The Mother-in-Law Ann Peterson sat at her kitchen table, watching the milk quietly simmer on the stove. She’d forgotten to stir it three times now, each time realising too late as the froth spilled over, leaving her to irritably wipe the hob clean. In moments like these, she understood all too well: it wasn’t really about the milk. Since the birth of her second grandchild, it felt as though family life had derailed. Her daughter was exhausted, thinner, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes slipping straight off to his room. Ann Peterson saw it all and thought, “How can you leave a woman alone like that?” She spoke up. First gently, then more forcefully. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But soon she noticed something odd: after her words, the atmosphere at home grew heavier, not lighter. Her daughter defended her husband; her son-in-law grew more withdrawn; and Ann was left with the familiar sense that she’d done something wrong, yet again. That day, she went to see her vicar. Not for advice—she just had nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I must be a bad person,” she said, looking down. “I keep getting everything wrong.” The vicar, who’d been writing at his desk, set his pen aside. “What makes you think that?” Ann Peterson shrugged. “I wanted to help. But it seems I just make everyone cross.” He looked at her kindly, not sternly. “You’re not bad. You’re tired. And anxious.” She sighed. That sounded about right. “I worry for my daughter,” she admitted. “She’s not herself at all since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “He just doesn’t seem to notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked gently. Ann paused, remembering how last week her son-in-law had quietly washed the dishes late at night, thinking no one saw; how on Sunday he’d pushed the pram even though he looked ready to collapse. “He does help… I suppose,” she said uncertainly. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked calmly. Ann wanted to answer straight away, but suddenly she wasn’t sure. All she could think was: ‘More, more often, more attentively.’ But what that meant, specifically, was hard to say. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar said softly. “But say it to yourself, not to them.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “Right now, you’re not fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. Everyone gets worn out. Them, and you.” Ann was silent for a long time. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he said. “Just do what actually helps. Not words, but actions. And not against anyone—for someone.” On her way home, she thought about that. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she never lectured her—just sat beside her when she cried. Why was it so different now? The next day, she dropped in unannounced, bringing homemade soup. Her daughter looked surprised, her son-in-law awkward. “I won’t stay long,” Ann said. “Just here to help.” She sat with the children while her daughter napped. She slipped away quietly, without mentioning how hard things must be or how things ought to be done. A week later, she came again. And the week after. She still noticed her son-in-law’s faults, but she noticed other things too: how gently he held the baby, how he tucked a blanket around her daughter at night, thinking no one was watching. One day she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked surprised, as though no one had ever asked. “It is hard,” he said after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But whatever had lingered awkward and sharp between them faded. Ann realised she’d been waiting for him to change—when what needed to change was her own approach. She stopped criticising him to her daughter. When her daughter complained, Ann didn’t say, “Told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she’d offer to watch the kids so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she’d phone her son-in-law to check in. It wasn’t easy. Anger was easier. But over time, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—but easier; the constant tension faded. One day, her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Those words stayed with Ann. She realised something simple: peace doesn’t come when someone admits they’re wrong. It comes when someone stops fighting first. She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That hadn’t changed. But alongside that lived something more important: wanting peace for her family. And each time the old feelings—irritation, resentment, the urge to be sharp—rose up, she’d ask herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer told her what to do next.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 3

MOTHER-IN-LAW

Margaret Allen sat alone in the kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmer on the hob. Three times shed forgotten to give it a stir, and each time shed caught it too late: the froth would rise and spill over, and shed mop it up with annoyance, realising, in those moments, that it wasnt really the milk that was the problem.

Since her second grandchild had arrived, the family seemed to have fallen off the rails. Her daughter had grown exhausted, thinner, and more withdrawn. Her son-in-law returned late from work, ate in silence, sometimes disappearing straight to their room. Margaret saw it all and thought: how can they possibly expect her to manage alone?

She tried to help. At first, gently; then, more bluntlyfirst speaking to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. But a strange thing happened: with every word she spoke, the air in the house grew heavier, not lighter. Her daughter started defending her husband, her son-in-law withdrew, and Margaret, every time she went home, was left with the nagging sense that shed once again got everything wrong.

One day, overwhelmed by it all, she went to see the local vicarnot for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to turn with her feelings.

