Emily Taylor

A Taste of Freedom – We finished our renovation last autumn, – began Vera Ignatievna as she told her story. We spent ages picking wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over bathroom tile colours, and smiled, remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed about this very “three-bed”. – Well, – my husband said contentedly when we celebrated the end of our long renovation saga, – now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his wife here, they’ll have kids, and our house will finally be noisy and truly alive. But his dreams were not meant to be. Our eldest daughter Katya came back home with two suitcases and two children. – Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go, – she said, and those words erased all our plans. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t complain—just shrugged: – It’s fine, soon I’ll have my own place. “My own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat. Recently renovated, we’d been renting it out to a young family. Every month, a modest but crucial amount landed on our account—our “safety net” for when my husband and I got old and useless. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée Lera walking past the building, looking up and chatting animatedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. Then one day I overheard: – Vera Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We even found the perfect wedding venue! Just imagine! – Lera was glowing with happiness. – There’s a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden… – And where will you live afterwards? – I couldn’t help asking. – That kind of wedding must cost a fortune! Lera looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. – We’ll stay with you for a bit. After that…we’ll see. https://clck.ru/3RKgHm – We already have Katya with her children living with us, – I said slowly. This’ll be more like a hostel than a flat. Lera pouted. – Yeah. Probably not a good idea. We’ll look for a proper bedsit. At least no one will meddle. Her sharp “no one will meddle” really stung. Had I meddled? I’d just tried to stop them making stupid decisions. Next came my talk with Misha. My last attempt to get through. – Son, why the grand show? Just get legally wed quietly, and put the money towards a mortgage! – My voice shook. He stared out the window, his face hard. – Mum, tell me, why do you and dad always celebrate your wedding anniversary at “The Golden Dragon”? You could’ve had a cheaper dinner at home. I couldn’t think of a reply. – See? – he smiled slyly. – You have your traditions, we’ll have ours. He compared our modest family meal every five years with their half-a-million pound extravaganza. In that moment, Misha saw not his mother, but a judge. Someone who’d delivered a verdict: you’re hypocrites. You allow yourselves everything but me nothing. He’d forgotten that mum and dad were still paying off the loan for his car. As for our “safety net”—he’d never thought about it. But now he needed a wedding. And what a wedding! In the end, my son and future daughter-in-law, of course, resented me. Especially for not handing them the keys to grandma’s flat. *** One night, heading home late on an almost empty bus, I looked at my reflection in the dark window. I saw a tired woman, much older than her years. My hands clutched heavy bags of groceries, and in my eyes: fear. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised—I did everything out of…fear! Fear of being a burden. Fear of being abandoned by my children. Fear for the future. I don’t give Misha the flat—not out of selfishness, but out of fear I’ll end up with nothing. I make him “struggle”, yet clip his wings by paying his way—what if he fails, and my boy gets upset? I expect adult decisions from him, but treat him like a child who understands nothing. Yet Misha and Lera just wanted a beautiful start to adult life. Carriage and harp—it’s silly, it’s wasteful, but in the end, they have every right! On their own dime. First things first, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find somewhere else quickly. A month later, I phoned Misha: – Come over. We need to talk. They arrived tense, ready for battle. I set out tea and…placed a set of keys to mum’s flat on the table. https://clck.ru/3RKg9f – Take them. Don’t get too excited: this isn’t a gift. The flat’s yours for a year. In that time, you decide: either get a mortgage, or stay—but on different terms. The lost rental money, well, I’ll count it as an investment. Not in your wedding. In your chance to be a family, not just flatmates. Lera’s eyes widened. Misha stared at the keys as if he didn’t understand. – Mum… what about Katya? – There’s a surprise for Katya too. You’re adults now. Your lives are your own responsibility. We’ll stop being your backdrop and your bank. From now on, we’re just parents. Who love, but don’t rescue. The silence was thunderous. – And the wedding? – Lera asked, uncertain for the first time. – The wedding? – I shrugged, – Do whatever you like. If you can afford a harpist, have a harpist. *** Misha and Lera left, and I was terrified. Terrified they’d fail, terrified they’d resent me forever. But for the first time in years, I could breathe deeply. I’d finally said “no”! Not to them. To my own fears. And let my son step into adult, difficult, independent life. Whatever it would be… *** Now, let’s look at things through my son’s eyes. Lera and I dreamed of an unforgettable wedding. But my sister’s divorce dashed our plans. When mum said we shouldn’t splurge on a fancy do, something inside me snapped. – Then why do you dine at a restaurant for every wedding anniversary? – I blurted out. – You could eat at home! It’d be cheaper! I saw my mother pale. I really did want my words to sting. I was deeply hurt. Sure, they bought me a car. So what? I didn’t ask for it! They keep reminding me they’re paying for the loan. What’s that got to do with me? Their decision. They said they renovated the flat “for us”. But now we can’t live there. Gran’s one-bed flat—a “sacred cow”, the precious reserve more important than their only son’s wedding! So what now? How do we prove to ourselves, and to the world, that we exist—that we’re a real couple? Lera once admitted, eyes downcast: – Misha, I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help. They’ve got their own mortgage. – You give me yourself, – I said, trying to reassure her. But inside, I was angry. Not with her, with the injustice. Why does everything fall on my mum and dad? And why do they help with such bitterness, as if every quid is another nail in their coffin? That sort of help doesn’t warm—it burns with guilt. Unspoken grievances lingered in the air. Then, a phone call. Mum’s voice was strange and firm. – Come over. We need to talk. We drove there as if to an execution. Lera squeezed my hand: – She’ll cut us off…for our wedding. – Maybe, – I nodded. *** The keys to grandma’s flat lay on the table—I recognised the childhood fob. – Take them, – said mum. Her speech was brief, but revolutionary. One year. A decision. No more being our “bank and backdrop”. Our old excuse—“nowhere to live”—was gone, and our eternal hope—“parents will fix everything”—had collapsed. I took the keys. They were cold. And unbelievably heavy. Just then came a sudden, awkward realisation. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never truly talked to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we get your fears. Let’s discuss how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just waited for them to magically guess and fulfil our wishes—no conversation, no conditions, just a smile. Like when we were kids. – The wedding? – Lera whispered, lost. – Your wedding? – mum shrugged, – If you find money for a harp, then have a harp. We stepped outside. I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. – What now? – Lera asked. Not just about the flat. About everything. – I don’t know. – I answered honestly. – Now it’s our problem. In this scary, new responsibility was a kind of wild and primal freedom. And the first step: figuring out if we really need that carriage and harp. Traditions are good, but they must rest on more than just a single special day… *** So, what happened in the end? Misha and Lera’s adult life began the very next day. Finally, together! Their own place! It’s not technically theirs yet, but still. Small, but cosy, freshly renovated. And best of all, no one else! Visitors came in droves at first. Well, it’s freedom, isn’t it? A month later, an unexpected joint itch: let’s get a dog! And no small mutt—a big one! Turns out, Lera had always wanted one, but mum never let her. Misha had had a dog once, back at school, but it ran away—a childhood tragedy. Soon, the missing piece of happiness appeared: a cute retriever, Lexus. https://clck.ru/3RKgGM Three months old, he immediately started ruling the place. Scratching the corners, chewing the furniture, making messes everywhere. Vera Ignatievna visited. No one had told her about the new arrival. – Misha! Lera! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! A dog like that needs attention. All day alone—it’ll misbehave, of course! So much fur! Do you ever clean? And the smell! No! This is outrageous! You must return the dog! Tomorrow! – Mum, – Misha said, annoyed, – you gave us the flat for a year. So, what? Are you going to tell us how to live, every time? Maybe you want your keys back? – Absolutely not, – Vera Ignatievna snapped, – I keep my word. A year means a year. But remember: it must be returned in the same condition. Got it? – Got it, – Misha and Lera replied in unison. – Then don’t expect me to visit until then. I don’t want to see this. *** Mum stuck to her word. She didn’t visit, barely phoned. Four months later, Misha was back home: he and Lera had split up. He spent ages explaining how bad she’d been as a housekeeper. Didn’t cook, didn’t look after the pup, didn’t walk him. Had to take Lexus back to the breeder—it took a week to convince them! They’d bought a three-month supply of dog food—quite pricey! – Maybe you rushed things with Lera, son? – Vera Ignatievna asked, hiding a smile, – Didn’t you want a wedding, with a carriage and a harp…? – What wedding, mum?! Please! Rent out grandma’s flat. – Why? You could live there, you must be used to it? – No, I prefer home, – Misha shook his head, – or do you mind? – I’m always happy, – answered Vera Ignatievna, – especially now Katya and the kids have moved out. It’s quiet again…

