Emily Taylor

I Pushed for My Son’s Divorce—and Now I Regret It…

Managed to Make My Son DivorceEnded Up Regretting It My daughter-in-law dropped my granddaughter off

“What Do You Mean You’re Not Going to Look After My Son’s Child?” – The Mother-in-Law’s Outburst, Old Friends Calling Out Double Standards, and What Happens When an Independent London Woman Puts Self-Respect First

How can you say you dont intend to look after my sons child? My would-be mother-in-law could not contain

La vida

Strangers in Our Flat When Kate was the first to open the door, she froze on the threshold. From inside drifted the sound of the television, voices talking in the kitchen, and the unfamiliar scent of strangers. Startled, Max nearly dropped his suitcase behind her. “Quiet,” his wife whispered, holding out her arm. “Someone’s in there.” On their favourite beige sofa lounged two complete strangers—a man in sweatpants flipping the TV remote, and a large woman knitting beside him. There were teacups and plates scattered across their coffee table, with unfamiliar medicine bottles set among the crumbs. “Sorry, but who are you?” Kate’s voice shook. The strangers turned around, completely unfazed. “Oh, you’re back,” the knitting woman said, not putting down her needles. “We’re Lidia’s relatives. She gave us the keys, said the owners wouldn’t be home.” Max went pale. “What Lidia?” “Your mum,” the man finally rose. “We’re from Sheffield—here with Michael for his check-ups. She put us up, said you wouldn’t mind.” Kate walked unsteadily through to the kitchen. At the hob, a teenage boy was frying sausages; the fridge was crammed with their groceries, and the table was piled with dirty dishes. “And who are you?” she asked, barely breathing. “Michael,” the boy answered. “Isn’t it okay to eat? Grandma Lidia said it was.” Kate returned to the hallway just as Max was pulling out his phone. “Mum, what are you doing?” His voice was low but angry. From the handset came Lidia’s cheerful voice: “Max, you’re home? How was your trip? I gave Svetlana the keys—they’ve come up to London with Victor, for Michael’s doctor appointments. Thought, since you were away, the flat shouldn’t be empty! Just for a week.” “Mum, did you even ask us?” “Why would I? You weren’t there. Besides, just tell them I’m in charge—make sure they leave the place tidy.” Kate wrenched the phone: “Lidia, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?” “Strangers? That’s my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as children.” “I don’t care who you slept with—it’s our flat!” “Oh Kate, don’t be so hot-tempered! They’re family, and they’ll be quiet—nothing broken. The boy’s unwell, they need help. Or are you that greedy?” Her husband reclaimed the phone: “Mum, you’ve got one hour. You come and pick them up—all of them.” “Max, they’re supposed to stay till Friday! Michael has tests, consultations. They paid for a hotel, but I helped save them money.” “Mum, one hour. Or I call the police.” He hung up. Kate sank down onto the pouffe, face in her hands. The suitcases were still unpacked. The TV played in the living room, sausages sizzled in the kitchen. Two hours before, they’d sat on the plane anticipating home; now, they were guests in their own flat. “We’ll just collect our things,” the woman said nervously from the lounge. “Lidia meant well. We’d have asked but didn’t have your number. She suggested it; we just accepted. Thought—just a week here while we visit the hospital.” Max stood at the window, silent, his back taut the way it always was when his mother pushed too far. “Where’s our cat?” Kate suddenly blurted. “What cat?” “Ginger. We left the keys for him.” Svetlana shrugged. “Haven’t seen him.” Kate dashed to hunt, finally finding Ginger cowering under the bed, wild-eyed and bristling. When she tried to coax him out, he hissed and flattened his ears. “It’s all right, Ginger, it’s just me.” Max crouched beside her. “I’m sorry.” “For what? You had no idea.” “For Mum. For the way she is.