A woman visited her old university friend to celebrate her birthday. Everything was just lovely—the spacious four-bedroom house, the beautifully laid table in the living room. There was a feast fit for a king: fine cheddar oozing golden drops, premium smoked sausage with delicate veins of fat, roast fish, and skewered meat fresh from the new oven. Pickled tomatoes, crunchy garlic cabbage, sweets, and pastries—it was like a scene from a still-life painting.
The guests were wonderful—family and colleagues, all offering warm wishes and toasting the occasion. Soft music played in the background, porcelain figurines lined the shelves, and thick floral curtains framed the windows. The plush carpet muffled footsteps as everyone ate heartily.
The host gifted his wife an elegant diamond ring—after all, it was her fiftieth! Their children showered her with affection, and her little grandson planted a kiss on her cheek. There was room for everyone, and joy filled the air.
Later, they even danced. The hosts had cleared a room just for it, and slightly flushed from food and wine, the guests swayed to nostalgic tunes from their youth. Dasha was asked to dance by a charming man—a colleague of the birthday girl’s husband.
She danced beautifully, cheeks pink, hair loosened from its pins. The man smiled, paid her compliments—nothing improper, just kind words that warmed her heart.
But then Dasha checked her watch and snapped back to reality. She had to hurry home. Her mother-in-law needed her medicine, a bath—her husband couldn’t manage alone. Tomorrow’s meals had to be prepped; she worked the afternoon shift but mornings were packed with chores. Her husband would return exhausted; there was always too much to do when someone at home was ill.
Money was tight. His publishing job had vanished when the firm folded. Now he was scraping by with temp work while they paid off their son’s failed business loan. Her daughter-in-law had been in hospital for weeks with the baby. The carer was expensive—how much per hour? She’d need to stay up late working remotely just to afford it.
The thoughts crashed over her. Dasha dressed quickly—no one stopped her. The party carried on. Her friend hugged her goodbye—always so supportive. But she had her own life, her own family. Dasha had to return to hers.
She stepped into the cold, drizzling night and waited for the bus. For a fleeting second, she thought about turning back—back to warmth, laughter, music, where no one spoke of illness or debt, just films and old memories. Where a kind man had danced with her.
But she rode the chilly bus home. The tiny flat smelled of sickness, no matter how often they scrubbed it. And of burnt porridge—her husband must have missed the stove again. He greeted her at the door, weary and grey-haired, rattling off the doctor’s new orders. The dim bulb flickered; half-burned-out. Pills, nappies, soiled sheets in a bin bag—it all glared in the shadows.
The contrast to the happy house she’d left was so sharp, tears threatened. She swallowed the lump in her throat, hugged her husband, and forced a smile. “Thanks for letting me go to Lizzie’s. It was nice. Run a bath—we’ll get Mum washed. Did you feed her? Give her meds? Take yours?”
And she set to work. This was life. You fought, scrubbed, earned, cared. You didn’t compare. You loved. You saved your own.
Later, her friend texted: *Can I give your number to that lovely man?* Dasha sent a smiley face and a firm *No.* She thanked her for the joy, the escape. And her friend understood—it was just a question.
Life sometimes tempts us with an easier path. But we go back to our own. Love pulls us home—and won’t let go. No matter how tired we are. No matter how much we long to stay where it’s warm. We go back. Because that’s where we belong.
