“I Didn’t Invite You!—The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke—You Weren’t Asked Here!”

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

“I never invited any guests!” The daughter-in-law’s voice snapped, fraying at the ends. “I didnt invite you at all!”

Michael stood in the cramped kitchen, intently whisking together a sauce for the evenings pasta. In his left hand, a sturdy whisk; in his right, a well-thumbed recipe book propped open. Fixed upon his face was that particular look of determined kitchen concentration that comes to men who rarely cookbut try hard to get it right.

The apartment was thick with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil, mingling with the faint perfume of melting beeswax from the candles Emily had dotted about the sitting room.

“I think Im getting the hang of it,” he called over his shoulder to his wife, who was slicing cheddar for the salad. “At least it hasnt gone lumpy.”

Emily smiled at him, eyes warm. Her chestnut hair was lazily twisted atop her head, and the soft light of the overhead lamp danced in her blue-grey eyes.

“Youre the most talented man I know,” Emily said, stepping over to hug his waist. “It smells amazing. Just like that little place in Bath.”

“Thats the goal. Just picture it: silence, gentle music, a candlelit dinnerno phone calls, no visitors, just you and I.”

They had both longed for this plan, to celebrate her birthday in peace. After the constant bustle and whirlwind of relations coming and going, they dreamed of a night just for themselves.

Emily had picked up their favourite bottle of English sparkling wine in advance. Michael left work early to cook everything himself.

Once theyd finished setting dishes on the table and carried nibbles into the lounge, Emily set some mellow music playing.

“Happy birthday, dearest,” Michael lifted his glass. “Let this year bring you only happiness and calm.”

“Thank you, love,” she replied, clinking her glass with his.

The wine was crisp, tinged with apples and toast. She closed her eyes, soaking in this rare, perfect moment. Emily had craved it for weeks.

Then, with a splintering shriek, the buzzer cut the bliss, echoing sharp through the flats hallway. Michael frowned.

“Who could that be? Were not expecting anyone.”

Emily shrugged, but dread skittered down her spine, cold and distinct. Michael stepped to the intercom.

“Hello?” he asked tentatively.

A voice boomed so loud it seemed to fill every dusty corner.

“Michael, its us! Open upweve brought treats! Here to wish the birthday girl well!”

Michaels face drained of colour. He shot a panicked look at Emily.

“Mum?” he whispered. “What on earth?”

“Well of course! Here to see my lovely daughter-in-law on her special daylet us in, its blowing a gale out here!”

Michael pressed the entry button in silence. The room fell heavy, the way a storm presses down before it breaks.

“Your mum? Now?” Emily whispered, her words trembling.

“I…she said shed only ring…”

Before either could move, there came a booming, impatient knockingknocking that sounded less like visiting guests, and more like people claiming their territory.

Michael drew a deep breath and answered the door. There stood Janet, his mothera sturdy woman with cropped hair and lipstick as red as a pillar box.

She was bundled in a voluminous tartan shawl, clutching a colossal, misted-up Tupperware box.

“Finally! We were freezing out therelike stray pups!” she declared, bustling into the corridor, shaking raindrops onto the mat.

Thats when Emily and Michael saw the rest. Behind Janet, a whole cavalcade squeezed inside: Uncle Charles, Janets brotherenormous and beaming in a tracksuit, hauling a crate of Robinsons squash; Charless wife, Auntie Marythin, fidgety, balancing an enormous cake box like a shield; their twenty-year-old daughter, Sophie, already glued to her phone; and two little ones, close in age, shrieking as they hurtled into the flats nooks and crannies.

“Mum, what is this?” Michael managed.

“Whats the harm?” Janet retorted, flinging her coat onto the rack, somehow using up three hooks at once. “Were family! Wanted to surprise Emily! All for you, love!” She handed the oversized container to her daughter-in-law. “Homemade brawnfor Michael.”

Emily accepted it numbly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Turner,” she murmured. “But we… we werent expecting…”

“Were not guests, dear! Were your lot!” Janet thundered, already drifting toward the sitting room. “Blimeycandles! How romantic.”

Auntie Mary deposited the cake box onto the table with a flourish, elbowing aside Emilys vase of daffodils and their wine glasses to make room.

