Apples in the Snow… In our village on the outskirts, right at the edge of the ancient forest—where the pines hold up the sky and even at midday it’s dusk beneath the needles—lived John “Jack” Carter. He was as tough as old boots. He spent his whole life as a forester, knew every tree, every badger sett, every winding deer trail for miles around. His hands were huge—like shovels—calloused and stained by sap, the marks of a lifetime’s graft. His heart seemed carved from the same weathered oak: strong, reliable, but unyielding. He and his wife, Annie, made it thirty years together in perfect harmony—a striking pair. In the evenings, you’d walk past their gate and see them on the porch: Jack softly squeezing an old concertina, Annie joining in, their voices twining so sweetly it would stop you in your tracks to listen. Their home was the picture of comfort: blue-painted window frames as bright as Annie’s eyes, a cottage garden brimming with phlox, not a stray weed in the tidy rows. I remember watching them plant their apple orchard—Jack digging rich, black earth for Annie to cradle the young saplings, murmuring encouragement as gently as if she were soothing a child. ‘Grow well, loves. Grow sweet, for our children’s delight.’ Jack would wipe the sweat from his brow, grinning brighter than he ever would again. The orchard thrived. Every spring it blossomed into a white mist, and by autumn the apples were so plentiful you could smell their crisp sweetness from half a mile away. But God took Annie far too soon. She wasted away in just three months—gone in her sleep, Jack’s hand held tight in hers. Grief turned him hollow and grey overnight—he didn’t shed a tear (for men mustn’t show it), but the loss set his jaw so tight his teeth ached and he went white as a sheet. He was left with only his late-in-life daughter, Nancy—his window of light in that wild loneliness, the sole anchor tying him to this world. Jack doted on her fiercely, a bear of a father: strict, protective to a fault, sheltering her even from the spring wind. His terror of being left alone again, abandoned like the day Annie died, made him cling too tightly. ‘You’re my hope, Nancy,’ he’d say, his big hand stroking her hair. ‘When you’re grown you’ll run this house. You don’t need anything from that world out there—all wolves in sheep’s clothing, all heartbreak and empty promises.’ Nancy grew into a beauty—golden hair thick as rope, eyes as blue as Jack’s, a voice that could turn birds silent and stop scythes mid-swing in the hayfields. The village women whispered she took after her mother, only more brilliantly still. She dreamed of singing, moving to London, auditioning for the Royal College of Music. She poured over music books, taught herself to read scores, wore out old records on her battered player. Jack’s thinking was country plain: ‘Where you’re born is where you’re needed.’ He feared the city’s fiery appetite, believed London would devour all that was good. ‘Not a chance!’ he’d bellow till the sideboard rattled. ‘You’ll milk cows, marry a decent lad—Tom the tractor driver is a good man, building his own house! No need for this nonsense about being a performer. Outrageous!’ But one stormy October came the breaking: Nancy, usually so meek, packed her small suitcase and headed for the door. Jack lost all sense: shouting, slamming, vowing, ‘Go and you’re no daughter of mine! Don’t darken my doorstep!’ When Nancy left into the rain without once looking back, Jack split the porch step with his axe—wood chips flying like blood. ‘No daughter,’ he rasped. ‘Gone for good.’ Twelve years passed—a lifetime. Winters turned to springs, village babies grew and scattered, some to war, some to marriage. Jack’s house stood silent, his apple trees tangled and wild, window frames stripped bare, axe rusted to a scar in the wood, porch sagging like an old bruise. Then, during last year’s wild November freeze, with the earth black and frozen, I passed by and noticed his chimney dead cold at dusk—a bad sign in any village. The old dog didn’t even rise to bark—just whimpered from his icy kennel. Inside the cottage was colder than the night—water iced in the bucket, the place stinking of medicine and despair. Jack was a shivering wreck beneath a battered coat, teeth chattering, calling for Annie and Nancy in fevered delirium. Pneumonia, eating him alive. I stayed through the night, kindled the fire; his dreams were all wretched apologies and lost hopes. When the fever broke, he waited for news every day by the window, just as Nancy’s letters—hundreds, withheld by the postwoman out of mercy—waited in the shop. Over shaking fingers and blotted tears, Jack finally read his grandchildren’s names and pressed their photos to his chest. With only part of a phone number left, I found a local lad—well up on computers—to search. At last, a reply: Nancy in Birmingham now, status: ‘Missing home.’ We left a message, and the wait was agony. Jack drank bitters down to the dregs, terrified she’d never forgive. But then—connection. At first her husband answered, then Nancy herself, voice trembling, wary as she heard her father’s plea. ‘I’m dying, lass. I wronged you, but I’ve always loved you. Forgive me if you can.’ ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ she sobbed, ‘I waited so long—I wrote so many letters… I don’t know if I can forgive…’ ‘I’m not asking it all at once. Just know: it was love, even if it hurt us.’ She agreed to come, out of duty if not love yet, and in the days that followed the cottage was scrubbed and scoured, anxiously awaiting her return. At last, Nancy and her family arrived: tall, proud, London-smart—her children wary, her husband stern. The old wounds hung thick as ever, the silence heavy over tea. Only on the third day, after a child’s innocent question about the missing axe and Jack’s rueful reply (‘It rotted away—anger does too, in time’), did the ice begin to break for good. Later, over tea in the nurse’s kitchen, Nancy confided, ‘The anger won’t let go. But when I see him… so old, so lost… and today he warmed my daughter’s boots by the fire, just as he did for me—something healed, a little.’ They returned in summer, and it was a new life: Jack tending the orchard, the old trees in bloom again, father and daughter side by side in the golden dusk as laughter returned to their home. They say you can mend a broken cup; the crack remains, but the tea is all the sweeter because you cherish it more. Life is short as a winter’s day—blink, and it’s twilight. You always think, ‘I’ll have time—forgiveness will wait, I’ll write or visit next holiday…’ but sometimes, ‘next time’ never comes. A house can grow cold, a phone can fall silent forever, and the mailbox can stay empty until the very end.