The Taste of Freedom We finished the renovations just last autumn, began Vera Knight, her voice trailing

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The Cottage That Changed Everything

You wouldnt believe what happened with me and Sandras mum last month. Honestly, its like something out

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The Cottage That Changed Everything

You wouldnt believe what happened with me and Sandras mum last month. Honestly, its like something out

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017

Back to Her Again — Are you going back to her, again? Helen asked the question, already knowing the answer. David nodded, avoiding her gaze. He tugged on his coat and checked his pockets — keys, phone, wallet. Everything was there. He could leave. Helen waited. For a word. Even just “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But David simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked quietly, almost apologetically, as if excusing its owner. Helen moved to the window. The street below was lit by dull street lamps, and she easily spotted the familiar figure. David walked quickly, determinedly, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old Sophie. Helen pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She knew. She’d known from the start what she was signing up for. When she met David, he was still married. Technically. A stamp in the passport, a shared flat, a child. But he no longer lived with Anna — he rented a room, only visiting for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” David had said back then. “I couldn’t forgive. I filed for divorce.” And Helen believed him. Oh, how easily she believed him. Because she wanted to. Because she had fallen — foolishly, desperately, as if she were seventeen. Café dates, long phone calls, the first kiss in the rain by her flat. David looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, joint plans, talks about the future. Then it began. First — the calls. “David, bring medicine for Sophie, it’s urgent, she’s ill.” “David, our tap’s leaking, I don’t know what to do.” “David, Sophie’s crying, she wants to see you, come right now.” David would rush over every time. Helen tried to understand. A child — that’s sacred. The daughter wasn’t at fault for the split. Of course, he should help, be present. Sometimes David listened, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna simply changed tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, it upsets her.” “She asked why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And David broke down. Every time. When he tried to refuse yet another “urgent” request — Anna hit where it hurt. Within a week, Sophie would repeat her mum’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t invent that herself. David returned from these talks broken, guilty, eyes dull. And again dashed to his ex’s at the first call — just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, just so she wouldn’t look at him with cold, distant eyes. Helen understood. She truly did. But she was tired. David’s figure disappeared round the corner. Helen peeled herself from the window, absently rubbing her forehead — a red mark remained from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. The clock read nearly midnight when the key turned in the lock. Helen sat in the kitchen, an untouched cup of cold tea before her. She hadn’t taken a sip — just watched a dark film spread over the surface. Three hours. Three hours she waited, listening for every sound on the landing. David entered quietly, peeled off his coat, hung it up. Moved with caution, like a man hoping to sneak by unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Helen was surprised how calm her voice was. Three hours she’d rehearsed that phrase, and by midnight all emotion had burnt out inside her. David hesitated. “The boiler broke. I had to fix it.” Helen slowly looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to come in. He looked somewhere past her, into the dark window. “You can’t fix boilers.” “I called a plumber.” “And you had to wait there?” Helen pushed the cup away. “You couldn’t call from here? From your phone?” David frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened: heavy and unpleasant. “Do you still love her?” Now he looked. Sharply, angrily, hurt. “What nonsense is this? I do everything for Sophie! For my daughter! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen, and Helen involuntarily edged back with her chair. “You knew, when you got involved with me, that I’d have to go round. You knew I have a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I go to my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Helen wanted to reply sharply, proudly, but instead her eyes stung, and the first tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought…” she choked, fighting a lump. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. Make an effort.” “Helen, come on…” “I’m tired!” her voice broke into a shout, and she startled herself with the sound. “Tired of being not even in second place! Third! After your ex, after her whims, after midnight boilers!” David struck his palm on the door frame. “What do you want from me?! To abandon my daughter? Not go see her?!” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Helen jumped up, the cup wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me — to her! To Anna!” “I’m sick of your drama!” David spun round, grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?” The only answer was the door slamming shut. Helen stood in the kitchen, tea dripping onto the linoleum, ringing in her ears. She grabbed her phone, dialled his number. Ring, ring, ring. “The subscriber cannot answer.” Again. And again. Silence. Helen slowly sank onto a chair, clutching her phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Back to her again? Or was he roaming the night streets, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Not knowing made it worse. The night dragged endlessly. Helen sat on the bed, clutching her phone — the screen would blink, then go dark. Dial the number, hear the rings, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Then another: “Please reply.” And another: “I’m scared.” Send — and watch each one get a single lonely grey tick. Not delivered. Or delivered, but unread. What difference does it make? By four a.m., Helen stopped crying. The tears simply ran out, drying up somewhere inside, leaving only a hollow ring. She got up, switched the bedroom light on, and opened her wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. The suitcase was on top of the closet, dusty, with a torn tag from some old trip. Helen dropped it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. Not sorting, not thinking — just stuffing it all in, whatever she could reach. If he didn’t care — neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat. Let him search, call, send messages she’d never read. Let him know how it feels. By six, Helen stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, a shoulder bag, coat fastened crookedly — one side hanging longer than the other. She looked at the bunch of keys in her hand. Time to remove hers, leave it on the table. Her fingers fumbled. Helen jiggled the ring, tried to prise her key off with a nail, but it wouldn’t come, her hands were trembling, and her eyes stung again, who knew from where, more tears— “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The keys clattered onto the tile. Helen stared at them for a second, then just collapsed onto a suitcase, hugged her arms round herself, and sobbed hard. Loud, ugly, choked, like a child who’d broken mum’s favourite vase and thought the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Helen…” David knelt before her, right on the cold hall floor. He smelt of smoke and the night city. “Helen, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up. Her face was wet, swollen, mascara streaked black. David gently took her hands in his. “I was at Mum’s. All night. She gave me a real earful… knocked some sense into me.” Helen was silent. She stared at him — uncertain whether to believe or not. “I’m going to take Anna to court. Ask for a proper schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, set by the courts, like it should be. She won’t be able to manipulate things, use Sophie against me.” His fingers squeezed Helen’s hands tighter. “I choose you, Helen. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something trembled inside her. A little shoot of hope, silly and stubborn, the one she’d tried all night to tear out. “Really?” “Really.” Helen closed her eyes. She would trust David. One last time. After that… whatever happens, happens.

Going Back to Her Again So, youre off to see her again? Claire already knew the answer before she even asked.

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“I Don’t Want a Paralysed Child…” Said the Daughter-in-Law and Walked Out—But She Had No Idea What Would Happen Next… In a Quiet English Village Lived an Ordinary Old Man, Denys; His Dream Was a Purebred English Mastiff, But Fate Had Other Plans. Having Buried His Beloved Wife Claudia, Denys Devoted Himself to His Son and the Granddaughter He Only Saw in Photos. Then Tragedy Struck: A Car Crash, His Son’s Death, and His Fifteen-Year-Old Granddaughter Left Comatose—Her Mother Refused to Care for Her, Abandoning Them Both. So Denys Was Left Alone with a Paralysed Girl, Doctors Gave Up—But Denys Did Not. With Only Old Herbal Remedies and Hope, Denys Cared for Her Until, One Night, Drunken Youths Broke In… And His Faithful Mastiff Saved Them Both. Miraculously, His Granddaughter Began to Recover, Her First Smile Since the Accident. From That Day Forward, Denys, His Granddaughter, and the Mastiff Found Meaning—While Her Mother Was Never Heard From Again.