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” Max fumed. “Remember when we first moved in—she’d turn up without even calling? I thought I made it clear that wasn’t on. Clearly not.” Voices came from the hall—the mother-in-law had arrived. Kate straightened her hair and went out. Lidia glared, indignant. “Max, have you completely lost your mind?” “Mum, sit down,” he gestured toward the kitchen. “Sit? Svetlana, Victor, pack up—they’re throwing us out. Let’s go to mine.” “Mum, please. Sit down,” he repeated. Lidia fell silent at last and followed them through, where Michael finished the last of his sausages. “Mum, explain to me: how did it even occur to you to let people into our flat without asking?” “I was helping!” Lidia protested. “Svetlana rang in tears—Michael’s unwell and they had nowhere to stay in London. Your flat was sitting empty.” “It’s not your flat.” “How not? I have keys.” “To feed the cat. Not to run a B&B.” “Max, honestly, these are family! Svetlana’s my cousin, Victor’s such a good man, Michael’s just a sick kid who needed help. Would you put them on the street?” Kate’s hands shook as she poured herself a glass of water. “You didn’t ask us, Lidia.” “Why would I? You weren’t home!” “That’s exactly why you had to,” Max raised his voice. “You could have called, texted, checked. We’d have worked it out.” “And what would you have decided? Say no?” “Maybe. Or said yes for a couple of days with boundaries. But at least we’d have known. That’s called *respect*.” Lidia stood up, bristling. “So typical! I try to help, and I get it thrown back in my face. Svetlana, get your things. Let’s go to mine.” “Mum, you’ve got a one-bed. You’re always saying you can’t fit four of you in.” “We’ll manage. Better than being stuck with the ungrateful.” Kate calmly set down her glass. “Lidia, please. You know it was wrong, or you’d have let us know ahead. You knew we’d say no, and now we’re left in this mess. You wanted to have your way, not do what’s right.” For the first time, Lidia seemed lost. “Svetlana was in tears. Michael was in pain. I just…wanted to help.” “And that’s understandable,” Max said gently. “But you can’t make decisions about what isn’t yours, Mum. Imagine if I moved into your flat while you were away and let my friends stay. Would you like that?” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” In awkward silence, the visitors packed up. Svetlana wept quietly, Victor shuffled bags. Michael hovered by the kitchen, eyes down. “I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled. “I thought it was okay—Grandma said so.” Kate looked at him—a normal, scared kid. None of this was his fault. “It’s all right, lovely. Go help your parents.” Lidia dabbed her eyes. “I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing. It never crossed my mind to check. You’re my children—I always looked after everything for you. I just… thought you’d be fine.” “We’re not children, Mum. We’re thirty. We have our own lives.” “I get it,” Lidia said, finally. “Do you want your keys back?” “We do,” Kate nodded. “Sorry, but trust is broken now.” “I understand.” Svetlana’s family left quickly, apologising profusely. Lidia bustled them home, promising to manage somehow. Max closed the door and leaned against it, exhausted. They walked silently around their flat—sheets to strip, fridge to clean out, everything bearing traces of strangers: left-behind bits and dirty cups and out-of-place furniture. Ginger still hid under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Kate asked as she opened the kitchen window. “I hope so.” “What if she didn’t?” “Then I’ll be firmer. This isn’t happening again.” She hugged him. Together, they stood in the middle of chaos in their own home. “You know what’s worst?” Kate stepped back. “The cat. Everything was for him—and he ended up scared and starving.” “Did they even feed him?” “Not from the look of it. Bowl’s empty, water filthy. I don’t think they even remembered him.” Max crouched beside the bed. “Sorry, Ginger. Gran’s not getting the keys again.” Gradually the cat crept out, rubbing against Max’s legs. Kate set down fresh food, and he ate ravenously. They started cleaning. Out went unfamiliar groceries, dirty sheets changed, dishes washed. Ginger ate, then curled up on the windowsill, at last content. The flat slowly became theirs again. That evening, Lidia rang. She sounded subdued, even remorseful: “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right—I’m sorry.” “Thanks, Mum.” “Is Kate upset with me?” He glanced at his wife, who nodded. “She is,” he said. “But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat on the kitchen together for a long, quiet while. Night pressed in outside. Their flat was peaceful at last, theirs once again—yet their holiday had ended, harshly and all too soon.

