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.

Author Emily TaylorReading 8 min

The old man struggled upright, his bones creaking like crumbling timber, and, clutching the wallpaper for support, shuffled into the next room. In the soft pool of the bedside lamp, his dim eyes settled on his wife lying utterly still:

Shes not moving! Has she gone? He sank to his knees in the half-light. No, still breathing.

He heaved himself up and drifted towards the kitchen. There he drank a glass of milk and stuck his head in the loo for a moment, then wandered back to his own room. Crawling into bed, he found no peace.

He murmured in his mind, Ninety years each for me and Alice. How long can a soul keep ticking? The end must be close, and theres nobody here. Our daughter, Margaret, didnt see sixty. Henry went in prison. Only granddaughter Lucy left, but shes been in Germany nearly twenty years. Probably has children who wouldnt know us from the postman.

He drifted off somewhere between memory, worry, and the strange hush of age.

A gentle touch yanked him from nowhere:

David, are you alive? A faint whisper.

Blinking awake, he saw his wife bent over him.

Alice, is it you?

I saw you were terribly still. Thought youd gone on without me.

Still here! Back to bed, go on.

He listened to her slippers drag feebly on the carpet. The kitchen light flicked on. Alice sipped a little water, visited the toilet, then tiptoed to her own room. She felt the mattress sigh beneath her:

One day Ill wake up and hell be gone. What will I do then? Or maybe Ill go first. Davids already arranged our funerals. Whod have thought you could sort your own burial out? Still, someone must. That granddaughterlost all thought of us. Only Pauline from downstairs pops in, holds a spare key. David gives her a hundred each month from the pension. She brings food, gets the medicines. What do we need money for now? And from the fourth floor, theres no way wed manage the stairs anymore.

The morning sun spilled in through a crack. David prised his eyes open and went to the balcony, where a plume of hawthorn spilled green over the railings. He smiled gently to himself, thinking, Weve made it to summer, after all.

He checked on Alice, who was sat on her bed staring out.

Cheer up, Alice! Lets nip out, I want to show you something.

Oh, no strength left. Alice eased herself upright, arms trembling. What have you got in mind now?

Come on, come on! He gently steered her to the chilly balcony.

See, the hawthorns green! You said we wouldnt see another summer. But here we are.

Oh, the suns shining as well. She glowed.

Side by side on the garden bench, sighing at the rare sky.

Remember the cinema in school days? That same old hawthorn was in leaf that day.

How could I forget? How many years have vanished?

Over seventy seventy-five now.

They sat there, wrapping themselves in the shawl of youth. So much melts away in old ageeven yesterday slithers through your fingersbut youth, that clings. Always.

Goodness, chatting away again! Alice blinked. We havent even had breakfast.

Alice, make some proper tea, please! Im missing the real stuff.

But the doctor said?

Just a mild brew, and do put a little sugar in.

David sipped the weak tea, firing up the old taste buds with a tiny cheese sandwich, wistfully recalling the breakfasts of old: strong, syrupy tea, pies, sausage rolls.

Pauline came in, smiled approval.

Morning, hows everything?

How dyou think for a couple of nineties? David cracked a grin.

If youre joking, youre well enough! Need anything?

Pauline, could you get some chicken, please? David asked.

You know red meats off limits.

Chickens fine.

All right, Ill whip up a noodle soup.

Pauline, something for my heart, will you? Alice added.

But Mrs. Turner, I just got some in last week

All gone now.

Want me to ring for the doctor?

No need.

Pauline tidied the table, washed up, slipped out.

Alice, lets have a bit more sun.

Why sweat indoors?

Later, Pauline showed up, arms full of groceries.

Cant resist the sunshine, can you?

Oh, its delightful, Pauline! Alice beamed.

Ill bring your porridge out here and start lunch, shall I?

Shes a treasure, David whispered as she left. Where would we be without her?

And you only pay her a hundred a month.

Weve left her the flat, signed at the solicitors.

She doesnt know that.

They hovered on the balcony until midday, when Pauline appeared with a steaming bowl of chicken soup, thick with soft meat and mashed potatoes.

I always made this for Margaret and Henry when they were little, Alice reminisced.

And now strangers cook for us, David sighed.

Oh, David, looks like thats our lot. When we go, no one will even cry for us.

No more of that, Alice! Lets go nap.

Ah, David, its true what they sayOld age is a second childhood. Puréed soup, nap time, afternoon tea.

David dozed briefly, restlessly, then rose. The air felt charged with storm. In the kitchen stood two glasses of juicePaulines touch. Carrying both, careful not to spill, he found Alice gazing at nothing.

Feeling down, Alice? He gave her a glass. Drink this.