I dont want a paralysed child said the daughter-in-law, and with that, she stormed out. She had no idea

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HEART OF ICE… Claudia Vincent returned home. She had been to the hair salon—as she does regularly despite her 68 years—always treating herself to visits with her stylist. Claudia spruced up her hair and nails on a routine basis, and these simple rituals lift her spirits and energy. “Claudia, a relative of yours came by,” her husband George informed her. “I told her you’d be home later. She said she’d pop back in.” “What relative? I’ve got no family left,” Claudia replied gruffly. “Probably some distant cousin, here to ask for something. You should have said I’d moved to the ends of the earth!” “Oh, don’t be like that,” George reassured her. “She looked like she belonged to your side—tall and stately, reminded me a bit of your late mother. I doubt she wants anything. Very well-spoken woman, dressed smartly.” Forty minutes later, the relative rang the bell. Claudia answered the door herself. The woman really did resemble her late mother, and looked very polished—expensive coat, boots, gloves, diamond studs. Claudia knew quality when she saw it. She invited the guest to join her at the already-set table. “Well, let’s make introductions if we’re family. I’m Claudia—no formality needed. We seem close in age. This is my husband George. What’s our connection?” she asked. The guest hesitated, then blushed slightly. “I’m Gail… Gail Watson. There isn’t much difference in age between us. I turned 50 on June 12th. Does that date mean anything to you?” Claudia paled. “I can see you remember. Yes—I am your daughter. Please don’t be upset; I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted to meet my birth mother. My whole life I never understood why my mum didn’t love me—she’s been gone eight years now. Why did only Dad ever love me? He died just two months ago—before he passed, he told me about you and asked you to forgive him, if you’re able,” Gail explained, her voice trembling. “What? You have a daughter?” George exclaimed, stunned. “Apparently I do. I’ll explain later,” Claudia replied. “So you’re my daughter? Wonderful—you’ve met me. But if you think I’ll beg forgiveness or show remorse, I won’t. I have nothing to be sorry for,” Claudia answered coldly. “I hope your father filled you in? If you expect me to show motherly feelings—forget it. Not even a spark. Sorry.” “May I visit again? I live nearby in the suburbs—we’ve got a big two-storey house. Why not come over with George? You’ll get used to the idea that I exist. I brought photos of your grandson and great-granddaughter if you’d like to see?” Gail asked timidly. “No. I’m not interested. Don’t come again. Forget about me. Goodbye,” Claudia cut her off sharply. George hailed Gail a taxi and walked her out. When he returned, Claudia had already cleared the table and was calmly watching TV. “You’re so steely! You could command armies. How is it you have no heart at all? I always suspected you were cold, but not to this extent,” George said sternly. “We met when I was 28, right? Well, my soul was trampled long before that,” Claudia replied. “I grew up in the country, desperate to escape to the city. That’s why I worked so hard, was top of my class, went to university—the only one from my village. At 17, I met Victor. Madly loved him. He was nearly 12 years older, but I didn’t care. City life felt magical after my poor childhood. My scholarship barely covered anything; I was always hungry, so I happily accepted his invitations for coffee or ice cream. He never promised anything, but I believed love would lead to marriage. The night he invited me to his cabin, I said yes. Afterwards, I thought I had him for good. Cabin trips became routine, and soon it was clear I was carrying his child. When I told Victor, he was delighted. Knowing my condition would show, I asked when we’d marry—I was 18, legally able to wed. “Did I ever promise you marriage?” he said. “I didn’t, and I won’t. Besides, I’m already married,” he answered calmly. “What about the baby? What about me?” “You’re healthy, strong—could have been a model student-athlete. You’ll take a break from university, hide it until it’s obvious, and after you give birth, my wife and I will take care of the baby. We can’t have children—maybe because my wife is much older. You’ll deliver, we’ll take the baby, and you’ll return to study. We’ll pay you, too.” Back then, no one had heard of surrogacy—but I guess I was the first surrogate mother. What else could I do—go home and shame my family? I lived at their house until the birth. Victor’s wife never spoke to me—maybe jealous. I delivered the baby girl at home, attended by a midwife. Didn’t nurse her; they took her away immediately. Never saw her again. A week later, they sent me off, Victor gave me cash. I went back to university, got a job at the factory, lived in the family hostel, worked my way up. Made friends, never married—until you came along. By then I was 28. I wasn’t keen, but felt I should. You know the rest—nice life with you, three cars, comfortable house, summer cottage. We holidayed every year. Our factory survived the ‘90s since our tractor equipment was unique. Still have barbed wire and watchtowers around it. We both retired early—life’s been good. No children, and that suited me fine. And looking at kids today…” Claudia finished her confession. “We didn’t have a good life. I loved you. I tried to warm your heart and never succeeded. No kids—and you never even took in a kitten or puppy. My sister asked for help with her daughter; you wouldn’t let her stay a week. Today your own daughter came—and how did you meet her? Your daughter! Your own flesh and blood. Honestly, if we were younger, I’d divorce you. Now it’s too late. It’s cold living next to you—so cold,” George said bitterly. Claudia was startled; he’d never spoken so harshly to her before. Her peaceful life disturbed, all because of this daughter. George moved to the cottage. For years now, he’s lived there—adopted three abandoned dogs, countless stray cats. Rarely comes home. Claudia knows he visits her daughter Gail, has met them all, adores the great-granddaughter. “He’s always been soft—a pushover. Let him live how he wants,” Claudia thinks. She never developed the urge to get to know her daughter, grandson, or great-granddaughter. Claudia travels to the coast alone. She relaxes, recharges, and feels absolutely fine.

