A Parent’s Heart — A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your caring comments and responses to my stories, your subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five feline companions for your generous donations. Please share any stories you enjoy on social media—it means the world to the author! “Why the gloomy face this morning? You’re not even smiling. Come on, let’s have some breakfast.” Her husband wandered into the kitchen stretching sleepily—it was finally the weekend. Eggs and bacon were sizzling on the stove, while his wife poured tea. She slapped most of the eggs onto his plate and handed over some bread, “Eat up, go on!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “We did, both of us—we didn’t raise the children right,” Natalia replied, slumping down next to him and picking at her breakfast without much appetite. “The kids are grown. We denied ourselves plenty, raised them through tough times, supported them—who’s going to support us? Not even with a word. They’re always in some sort of trouble—life is boring for them, or they’re short on money. It’s always complaints from both Sveta and Dima.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and was happily spreading butter and jam on a fresh slice of bread. “Easy for you to say—they always come to me, the mother. Dima wanted to take his family bowling yesterday and asked for money till payday. I got angry and refused, so now he’s upset. And before that, Sveta called, down because her singing career isn’t getting anywhere. I mean, fine, sing for your soul, but you need a real job too! She wants to earn her keep from singing, but it’s just not happening. Not everyone is cut out for that—time to see it and get a proper job! And anyway, they used to be inseparable in childhood, and now they don’t even talk.” Natalia pushed away her now-cold breakfast and sipped her tea. “Don’t be so worried. It’ll all work out. We were young once too—remember?” Arkady tried to cheer her up, but that only fired her up more. “Oh, come on, Arkasha—you remember! We lived within our means and were grateful for it all. When Dima was born—it was pure joy. My friend gave me a pram and a cot, my sister passed down baby clothes—everything was secondhand, but good as new. Kids grow so fast. And we were happy. And when we finally got our Lada, we parked it by the house and felt like royalty! For ours, if they haven’t been abroad, it’s like life’s a failure. Where did they get that?” “It’s just the times, Natasha. So many temptations out there—they’ll see sense, just wait.” “I just hope it’s not too late—they’ll waste everything chasing wealth, and life goes by in a flash. Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder—is that really me, a grandma now? And you’re a granddad…” Just then, the phone rang—it was their son, Dima. “Here we go again,” Natalia muttered, picking up. As she listened, her eyes widened and she leapt to her feet. “Arkady, get dressed quickly—Dima’s in the hospital. His neighbor called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady jumped up, scrambling to get ready. “It’s not clear—an angle grinder mishap, cut his hand. They’re trying to reattach his wrist. I hope it all turns out okay. What a nightmare. Come on, let’s go.” They hastily dressed—not quite old yet, but not young anymore, parents with anxious hearts. They dashed out, forgetting everything else, on their way to their son in hospital… As they hurried, Svetlana called: “Mum, I’ll pop round at lunchtime, okay?” “Come by, love. We should be back by then,” Natalia gasped, not waiting for an answer as she chased after Arkady to the bus stop. At the hospital, they were reassured—his hand had been saved, though they couldn’t see him just yet. “If you won’t let us in, I’m staying right here,” Natalia declared, sitting down in the corridor, Arkady by her side. Suddenly Sveta burst into the hospital and ran straight to them. “Mum, why the long faces? He’s okay—it all worked out! Yesterday Dima was doing odd jobs, fixing someone’s car, and the angle grinder slipped. They stitched him up, and he can move his fingers. You both look dreadful—I promise he’s fine!” “How do you know?” Natalia managed to ask. “Dima and I text all the time—and his wife Lena, too. We help each other. Why?” “It just seemed like you weren’t close anymore. Why not tell us?” Arkady asked. “Dad, you and Mum are both strong—always overcoming everything. We don’t want to worry you,” Sveta smiled, “Besides, you both look much younger than you think—we just let you live for yourselves these days.” “Well, I thought you didn’t care about us anymore,” Natalia smiled back. “Oh come on, Mum! Your generation is something else—super resilient. We try to be like you, but it’s not always easy. We really do try, you know?” Both parents smiled, their worried expressions relaxing. “Mum, Dad, I wanted to tell you—I’ve got a job now. And the singing? I get invited to events all the time—nurseries, and just yesterday in a care home. The residents clapped so much, and an old lady even wept—her daughter’s a famous singer, always on tour, and left her in care. Heartbreaking!” On impulse, Sveta hugged her parents, “We really do love you, don’t ever think otherwise.” Just then, a nurse let them in to see Dima. Natalia nearly broke down, but Dima calmly said, “Mum, relax—it’s all over now. Dad, didn’t you once end up in hospital after getting swarmed by wasps in our old garage? You almost died! These things happen. Once I’m out, let’s spend New Year’s together—it’s all been such a rush and we hardly see each other. And Sveta wants to introduce us to her boyfriend, right, sis?” Natalia and Arkady walked home on foot—they fancied the stroll. Not old, but not young anymore—parents with caring hearts. Oh, that parent’s heart—it’s always aching for the children. You look at other people’s kids and wish yours were just a little bit better, a little more right, a little more obedient. But they have their own path, however it turns out… And our children are good, because, after all—they’re ours.