She sipped. Cant sleep, can you?

The weathers playing tricks on my blood pressure.

Me too, all day uneasy, Alice shook her head heavily, I think my times running out, love. Promise youll send me off properly.

Nonsense, Alice. How would I manage alone?

One of us will go ahead.

Lets not dwell. Come on, balcony.

They lingered til dusk. Pauline made cheesecakes. They ate and sat down to watch telly. These days, new dramas tangled their minds; so they stuck to familiar comedies and cartoons.

Tonight, just one cartoon before Alice stood.

Im off to bedso tired.

Ill follow, then.

Waitlet me have a good look at you. Her eyes settled on his face, gentle but searching.

Why?

Just need to.

Long moments passed as they studied one anothers faces, tracing in the lines and creases every year that lay behind.

Ill see you to your bed. Alice looped her arm through his, and they crept down the hallway together.

David tucked her in, tenderly smoothing the blanket, then slipped off to his own restless domain.

His heart ached with an unnameable weight. Sleep would not come, and the digital clock told him it was nearly two. He went to her roomshe lay with eyes open, lost to the heavens.

Alice?

He took her hand; it was cold.

Alice, come on now A-li-ce!

All at once his own breath wouldnt come. Struggling, he prepared the paperwork by the kitchen, placed it neatly on the table, returned to her side. He watched his wifes face, lay close, and finally closed his eyes.

He saw her then, young and lovely, as bright as shed ever been. She moved away towards a golden light. He raced forward, caught her arm

In the morning, Pauline stepped softly into the bedroom. There they lay, side by side, the same gentle smile frozen on both faces.

For a long minute Pauline sat in silence, then called an ambulance.

The doctor arrived, examined them, then shook his head in wonder.

Gone together. They must have loved each other greatly.

They were taken away. Pauline slumped into a chair, eyes stinging. Spotting the funeral papers and the will, her name on it, she let her tears fall at last.

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.