“Emily, happy birthday!” Mary called. “Baked it myselfa proper Black Forest, just like my mum did it. Try a slice!”

The children darted about the flat, screeching, playing a lopsided game of tag. One nearly toppled a floor vase, and Emily lunged to catch it.

Her pulse hammered. Michael, recovering, tried to corral the chaos.

“Well, since youre all here, make yourselves comfy. Emily, should we spread things out in the kitchen?”

But Janet had already decided.

“No need for that! Its nice in hereCharles, move the table; Mary, fetch the plates; Sophie, dont just gawp at your phonecome lend a hand.”

Sophie shuffled off to the kitchen without glancing up. The fragile spell of the evening was shattered.

Ten minutes later, the table was sagging beneath all the food brought from home: brawn, pickled herring, potato salad, gherkins, and Auntie Marys towering Black Forest cake.

“So then, birthday girl, tell ushows life treating you?” Janet settled herself on the sofa, peering at Emily like a teacher at exam time. “Still at the same job? Boss still impossible?”

“Its fine, thanks,” Emily replied softly, picking at her salad.

“Our Sophie still cant find anything,” Janet rattled on, ignoring Emilys answer. “Studied all those years, now nothing to show. Maybe you could get her something at your firm? Shes a bright one, our Sophie.”

Emily could only nod, shrinking inward. Michael hunched beside her, answering Uncle Charless questions about the football, his weariness and frustration barely concealed.

Michael kept shooting apologetic glances at Emily, knowing he was powerless. The children, fuelled by cake, dashed away to play again.

The youngerHarrynoticed the crystal animal collection Emily had spent years building along the bookshelves.

“Mum! Look at all these shiny things!” he cried.

“Be careful, Harrytheyre fragile,” Emily called, but too late.

The boy reached for a delicate swan. There was a sharp, metallic crackand suddenly, shards of crystal were strewn everywhere.

Utter quiet fell. Even the music had ended, and the only sound was the faint hiss of candle flames.

“Oh, blimey!” Auntie Mary gasped. “Harry, love, what have you done? I told you not to touch!”

“Come on now, no need to fuss,” Janet brushed it off. “Just glass ornaments, nothing special. Will sweep it up. Kids dont mean any harm.”

Emily looked up at her coldly.

“That was my grandmothers gift,” she said quietly, with precision. “Shes gone now.”

“Well, yes, may she rest in peace, of course, but the living come first,” Janet persisted. “If youre having people over, best to keep delicate things out of reach.”

That was it. Emily shot up, her chair skidding back across the floorboards.

“But I didnt invite anyone!” Her voice finally broke free. “I didnt ask you to come! Michael and I wanted to be alone tonight. Its my birthdaynot a family invasion!”

A hush blanketed the room. Even the children paused, sensing the change in the air.

Uncle Charles stared at his plate, Auntie Marys mouth hung open. Janet flushed crimson.

“Is that so?” she said, ice creeping into her tone. “We come here with presents, set the table, and you want us gone? Im not allowed in my own sons house?”

“Enough, Mum,” Michael rose, his own patience torn to shreds. “Emilys right. We planned an evening just for us. You cant just barge in unannounced, bringing half of Yorkshire along.”

“Barge in?” Janets voice hit a pitch. “Its barging, now? After all Ive done for youraising you single-handed, killing myself for youand now, just because youve got a wife, Im not welcome?”

“Its not about Emily! Its about respecting our space, and what wed planned!”

A loud, pointless quarrel erupted. Janet listed grievances, Michael pleaded for understanding, the others sat in humiliation.

Emily soon couldnt bear it. She silently left the sitting room.

Muffled echoes of the argument seeped through the wall; somehow softer, yet no less painful.

She wasnt sure how long she waitedten, maybe twenty minutes. Eventually, the shouting dwindled into a thick, heavy stillness.

She heard shuffling, low voices, the scrape of closing doors.

Finally, the bedroom door inched open. Michael, utterly spent, filled the doorway.

“Theyve gone,” he said quietly. “Emily, I should have just turned off the buzzer…”

“But you didnt,” Emily replied flatly. “You should have stopped her from coming in.”