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 2

A Parents Heart

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Why do you look so glum this morning? Not even a smile. Come on, lets have breakfast,

Richard wandered into the kitchen, stretching sleepily finally, a weekend morning.

On the hob, bacon and eggs sizzled, and his wife was pouring the tea. She dumped more than half the eggs onto his plate and set down a hearty slice of toast. Eat up, now; dont let it get cold.

Did I do something wrong, Jane? Richard asked gently.

We both did, really. We didnt raise the children quite right, Jane replied, taking her seat with little appetite.

Our daughter and son grew up, and we went without so much to give them what they needed it wasnt easy back then. We supported them, but who supports us? Even just with words, I mean? They always seem to have problems bored with life, short of money. Lucy and James both always complaining.

How do you know all this?

Richard, already finished with his breakfast, spread a thick layer of butter on his toast and topped it with jam.

They tell me you dont see it; theyre always texting me their woes. James wanted to take his family bowling yesterday, asked for a tenner to tide him over till payday, but I lost patience and said no. He was so offended. And Lucy called before that, utterly fed up because her singing careers not getting off the ground. Shes desperate and moody. I mean, its all well and good to love singing, sing for your soul if you like, but you need a proper job as well! She wants to earn her living performing, but its just not working out. Youd think she wouldve realised by now and found a normal job! And the two of them used to be thick as thieves, now they hardly even speak.

Jane pushed her cold eggs aside and sipped her tea.

Dont fret so, Richard tried soothing her, these things will sort themselves out. We were young once too, remember?

Oh, come off it, Richard! You remember we lived within our means and were happy with what little we had! When James was born, it was joy. A friend gave me a pram and a cot, my sister handed down babygros and vests from her eldest. It was all second-hand but looked like new. Children grow so fast anyway. And we were happy and when we got that battered old Ford Escort, we were proud as punch! We parked it outside like royalty! But our two? Unless theyve been abroad, lifes a failure where did they get that from? Not from us.

Its just the times, Jane, so many temptations now and theyre young. Give it time, theyll understand.

I just hope its not too late. Chasing after all that shiny nonsense, and life just slips through your fingers. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think is that really me? Im a grandmother now. And youre a grandad, Richard

Their conversation was interrupted by the phone ringing. James name flashed on the screen.

Oh, what is it now Jane answered, her eyes widening as she listened, then she shot to her feet.

Richard! Quickly, put your coat on. James is in hospital his neighbour is ringing from the ward.

What happened? Richard jumped up, already pulling on his jacket.

I didnt quite catch it all something to do with a circular saw the blade shattered and cut his hand. Theyre trying to save his wrist, at least. I just hope it isnt serious, what on earth would he do if he lost his hand? Lets go, come on.

They dressed in a rush, not old but no longer young, worry plain on their faces.

They hurried out, everything else forgotten, to get to their son in hospital

As they rushed off, Lucy called, Mum, Ill pop round at lunchtime, alright?

Come over, love, well probably be back by then, Jane replied, out of breath, before dashing after Richard towards the bus stop.

At hospital, they were quickly reassured the doctors had managed to save Jamess hand, but they couldnt visit him just yet.

Im not leaving until you let me see him, Jane told the nurse, sitting firmly in the corridor, with Richard beside her.

Suddenly, Lucy burst into the hospital and hurried over to them.

Mum, why do you both look so worried? Its all sorted. James stayed late yesterday for some extra cash, fixing someones car. Something wouldnt come apart, he was cutting bolts and caught his hand. Hes awake now, all sewn up, and he can move his fingers. Honestly, your faces! Its going to be fine.

How do you know? Jane could barely breathe out the words.