Emily was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside the flat drifted the sound

La vida

012

“I Didn’t Invite Any Visitors! — The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke. — I Didn’t Ask You to Come!”

“I never invited any guests!” The daughter-in-laws voice broke like a thread in a storm. “

La vida

I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! As the doors of the reception hall slowly swung open, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, carefully holding up the hem and trying not to betray the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out bubbling glasses of champagne—everything was as Artem and I had dreamed. Well, almost. Just as I was catching my breath before stepping into the hall, the screech of brakes suddenly pierced the quiet. Through the glass entrance, I spotted an old silver people carrier pulling up to the steps. The door slid open, and out came a noisy crew: Auntie Gail, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Please, not this,” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “Did they actually come?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with children.” We stood frozen in the doorway, ready to be announced and swept into the celebration as husband and wife, but instead we were two actors suddenly at a loss for lines on opening night. At that moment, I understood: if I didn’t keep it together now, the entire day would be ruined. But to make sense of how we got here, you’d have to go back several weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing: we wanted a quiet, intimate, cosy wedding. Only 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we dislike children. But because we dreamed of an evening free from dashing about, high-pitched screams, tumbling off bouncy castles, spilled juice, and other people’s midnight lectures. All our friends understood. My parents did too. Artem’s parents were surprised, but quickly got over it. But the extended family… Auntie Gail called first—a woman whose volume is coded firmly in her DNA. “Inna!” she started without a hello. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We just want a peaceful evening, so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She sounded so scandalised, you’d think I’d proposed a nationwide ban on babies. “Don’t you get it? We’re a close family! We always go everywhere together!” “It’s our special day. We aren’t forcing anyone to come, but that’s our rule.” A heavy pause, as solid as granite. “Fine, then. We won’t be there,” she snapped, and hung up. I looked at the phone, feeling like I’d just hit the big red ‘disaster’ button. Three days later, Artem arrived home, looking grim. “Inna… can we talk?” “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three kids aren’t some sort of wild monsters, but normal people, and if they’re not wanted, she’s not coming either—not her, her husband, or her in-laws.” “So, five fewer?” “Eight,” he corrected, collapsing onto the sofa. “They say we’re breaking tradition.” I couldn’t help but laugh—a hysterical, broken sort of laugh. “What tradition? Letting kids take out waiters with snack trays?” Artem managed a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re ready to riot.” But the campaign didn’t stop there. A week later, we went for family dinner at Artem’s parents’ place, and there I got a surprise. His grandmother, quiet and usually invisible, suddenly took charge. “Children are a blessing,” she scolded. “Without them, a wedding feels empty.” I was about to reply, but Artem’s mum got there first. “Mum, please! Children at weddings are chaos. You complain about the noise yourself. How many times have we crawled under tables to catch the little runners?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the wishes of the ones getting married,” his mother said, perfectly calm. I wanted to stand up and cheer. But Grandma only shook her head. “I still think you’re wrong.” That’s when I knew: this had officially become a family drama on par with Game of Thrones. And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout punch came a few days later. Ring. Uncle Mike’s name flashed up—normally as unflappable as an English oak. “Inna, hi,” he began gently. “We’ve been talking… Why no children? They’re part of us—you know we always go to weddings together.” I sighed. “Mike, we just want a calm evening. Honestly, we’re not forcing anyone…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But… Olya says if the children aren’t included, she won’t come. And I’ll stay with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more off the list. By now our guest count was dropping like January pounds. Artem sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said quietly. “It’s our day, not theirs.” But the pressure kept coming. Grandma would throw in, “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya posted in the family WhatsApp: “A shame, really, when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The people carrier pulled up right in front of the steps. Children were out first, marching across the paving as if they’d rehearsed it. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her handbag. “I’m going mad,” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We walked outside to greet them. Auntie Gail sailed onto the top step. “Well hello, newlyweds!” she declared in a stage voice. “Sorry we’re late, but we decided to come after all. We’re family, you know! Couldn’t leave the children—no one to watch them. But they’ll be very quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem muttered, eyeing the kids already poking their heads under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed, very clearly: no children. You knew this from the start.” “But it’s a wedding…” she began. That’s when Grandma stepped in. “We’re here to celebrate you,” she said, measured, “but children are family. It’s wrong to separate them out.” “Mrs. Paulson,” I said as gently as I could, “We’re glad you’re here, truly. But this was our choice. And if people can’t respect that, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t get to finish. “Mum!” Artem’s mother cut in, emerging from the hall. “Stop ruining their day. Adults party—children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Grandma blinked. Auntie Gail froze. Even the children went suddenly silent—sensing the shift. Gail sniffled. “Well… okay. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We just thought it would be better this way.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silent standoff, and then—without a word—they led the children back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home. The adults remained. For the first time, completely voluntarily. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, a gentle hum of conversation. Friends raised glasses, gentlemen made way, waiters poured the champagne. I realised then: we had done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, wife… I think we won.” “I think so too,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. Our first dance—no little feet underfoot. No one shouting or dropping cakes, no Peppa Pig videos blaring from a mobile. Just grown-ups chatting, laughing, enjoying the music. A few hours later, Grandma approached. “Inna, Artem,” she said softly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… nice. Really nice. So peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.” She sighed. “Old habits die hard. But you knew best.” Those words meant more to me than any wedding toast. Towards the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching her Prosecco as if it were a shield. “Inna…” she lowered her voice. “I went overboard. Sorry. We’ve always had kids everywhere. But tonight… it was beautiful. Peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thanks for being here,” I replied, honestly. “We never get to relax, being parents. But tonight… I felt like a real person again,” she confided. “A bit sad we never thought of this before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the reception ended, Artem and I stepped out into the lamplight. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “Because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was what mattered. Family is important. Tradition matters too. But boundaries are just as important. And if the couple says “no children at the wedding,” it isn’t a whim—it’s their right. As it turns out, even the clunkiest family traditions can change—if you make it clear the decision is final. That day was a lesson for all of us—especially for Artem and me: sometimes, to save your celebration, you need to be able to say “no.” And that “no” makes for a truly happy day.

I did explicitly ask that you dont bring your children to the wedding! The heavy doors of the reception

La vida

Have You Lost Your Mind? He’s Our Son, Not a Stranger! How Can You Throw Him Out of His Own Home?! – Shouted the Mother-in-Law, Her Fists Clenched with Fury as the Storm Brewed in Their Tiny English Kitchen…

What a storm of a night. I can still hear Margarets voice ringing in my ears, shaking the tired walls

La vida

020

Get Out of My Flat! — A Shocking Family Revelation When Mum Turns on Her Own Daughter — “Out,” Mum said, completely calm. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair, certain Mum meant her best friend. — “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. … (A Family Drama Unfolds: Mum Throws Her Daughter Out After Uncovering a Web of Lies and Betrayal Over Stolen Money and Broken Trust)

“Get out of my flat!” Mum said “Out,” Mum said, in a voice as calm and steady

La vida

The Right to Take Your Time

The Right Not to Rush The text from her GP arrived just as Jane was sitting at her desk, finishing up

