LAST LOVE “Iro, I’m telling you, I have no money! I gave everything I had left to Natasha yesterday. You know, she has two children!” Utterly distressed, Mrs. Anna Foster put the phone down. She didn’t even want to think about what her daughter had just said. “Why is it like this? My husband and I raised three children, did everything for them. We gave them the best start in life! They’re all university graduates and have respectable jobs. But now, in my old age, I have neither peace nor help.” “Oh, Harry, why did you have to leave me so soon? Life was easier with you,” Anna Foster thought, speaking to her late husband. Her heart squeezed painfully; she reached habitually for her medication. “Only one or two capsules left. If things get worse, I’ll have nothing to help myself. I’ll need to go to the chemist.” Anna Foster tried to stand, but had to sink back into her armchair, dizzy. “It’s alright, the tablet will kick in soon. I’ll feel better.” But the minutes passed, and she felt no better. Anna Foster dialled her youngest daughter: “Natasha…” was all she managed to say before— “Mum, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you back!” She called her son: “Love, I feel really poorly. I’ve run out of tablets. Could you after work—” He cut her off. “Mum, I’m not a doctor, and you’re not either! Call an ambulance, don’t wait!” Anna Foster sighed heavily. “He’s right, I suppose. If I still feel bad in half an hour, I’ll ring for an ambulance.” She reclined carefully in her chair and closed her eyes, counting silently to a hundred to calm herself. Suddenly, from far away, she heard a sound. The phone! “Hello?” she answered, barely able to move her lips. “Anna, love, it’s Peter! Are you alright? Something told me I should ring you!” “Peter, I don’t feel well.” “I’m coming over! Can you open the door?” “It’s always open these days,” she murmured. The phone slipped from Anna’s hand. She had no strength to retrieve it. “So what,” she thought. Like a film, scenes from her youth flashed before her eyes: There she was, a young girl at university. Two dashing young cadets with balloons for some reason. How funny! she’d mused back then. Grown men, carrying balloons! Oh yes—it was the 9th of May, Victory Day. A parade, a festival! She was between Peter and Harry with those two balloons. She’d chosen Harry—he was livelier, Peter was too reserved. Then life had sent them on different paths: she and Harry to Hertfordshire, Peter to Germany. Many years later, they all met again in their hometown, once the men had retired. Peter had never married, never had children. Why? people would ask… He’d wave it off with a joke: “Unlucky in love—perhaps I should try my luck at cards!” Anna Foster heard voices, conversation. She pried her eyes open with effort: “Peter!” Next to him must be a paramedic. “She’ll be alright now. Are you her husband?” “Yes, yes!” Peter answered. The paramedic gave Peter instructions. Peter never left her side, holding Anna’s hand until she felt better. “Thank you, Peter! I really do feel so much better!” “Good. Here, have some tea with lemon.” Peter stayed, tidied up the kitchen, looked after Anna. Even when she was recovering, he hovered nervously, as if afraid to leave her alone. “You know, Anna, I’ve loved you my whole life. That’s why I never married, never had a family.” “Oh Peter, I had a good life with Harry. He respected me; I loved him. You never said anything, I had no idea how you felt. But what’s the point of talking of it now? The years have gone.” “Anna, let’s live out the rest of our days together—however long we have, let’s be happy!” Anna leaned her head on Peter’s shoulder and took his hand: “Let’s!” she laughed, her heart light with happiness. A week later, Natasha finally rang. “Mum, I saw you called but I’ve just been so busy—” “Oh, it’s fine, love. Just so you’re not surprised, I’m letting you know—I’m getting married!” Silence on the line, broken only by her daughter gasping for breath, searching for words. “Mum, are you out of your mind? You should be in the grave by now, not getting married! And who’s the lucky suitor?” Tears sprang to Anna’s eyes, but she found the strength to reply calmly, “That’s my business.” And hung up. She turned to Peter: “Well, brace yourself. The children will be here in a flash. Prepare for battle!” “We’ll manage! We’ve always pulled through before,” Peter laughed. Indeed, that evening all three children arrived: George, Irene and Natasha. “Well, Mum, introduce us to your Casanova!” George sneered. “You know me already,” Peter said, coming from the other room. “I’ve loved Anna since we were young. When I found her so ill last week, I knew I couldn’t lose her. I proposed, and she kindly accepted.” “Who do you think you are, you old clown? Love, at your age?” Irene shrieked. “Age? We’ve barely just turned seventy! There’s plenty of life ahead—and besides, your mother is still a beauty,” Peter smiled. “So, you’re after her flat, aren’t you?” Natasha said coldly, her tone sharp as a solicitor’s. “Children, really, what does my flat have to do with you? You all have your own homes,” Anna protested. “Nevertheless, part of that flat is our inheritance!” Natasha retorted. “Calm down, I want nothing from you. I have a place to live,” said Peter. “But please, stop speaking to your mother like that—it’s hurtful!” “Who do you think you are, you pompous old playboy!” George charged at Peter, squaring up like a prizefighter. But Peter didn’t flinch. He drew himself up straight and met George’s gaze. “I’m your mother’s husband, whether you like it or not.” “And we’re her children!” cried Irene. “And tomorrow, she’ll be in a care home—or a psychiatric ward!” Natasha chimed in. “No, absolutely not! Pack your things, Anna—we’re leaving!” They walked out together, hand in hand, not looking back. They didn’t care what anyone thought—they were happy and free! A solitary streetlamp lit their way. And the children stood, watching them go, utterly baffled that anyone could find love at seventy.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 7 minViews 1