“Shes my mum. She meant well…”

“For whom?” Emily stared at him, eyes blazing. “Herself? To prove she runs the show? She ruined everything, Michael!”

“What could I dothrow her out? Shed make a scene…”

“And this wasnt a scene?” Emily paced. “She always decides for uswhat to eat, where to go, how to live! And you always let her…”

Emily looked from the window. Down on the street, she saw Janet and the family piling into their car, blotting away through the drizzle. A sense of crisis faded, but she knew betterthis was only a pause.

“I dont know how to go on, Michael,” she whispered. “I cant live in fear that your mother will crash in here with her casseroles and orders, any time she likes.”

“Ill talk to her. Really talk, this time. Shell have to understand…”

“Youve said that beforenothing ever changes.”

The evening theyd imaginedidyllic and quietnever really happened at all.

“Im sorry,” Michael said again. “Happy birthday, darling.”

Emily shut her eyes, feeling suddenly three times her age. She was thirty-three. She felt sixty.

“Shall we try to celebrate still?” Michael offered, eyes hopeful. “Theres plenty left to eat…”

“Im not in any mood,” Emily answered, voice hollow. “Im exhaustedI just want to sleep.”

She left for the bathroom, desperate to wash the whole night away and sink into bed, to dream that tomorrow might be a day without forceful mothers-in-law or their well-meaning siege.

Janet, after the row, nursed her offence. She truly could not fathom what harm she might have done that night.

