“You’re an Embarrassment to This Family! Did You Really Think I’d Raise That Mistake of Yours? I’ve Found a Vagrant to Take You Away!” The Notification on David Miller’s Mobile Lit Up the Sterile, Dim Cabin of His Gulfstream G650.

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 min

Youve ruined this family! Did you think Id let you waltz around here, dragging your shame along? Ive found a vagrant to carry you off! The notification from Sophie lit up the softly humming, chilly cabin of the Gulfstream G650.

Sophie: Children are fast asleep. House spick and span. Miss you terribly. All my lovecant wait to see you next week!

Oliver Bennett smiled wearily, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. Six months. Hed spent half a year chasing the London development dealsix relentless, back-breaking months, living out of hotel rooms, powered by instant coffee and the obsessive determination to secure his kids future until the end of time. The deal was a monstera glittering tower set to transform the London skyline.

Well begin our descent shortly, Mr Bennett, the pilot said, voice crackling over the PA. Welcome back to London, sir. Current temperature, three degrees.

He wasnt due home until the following Tuesday. But by some miracle (and a seven-hour negotiation marathon), the deal had closed early, and Oliver planned to surprise them all. He pictured his six-year-old son Charlies wild shrieks, and the bashful, gappy grin of his ten-year-old daughter, Molly. He pictured Sophiehis wife of two yearswelcoming him with a proper meal in front of the Aga, a glass of Malbec in hand.

He landed at Biggin Hill at 2:30 AM.

By 3:15, Oliver was unlocking the imposing oak front door of his sprawling Surrey retreat.

He was hit first by the frost. The chill smacked his face like a vengeful badminton serve. The heating was off. In November. The air was stale, biting, and clammy, like stepping into the wrong end of a cheese storage.

Next came the silence. Not the soft, comforting silence of dreamers in bedclothes, but the thick, anxious hush of an abandoned monastery. It was wrong. It felt hollow.

Sophie? he called, dropping his battered suitcase on the tiles.

No answer. The security panel glared blankly. The alarm unarmed.

He drifted to the kitchen, meaning to gulp some water before heading up. The house seemed endless and strange in the dark.

Thats where he saw them.

His children, sitting on the icy flagstones, the only light coming from the moons silvery slats through the blinds.

They werent asleep upstairs in their duvets, surrounded by the plushies he had sent from Tokyo or Sydney or wherever. They were bundled together under a threadbare tartan scarf, squeezed next to a radiator that felt as warm as a snowball.

Charlie? Molly? Olivers voice quavered, unnaturally loud.

Molly jerked as if tasered. She didnt run to him. She yanked her brother back, shrinking away with wide, startled eyes. She curled an arm in front of Charlies head protectively, which chilled Olivers blood.

Dont hurt us! she squeaked, voice full of tremors. We didnt pinch it! It was in the bin! Honest!

Molly, its me. Its Dad.

Oliver flicked on the kitchen light.

It was grotesque. Charlie was shaking, face pink with fever, hair plastered to his scalp. In front of them: a battered plastic dog bowl, half-filled with water and a scattering of shrivelled carrot ends.

He checked the hob. A single saucepan. Inside: grey tap water, bobbing with two translucent carrot shavings.

Im sorry! Molly howled, dropping the battered ladle. I didnt take nice food! Only scraps, really! Please dont tell Mum! Shell lock us in again!

Oliver dropped to his knees, not noticing the cold stone. He reached for them; Molly flinched, turning sharply as if bracing for a wallop.

Molly, Oliver whispered, trembling with a kind of fury he didnt know he hadfrosty, slow-burning, surgical. Youre not in trouble. Not even a little. But wheres the food? I transfer four grand every month for groceries. The bank does it automatically.

Mollys shaking finger pointed toward the larder cupboard, now chained up with a heavy industrial padlock.

Mummy says posh food is for guests, she whispered. We just get practice dinners. To learn to be grateful. To remember our place.

Practice dinners, Oliver repeated. The words choked him.

He looked at Charliehis son was burning up. Oliver pressed a palm to his brow: easily over 39 degrees. Tacky, dry skin.

How long has he been like this?

Three days, Molly sniffed, finally crying. Mum said if I phoned you, shed send Charlie to the Naughty Home. The place where useless children go. She said you wouldnt want us if we got broken.

He picked them up simultaneously. They were feathers. Bones where softness used to be. He could feel every vertebra through the pyjamas.

He carried them upstairs to his roomthe only one with the dinky portable heater, he suddenly realised. He tucked them both into his king-size, wrapping them in his goose-down duvet.

Dont move, he said softly. Let me get you proper food. Promise.

While adjusting Mollys pillow, his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a tiny spiral notebook. Mollys Diary.

First page, the writing wobbly, smudged with marks:

Day 14: Mum said if I call Dad, shell drown Pudding. So I didnt. I miss Pudding.
Day 30: Charlies hungry. Gave him my toast. Mum locked me in the airing cupboard for lying about dinner. It was dark.
Day 45: A man visited. Mum calls him Rupert. They drank Dads special wine. They laughed when Charlie tripped on the stairs.

Oliver shut the book. The trembling in his hands stopped. Sorrow drained away, replaced by the icy focus that had made him a corporate legend.

He wasnt a wounded father now. He was a CEO whod just discovered the company treasurer had run off with the petty cash, and he knew exactly how to execute a hostile removal.