FINAL LOVE

Lucy, I dont have any money, really! I gave my last pound to Susan yesterday. You know shes got two little ones!

Utterly dejected, Mary Thompson set down the receiver. She didnt want to dwell on the things her daughter had just said.

Why is it like this? Shed brought up three children with her husband, tried her hardest for them all, saw them all off into the world with good degrees and respectable jobs. And yet, here she was in her twilight years, with neither peace nor assistance.

Oh Edward, why did you have to leave me so soon? Mary thought, turning to her late husband in her mind. It was always easier with you here.

Her heart fluttered uneasily, and her hand instinctively reached for her medicinea tiny pillbox sat on the table. Only one or two capsules left. If things got worse, shed have nothing to help herself with. Shed need to go to the chemist.

She tried to stand, but the world spun; she slumped back into her armchair, her head whirling.

Itll pass, she told herself. Just let the medicine work.

But time trickled on and relief never came.

Mary dialed her youngest daughter.

Susan she managed to whisper.

Mum, Im in a meeting, Ill ring you back.

She tried her son next.

Darling, Im not feeling well. And Im out of tablets. Could you after work, maybe but he cut her off.

Mum, Im not a doctor, and you arent one either! Call an ambulance, dont wait.

Mary sighed deeply. Hes right, of course. If Im not better in half an hour, Ill call for help.

Gently, she leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. To relax, she started counting dreamily to one hundred.

From someplace distant and grey, a sound called to herwhat was that? Oh yes, the phone.

Hello? Her mouth sluggish, barely forming the word.

Mary! Its Peter here. Dont know why, just had a feelingwanted to check on you.

Peter, Im not well Her words trailed off.

Im coming now. Will you be able to open the door?

Lately, the doors always open, Peter, she managed, letting the receiver slip from her fingers. She didnt have the strength to pick it up.

So be it, she thought.

With each heartbeat, flickering images unravelled before her eyes: She was young again, a fresh-faced first year at the London School of Economics. There were two dapper young menmilitary college lads, clutching balloons for some reason.

How silly, shed thought, grown men with balloons.

Of course! The Ninth of May. VE Day. There she was, balloons in hand, flanked by Peter and Edward.

Shed chosen Edward. He had a certain vigour about him, while Peter was shy and reserved.

Then, life tossed them aboutshe and Edward went to live near Oxford, Peter got posted to Germany. Years later, theyd all drifted back to their roots in Manchester, after both men had retired. Peter had stayed single his whole lifeno wife, no children.

When people asked him why, he would just laugh, Not lucky in love. Maybe I should try my luck at poker!

From a distant haze, Mary heard voices. She pried open her eyesPeter, and beside him, she thought, an ambulance doctor.

Shell be alright soon, the medic said. Are you her husband, sir?

Yes, yes, Peter replied quickly, and accepted a set of instructions.

Peter remained by her side, tightly holding her hand, never letting go until she finally felt better.

Thank you, Peter! Im so much better now!

Thats marvellous. Here, have a cup of tea with a bit of lemon.

Peter never left. He busied himself in the kitchen, fussed over Mary, and though she was feeling much improved, he was too anxious to leave her alone.

You know, Mary, he said at last, Ive loved only you, all my life. Thats why I never married.

Oh, Peter, Mary replied, Edward and I had a good life. I always respected him, and he loved me. You never told me your feelings when we were young. I never really knew. But whats the point now? The years have gone, and they wont come back.

Peter reached for her hand. Mary, lets be happy with however much time weve got left. However long we get, lets spend it together.

Mary laid her head on his shoulder, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Yes. Lets, she said, laughing with a joy that surprised even herself.

A week later, her daughter Susan finally phoned.

Mum, you called ages ago, I was busy and it slipped my mind

Oh, its nothing now. Since youve called, I suppose I shouldnt surprise youIm getting married!

