Emily Taylor

Taught a Lesson to the Husband, Mother-in-law, and Sister-in-law “Wheres my dinner, Emma?

“My Mum’s Moving in Because She’s Ill – And You’ll Be Caring For Her!” Announced Paul to Sarah “Excuse me?” Sarah slowly put down her phone, the one she’d been using to check her work messages. Paul stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest. He looked as if he’d just made a final, unchallengeable decree. “I said, Mum will be living with us for a while. She needs constant help. The doctor said at least two or three months, maybe longer.” Sarah felt something inside her tighten, slowly but inexorably. “And when did you decide this?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “I spoke to my sister and the doctor this morning. It’s all settled.” “So, the three of you decided—and I’m just supposed to be told and agree?” Paul frowned—not so much in anger, more in mild surprise that she was resisting at all. “Come on, Sarah. It’s my mum. Who else is going to take her? My sister’s in Manchester with her kids and job… Our house is big, and you’re home most days…” “I work five days a week, Paul. Full time. Nine to seven, sometimes later. You know that too.” “So what? Mum’s not demanding. She just needs someone around—to give her medicine, heat up her food, help her to the loo… You’ll manage.” Sarah looked at her husband and felt a strange numbness in her chest. Not anger yet—just this cold, painfully clear realisation: he truly believed this was normal. That her job, her tiredness, her free time—all of that was secondary to “Mum’s needs.” “Did you look into having a carer?” she asked quietly. Paul grimaced. “You know what that costs. A good carer starts at £3,500 a month. Where would we get that kind of money?” “Did you consider unpaid leave? Or maybe going part-time for a bit?” He looked at her as if she’d suggested jumping off the roof. “Sarah, I have a responsible job. They’d never let me off for two or three months. And anyway—I’m not a nurse. I don’t know how to give jabs or check blood pressure or keep to a schedule…” “And I do?” she asked. She didn’t raise her voice—just asked. Calmly. Paul hesitated. For the first time that evening, it seemed, he realised this conversation wasn’t following his script. “You’re a woman,” he said finally, with such a heartfelt belief that Sarah almost laughed. “It’s instinctive. You’re always better with poorly people.” She nodded slowly—more to herself than to him. “Instinct, is it.” “Well… yes.” Sarah placed her phone screen-down on the table. Looked at her hands. Her fingers were trembling ever so slightly. “Fine,” she said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You take unpaid leave for two months. I’ll keep working. We’ll look after your mum together. I’ll help as much as I can in the evenings and weekends. You take days. Deal?” Paul’s mouth opened. Then closed. “Sarah… are you serious?” “Absolutely.” “But I just said—they won’t let me!” “Then let’s hire a carer. I’ll split the cost 50-50. Or, if you think I earn less, 60-40. But I am not shouldering full responsibility for your mum’s care, on top of my own job. I’m not.” A heavy, sticky silence fell. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded unusually loud. Paul coughed. “So you’re refusing, then?” “No,” Sarah met his gaze. “I’m refusing to become a free, full-time carer while keeping up my own workload—and without even being asked for my opinion. That’s different.” He stared at her a long time, as though trying to decide if she was joking. “You do understand she’s my mum?” he asked, and now his voice was wounded—the deep, thick hurt of a grown man being told for the first time to take responsibility for his own parent. “I do,” Sarah answered softly. “That’s why I’m offering options. Options that keep everyone’s dignity—and health. Including your mum’s.” Paul suddenly turned and left the kitchen. The door to the living room closed—not with a slam, but firmly enough. Sarah sat at the table, staring at her cold tea. One thought spun calmly in her mind: “Well, that’s it. It’s begun.” She knew that was only the beginning. She knew he’d ring his sister now. Then his mum. Then his sister again. In an hour, her mother-in-law would knock: she only lived ten minutes’ walk away, always “hearing everything.” There’d be a long, raised-voice conversation where she’d be called cold, selfish, ungrateful, a woman who’d “forgotten the meaning of family.” But most of all, Sarah realised something very simple. She would never again apologise for wanting more than four hours’ sleep a night. Or for her job being more than a hobby. Or for needing her own nerves, veins, and a life that didn’t revolve around endless, thankless caring. She stood, went to the window, threw it open. Night air swept in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and distant bonfire smoke. Sarah breathed in deeply. “Let them say what they like,” she thought. “The main thing is—I’ve just said