PART 2: SPRUNG

No, he didnt call the police. Not yet. Police were for warnings and paperwork. Oliver was after something permanent. He wanted a life ban.

He ghosted through his own home.

He ransacked the binsfound empty Bollinger bottles (his birthday stash), crumpled boxes from Fortnum & Mason, greasy bags from that Mayfair Japanese place that cost a mortgage per bite.

The bathroom: a strange mans razor on the sink. Nasty, sweet aftershave that wasnt his.

His studyone desk drawer forced open, wood splintered. The kids trust fund files tossed haphazardly. His phone screen glowed in the darkness.

Withdrawal: £20,000Medical Emergency (Molly).
Withdrawal: £40,000House Repairs (Roof).
Withdrawal: £85,000Transfer to R. Cartwright Ltd.

Quarter of a million gone in six months.

From outside: a car engine, crunching on gravel. Five oclock. Just dawn.

Oliver switched off the kitchen light, slunk into the living room, and settled in the leather chair by the door, the diary in one hand, mobile in the other.

The front door swung open.

Laughter drifted inSophies tinkle, drunken and easy, colliding with a deeper, gruffer cackle.

Shhh, Rupert, Sophie whispered. The little brats might catch us. If they do, Ill have to punish themso exhausting, honestly. I chipped a nail last time I shoved the boy in the cupboard.

You fret too much, darling, Rupert said, voice thick with gin. Lets nip upstairs. Oliver wont be around till next week. Hes in some endless boardroom tiff in Tokyo.

You sure the last transfer hit? Sophie muttered, fumbling her keys.

Yep, Rupert replied. That tale about Mollys liver operation convinced the manager. Moneys in. Well book Bahamas tomorrowfirst-class, of course.

In the shadows, Oliver quietly opened the voice recorder on his mobile.

He never suspects, Sophie chuckled. Thinks hes such a provider. Hes just a walking cash machinecompletely dim, really.

A blind ATM, Rupert agreed.

Oliver clicked on the lamp by his elbow.

The sudden brightness slammed Sophie and Rupert still. Sophie dropped her Mulberry bag. Rupert, tall and rumpled, staggered backwards, shielding his face.

Evening, Oliver said levelly. And whos your NHS emergency, then?

PART 3: INTERROGATION

Sophie gasped, draining of colour until she looked like an alabaster statue. She thrust Rupert behind her.

Oliver! Youyoure home early! She tried for a smile, but it faltered miserably. II can explain! Ruperts hes the roof consultant! The roofs leaking

The roof? Oliver echoed, getting up slowly. He didnt blink. Odd hour for handyman work. Or is he helping patch the current account?

Sophies eyes flicked rapidly for an exit, perhaps a blunt object. She tried hot tearson cue. Oliver, please! Its been so lonely you chose business trips over your own wife! I only wanted a little companionship! Im human!

And the children? Oliver continued, stepping closer. Did they need companionship, too? Or just practice dinners until they remembered their place?

What?

I saw them, Sophie. Huddled in rags. I saw the meals. The locked larder. I saw Charlie shaking with fever on a freezing floor.

They theyre greedy! Sophie screeched, her mask cracking. They stuff themselves! Theyre getting tubby! Im teaching them discipline! Theyre fine! I just saw them, its all under control!

Oliver displayed the notebook.

That so? Because Molly wrote here that Charlie cried from hunger Tuesday, so she gave him her toast. You locked her in the cupboard for being deceitful when she asked for water. And you told her youd drown the cat.

Sheshes a fantasist! Sophie howled, pointing upstairs. She writes tales! She needs psychiatric help, Oliver! I was going to tell you! She fakes stories to get sympathy, to turn you against me!

Does she? Oliver replied serenely. He slipped a bank statement onto the table. Is the bank off its meds as well, then? Wheres the £160k, Sophie? Wheres the regional hospital? Wheres the new roof that leaks in sunshine?

Rupert, finally twigging, edged for the door, palms up. Mate, this is a domestic. Im going. I didnt know she was married. Not my circus.

Oliver tapped his mobile. The house locks slammed home with an industrial thunk.

Sit, Rupert, he said, eyes forward. Police are at the gate already. And since you co-signed the R. Cartwright withdrawalturns out youre not just a side piece. Youre knee-deep in fraud and identity theft.

Rupert wilted into the settee.

PART 4: THE SNARE

You rang the police? Sophie scoffed, pacing. Oliver, stop. Its my word against yours. Im their mumwell, stepmum. I have rights. The diary proves nothing! Its fantasy! No judge would ever believe a ten-year-old.

Think I walked into my own trap tonight, did you? Oliver asked, remote in hand.

He flicked on the 80-inch TV.

I didnt land tonight, Sophie. Ive been here two days. Down the road, in a B&B. Watching how you enjoy yourself when Daddys not looking.

He pressed play.

There it wasfootage from the hidden nanny cam in the lounge. Sophie, two days earlier: Screaming at Charlie. Dragging him onto the sofa by one arm. Slapping him, hard. The noise slapped the living room in turn.

I hate you! video-Sophie screeched. If your father wasnt loaded, Id drop you at the bottom of the river!

Sophie watched herself, mouth open.

I set it up to check the cleaner wasnt pinching biscuits, Oliver said tonelessly. Instead I found you. And this? This is actual child abuse.

He turned.

No settlement, Sophie. No pay-off, no house, no luxury cottage. Just a cell and a strongly worded court order. Rupert, your names on stolen money and you took it cross-country: thats federal.