Author Walton MerrittReading 15 min

Apples on Snow…

There lived on the far edge of our village, right where the ancient woods begin and the pines nudge the sky, a man named Charles Edward Harris. He was the very definition of a sturdy Englishman: built like an old oak, reliable, steadfast, immovable.

His whole life Charles worked as the local gamekeeper, knowing every tree, each foxs den, every badgers sett and boars trail for miles around. His hands were like spadeshuge, callused, eternally stained by earth and sap. His heart seemed to be carved from the same ancient woodstrong, trustworthy, but ever so hard.

He and his wife, Margaret, had lived contentedly for thirty years. They made a handsome couple; people would often pass by of an evening, seeing them together on the porch. Charles would quietly play his concertina, while Margaret hummed along, and it was so harmonious you couldn’t help but pause to listen. Their home was a picture: blue-painted window frames as bright as Margarets eyes, borders full of phlox, the vegetable patch neat as a pinnary a weed in sight.

I remember well how they planted their apple orchard. Charles dug the holes, turning the rich, dark soil, while Margaret lovingly held the young saplings, spreading their roots as gently as if she were combing a childs hair. Grow well, darlings, shed whisper, sweet and strong, for our childrens joy. As Charles wiped sweat from his brow, he smiled so kindlya smile I never saw again after that day. In spring, those apple trees blossomed like clouds of snow; in autumn, their fruit perfumed the air, crisp and juicy, the pride of the whole shire.

But God called Margaret home too soon. Illness withered her in three short monthsshe faded like a leaf in the sun, slipping away quietly in her sleep, her husbands hand in hers. Charles turned inward with his grief, didnt shed a single tearEnglishmen, after all, must not. He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached, his hair turned white overnighta snowy owl, overnight.

He was left with his late-born daughter, Emily, who became the single light in his darkened cottage, the only thing tying him to this wild, wooded world. Charles doted on her in his own rugged wayoverbearing, protective to a fault, not allowing her a step out of his sight. Terrified, down to his marrow, that Emily too would leave him as her mother had, his fear and love became a fortress that threatened to suffocate them both.

Youre my hope, Emily, hed say, his great hand smoothing her hair, Youll take care of this home one day. Theres no need to leave; the world out there doesnt mean you well. Here you are safe, as you ought to be.

Emily grew tall and fair, her golden hair thick as a rope down to her waist, eyes as blue as the spring sky, her fathers eyes. And her voice! When she sang an old folk song outside the lane, even the birds fell silent. Women wept, the farmhands stopped their scythes and simply listened, open-mouthed. Folk said she inherited her mothers gift, only brightera rare talent, Heaven-sent. Emily dreamt, she did, of becoming a singer, of going off to London to study at the Royal Academy. She immersed herself in books of music, taught herself the notes, played battered old records all night.