my first ‘no.’” And that “no” was the loudest thing she’d said in twelve years of marriage. The next morning, Sarah was woken by the sound of the front door unlocking. The key turned, twice—cautiously, almost guiltily. Then shuffling footsteps, a thin, raspy cough. She lay still, listening to the familiar coat-hanging, bag-dropping, shoe-removing ritual. Only now it sounded like the beginning of a war declared without warning. “Paul…?” his mum’s voice was weak, but still bossy. “You home?” Paul, probably up all night, replied without hesitation, too cheerfully: “Home, Mum. Come into the kitchen, kettle’s on.” Sarah closed her eyes. “He didn’t even warn me she’d arrive today. Just did it.” Forcing herself up, she donned her dressing gown, crossed the corridor. Mrs. Evans stood in the hall—small, hunched, wearing the same old navy coat she’d had for years. In her hands—a bag of medicine and a thermos. When she saw Sarah, she smiled—thinly, wearily, but with that usual faint air of superiority. “Morning, love. Sorry it’s so early. Doctor said the sooner I move in, the better.” Sarah nodded. “Morning, Mrs. Evans.” Paul emerged from the kitchen with a tray—tea, toast, pills in a saucer. “Mum, go settle in the big room. I’ve made the sofa up for you.” “And who’s going to unpack?” Mrs. Evans looked at Sarah. “You’ll help, won’t you?” Sarah felt a pulse begin in her temples. “Of course,” she replied. “After work.” “After work?” Mrs. Evans’ voice rose fractionally. “And who’ll stay with me today?” Paul coughed. “I’m at work this morning, Mum. But I’ll nip home for lunch. Sarah…” He turned to his wife. “Could you take a day off?” Sarah stared at her husband—long, hard. “I’ve got a project presentation today, Paul. Can’t possibly cancel.” “And after that?” Mrs. Evans was already unbuttoning her coat. “Can you come after?” “After the presentation I’ll be back as usual. Seven, half seven.” Silence. Mrs. Evans sank heavily onto the hall stool. “So I’ll be alone all day?” Paul threw Sarah a quick, near-pleading glance. Sarah answered calmly, without raising her voice: “Mrs. Evans, I’ll make you meals for the day this morning. Pills set out by time, all labelled. If you need anything—call. I’ll pick up, even in the presentation.” Mrs. Evans pursed her lips. “And if I fall? Or take the wrong medicine?” “Then ring 999. That’s safer than waiting for me to get across town.” Paul began to say something, then stopped. Mrs. Evans looked at her son. “Paul… did you hear?” “Mum,” he said softly, almost whispering, “Sarah’s right. We’re not nurses. If it’s serious—call an ambulance.” Sarah was surprised. It was the first “Sarah’s right” she’d heard out loud in seven years, maybe more. Mrs. Evans slowly rose. “Well then,” she said. “If that’s the decision… that’s it.” She shuffled into the living room, bag trailing behind. The door clicked softly—almost with a flourish. Paul turned to his wife. “You could have at least…” “No,” Sarah interrupted. “I couldn’t. And I won’t.” She went into the kitchen, poured herself some water, drank it down. Paul came up behind her. “Sarah… I get this is hard for you. But it’s my mum.” “I know.” “And she really isn’t well.” “I believe you.” “Then why…” Sarah turned to face him. “Because if I say yes and do it all now, that becomes normal. Forever. Understand?” He said nothing. “I love you,” she went on. “But I won’t let our family fall apart because someone decided the other person doesn’t get to have their own life.” Paul looked down at his hands. “I’ll… I’ll speak to my sister again. Maybe she can come help at weekends.” “That would be good.” He looked up. “And you… you won’t stay angry at me?” Sarah finally smiled—a little—for the first time in a day. “I’m already angry. But I’m trying not to make it last forever.” He nodded. “I’ll try… to do better.” Sarah glanced at the clock. “I’d better get ready. The presentation’s in two hours.” She walked to the bedroom. Paul remained in the kitchen, staring into an empty mug. The day went surprisingly smoothly. Sarah nailed her presentation—the client was pleased, even promised a bonus for the quick turnaround. She left the office at half-six, feeling oddly light-hearted. On the Tube, she messaged Paul: “How’s your mum?” His reply came almost at once: “Asleep. I’ve been home since three. Made dinner. We’re waiting for you.” Sarah looked out at the darkness beyond the window. “We’re waiting for you.” Words that hadn’t sounded so… homely in years. They really were waiting for her. On the table—salad, baked cod, potatoes. Mrs. Evans sat in her armchair with a book. At the sight of her daughter-in-law, she set it aside. “Sarah love… you’re home.” “I am.” “Sit down, have something. Paul did everything himself. Even washed up.” Sarah looked at her husband. He just shrugged—nothing special. She joined them at the table. Mrs. Evans cleared her throat. “I’ve been thinking… maybe we should really look for a carer. At least for the daytime. Paul’s struggling at work, taking time off…” Sarah looked up. “That would be sensible.” “I’ll call my sister,” Paul added. “She can chip in too. She offered to think about it.” Mrs. Evans sighed. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day a stranger would be changing my nappies…” “No one’s a stranger, Mum,” Paul said softly. “We’re family. Just… with proper boundaries.” Sarah met her mother-in-law’s eyes. After a moment, she nodded. “I suppose… it’s time to learn.” At that moment, Mrs. Evans’ phone rang. She checked the screen and sighed. “Your sister… Nina.” Paul picked up. “Hi, Mum… Yes, we’re all home… Listen, we need help. Not just with money. Come this weekend. We’ll talk as a family.” He hung up. Looked at Sarah. “She’ll come.” Sarah nodded. “Good.” For the first time in years, she realised it wasn’t frightening to come home. Not because it was quiet. Because, at last, home had started listening. Three weeks passed. Mrs. Evans had stopped coughing so harshly at night. The medicine was working, the swelling in her legs subsiding, and she even sometimes got up for her own tea. But most importantly, the flat was quieter—an adult, calm silence of people finally learning to compromise. Saturday morning, Nina arrived from Manchester. She came in with two big bags, her young daughter on her hip, a guilty smile on her face. “Mum, hi… Hi Sarah, hi Paul… Sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.” Mrs. Evans, sitting by the window, turned as if afraid to disturb the moment. “You made it after all.” “Of course,” Nina set the bags down, handed the toddler to Paul, knelt by her mum’s chair. “I promised, didn’t I?” Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway, just watching. Nina cleared her throat. “Paul and I talked a lot yesterday. We’ve decided—” She produced a folded piece of paper. “This is the carer’s ad. Registered nurse, comes from nine till seven, five days a week. Weekends—it’s our turn.” Mrs. Evans’ fingers trembled as she took the paper. She glanced at her son. “And money?” “We split it three ways,” Paul answered steadily. “Me, Nina and Sarah. Equally.” “Equally…” Mrs. Evans repeated, tasting the word. Nina nodded. “Mum, you know none of us can quit our jobs to provide full-time care. But you need someone with you all day. So—we’ll pay for a professional.” Sarah spoke for the first time. “We’ve already arranged to meet her. Olga Davies. Fifty-eight, twenty years’ experience caring for patients at home. She’ll come tomorrow to introduce herself.” Mrs. Evans was silent for a long moment. Then she looked directly at Sarah—no squint, no superiority. “Sarah… you could have just said ‘no’ and left. Most people would.” Sarah shrugged lightly. “I could have. But everyone would lose. Especially you.” Mrs. Evans stared at her hands. “I’ve done a lot of thinking these weeks. Being alone in the day… I always thought, as a mother, that meant everyone had to… well, fit in around me. Turns out—it’s me who has to learn to fit in now.” Nina reached over and squeezed her mum’s hand. “No one’s forcing you to fit in, Mum. Just live so everyone can breathe easy.” Mrs. Evans looked at her daughter, then at her son, then back at Sarah. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” she said softly, almost whispering. “I really did think I had the right… to demand.” Sarah felt something release inside her—a spot long pinched and sore. “I accept your apology, Mrs. Evans.” At last, Mrs. Evans smiled—not a trace of superiority. “Well… let’s meet this Olga of yours. If everyone’s decided I’m not the queen of the house anymore.” Paul grinned—for the first time in weeks, easily. “Not queen, not boss. Just our mum. And we all love you. We’ll care for you. Just like people.” That evening, after Nina and her daughter left for the station, and Mrs. Evans slept in her room, Sarah and Paul sat in the kitchen in the dim light. He poured her a glass of wine. One for himself, too. “You know,” he said quietly, “I thought you’d leave.” Sarah looked at him, surprised. “Really?” “Yes. When you said ‘no’ that first night… I was sure it was over. That you’d pack up and tell us to sort it out ourselves.” She turned her glass in her hands. “I did think about it. Honestly.” “So why didn’t you?” Sarah was silent for a long time. Then she answered: “Because if I left then, I’d never know if you could become the man who takes responsibility—for real.” Paul looked down. “I’ve learnt a lot these past weeks. And I’m still learning.” “I can see that.” He looked up. “Thanks for giving me the chance.” Sarah smiled—softly, without bitterness. “Thank you for taking it.” They clinked glasses—quietly, almost solemnly. Outside, the first proper snow of the winter fell. Fat flakes drifted in the lamp-light, blanketing the pavement in soft white. In Mrs. Evans’ room, a night light glowed. And in Sarah and Paul’s bedroom, for the first time in ages, everything smelt—not of medicine and worry—but simply of home. Their home.