James and I always text each other, and his wife Emma too. We help each other out, whats wrong with that?

We just thought you didnt speak anymore, you never told us anything, Richard explained.

Dad, you two are so capable, so resilient, you always get through everything. Thats why we dont bother you unnecessarily, Lucy smiled. And besides, you both look so young still we want you to finally enjoy life for yourselves.

Oh you silly thing, I thought you didnt care at all Jane managed a smile.

Mum, honestly, your generation you lot are tough as old boots! We try to be like you, its not always easy, but we do try, really.

Their parents finally smiled, the worry easing from their eyes.

Mum, Dad, I meant to say Ive got a new job. And Im getting booked to sing at different events now. Only last week, the local nursery asked me, and yesterday I sang at a care home. They clapped for ages! Though one older lady cried her daughters a famous singer but always away on tour, so shes left her mum behind. Awful, really.

Suddenly, Lucy grabbed her parents in a hug. James and I love you so much, dont ever think we dont

At that moment, a nurse called them to visit James for a few minutes. Jane nearly broke down in tears, but James reassured her calmly.

Mum, honestly, its over now. Dont worry. Dad, remember how you once got stung by a wasps nest in the shed when you were fixing up the old car? Spent a week here yourself, almost died. Things just happen sometimes. Once Im out, please come to ours for New Years its all rush and no time together these days. And Lucys planning to introduce us to her new boyfriend she hasnt had the chance to tell you yet!

Jane and Richard strolled home on foot, deciding they might as well enjoy the walk.

Not old, but not so young anymore, they walked together as parents do.

Oh, that parents heart its always filled with worry for the children. Other peoples children seem ordinary enough; you just want yours to be a bit better, to live a good life, to listen. But in the end, theyll walk their own path, whatever it turns out to be. And ours are good kids after all, theyre our childrenOn the way home, Jane slipped her hand into Richards, squeezing gently. The city breathed in the soft light of late morning; traffic bustled, pigeons scattered beneath their feet. For once, they walked slowly, feeling the world turning gently around them.

They passed the bakery where they used to bring the children for jam doughnuts after school, and Jane nudged Richard with a half-smile. Remember? They were never neat eaters.

Richard chuckled. Not much has changedjust bigger messes now.

They walked on, each step lighter. The weight of years no longer pressed so heavily, for in that anxious morning, they had glimpsed something preciousconnection, not absence; care, not complaint. Behind the silences and worries their children had forged messy, hopeful lives of their own.

As they neared home, Jane took a long breath and looked up at the shifting sky. Perhaps we did enough.

Richard nodded, eyes kind. Perhaps we did.

Inside, the cats darted around their legs, delighted at their return. The phone lay on the hall table, a new message from Lucy blinking on the screen: See you at lunchtime! Bringing treats.

Laughter and voices would soon fill the house again, just as they always hadlove passing from one generation to the next, clumsy and sincere.

Jane set the kettle to boil and gazed out the window, watching a robin perch among fragile new blossoms. Her heart, battered and full, beat quietlynever truly at rest, but steady now, and strong.

Outside, life pressed on, imperfect and beautiful. And Jane smiled, knowing her family would gather soon, the house warm with stories, old sorrows gentled and new joys blossomingjust as the world turns, and always will.

