic, Fenella reappeared, sitting patiently on the doormat when Lisa returned from work. Her boss, Allison Edwards, tried to start up another morning tirade. Lisa didn’t let her finish. “Allison, what right do you have to shout at me and belittle me? I can’t work in this stress. I’m about to get a migraine and go on sick leave—who’s going to cover me then?” The girls in the office snorted with laughter. Her boss turned and left in silence. Mum couldn’t stand the silence any longer and called: “Hello, daughter! Why haven’t you called? Don’t you care how your mum is living? How cold-hearted! So ungrateful! Elizabeth, are you even listening to me?” The woman’s voice rose to a shout. “Hello, Mum. I don’t want to talk to you if you’re going to shout.” Lisa stayed calm and even. “How dare you?! I’m hanging up!” Mum shrieked. “Go ahead…” Lisa replied coolly. Two days later, her mum phoned again. She didn’t apologize—never would—but kept within the bounds of civility. A month later, Lisa moved in with Arthur, renting her own place out. Their friendship blossomed into tenderness, trust, gratitude—perhaps this is how love is born. With the extra income, Lisa hired a massage therapist for Arthur and signed him up for weekend swimming sessions. Miraculously, sensation began to return. Arthur could wiggle his toes. Lisa’s mum fell ill, and Lisa, taking two days’ leave, went to care for her. Arthur waited, missing her desperately. Like a loyal dog, he lay on the sofa for days, waiting. It was February. A blizzard raged that evening. He knew when Lisa’s coach was due, had calculated the time it would take her to get home and climb the steps—but she didn’t come. He positioned himself at the window. The world outside was impenetrable, snow swirling in a blinding wall. Her phone had been out of charge for hours. One hour, two, three slipped by… When the key finally turned in the lock, his heart nearly leapt from his chest, and his soul flew out to greet her. “Arthur, the coach got stuck in a snow drift and we had to wait for rescue… My phone died almost straight away,” she called out, tugging her boots off in the hall. “Arthur!” she rushed into the lounge and stopped in shock. He was on his feet, only a couple of steps from his chair, smiling.

The Caretaker for the Widower A month ago, she was hired to care for Regina White—bedridden after a stroke. Thirty days she tended to her every need, turning her, changing sheets, monitoring IVs. Three days ago, Regina passed away quietly in her sleep. Doctors declared it a second stroke. No one to blame. No one—except the nurse. At least, that’s what the daughter believed. Zina brushed a thin white scar on her wrist—a burn mark from her first job at the local clinic. Fifteen years ago, she was young and careless; now, she was near forty, divorced, her son with her ex-husband. And with a reputation that was about to be ruined. “You dare come here?” Christina seemed to appear out of nowhere. Hair pulled so tight her temples paled, eyes red from sleeplessness—she looked far older than her twenty-five years. “I wanted to pay my respects,” Zina replied calmly. “Pay respects?” Christina hissed. “I know what you did. Everyone will know.” Christina stalked off—toward the coffin, toward her stone-faced father with his right hand in his jacket pocket. Zina didn’t follow. She didn’t explain. She’d realised already: no matter what, she’d be made the villain. Christina’s post appeared two days later. “My mum’s death is shrouded in mystery. The nurse who was supposed to look after her may have hurried her on. Police refuse to investigate. But I will find justice.” Three thousand shares. Comments mostly sympathetic. A few screaming, “Find that monster.” Zina read it on her bus ride home from the GP clinic—or rather, from her now-former side job. “Zinaida Palmer, you understand…” the head GP didn’t meet her eye. “This has caused a stir… Patients are worried. Staff are anxious. Temporarily—until things settle.” Temporarily. Zina knew that meant never. Her tiny flat—one room, a kitchenette, three floors up, no lift—greeted her with silence. All that was left after divorce: twenty-eight square metres, just enough to survive, not to live. Her phone rang as she filled the kettle. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias White.” She nearly dropped the kettle. She remembered his low, hoarse voice—during that month caring for Regina, he seldom spoke, but when he did, she remembered. “Yes?” “I need your help. Regina’s… things. I can’t. Christina least of all. You’re the only one who knows where everything is.” After a pause, Zina said, “Your daughter accuses me of murder. You know this?” A long, heavy silence. “I know.” “And you’re still calling?” “I’m still calling.” She should have refused—any sensible person would have. But something in his voice—less a request, more a plea—made her say: “I’ll be there at two tomorrow.” The White family home stood outside town—two stories, spacious, echoing with emptiness. Zina remembered it differently, full of bustle, beeping machines, nurses. Now, silence covered every surface like dust. Elias answered himself. Nearly fifty, grey at the temples, broad-shouldered—now