An odd silence in the receiver. The unmistakable sound of Susan puffing up her cheeks, searching for the right words.

Mum, have you lost your mind? Youre long overdue for the churchyard and now youre off to get married? And whos this splendid chap?

Tears pricked Marys eyes, sharp and sudden, but she steadied her voice. Thats my business, she said, quiet but strong.

And she hung up.

She turned to Peter. Brace yourself, Peter. Theyll all be round tonight! Get ready for battle.

Well manage! Peter grinned. We never shied from a fight!

That evening all three children appearedMark, Lucy, and Susan.

Well, Mum! Introduce us to your Casanova, then, Mark quipped sarcastically.

No needyou know me, Peter said, emerging from the sitting room. Ive loved Mary since our youth, and after last week, I couldnt bear to lose her. I asked her to marry me, and she graciously accepted.

Listen here, you big old clown, Lucy snapped. Whats all this nonsense? Love at your age?

Peter smiled serenely. Were barely seventy, hardly ancient. And your mother is still as beautiful as ever.

I suspect youre looking to nab her house, arent you? Susan chimed in, with all the sharpness of a London barrister.

My flat is no concern of yours! Mary exclaimed. You all have homes of your own!

Even so, we have a share in your place, Susan insisted.

Calm down! Peter said sharply. I want nothing from Mary but her company. But stop speaking to your mother like thatyour rudeness is disgraceful.

Who do you think you are, you doddery old Don Juan? Mark bristled, stepping forward like a bantam cock defending his territory.

Peter didnt budge. He straightened and looked Mark coldly in the eye.

Im your mothers husband, whether you like it or not!

And were her children! Lucy shouted.

Yes! Susan echoed. And well ship her off to the care home or the madhouse first thing tomorrow!

No chance! Come on, Mary, were leaving.

Hand in hand, heads high, Mary and Peter slipped out together, never looking back. They didnt care what anyone thoughtthe world was behind them, and a single lonely streetlamp illuminated their way.

The children stared after them, bewildered, unable to comprehend how anyone could still find love at seventy.

Viktor, Please Don’t Take Offense—But I Want My Real Dad to Walk Me Down the Aisle. He Is My Father, After All. You… Well, You’re Just Mum’s Husband. The Wedding Photos Will Look Better If It’s Me and Dad; He Looks So Distinguished in a Suit. Viktor Paused Mid-Sip of His Tea. He Was Fifty-Five, with Trucker’s Calloused Hands and a Bad Back. Across the Table Sat Alina—the Bride, Beautiful and Twenty-Two. He Remembered Her at Five, Hiding from Him Behind the Sofa. He’d Stayed, Taught Her to Ride a Bike, Kept Vigil When She Was Sick, Paid for Her Braces (Selling His Motorbike) and Her College by Working Double Shifts. “Real Dad” Igor Showed Up Every Few Months—With Plush Bears and Tall Tales, Never Child Support. “Of Course, Alina,” Viktor Said Quietly, Setting