The Handy Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a soft chuckle or a polite giggle, but a booming, hearty cackle, the kind she’d avoided her entire life and found especially inappropriate for a hospital ward. The culprit was her bedside neighbour, phone pressed to her ear, waving her free hand enthusiastically as if her caller might see. “Len, you’re kidding! Seriously? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. They still had fifteen precious minutes of morning peace before the nurses would come bustling in—a few moments to gather herself before her surgery. Last night, when Helen was wheeled in, the woman across the way was already tapping away at her phone. Their greeting was brief: a “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then silence. Helen was grateful for the quiet. And now, this circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you lower your voice, please?” The neighbour turned around—round-faced, short grey hair left defiantly uncoloured, and a bright pyjama set covered in red polka dots. In hospital, no less! “Oh, Len, I’ll call you later, someone’s telling me off,” she cheerily ended the call and turned to Helen, beaming. “Sorry! I’m Cathy. Did you manage any sleep? I never do before surgery, that’s why I’m on the phone to everyone I know.” “Helen. And if you can’t sleep, it doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to rest.” “But you’re awake now, right?” Cathy winked. “Fine, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d made two more calls, and her voice only got louder. Helen ostentatiously turned away and pulled her covers over her head, to no effect. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained over untouched bowls of hospital porridge. “She’s worried because of the surgery, poor thing. I try to reassure her, you know?” Helen remained silent. Her own son hadn’t rung, but she hadn’t expected it: he’d warned her of an early meeting, very important. She’d taught him that—work comes first, that’s responsibility. Cathy was taken to surgery first. She waved goodbye all the way down the corridor, shouting something to a giggling nurse. Helen hoped the staff would move her to a new room after the operation. Her own turn came an hour later. She never took anaesthetic well—came round nauseous, her side pounding dully. The nurse patted her hand: all went well, you just need to rest. Helen did what she’d always done: she endured. By the evening, back in her room, Cathy was lying on her bed, her face ashen, eyes closed, drip in her arm. Silent, for once. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking, against her intentions. Cathy opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still alive. You?” “Me too.” They fell quiet as dusk thickened outside, the IV bags softly clinking. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but I just can’t help myself.” Helen wanted to make a sharp retort, but she was too tired. She just managed: “It’s fine.” That night neither of them slept—a dull ache kept both awake. Cathy made no more calls, just shifted and sighed. Once, Helen was sure, she heard her crying, muffled into the pillow. In the morning, the doctor came—examined their stitches, checked their temperature, gave a cheery, “Well done, ladies, you’re both doing brilliantly!” Cathy instantly grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! I’m alive, you don’t need to worry. How’s my bunch? Kieran still have a fever? What? It’s cleared up? See, I told you so!” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My bunch”—must be grandkids, her daughter reporting back. Her own phone lay silent. Two texts from her son, sent last night, as she was still groggy. “Mum, how are you?” and “Message me when you can.” She wrote back: “All fine 😊”. Her son loved emojis—said messages seemed cold without them. His reply came three hours later: “Awesome! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t visiting?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son’s busy. Lives far away. Besides, I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says, ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you can manage!’ Why bother coming if it’s all okay, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closer. Cathy smiled, but her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the oldest, eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy pulled out her phone. She showed Helen pictures for nearly twenty minutes—children at the beach, at home, blowing out birthday candles. In every photo, Cathy’s right there with them, hugging, pulling faces, cuddling—her daughter behind the camera, never in the shot. “She’s not fond of photos,” Cathy explained. “I’m with the kids most of the time. My daughter works, son-in-law too, so I’m…well, I help. Pick them up, homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same at first—helped out every day when her grandson was born. Now she visited maybe once a month, usually Sundays, if their schedules matched. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does activities.” “You see him much?” “Sundays…sometimes. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Yeah. Busy.” They sat in silence, watching the drizzle patter the window. That evening Cathy said, out of the blue: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cathy was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “Really, I don’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What’s the point? I’ll get home—Kieran will have fluffed his homework, Maddy will be full of snot again, Leo will have ripped his trousers. My daughter will be at work till late, son-in-law always travelling. Me? I’ll be on laundry duty, cooking, babysitting, always on call. And they never even—” she paused, voice catching, “—they never even say thank you, because that’s just what grandmas do, right? We’re meant to.” Helen said nothing. There was a lump in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Falling apart.” “Don’t be,” Helen said quietly. “I…retired five years ago. Finally thought I’d have time for myself. Go to the theatre, galleries, learn French even. I made it to two weeks of French class.