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Bride for Hire — The Wedding’s Off! — Polina stunned her parents over dinner. Mum nearly choked on her tea at her daughter’s announcement. — Polina! Are you out of your mind? The dress is bought, the rings are ready, the reception is booked… Your David has been waiting for this day like it’s the Second Coming! Please tell me you’re joking, — her mother pleaded, panic in her voice. — No, Mum, I’m not joking. Floyd and I are moving to London soon. It’s serious, — Polina replied firmly. — London? Why would you go there? It’s all foreign, all strange… Different people, a different country. You’ll get lost and forgotten! This Floyd has clearly got inside your head. He’s probably married already—with kids! He’s old enough to be your father! Your David loves you so much. He’s like another son to us! Don’t throw away true love. Every action has consequences, remember that, — Mum begged. — I’m not afraid of consequences, — Polina said resolutely. …A couple of weeks later, Polina and Floyd left for England. Polina had dreamt all her life of seeing how people lived in other countries. She’d learned French by heart. Spoke flawless English. Was starting on Spanish—who knows where life would take her? After university, she worked as a translator in a travel agency. That’s where she met Floyd, when she had to accompany an overseas visitor to various events. Floyd took a keen interest in her straight away. Polina was easy-going, friendly, and beautiful—but most importantly, she was young, just twenty-three to Floyd’s forty-six. At first, she was amused by the foreign gentleman’s advances. She never expected Floyd to propose—within a week of meeting! Polina didn’t mention her own approaching wedding to David. She was left confused: what to do? Not every girl gets a chance to marry a foreigner! How could she miss such an adventure, even if it wasn’t for love? Her life would be exciting, full of new experiences. She’d be grateful to her foreign husband, surely that was enough for a young wife? David would get over it—he was still young, plenty of time to find someone new. Polina broke the news to her would-be groom over the phone. David, bewildered, wished her well—and drowned his heartbreak in drink. …Floyd and Polina landed in London. She was delirious with happiness—could dreams really come true? When they reached Floyd’s huge home, his family greeted them. Two grown-up sons—Harry and Ethan. (Soon, Polina would marry Ethan and find true happiness.) Later, Floyd’s ex-wife Leonora appeared—a tall, stylish woman who was not at all amused: — Have you lost your mind, Floyd? Who is this girl? Where did you find her? Is she moving in with us? — Yes, she’s moving in. Reminder: this is my house—and Polina will soon be my wife, so please be kind, Leonora, — Floyd replied, half-apologetic. Polina felt awkward in this tense atmosphere. The family had broken up but still all lived together, with Leonora clearly ruling the roost. But someone else had already won her heart—Ethan, Floyd’s younger son. Not David with his apologies, not even Floyd. Here was something universal—the spark of eternal love… Ethan, twenty-four, had his mum’s good looks and immediately noticed the pretty stranger his father brought home. Something electric passed between them. When Floyd suddenly delayed the wedding without explanation, Polina didn’t argue—she wasn’t going back to England. She was given a cosy room. Relations with Floyd were cordial but innocent; Leonora ignored her completely. …Three months passed. Polina got closer to Ethan, who finally confessed the truth about his family: Floyd was still in love with his ex-wife, and she with him. A huge row led to their divorce, but neither wanted to reconcile. So Floyd, hoping to make Leonora jealous, decided to pretend he was remarrying. Polina was perfect as the ‘bride-for-hire’. Once his ex gave in, the plan was to send Polina home—with gifts and a return ticket. When Polina heard this from Ethan, she burst out laughing in disbelief. — Just my luck! I’ve ended up a bride for hire! — Polina, I can’t be without you, — Ethan admitted. — I thought you’d never say it! At last! — she sighed in relief. — How could I, when you were supposed to marry my dad? When Ethan learned Polina was not really engaged to his father, their love blossomed. — Would you have married my father, Polina? — As soon as I saw you, my plans changed forever. I’d have said no, — she smiled. They embraced. Polina forgave Floyd and Leonora—sometimes even the worst twists of fate can lead to happiness… Polina and Ethan soon married. Ethan, afraid Polina might leave for her homeland, didn’t delay in starting a family—first a son, then a daughter. Their home was full of warmth and love. Floyd and Leonora, meanwhile, mended fences and doted on their grandchildren. …Once, Polina’s mother wrote, asking her to visit. She travelled alone, leaving the children with Leonora. Mum met her in tears: — Oh, Polina! Your David is dead! And he’s taken his wife with him—motorbike crash. Their little girl is orphaned, just three years old. Poor thing! David, as it happened, had never forgotten Polina. He remarried only to fill the void, but tragedy followed. Polina listened, hugged her mum and said, — It’s OK, Mum—we’ll adopt David’s little girl as our own. That will be his gift to us. Polina knew this was right, and Ethan would agree. — Now, please make me something to eat, Mum—I’m shattered after the journey, and you know future mothers have to eat for two! — Polina winked.

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THE BRIDE FOR HIRE

The weddings off! I blurted out to my parents over dinner.

Mum nearly choked on her roast potatoes, so taken aback by my news.

Phoebe! Have you lost your senses? Your dress is hanging upstairs, the rings are bought, the pubs booked Your Oliver has been counting down the days. Oh, Phoebe, tell me youre joking, Mum pleaded, her voice shaking.

No, Mum, Im not joking. Floyd and I are moving to London soon. Its all very real,I said, making it quite clear where I stood.

London?Mum scoffed.Thats a different world, darling! Strangers, strange customs! Youll end up penniless! Dont be silly, love. This Floyd of yours mustve completely addled your brain. Hes probably married, with kids! Hes almost a pensioner! Your Oliver worships the ground you walk on. Hes as good as family to us! Dont throw away lovethere are consequences for everything.Mum was frantic.

Ill face whatever consequences come. Im not scared,my decision was final.

A fortnight later, Floyd and I boarded a train for London.

Id always dreamt, ever since I was a child in Birmingham, of seeing what lay beyond Englands borders. Id learnt French by heart, mastered Spanish, and my English of course was flawless. Who knew where life might take me… After university, I started translating at a travel agency. That was where I met Floyd. I was tasked to accompany him, a foreign guest, around various events. He took a fancy to me straight away.

I can get along with anyone, always smiling, not too hard on the eyes, but more than anythingI was young! I was twenty-three, Floyd was forty-six. At first, I thought nothing of his advances, taking them with a grain of salt. Little did I imagine Floyd would propose marriagea week after wed met! Of course, I didnt tell Floyd that back home Oliver and I were about to be married.

It left me torn. What was I supposed to do? A chance to marry a foreigner doesnt come by often. How could I pass it up? Even if I didnt love Floyd, this was a chance at a whole different lifefresh, exciting, adventurous! Id be forever grateful to Floyd, wouldnt I? Does a man even need more than a young wife by his side? Poor Oliverhed get over it, wouldnt he? He was young; hed find someone else. These were the thoughts racing through my mind as I packed for the unknown.