An Elderly Gentleman Struggled From His Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Made His Way to the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Squinted at His Slumbering Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away?”—He Sank to His Knees. “Seems She’s Breathing.” He Stood and Slowly Shuffled Into the Kitchen. Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Headed to His Room. Lying Awake, He Thought: “Lena and I Are Both Ninety. What a Life We’ve Lived! Soon We’ll Be Gone, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter Natasha Died Before Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, But She’s Been in Germany for Over Twenty Years—She Never Remembers Us. She Probably Has Grown-Up Children of Her Own Now.” He Didn’t Notice When Sleep Overtook Him. He Awoke to a Gentle Touch: “Kostya, Are You Alive?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Leaning Over Him. “Lena, What’s the Matter?” “I Saw You Lying So Still, I Was Frightened. Thought You’d Died.” “Still Alive! Go and Sleep!” Shuffling Steps Echoed. The Kitchen Light Flicked On. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Visited the Loo, and Headed to Her Room. She Lay Down, Thinking: “One Morning I’ll Wake to Find Him Gone. What Will I Do Then? Maybe I’ll Be the First to Go. Kostya’s Even Arranged Our Funerals Already—Who’d Have Thought You Could Organise Your Own? But It’s a Good Thing—Who’d Bury Us Otherwise? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us Completely. Only Polina the Neighbour Pops In Anymore—She’s Got a Key. Granddad Gives Her Part of Our Pension. She Gets Our Shopping and Medicines. Where Else Do We Have to Spend Our Money? We Can’t Even Get Down from the Fourth Floor Alone Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sunlight Was Peeking Through the Window. He Stepped Out Onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Tip of the Bird Cherry Tree. He Smiled: “We’ve Lived to See Another Summer!” He Went to Check on His Wife, Who Sat Pensively on Her Bed. “Lena, No More Pouting! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve No Strength Left!” She Struggled from the Bed. “What Are You Up To?” “Come Along Now!” He Supported Her to the Balcony. “Look, the Bird Cherry’s Green! And You Said We’d Never See Another Summer. But We Did!” “It Is—The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Together on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Invited You to the Cinema Back at School? The Bird Cherry Was Leafing Out That Day, Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago Was That?” “Over Seventy… Seventy-Five.” They Sat for a Long Time, Reminiscing About Their Youth—So Much Slips Away With Old Age, Even What Happened Yesterday, but Your Youth—That Sticks with You Forever. “We’ve Chattered Away! Haven’t Even Had Breakfast Yet.” “Lena, Make Us Some Proper Tea, Will You? I’m Tired of This Herbal Stuff.” “We Shouldn’t Really.” “Just a Weak Brew, and a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Weak Tea, Nibbling Cheese on Toast, Remembering How Breakfasts Used to Mean Strong Sweet Tea with Pies or Pasties. Their Neighbour Dropped In and Smiled Fondly: “How Are the Pair of You?” “What Can Possibly Be New When You’re Ninety?”—Granddad Joked. “Well, If You’re Jokers, You Must Be Fine. Do You Need Anything From the Shops?” “Polina, Could You Get Us Some Meat, Please?” “You’re Not Supposed to Have That.” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Make You Some Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Get Something for My Heart?” the Old Lady Asked. “Elena Ivanovna, I Got You Something Not Long Ago.” “We’ve Run Out Already.” “Maybe I Should Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Tidied the Table, Did the Washing Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Back Out on the Balcony—Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! Can’t Bear Sitting Cooped Up.” Polina Returned, Bringing Their Porridge onto the Balcony Before Starting Soup for Lunch. “She’s a Good Woman,” He Said as She Went. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And You Only Give Her Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, We Left Her the Flat in Our Will and Had It Notarised.” “But She Doesn’t Know That.” They Sat on the Balcony Until Lunch. Lunch Was Chicken Soup—Tasty, with Finely Diced Meat and Mashed Potato. “I Always Made It Like This for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Little,” Elena Ivanovna Reminisced. “And Now, in Our Old Age, It’s Strangers Who Cook for Us,” Her Husband Sighed Heavily. “Seems That’s Our Lot, Kostya. We’ll Die and No One Will Even Shed a Tear.” “Enough, Lena—No More Gloom. Let’s Have a Nap!” “They Say ‘Old Folk Are Just Like Children.’ Here We Are—Pureed Soup, Afternoon Naps, Tea Time…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed Briefly, Then Woke Unsettled—Perhaps the Weather Changing. He Checked the Kitchen—Polina Had Thoughtfully Poured Two Glasses of Juice. He Took Both to His Wife’s Room. She Sat Gazing Out the Window. “Why So Sad, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice!” She Sipped: “You Can’t Sleep Either, Can You?” “It’s the Weather—Must Be My Blood Pressure.” “I Haven’t Felt Right All Morning,” She Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Long Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off, Won’t You?” “Lena, Don’t Talk Nonsense—What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Always Goes First.” “Enough, Now—Let’s Go Onto the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Cheese Fritters, Which They Ate Before Watching TV—As Always, Soviet-Era Comedies and Cartoons, Since Modern Plots Were Hard to Follow. After One Cartoon, Elena Ivanovna Stood: “I’ll Go to Bed—I’m Tired.” “I’ll Join You, Then.” “Let Me Take a Good Look at You,” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “No Reason—Just Let Me.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time, Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Lay Ahead. “Come, I’ll See You to Bed.” She Took Her Husband’s Arm, and They Walked Slowly Together. He Tucked Her In Gently and Left for His Own Room. His Heart Felt Heavy—Sleep Would Not Come. Maybe He Hadn’t Slept at All, but the Clock Showed 2am. He Went to His Wife’s Room. She Lay Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open: “Lena!” He Took Her Hand—It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened! Lena!” Suddenly He Himself Struggled for Air. He Barely Reached His Room, Laid Out Their Documents, and Returned to His Wife. He Looked Long at Her Face, Then Lay Down Beside Her and Closed His Eyes. He Saw His Lively, Beautiful Lena, as She Was Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant Light. He Ran To Catch Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered the Bedroom. They Lay Side By Side, the Same Serene Smile On Both Their Faces. When She Recovered Herself, Polina Called for an Ambulance. The Doctor Who Arrived Looked at Them, Then Shook His Head in Wonder: “Died Together. They Must Have Truly Loved Each Other.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank Powerless onto a Chair, Only Then Noticing the Burial Contract and… a Will in Her Name. She Dropped Her Head in Her Hands and Wept.