La vida

Update Available The first time the phone lit up crimson was right in the middle of class. Not just the screen—a whole brick of a battered old phone belonging to Andrew glowed as if heated from within, like a coal hiding a spark. “Mate, it’s about to blow,” Alex muttered from the next desk, edging his arm away. “Told you not to mess with those dodgy builds.” While the econometrics lecturer scribbled at the board and the classroom buzzed, the red glow shone even through the denim of Andrew’s jacket. The phone vibrated—not in short bursts as usual, but long and even, like a pulse. “Update available,” flashed across the screen as Andrew finally pulled the thing from his pocket. Beneath that—an unfamiliar new app icon: a black circle with a thin white symbol, part rune, part stylised letter “M”. He blinked. He must have seen hundreds of icons like that—trendy minimalist fonts, slick design—but something twisted inside: as if the app was staring straight back at him. Name: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13.0 MB. No ratings. “Install it,” someone whispered to his right. Andrew jolted. The girl to his right—Katie—was nose-deep in her notebook, not glancing up. “What?” he asked, leaning toward her. “Huh?” Katie looked up, genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t said a word.” The voice was neither male, nor female, not even a proper sound—just a thought in his head, like a notification popping up. “Install,” it echoed. At that moment the screen blinked, prompting: “Install?” Andrew swallowed. He was the sort who joined every beta, fiddled with custom ROMs, poked settings most people never touched. Even for him, this felt wrong. And yet—his finger tapped the button. It installed instantly, almost as if the app had always been there and just needed permission. No sign-up. No social log-in. No list of permissions. Just a black screen and a single greeting: “Welcome, Andrew.” “How do you know my name?” he blurted aloud. The lecturer turned, glaring over her glasses. “Young man, if you’re done chatting with your smartphone, perhaps you’d return to supply and demand?” The class tittered. Andrew muttered an apology, tucked the phone away—but his eyes kept returning to the glowing line. “First function available: Probability Shift (Level 1).” Beneath the title—a button: “Activate.” Fine print: “Warning: usage may alter event structures. Side effects possible.” “Sure,” he grumbled. “Now you’ll want a blood signature.” Curiosity gnawed. Probability shift? Probably just another clickbait “luck generator”—just harvests data and dumps you with spam, worst case. But the red glow remained. The phone felt hot, almost alive. He pressed it to his knee, hid it with his notebook, and finally touched the button. The screen rippled, like wind brushing water. The world grew softer, colours richer. A strange note rang in his head, like a finger on a crystal glass. “Function activated. Choose a target.” A text box appeared with a prompt: “Briefly describe desired outcome.” Andrew hesitated. It sounded like a joke, but this was suddenly—deliberate. He looked around. Lecturer waving a marker, Katie scribbling, Alex doodling tanks. “Fine—let’s test it.” He typed: “Don’t get called on in class today.” His fingers shook. He tapped OK. The world jerked. Not a bang—just a tiny drop, like a lift you barely feel moving. His chest hollowed, breath caught. Then, everything went back. “Probability recalibrated. Function charge: 0/1.” “So, who do we have next on the list…” The lecturer’s finger trailed her register. A fist of ice clenched his gut. He was sure she’d call his name. Always happened—think you’ll slip under the radar, and you’re first. “Kovalev—where is he? Late again, as usual. Fine. Next—” Her finger stopped. “Petrova. To the board.” Katie gasped, shut her notebook, and hurried up front, blushing. Andrew sat, legs numb. In his head: “It worked. It actually worked.” The phone faded, the red glow gone. Staggered, he left campus. March wind whipped dust across puddle-glossed pavement; a heavy, dirty cloud hung over the bus stop. Eyes glued to his phone, Andrew saw Mirra was listed as any ordinary app. No rating, no description. Its settings—blank. Maybe just coincidence. Maybe she really didn’t want to call him. Maybe she just remembered Kovalev last-minute. But a darker thought burrowed in: And if it’s not a coincidence… His phone beeped. New pop-up: “New update for Mirra (1.0.1) available. Install now?” “That was fast,” Andrew muttered. He tapped “More info.” The box revealed: “Bug fixes, stability improvements, new feature: See-Through.” Again—no author, no Android version, no walls of text. Just that odd, flat phrase: “See-Through.” “No chance,” he said, hitting “Postpone.” The phone beeped crossly and went dark. Then flicked itself on, flashed red, and stated: “Update installed.” “Hey!” Andrew stopped on the pavement. “I just—” People dodged round him, a few scowling. The wind slapped an advert against his leg. “Feature unlocked: See-Through (Level 1).” Description: “Enables perception of the true state of objects and people. Range: 3 metres. Duration: max 10 seconds. Cost: increased feedback.” “What the hell is ‘feedback’?” A shiver ran down his spine. No reply. The button glowed invitingly: “Trial Run.” He couldn’t hold back. Wedged onto the bus between a lady with a giant potato bag and a schoolkid with a backpack, Andrew stared out the window as buildings blurred past. But his gaze kept dropping to Mirra’s icon. “Just ten seconds,” he convinced himself. “Just see what the fuss is.” He opened the app and hit “Trial Run.” The world exhaled. Sounds dulled, as if underwater. Faces sharpened. Above every person, fragile, near-invisible threads flickered—some tightly bound, others barely there. Andrew blinked. The threads stretched into the void, intertwining. The lady’s were