But Charles, for all his earthy wisdom, thought the way of most countrymen: Best to stay where youre born, put your talent to good use here. He feared the city as hed fear wildfirea beast that chews up and devours all it touches.

I wont have it! hed thunder, making crockery rattle in the cabinet. Youll muck in as a dairy lass, marry young Daniel from the next farm overhes a good lad, building himself a cottage already! Raise a family, as every girl ought. Singer, you say? Not in my house! Nonsense, that.

Then, one sodden October day when the rain pounded the fields, Emily, usually so mild, braced herself. Without a word, she packed her cardboard suitcase and headed for the door. Charles flew into a rage, shouting, swearing, cursing her as she left.

If you go, youre no daughter of mine! he roared after her. Youre dead to me! And never darken this doorstep again!

She walked out into the rain, never glancing back, and Charles, in his fury, grabbed his old axe and brought it down with all his might on the porch step. The chips scattered like drops of blood.

I have no daughter! he rasped into the empty house. She is gone forever!

Twelve years passed, a lifetime. Winters followed summers, children grew, lads went to the service, girls got married, young ones were born. Charles house stood silent, a monument to grief. The apple trees ran wild, branches tangled like beseeching hands, the panes flaked blue, the porch sagged, and the old axe rusted into the wood, leaving a weeping wound.

Last November, the frosts struck early, brutal. No snow yetbare, black earth, frozen stiffand the thermometer already dropping to minus ten. As I walked back from a late call, I noticed no smoke curling from Charles chimney. In an English village, an unlit hearth on such a night means trouble.

My heart leapt into my throat. Something was wrong. I pushed open his gateunlocked. His old dog, Rover, didnt even stir from his barrel, just whined and thumped his tail in apology.

Inside the cottage it was colder than outside, a deathly chill. The water in the pail froze solid. The air reekedunwashed skin, medicines, and hopelessness.

Charles lay on the bed, shaking under his old coat. The shivers made the whole bed creak; his teeth chattered.

Charles! I shouted. What do you think youre playing at?!

He blinked up at me, bleary and red-eyed. Didnt even recognise me.

Maggie he whispered, calling his wife, Maggie, its so cold… Emily, where are you? Why arent you singing? Tell her to sing The Willow Glen…

Delirious, I realised. Pneumonia. The man was burning up.

I stayed the night. Fed the fire till the walls steamed, gave him his medicine. Charles tossed and groaned in his sleep, calling for his daughter: Emily, come back Dont go into the woods, the wolves are out there Forgive me I did love you.

I sat knitting by his bed, listening to his fevered confessions and weeping quietly. So much love locked away in this hard old man, and so much pain hed caused himself loving that waylove turned prison.

By morning, the fever broke. Sweat dripped off him in rivers; the danger passed.

He opened his eyes at lastclear, but heartbreakingly sad.

Edith he croaked (he always got my name wrong then), I waited for her every day. Every morning Id look through the pane hoping to spot her. Every night Id listen for the gate to squeak.

I know, I replied, straightening his blanket, and she wrote, Charles. Our Mabel at the post office told me.

She wrote? he gasped, suddenly alert. Where are the letters? I nail-shut the letterbox! Thought shed forgotten! Thought I was erased!

Mabel kept them. Couldnt bring herself to throw them out.

As dawn broke, I ran to the post office. Mabel, still bleary-eyed, handed me a box of letters. I took them to Charles.

He read them with trembling hands, tears soaking through the paper, blurring the ink. He kissed the photos of his grandchildren, traced their faces with his rough finger.

My grandchildren, Edith Theres two of them

Among one letter, we found a bit of a phone number. The page had been torn, then stuck backlast four digits missing.

A pity, I said. We have an address, but Londons a big place. Post takes forever. You’ll worry yourself sick.

Ill go myself! Charles spluttered, already struggling out of bed. Ill crawl if I have to! I must find her!

Steady on, old man, I scolded, pushing him back. Its 21st century nowtheres a quicker way.

Off I went to see Michael, the clever lad next door, who fixes computers in the county town. Hed come home to see his mum that weekend. I explained, Find her for Charles, on that Internet.