hunched. Right hand in pocket, she noticed something metallic outlined beneath the fabric. A key? “Thank you for coming.” “I’m not doing it for you.” He arched an eyebrow. “Then for whom?” For herself, she thought. To understand: why the silence? Why not defend her when he knew she was innocent? Aloud, she said, “For order. Where are the keys to her room?” Regina’s room smelled of lily-of-the-valley—sweet and suffocating. Perfume. The scent lingered, soaked into the walls. Zina worked methodically: sorting cupboards, packing clothes in boxes, organising paperwork. Elias stayed downstairs—she heard his footsteps, pacing corner to corner. On the bedside table: a photo. Zina reached to pack it—and froze. Elias, young, about twenty-five; next to him, a woman. Fair-haired, smiling—not Regina. Zina turned it over. “Eli and Laura. 1998,” the faded inscription read. Strange. Why did Regina keep her husband’s photo with another woman by her bed? She placed it in her bag and kept working. Kneeling near the bed, her hand brushed something wooden. A small box. No lock. She pulled it out; the lid flipped open. Inside—envelopes. Dozens, stacked neatly, all in a woman’s rounded hand. All opened and re-sealed with care. The top: “Elias Andrew White.” Sender: “L. V. Melnyk, Leeds.” Date: November 2024, last month. She rifled through—the oldest dated 2004. Twenty years. For two decades someone wrote to Elias—Regina intercepted the letters. And kept them. Not thrown away, but preserved. Why? Zina sniffed an envelope—the same lily-of-the-valley scent. Regina had handled them, read and re-read, the creases worn. She left the box on the bed and sat, hands trembling. This changed everything. “Mr. White.” He looked up from the kitchen table, untouched mug before him, gardens and terraces blurred beyond the window. “All done?” “No.” She put an envelope before him. “Who is Larissa Melnyk?” His face transformed—not pale but stone. His hand tightened in his pocket. “Where did you find this?” “Box under the bed. Hundreds. Twenty years’ worth. All opened and resealed by your wife.” He was silent a long, unbearable moment. Then rose, turned to the window, back to her. “You knew?” Zina asked. “Found out three days ago. After the funeral, sorting her things… Thought I could manage. Found the box.” “And you say nothing?” “What am I supposed to say?” He spun toward her. “My wife stole my post for twenty years. Stole letters from the woman I loved before her. “Kept them—as trophies, or punishment, I don’t know. And now am I supposed to—what—tell my daughter? She worshipped her mother.” Zina stood. “Your daughter accuses me of killing your wife. I lost my job. My name is being dragged through the mud online. And you stay silent—afraid of the truth?” He stepped closer, eyes dark, drained. “I stay silent because I don’t know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zinaida. For twenty years Larissa wrote—I thought she’d forgotten me, moved on, had children. But she…” He couldn’t finish. Zina raised the envelope. “Return address—Leeds. I’ll go.” “Why?” “Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.” Larissa Melnyk lived in a ground-floor flat at the edge of Leeds—windows lined with geraniums, a cat on the sill. Zina rang the bell uncertainly. A woman of Elias’ age opened. Blonde hair in a loose bun, crow’s feet at her eyes, cautious but not hostile. “You’re Larissa Valerie Melnyk?” “Yes. And you are?” Zina held out the envelope. “I found your letters. Every one. Opened, read, hidden away.” Larissa looked at it as if it might bite, then met Zina’s eyes. “Come in.” They sat in a cramped kitchen, tea cooling in mugs. “I wrote for twenty years,” Larissa said. “Every month. Sometimes more. No reply. I thought—he hated me. For letting him go.” “Letting him go?” She gripped her mug. “We were together three years. From university. He wanted to marry. I… I was scared—just twenty-two, life ahead, why rush?” “I said wait. He waited. Six months. Then she came—Regina. Beautiful, certain, knowing exactly what she wanted. And I…lost.” Zina said nothing. “When they married, I moved to Leeds. Thought I’d forget. I didn’t. After five years, I started writing. Not to win him back—just so he’d know. That I existed. That I still thought of him. “And he never replied.” “Never,” Larissa gave a bitter smile. “Now I know why.” Zina produced the photo. “This was on her bedside table. ‘Eli & Lara, 1998’.” Larissa’s fingers shook as she took it. “She kept this… by her bed?” “Yes.” Silence. “You know,” Larissa said softly, “I hated her, my whole life. The woman who stole my love. But now… now I pity her. “Twenty-five years with a man, always fearing he’d remember another. Reading my letters, hiding them. That’s hell—her own, self-made hell.” Zina stood up. “Thank you for telling me.” “Why are you doing this?” Larissa asked, rising. “You’re not family or a friend.” Zina stalled. “I’m blamed for her death. Elias’s daughter… she thinks I wanted her place.” “And you want to prove your innocence?” Zina shook her head. “I want to understand the truth. The rest will follow.” Zina called Elias on the way back—said she was returning. He waited on the porch, dusk