I called Oliver and told him everything. Poor lad; confused beyond words, but he wished me happiness regardless, and then went off to nurse his heartbreak in a months-long bender.

Floyd and I finally arrived in London. I could barely breathe for excitement! Could it be that dreams do come true? It felt like I could hug the entire world. How was I to hang on to this happiness?

Floyd took me to a sprawling house in the outskirts. There, his family awaited: two grown sonsHarold and Evan. (Later, Id marry Evan and find happiness Id never known before.) And then out came his ex-wife, Lenorea remarkably elegant woman. She looked me up and down with disdain.

Have you completely lost it, Floyd?Lenore snapped, arms folded.Whos this girl, then? Picked her up from god-knows-where? And shes going to live hereunder our roof?

Floyd answered, almost apologetically,Yes, Phoebe is going to live here. And let me remind you, this is my house. Shell soon be my wife. Please, Lenore, dont be unkind.

The situation was awkward, to put it mildly. I hadnt realised the family, though split, all still lived together. It was plain that Lenore kept the household in check. But in my heart, my mind was already with Evan. This was no Oliversoaked in sorrow, kneeling for forgiveness. This was something else. Real love. Pure and endless

Evan, Floyds younger son, was twenty-four and the spitting image of his mother. Quite the looker. Hed immediately noticed me, this girl his father had brought from who knows where. There was an invisible tension between us, fluttering in the air. Our hearts trembled, aching for all the feelings yet unspoken.

Floyd told me wed have to postpone the wedding, and gave me no explanation. I agreed without a fuss. Going back home was not an option.

They gave me a cosy little roomplenty big, considering the size of the house. Floyd and I had warm, uneventful relations. Lenore acted as though I were invisible.

Three months went by. In that time, I got to know Evan well. He let me in on the real reason behind the family drama.

Turns out, Floyd still loved Lenore and, truth be told, she him. But following a monumental argument, theyd divorced after years together. Yet, neither moved out or made amends. So Floyd decided to rile Lenore up a bitmaybe push her toward reconciliation. He found a girl (me), and pretended he was going to marry her. The perfect part, apparently.

The plan was: as soon as the old wounds healed and the couple patched things up, Id be escorted from London with gifts in hand and a return ticket.

After Evans confession, I burst out laughing.

Serves me right! Im a bride-for-hire! Once, I ran from my own fiancé… Evan, what on earth do I do now?

I cant lose you,Evan pressed, taking my hands in his.

Nor I you. At last youve said it! Honestly, I thought youd never get the courage,I sighed in relief.

How could I say anything, when you were promised to my father? I had no idea about Mum and Dads little game. Harold told me. I was thrilled, though, because suddenly the girl I loved was free.He hesitated.Would you have married my father, Phoebe?

Oh, Evan! From the very first moment I saw you, every plan Id had changed, forever! Id have turned your father down,I grinned.

We embraced as if we were one soul.

I forgave Floyd and Lenore their schemes. Love makes us do strange things You trip up enough, it just makes the journey together more precious. Besides, if not for everything that happened, Id never have met Evan! Truly, fate had hidden my soulmate halfway across the world.

People chase happiness, unaware its right at their feet. Soon after, Evan and I married.

Evan was always a bit afraid Id run back to Birmingham, so he didnt waste time in starting a family. Our son was born, and two years later, our daughter. Evan absolutely doted on us. Our house overflowed with joy and laughter.

By the way, Floyd and Lenore finally came to their senses and reconciled, treating each other with new tenderness, steering well clear of dramatic reconciliations. Now, they dote on their beloved grandchildren.

One day, a letter arrived from my mum, her worries laid bare on the page. She begged me to visit soon.

I packed my bags. Left the children, still so little, with granny Lenore.

As I reached home, I felt uneasy.

Mum, red-eyed, met me at the door, wringing her hands.

Oh Phoebe! Olivers dead! Took his poor wife with him! They crashed the motorbikeleft their little girl all alone.

His daughterbarely threewas orphaned overnight. A great tragedy.

Did you know, Phoebe, he loved you right to the end. When you left, he soon found another to fill the emptinessbrought home some pitiful girl from the sticks. She looked like trouble, but I think she loved Oliver the best she could. Soon after, their little girl arrived. Sweet child! They called her Phoebe too, after you. Clever, that one, cant think who she takes after. Its such a shame. Now the poor thing faces the orphanage.

Mum wiped the tears on her apron, grief rolling out in waves.

And you know, right before Oliver said he wanted to give your namesake a giftto remember him by always. But death was already at his door. He helped your dad and me with odd jobs, always a bit merry, but there for us And you, off in your England He never got to finish his gift

I listened, calm. After a moment, I answered, tying fate into a neat little bow:

He did, Mum. Evan and I will adopt little Phoebe. That will be Olivers gift to us all. I know Evan will agree. In life, we all have debts to pay, Mum. You know that.

Now, if youd just make me a bite, please Im worn out, and I could kill for a tart apple or a crisp gherkin. Expectant mothers have to eat for two,I said, giving her a mysterious wink.