Down His Cup. “Blood’s Blood. I Understand.” She Kissed His Cheek. “By the Way—the Restaurant Needs Another Deposit. Dad’s Account Is Frozen with Tax Issues. Could You Spot Us a Grand? I’ll Pay You Back…From the Gifts.” Viktor Wordlessly Retrieved the Envelope—His Toyota Repair Fund. “Take It. Keep It—It’s My Gift.” The Wedding Was Lavish, Country Club, Floral Arch, Fancy Host. Viktor Sat with Vera, His One Suit Pinching His Shoulders, Watching Alina Shine. Big Moment: Igor Walked Her Down the Aisle in a Perfect Tux—Rented, with Money Quietly Borrowed from Alina. At the Reception, Igor Toasted: “My Little Princess! May Your Husband Treasure You as I Always Did!” The Crowd Applauded, Women Wept. Viktor Lowered His Head; He Remembered Igor Not Bothering to Collect Alina from Hospital. Seeking Air, Viktor Stepped Out—And Overheard Igor Bragging on the Phone: “It’s All Good, Mate. We Party, Suckers Pay. The Groom’s Got Money—Dad’s Got Connections—I’m Working an Angle, Might Get a Loan. Alina? She Worships Me—a Couple Compliments and She Melts. Thank God I Left When I Did.” Viktor Froze—But So Did Alina, Hidden in the Shadows, Listening. Tears Ruined Her Makeup. Viktor Gently Draped His Jacket on Her Shoulders. “Come on, Love. Don’t Catch Cold.” “Uncle Viktor…Dad…He…” “I Know,” Viktor Said Softly. “Come—Wash Up, Fix Your Face. Don’t Let Him Know He’s Hurt You. This Is Your Day, Not His Performance.” Back in the Hall, the Father–Daughter Dance Began. Igor Marched Forward, Arms Outstretched, but Alina Took the Mic—Her Voice Trembling but Clear: “I Want to Change Tradition. My Biological Father Gave Me Life—and I Thank Him. But This Dance Belongs to the One Who Protected Me, Soothed My Scrapes, Never Let Me Fall. Dad Viktor—Will You Dance with Me?” The Room Whispered. Viktor—Awkward, Red-Faced, in His Ill-Fitting Jacket—Crossed the Floor. Alina Embraced Him, Sobbing, “Forgive Me, Dad, Please.” He Stroked Her Back Gently: “It’s All Right, Sweetheart. All Right.” Igor Drifted Off, Barred for His Final Curtain Call. Three Years Later, Viktor Lies in a Hospital Bed, Worn Out After a Heart Attack. Alina Arrives, Hand in Hand with Her Young Son, Who Runs to Viktor with a Cry of “Granddad!” Alina Kisses Viktor’s Work-Hardened Hand. “We Brought You Oranges. We’ll Get You Through This—I’ve Booked the Best Clinic.” Viktor Smiles. No Fortune, an Old Car, a Bad Back—but the Richest Man Alive. Because He’s Dad. No ‘Step-’ Needed. Life Set Things Right—Though Sometimes at Great Cost. At Last, Everyone Learned—Fatherhood Isn’t About a Name on a Birth Certificate, but a Hand That Catches You When You Fall. The Lesson: Don’t Be Fooled by Shiny Packages—They’re Often Empty Inside. Cherish the One Who’s There for You Every Day, Silently Supporting You, Asking Nothing in Return. When the Celebration Ends and the Music Fades, Only the Ones Who Truly Love You Remain. Did You Have a Stepfather Who Became the Real Dad? Or Do You Believe Blood Is Everything? 👇👨‍👧