My mums unwell and shell be staying with us. Youll need to look after her, Rachel announced David. Sorry, what?

La vida

012

“Late Again From Work?” He Barked Jealously. “I Know Everything Now. The Harsh Truth That Tore Our Family Apart.

Youre late again, arent you? he snarled jealously the moment the front door opened. I get it now.

La vida

024

They’re Not My Kids—If You Want to Help Your Sister, Go Ahead, But Not at My Expense. She Broke Up Her Family and Now Dumps Her Children on Us While She Rebuilds Her Life

These are not my children. If you want to help your sister, do it, but not at my expense. She broke up

La vida

My Son Doesn’t Want to See Me Anymore: A Mother’s Struggle to Let Go and the Family Turmoil That Followed Her Interference in His Marriage

Mum, what did you say to my wife? She was about to pack her bags and leave. I told her the truth, dear.

La vida

012

She Refused to Care for Her Husband’s Ailing Mother and Gave Him an Ultimatum

It was late autumn then, the sort with endless grey rain rattling against the windows for days on end.

La vida

010

I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—and Now I Regret It…

Managed to get my son divorced and regretted it Yesterday, my neighbour Margaret caught me on the stairs

La vida

013

I’ve Had Enough of Your Mother’s Antics! I’m Filing for Divorce—That’s Final! Announced the Wife

I am absolutely fed up with your mothers antics! Im filing for divorce, and thats final! I blurted out