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For years, my mother and I had a difficult relationship, but I never imagined things would go this far. I have two children—a nine-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy. I’ve raised them alone since my separation, and despite being responsible, hardworking, and a very caring mum, my mother always insisted I was “not fit to be a mother.” Whenever she visited, she’d check everything—from looking in my fridge, hunting for dust, scolding me if the clothes weren’t folded as she liked, or if the children weren’t perfectly quiet while she was there. Last week, she came round to “help” because my son had a cold, saying she’d stay for two days. One afternoon while she was out shopping, I was searching for a receipt in the TV stand cupboard… and that’s when I saw it: a thick black notebook with a red divider. I thought it was mine—one of the ones I use to jot down expenses—but it wasn’t. The handwriting inside was hers. And on the first page, it said: “Record—just in case legal action becomes necessary.” I turned the page…and saw exact dates with things she considered my “irresponsibilities.” For example: • “3rd September: the children ate reheated rice.” • “18th October: the girl went to bed at 10pm—too late for her age.” • “22nd November: clothes waiting to be folded in the living room.” • “15th December: saw her looking tired—not suitable for raising children.” Everything I did, every detail of my home—absolutely everything—she wrote down as if it were a crime. And there were things that were completely made up: “29th November: left the child alone for 40 minutes.” That never happened. What’s even worse: there was a section called “Backup plan.” She’d listed the names of aunts who could “confirm” that I lived under stress—something they’d never said. There were printed messages of me asking her not to come round unannounced because I was busy—she was keeping them as “evidence” that I “refused help.” There was even a paragraph stating that if she could “prove” I was a messy or disorganised mother, she could apply for temporary custody of the children “for their safety.” When she got back from the shop, I was shaking. I didn’t know whether to confront her, to stay silent, or to run. I carefully put the notebook back where I found it. That same evening, she made an apparently innocent remark: “Perhaps the children would be better off with someone more organised…” That’s when I realised the notebook wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea—this was a plan. Organised. Calculated. Deliberate. I didn’t tell her I’d seen it. I know if I do, she’ll deny everything, accuse me, turn it all against me—and only make things more dangerous. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. And I’m hurt to my core.
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Well, Our Mum’s Not Much to Write Home About — “Anya, have you left the wet towel on the hook in the bathroom again?” The sharp voice of her mother-in-law called out from the hallway just as Anna set foot inside after work. Valentina stood there, arms folded, giving her daughter-in-law the look. “It’s drying,” Anna slipped off her shoes. “That’s what the hook is for.” “In proper homes, towels go on the towel rail. Not that you’d know.” Anna walked past, ignoring her. Twenty-eight, two university degrees, managing her own department—and here she was, getting nagged about towels. Every single day. Valentina watched her go, dissatisfied. That silence—barely answering, acting like she ran the place. Fifty-five years had taught Valentina to judge people, and she’d never liked this one. Cold. Proud. Maxim needed a warm woman—not a statue. In the days that followed, Valentina watched. Noted. 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01
My Husband Suggested Taking a Break to Test Our Feelings, So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, I think we’ve become strangers to each other. The routines have just swallowed us up. I’ve been thinking… maybe we need to live apart for a while.” Mike said it as casually as if he was suggesting we buy wholemeal bread instead of white for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his beef stew, dunking a bit of bread as he spoke. Helen froze at the cooker, ladle in hand, hot gravy trickling down her wrist, but she barely noticed the burn. It was as if someone had switched on a vacuum cleaner in her ears—everything was a blur. “What do you mean—apart?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she put the ladle back in the pot, afraid her weak fingers would drop it. “Are you heading off on a business trip?” “No, not a business trip,” Mike grimaced, finally glancing her way. He looked tired, slightly annoyed, the look of someone forced to explain obvious things to a slow pupil. “I’m talking about a break. About testing our feelings. You know, the spark’s gone. I come home and feel… suffocated. It’s always the same: work, dinner, TV, sleep. I want to know if I’m really drawn to you, or if it’s just… habit.” Helen slowly sat down opposite him, twenty years of marriage flashing before her eyes. Two grown-up kids off at university in distant cities. The mortgage paid off three years ago. The home renovations they did themselves, spending weekends stripping wallpaper. And now this: “suffocated”? “And where are you planning to stay while you… test your feelings?” she asked quietly. “I’ve rented a flat. Just for a couple of months. It’s close to work, so I can avoid the traffic,” he said, a little too quickly, as if rehearsed. “I’ve already started packing. My things are in the bedroom.” So he’d had this planned for a while. While she’d been considering what bulbs to plant at the allotment this spring, or picking out a new jumper for him in the sales, he was flat-hunting. Paying deposits. Not saying a word. “And my opinion in all this?” Helen looked at her husband, searching his face for the young man she’d once married. Instead, a stranger sat there—a greying, slightly pudgy man avoiding her eyes. “Helen, don’t start with the drama,” Mike pushed away his spoon. Appetite gone, apparently. “I’m not suggesting divorce. Not yet. Just a pause. Loads of couples do it these days. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t live without each other and have a second honeymoon. Or maybe… well, at least we’ll get some honest answers.” He stood up, tossed his napkin on the table, and went off to the bedroom. Helen listened to him opening wardrobes, rustling plastic bags. She sat in the kitchen, staring at the cooling stew—his favourite, with beans, just as he liked it—feeling a vast, icy emptiness grow inside her. The rest of the evening was a daze. Mike bustled around, ferrying bags to the hallway. He took the laptop, the coffee machine (which had been a gift from her workmates, but which he used the most), and his winter clothes. “I’m off,” he said, standing at the door in his jacket, looking both triumphant and a little guilty. “Don’t call me for now. Let’s agree: a month of radio silence, to keep the experiment clean.” “What if there’s a burst pipe?” Helen asked, hearing the absurdity in her own voice. “Call a plumber. You’re a grown woman, you’ll cope. I’ll keep my keys, just in case I need to pop in for something urgent. Okay, that’s it. Don’t miss me too much.” The door clunked shut. The lock clicked. Helen was alone in a flat that suddenly felt oppressively big and terrifyingly quiet. For three days she did nothing but lie in bed, only getting up for water or the bathroom. She felt like her life was over, endlessly replaying the past months in her mind. Was she too fussy about his socks? Had she put on too much weight? Gotten too boring? On the fourth day, her sister Sarah arrived, blowing in like a whirlwind with bags of groceries and a bottle of wine. Seeing Helen—tear-streaked, in her dressing gown, with greasy hair—she simply shook her head. “Right, love, this won’t do. Get up, have a shower. I’ll slice the cheese.” An hour later, wine glass in hand, Helen recounted her conversation with Mike. Sarah listened, eyes narrowed. “A ‘test of feelings’, was