WITHOUT A SOUL… Claudia Green had just returned home, her hair freshly coiffed and her spirits lifted.

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Turned into the Help: When Alvetina Decides to Remarry at Sixty-Three, Her Son and Daughter-in-Law Are Shocked—Fears, Protests, Wedding Plans, a New Life with Yuri, Family Tensions, and the Realization That She Was Treated More Like a Maid Than a Wife!

Became the Help When Margaret announced she was getting married, her son and daughter-in-law were stunned

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“No One Made Them Leave, We Would Have Been Delighted! The Relentless Invasion of Family—How a British Couple Outsmarted Their Overbearing Relatives With a Loyal German Shepherd, and Finally Found Peace and Room for Their Future Children”

No one chased them away, was the answer given to both mums, they just didnt want to stay for some reason.

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Hello… Is that Vasya? – No, this isn’t Vasya, it’s Helen… – Helen? Who are you?… – Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Were you looking for someone? He’s not home, he’s working late… My head started spinning when I saw drops of blood on the floor and my stomach twisted with pain — I knew the baby was coming. For five years my husband, Vasyl, has worked abroad: first driving lorries in Germany, then doing renovations in Poland, all to earn enough for our two sons and give them a better future, because we knew we’d never get ahead back home. Yet when I unexpectedly discovered I was pregnant at 45, I hid it from my family, afraid my grown children would laugh or call me mad. I considered ending the pregnancy, but medical risks were too great. Hopeful, I called Vasyl to share the news, but another woman answered, claiming to be his girlfriend while he worked late. Later, on Valentine’s Day, Vasyl returned and I revealed my pregnancy: he exploded, accused me of infidelity, and stormed out. After a traumatic birth at home, I handed my newborn daughter to the paramedics — convinced I couldn’t raise another child and desperate for Vasyl to return, even as he stayed overseas, never speaking to me, only his sons. Now, people may judge me, but I’ve chosen my husband over my child, and only God can judge my heart.

Hello Harry? This isnt Harry. Its Emily Emily? And who are you? Madam, who are you? Im Harrys girlfriend.