painting the grass in long streaks. “You were right,” she told him as she approached. “Larissa wrote for twenty years. She never married. She waited.” He didn’t answer. His hand in his pocket tightened, relaxed. “There’s something in your safe,” she said. “You keep touching the key—as if you fear it’ll disappear.” Pause. “Come.” The safe was in the study, the old sort from the Thatcher days. Elias unlocked it and retrieved an envelope—the handwriting, harsh and jagged, Regina’s. “She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral papers.” Zina took it. Inside—a page covered in cramped writing. “Elias, if you’re reading this, I’m gone, and you’ve found the box. I always knew you would, someday. I knew—and still couldn’t stop. I began stealing her letters in 2004. Five years after our wedding. You grew distant, silent. I thought you stopped loving me. Then I found her first letter in the mailbox. And I knew. She never let you go. I should have shown you the letter. Should have asked. But I was afraid—afraid you’d leave, choose her. So I hid it. Then the next one. And the next. For twenty years, I stole your post. Twenty years I read someone else’s love for you. Hated myself daily. But I couldn’t stop. I loved you so much, I destroyed everything—your chance to choose, her hope, my own conscience. Forgive me, if you can. I know I don’t deserve it. But I ask anyway. Regina.” Zina let the letter drop. “Does Christina know?” “No.” “She should. You know that?” Elias turned away. “She adored her mother. This will ruin her.” “She already is,” Zina said softly. “She lost her mum and fears she’ll lose you. So she blames me. She needs a villain; otherwise, she’d have to face her own grief, and that’s something you can’t fight.” Elias was silent. “If you tell her the truth—she might hate you, for a while. But later she’ll understand. If you lie—she’ll never forgive you. Not you. Not herself.” He turned, eyes wet. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Since Regina fell ill… we stopped speaking.” “Then you’ll learn. Today.” Christina arrived an hour later. Zina saw her from the window—getting out, retying her ponytail, freezing as she saw her father on the porch. They talked for ages. Zina heard only voices, not words. At first Christina yelled, then cried, then fell silent. The door finally opened. Christina emerged, Regina’s letter in hand, face blotchy with tears, but her eyes—changed, not angry but lost. She approached Zina, who braced for accusations. “I deleted the post,” she said. “And posted a correction. And… I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Zina nodded. “I understand. Grief makes people cruel.” Christina shook her head. “Not grief—fear. I was terrified of ending up alone. Mum left. Dad changed. You were there. You saw her final days. You knew her differently. I thought—you meant to take her place. To steal Dad. “I don’t want to steal anything.” “I know. I do now.” Christina reached out, awkward as if she’d forgotten how. Zina shook her hand. “Mum… was she unhappy? All her life?” Zina thought of the letter—of twenty years of fear and jealousy, of love turned prison. “She loved your dad. In her own way. Wrong, maybe. But she did.” Christina nodded, then sat on the porch steps and wept, quietly, soundlessly. Zina sat beside her. Not hugging—just present. Two weeks passed. Zina was reinstated at work—after Christina personally phoned the head GP. Reputation is fragile, but sometimes, you can piece it back together. Elias called that night—like the first time. “Zinaida Palmer. Thank you.” “For what?” “For the truth. For not letting me hide.” Pause. “I’m going to Leeds,” he said. “Tomorrow. To see Larissa. Don’t know what I’ll say or if she’ll see me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long to be silent.” Zina smiled—he couldn’t see, but perhaps he heard. “Good luck, Elias.” “Elias. Just Elias.” A month later, he returned—with company. Zina discovered by chance; saw them at the local market. Elias carrying shopping bags, Larissa picking tomatoes. An ordinary scene—just two people shopping. But there was a lightness, a synchronicity—more than routine. Elias noticed her, raised a hand—his right hand, no longer hidden. Zina waved back and went on her way. That evening, she opened her window. May carried the scent of lilac and petrol from the road—a familiar, living smell. She thought of Regina—her lilies of the valley, her secret box of letters, a love that became a prison. Of Larissa—twenty years of waiting, unanswered letters, faith undimmed. Of Elias—his silence, the key in his pocket, the man who finally chose. And then she stopped thinking. She simply sat by the window, listened to the city, and waited—not quite knowing for what. Her phone rang. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias. Just Elias. We’re having dinner here tonight. Larissa’s making pie. Care to join us?” Zina looked round her flat—twenty-eight square metres of quiet. At the open window. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up, grabbed her keys, and left. The door softly clicked behind her. Above the city, the sunset glowed gold and warm—a promise of a gentle tomorrow…