I must be dreadful, she admitted, keeping her eyes lowered. Everything I do seems wrong.

The vicar, busy with something at his desk, set aside his pen.

What makes you say that?

Margaret shrugged. I only wanted to help. But all I seem to do is make things worse.

He watched her kindly, not judgmental at all. Youre not dreadful. Youre simply worn outand deeply worried.

She exhaled; it sounded close to the truth.

Im frightened for my daughter, she confessed. Shes just not herself after the birth. And he she waved a hand dismissivelyacts like he doesnt notice.

And have you noticed what *he* does? the vicar asked gently.

She paused, thinking back to the previous week when hed washed up quietly late at night, believing no one saw him. Or the Sunday hed taken the baby for a walk, although he looked ready to drop from exhaustion.

He does things, she admitted, but not too certain. Only not the things I think he should.

How should it be done, then? he asked, calm as anything.

Margaret wanted to answer at once, but realised she didnt know. Only that she wanted more, more often, and with more attention. But what more meant exactly, she couldnt quite say.

I just want it to be easier for her, she said in a small voice.

Say that to yourself, the vicar said quietly. Not to him. To yourself.

She looked up, puzzled. What do you mean?

I mean youre not fighting for your daughterbut with her husband. And fighting, being constantly braced for battlethat wears everyone out. You, them, all of you.

She sat in silence for a long while, then asked, So what am I supposed to do? Pretend everythings fine?

No, said the vicar. Just do what truly helps. Not talk, but actions. Not against anyone, but for someone.

On the way home, Margaret let those words roll around her mind. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didnt give lectures when the girl cried. She simply sat close by, wordless. Why is it so different now?

The next day, she turned up at their house unannounced, carrying a pot of homemade soup. Her daughter looked surprised, her son-in-law awkward.

I wont stay long, Margaret said softly. Just thought Id lend a hand.

She looked after the children while her daughter napped. Then she slipped away quietly, leaving without a speech about how hard things were or how they ought to live.

A week later, she did the same. And again, the next week.

She still noticed her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she started to see other things too: the way he picked up the baby gently, how he tucked a blanket over her daughter in the evenings, thinking nobody noticed.

One evening in the kitchen, she couldnt keep it in anymore and asked him, Is this a tough time for you?

He looked startled, as if nobody had ever asked. Yes, he admitted after a pause. Really tough.

That was all they said, but the sharpness that hung in the air between them seemed to melt away.

Margaret came to realise: all this time, shed wanted him to become someone else. Really, she needed to start with herself.

She no longer picked over his failings with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didnt say I told you so. She just listened. Sometimes, shed collect the children to give her daughter a break. Occasionally, shed give her son-in-law a ring just to check on him. None of it came easilybeing angry was always simpler.

But little by little, the house grew quieter. Not perfect, not even better in any obvious wayjust, blessedly, quieter. The knot of tension loosened.

One day, her daughter said to her, Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.

Margaret mulled over those words for ages.

She came to an ordinary but great truth: peace isnt about someone in the family admitting fault. Its about someone taking the first step to stop fighting.

She still wished her son-in-law was more attentive. That never left. But now, beside that longing lived another, more important wish: for peace in the family.

And whenever those old feelings reared upthe urge to criticise, to take offence, to get sharpshed pause and ask herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make it easier for them?

Almost always, that question showed her what to do next.