La vida

Signatures in the Stairwell Sergei paused by the postboxes in the lobby, because a new notice had appeared on the board usually reserved for lost-cat posters and reminders about meter readings. It had been pinned up hastily, at an angle. At the top, in large letters: “Collecting Signatures. Action Must Be Taken.” Below—a surname from the fifth floor and a short list of complaints: late-night noise, banging, shouting, “breach of quiet hours,” “threat to safety.” At the bottom, signatures had begun to gather—some neat, some sprawling. He read it twice, though the meaning was crystal clear at first glance. His fingers reached for the pen in his jacket pocket, but Sergei stopped. Not because he disagreed—he just didn’t like to be pushed. He’d lived in the building twelve years and had learned to keep his distance from block disputes the way you avoid a draught. He already had enough worries: the job at the garage, shift work, his mother after her stroke across town, a teenage son who alternately stayed silent for weeks or exploded over nothing. The landing was quiet, only the distant thud of the lift doors somewhere above. Sergei climbed to his own floor, the fourth, took out his keys, but before unlocking his door, glanced up the stairs to the fifth. That’s where Mrs Valentine lived. In her fifties at a guess, strong-looking, cropped hair, a gaze that always seemed slightly suspicious. She rarely said hello first, answered as if you were an inconvenience. Sergei saw her most often carrying heavy “Tesco” bags or mopping the landing outside her door with a bucket. Sometimes, at night, he really did hear noises from her flat—a crash, a short cry, the scrape of something being dragged. He only checked the residents’ WhatsApp group as needed. It was mostly arguments about parking and the rubbish chute. But recently, it had revolved around a single issue. “Thudding again at two in the morning! My child was frightened!” “I’ve got a 6am start—now I’m a zombie. How much more?” “It’s not thudding, she’s moving furniture, I know it.” “We need to contact the council. There’s a law.” Sergei read and scrolled on. He wasn’t a saint—when a bang woke him at 3 am, he lay there, feeling irritation build in his chest. What he really hoped was that someone else would sort it, so he could wake up and just see: “All sorted.” That evening, he finally messaged the group, briefly: “Who’s collecting signatures? Where’s the sheet?” The block rep, Mrs Nina from number three, replied: “On the ground floor noticeboard. Meeting at mine 7pm tomorrow to discuss. We need to deal with it before it goes too far.” Sergei put down his phone. An unpleasant, familiar feeling stirred inside—the one he’d felt at school meetings, when decisions had already been made and you were just there to tick a box. Next day, he bumped into Mrs Valentine on the stairs. She was struggling up with two heavy bags, breathing hard but stubbornly refusing help. Sergei took one anyway, unasked. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “I’ll carry it,” he replied, walking with her. She stayed silent until her door, then snatched the bag handles back. “Thank you,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like a register-mark than gratitude. Sergei was about to go when he heard a strange sound from inside her flat—someone breathing heavily, moaning. Mrs Valentine froze, her key trembling in the lock. “Is everything… alright?” Sergei asked, not knowing why. “Fine,” she clipped, and quickly went in. He went down to his own flat, but the sound stayed in his mind—not a crash, not music, just that heavy, human noise. A few days later, a note appeared on Mrs Valentine’s door, stuck with tape: “ENOUGH WITH THE NOISE AT NIGHT. WE DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS.” The letters were fat, pressed hard, marker squeaking anger. Sergei stared at the note; the glint of tape was like a fresh wound. It revived a childhood memory: people used to write on his own family’s door when his dad drank and shouted. Back then, Sergei hadn’t even hated his dad as much as he hated neighbours pretending nothing was wrong—until they started whispering. He climbed to the fifth floor and listened. Silence behind the door. Sergei didn’t ring. He carefully removed the note, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took it outside and threw it in the street bin—not the building one, so nobody would see. In the group chat, the debate turned nastier. “She does it deliberately. She doesn’t care about anyone.” “People like that should be moved out. Let her buy a house.” “Police officer says we need a combined statement.” Sergei noticed how quickly ‘noise’ and ‘disturbance’ became ‘people like that’. Like they’d stopped talking about midnight racket and started talking about a person as a problem. Saturday, Sergei came home late. The lift smelt of air freshener and cigarettes. On the fourth floor, he stepped out and heard a dull crash overhead, then another—not DIY noises, but like something heavy falling. Then a woman’s strained voice: “Hold on… just a minute…” Sergei went up to five. The peephole on Mrs Valentine’s door glowed; light spilled out onto the floorboards. He knocked. “Who’s there?”