Sophie dropped to her knees, grabbing Olivers trouser leg, sobbing.

Please, Oliver! I was under strain! Ill go to therapy! Who on earth will look after them? You dont know the first thing youre never home! They need a mother!

He looked down. Anger was gone. Just revulsion. Hed let a snake into the nursery.

Im learning, he said at last. Lesson one is getting the wolves out of the house.

Sirens hit the air outside. Blue strobes streaked the walls.

PART 5: PIZZA NIGHT

Police cuffed them and bundled them away, Rupert snivelling, Sophie screeching. Blame for Oliver, the children, and the British weather echoed in her wake.

Once quiet, it was 7:00 AM.

Oliver took bolt cutters to the locked larder. He flung the practice dinner pot and the withered carrots in the bin.

He ordered pizzathree large ones: pepperoni, extra cheese, sausage. He rang the local café: pancakes, stacks of them, with blueberries and syrup. Fruit. Chocolate milk. Ice cream.

He sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by it all.

Molly? Charlie? he called.

They peeked from the landing, pale and clinging.

Isthe bad man gone? Molly said.

All gone, Oliver replied, arms wide. No bad people left. Promise.

They ran to him; he scooped them up, hugging them fiercely. They smelt of fear and illnessbut sweetly, underneath, they smelt like his kids.

Were together. Well eat till were fit to burst.

Charlie eyed the pizza. Is this for guests?

No, love, Oliver said, sure and strong. This is for us. Family is the only special guest needed.

They sat right there and feasted, Oliver watching as his kids devoured real food. His heart ached and mended all at once. He understoodhed built a high tower for their future but left the windows open.

Never again.

PART 6: 3AM MAGIC

Two years later.

The kitchen was warm: vanilla, cinnamon, contentment.

It was 3:00 AM.

Oliver wasnt in New York. He wasnt in Tokyo. He had sold the business for less than it was worth. Now he was in pyjamas, apron smudged with flour: #1 Dad.

Right, Charlie, tip the chips in! he called.

Charlie, now a sturdy eight, dumped a mountain of chocolate chips into the bowl. Molly, twelve and tall, stirred with a wooden spoon, laughing.

You know, Molly said as the clock chimed, I used to hate 3 AM.

Oliver paused tidying. Whys that, pet?

It was scarywhen I was hungriest, and the house felt like prison. When I was sure you werent coming home.

He bent and kissed her head. And now?

Molly smiled. She licked the spoon, content. Nowits magic hour. Cookie time. Our time.

Oliver gazed at his children. Hed retired. Founded a trust for neglected children. He had less cash, but he was infinitely richer.

On the mantelpiece: a photo of them on the kitchen floor eating that pizza.

Next to it, the fireplace.

Dad! Ovens ready! Charlie yelled.

Coming!

Oliver looked at the flames. Two years back, hed burnt the diary, telling Molly, We dont need secrets. We say things now.

And they did.

He turned back to the kitchen, to warmth, and life.

Bricks make a house, he mused as he slid the tray in. But presence creates a home. He nearly lost hisnow hed light a fire every day.

Who wants the bowl? he asked.

Me! came two voices at once.

Oliver grinned. The storm was long gone. The cubs were safe. And the predatorjust a ghost dissolving in the first, golden light of 3AM.