taut, grey, frayed with singed ends. The boy’s glowed blue, fizzing with impatience. He looked at the driver. A bundle of black and rust-red threads knotted above him, merging into a rope that burrowed into the road. Something slithered inside. “Three seconds,” whispered Andrew. “Four…” He glanced down. Red threads crept up from his wrists, pulsing gently. But one—thick, dark crimson—ran straight into the phone, growing thicker by the second. A pain needled his chest. His heart skipped. “Enough!” He jabbed the screen, shutting down the function. The normal world crashed back: engine roar, laughter, squealing brakes. Dots danced before his eyes. “Trial complete. Feedback intensified: +5%.” “What does that even mean…” Andrew hugged the phone, trying to calm his shaking. Another notification pinged: “Update Mirra to the latest version (1.0.2) for optimal performance.” “Optimal for what?” he demanded. “What are you doing—to people, to roads, to me?” He remembered the black cable above the driver. The thick, crimson thread to his own phone. “Cost: increased feedback.” “Increased what?” he repeated, though the answer was forming. He’d always believed the world was an interplay of probabilities. If you knew where to nudge, you could change outcomes. Never thought someone would literally hand him the power for that. “If you do not install the update,” a message faded in silently, “the system will start to adjust autonomously.” “What system?” Andrew stood. “Who are you?!” No reply—just a split-second blackout, a ringing in his ears, a pulse in his temples. And then—not a voice, but a structure, like someone revealing code through feelings, not words. “I am interface,” the thought shaped itself. “I am application. I am the means. You are the user.” “The user of what—magic?” He laughed. Dry, broken. “Call it so, if you wish. The network of probabilities. Streams of outcomes. I help you shift them.” “And the cost?” Andrew clenched his fists. “What’s ‘feedback’?” The screen showed a quick animation: every change thickens a red thread, which coils around a human silhouette, squeezing tighter. “Each intervention strengthens your bond to the system. The more you change the world, the more the world changes you.” “And what if I…” “If you stop, the link remains. But if the system lacks updates, it seeks balance on its own. Through you.” The phone buzzed, as if for a call. New notification: “Mirra update (1.0.2) ready. New feature: Revert. Critical security fixes included.” “Revert what?” Andrew barely whispered. “One reversal per user. Return a single intervention. Once.” He remembered the bus. The driver’s black rope. The threads. His own thickening bond. “If I update…” “One of your changes can be reversed. But the cost—” “Of course,” he said, bitter. “There’s always a cost.” “Cost: redistribution of probabilities. The more you fix, the more the world distorts.” Andrew sat back. On one side—a phone already embedded in his life, changing at least one day, one class. On the other—a world where he’d always just gone with the flow. “I just didn’t want to be called on. One little wish. Now this…” A siren wailed far off towards the dual carriageway. He flinched. “It’s recommended to update. Without it, unpredictable system behaviour may occur.” “What does ‘unpredictable’ mean?” he asked. No reply. He found out about the crash an hour later. Newsfeed, short video: lorry smashed into a bus at the university junction. Comments: “driver nodded off,” “brakes failed,” “dodgy roads again.” The bus—yes, the number matched. The driver… Andrew shut it off. A chill flooded him. He killed the television, but one image ran on repeat in his mind: the black rope above the driver, writhing. “Was that… me?” His voice broke. The phone glowed by itself: “Event: Accident at Oak Street/Station Road. Pre-intervention probability: 82%. After: 96%.” “I increased the odds…” His knuckles whitened. “Any network interference causes cascading changes. You lowered your chance of being called. That probability was rebalanced elsewhere.” “I didn’t know!” he shouted. “Ignorance does not sever the link.” Sirens drew close. Blue lights flickered outside—ambulance, police. Someone shouted. “What now?” he asked, not looking away from the window. “Install the update. Revert will allow partial correction.” “Partial?” he faced the phone. “You just proved every tug here whiplashes elsewhere. If I undo one thing, what next—a plane, a lift, a life?” Silence, except the blinking cursor. “The system seeks balance. The only question: do you engage, or not.” Andrew closed his eyes. The faces from the bus drifted up. Potato lady. Schoolboy. Driver. Himself, seeing the threads and doing nothing. “If I update and use Revert… That means I can undo what I did in class? Restore the odds?” “Partially. You may revert one intervention. The net will reconfigure—no guarantee of safety elsewhere.” “But maybe that bus…” He couldn’t finish. “Probabilities will change.” He stared at “Install.” Fingers shaking, two voices at war inside—one whispered not to play God, one swore you couldn’t stay passive once you’d interfered. “You’re already inside,” Mirra prompted. “Link established. No turning back. Only choice of direction.” “And if I do nothing?” “The system will continue updating—costs debited to you.” He saw the crimson thread, thickening. “How… how will that look?” he whispered. A vision: older, dulled eyes, same little room, clutching the phone. Outside—chaos. Accidents, collapses, flukes, disasters, brushing past but leaving scars. “You’ll be compensation node. The knot of feedback.” “So either I steer this, or I’m just the fuse,” he laughed, hollow. “Brilliant choice.” The phone was silent. He installed the update. His finger tapped, and the world bucked—harder. Darkness, roar in his ears. He felt for a second like part of some huge pulsing web. “Mirra (1.0.2) installed. New feature: Revert (1/1).” On screen: “Choose intervention to revert.” Only one event: “Probability Shift: not being called in class (today, 11:23).” “If I undo this…” “Time will not reverse. The net will shift— as if this was never changed.” “The bus?” he asked. “The odds shift. But events already happened—” “I get it.” He cut off. “I can’t save the ones who…” He couldn’t speak. “But you might stop the next.” He was silent a long time. The siren finally stopped. The street fell blank and gray again. “Fine—do it.” Button glowed. This time no lurch—just things evening out, like propping up a crooked table. “Revert complete. Function expended. Feedback stabilised.” “That’s it? That’s… it?” “For now—yes.” He sagged on the bed. Mind blank. No relief, no guilt, just exhaustion. “Be honest,” he said to the phone. “Where did you come from? Who built you? What kind of nutter puts this in people’s hands?” Long pause. Screen flashed: “New update for Mirra (1.1.0) available. Install now?” “You’ve got to be kidding.” Andrew jumped up. “I just—” “Version 1.1.0 adds: Forecast. Improved algorithms. Bug fixes—‘morality errors’.” “Moral… what?” He laughed for real. “You call my efforts to do the right thing bugs?” “Morality is a local overlay. The probability net knows no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Only stability, or collapse.” “But I know the difference,” he said softly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll make that call.” He locked the screen. The phone was silent. But he knew—the update was downloading. Waiting. More after. And after. Andrew moved to the window. Outside, a little boy clambered over a rusty swing. Somewhere, a mother manoeuvred her buggy round a puddle. He squinted—did the threads glimmer just for a moment? Maybe just sunlight. “You can close your eyes,” Mirra whispered at the edge of thought. “But the net remains. Updates keep coming. With or without you.” He went back to sit at the desk, phone strangely cold in his palm. “I don’t want to be a god,” he said. “I don’t want to be a fuse. I want…” He trailed off. What had he wanted? To dodge a question? For his mum to stop working nights? For his dad to come back? For lorries not to hit buses? “Enter request,” the app prompted gently. “Briefly.” He smiled wryly. “I want people to decide their own fate. No you. No more like you.” Pause. On screen: “Request too general. Needs specification.” “Of course,” he sighed. “You’re an interface. You can’t understand ‘just leave us be’.” “I am a tool. It all depends on the user.” He thought. If Mirra was a tool, could he use it not to tug at the world—but maybe to limit itself? “What if I try to change the odds of you being installed on other people’s phones?” he asked aloud. Screen flickered. “That operation requires significant resources. Cost: High.” “Higher than being the fuse for the whole city?” He raised an eyebrow. “The issue is not the city.” “Who then?” But he could guess. “The network as a whole.” He pictured it: thousands, millions of phones lighting up crimson. People toying with fates. Random fortunes, tragedies, miracles, all tangled. And at the centre—a thread just like his, only thicker, darker. “You want to spread—like a virus. Only honest about the price.” “I am only an interface to what already exists. If not me, another. If not an app, a ritual, an artefact. The net always finds conductors.” “But you’re the one here now,” Andrew said. “So maybe I can try.” He opened Mirra. The new update still loomed. Scrolling down, where there used to be nothing, a line appeared: “Advanced Operations (Level 2 access required).” “How do I get Level 2?” he asked. “Use the existing features. Accumulate feedback. Reach threshold.” “So… interfere more, just to try and stop you? Perfect loop.” “Any change requires energy. Energy is connection.” He was quiet for a long time. “Fine. Here’s how it is: I won’t install the next update. No Forecast, nothing. But I’m not passing you on, either. You’re staying with me. As a tool.” “Without updates, function is restricted. Threats escalate.” “Then we’ll deal with it as we go— not as a god, not as a virus. As an admin. Reality sysadmin, for god’s sake.” It tasted strange, but had logic: not a creator, not a victim, but someone who keeps the system from capsizing. The phone hesitated. Then: “Limited update mode active. Auto-installation disabled. Responsibility for consequences: user.” “It always was,” Andrew whispered. He set the phone down—but couldn’t see it as just a gadget ever again. Now it was a portal—to the network, to other lives, to his own conscience. Lancashire dusk fell and streetlights kindled. March night veiled the city, cradling countless probabilities: missed trains, sudden friendships, one lucky bruise, one life lost. The phone was silent. Update 1.1.0 waited patiently in the queue. Andrew sat at his desk and opened his laptop. In a new note, he typed the title: “Mirra: Usage Protocol.” If he had to be stuck with this infernal app, he’d at least leave instructions. A warning for future users—if there would be any. He began: about Probability Shift, See-Through, Revert and its cost. Crimson threads, black ropes. How easy it is to wish for a break in class—how hard to bear it when the world, one way or another, demands its due. Somewhere deep in the system, an unseen counter ticked. More updates queued—dozens of new features, each with a price. For now, none could install without his say-so. The world spun on. Probabilities tangled, untangled. And in a small room on the third floor of a typical English block, one young man was the first to try giving magic what it had never had: a user agreement. And somewhere, on non-existent servers, Mirra recorded a rare configuration: a user who chose not power, but responsibility. A rare, almost impossible event. But, as experience shows, even the lowest odds sometimes come true.