Run Away From Him “Oh, hey, love!” Natasha dropped into the chair next to Lila. “Long time no see. How are things?” “Hi, Nat,” Lila replied, sounding a bit distracted. “Everything’s great.” “Then why won’t you look me in the eye?” Natasha studied her friend closely. “Roma up to something again? What’s happened this time?” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Lila rolled her eyes, clearly regretting ever coming into this café. “Everything’s fine with me. And Roma and I are perfect. Honestly, he’s a good man. Let’s just drop it, okay?” Ignoring whatever Natasha tried to say, Lila left, abandoning her half-eaten slice of cake. She didn’t want to listen to anyone, naively believing everyone was simply jealous. Roma was… well, brilliant. Handsome, successful, caring. True, his demands were sometimes odd. Like forbidding Lila to dye her hair blonde. That was their first real row. It almost ended in a breakup! And all over such a silly thing. Lila had gone to get her hair freshened up at the salon. Her stylist was convinced she was born to be blonde. Lila gave in. She came home with platinum curls. Roma turned white with rage. A book he’d been calmly reading on the sofa went flying. There were harsh words, and the demand: dye it back. Immediately. He wouldn’t tolerate blondes in his house. Choking back tears, Lila rushed to the nearest salon. They tried to talk her out of it—the colour really did suit her—but seeing her cry, quickly fixed it all. Roma simply nodded in satisfaction and said nothing more. The next morning, he gave her an expensive bracelet as compensation. And then, there was no wearing white. Red, blue, green—any other colour, but not white. She once jokingly asked what colour her wedding dress would be. The look he gave her made her drop the topic on the spot. “Run away from him,” Natasha implored her, back then. “Don’t look back, Lil. Today it’s ‘no white dresses,’ tomorrow—what next? No stepping outside? However ‘good’ he may seem, you need to find someone else. Someone normal.” “Everyone’s got their quirks,” Lila shrugged. “It’s serious, Nat. We’re even planning a baby. Roma really wants a girl. He’s already picked the name—Angela. And you’re telling me to run.” **************************************** She should have listened to her friend. Natasha, as it turned out, was spot on about Roma’s oddness. Lila would soon see for herself. There was always one room in the house Lila was never allowed to enter. Always locked. She once joked: “You’re not related to Bluebeard by any chance?” “Don’t worry,” Roma snorted, “no bodies of ex-wives in there.” That ended the conversation about the mysterious room. Until, by chance, Lila glimpsed inside. Her last class of the day had been cancelled; she came home early. She knew Roma was in, but couldn’t find him. Passing by the forbidden door, she heard a strange voice. Carefully, she pushed at the door. Through a narrow gap, she saw a scene that chilled her to the bone. A giant portrait of a girl covered the wall. Roma knelt before it. The girl in the painting smiled sweetly, arms outstretched. She looked uncannily like Lila. They’d be sisters, if not for the hair—the girl in the portrait was blonde. “Just a little longer, Angela,” Roma kept repeating. “We’ll be together soon. She’ll give me a daughter—you’ll be reborn in that little body. Then you’ll be with me. Always. I’ll take care of you, and once you grow up, we’ll love each other again.” Lila’s mind screamed, “Psycho!” She bolted for the exit. Her friends had been right. But now what? How does one escape a madman? Especially, terrifyingly, because Lila was pregnant. Who was to judge what to do—it was still so early. Her parents were far away; her only close friend was Natasha. So that’s who she ran to. “I never imagined Roma could be like this,” Lila whispered, wringing her hands. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d never have believed—” “Calm down,” Natasha handed her a glass of water. Lila drank gratefully. “You’ve got to decide what you’re going to do. Will you stay with him?” “Not a chance!” she shook her head wildly. “He’s mad! I’m scared for myself and for the baby.” She forced a crooked smile. “Well at least now I know why I wasn’t allowed to dye my hair or wear white—he wanted me to look less like her.” “Thank goodness you found out before the wedding,” Natasha said sensibly. “You haven’t told him about the baby yet?” “I wanted it to be a surprise…” “Well, don’t. Just tell him you’ve met someone else. Then leave. Go home, transfer to a local uni. The important thing is to stay away from him.” “I suppose you’re right.” ***************************************** The last six months were gruelling for Lila—emotionally more than physically. Moving, explaining things to her parents… She had to drop out of uni because of the baby—she couldn’t bear the thought of an abortion; after all, the baby was innocent. As it turned out, she had a daughter, just as Roma had hoped for. Surprisingly, Roma let her go without much fuss. He only hinted that loose tongues could get her in trouble, and never asked where she went—it was as though he really didn’t care. Sometimes Lila wondered if she’d made the right decision in leaving him, and never telling him about the child. That evening, after putting little Ellie to sleep, she gazed out of the window, lost in thought. The doorbell rang. It was a food delivery—Lila never did learn to cook. After a quick dinner, she sat down at her books, determined to get back to her studies. The words blurred on the page, her head spun… Lila reached for her phone to call an ambulance, but her hands wouldn’t work. She couldn’t move at all. Just before she lost consciousness, she saw Roma, gently cradling their newborn daughter. *********************************************** Lila came round in hospital. Her mother had picked the perfect moment to visit. The police tried to find the baby—but there was no trace. Roma had vanished with the little girl, as if swallowed by the earth. It would be years before the grieving mother received any word. A photograph—of Roma, holding a beautiful blonde child in his arms.