—her strained voice. “Sergei, from four. Are you—” She opened the door on the chain. Bathrobe, a red smear on her cheek as if she’d just wiped her face. “Everything’s fine. Please go,” she said. A hoarse groan came from inside. Sergei blurted out, “Do you need help?” She looked at him as if he’d offered her charity. “No. I have it under control.” “There’s someone—” “My brother. Bedbound.” She said it quickly, to cut off questions. “Please go.” She closed the door. Sergei stood on the landing, feeling torn—part of him wanting to leave because that’s what she’d asked, part wanting to stay, because he’d already heard too much to pretend he didn’t know. He went downstairs, but couldn’t sleep. The word “bedbound” rattled in his head—someone falling, being hauled up, ambulances in the night, bedpans and water fetched, a bed pushed against a wall as the neighbours below seethed. He went to the meeting at Nina’s flat not out of curiosity, but because if he didn’t, he knew he’d feel ashamed after. At seven, people were already queuing at her door—some in slippers, some with jackets hurriedly thrown on. Speaking in low voices, but tension hung in the air. Nina sat everyone around her cramped kitchen table. The signature sheet lay in the middle, next to a printout of the “quiet hours” bylaw and the police community officer’s number. “Here’s the situation,” she began. “We can’t keep putting up with this. We have children, we have work. I take my blood pressure every morning now because I don’t sleep at night. We’re not against anyone, but there are rules.” Sergei noticed how deftly she’d said “not against anyone,” as if the phrase itself soothed people. “I woke up at two again,” said a young, tired-looking woman from six. “My baby had only just nodded off, then that bang—it was like a wardrobe falling. I spent the rest of the night soothing him.” “My dad’s post-op,” said a man in a tracksuit. “He can’t get stressed. He hears this and panics there’s a fire.” “We should call the police every time,” someone else chipped in. “Build a record.” Sergei listened, realising people weren’t exaggerating—they were genuinely exhausted. It made their case strong. “Has anyone actually talked to her?” Sergei asked. “I have,” Nina said. “She was rude. Said ‘If you don’t like it, move out,’ and slammed the door.” “She’s always like that,” said the young woman. “Like we owe her something.” Sergei almost mentioned the brother, but stopped. Wasn’t sure he had the right. Silence was a choice too. “Maybe she’s got…” he started. “We’ve all got something,” Nina cut in. “But we don’t slam around at night.” At that moment, the doorbell rang. Nina went to answer it. Mrs Valentine entered in a dark jacket, hair smoothed, folder and phone in hand. Her face was tight, but not afraid. “I hear I’m the subject of discussion?” she said. The air thickened, like a crowded lift. “We’re discussing the problem,” Nina clarified. “You disturb the neighbours.” “I disturb,” repeated Mrs Valentine, nodding slightly as if agreeing with some private thought. “Alright then. Listen.” She laid her folder on the table, opened it, produced a few papers, a doctor’s note, some prescriptions, her phone. “My brother. First-degree disability. Stroke. Completely immobile. At night, he has attacks. Stops breathing, falls out of bed if I’m too slow. I have to turn him every two hours, or he gets sores. That’s not ‘moving furniture’. That’s me lifting a full-grown man heavier than I am.” Her voice was steady but wavered with exhaustion. Sergei saw bruises on her arms, like proof of the weight she bore. “Three times this month, I’ve had to call an ambulance.” She showed her phone, log of calls. “Doctor’s notes, prescriptions. I shouldn’t have to show you this, but you’re gathering signatures like I’m running a nightclub.” Someone coughed. The young woman from six looked down. “We didn’t know,” she said quietly. “Didn’t know because you didn’t ask,” Mrs Valentine shot back. “You wrote on my door. Abused me online. Called for ‘action’. What action? Want me to drag him onto the landing so it’s quieter for you?” “No one said that,” Nina snapped, “but there are laws. You can’t be loud after eleven.” “The law,” Mrs Valentine snorted. “Fine. Let’s have the law. I’ll call the ambulance and police every time, so they can record me lifting him. You’ll sign off every time—witness statements, yes?” “So we’re just supposed to put up with it?” said Tracksuit Man. His voice broke; Sergei suddenly recognised the strain in him. “My dad’s ill too, I’ve said. I can’t take this every night!” “And you think I can?”