it? ‘Suffocated’ is he? Helen, you’re the savviest woman I know—bookkeeper brain, always doing the maths. Yet here you can’t put two and two together. He’s got someone else.” “Oh, don’t be silly,” Helen waved her off. “Who’d want him? He’s fifty-two, has a bad back and indigestion.” “Darling, please! Indigestion never got in love’s way, especially during a mid-life crisis. ‘Rented a studio’, ‘don’t call for a month’—it’s textbook. He wants to try living with her, without burning his bridges. Maybe she can’t cook stew or refuses to do his laundry. You’re his backup plan. If it works out there—you get divorce papers. If not, he comes crawling back with flowers saying he realised you’re the only one he loves. Either way, be prepared.” Sarah’s words hit Helen like heavy stones. She tried to deny it, defend Mike, but deep down she knew her sister was right. The changed phone password, nights working late, new shirt bought without moaning. “So what do I do?” Helen asked, realising that anger was slowly displacing despair. “What do you do? You live!” Sarah thumped the table. “And live well. Get a haircut. Buy yourself something nice. And stop waiting for his call like it’s a winning lottery ticket. The flat’s whose, anyway?” “Mine. My childhood home,” Helen said automatically. “He’s still technically registered at his mum’s—we never got round to all the paperwork.” “Even better. Means you hold the cards. Don’t sit around drowning in tears. Surprise him.” After Sarah left, Helen wandered the flat, unable to sleep, switching on all the lights. In the bathroom, she found his shaving cream. On impulse, she chucked it in the bin. The hollow thud sounded like the first shot in a personal war. The next two weeks were strange. Helen forced herself back to work. Colleagues noticed she’d lost weight and seemed down, blaming it on the spring blues. But Helen started seeing things she’d ignored before. Without Mike the flat was cleaner. Nobody left crumbs on the side or draped jeans over chairs. The fridge stayed full and she barely needed to cook—salad was enough most nights. Her evenings were her own. She rediscovered her love for knitting, started a scarf while watching Netflix. The silence stopped being scary, turning soothing instead. No one droned on about politics, no one switched the channel when she was enjoying a film. Yet doubts remained. What if Sarah was wrong? What if Mike really was alone, missing her? The answer arrived one Friday evening. Helen, heading to buy some new wool, rode the escalator in the shopping centre—and spotted them. Mike stood by a jewellery shop window, a young woman—no more than thirty, bright red coat—clinging to his arm. He grinned at her with the same smile he’d given Helen, twenty years ago. He gestured towards a bracelet and the woman laughed, tossing back her hair. They looked utterly content. Helen stepped behind a tall man. Her heart hammered, thudding in her temples. She watched her husband—supposedly ‘testing his feelings’—cuddle someone else and lead her out, arm around her waist. Something inside Helen finally died. And at the same moment, something new was born—cold, strong, unbreakably calm. She didn’t cause a scene or follow them. She simply went home. First, she fetched her flat’s deeds. Her name. The gift letter from her mother. Only her and her children listed on the electoral roll. Mike still registered at his mum’s, always brushing off the paperwork as a hassle. She found a locksmith online. “Hello, I need to change the locks urgently… Yes, I’ve got the deeds. When can you come? In an hour? Perfect.” The locksmith, burly and businesslike, arrived promptly. “Best lock you’ve got,” Helen said. “I want it secure. Even if someone’s got an old key, they can’t get in.” “Understood, madam. We’ll fit a Yale anti-snap. Burglar-proof—never mind your husband with a copy.” The drill’s whine was music to Helen’s ears. Old metal shavings fell on the mat as the old lock clattered to the floor. With every turn of the screwdriver she felt more of her old pain, old dependence, old ‘making herself convenient’ falling away too. When the locksmith left, handing over a set of shiny new keys, she locked the door. Once, twice, three, four turns—four solid walls of her new fortress. She gathered up the rest of Mike’s things—winter coats, shoes, fishing tackle, tools—into giant bin bags and left them outside her door in the shared hallway. A week passed. Nothing from Mike—he was busy ‘testing his feelings’ with his new flame, seemingly. Helen filed for divorce online. Surprisingly easy. The doorbell rang one Saturday morning—insistent, urgent. Helen peered through the spyhole. Mike, looking a bit dishevelled but rather self-satisfied, holding a shopping bag and a bunch of carnations. Helen didn’t answer. She pressed her forehead to the cold door and waited. Mike tried his key. Metal scraped metal—blocked. He tried again, then again, finally examining the key in confusion. “Helen! Helen, you home? What’s up with the lock?” She stayed silent. “Helen, open up! I know you’re in! Your car’s out front!” He started banging. “Enough with the jokes! I’m back! With flowers! We agreed a month, but I came early—I missed you!” Helen took a deep breath and said loud and clear through the door: “Your stuff’s in the black bags by the door. Take it and go.” There was silence as Mike digested this. Then the sound of shuffling—he’d found the bin bags. “Have you lost your mind?” his voice turned shrill. “What are you playing at? Open up! I’m your husband! I have a right to come in!” “This isn’t your home anymore, Mike,” Helen answered calmly. “It’s my flat. You’re not even on the tenancy. You wanted to live separately. Fine. Now you live separately. For good.” “You… you changed the locks? How could you? I’ll call the police! Fire brigade! Break down the door!” “Go on,” Helen said. “Show them your proof of address. Tell them about your midlife experiment. I’m sure the local copper will have a laugh.” “What woman? You’re imagining things! I was living alone!” “I saw you at the shopping centre, Mike. Jewellery shop. Red coat. Stop lying. The experiment’s over. Result: negative.” Swearing erupted. He kicked the door. “You’ll regret this! You’ll end up alone, you silly cow! Who’s going to want you at forty-five? I was doing you a favour, coming back! I’ll sue you for half the house! The car! The holiday home!” “We’ll split the car and summer cottage in court, like adults,” Helen replied. “But you’re not getting the flat. Go, Mike, or I’ll call the police and report an aggressive intruder.” He stomped and yelled, banged and cursed, flung his wilted carnations at the door, and eventually dragged his bags to the lift with a final “Cow!” Helen slid down the door until she sat on the floor, legs trembling. Her tears, when they came, were hot and cathartic—not of grief, but release. After ten minutes, she washed her face and looked in the mirror. The woman looking back had tired eyes, but her chin was lifted with pride. Her phone pinged: a message from Sarah—“So, did our Romeo make an appearance? I saw his car out front.” Helen typed back: “He’s been. Took his things. New locks are perfect.” “Good girl! I’m proud of you! I’ll pop over with cake later—we’ll celebrate your new start.” Helen went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. Out in the hallway, she could see those unwanted carnations through the spyhole. How typical: after twenty years, he still didn’t remember she hated carnations. She liked tulips. A month later, the divorce went through quickly—grown-up children, no drama. The holiday home sold and split, the car went to Mike (with compensation to Helen, which paid for a holiday.) Mike’s “muse” dumped him as soon as it became clear there was no comfy flat and a messy property split on the cards. The rented studio was too expensive, so he moved back in with his mum, to his old council flat on the estate. Helen heard all this third-hand and didn’t care. She’d just returned from her first solo holiday in Turkey; she’d bought a bright new dress and—perhaps—a flirtation with a dashing German. Nothing serious, but enough to remind her she was still a vibrant