After Abandoning Her Twin Babies at Birth, the Mother Returned Over 20 Years Later… but She Wasn’t Ready for the Truth On the Night the Twins Were Born, His World Was Torn Apart It Wasn’t Their Crying That Frightened Him, but Her Silence—a Heavy, Lonely Quietness. Their Mother Watched from a Distance, Eyes Lost, as if They Were Strangers from a Life She No Longer Knew. “I Can’t…,” She Whispered. “I Just Can’t Be a Mum.” Her Leaving Wasn’t Dramatic—No Arguments, No Harsh Words. Just a Signature, a Closed Door, and a Void That Would Never Quite Heal. She Said the Weight of Motherhood Suffocated Her—She Needed to Breathe. So She Left… Leaving Behind Two Newborns and a Father Who Had No Idea How to Be a Single Dad. In the Early Months, He Slept Upright More Than in Bed. With Shaking Hands, He Learned to Change Nappies, Warm Bottles at Midnight, and Sing Softly to Soothe Their Tears. He Had No Manuals, No Help—Just Love. A Love That Grew With Each Passing Day. He Became Both Mum and Dad—Their Embrace, Their Shield, Their Answer. He Was There for First Words, First Steps, First Heartbreaks; There for Illnesses, Tears for Things They Didn’t Understand. He Never Spoke Ill of Her. Never. Just Said, “Sometimes People Leave Because They Don’t Know How to Stay.” They Grew Up Strong, United—Twins Who Knew the World Could Be Unfair, but That True Love Never Leaves. Over 20 Years Later, on an Ordinary Afternoon, There Was a Knock at the Door. It Was Her. Older, More Fragile, With Tired Eyes and Guilt Etched Into Her Face. She Said She Wanted to Know Them—That She Thought of Them Every Day, That She Regretted It, That She’d Been Young and Afraid. Their Father Stood in the Hallway, Arms Open but Heart Clenched. The Hard Part Wasn’t for Him… It Was for Them. The Twins Listened in Silence, Watching Her Like a Story Told Too Late. No Hatred in Their Gaze. No Revenge. Just a Quiet, Grown-Up Pain. “We Already Have a Mum,” One Said Quietly. “Her Name Is Sacrifice—and It Belongs to Our Dad,” the Other Added. They Didn’t Need to Reclaim What They’d Never Had—Because They Never Grew Up Without Love. They Grew Up Loved. Entirely. And, Perhaps for the First Time, She Understood That Some Goodbyes Can Never Truly Return. Because Real Love Isn’t About Giving Birth… It’s About Staying. A Dad Who Stays Is Worth a Thousand Promises. 👇 Tell Us in the Comments: What Does “True Parent” Mean to You? 🔁 Share for Everyone Who Grew Up with Just One Parent… But Everything They Needed.

Miss, when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table—I haven’t got time to waste! I’m feeling generous today, so put his bill on me. But the humble old man would put the wealthy snob in his place in the most unexpected way! In that little English bistro, nestled in a quiet corner of Britain, time seemed to move differently. It was a simple, cosy spot, filled with the scent of fresh bread and steaming soup—where people came not just to eat, but to feel at home… And every day, at the same hour, he would appear. An old man in worn clothes, hands roughened by years of work, with that weary look only a hard life leaves behind. He never asked for extras. Never complained. Never disturbed anyone. He took his usual seat in the corner, pulled off his flat cap, warmed his hands against the cold, and always said the same gentle words: — A soup… if you please. The waitress knew him by heart. Everyone did. Some glanced at him with pity. Others, with disdain. Most, though, simply saw him as part of the place: a man with nothing left to lose, but a dignity he never let go. Then, one day, the door swung open and the whole air changed. A man strode in, sharp suit, gleaming watch, the look of someone used to getting what he wants—immediately. That was Mr. Smith. Richard Smith. A businessman, well-heeled and “somebody.” Everyone knew who he was. As he sat at the prime table near the window, tossing his coat over the chair as if the café belonged to him, he caught sight of the old man. The old fellow was sipping his soup slowly, as if every mouthful was a small victory. Smith laughed, short and derisive, and motioned the waitress over. — Miss… when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table. I can’t afford to waste my time. I’m feeling generous today—just put his bill on me. The waitress froze. Not because it was a “charity.” But because his tone wasn’t kind. It was humiliating. The old man heard. Everyone heard. But he didn’t get up. Didn’t argue. No fuss. Just put his spoon down and looked up at the man in the suit. His eyes held not anger, but something far deeper: Memory. After a pause, his voice gentle and calm, he said: — Glad to see you’re well, Richard… Smith stiffened. The diner fell silent. The old man spoke on, never raising his voice: — But remember… when you had nothing, it was I who gave you a bowl of soup. You came from a poor family… used to run to my house at noon for a meal. Smith’s jaw dropped, his mask of “important man” yanked away in a heartbeat. The waitress stared. People began whispering. Smith tried to laugh—but the laugh wouldn’t come. — No… it can’t be… he murmured. The old man smiled sadly. — Oh, it can. I was your mother’s neighbor. I remember you hiding behind the fence—you were ashamed to be hungry. Smith’s eyes darted desperately, searching for a way out. But it wasn’t at the door anymore. It was inside. — You forgot me, the old man said. And I understand. Success makes us forget fast. But I never forgot you. You were the child who shivered in the cold and treated every bowl of soup like a gift from Heaven. Smith clutched his glass, his fingers trembling. — I… I didn’t know… he whispered, not really knowing what he meant. Not “didn’t know”—just “didn’t want to remember.” The old man rose slowly. Before leaving, he simply said: — You had everything today… yet chose to mock a man for eating soup. Don’t forget, Richard… Life can put you right where you once pointed your finger. And he left. No one breathed normally in the café. The waitress had tears in her eyes. The owner stared at the floor. And Richard Smith—the man who seemed to have the world at his feet—was, for the first time in years, small. So very small. He hurried after the old man, catching him at the door. — Sir… he said, voice breaking. Please… forgive me. The old man studied him. — It’s not me you need to ask forgiveness from. It’s the child you were—and buried, just to feel grand. Smith bowed his head. Then quietly said: — Come tomorrow… and the next day… and as long as God allows… Your soup will never be “cheap” again. The old man smiled. And for the first time in years, his eyes showed peace. Because sometimes God doesn’t punish us with loss. He punishes us with memories. To bring us back… to our humanity. If you’ve read this far, leave a ❤️ and share—someone out there might need to remember today that a person’s worth isn’t counted in money, but in soul.