THINK I OVERREACTED? … — Who even needs you, you old hag? You’re just a burden to everyone. Shuffling around, stinking up the place. If it were up to me, I’d get rid of you… But I have to put up with you. I hate you! Polly nearly choked on her tea. She’d just been chatting to her gran, Grace, over a video call. Grace had popped out for a minute. “Hang on, love, I’ll be right back,” she’d said, creaking out of her armchair and into the hallway. Her phone was left on the table, camera and mic still on. Polly, meanwhile, was busy on her computer. And then… it happened. An angry voice, echoing from the hallway. Polly thought she misheard—until she glimpsed the phone. Judging by the sound of the door, someone had entered the room. Strange hands appeared on-screen, then a side profile and a face… It was Olivia. Her brother’s wife. Yup, that was definitely her voice. Olivia marched up to Gran’s bed and lifted the pillow, then the mattress, rummaging underneath. “She just sits here, slurping her tea… If only she’d hurry up and die already, honestly. What’s the point of dragging it out? Useless, taking up space and sucking in air…” the sister-in-law grumbled. Polly froze. For a few seconds, she forgot to breathe. Soon, Olivia left, never noticing the camera. A few minutes later, Grace came back. She smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes. “There we go, I’m back! By the way, I never asked—how’s work, darling? All okay?” Gran asked, acting as if nothing had happened. Polly nodded stiffly, still reeling from what she’d heard—her every instinct screaming to storm over and throw that nasty woman out right now. Grace had always seemed like a formidable lady to Polly. Never raised her voice, just had that teacher’s firmness refined over decades in classrooms, talking to kids and parents alike. She’d taught English Literature for forty years. The children adored her—she made the classics come alive. When Granddad died, she didn’t crumble, but her perfect posture sagged a bit. She went out less, got ill more often. Her smile wasn’t as wide. And yet, Grace’s spark remained. She always believed every age had its silver lining, and enjoyed life even now. Polly loved her gran for making her feel safe. With Gran, nothing ever seemed hopeless: she’d solve any problem. Once, Grace sold her holiday cottage to help her grandson with uni fees, and gave Polly her last savings towards a mortgage. When Polly’s brother Greg and Olivia, after their wedding, moaned about the cost of renting, Gran offered up her spare rooms herself. “It’s a three-bed, plenty of space, and you’ll be around if my blood pressure goes up or my sugar dips.” “I get lonely, anyway. And you young ones might as well have a hand,” she said cheerily. Greg was supposed to look after Gran, while Polly helped with groceries, meds, and bills. She had a decent salary, and her conscience wouldn’t let her ignore Gran’s needs. Sometimes she gave cash, sometimes bank transfers, sometimes brought food instead, knowing how Gran liked to squirrel money away “for a rainy day.” Polly bought her fish, meat, milk, fruit—everything needed for a proper diet. “It’s your health, Gran. Especially with your diabetes,” Polly would remind her. Gran always thanked her, looking away as if embarrassed to be “bothering” anybody. From day one, Polly had found Olivia slippery—overly sweet words, fake politeness, but cold, hard eyes. Always sizing people up, never a hint of warmth or respect. But Polly didn’t meddle—it wasn’t her place. She just checked in, “Everything all right, Gran?” “All’s well here, love,” Grace would assure her. “Olivia cooks, keeps the house tidy. She’s young, there’s a learning curve, but she’ll get there.” Now Polly realised it was all a lie. On the surface, Olivia was a meek little lamb—but when no one was looking… “Gran, I heard all of it… What on earth was that about?” Grace froze for a moment, then looked away. “Oh, it was nothing, love,” Gran sighed. “Olivia’s just under stress, what with Greg away on shifts all the time. She gets snappy.” Polly squinted, suddenly seeing her gran as if for the first time—every new wrinkle jumping out at her, the brightness gone from Grace’s eyes. The same quiet stubbornness remained… but now, she also saw something different. Fear. “Snappy? Gran, did you actually hear what she said to you? That wasn’t just a snap. That was—” “Polly…” Grace cut her off. “I can cope, really. So she got cross—she’s young, hot-tempered. And she’s right, I am old. I don’t need much.” “Right. Gran. Please don’t treat me like a fool,” Polly snapped. “Either you tell me everything, or I’m getting in the car and coming straight over. Your choice.” Gran fell silent for several seconds, then dropped her shoulders, adjusted her glasses, her mask finally cracking. Polly was suddenly looking at a tired, frightened old lady, not the indomitable woman she’d always known. “I didn’t want to say anything,” Gran started. “You’re always so busy—why bother you with this mess? I thought it might all blow over…” It turned out Olivia’s reign of terror had gone on far longer—and been much nastier—than Polly could ever have guessed. The young couple had moved in