woman. One evening, returning from work, a familiar voice called out by the entrance. “Helen?” Mike, thinner now and crumpled in a shabby windbreaker, stood by the bench looking battered. “Hi,” she said, slowing but not stopping. “Helen, can we talk? I was stupid. I made a mistake. The devil got into me. My mum nags me every day—I miss our home, your stew… Can’t we start over? We can’t just throw away twenty years…” Helen looked at him—and realised she felt… nothing. No anger, no hurt, no pity. Just emptiness. Like a passer-by asking for spare change. “You can’t just throw away twenty years,” she agreed. “But the past belongs to the past. I’ve got a new life now, Mike. No room for old mistakes. Or for you.” “But I’ve changed! I’ve learnt my lesson!” “So have I,” she smiled. “I’ve discovered I’m not suffocated alone. I’m free.” She took out her new, gleaming keys and walked confidently to the entrance. The intercom chimed, letting her inside. The door closed behind her, shutting out Mike and his regrets. Riding up in the lift, Helen thought—maybe new wallpaper in the hallway, something bright and peachy. And a comfortable new armchair for her evenings in. Life was just beginning, and the keys to that life were in her own hands. Did you enjoy the story? Subscribe and give it a thumbs-up to catch more life tales. Leave a comment—did Helen do the right thing?
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My Daughter Stopped Speaking to Me a Year Ago After Leaving Home to Live With a Man I Knew Was Wrong for Her—Unstable, Moody, and Always Making Excuses Not to Work. She Told Me I Didn’t Understand and That Life With Him Would Be Different. That Was Our Last Conversation Until She Called Me in Tears Two Weeks Ago After He Threw Her Out, Admitting She Was Ashamed to Admit I Was Right, and Begging Not to Spend Christmas Alone—Now She’s Back Home With Just a Small Bag and a Broken Heart, and This Christmas, She Won’t Have to Be Alone.
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Last Love: “No, Irochkina, I really haven’t any money! I gave my last to Natasha yesterday! You know she has two children!” Deeply upset, Anna Ford hung up the phone. She did not want to think at all about what her daughter had just said. “Why is it like this? I raised three children with my husband, did everything for them. Put them all through university, now they all have good jobs. But now, in my old age, I have neither peace nor help.” “Why did you have to leave me so soon, Walter? Life was easier with you,” Anna thought, speaking to her late husband in her mind. Her heart squeezed painfully; her hand reached habitually for her tablets: “Only one or two capsules left. If I get worse, there will be nothing to help me. I must go to the chemist.” She tried to stand up but sat down immediately: her head spun terribly. “It’s fine, the tablet will work soon, and all will pass.” But time went on, and she felt no better. Anna dialled her youngest daughter: “Natasha…” was all she managed to say. “Mum, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later!” She dialled her son: “Darling, I’m not feeling well. I’ve run out of my tablets. Could you, after work…” Her son didn’t even let her finish. “Mum, I’m no doctor, and neither are you! Call an ambulance, don’t wait!” Anna sighed heavily. “That’s true, he’s right! If I don’t feel better in half an hour, I’ll ring for an ambulance.” She carefully leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, counting to one hundred in her mind to relax. From far off, a sound reached her—what was it? Ah yes, the telephone! “Hello!” she said, struggling to open her mouth. “Anna, love, it’s Peter! How are you? I just had a bad feeling—I wanted to call you!” “Peter, I don’t feel well.” “I’m on my way! Can you open the door?” “Peter, I always leave the door open these days.” Anna let the phone slip from her hand and didn’t have the energy to retrieve it. “So be it,” she thought. In her mind’s eye, memories of her youth began playing like a film: here she was, a young girl—a first-year at the London School of Economics. Two charming, dashing military cadets stood on either side of her, both holding balloons. “How funny,” she’d thought back then, “big lads with balloons!” Ah, of course! It was the ninth of May—VE Day! Parade, street parties! And there she was, between Peter and Walter, holding balloons. Back then, she’d chosen Walter. He was bolder, perhaps, and Peter was shy and reserved. Then fate parted them—she and Walter moved to Surrey for his service, Peter was posted to Germany. They met again in their hometown years later, both men retired. Peter had always lived alone—no wife, no children. They’d ask him why it happened that way… He’d just wave it off, or make a joke: “Unlucky in love—perhaps it’s time to take up poker!” Anna heard voices around her, conversation. She managed to open her eyes. “Peter!” He was beside her, with what was clearly a paramedic. “She’ll be fine now,” said the medic. “Are you her husband?” “Yes, yes,” Peter replied. The medic gave Peter instructions, and Peter sat, holding Anna’s hand, until she began to recover. “Thank you, Peter! I feel so much better now!” “That’s wonderful. Here, let me get you some tea with lemon.” Peter bustled away, making things in the kitchen, fussing over Anna, too concerned to leave her on her own. “You know, Anna, I loved you all my life; that’s why I never married.” “Oh, Peter, Peter! Walter and I were happy—I respected him, and he loved me. You never said anything in our youth; I never truly knew how you felt. But what use is there talking about it now? Those years are gone and can’t come back.” “Anna, let’s spend whatever time we have left happily—however long God gives us, let’s be happy together!” Anna rested her head on Peter’s shoulder, took his hand and said, “Let’s!” She laughed, her laughter light and full of joy. A week later, Natasha finally rang. “Mum, you called—I couldn’t answer, then I got busy and forgot…?” “Oh, that… It’s all fine now. Since you did call, I don’t want a surprise: I’m letting you know—I’m getting married!” There was silence on the other end, then the sound of her daughter sucking in a breath, smacking her lips in disbelief. “Mum, are you in your right mind? You’ve had one foot in the grave for years, and now you’re getting married? And who’s this extraordinary man?” Anna shrank inside, her eyes filling with tears. But she found the strength to reply, calmly and clearly: “That’s my personal business.” And she hung up. She turned to Peter: “Well, get ready—the whole gang will turn up tonight! Prepare for a siege!” “We’ll manage! We’ve survived worse!” Peter chuckled. That evening, all three children arrived: Greg, Irene, and Natasha. “Well, Mum, introduce us to your Casanova!” Greg sneered. “Nothing to introduce, you know me,” Peter said, stepping out. “I’ve loved Anna since our youth. When I saw her so ill a week ago, I realised I couldn’t lose her. I proposed and she kindly accepted.” “Listen here, you overgrown clown—have you completely lost your minds? Love at your age?” Irene screeched. “And how old is ‘your age’, exactly?” Peter asked calmly. “We’re barely seventy—still plenty of life in us. And your mother is still a beauty!” “I suppose you’re angling after Mum’s flat, is that it?” Natasha asked in her solicitor’s tone. “Children, for heaven’s sake—what does my flat have to do with it? You each have your own homes!” “Nevertheless, we have a share in this flat,” Natasha insisted. “Look, I want nothing! I have somewhere to live,” Peter said flatly. “But I will not sit by while you insult your mother. It’s disgusting to listen to!” “And who are you to be opening your mouth here, you ancient playboy? Who asked your opinion?” Greg puffed himself up like a fighting cock, moving threateningly towards Peter. But Peter didn’t flinch. He drew himself up to his full height and looked Greg directly in the eye. “I’m your mother’s husband, whether you like it or not!” “And we’re her children!” Irene shouted. “And tomorrow, we’re putting her in a home or in the madhouse!” Natasha joined in. “Not a chance! Come on, Anna, we’re leaving!” They walked out together, hand in hand, never looking back. They didn’t care what anyone thought. They were happy and free. A lonely streetlamp lit their way. And the grown-up children watched after them, unable to understand how there could possibly be love at seventy.