When They Brought Young Robbie Rogov Home from the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Said, “What a Strapping Lad. He’ll Be a Real Giant One Day.” His Mother Said Nothing—She Was Already Looking at the Bundle in Her Arms as If He Were Not Her Own. Robbie Never Became a Giant. He Became the Odd One Out: Born, but With Nowhere to Belong. “Your odd son’s in the sandpit again, scaring off all the children!” Auntie Linda, the neighbourhood watchdog, would shout from her second-floor balcony. Robbie’s mother, weary and hollow-eyed, would snap back, “Don’t like it? Don’t look. He’s not bothering anyone.” In truth, Robbie bothered no one. Big, awkward, head always down, long arms hanging at his sides. At five, he was silent. At seven, he’d grunt. At ten, he finally spoke—in a voice so raspy and cracked you’d wish he hadn’t. At school, he was relegated to the back of the classroom. Teachers would sigh at his vacant gaze. “Rogov, are you listening?” the maths teacher would ask, tapping the board with chalk. Robbie would nod. He was listening. He just saw no point in answering. Why? They’d give him a pass to keep up the stats and send him on his way. His classmates didn’t bully him—they were afraid. Robbie was built like a young ox. But they didn’t befriend him either, circling wide as one would a deep puddle—careful, almost squeamish. Home was no better. His stepdad arrived when Robbie turned twelve and laid down the law: “I don’t want to see him when I get home from work. Eats a lot, good for nothing.” So Robbie disappeared. Roamed building sites, hid in basements. Learned to become invisible—his only skill: blending into walls, cement, grime underfoot. On the night his life changed, a miserable drizzle filled the air. Fifteen now, Robbie sat on a stairwell between the fifth and sixth floors. Home was off-limits; stepdad’s friends were over—loud, smoky, and likely violent. The door across the hall creaked open. Robbie shrank further into the corner. Out stepped Mrs. Tamsin Ilchester, an odd, spry woman in her sixties who carried herself like she was forty. The whole block thought she was strange. She didn’t gossip on the benches or complain about the price of tea, always walked with her back straight. She looked at Robbie—not with pity or disgust, but analytically, as one might a broken gadget, weighing if it was fixable. “Why are you loitering?” she said in a low, commanding tone. Robbie sniffed. “Just am.” “Just cats are born ‘just am’,” she shot back. “Are you hungry?” Robbie was. Always hungry. At home, the fridge was home to little but air. “Well? I don’t offer twice.” He stood, awkward and massive, and followed. Mrs. Ilchester’s flat was unlike any other: books—everywhere, the scent of old paper and something delicious, meaty. “Sit,” she nodded at a stool. “Wash your hands first—there’s soap.” He obeyed. She served him a proper meal—potatoes and real beef stew. He hadn’t tasted actual meat in years. He ate fast, barely chewing. She watched, chin perched in hand. “No one’s taking it from you. Chew properly, or your stomach will curse you,” she said calmly. He slowed. “Thank you,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t use your sleeve. Napkins exist, you know,” she pushed a packet towards him. “You, my boy, are wild. Where’s your mum?” “At home. With him.” “Thought so. Not wanted in your own family.” She said it matter-of-factly, like reporting the rain or that bread’s gone up in price. “Listen, Rogov,” she said sharply. “You’ve two options. Drift on, loiter about—and you’ll end up lost before your time. Or get your act together. You’re strong—I can see—but you’ve air between your ears.” “I’m thick,” Robbie admitted. “That’s what school says.” “School says all sorts. That’s a place for average minds. You’re not average. You’re different. Those hands of yours—put them to use.” He looked at his broad, battered knuckles. “Don’t know how.” “We’ll see. Tomorrow, come fix my tap—drips like a leaky roof and calling a plumber is daylight robbery. I’ll lend you tools.” So began his apprenticeship with Mrs. Ilchester—taps, then sockets, then locks. Turned out, his hands were magic. He understood how things fit together, not with words but an almost animal intuition. She showed no mercy—taught him properly. “Not like that!” she barked. “Who holds a screwdriver like a spoon? Get some leverage!” And would rap his knuckles with a wooden ruler. She gave him books—not textbooks, but tales of real people overcoming the worst, stories of explorers, inventors, pioneers. “Read. Or your brain will rot. Think you’re the only one like you? Millions were—yet they made it. You, too.” He slowly learned her story: Mrs. Ilchester had spent her life as an engineer at the local factory. Widowed early, no children. The factory closed in the nineties; she scraped by on pensions and a bit of technical translating, but she never broke. Never grew bitter. Just lived—straight-backed, stern, and solitary. “I’ve got no one,” she said once. “And you, well, you’ve no one either. But that’s not an end. That’s a start. Understand?” Robbie wasn’t sure he did. But he nodded. When Robbie turned eighteen and the time came for national service, she called him for a serious talk—set the table, even baked pies. “Listen, Robert,”—the first time she used his full name—“don’t come back here. This place will drag you under. It never changes—same block, same people, same hopelessness. Once you’ve served, find a new life. Go north, work the building sites—anywhere but here, understood?” “I understand.” She pressed an envelope into his hand. “Thirty thousand. Every penny I’ve saved. Enough to start if you’re smart. And remember: you owe nothing to anyone—but yourself. Become someone, Robert. Not for me—for you.” He wanted to refuse, but saw in her stern eyes—he couldn’t. This was her final lesson, her last command. He left. And didn’t look back. Twenty years passed. The estate changed. Old poplars felled, tarmac poured over for car parks. The benches by the entry were cold, metal. The building, stubborn, weather-beaten, but still standing. A black Range Rover pulled up. Out stepped a man: tall, broad, weathered by northern winds, but with a calm, assured gaze. It was Robert