—Mrs Valentine fixed him with a direct stare. “You think I want this? You think I get any sleep?” Silence. Nina sighed, a little softer: “You have to understand. People are struggling. If you’d only explained…” “Explained what? That my brother might die in the night? I don’t know how to ask for help. Don’t have anyone to ask.” Sergei realised it was true. They lived “next” to each other, but were never truly neighbours. Just doors. “Can we not shout,” he managed hoarsely. “We’ll either tear each other apart or try to make it bearable for everyone.” All eyes turned to him. Sergei didn’t like being the centre, but it was too late to hide. “I didn’t sign,” he said. “And I won’t. That doesn’t solve it, only creates enemies. But ignoring the noise isn’t right either. People have a point.” Nina pursed her lips. “So what do you suggest?” Sergei thought of the night he’d stood listening to someone moaning. “First, let’s communicate. Mrs Valentine, if you know there’s going to be noise—ambulance, an attack—could you send a quick message to the group? Just ‘Ambulance’ or ‘Attack’. No details, but so people know it’s not drilling.” “I don’t have to,” she snapped, then paused. “Alright. When possible.” “Second,” Sergei addressed the room, “if you hear something loud, instead of threatening the council, why not call or knock? Not with complaints—just check if she needs help. If she doesn’t answer—then take it from there.” “What if she’s rude again?” said the young mum. “Then at least you’ll know you did the decent thing,” Sergei replied. “That matters—for yourselves, not just her.” Nina snorted, but didn’t argue. “And,” Sergei added, turning to Mrs Valentine, “maybe we can look at rubber mats, pads for the furniture legs, moving the bed… I can help, if need be.” Mrs Valentine thought, voice quieter: “The bed won’t move. The hoist is fixed to the frame. But mats—yes. And if someone could sit for an hour during the day sometimes, so I can go to the chemist…” She trailed off. Someone shifted in their chair. “I can do Wednesday,” the mum from six offered, blushing. “My mum’s nearby, she can mind the baby. I’ll pop in.” “Me too,” muttered Tracksuit Man. “Not nights, but during the day, I can help lift him, if that helps.” Sergei felt the tension ease, just a fraction. Nina picked up the signature sheet. “What do we do with this?” Sergei glanced at the names. Even the neighbour who always smiled signed. “I think it should come off the board. If someone needs to make a formal complaint, do it individually, with facts—not just ‘take action’.” “So, you’re against order?” Nina put force into the word. “I’m for order,” Sergei replied. “But order shouldn’t be a sledgehammer.” Mrs Valentine looked up. “Take it down, please. I don’t want to come down every day and see the whole block signing against me.” Nina folded the sheet and put it away. Sergei wondered if she did it begrudgingly or because she sensed the mood had shifted. People left quietly. On the landing, someone attempted a joke; it fizzled out. Sergei and Mrs Valentine left together. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said. “Maybe not,” Sergei replied. “But I didn’t want it ending with the police.” “It will anyway—next time he gets worse.” Sergei wanted to ask the brother’s name, but couldn’t. Instead he said, “If you really get stuck at night, if you need help lifting—knock. I’m nearby.” She nodded, not looking at him. Next day, the notice was gone. Instead, a new message was posted in the group: “Agreed: in emergencies, Mrs Valentine will give a heads up. Please, no disputes at night. Daytime help—sign up with me.” Sergei was surprised by the word “rota”. It sounded more formal than their little block deserved. An hour later, people were genuinely arranging days—Monday, Friday, some just stayed silent. The first night after, the banging didn’t stop. At 2:17am, Sergei was jolted awake. In the group, a single message: “Attack. Ambulance on its way.” No emojis. No pleas. Sergei lay listening to doors slamming above, footsteps on the stairs. Imagined Mrs Valentine holding her brother, stopping him from choking. The old anger didn’t vanish, but something heavier replaced it. Next morning, in the lift, Nina looked rumpled. “Well, it was noisy again last night,” she said. “Ambulance was here,” Sergei replied. “I… I saw. I didn’t know it was like that. But still—Sergei, I really can’t sleep. My heart…” He nodded. He couldn’t substitute her heart. “Maybe earplugs?