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked for help. ‘You’re grandma, you don’t work, it’s easy for you.’ I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years babysitting all day. Then, when he started nursery, every other day. Then school, so, once a week. And now…now they have a nanny. I sit at home, waiting for a call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded solemnly. “My daughter promised to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked pies. She rang last minute—‘Sorry Mum, Kieran’s got sports, we can’t come.’” “And she never came?” “Never came. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence, listening to rain against glass. “You know what’s hardest?” Cathy said. “Not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I keep that phone in my hand, hoping they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.” Helen’s nose prickled. “I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I think, maybe my son just wants a chat. But it’s always practical.” “And we drop everything to help,” Cathy gave a short laugh. “Because we’re mums, after all.” “Yeah.” The next day began with painful dressings. Afterwards, they lay quietly, until Cathy suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Loving daughter, good son-in-law, grandchildren. I believed I was needed. That they couldn’t manage without me.” “And?” “And now, here, I see they’re coping just fine. My daughter, four days, never once complained. She’s even cheerful on the phone. So—they can do without me. I just make things easier. One free granny-nanny.” Helen pushed herself up on one elbow. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his mum would always help, always be there, her plans coming second to his.” “I did the same. My daughter calls—I drop everything.” “We taught them that we’re not people,” Helen said slowly, “that we don’t have lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. Silence. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day Helen could get up without the nurse’s help. On the sixth she walked to the end of the corridor. Cathy followed a day behind, the two of them shuffling along arm-in-arm. “After my husband died,” Cathy said, “I was lost. My daughter told me, ‘Your new purpose is the grandchildren. Live for them.’ So, I did. But that purpose…felt one-way. I’m there for them—but they’re only there for me when it suits.” Helen told Cathy about her divorce—thirty years ago, when her son was five—how she’d raised him alone, worked evenings, two jobs, fittings studies in between. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d always be grateful.” “But he grew up and lives his own life,” Cathy finished. “That’s right. And that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son turned up unannounced. Tall, smartly dressed, a bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doc says a few more days, you’ll be home. Fancy coming to ours for a bit? Olesya says the guest room’s ready.” “Thanks, but I’d rather be at home.” “Whatever you want. Just ring if you need anything.” He stayed twenty minutes—shared his news, chatted about work and new car, asked if she needed money, promised a visit next week. He left quickly, clearly relieved. Cathy pretended to sleep during the visit. When the door closed, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” “Yes.” “Handsome.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice.” Helen said nothing, her throat tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe we just need to stop waiting for love from them. Just…let go. See that they’re grown up, living their own lives. Let’s find our own, too.” “Easier said than done.” “Hard to do. But what choice is there? Keep waiting forever?” Helen surprised herself by shifting to a familiar tone. “What did you tell your daughter?” “Told her: after the operation, I need two weeks rest. Doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “And?” “At first she protested. I said, ‘You’re an adult, you’ll manage. I can’t right now.’” “Was she cross?” “Oh, furious,” Cathy giggled. “But you know? I felt lighter. Like I’d taken off some heavy coat.” Helen closed her eyes. “I worry if I say ‘no’, they’ll stop calling altogether.” “How often do they call now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can hardly get any worse.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed quietly, as if parting for good. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Helen nodded. They added numbers. Stood awkwardly, not quite able to let go. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “Thank you. I haven’t talked to anyone like this in thirty years. Not really.” “Me neither.” They hugged, gingerly, careful with their stitches. The nurse brought their paperwork, called them taxis. Helen left first. At home, it was silent, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Call me when you get in”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She wrote: “Home now. All good.” Put the phone down. She stood up, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French course brochure, and a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the brochure, thinking. Her phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry for calling so soon. I just…wanted to.” “I’m glad you did. I really am.” “Listen, want to meet up again? When we’re stronger. Maybe in two weeks? A coffee? Walk in the park? If you want, of course.” Helen looked at the brochure. At her phone. Then back at the brochure. “I’d like that. Very much. You know what? Why not this Saturday? I’ve had enough of lying at home.” “Saturday? Really? Did the doctor say—?” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to think about myself.” “Deal. Saturday it is.” They hung up. Helen picked up the French course brochure—the new term started in a month. Enrolment still open. She reached for her laptop and began filling in the registration form—her hands were shaking, but she filled it all in. Rain tapped at the window, but sunlight started to break through the clouds—faint, autumnal, but sunlight nonetheless. And Helen realised, perhaps for the first time, that her life might just be beginning. She hit ‘submit’.