GRANDMA, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never knew her parents. Her father left her mother while she was pregnant, and Lena never heard from him again. Her mother passed away from cancer when Lena was just a year old. From then on, Lena was raised by Granny Dot—her mum’s mum—who had lost her own husband young and devoted her life entirely to her daughter and granddaughter. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a unique, unbreakable bond. Granny Dot always knew exactly what Lena needed, and there was nothing but understanding between them. Everyone loved Granny Dot, from the neighbours to the teachers at school. She would often attend parents’ evenings bearing a basket of homemade scones—after all, nobody should sit hungry at meetings after a long day’s work. She never gossiped or spoke ill of others; people regularly came to her for advice. Lena felt so lucky to have such a wonderful grandma. Lena’s own romantic life, however, wasn’t so fortunate. School, university, and work kept her constantly rushing about; she dated now and then but never found the right person. Granny Dot worried about it: — “Why are you still single, darling? Surely there’s a nice lad out there for a beautiful, clever girl like you!” Lena would laugh it off, but deep down, she knew it was time to settle down—she was nearly thirty, after all. Then, suddenly, Granny Dot was gone: her heart simply stopped one night as she slept. Lena was beside herself, unable to accept what had happened. She went through the motions—work, shopping—on autopilot, and at home, only her cat Molly awaited her. The loneliness was sometimes unbearable. One day, on the train home, Lena was reading a book when a pleasant-looking, well-dressed man about forty sat opposite her. He watched her for a while, and, strangely, she didn’t mind. Eventually, he struck up a conversation about books—something Lena could discuss for hours. It felt like a scene from a romantic film. When her stop came, the man—Alex—invited her for coffee. Lena agreed, heart fluttering. Thus began a whirlwind romance. They spoke on the phone and messaged every day, though met in person less often because Alex was always busy with work. He never spoke about his past, family, or job, but Lena didn’t mind—she’d never been happier with a man. One day, Alex invited Lena to a fancy restaurant and hinted at a special occasion—surely, he was going to propose! Lena was thrilled. Finally, she was about to have the family she’d always wanted. If only Granny Dot were there to see it. That night, browsing online shops for the perfect dress, Lena fell asleep. In her dream, Granny Dot appeared, dressed in her favourite frock, and gently stroked Lena’s hair. — “Gran, you’re gone… how are you here?” — “My sweet Lena, I never truly left. I’m always by your side, seeing and listening, even if you can’t see me. I’ve come to warn you: don’t see this man again—he’s not good for you. Please, trust your granny.” Then she vanished. Lena woke, unsettled, but decided it was just a dream—though a niggling worry remained. Why would Granny Dot warn her about Alex? Granny had never met him. Still, she couldn’t decide what to wear for the big day; everything seemed to go wrong. Saturday came, and Lena arrived at the restaurant in an old dress, feeling flat. Alex noticed at once and tried to cheer her up. At the end of the meal, like a scene from a film, he got down on one knee and produced a sparkling ring. Suddenly dizzy, Lena thought she glimpsed Granny Dot’s reflection in the window—watching intently. This was the sign she needed. — “I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t…” — “But why, what have I done?” — “Nothing. I just… always trusted my granny.” She rushed out. He followed, enraged, and shouted, “Fine! Stay with your precious cat, then—nobody else will have you, you silly thing!” and stormed off. Lena was reeling. How could this smart, loving Alex turn into someone so cruel? The next day, she visited her old classmate Andy—now head of the local detective unit—and asked him to run a check on Alex. A day later, Andy called: — “Lena, I’m sorry, but your Alex is a serial conman. He befriends lonely women, marries them, gets them to put him on the property deeds or take out massive loans for his ‘business’, then tosses them out and divorces them. He’s got several convictions. You had a lucky escape.” Lena was stunned. How could Granny Dot have known Alex wasn’t right? It was a miracle—perhaps she really was watching over her. Lena bought groceries and cat food on her way home, walking briskly with a newfound confidence. She knew she wasn’t alone: Granny Dot would always be nearby. People say lost loved ones become our guardian angels, watching and protecting us from harm. And perhaps—just perhaps—they’re right.