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it sounded. “Earplugs—” Nina gave a gentle, tired laugh. “Look what we’ve come to.” A week later, Sergei dropped by Mrs Valentine’s. He had a pack of rubber pads for the furniture and a heavy floor mat. She opened the door at once, as though expecting him. The flat smelt of medicine, sharp like a hospital. In the room: a bed jammed against the wall. On it, a thin man, unmoving, eyes open but staring ahead. Nearby, a homemade hoist, bolted in place. Sergei saw why the bed “couldn’t be moved.” “Here,” he offered, showing her the mat. “If we slip this under, maybe the sound won’t carry. And these for the stool—you said it bangs?” “The stool bangs when I put the basin down,” she said. “I try, but my hands…” She gazed at her palms, cracked from constant scrubbing. Sergei quietly helped put the mat in place, gentle so as not to disturb the hoist. His own back twinged from the effort. Mrs Valentine watched anxiously. “Thank you,” she said, and this time, it sounded different. Sergei nodded, ready to leave when her phone rang. She listened, her face clouded. “No, I can’t, not now… Yes. No.” She hung up and looked at Sergei. “Social services. They said only two hours a week for a carer—if I wait my turn. But I need help daily.” Sergei didn’t answer. He knew their DIY “rota” was just a sticking plaster. That evening, someone in the group wrote: “Why should we help? It’s her family—do it properly.” Replies flew; some angry, some explaining, some just full stops. Sergei scrolled past. He was weary, not of Mrs Valentine, but of how easily any act of kindness devolved into a fight over what’s fair. A few days later, a new sheet showed up on the downstairs board—not demanding “action”, but a timetable: days, times, names. At the bottom—Mrs Valentine’s number and a note: “If it’s an emergency at night, I’ll message. If you can help lift or meet the ambulance, let me know.” This sheet hung tidily. Sergei found he disliked seeing it almost as much as the signatures—only now, it was for another reason. The block had admitted: calamity could be scheduled, slotted neatly onto a timetable. One night, the noise was too much, and Sergei climbed upstairs. Mrs Valentine was cursing under her breath—as if at a body that wouldn’t obey. He knocked. She opened, no chain. “Help me,” she said simply. Inside, her brother was sprawled on the floor, gasping. Together, they lifted him back to bed—slow, careful, back muscles straining. Mrs Valentine didn’t cry or thank him, just adjusted his pillow, checked his breath. As Sergei left, he heard a neighbour opening their door, peeking out quietly. Then it shut. No one came to help, no one called out. The block held its breath. Morning—Sergei saw Victor, who’d signed against Mrs Valentine, avoiding his gaze. “Look—I, I signed because, well, it got to me. But I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have…” “I get it,” Sergei said. “Doesn’t matter now. What matters is what we do next.” Victor nodded, face tight, unwilling to admit fault. The compromise worked. Not perfectly, but it worked. At night, sometimes a “Ambulance” or “Fallen” pinged in the chat. People were less likely to vent their rage at 2am, more likely to grumble in the morning once tempers cooled. Some dropped in to help Mrs Valentine, others did it once and faded away. Nina kept the rota, but empty slots opened up. Sergei noticed less small talk in the block. People said hello more cautiously, as if every word risked starting another argument. No more nasty notes, but also none of the old friendliness. Even lightbulb discussions sounded tense: “Let’s not go there again.” One evening, Sergei found Mrs Valentine by the lift, bag of medicines and a flask in hand, her face grey from exhaustion. “How is he?” he asked. “He’s alive,” she said. “Quiet today.” They went up together. On the fourth floor, Sergei lingered a moment. “If you ever—need anything—knock.” She nodded, then added quietly, “At the meeting, I… I didn’t mean—” She couldn’t finish, waved a hand. “I know,” Sergei said. The lift doors slid shut; Sergei was left on the landing alone. He opened his door, shrugged off his coat, lined up his shoes on the mat. The flat was silent: his son in headphones, his mum on the phone asking when he’d visit. Sergei stared at his screen, then at the door that led back to the stairwell. He thought about those sheets of paper that can change people—one with signatures against someone, another with names of those able to help for an hour. And how the distance between those sheets was somehow shorter than the distance between neighbours living through just one wall. That night, the chat filled up with posts about rubbish and the lift. Someone thanked those who’d helped that day; asked to keep things private in future. The message was quickly drowned in everyday chat. Sergei turned off his phone, set the kettle to boil. He knew he might be woken by a crash in the night—and knew, now, that when he did, his thoughts wouldn’t just be about his own sleep. It didn’t make him better. It just made him part of it.

Signatures in the Hallway Simon paused near the postboxes because he noticed a new sheet pinned lopsidedly

La vida

No Invitation: A Father Learns He’s Not Welcome at His Daughter’s Wedding and Faces the Painful Truths of Family Ties

Uninvited Victor Evans was standing by the postbox clutching a bag full of medication when his neighbour