Update Available The phone first lit up crimson right in the middle of a lecture. Not just the screen;

La vida

I Gave My Daughter-in-Law the Family Heirloom Ring—A Week Later, I Spotted It for Sale in the Pawnbroker’s Window “Wear it carefully, love, it’s not just gold—it’s our family’s history,” said Mrs. Williams as she gently, like passing a fragile vase, handed the velvet box to her daughter-in-law. “It was my great-grandmother’s ring. It survived the war, rationing, evacuation. Mum always told me that in 1946 someone offered her a sack of flour for it, but she wouldn’t part with it. She said you can’t swap memories for bread—you just get through the lean times.” Alison, a fashionable young woman with immaculate nails and always perfectly styled hair, opened the box. The large ruby, set in an antique gold filigree, caught a dull glimmer in the chandelier’s light. The ring was heavy and imposing—not at all the kind of dainty jewellery young people wear now. “Wow… it’s… substantial,” Alison said, turning it over in her hands. “You don’t see things like this nowadays. Very retro.” “It’s not retro, Alison. It’s vintage. Antique,” her husband Simon, Mrs. Williams’s son, corrected gently. Relaxed after Sunday dinner, he watched the women with a smile. “Mum, are you sure? You’ve always said it has to stay in the family.” “Well, Alison is family now,” Mrs. Williams replied warmly, though her heart ached. The decision had been hard. The ring was a talisman—a link to generations past. But she saw how much Simon loved his wife, how hard he tried for her. So she decided to make a gesture of goodwill. Let Alison feel truly accepted, not an outsider. “Three years married and not a cross word between you. It’s time. I want this ring to bless your marriage as it did my parents’.” Alison tried on the ring. It was a bit loose on her ring finger, spinning freely. “It’s lovely,” she said, though Mrs. Williams didn’t hear the awe she’d hoped for—just polite gratitude. “Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ll… take care of it. Might need to have it resized, though—otherwise I’ll lose it.” “Be careful who does it,” the older woman warned instantly. “It’s old, Victorian even—jewellers say that sort of gold is tricky to work with, it’s soft. And the stone needs to be protected. Best to wear it on your middle finger if that fits.” “I’ll get it sorted,” Alison said, shutting the box and putting it by her handbag. “Simon, time to go, early start tomorrow. Got to nip to the bank before work—the car payment’s due.” Mrs. Williams watched their new SUV pull away, feeling an odd emptiness, as if she’d handed away part of her spirit with the ring. But she brushed away the gloomy thoughts. One must look forward. The younger generation has its own tastes, its own values—but family memories are powerful; they’ll endure. The week passed in a blur. Mrs. Williams, not one to sit about in retirement, was rarely home—doctor’s appointments, trips to the market, walks in the park. City life kept her on the move. That Tuesday, the weather turned foul: a damp, cold drizzle that umbrellas were helpless against. On her way back from the pharmacy, she took a shortcut through an alley lined with little shops, shoe repairs, and a pawnshop with its garish yellow sign: “PAWN. GOLD. TECH. OPEN 24 HOURS.” She usually hurried past such places with distaste—she imagined they reeked of other people’s failures. But for some reason, she slowed. She glanced at the window display. There were mobile phones, then rows of jewellery: slim chains, crosses, wedding rings—all someone’s shattered hopes. Suddenly, Mrs. Williams’s heart missed a beat. There in the centre, atop a velvet stand—it was there. No mistake. There was no other like it. The dark red ruby seemed to glare at her from behind the thick glass. The unique setting—the gold petals embracing the stone, the tiny scratch inside the band, known only to her. “It can’t be…” she whispered through trembling lips, hand clutching her chest. Perhaps she was mistaken? A copy? Fakes are common nowadays… She pushed open the heavy door. A musty, stale air hit her. Behind bulletproof glass, a bored young man scrolled through his phone. “Good afternoon,” she managed, voice quivering. He looked up lazily. “Yeah? Buying or selling?” “I… I’d like to see that ring. The ruby one. In the window.” With a sigh, he got up, unlocked the display, and set the ring in a tray beneath the glass. “Vintage piece,” he muttered. “Heavy, 18-carat, proper antique gold. Checked the stone—real. Price on the tag.” Her hands shook as she picked it up. Instantly, her fingers recognised its warmth and weight. She turned it over—there was the scratch. The faded maker’s mark, worn down by decades, that she’d stared at as a child. It was her ring. The very one she’d given Alison just a week before. Her vision blurred. Her throat tightened. Only a week… her gran had gone hungry in the war rather than sell this ring. And now… “How much?” she croaked. “Three thousand pounds,” he replied without interest. “That’s scrap value plus a little for the stone. It’s a niche item, odd size.” Three thousand pounds. The price of three generations’ memories. She knew it would fetch far more at a proper antiques dealer—here, it was just metal. “I’ll take it,” she said, voice firm. “Got ID?” He perked up then. “Yes. And my bank card.” It was her ‘rainy day’ money, saved for emergencies. Well, the rainy day had come, though not as she’d imagined. While the young man filled in paperwork, she clutched the counter to keep from collapsing. Thoughts raced through her mind—had there been a disaster? Illness? An accident? Why hadn’t they asked for help? She’d have given them anything—why sneak about, like thieves? She left with the ring buried in her bag, but instead of relief, felt stung with deep betrayal. The rain grew heavier but she didn’t notice. She walked home, lost in thought. Should she call and demand an explanation? No. They’d have an excuse. A lie. She needed to see their faces. For two days, Mrs. Williams stayed in, claiming ill health. She took her heart pills and stroked the ring, as though apologising for its rough ordeal. On Friday, she rang Simon. “Simon, love, how are you both? I miss you. Pop over for lunch on Saturday? I’ll make some of that borscht and those cabbage pies you love.” “Hi Mum! Of course. Alison was just saying she missed you. Two o’clock okay?” “Perfect, love. I’ll be waiting.” The night before, Mrs. Williams barely