A Parent’s Heart: A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your kindness, and your feedback on my stories, for subscribing, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five kitty-cats for all your generous donations. Please share your favourite stories on social media – it brings joy to the author! “Why are you so gloomy this morning? Not even a smile – come on, let’s have breakfast.” Her husband came into the kitchen, stretching sleepily, grateful that it was finally the weekend. On the hob, eggs and bacon were sizzling away, while his wife poured the tea. She piled more than half the eggs onto his plate, added some bread, and said, “Eat up, use your fork!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “We both did. We haven’t raised the children right,” replied Natalie, settling at the table and eating without much appetite. “The kids are grown now, we denied ourselves so much while bringing them up, times were hard. We did everything for them— but who supports us? Even if it’s just with kind words? They’re always having problems: they’re bored, or struggling for money. Both Sam and Sophie just keep moaning.” “What makes you think that?” Arkady was already finishing his eggs, happily spreading butter on fresh bread with a dollop of jam on top. “It’s easier for you, they come to me with all their gripes. Yesterday, Sam wanted to take the family bowling, asking for money until payday, and I lost my temper and refused. He was so upset. And earlier, Sophie called in a terrible mood—her singing career isn’t taking off. If you like singing, do it for your own pleasure, but you need a real job too! She wants singing to pay her way, but it’s just not working out. Not everyone was born for the big stage—it’s time she realized and got a proper job! And don’t get me started on how she and Sam have stopped talking to each other, after being so close as kids.” Natalie pushed aside her now-cold eggs and sipped her tea. “Don’t worry so much, it’ll all work out. Remember, we were young once,” Arkady tried to reassure her, but it only seemed to make her more upset. “Oh come on, Ark, you remember! We lived within our means and were grateful for what we had. When Sam was born, it was sheer joy—my friend gave us the cot and pram, my sister passed down baby grows and blankets. Everything was second-hand but like new, kids grow so fast! And we were happy, and proud as punch when we finally got our first car, an old Ford Escort. We even parked it outside like royalty! But with our two, unless they’ve been bored on a beach in Spain, they act as if life’s not worth living. Who taught them that? Not us.” “These are different times, Natasha. More temptation, and they’re young—they’ll understand, just give them time.” “I just hope it’s not too late: they’re in such a rush for all life’s riches, but life’s flying by, Arkady. Sometimes I look in the mirror—how did I get so old? A grandma. And you’re a grandad…” Their conversation was interrupted by a phone call. Their son Sam’s neighbour was on the line, calling from the hospital ward. “Oh, not again,” muttered Natalie, her eyes widening as she spoke. “Arkady, get dressed, quick—Sam’s in hospital. His neighbour called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady asked, jumping up to get dressed in a hurry. “I’m not sure, something with a power tool… his hand was sliced, they’re trying to reattach it, I just hope it’s all going to be alright—let’s go, now.” They dressed quickly—no longer young, but not quite old either—their eyes filled with worry. Off they dashed, forgetting everything else, racing to their son’s side in hospital… As they rushed, their daughter Sophie called. “Mum, can I drop by for lunch?” “Come by, love, we should be back by then,” Natalie puffed, cutting the call short as she hurried after Arkady to the bus stop. At the hospital they were told his hand was saved but they couldn’t see him yet. “I’m not leaving until I see him,” Natalie insisted, settling in the waiting area with Arkady beside her. Suddenly Sophie rushed into the hospital, flinging herself into their arms. “Mum, why do you look so worried? It’s all fine—Sam stayed late doing some work, cutting bolts on someone’s car, and his hand slipped. He’s awake, they stitched him up—he can even move his fingers. Mum, you look dreadful—honestly, it’s all fine!” “How do you know?” Natalie gasped. “Sam and I always message, and I chat with his wife, Leah, too. We look out for each other, why?” “We thought you two barely spoke these days—why didn’t you keep us in the loop?” asked Arkady. “Dad, you two have always been so strong, able to get through anything—so we try not to worry you with our nonsense,” Sophie smiled, “Besides, you both look so young! We want you to finally enjoy yourselves.” “I thought you didn’t care anymore,” Natalie smiled back, relieved. “No, Mum, it’s just your generation—so resilient! We try to live up to you, even if we don’t always manage, but we always try, okay?” Their worries eased, the parents finally smiled. “Mum, Dad, I wanted to tell you—I got a new job! And people keep inviting me to sing at different events—nurseries, care homes… Yesterday I sang at a home for the elderly; they clapped so much! One lady even cried. Her daughter’s a famous singer, but she’s always away on tour… can you imagine leaving your own mum? Awful.” Suddenly Sophie hugged her parents tight. “We love you both so much—don’t ever think otherwise!” Just then the nurse allowed a brief visit. Natalie nearly burst into tears, but Sam reassured her. “Mum, honestly, the worst is over. Dad, remember that wasp’s nest that stung you so badly you ended up in hospital? Things happen. When I get out, come over for New Year’s—let’s all be together, we hardly see each other. Sophie wants to bring her new boyfriend, she’s been meaning to tell you.” Natalie and Arkady walked home afterwards, deciding on a good stroll. No longer young, but not yet old—just parents, all the same. Oh, that parental heart. It always aches for your children. You look at other families and always want yours to be the best, to do things the right way, to always listen to you. But they have to find their own way, whatever that might be… And in the end, our children—they’re good children. After all, they’re ours…