The Elderly Gentleman Struggled from Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Shuffled into the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Peered with Dim Eyes at His Sleeping Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away? – He Sank to His Knees. – Seems She’s Still Breathing.” He Stood, Shuffled into the Kitchen, Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Returned to His Room. He Lay Down, but Sleep Wouldn’t Come: “We’re Both Ninety—Lena and I. What a Long Life! We’ll Die Soon, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter, Natasha, Passed Before She Hit Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, but She’s Been Living in Germany for Over Twenty Years. She’s Forgotten Her Grandparents Completely. She Must Have Grown Children by Now.” He Didn’t Realise When He Drifted Off. He Woke to a Hand Touching His Face: “Are You Alive, Kostya?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Bent Over Him. “What is it, Lena?” “I Saw You Weren’t Moving. I Got Frightened, Thought You’d Gone.” “Still Alive! Go Back to Bed!” There Were the Shuffling Footsteps, the Click of the Kitchen Light. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Went to the Loo, and Headed to Her Own Room. She Lay Down: “One Day I’ll Wake and He’ll Be Gone. What Will I Do? Or Maybe I’ll Go First. Kostya’s Already Arranged Our Funerals. Never Thought You Could Organise Your Own Send-Off. Then Again, Who Would Bury Us? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us. Only Polina, the Neighbour, Pops In—She Has a Key. Grandpa Gives Her Ten Thousand from Our Pension Each Month. She Buys Our Groceries and Medicines. What Else Would We Spend Our Money On? We Can’t Even Get Down From the Fourth Floor by Ourselves Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sun Peeped Through the Window. He Stepped Out onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Cherry Tree Treetop. A Smile Broke Across His Face: “We’ve Made It to Another Summer!” He Went to See His Wife, Who Sat on Her Bed, Lost in Thought. “Lena, Stop Brooding! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve Barely Any Strength Left!” Grumbled the Old Lady, Hauling Herself from Bed. “What Are You Planning Now?” “Come On, I’ll Help You!” Supporting Her by the Shoulders, He Led Her Out to the Balcony. “Look, the Cherry Tree’s Green! You Said We’d Never See Another Summer, and Here We Are!” “Oh, So True! The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Side by Side on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Took You to the Pictures for the First Time? Back in School. The Cherry Tree Had Just Budded that Day Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago That Was?” “Seventy-Plus… Seventy-Five.” For a Long Time, They Sat, Reminiscing. So Much Slips Away in Old Age, Sometimes Even What Happened Yesterday, but Youth Never Fades from Memory. “Oh, We’ve Chattered Away the Morning!” His Wife Shook Herself. “We’ve Not Had Breakfast Yet.” “Make Some Proper Tea, Lena! I’m Fed Up with All These Herbal Brews.” “We’re Not Supposed To.” “Just Make It Weak—Add a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Diluted Tea, Eating a Little Cheese Sandwich, and Remembered When Breakfast Meant Strong, Sweet Tea with Pasties or Meat Pies. Their Neighbour, Polina, Popped In. She Smiled in Approval: “How Are You Both Doing?” “What Business Can Two Ninety-Year-Olds Have?” He Quipped. “If You’re Joking, All Is Well. Need Me to Pick Anything Up?” “Polina, Buy Us Some Meat!” Requested Konstantin Leonidovich. “You’re Not Supposed To, Are You?” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Cook You Chicken Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Pick Up Something For My Heart?” Asked His Wife. “Elena Ivanovna, I Only Got You Some Recently.” “I’ve Run Out.” “Shall I Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Cleared the Table, Washed Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Out on the Balcony,” Suggested Her Husband. “Let’s Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! No Point Sitting in This Stuffy Flat.” Polina Returned, Stepped onto the Balcony: “Missing the Sunshine, Are You?” “It’s Lovely Here, Polina!” Elena Ivanovna Beamed. “I’ll Bring You Some Porridge and Then Start Soup for Lunch.” “She’s a Good Woman,” Said Konstantin as She Left. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And All We Give Her Is Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, The Flat’s Willed to Her—The Notary Confirmed It.” “She Doesn’t Know That.” They Stayed on the Balcony Until Lunch. The Chicken Soup Was Delicious, with Finely Cut Meat and Mashed Potatoes. “That’s How I Made Soup for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Small,” Elena Ivanovna Recalled. “And Now, In Our Old Age, Strangers Cook for Us.” Sighed Her Husband. “It’s Just Our Lot, Kostya. When We Die, Nobody Will Even Cry.” “Enough, Lena, Let’s Not Dwell. Let’s Have a Nap!” “Kostya, They Say: ‘Old Folk Are Like Little Ones.’ We Have Pureed Soup, Nap Time, an Afternoon Snack…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed but Soon Woke; He Couldn’t Sleep—Maybe It Was the Weather? He Stepped Into the Kitchen. On the Table, He Found Two Glasses of Juice, Thoughtfully Set Out by Polina. He Picked Them Up and Headed Carefully to His Wife’s Room. She Was Sitting on the Bed, Staring Out the Window. “Why So Glum, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice.” She Took a Sip: “You Can’t Sleep Either?” “The Weather—My Blood Pressure’s Up.” “I’ve Felt Off All Day,” Elena Ivanovna Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Much Time Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off.” “Don’t Be Silly, Lena. What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Will Go First, Either Way.” “That’s Enough! Let’s Go to the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Syrniki for Supper. They Ate and Watched the Telly as Usual, Only Old British Comedies and Cartoons These Days—Anything New Was Hard to Follow. Tonight, They Managed Just One Cartoon. Elena Ivanovna Got Up: “I’m Off to Bed—So Tired Tonight.” “Then I’ll Join You.” “Let Me Have a Good Look at You First!” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “Just Because.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time—Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Was Still Ahead. “I’ll Walk You to Your Bed,” She Said, Taking His Arm, and Slowly Led Him Off. He Tucked Her In, Went to His Own Room, But His Heart Was Heavier than Ever. He Thought He Didn’t Sleep, but the Digital Clock Read Two in the Morning. He Rose and Went to His Wife’s Room. She Was Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open. “Lena!” He Took Her Hand. It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened? Le-e-na!” Suddenly, He Himself Struggled for Breath. He Barely Made It to His Room, Put Their Prepared Documents on the Desk, Then Returned to His Wife. He Gazed at Her Face for a Long Time, Lay Down Beside Her, and Closed His Eyes. He Saw Lena, Young and Beautiful as Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant, Shining Light. He Rushed After, Caught Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered Their Bedroom. They Lay Side by Side, Identical, Contented Smiles on Their Faces. When She Came to Her Senses, She Rang for an Ambulance. The Doctor Examined Them and Shook His Head in Amazement: “They Passed On Together. Must Have Loved Each Other Deeply.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank, Exhausted, onto a Chair by the Table—and Then Spotted the Burial Agreement and… a Will in Her Name. She Buried Her Head in Her Hands and Burst Into Tears.