Rogov—now Robert Ilchester, as his team called him. Owner of a major construction firm in the North. One hundred and twenty staff, three major projects underway, known for doing things right. He’d built himself up from the ground—labourer, foreman, manager, studied at night, earned his qual, saved, invested, failed twice, rebuilt twice. The thirty grand Mrs. Ilchester had given him, he’d repaid many times over—sent her money every month, though she scolded and threatened to bin it. But she always took it. Then, the transfers started coming back. “Recipient not found.” He stared at the fifth floor window. Dark. Women now sat in the courtyard—strangers; the old crowd long gone. “Excuse me,” he asked one, “do you know who’s in forty-five? Mrs. Ilchester?” They perked up—a man like that, turning up. “Oh love, Mrs. Ilchester… Well, she got real bad. Memory went, started getting muddled. Signed her flat over to some so-called family, and now… Last we heard, whisked off to some village. Nicky, remember the name?” “Sunnyside, I think—that old cottage. Some nephew showed up, but she never had family. Something fishy. The flat’s getting sold.” A cold dread crept up his spine. He knew this scam well: lonely old folk, tricked into signing deeds, shuffled off to nowhere—if they’re lucky. “Where’s this Sunnyside?” “Forty miles past the town—roads’ bad, but you’ll manage.” He nodded, jumped in his 4×4, and sped off. Sunnyside was a dying village of three streets, half boarded up, puddles everywhere, only a handful of pensioners and families with nowhere else to go. Locals helped him find the place: a slumping cottage, fence half down, mud and neglect everywhere. Ragged laundry flapped on a line. Robert nudged the gate—it groaned. A man appeared: unshaven, thin-eyed, morning drinker by the look. “What d’you want, mate? Lost?” “Mrs. Ilchester?” “There’s no Ilchester here. Off you go.” Robert didn’t argue—he stepped forward, took the man by the collar, moved him aside as easily as shifting a stick. Inside, the stench of damp, mould, and waste. Dirty plates, empty bottles. And in the back— On an iron bed, she lay—tiny, spent, hair matted, earthy complexion, deep shadows under her eyes, lips cracked. But it was her—his Mrs. Ilchester, who taught him tools, taught him belief, gave him everything. Her eyes opened—clouded, unfocused. “Who’s there?” Her voice was frail, broken. “It’s me, Mrs. Ilchester. Robbie. Rogov. Remember? Fixed your taps.” For a long moment she blinked, the tears welling. “Robbie…” she whispered. “You came back… Grown so big. A real man…” “A man, Mrs. Ilchester. Because of you.” He wrapped her—so light—carefully in a blanket, scooped her up. Beneath the hospital smell he caught a whiff of old paper and soap—her. “Where are we going?” she asked, fearful. “Home. My home. It’s warm there. And there are books—many books. You’ll love it.” At the door, the man tried to block them: “Hey, where you off with her? Show your papers! She left me the house, I look after her!” Robert stopped, met his eyes—calm, not angry. That calm was scarier than rage. “My lawyers can sort what she’s left you,” Robert said evenly. “So can the police. The courts, too. And if you tricked her here—it will all come out, and I’ll make sure you get what’s coming. Understood?” The man nodded, shrinking. It took months: assessments, courts, paperwork. Proved the gift invalid—signed in confusion. The man, a small-time con artist, was convicted. The flat returned. He was sent away. But Mrs. Ilchester no longer needed the flat. Robert built a home. Not a mansion, but a genuine, solid timber house on the edge of a northern city. Thick larch, real fire, big windows. Mrs. Ilchester lived on the sunniest ground floor. The best doctors, a gentle carer, good food. She filled out, colour came back. Memory never fully returned—she’d mix up dates, faces—but her spirit stayed. She read again, told off the cleaner for dust. “What’s with the cobwebs—this a home or a shed?” It made Robert smile. He didn’t stop there. One day, he returned from work with a thin, guarded young lad—sharp cheek scar, baggy clothes. “Meet Alex,” he told Mrs. Ilchester, ushering him into the lounge. “Found him on the site. No home. Care-leaver, just eighteen. Golden hands, mind’s a bit adrift.” Mrs. Ilchester closed her book, adjusted her glasses, and examined him. “Well, don’t just stand there like a statue—hands washed, then dinner. Soap’s in the loo. We’re having meatballs.” A month later, a girl appeared—Katie, twelve, a limp in one leg, always looking down. Robert took her in—her mother lost custody for drink and abuse. The house filled. This was no charity for show. This was family—the family of those no one wanted. The family of the outcast, who found one another. Robert watched as Mrs. Ilchester taught Alex to hold a plane, smacking his knuckles with the old wooden ruler; as Katie, perched in a chair, slowly, shyly read a book aloud. “Robert!” Mrs. Ilchester would bark. “Don’t just stand there! Lend a hand—the kids can’t shift the bookcase alone!” “Coming!” he’d call. He’d go to them—this strange, awkward, wonderful family. For the first time in forty years, he felt he belonged. He was not the odd one out anymore. “So, Alex,” he asked one night as the house slept. “How are you finding it here?” The boy sat on the porch, staring at the vast northern stars. “All right, Mr. Rob. Just… “What?” “It’s weird, that’s all. Why’d you bother? I’m nobody.” Rob sat beside him, offered him an apple. “You know, someone once told me—‘Only cats are born for no reason.’” Alex snorted. “What’s that mean?” “It means nothing truly happens for nothing. Not the good, nor the bad. You’re here now—not by accident. Nor am I.” Inside, Mrs. Ilchester’s lamp burned late—reading, against doctor’s orders. Robert shook his head. “Get some sleep, Alex. Tomorrow’s busy—we’re fixing the fence.” “Yeah. ’Night, Mr. Rob.” “’Night.” He stayed a moment in the hush—no shouts, no squabbles, no fear. Just insects and the distant hum of the road. He knew he couldn’t save everyone—even all the strays tossed by life’s roadside. But these—he’d saved. Mrs. Ilchester, too. Himself, as well. And for now—that was enough. And tomorrow, he’d carry on the way she taught him.