with huge suitcases and grand plans to save for a mortgage in just six months. Gran had actually been delighted at first: laughter and footfalls filled the flat again, chats and even baking sessions in the kitchen. For a while, Olivia made an effort—baking treats, making tea for Gran, even taking her to the GP a couple of times. But after Greg left for shift work, everything changed overnight. “At first she was just irritable,” Grace told Polly. “I figured it was missing Greg. Then she started taking the food for herself—said you always brought too much anyway. Said she needed it more, being young and planning a baby. And I suppose I do need to lose a bit of weight…” Turned out, Olivia had borrowed cash from Gran—money Polly had given for medicines—and used it to buy herself a fridge, which she locked up in her room. All the nice food Polly brought ended up there. The money was never returned. Instead, Olivia began ransacking Gran’s stashes, taking even more. “She even took the telly. Said it’d ruin my eyesight,” Gran wiped away tears. “And she keeps switching off the internet. I need that for calls, for reading the news, finding recipes… Feels like prison sometimes.” “What about Greg? Did you tell him?” Polly asked. Grace shook her head. “She threatened that if I told, she’d say I was to blame for losing the baby—that I stressed her out. I don’t even know if she was ever pregnant. But she said everyone would pity her, and blame me.” Polly was boiling inside. She wanted to scream, to curse Olivia, but instead she said quietly, “Gran, no one has the right to treat you like this. No one. Not the young, not the old, not family, not strangers.” Gran broke down in tears. Polly comforted her, knowing this was it: the time for action had come. Half an hour later, Polly was in the car with her husband, heading to Grace’s. On the way she filled him in—he was stunned, but he knew her well enough not to doubt her word. Gran answered the door right away, fiddling nervously with a scrap of cloth, avoiding their eyes. “Oh, you should have phoned! I’d have put the kettle on…” “We’re not here for tea, Gran,” Polly replied evenly. “We’re here to sort this out. Where’s Olivia?” “She’s out somewhere. I don’t get told…” Grace shrugged. “Anyway, come in.” Grace stood aside and Polly made straight for the kitchen. The fridge was practically empty: a couple of cartons of sour milk, some eggs, and a jar of cucumbers growing mould. The freezer held nothing but ice. She turned to her husband, who nodded. They acted fast. Olivia’s room was locked—but the lock was cheap, easily popped with a screwdriver. Sure enough, Olivia’s fridge was inside, packed with the yogurts Polly had delivered days earlier—plus cheese, homemade sausages, even cucumbers and tomatoes. Polly seethed, but held it together. With her husband, she retreated to Gran’s room: time for a stakeout. Olivia got back half an hour later. “WHO’S BEEN IN MY ROOM?!” she screeched, clenching her fists. Polly stepped out, calm but cold. “Me.” Olivia fell silent, eyes darting. After a beat, she tried her usual nastiness. “Who do you think you are, barging into my room?” Polly strode up, towering above her shorter sister-in-law. “I’m the granddaughter of this house’s owner. And you? You’ve got ten minutes to pack, or I’ll be tossing your stuff out the window. Understood?” “I’m telling Greg!” Olivia shrilled. “Tell whoever you want! Greg’s not here. And if I have to, I’ll drag you out by your hair myself.” Olivia sneered but dashed to her room, shoving clothes into bags, swearing at Polly, who only watched with stony calm. Gran stood in the hallway, dabbing her eyes. “Polly…was that really necessary? The neighbours will hear, it’ll be a scandal…” Polly finally softened, coming over to wrap Gran in a hug. “It’s not a scandal, Gran. We’re just taking out the rubbish.” They stayed the night, filling Gran’s fridge and medicine cabinet the next day. As they left, Gran was in tears—Polly hoped not from guilt or fear of being alone. She firmly ordered Gran never to let Olivia back in, no matter what. That same day Greg called, bellowing down the phone. “Are you insane?! Olivia’s in tears! Where’s she supposed to live now? You think you can do whatever you like just ‘cause you’ve got money?” Polly hung up. Later, she sent a voice note: “You might want to get your facts straight first. Your precious Olivia was starving Gran and nicking her food—don’t forget Gran once gave you her last penny. If I see either of you near her again, you’ll regret it.” Greg said nothing more, and Polly didn’t care. Olivia moved in with a friend, posting self-pitying status updates about her “toxic in-laws.” Greg hit the like button. Polly heard nothing else from them. Grace’s flat became cosy and peaceful, if quieter. Within weeks, she asked Polly to show her how to watch TV shows on her smartphone. They started with “Pride and Prejudice,” moved on to comedies—sometimes watching together. “Oh, I’ve not laughed this much in ages,” Gran said one day. “My cheeks ache—from all the giggling!” Polly just smiled. For once, she felt true peace. Once, Gran had protected Polly; now, it was Polly’s turn to protect her Gran.