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Bride for Hire: When Polina Runs Away from Her Groom, Cancels Her Wedding, and Flees to London with Floyd—Only to Become a ‘Fake Fiancée’ in an English Family Drama of Ex-Wives, Grown-Up Sons, and Unexpected Love
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After Christmas Dinner at the Gables: The Heiress Under the Bed, The Fiancé’s Chilling Plot, and How Clara Vance Turned a High-Society Wedding into the Ultimate British Revenge
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Heating Up the Marriage — “Listen, Liz… what if we tried an open relationship?” Victor suggested cautiously. — “What?” Liz blinked, not quite sure she’d heard right. “Are you serious?” — “And why not? It’s perfectly normal,” her husband shrugged, trying to sound casual. “They do it all the time in Europe. Apparently, it really spices up a marriage. You always said a little treat while dieting doesn’t hurt—keeps you from binging. It’s just about variety.” Liz blinked, trying to process his words. Comparing a mistress to a chocolate bar was either spectacularly stupid, or shameless. — “Vic…” she began. “If you want to leave, just do it properly. I’ll give you your freedom, but don’t drag me into this nonsense.” — “Oh come on, Liz, why are you getting prickly? I love you. It’s just… the spark’s gone. We need a little fire, you know? Half the time we sleep back-to-back and only talk about food shopping and the energy bill. It’s all so dull—we both need a jump start. I’m not restricting you. Go have some fun, talk to other people, unwind a bit. What’s the harm?” Liz narrowed her eyes. Suddenly, she realized Victor was lying. Shifty eyes, nervous fingers tapping the table—he wanted freedom all right. And he wanted it yesterday, not tomorrow or today. — “Vic, be honest. You’ve already found someone, haven’t you? And now you want me to play along so you don’t feel guilty?” — “Here we go!” Victor rolled his eyes. “If that were true, would I even be having this conversation? Honestly, I regret bringing it up. You’re such a throwback! Forget it…” Victor stood in dignified silence and walked off, leaving Liz alone with her thoughts. Twenty-five years. She’d given him her best years, stuck through hard times, money worries, constant late nights at the office—which, with hindsight, looked very different… And now, here he was, well-fed and comfortable, inviting her to help sabotage their family. “Unwind”—what a convenient word. They slept in separate rooms that night. Well, “slept” was generous. Liz lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how they’d gotten to this point. Victor used to bring her armfuls of lilacs, work overtime just to pay for a beautiful wedding, and celebrate when their daughter was born. Now… she almost wished he’d just walked out. Where was the point of no return? When she stopped bothering with makeup at home, trying to look nice for him? When he first forgot their anniversary, blaming work? Did it even matter now? Divorce was tempting—a clean break, a fresh start. But could she really throw out half her life so easily? Maybe there had never been fireworks, but there was habit, a shared home, a well-oiled routine. Victor had always seemed reliable. Their daughter had moved out; retirement was looming. They’d nursed each other through illness, once even taken out a loan to help Liz’s mum. Not every man would do that. Inside, Liz simmered with hurt, fear, and anger. “Does he think I’d never find anyone?” she wondered. “That I’m a washed-up old lady, fit only to cook his dinner, knit socks for the grandkids and wait quietly until he feels like coming home?” No chance. — “Fine,” she told Victor the next morning. “Let’s do it your way.” — “Eh?” — “I agree to your open relationship.” Victor nearly choked on his tea. Expecting a scene, he got a serene “yes.” — “Well… that’s good, then. You might even like it,” he said. “By the way, I’ll be home late tonight.” Her heart twisted. That quickly? …The evening was dull and silent, and Liz felt used up and discarded. Like she’d been appraised and rejected, an outdated phone model. She examined herself in the mirror: tired eyes, wrinkles around the corners, skin not as flawless as before. But her figure was still trim, her hair thick. Maybe she was still attractive. Maybe Victor was the problem, not her. Other men certainly noticed her. There was Andrew from the office—the new branch manager, silver at the temples, slightly gravelly voice, twinkling eyes. Right away, he’d singled Liz out, making polite conversation, holding doors, bringing her coffee, even inviting her to lunch—and last week, dinner. — “Andrew, I’m on a diet called ‘married,’” she quipped. — “Lizzie, being married’s just a stamp, not a scarlet letter,” Andrew laughed. “But I won’t push it.” Victor wanted an open marriage? Wanted her to unwind? Why not. — “Evening, Andrew. Is your dinner invitation still open? I find I have some free time—and a craving to cheat on my diet,” she messaged. It wasn’t revenge. Liz just wanted to feel like a woman again. Wanted to breathe life into a “me” her husband had squashed these last two days. …Dinner went surprisingly well. Andrew was the perfect gentleman: pulling out her chair, topping up her wine, really listening, giving her that look—the kind that makes you feel you’re the only woman in the world. Liz felt guilty but alive, excited to finally be the star in her own life, not just the housewife who catered to Victor’s every whim. — “Shall we go back to mine?” Andrew suggested over dessert. “I’ll pick up a bottle of wine, we’ll watch something… make a night of it.” She nodded. Inside, something shrieked, “Stop!” But then she saw Victor’s face again, heard his “unwind.” They’d barely arrived at Andrew’s when her phone started buzzing—her husband. She rejected the call once, then again, but he wouldn’t give up. — “Yes?” she answered, struggling for composure. — “Where are you, then?” Victor exploded. “It’s ten at night! There’s nothing to eat, house is empty! Have you completely lost the plot?” Andrew tactfully withdrew to another room. The romance instantly evaporated. — “Honestly… I’m on a date, Vic.” — “What do you mean, a date?!” — “You want it spelled out? You suggested an open relationship, told me to meet new people and have a bit of fun. Well—I’m doing it. Don’t like the taste of your own medicine?” Silence, broken only by Victor’s indignant breathing. Then his dam of feigned calm burst. — “You actually went and did it? I was joking! I wanted to test you! Get it? Test you! And you just jumped at the chance, did you? Pouted for a day and raced off to the first bloke you found?” Liz was dumbfounded. — “And where were you tonight?” — “At work! That’s it,” Victor snapped. “I don’t want any, you know, diseases from your side. Either pack your bags, or I’m out. We’re getting divorced.” He hung up. Liz stared at the wall, horrified and humiliated. — “Are you alright?” Andrew’s voice came from behind her. — “Yeah… I’ll be fine,” Liz tried to smile, but couldn’t. — “Liz… Look, I think the mood’s changed. Maybe you should go, sort things out at home.” Cinderella’s ball was over. The carriage became a pumpkin, and her charming suitor just wanted to keep out of her drama. Fair enough—he’d signed up for a pleasant evening, not a family soap opera. Maybe she should’ve just filed for divorce straight away—but good ideas always arrive too late. That night, Liz didn’t go home. She booked a hotel. Facing Victor wasn’t an option, and she needed time to accept that things would never be the same. Three years passed… In that time, life slowly chiselled away anything unnecessary—even as it hurt. Victor acquired a new girlfriend suspiciously fast—even before the divorce was finalized. She vanished as soon as they’d sold the flat, taking his half of the money. Things with Andrew fizzled out. They still saw each other at