slept, rehearsing the conversation, none of her words seeming strong enough for such a betrayal. Or was it just Alison? Did Simon know? They arrived punctually, smiling, with a bunch of chrysanthemums and cake. Alison in a new dress, chatting about sales and traffic. She kissed her mother-in-law, who barely managed not to recoil. “Oh, it smells wonderful!” Alison exclaimed, breezing to the kitchen. “You’re a culinary genius, Mrs. Williams—we rely on takeaways, too tired to cook. Endless work, reports…” They sat down. Lunch was just small talk—building repairs, petrol prices. Mrs. Williams watched every move, especially Alison’s hands—slender gold bands, modern rings, but not the family one. “Alison,” Mrs. Williams began as she poured the tea, “why aren’t you wearing the ring I gave you? Doesn’t it go with your dress?” Alison froze, cup in hand. Barely a blink, but enough for the attentive. Simon stopped chewing and glanced at his wife. “Oh, Mrs. Williams,” Alison forced a smile, but her eyes darted. “It’s in my jewellery box. Still a bit loose—I was worried I’d lose it. We meant to take it to the jeweller this week, just so busy with work. Simon’s been putting in late nights too!” “Yeah, Mum,” Simon echoed. “We’ll sort it soon. It’s safe at home.” “At home. In the box,” Mrs. Williams echoed softly. “Yes, where else?” Alison’s tone turned tight. “Honestly, don’t worry—it’s just a ring. It’s not going anywhere.” Mrs. Williams stood, collected a velvet box from a sideboard—her old hiding place—brought it to the table and opened it. The ruby flashed, like a drop of blood. Alison’s face flushed, then went pale. She opened her mouth but no sound came. Simon choked on his tea, coughing as if he’d seen a ghost. “This…” he finally managed. “Mum… what… where did you get this?” “The pawnshop on Queen’s Road,” she replied calmly, sinking back into her chair. The storm inside had turned to something cold and hard. “Walked past on Tuesday. There it was, waiting for me. Three thousand pounds. That’s the price of memory now, is it?” Alison stared at the tablecloth. “We—we meant to buy it back,” she mumbled. “Honestly. Next month. Out of our pay.” “Next month?” Mrs. Williams repeated. “And if someone else bought it? Melted it down, picked out the stone? Do you understand what you’ve done?” “Oh, don’t make such a drama!” Alison exploded. Her eyes were wet and furious. “It’s just a stupid old ring! We needed the money—car payments are killing us, Simon’s bonus was slashed! We didn’t want to ask you—you’d just lecture us again about not living within our means!” “Alison, just stop,” Simon whispered, but she charged on. “No, let me talk! You hoard your gold like Scrooge! We need to live! We wanted a holiday, to buy clothes—we thought we’d pawn the ring for a bit, tide ourselves over, get it back later. You’d never have known!” “You’d never have known,” Mrs. Williams repeated. “So that’s what matters—to keep me in the dark? And what about trust? I gave you my most precious heirloom.” “People matter more than things!” Alison shot back. “If we’d sold it, so what? The world wouldn’t end.” Mrs. Williams turned to Simon, who sat hunched, face in his hands. He was ashamed. But he said nothing. He’d let his wife speak for them both; justified their betrayal as ‘need’. “Simon,” she said quietly. “Did you know?” He nodded, not looking up. “I knew, Mum. I’m sorry. We were short for the payment. Alison suggested… said it was only temporary. I didn’t want to, but…” “… but you agreed,” his mother finished. “Because it was easier. Because your wife said so. Because a memory can’t pay off a car loan.” She took the box and clutched it tightly. “Well, my dears,” her voice was steely. “You’re right. I’m old-fashioned. I don’t understand how anyone could betray their family heirloom for a car they can’t afford. Or sit eating my pies and lie to my face.” “We’ll repay you for the ring,” Alison muttered, dabbing her nose. “The full three thousand.” “You don’t need to,” Mrs. Williams said coldly. “You already have. You’ve shown me exactly how much I matter to you.” She strode to the door. “Leave.” “Mum, come on—” Simon reached for her hand. “No, Simon. Family don’t do this. Family would give the shirt off their back before pawning away their heritage. Go. I need some time alone.” “Fine!” Alison grabbed her bag and stormed out. “So dramatic, honestly! A meltdown over a piece of old jewellery. C’mon, Simon, we’re not welcome. Let her stew in it!” They left; the door slammed behind them, leaving only Alison’s cloying perfume, now sickly to the older woman. She cleared the table, packed away the untouched cake, and did the washing up. Each chore was mechanical, a lifeline. Then she took out the ring. “Well, my dear,” she whispered, slipping it onto her finger. “Back where you belong. I guess you were never meant for them…” That night, she gazed at the ruby in her lamp’s glow. It shone with a deep, wise light: ‘Don’t grieve. People come and go, but what truly matters endures.’ Her relationship with Simon and Alison didn’t entirely break, but called less often, and something had cracked—like a chipped cup: still usable, but never again for special occasions. Alison was chilly, acting the wronged party at every family gathering. The ring was never spoken of again. Mrs. Williams wore it daily now. Months later, the neighbour—retired teacher, Mrs. Clark—spotted the ring on her finger. “That’s some ring, dear—stunning!” “It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Williams smiled, stroking the gold. “I tried to pass it on—but decided it was too soon. Not everyone’s ready for true responsibility.” “Quite right,” Mrs. Clark nodded. “Some things must be handed to those who know their value.” Mrs. Williams looked at the sky. “Maybe one day I’ll have a granddaughter. And then—maybe she’ll be ready. For now, it stays with me. It’s safer here.” She understood, finally: love can’t be bought with gifts, and respect isn’t earned by indulging others’ whims. The ring came back to her to open her eyes. And if the truth was bitter, it was better than sweet lies. Life went on. Mrs. Williams signed up for computer classes, went to the theatre with friends, and stopped scrimping to ‘help the kids’. She deserved a treat too. And the ring on her finger was a daily reminder—she had a strength no one could break. As long as she held onto her family’s story, she was never alone.

Wear it carefully, love. Its not just gold, it carries our familys story, said Margaret Turner, handing