Can’t Wait to Get Hitched! — “Dmitry, are you coming home soon?” “Almost there. Just about finished.” “Well, hurry up! We’ve got something to talk about.” “Is something wrong?” Dmitry sounded worried. “Well, how do I put it… nothing’s happened yet, but we need to talk.” Galina was clearly anxious, but it didn’t seem like a disaster had struck. Fifteen minutes later, the head of the family opened the front door. “So, what’s going on here?” he asked his wife cautiously. “Get changed and wash your hands—no need to panic and save the universe just yet,” she said, kissing him and nudging him gently toward the bathroom. Soon he was changed and joined her in the living room. “Come on,” his wife led him to their daughter’s room. Mya sat hunched on her bed, eyes red from crying. “So, what’s happened?” Dmitry tried to stay calm. “Ask your daughter,” Galina huffed. “Go on, tell your dad what you’ve cooked up!” Mya turned away to the window stubbornly, unwilling to voice her problem. “So, ladies,” Dmitry tapped the table firmly, “either you calmly tell me what’s up without drama and theatrics, or I’m off to put my feet up after work!” “We’ve decided to get married,” Galina replied with biting sarcasm, “tonight, no less!” “Excuse me?” Dmitry blinked. “Just like that—married? And who’s the lucky bloke, if it isn’t a secret?” With Mya stonily silent, Mum had to answer again: “Ollie Morrison. That spotty lad with glasses who’s been around a lot recently.” “Ah—Morrison, eh? Well, Mya?” Still silence. “Right then, sweetheart. Enough of this silent treatment. Do I have to do a dance to get you to talk?” Dad’s temper was rising. “We love each other!” Mya blurted out. “Ollie’s the best and we’re getting married!” “Well, at least that’s clear,” Dmitry sighed. “Is he at uni with you?” “Yes, he’s in my course.” “First year,” Dmitry sighed, somewhere between understanding and resignation. “Kids…” “We’re not kids!” his daughter shot back. “We’re both eighteen—adults now!” “Well, if you’re adults, let’s talk like adults. Or shall I start—the usual ‘you’re too young, wait a bit, settle down, test your feelings’ speech you don’t want to hear?” “You want to ruin everything!” Mya shouted, “But we have real feelings! You don’t get it!” “I’m not out to ruin anything,” Dad replied wearily. “So, you both want this, yes? You’re both in?” “I don’t want you talking down to Ollie. He wants this too!” “Okay then—so you’ve got the will. Now, where are you going to live, how will you support yourselves? Thought of that?” “That doesn’t matter! Love is all we need!” his daughter declared. “Mya, how old are you? Feels like you’re in Year One, not a uni fresher. No matter how in love you are, you need somewhere to live, something to eat, every day. Why the mad rush? Nobody’s against Ollie—bring him round, we’ll meet him, talk to his parents—right, Galina?” “Completely right, darling. But there is one catch… they do have a reason to rush.” “What, Ollie getting sent off with the Army? Students don’t get called up anyway…” “No, not the Army and not Ollie.” Mum shot a look at their daughter. “Mya, should I say it all?” “I’m not silent,” Mya muttered angrily, “Ollie and I are having a baby.” “Oh my,” Dmitry muttered, stunned, “That’s… impressive. So, what’s the plan?” “Get married! Have the baby! And don’t even try to talk me into… you know what! Our baby will live!” “Alright, calm down. No one’s suggesting anything like that. Tell me—Ollie’s parents know?” “He’s meant to talk to them today. Each talk to our own parents.” “And? Has he called about it?” “N-no…” “Well, let me know if he does. Now, let me have my dinner—I’ll starve to death with all this drama.” They left to the kitchen while Galina quickly reheated his meal. “What shall we do?” she asked quietly. “I don’t know, honestly. Let’s see what his parents say—maybe we can figure something out together.” But after dinner, bad news came in: Ollie’s parents were dead set against it. Their talk ended in a row. Not looking good… Fifteen minutes later, Mya tiptoed into the lounge with her phone. “Ollie’s mum wants to speak with you. One of you.” Galina crossed her arms: “Love, could you? I just… can’t.” Dmitry rolled his eyes, but picked up. “Hello, I’m Mya’s dad, Dmitry.” “This is Louise—Ollie’s mother. Today our son told us he’s seeing your daughter. Apparently, given her ‘condition’, they’ve already crossed that line and have ‘grand plans’. Are you aware?” “Yes, we spoke to Mya.” “Good. Well, let me make this clear: we are absolutely against these ‘grand’—her voice was razor sharp—plans. Our son needs to study, get a degree, build a career. Getting married in freshers’ year—let alone a baby—is not on.” “It wasn’t part of our plans either,” Dmitry replied. “But a baby’s a baby—and it’s your son’s too, by the way. What do you suggest?” “With respect, that’s your family’s problem. Frankly, I’m not even sure the baby’s his. And even if—this ‘I’m-pregnant-so-we-must-marry’ trick won’t work with us. I understand how girls want to marry well—Ollie isn’t poor, comes from a good family, but as a mother, I’ll do everything to keep my son out of this. My husband feels the same. We’ve talked to Ollie and he agrees—please tell your daughter to leave him be. She can have an abortion or carry on—up to her. Goodbye.” The phone clicked off. Dmitry looked bleakly at his wife and daughter. “You all heard that? No abortions—that baby’s not to blame, and besides, it could be risky. It’ll be tough but we’ll manage—take a year out from uni, then go back. We’ll help, some money, childcare. As for them… we’ll see. What a pair! Right—have some tea, have a cry, but not too long. We will get through this!” He called his wife aside. “Take Mya to sleep in with you tonight, just in case. I’ll sleep in her room.” An hour later, there was a knock at the door. “Who on earth is this at this time?” Dmitry grumbled, opening the door. He soon returned to the lounge with a spotty, bespectacled lad in tow. “Ollie!” Mya ran to him. “You came for me?” “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov, I’ve come to take Mya with me.” “And where, exactly?” “I’m not sure—maybe rent a place. We’re both adults now, so please don’t stop us. Will you come with me, Mya?” “Of course! Anywhere!” “Hold on!” Dmitry held up a hand. “We’ve got some questions. Your mum says your whole family—including you—are against this.” “Not quite, Mr. Ivanov. Mum decided that. Dad just agrees with her by default. I only pretended I agreed so they wouldn’t make a scene. Then I grabbed my wallet with my ID and bank card and—poof! Here I am.” “Well, that’s interesting!” Dad raised his eyebrows. “So—you want to take Mya, rent a place. On what?” “I saved some money, worked evenings, have my own channel with subscribers. Enough for a few months—rent, food, I’ll earn more.” “Hmm… Not bad. Galina, what do you think—let them go?” “I’m not sure—at this time of night…” “That’s right, no running out at night. Look—so you’re getting married?” “Yes!” both answered. “And keeping the baby?” “Yes!” “Then we’ll help—but with some rules. First, Ollie, you do everything you can to get your parents on board—and, Mya, you support him. Ollie stays here tonight—no wandering about. Guest room for you, you’re just Mya’s friend for now. Message your folks you’re at mates’. Then prep them for the tough truth—no drama! No dropping your studies—especially you, Ollie. Mya, you’ll take leave and catch up. We’ll help out—money, babysitting—but you two are putting in the work. Low-key registry office for now—save your cash for later; proper do when things are settled. Deal?” “Yes,” said Ollie, without hesitation. “I wanted a real wedding—veil, limo, guests,” Mya pouted. “Not right now,” he replied. “We’ll do the registry quietly and, later, a big do.” “Alright, if you say so…” “Good—plans made, goals set. Time for bed, everyone’s up early tomorrow.” Later, Galina found her husband in the kitchen. “How did you change your mind so quickly?” “That chat with his mother—she was a right piece of work. Then this lad, who I thought was a hopeless mummy’s boy, turns up and stands his ground—won’t abandon his girl. That’s a real man. I’d trust our daughter in his hands.” “You’re always right, love,” she smiled, kissing him as she went to sort out everyone for the night.

— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!!! — shouted Paul. — You Can’t Do Anything!!!… Can’t Even Earn Proper Money! … You’re No Help at All Around the House! … — Marina sobbed, — …And We Have No Children…, — she whispered almost inaudibly. Snowy — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten years, perched silently atop the wardrobe, watched the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew for certain — she could even feel it — that Mum and Dad loved each other, truly… So she just didn’t understand — why say such hurtful things that made everyone feel worse? Mum ran crying to the bedroom, and Dad began chain-smoking on the balcony. Snowy, seeing her family falling apart, mused: “This house needs happiness… and happiness is children… We must find children somewhere…” Snowy couldn’t have kittens herself — she’d been spayed years ago, and as for Mum… the doctors said it was possible, but it just never seemed to work out… In the morning, once her parents left for work, Snowy slipped out through the window for the very first time and went to visit her neighbour, Mittens, for advice. — What on earth do you want kids for?! — scoffed Mittens, — Look at ours! When their kids visit, I have to hide… they smear lipstick on my whiskers, they squeeze me so tight I can’t breathe! Snowy sighed: — We need normal children… If only we could find some… — Well… That stray Maggie had a litter… there’s five of them…, — Mittens mused, — take your pick… Taking her chances, Snowy scrambled from balcony to balcony and down to the street. Nervously twitching, she squeezed through the iron bars of a basement window and called: — Maggie, please could you come out for a moment… A desperate squeaking sounded from inside. Cautiously crawling closer and glancing all around, Snowy was nearly moved to tears at the sight: five tiny, blind kittens, their noses searching the air, crying deafeningly for their mother under the radiator, directly on the gravel. She realised — Maggie hadn’t been here in days. The kittens were starving… Holding back tears, Snowy gently and persistently carried each kitten to the front steps. Trying to keep the pitiful, hungry bundles in one place, she lay down beside them, anxiously awaiting the return of Mum and Dad. Paul, wordlessly collecting Marina from work, brought her home in silence. Approaching the house, they stopped in astonishment — on the doorstep lay their Snowy (who’d never ventured outside alone before), surrounded by five mewling, multicoloured kittens. — How on earth did this happen?? — Paul was baffled. — It’s a miracle…, — echoed Marina, and scooping up the cat and babies, they all hurried inside. As the now-contented Snowy purred in a box with the kittens, Paul asked: — What are we supposed to do with them? — I’ll feed them with a bottle… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — whispered Marina. Three months later, overwhelmed, Marina sat stroking the feline “herd,” staring into space, repeating over and over: — Things like this just don’t happen…, just don’t happen… And then, with happy tears, she and Paul laughed and spun around together, speaking all at once: — I didn’t finish the house for nothing! — Yes, a fresh-air baby will be so happy here! — And the kittens can run around! — There’ll be room for all of us! — I love you!!! — Oh, I love you even more!!! Wise old Snowy wiped away a tear — at last, life was looking up…