work, but nothing more than bland pleasantries. Liz realized something: men happy to play “lover” roles quickly melt away when you need a companion for the hard days or a bit of moral support. Liz wasn’t looking anymore, anyway. When she finally had a place of her own, she discovered a sudden surplus of time and energy. Life had always been about Victor, about the chores, the drama. Now she invested in herself—not for anyone else, but for her. Mornings at the pool cured her backache. English classes kept her mind sharp. She cut her hair, revamped her wardrobe. Most important—she became a grandmother. Her daughter, Mary, had a baby girl, Sophie. At first, Mary had sided with Victor over the messy breakup—he’d painted Liz as the homewrecker, the cheater, the traitor. But time set things straight. Mary came to talk—ready to confront her mum, to look her in the eye. But instead of a “scarlet woman,” she saw a tired but honest woman. Liz told her side: Victor’s idea, his late nights at the office, the loneliness that had begun to eat her alive years ago. Mary—now married herself—understood. And once Victor showed his true colours, Mary stood firmly at her mother’s side. Now, Liz was sitting in Mary’s kitchen, holding baby Sophie as the tiny girl tried to snag her finger. — “Dad called again today,” Mary said, with a scowl. “He wanted to visit and see Sophie.” — “And?” Liz asked quietly. — “I told him we were out of town,” Mary sighed. “I don’t want him here, Mum. One minute he bad-mouths you, the next he wants us to patch you up. Every time I see him I get anxious. And I don’t want him turning Sophie against you, not even a little. Let him carry on with his ‘freedom’…” Liz just squeezed her granddaughter a little closer. Victor had gotten exactly what he wanted: total freedom. No one bothered him for attention, no one interrupted his TV shows, no one waited up for him at night. And yet, when he finally tasted freedom—he discovered it had the bitter tang of loneliness. But it was too late now.
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It Took Me Sixty-Five Years to Truly Understand: The Greatest Pain Isn’t an Empty House, But Living Among People Who No Longer See You – My Name Is Helen, and This Is How I Learned That True Loneliness Is Being Overlooked in Your Own Family
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Just Hold On a Little Longer — Mum, this is for Anna’s next term. Maria placed the envelope on the faded vinyl tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the flat’s front door. Each time, just enough. Ellen laid aside her knitting and looked at her daughter over the top of her glasses. — Mary, you look ever so pale. Tea? — No, Mum. I’m only here for a minute—I’ve got to get to my evening shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought for her mother every month. Forty quid a bottle, lasting three weeks. Plus blood pressure pills, plus quarterly check-ups. — Anna was so pleased about her work placement at the bank—Ellen took the envelope carefully, as though it were fragile glass.—She says there are good prospects. Maria said nothing. — Tell her this is the last money we have for her studies. Final term. For five years, Maria had shouldered it all. Every month—a cash envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand and relentless subtraction: minus bills, minus medication, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s course fees. And what was left for her? A rented bedsit in a shared flat, a winter coat already six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own home. Once, Maria had longed for a weekend in London. Just to see the National Gallery, to wander along the Thames. She’d even started saving—then Mum had her first bad turn, and every penny went on doctors. — You should have a break, love—Ellen stroked her hand.—You look done in. — I’ll rest. Soon. Soon—when Anna gets a job. When Mum’s health settles. When she could actually breathe and think about her own life. Maria had been promising herself “soon” for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—a first, no less. Maria took the day off work and watched her younger sister cross the stage in a new dress—a gift from her, of course—thinking: That’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and finally, Maria could stop counting out every penny. Four months passed. — You don’t get it, Mary—Anna sat on the sofa in fluffy socks.—I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts. — Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. — Maybe not for you. Maria gritted her teeth. Her main job paid forty-two. Overtime and temp work—another twenty, if she was lucky. Sixty-two per annum, and if Maria kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. — Anna, you’re twenty-two. You’ve got to start somewhere. — I will. Just not in some dead-end job for a pittance. Ellen fussed around the kitchen, clattering dishes, pretending to ignore the row. She always did this, hiding away when her daughters argued. Then, when Maria was leaving, she’d whisper: “Don’t be hard on Anna, she’s still young, she doesn’t understand.” She doesn’t understand. Twenty-two—and she doesn’t understand. — I’m not going to live forever, Anna. — Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money. I’m just looking for the right opportunity. Not asking. Technically—not asking. But Mum would. “Mary, Anna needs money for English lessons.” “Mary, Anna’s phone’s broken, she needs it for job applications.” “Mary, Anna needs a new coat before winter.” Maria transferred money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was just the way—she provided, they accepted. — I’m off—she stood up.—Evening shift tonight. — Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!—Mum called from the kitchen. They were filled with cabbage. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold lobby reeking of damp and cats. Ten minutes’ brisk walk to the bus stop. Then an hour’s ride. Eight hours on her feet. If she got home in time, another four hours on the computer for more work. Meanwhile, Anna would be at home, scrolling through job sites, waiting for the universe to present her with a perfect position—£60k and remote working. The first real fight happened in November. — Do you even do anything?—Maria lost her patience when she saw her sister still lounged on the couch.—Sent out your CV at all? — I have. Three times. — Three CVs in a whole month? Anna rolled her eyes, glued to her phone. — You don’t understand today’s job market. The competition’s mad, you’ve got to be selective. — Selective how? You want to be paid for lying on the sofa? Ellen poked her head from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel, anxious. — Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake… — Don’t bother—Maria rubbed her temples. Third day in a row with a headache.—Just tell me why I have to work two jobs and she can get away with none? — Mary, Anna’s still young, she’ll find her path… — When? In a year? Five years? I was already working at her age! Anna sprang up. — Sorry I don’t want to end up like you! Run into the ground, working yourself to death! Silence. Maria wordlessly picked up her bag and left. Watching the rain splatter the bus window, she thought: Run into the ground. That’s what I look like from the outside. Ellen called the next day, begging her not to be upset. — Anna didn’t mean it. She’s worried. Just, please, hold on a little longer—she’ll find a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on, till Dad sorts himself out. Hold on, till Anna grows up. Hold on, till things get better. Maria had held on her whole life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same—Maria trying to reason with her sister, Anna snapping, Ellen pleading for peace. Maria would leave, Ellen would call with apologies, and the cycle would repeat. — You must understand, she’s your sister—Mum would say. — And she must understand I’m not a cash machine. — Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice was bright with excitement. — Mary! I’m getting married! — What? To whom? — His name’s David. We met three weeks ago. He’s just… Mary, he’s perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks and getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, that she barely knew him, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If Anna had a husband, he could support her, and Maria could, at last, breathe. The hope lasted precisely one family dinner. — I’ve got it all planned!