Andrew, please, kind sir, I beg you! I’m pleading—help us! A desperate woman threw herself at the feet of the tall man in the white coat and burst into tears. Behind a string of shabby consulting rooms, her child was dying in the medicine-scented A&E of the village hospital. —Try to understand! I can’t do it. I just can’t! That’s why I came here! I haven’t operated in two years. My hand, the conditions… —I beg you! Please!—the woman clung stubbornly to the reluctant doctor. He had to agree. He had to try—because otherwise… Just a few more steps. A creaking, white-painted wooden door. And there he was—her little Michael. Her own, her only. Tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hiding his faded freckles. Still breathing. Still alive. And the blood seeping from the bandage on his head was as thick and dark as last year’s cherry jam. The green line on the heart monitor wavered with every ragged breath. There was no way they’d make it to the city; it was a hundred miles. The helicopter… but the blizzard outside had stolen their last hope. His blood pressure kept falling. His heartbeat weaker and weaker. The paramedics averted their eyes. —Kovalevsky!—an elderly nurse clutching the stretcher seized his arm—Andrew! She pulled a crumpled old newspaper from her pocket, showing a photo of the man in his white coat, smiling children clustered around him like redbreasts on a rowan. Tears blurred lines about an accident, a damaged hand, a failed operation—yet spoke of a world-class neurosurgeon. A godsend. In their backwater… If only he’d agree! —I can’t take that kind of responsibility! Don’t you see? Last time… my wrist… I failed! I can’t operate anymore. I just can’t! The boy on the gurney was growing paler. The blood, like jam. The colleagues clustered at the doorway, uneasily silent. The sobbing mother. Time—against them all. And a dog… —A dog? —What’s a dog doing here? Only whining replied. A Labrador lunged for the stretcher, claws scrabbling on the floor, someone tugging at the collar, but he strained forward, locking eyes on Michael—and no longer whined. He rasped. And still he pressed on… —That’s Loyal—he’s Michael’s,—the woman wept, forgetting to breathe as the doctor’s words dropped like a stone into the heavy quiet: —Prep the operating theatre. He shut his eyes for a moment. Another memory surfaced—another dog. Hope. His father still alive. Andrew as a schoolboy. The icy New Year road. The wrecked car in the snow, like a shattered ornament. His mother crying. The doctor’s hesitant eyes. The impossible operation, the centre so far away. And Hope no longer whined at the grave. Only rasped. Stopped eating on the sixth day. Watched. Then followed her owner. Faded away. —I’ll be a neurosurgeon, Mum. I promised Hope, whispered the tousle-haired boy at the grave. The very best. Do you believe me? How could he forget? Why? ***** The theatre lights, blinding as the sun. The shine of steel. His wrist pulsed again. “Maybe I should get a dog”—what wild thoughts, now of all times! His fingers were wooden. Never mind, he’d manage. The injury was bad. Complicated. Pressure dropping, praying swelling wouldn’t worsen… Delicate tissue damaged. The skull bone in shards to piece back together. Blood vessels… And even the fastest helicopter would have been too late. The local assistants’ eyes shone. For them, this was a miracle. For him? How many times had he done this? Why give up after one failure? Why run away? Why break all ties? The wrist throbbed. And Hope’s eyes seemed to watch from the corner… Or maybe it was the Labrador, ready to follow his boy—Loyal. It was hard to hold the clamp. The staples. His fingers trembled. Nearly there—just a little longer. Breathe, Michael, just breathe. Don’t give up. We won’t let you slip away. Time—now it ticked for Michael. Was that the sound of a helicopter, somehow? Had it finally made it? ***** —Dr. Kovalevsky, someone’s asking for you,—the duty nurse peeked into his office and couldn’t help but break into a wide smile. Everyone smiled these days. Kovalevsky had returned. Every department was abuzz. Critical children were being sent from all over the county. Now the fear was gone. Kovalevsky’s hands were “golden.” Laughter echoed down the paediatric neuro wards again. The little ones were recovering. And the parents… why, they followed him everywhere… —Five minutes. Just let me check on Matthew. Just around the corner to his six-year-old patient’s room. A cheeky red-haired boy. Called him Uncle Andy. Came for a trip to London, fell from the second floor—just like Michael from the village. His skull—Dr. Kovalevsky had pieced it together over eight hours. Managed. Even the wrist barely ached. Maybe it was the children’s laughter—healed something, somehow… It was right, after all, that he came back. He should have done it sooner—never had the right reason. Had forgotten so much. But life, well—life reminded him. The dog, though, he’d never gotten around to. Too busy. He often wondered how that Labrador and Michael were getting on. He thought of them a lot. —Oh, Dr. Kovalevsky, dear! No sooner had he reached the door. Speak of the devil! —Hello, Michael, hello, Natalie,—he smiled—And you too, Loyal. His hand reached for the soft head, a wet nose nuzzled his palm. Gentle brown eyes watched him, full of knowing. —What brings you here? Is Michael all right—or are you in for a check-up? —Michael’s grand,—Natalie gushed—absolutely fine! That’s not why we’re here! Only now did Dr. Kovalevsky notice the radiant smile, the oddly bulging coat, her glittering eyes—but it felt awkward to ask. Loyal whirled around restlessly, breaking his train of thought. —Here! A taller Michael couldn’t hold his silence any longer. He burrowed behind his mother’s coat and handed the bemused Dr. Kovalevsky something small, black, pathetic and floppy-eared. —Ah…?—words caught in his mouth as he lifted the surprise to his face. —Don’t be cross,—Michael babbled—Loyal found him. Mum said we could keep him. And yesterday, we saw your interview on telly. And Loyal dragged him to the screen by the scruff when he heard your voice. So Mum and I thought… —You thought right. Long overdue,—Dr. Kovalevsky winked at the beaming dog—He’ll be my inspiration. I’ll call him Timmy.