— “After I’m Gone, You’ll Have to Move Out—I’m Leaving the Flat to My Son…” — “I’m Sorry, Gail, but after I’m gone you’ll need to leave this flat,” said Anthony to his wife. “I’m leaving it to my son. I’ve already sorted out the paperwork. I hope you won’t hold it against me? You have your own children—they’ll look after you.” Life had tossed Gail about. Raised in a children’s home, she had never known her parents. She married young, for love, but happiness eluded her. Thirty-five years ago she was left a widow—a young woman with two small children—when her husband Nicholas died tragically. She lived alone for five years, working tirelessly so her daughter and son wanted for nothing, until she met Anthony. Thankfully, Gail had a place of her own—her late husband’s flat had come to her by inheritance. Her new partner Anthony was thirteen years her senior, owned a three-bedroom flat, and earned well. They moved in together, and Gail’s children soon got along with him. Her older daughter, Vicky, was initially cautious, but Anthony won her trust. Gail’s younger son, Barry, immediately began calling Anthony “Dad.” Anthony raised them as his own—never stingy with time, effort, or money. Both Vicky and Barry were grateful for their happy childhoods. *** Barry and Vicky had long since moved out. Vicky married young. Barry, who dreamed of joining the army, hadn’t lived at home in years. Ten years ago, Gail called her children home. She wanted to discuss an important matter. “I want to sell our two-bedroom flat,” she told them. “We need major renovations here—new furniture, new pipes. No one’s lived in the two-bed for years, it’s just sitting empty. I wanted your blessing to sell it and split the money?” Vicky shrugged, “I don’t mind. I don’t need the flat, but to be honest, Mum, I wouldn’t turn down the money. You know my son needs treatment—we haven’t given up hope of getting him on his feet.” Vicky’s eldest had been born with a disability and needed costly ongoing rehab. Barry agreed, “I’m fine with it. Mum, give my share to Vicky—let her take Grisha to London for treatment. I’m paying my mortgage just fine. My nephew’s health matters more.” Gail sold the two-bed, gave half to Vicky, and put the rest into renovating Anthony’s flat—new wiring, plumbing, and appliances, all paid for from her own pocket. She didn’t know then that her investments would end up benefiting someone else, or that after thirty years her husband would betray her. Anthony’s health deteriorated four years ago. His knees ached so much he sometimes couldn’t get out of bed. Gail insisted he seek treatment. “Tony, stop acting like a child. Get to a doctor! I’ll go with you—someone has to look after your health.” Anthony groaned, “I know how this ends—expensive meds that won’t help. My knees have hurt most of my life—now it’s worse, but I’m almost seventy. No wonder they ache.” Vicky urged Anthony to see a doctor, and Gail went with him. The doctor sighed, “This is serious. Your joints need urgent care. You’ve got to lose weight, or things will get worse.” Gail took his health in hand—changing his diet to healthy foods, cutting out treats. Anthony refused to follow the advice, calling it all nonsense, but eventually agreed to treatment and a diet. But the medicine offered only brief respite. His pain returned, moving around the flat was hard; Gail would help him to the loo and bathroom. His heart and blood pressure gave him trouble too. Vicky and Barry spent as much time with Anthony as possible. *** For years, Anthony battled on, but his condition see-sawed. Gail stayed by his side. Six months ago, during a hospitalisation, she was preparing food for him when a knock came at the door—a young man with familiar features. “Hello! Is Mr Anthony Williams at home?” “I’m afraid he’s not. And you are?” “My name’s Simon. I’m Anthony’s son.” Gail was taken aback—this young man looked just like her husband in his youth. Simon explained, “I haven’t seen Dad in years. May I wait? I’d like to talk to him.” Gail invited him in. Simon soon shared, “Dad’s always been… let’s say, particular. It’s strange seeing him weak—he was always so strong. May I go with you to the hospital?” “Of course,” smiled Gail. “Tony will be glad to see you.” Gail hadn’t known Anthony had a son. He’d never spoken of a previous marriage, always claiming he’d never become a father—despite Gail’s attempts for a third child. Anthony didn’t at first recognise Simon. But as they reconnected, Anthony admitted his past: “Simon’s mum and I were married four years. I left when Simon was three—she cheated on me with my cousin! She later married him and told me to forget I had a son. For years I tried to see Simon, but they shut me out… Nearly thirty years, and now Simon’s found me. I don’t know how to relate to him—he’s blood, but a stranger.” “Tony,” Gail said gently, “he’s your son. Don’t turn him away. Let him in, so you won’t regret it later.” Anthony took her advice. Simon began visiting regularly—even meeting Vicky and Barry, who welcomed him. Gail was glad her husband had reunited with his son. Gail and Anthony had savings, mostly from money Gail set aside after selling her flat. Anthony hadn’t worked in years; it was Gail’s income that kept them going. She checked the account rarely, but was alarmed by a sudden bank notification—£1,500 missing. She confronted Anthony: “Tony, where’s our bank card? Someone’s taken out £1,500!” Anthony was unruffled, “No one robbed us. I gave the card to Simon—he needed the money, so I helped him.” “Why didn’t you tell me? Why not ask first?” “That’s none of your business,” Anthony snapped. “My son needed help, so I helped. What’s the problem?” Gail, shocked at his rudeness, asked for the card back. Anthony refused—“He’s my son, close family! You’re being ridiculous.” Gail, normally calm, lost her temper. “Tony, why should your son use my money? You haven’t put a penny in that account for years! I want the card back!” Anthony shouted, but Gail called the bank and had the card blocked. That evening, Simon appeared, frustrated: “Dad, the card doesn’t work anymore!” Gail replied, “No, because I blocked it. We helped you, but you don’t get free rein. My savings are mine—understood? From now on, all financial matters go through me.” Simon was offended and left. Anthony raged at Gail. After their row, she realised for the first time that she was tired of her husband. *** A few days passed, with no word from Simon. Anthony sulked, ignoring Gail, who retreated to her daughter’s for a break. When she returned, Anthony seemed cheerful. Gail was relieved, hoping he no longer resented her. But Anthony announced, “I was at the solicitor today. I’ve gifted the flat to my son.” Gail narrowed her eyes. “And for what, exactly?” “Simon’s my son, my only heir. I have no other children. When I’m gone, he’ll own this property. By the way, Gail, I’d suggest you start thinking about where you’ll live—the kids will look after you, I’m sure.” Gail was quietly wounded. Legally, perhaps she had no claim to the flat—but she had invested everything here, made it a home. Now it was all lost to her. “Thank you, Tony,” she said softly. “You’re right—I need to sort my own future. Call your son—let him look after you now.” “Why should Simon move in here?” Anthony was confused. Gail shrugged, packing a suitcase. “You don’t like being alone. Now your son can keep you company.” “And where will you go?” Anthony asked, baffled. “I’m leaving you. Getting a divorce, becoming free at last. I’ll call the kids and start making plans.” Gail moved in with her son, Barry, in his spacious flat; Vicky would have had her, but Gail didn’t want to crowd her daughter. At court, Anthony tried to avoid the divorce, but Gail insisted. To Anthony and his son, she was seen as grasping after property that was never hers. After I’m Gone, You’ll Have to Move Out—I’m Leaving the Flat to My Son… The True Story of Gail, Her Husband’s Betrayal, and the Home She Lost After Thirty Years Together