Michael pushed up his glasses, tugged down his reindeer jumper. Its not that easy, Aunt Edith, but lets try. Facebook… LinkedIn… Whats her married name? Williams?

We found her at last! Picture, status: Missing home. Michael sent her a message: Emily, this is Michael from Appleton. Your fathers ill, searching for you. Please get in touch.

We waited. One hour. Two. Internets a joke in these partsmodem flickering, the wind shaking the wires.

Charles sat close, white as a ghost, clutching his heart medicine, the scent bitter in the tiny room.

She wont answer he murmured, staring at the floor. Nor forgive me. I cursed her out. Why would she?

Thenping! A sound, sharp and digital.

Shes replied! Michael whooped. Sent her husbands number!

We called. The ringing seemed endless. My own heart stopped with each buzz.

A mans voice, annoyed: Hello? Whos this?

Charles couldnt speak, just gasped like a fish. I nudged him sharply.

Its Charles. Emilys father

Silence. A heavy, long silence. You could hear the mans breathing.

Father, is it? Decided you remembered, after ten years?

Simon, let me speak! a womans voice cried nervously.

Hello? Emilys voiceguarded, cool.

Emily Charles choked out, My girl Are you alive

Another silence. Only the crackling on the line.

Why are you calling? she asked quietly, voice shaking. Whats happened?

Im dying, love, Charles said honestly. Im sorry for everything. All of it. I just needed to hear your voice, just once. Forgive me if you can.

She criednot loud and open, but a bitter, muffled weeping.

I dont know if I can, Dad she whispered. I waited all these years. Wrote so many letters to nowhere. I dont know if I can

Im not asking for everything, not at once, Charles murmured. But know I always loved you. Even if clumsy, it was love. I was a foolish, frightened man.

Well come, she said, suddenly determined, though flat. I cant let you die alone. Well come. Wait for us.

Charles hung up, not happyjust relieved, and afraid.

Shell comeout of duty. But whether she forgivesonly God knows.

He started fussing. Edith! What are they coming to? This pigstylook at it! Dust thick as moss! Im ashamed! The lads will think poorly of me, the grandchildren even worse!

Calm yourself, I barked in my nurses voice. Well set it right.

The whole street pitched in; we scrubbed the place from top to bottom. Charles wandered about, lost. She wont recognise it, he fretted. Shell turn me out with a look

Finally, the morning of the visit, up rolled a little Ford. Out stepped Emilyconfident, city-dressed, dignified. Her sons climbed out after, and her husband.

Charles stood on the porch, wringing his cap.

Emily stopped at the gate, looking at him, then the house, the same porch where the axe struck. I saw her warring with herselfthe old hurt and fresh pity for a broken, bent old man.

Charles descended the steps, shuffled up to her.

Hello, Emily.

She stared into his eyes. Hello, Dad, she whispered.

Then, quietly, she stepped in and hugged him. Gingerly, as one would a stranger. He stood frozen a moment, then pulled her tight, burying his face in her fur collar, trembling silently.

She stood stiff, arms at her sides, tears trickling down her cheeks. Not joy, but painthe ache for years wasted.

They came in. Awkwardness hung thick in the air. The boys clung to their father; Simon, Emilys husband, eyed Charles coldly.

They sat at the table. Silence. Only clinking spoons.

Charles cracked first, poured himself a measure, and stood. His hand shook, spilling some.

Thank you for coming, he muttered, staring at his boots. Didnt expect you. Well, hoped, but didnt believe. Simon, Emily lifes been empty without you.

Simon looked at him, then at his wife, saw her shaking. He sighed and raised his glass.

Alright, Mr Harris, he said gruffly. Lets not dwell on the past. Were here cause Emily couldnt rest. Shes a kind soul, too kind for her own good. Lets drink to the reunion.

Then young Jack, the youngest grandson, piped up: Grandad, why isnt there an axe in your porch anymore? Mum said you chopped it

Emily snapped at him, pale: Jack! Eat your dinner!

But Charles looked at the boy and smiled sadly. The axes rotted away, Jack. And so did my anger. Only dust left. Ill show you the forest tomorrow. The living woods.

The ice began to melt. For three days they got used to one another again. Charles tried his best, but was scared to speak out of turn.

On the third evening, Emily came to see me at my surgery. Her eyes were red, exhausted.

Aunt Edith, she said, have you anything for a heavy heart? Im not coping.

I made her tea with mint.

Still holding onto the pain?