She Trampled Across My Fate Like a Passing Rogue “Mum, if you don’t break things off with that brazen hussy, then don’t consider me your mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated yet again. “Mum, I can’t help it! I wish I could…” I tried explaining. …Once, there was my darling girl, sweet little Lena, just fourteen: pure, modest, precious. When I first met her at a school disco, I was eighteen. Lena caught my eye—my heart ached for her! Through her friend, by hook or by crook, I managed to invite Lena out. Did she come? No! I became a hunter, determined to catch my prize. I got her number, kept calling, pleaded for a date. Finally, she gave in, but made sure I came to meet her mum for permission. Sweating and nervous, I stood at Lena’s door. Her mother turned out to be a good-natured lady with a sense of humour—and entrusted me with her treasure for two hours. We wandered the park, chatting and laughing—innocent as you please. But then Lena said, “Vova, I already have a boyfriend. I think I love him. But he’s a terrible player, I’m sick of catching him with other girls. I do have pride, you know. Why don’t we give friendship a try? Would you like that?” Eyebrows raised, I looked at Lena with even greater curiosity. She could seem so untouchable—or so in love. I was captivated. Time flew and I delivered Lena safely home. …As time passed, I couldn’t imagine life without her. Mum also fell for this “little ray of sunshine.” Lena often visited. Mum would share advice and teach her lady’s secrets. Now and then, they’d get to chatting and forget all about me. By the time Lena turned eighteen, we were talking about a wedding. No one—not me, Lena, nor our families—doubted it would happen. The wedding was scheduled for autumn. …Summer arrived. Lena left to visit her gran in the countryside. I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum in the garden. One day, while watering the tomatoes, I heard someone call, “Young man, may I have a drink of water?” Turning, I saw a woman around thirty-five, rather unkempt but with a fire in her eyes. I didn’t recall seeing her at the cottages before. Still, I couldn’t refuse. Pouring her a cup of well water, I handed it to her: “Here you go…” She drank with pleasure, sighing, “Oh, thank you, young man! Thought I would die of thirst. Here, I’ve got a little homemade cordial. Sweet stuff. Take it as a thank you. Don’t be shy.” And she pressed a bottle into my hand. I accepted, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, while eating alone (Mum had gone into town), I drank the cordial. If Mum had been home, she would never have let me touch it. Next day, the visitor returned. Her name was Nina, she said, from the nearby village. I invited her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I fixed a quick salad and sandwiches. We chatted over drinks, not noticing how the bottle emptied. Looking back, I curse myself for what happened next… Nina took charge, as if I were a schoolboy. I was helpless, lost in a fog. When I came round, Nina had gone. Mum stood over me, anxious: “Vova, what happened while I was away? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed all ruffled, like a herd of horses ran over it?” she worried. I could barely open my eyes, my head spinning. I couldn’t explain. That evening, guilt set in—especially for my fiancée Lena… A week passed, and Nina came again. I was glad—even missed her a bit. Mum stormed out the door, hands on hips: “What do you want, woman?” I tried to calm her: “Mum, really—is that how you greet a guest? Maybe she just wants water. Why are you so hostile?” “A guest? That’s Nina the Tramp from the village! Every dog in town knows her! Goes round the dachas, seduces men! Disgraceful! After you, too—well, I won’t allow it! Get her out before it’s too late!” Mum raged. But it was already too late—Nina’s honeyed brew had enchanted me. I was tied to her with invisible strings. I forgot Lena completely. When I told Nina about my fiancée, she just said, “Come now, Vova—first loves aren’t real fiancées.” The wedding was called off. Mum called Lena over and told her everything. “Forgive him, dear—he doesn’t know he’s headed towards ruin. Don’t wait for him.” Lena soon married someone else. But Mum was determined to save me from Nina—she went to the draft office and asked them to send me to the army. So I was packed off to Afghanistan. I won’t describe what happened there—but I returned missing three fingers, just “a light wound”… My mind, of course, was badly affected. I became fearless and numb. Nina had waited for me—and we now had a son. Before heading to war I’d sown my “seed,” unsure I’d come back alive. While fighting, I dreamed of having five children one day. Mum still despised Nina, doted on Lena, and knitted socks and caps for her child—insisting that girl was my daughter. I would have been overjoyed, but alas… Lena got everything right—she would visit my mother, ask about me. Mother would shrug, “Oh, Lena, Vova’s still with that tramp. I doubt he’ll ever leave her. What he sees in her—I’ll never understand…” Years later, Lena told me my mother’s laments. Soon after, I took a job in the North. Nina and our three children came with me. Two more were born—but our five-year-old daughter died of pneumonia. The northern climate was cruel. We returned home, to cope under our own birches. More and more, I found myself longing for Lena, my forsaken bride. Mum gave me her number and even the address, but warned, “Don’t meddle in Lena’s marriage—don’t stir up trouble.” I phoned her—the reunion was instant. Lena had grown more beautiful. She invited me home, introduced me to her husband as an “old friend.” He trusted her fully, and left for his night shift, leaving us alone. There was half a bottle of champagne on the table, fruit—a daughter away with Grandma. “Well then, hello Vova! I know everything about you from your mum. How are things?” Lena sighed, looking deep into my eyes. “Forgive me, Lena. This is how it all turned out—nothing can change now. I have four children,” I stammered. “No need to change anything, Vova. We met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only your poor mother—I feel for her. Be kinder to her,” Lena asked warmly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Time hadn’t touched her—still as lovely as ever. Taking her hand, kissing it tenderly, I burst out, “Lena, I love you as I did when I was young. Our love just floated by. You can’t rewrite life—I’m sorry for everything I put you through!” “Vova, it’s time for you to go. It’s late.” Lena drew the line under our meeting. But could I just walk away like that? Overwhelmed by feelings, swept up by longing and reckless passion… …In the morning I slipped out—Lena fast asleep. We began a secret affair that lasted three years, until Lena’s family moved away and the connection was lost forever. …Nina and I divorced when our children grew up. My mother was right. A tramp is a tramp—she trampled over my fate, broke my heart. …No matter how long you boil water, in the end, it’s still just water. In the end, I had only one real child—my very first son… — She Walked Roughshod Over My Destiny: The Story of a Son Torn Between a Mother’s Warnings, a First Love, and the Allure of a Relentless Stranger