—Anna beamed.—Reception for a hundred, live band, and there’s a dress I love, on Regent Street… Maria set down her fork. — How much is all this? — Well—Anna shrugged with that disarming smile.—About twenty grand. Maybe twenty-five. But it’s my wedding! Once in a lifetime! — And who’s paying? — Well, you know… David’s parents can’t help—they have a mortgage. Mum’s on a pension now. You’ll probably have to take out a loan. Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Ellen looked away. — Are you serious? — Mary, it’s a wedding—Mum used her syrupy, persuasive voice.—Once in your life. Don’t be so tight-fisted… — You want me to borrow twenty grand for the wedding of someone who never bothered to get a job? — You’re my sister!—Anna slammed her palm on the table.—It’s your duty! — My duty? Maria stood up. Her mind was suddenly calm and clear. — Five years. Five years I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I have no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. — Mary, don’t get upset…—began Ellen. — No, I’m done! I’ve supported you both for years, and now you want to tell me what I owe you? That’s it. From now on, I’m living for me! She left, just managing to grab her coat. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the chill. Warmth spread within her, as though she’d finally dropped a heavy sack she’d hauled all her life. Her phone was soon buzzing with calls. Maria declined them, blocking both numbers. …Six months later, Maria moved into a tiny place of her own, which she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, bright nights. She bought a new dress. And another. And shoes. She heard about her family by chance—from an old school friend who worked near her mum. — Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was cancelled? Maria froze, coffee mug in hand. — What? — Yeah, apparently her fiancé legged it when he realised there was no money. Maria sipped her coffee. It was bitter and, somehow, delicious. — No idea. We’re not in touch. That evening, Maria sat by the window in her new flat, thinking how she didn’t feel the least bit spiteful. Not at all. Only a gentle, quiet satisfaction—of someone who has finally stopped living life as a workhorse. Just Hold On a Little Longer
015
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Bride for Hire — The Wedding’s Off! — Polina stunned her parents over dinner. Mum nearly choked on her tea at her daughter’s announcement. — Polina! Are you out of your mind? The dress is bought, the rings are ready, the reception is booked… Your David has been waiting for this day like it’s the Second Coming! Please tell me you’re joking, — her mother pleaded, panic in her voice. — No, Mum, I’m not joking. Floyd and I are moving to London soon. It’s serious, — Polina replied firmly. — London? Why would you go there? It’s all foreign, all strange… Different people, a different country. You’ll get lost and forgotten! This Floyd has clearly got inside your head. He’s probably married already—with kids! He’s old enough to be your father! Your David loves you so much. He’s like another son to us! Don’t throw away true love. Every action has consequences, remember that, — Mum begged. — I’m not afraid of consequences, — Polina said resolutely. …A couple of weeks later, Polina and Floyd left for England. Polina had dreamt all her life of seeing how people lived in other countries. She’d learned French by heart. Spoke flawless English. Was starting on Spanish—who knows where life would take her? After university, she worked as a translator in a travel agency. That’s where she met Floyd, when she had to accompany an overseas visitor to various events. Floyd took a keen interest in her straight away. Polina was easy-going, friendly, and beautiful—but most importantly, she was young, just twenty-three to Floyd’s forty-six. At first, she was amused by the foreign gentleman’s advances. She never expected Floyd to propose—within a week of meeting! Polina didn’t mention her own approaching wedding to David. She was left confused: what to do? Not every girl gets a chance to marry a foreigner! How could she miss such an adventure, even if it wasn’t for love? Her life would be exciting, full of new experiences. She’d be grateful to her foreign husband, surely that was enough for a young wife? David would get over it—he was still young, plenty of time to find someone new. Polina broke the news to her would-be groom over the phone. David, bewildered, wished her well—and drowned his heartbreak in drink. …Floyd and Polina landed in London. She was delirious with happiness—could dreams really come true? When they reached Floyd’s huge home, his family greeted them. Two grown-up sons—Harry and Ethan. (Soon, Polina would marry Ethan and find true happiness.) Later, Floyd’s ex-wife Leonora appeared—a tall, stylish woman who was not at all amused: — Have you lost your mind, Floyd? Who is this girl? Where did you find her? Is she moving in with us? — Yes, she’s moving in. Reminder: this is my house—and Polina will soon be my wife, so please be kind, Leonora, — Floyd replied, half-apologetic. Polina felt awkward in this tense atmosphere. The family had broken up but still all lived together, with Leonora clearly ruling the roost. But someone else had already won her heart—Ethan, Floyd’s younger son. Not David with his apologies, not even Floyd. Here was something universal—the spark of eternal love… Ethan, twenty-four, had his mum’s good looks and immediately noticed the pretty stranger his father brought home. Something electric passed between them. When Floyd suddenly delayed the wedding without explanation, Polina didn’t argue—she wasn’t going back to England. She was given a cosy room. Relations with Floyd were cordial but innocent; Leonora ignored her completely. …Three months passed. Polina got closer to Ethan, who finally confessed the truth about his family: Floyd was still in love with his ex-wife, and she with him. A huge row led to their divorce, but neither wanted to reconcile. So Floyd, hoping to make Leonora jealous, decided to pretend he was remarrying. Polina was perfect as the ‘bride-for-hire’. Once his ex gave in, the plan was to send Polina home—with gifts and a return ticket. When Polina heard this from Ethan, she burst out laughing in disbelief. — Just my luck! I’ve ended up a bride for hire! — Polina, I can’t be without you, — Ethan admitted. — I thought you’d never say it! At last! — she sighed in relief. — How could I, when you were supposed to marry my dad? When Ethan learned Polina was not really engaged to his father, their love blossomed. — Would you have married my father, Polina? — As soon as I saw you, my plans changed forever. I’d have said no, — she smiled. They embraced. Polina forgave Floyd and Leonora—sometimes even the worst twists of fate can lead to happiness… Polina and Ethan soon married. Ethan, afraid Polina might leave for her homeland, didn’t delay in starting a family—first a son, then a daughter. Their home was full of warmth and love. Floyd and Leonora, meanwhile, mended fences and doted on their grandchildren. …Once, Polina’s mother wrote, asking her to visit. She travelled alone, leaving the children with Leonora. Mum met her in tears: — Oh, Polina! Your David is dead! And he’s taken his wife with him—motorbike crash. Their little girl is orphaned, just three years old. Poor thing! David, as it happened, had never forgotten Polina. He remarried only to fill the void, but tragedy followed. Polina listened, hugged her mum and said, — It’s OK, Mum—we’ll adopt David’s little girl as our own. That will be his gift to us. Polina knew this was right, and Ethan would agree. — Now, please make me something to eat, Mum—I’m shattered after the journey, and you know future mothers have to eat for two! — Polina winked.