I Miss Him. I’ve Never Missed Anyone Like This Before, and I Don’t Know Why—Especially Since I Didn’t Always Feel Good with Him and There Were Things I Didn’t Like We Met on Facebook, Started Chatting, and One Day He Invited Me for Coffee. We Went to a Park. That Day, I Was Emotionally Down—Disheartened, and Physically Sore from Pushing Myself at the Gym; My Legs Hurt Awfully. We Talked in the Park—It Was Evening, the Sky Was Clear, and It Was Bitterly Cold. We Spoke About Personal Things, Our Lives, Who We Are. As We Were Leaving, I Hugged Him. A Hug That Lasted Several Minutes. It Felt Like “Home,” Even Though It Came from a Man Who Seemed Cold, Serious, and Distant. In That Hug, I Felt That Deep Down He Wasn’t Really Like That. I Don’t Know If He Felt Awkward—Just Like Me. But You Could Sense He Wasn’t Doing Well and That the Hug Meant Something. We Parted with One More, Shorter Hug. We Kept Chatting Late Into the Night. Days Went By Like This—“Good Morning” from Him, Texts Throughout the Day, Endless Messages. We Started Going Out. We Spoke About Deep Things, Shared Dreams, Imagined Different Futures. He Told Me He Lived with a Mate. He Told Me About His Ex. He Said He Liked Chatting with Girls and Female Friends He’d Dated. Then He Moved Back in with His Parents. We Made Our Relationship Official, and Then He Admitted the Truth: He Had Actually Been Living with His Ex. According to Him, Nothing Was Going on Between Them—Even Before That—but They Worked Together. He Posted a Photo of Them Together. On His Birthday, I’d Planned to Take Him Out to a Beautiful Medieval-Style Restaurant to Surprise Him. But Around Noon, I Got an Instagram Message from a Woman Insulting Me. I Didn’t Respond. I Just Asked Him What Was Going On. He Reminded Me About His Ex—That She Loved Sending People to Harass Others and Send Nasty Messages. I Didn’t Answer Until I Spoke to Him. He Said He’d Sorted It, but the Messages Continued. I Only Responded As Much as Needed. I’m Not a Woman Who Lowers Herself or Responds to Arrogance at Her Level. Then I Blocked. We Got Through It. Moved Forward. Our Relationship Even Grew Stronger. We Shared More. I Was Out of Work, and He Encouraged Me to Find a Job. Sometimes He Helped Out with Expenses, Which Embarrassed Me. I Never Asked—He Did It on His Own. When He Went on Holiday, He Told Me to Stay at His. I Did, but Made the Mistake of Staying Both Weeks. He “Tested” Me—to See What I Was Like at Home. He Spent Loads on Takeaways, Saying Cooking Was a Waste of Time and Ready Food Was Always an Option. The Holiday Ended and a Lot of Money Had Been Spent. I Told Him to Save, but He Didn’t Listen. Then He Told Me I Hadn’t Helped Him Save, That If He Spent Money It Was Because I Let Him—even Though I’d Suggested Cooking and Being Careful with Our Spending. After That, He Told Me He Had Bills to Pay, Which Stressed Him Out—and That Made Me Feel Bad. I Got a Job and Then He Told Me He Would “Test” Me Again. The Test Was to See If I Would Help Pay for Living There and for Everything He’d Spent. He Said It Felt Like He Was Supporting Me. I Didn’t Know What to Say. I Was Still Learning How to Live in a Relationship. He Said Everything Would Change—and It Did. Hardly Any Plans or Meetings. Messages Became Short. He Said He Had to Catch Up Financially, That He Was Now Struggling, That He Couldn’t Even Eat Properly. Everything Started To Fall Apart. One Day, He Told Me I Was “Draining His Wallet,” That I’d Hurt Him Financially—even Though I’d Never Asked for Anything. I Had a Job. Sometimes I Paid, Sometimes He Did. But There Were No More Plans. Everything Was Different. We Decided to End Things. We Broke Up on Good Terms—Thankful for the Good and the Lessons Learned. We Closed the Door with Dignity. Then We Tried Again. We Spoke. But I Didn’t Like Staying at His After Work with No Food. Sometimes He Didn’t Even Invite Me to Eat. I Wondered Whether to Pack Lunch or Eat a Big Breakfast So I Wouldn’t Go Hungry. I Told Him How I Felt, but He Didn’t Say Anything or Offer a Solution. It Made Me Feel Like I Was On My Own. That Killed the Relationship. One Day, While with Him, I Felt Faint on the Train, Almost Passed Out. I Sat on the Floor So I Wouldn’t Collapse. He Didn’t React. That Finally Drove Me Away. I Grew Distant Inside. Deep Down, I Wanted Him, But Knew He Wasn’t the Man I Wanted By My Side—Despite the Dreams and Goals We’d Shared. I Begged Him Many Times Not To Go to Bed Angry. But I Started Falling Asleep Next To Him in Tears. Until One Day, I Decided I Wouldn’t Take It Anymore. I Got Up Early, Packed My Things, and Left. We Talked. I Told Him How I Felt. I Had Given Him a Drawing He Loved, But I Took It Off the Wall and Kept It. I Shouldn’t Have Done That. Something Broke in Me—and in Him. Weeks Later, We Spoke Again. He Told Me That by Taking the Drawing, I Took Away the Happiness He’d Felt With It, and That Something Was Broken Forever. We Closed the Door Again. Sometimes I Sent Him Thank You Messages or Videos, But He Didn’t Reply. It Was All Empty. One Night, Around Midnight, I Received a Message Full of Insults—Saying I Was the Woman Who’d Torn Him from His Family. I Deleted the Chat and Blocked. Then People from the Company He Worked For Started Contacting Me on Social Media. I Knew It Was His Ex or His New Partner. I Didn’t Reply. I Spoke to His Workplace and Set a Boundary—Said I’d Take Legal Action If It Continued. That Stopped It. It Made Me Sad. I Changed. I Realised He Wasn’t the Man I Want. We Split on Good Terms, but Seeing Him Again with Someone Who Had Caused Him So Much Chaos Really Hurt. Sometimes I Miss Him. I Miss Some of the Good Things. But That’s All. One Thing I Know for Sure: With Me, He Felt Calm and Proud. I Don’t Think He’ll Feel That with Her—Or Be the Man He’d Want to Show the World.