“Hello, I’m Your Husband’s Mistress.” I paused my magazine layout work and looked up at the glamorous blonde who appeared at my office door. She smirked and added, “I have bad news for you—I’m pregnant. Naturally, by your husband.” Business-like, I asked, “Do you have proof?” She flashed a triumphant smile and produced a medical certificate from her designer handbag. She was well prepared. I inspected the certificate. It was authentic—not that surprising, really. When you bring such news to your lover’s wife, fakes won’t fly. “Alright,” I agreed, “it seems you really are pregnant. Now all that’s left is a paternity test to prove the baby is my husband’s, and then everything can be sorted.” This seemed to shake her a bit. She hesitantly asked, “Sorted—how?” I explained cheerfully, “My husband will pay child support, I’ll find you a good doctor, book you a top hospital—you can have your baby in comfort, no worries for you or the child.” The blonde looked unsettled. “Don’t you understand? I’m having his baby. He needs to be a father.” I answered patiently, “Our three children need a father too, and, thank God, they have one. But don’t worry, my husband will see your baby as well and take him to school when the time comes. Your child could even stay with us for a while—we have excellent nannies, and I adore children. It’ll give you time to get your own life in order. Believe me, it’s hard to date when you have a child.” Now she was upset, twisting her expensive bag. “Don’t you get it? I’m sleeping with your husband. I’m having his child. He doesn’t love you, he loves me!” I felt sorry for this young woman. Real life quickly banishes hopeless romantic dreams, even from girls who think they can snatch a wealthy husband for free. “Honey, you’re the fourth woman to come to me with this story. The first didn’t even have a certificate; the second and third brought forgeries… there was even one with a real pregnancy, but the paternity test failed. Neither I nor my husband have ever refused help, but we won’t tolerate lies—not even a kind man like my husband.” She looked lost. I continued, “As for sleeping with my husband—he sleeps with me, and many other hopefuls. I can’t deny my beloved his little indulgences. It doesn’t affect me or the children at all. Leave your number, I’ll arrange the paternity test, and we’ll be in touch.” She lost her nerve and ran out. I lit a cigarette. I’d been waiting for this visit—I knew about my husband’s latest fancy. I got through the conversation, as I had with the others, though it wasn’t easy. It would have been simpler to snap, make a scene, and let my very rich, successful husband leave for another woman. That’s exactly how I got him from his ex—when I turned up with news of my pregnancy, she made a scene, and he couldn’t stand drama. He married me, and I sealed the deal by having two more children. Deep down, I know a man who cheated on his wife with me won’t be faithful forever. There’ll always be new contenders. But I won’t make his ex-wife’s mistake—I’ll never give them a chance. I will endure. I can do this.