It wont let go, she admitted, clutching the mug. I see himold, fretful, lostand my heart aches. But then I remember that storm, how he shouted, Curse you! It burns inside. I meant to come here and let him have it allto tell him how I starved at the bedsit, how I had to sit alone when Alice was born and there was no-one to say congratulations

And did you?

She shook her head. I couldnt. I saw his bent back, his trembling hands Hes punished himself more than I could have. He spent twelve years in a prison of his own making. Why would I add to that?

Thats wisdom, Emily, I told her quietly. Forgiveness isnt forgettingits compassion. He didnt act out of malice, but fear. He did love you, with a love too heavy to bear.

She drank her tea in silence.

Today he warmed Alices boots on the hearth, she said at last. Checked with his hand they werent too hotjust as he did for me as a girl. That did something. Eased things a little. Well carry on, Aunt Edith. For the children, if not ourselves. In time, maybe the wound will heal.

They left a week later, but promised to return in summerwhich they did.

By then, Charles was transformednot an anxious old man, but the master of his home once more. Hed set the orchard to rights, and then, a miracle: the ancient apples blossomed suddenly, a white froth over the yard.

One evening I passed bysaw Charles and Emily sitting on the steps, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing, watching the summer sunset. Alice ran round in circles, weaving a daisy chain.

Charles waved at me, his face a study in peace.

Emily smiled, sad but gentle.

Aunt Edith! he called, come in for tea, and Emilys made apple preserveits clear as amber!

I went in, and we sat on the veranda, the scent of apples and summer and calm all around us.

They say you can mend a broken teacup. The crack will always be there, but you can still drink from it. Sometimes the tea tastes sweeter, because you cherish it more.

Life goes by in a flash, like an English winters day. Blink and its dusk, then night. Always imagining, Ill have time, Ill forgive later, Ill pop round for Christmas. But later may never come. The house may go cold, the phone may never ring, and the letterbox stand empty and silent forever.

A Hungry Little Girl Walked into a London Café and Started Eating Leftovers from a Table – But When a Waiter Spotted Her, He Took Away the Plate Without Saying a Word. You Won’t Believe What Happened Next! Emily was just 8 years old, the eldest of six siblings. Their father had left, and her mother struggled every day to put food on the table. For Emily and her family, every day was a battle for survival. During school holidays and at weekends, Emily would help a friendly market stall owner in the local high street, earning a few pennies to bring home. One Saturday lunchtime, Emily was returning from the market. Walking past a cosy café, she couldn’t resist the tempting aromas inside. Usually, she just peered longingly through the window—but that day, hunger got the better of her, and she timidly stepped inside, in worn shoes and shabby clothes, feeling smaller than ever. She was about to leave when she noticed a half-eaten plate of roast and chips left behind on a table. It smelled so delicious, and Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted meat. She sat down quietly and picked up a fork. But a waiter had been watching her. He strode over and, before she could take a bite, took the plate away! With tears in her eyes, Emily looked up, expecting to be told off or thrown out. Instead, the waiter gave her a gentle smile and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her puzzled and scared. Soon, the waiter returned—not with anger, but carrying a fresh, hot meal, a glass of juice, and even a slice of chocolate cake—Emily’s secret dream. Her eyes widened in astonishment and gratitude. “I saw you wanted something to eat,” the waiter said kindly. “Everyone deserves a good meal, especially a child.” Emily was overwhelmed by his kindness—a stranger showing her compassion when she’d expected none. After a few bites, she gathered her courage, wiped her tears, and thanked the waiter. “Thank you, sir. I’ll never forget your kindness… Please, could I have the rest wrapped up for my brothers and sisters? Mum didn’t have the money to buy bread yesterday.” The waiter was speechless, his own eyes brimming. “Of course,” he managed, and disappeared again, returning this time with a carrier bag filled with several food containers. “There you go! Now your siblings can have a warm meal too,” he said, handing the bag to Emily. “Oh, sir, thank you! How can I ever repay you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You already have,” he smiled. “You’ve taught me a precious lesson—to always share and help others. That’s how we make the world a better place.” Emily left the café not only with a full belly, but with a heart full of hope. That ordinary Saturday in a little café on her way home had changed her life. Inspired by the waiter’s generosity, she always looked for ways to help others, passing along the lesson she’d learned: even a small act of kindness can make a world of difference.

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

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

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