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Wow, Dad, you really got a welcoming committee! And what did you need that health resort for if you’ve got ‘all-inclusive’ right here at home? When Dmitri handed Eva the keys to his flat, she realised: the fortress was conquered. No DiCaprio ever waited for his Oscar like Eva waited for her Dmitri—now with her own little nest. Disheartened at thirty-five, she was casting sympathetic glances at stray cats and craft shop windows more and more often. And there he was—a solitary soul who’d spent his youth on career, healthy eating, gym memberships, and other nonsense like ‘finding himself’, and still no kids. Eva had wished for this gift since she was twenty, and it seemed the heavens finally understood she wasn’t joking. ‘I have one last business trip this year, and I’m all yours,’ Dmitri said, handing over the precious keys. ‘Just don’t be alarmed by my cave. I usually come home only to sleep,’ he said—and then whisked off to another time zone for the whole weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush, face cream, and set off to inspect this cave. The problems started at the door. Dmitri had warned the lock could be temperamental, but Eva hadn’t expected it to be this bad. She attacked that door for forty minutes: shoving, pulling, sliding the key in all possible ways, politely cajoling it, but it refused to open to its new resident. Eva tried psychological pressure, like her classmates taught behind the garages back in school. The noise brought out a neighbour. ‘Why are you breaking into someone else’s flat?’ asked a worried woman’s voice. ‘I’m not breaking in, I’ve got keys!’ Eva snapped, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘And who are you, exactly? I’ve never seen you before,’ the neighbour continued nosily. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ Eva said boldly, hands on hips. But she saw only a crack where the negotiation was happening. ‘You?’ the woman was genuinely surprised. ‘Yes, me. Problem?’ ‘No, none at all. It’s just, he’s never brought anyone here before,’ (at which Eva loved Dmitri even more), ‘and now suddenly, someone like…’ ‘Someone like who?’ Eva asked, baffled. ‘You know, it’s not my business. Sorry,’ the neighbour retreated, closing her door. Knowing it was now or never, Eva forced the key with all her resolve, nearly twisting the entire doorframe around. The door opened. Dmitri’s inner world appeared before her, and Eva felt her soul turn frosty. She understood that a solitary young man could be a bit ascetic, but this place was positively monastic. ‘Poor thing, your heart has long forgotten, or maybe never knew, what comfort means,’ Eva whispered, surveying the modest home she’d now be spending so much time in. Still, she was happy. The neighbour was right: a woman’s touch had clearly never graced these walls, floors, kitchen, or those grey windows. Eva was the first. Unable to resist, she hurried off to the nearest shop for cheerful curtains and a bath mat—and ended up with oven mitts and kitchen towels too. Once there, her excitement took over: scented candles, handmade soaps, handy organisers for cosmetics joined the pile. ‘Adding a few touches to someone else’s flat isn’t overstepping,’ Eva soothed herself, as she attached a second trolley to the first. The lock gave her no more trouble—in fact, it quit working altogether, now about as secure as a hockey goalie who forgot his mask. Realising what she’d done, Eva spent the night extracting the old lock with whatever kitchen knives she could find, and the next morning dashed off for a new one (and knives, and forks, spoons, a tablecloth, cutting boards, coasters, and, obviously, curtains). On Sunday Dmitri called, saying he’d be delayed a couple more days. ‘I’d be glad if you brought some warmth and comfort to my flat,’ he laughed, when Eva confessed she’d made a few changes. By now, Eva was importing coziness by the truckload, distributing it according to technical plans and paperwork—as though she’d been storing up for years as a lonely woman, and now, unleashed, couldn’t stop. By the time Dmitri returned, his old flat housed only a lone spider near the vent. Eva almost evicted it too, but seeing its eight astonished eyes, decided it was best left as a symbol of respecting someone else’s property. Dmitri’s home now looked like he’d been happily married for eight years, got divorced, and was now happy out of sheer defiance. Eva didn’t just take over the flat—she let the whole building know she was now the lady of the house, and any questions should be addressed to her. There might not be a ring yet, but that was just a technicality. The neighbours watched with suspicion at first, then shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, it’s your business.’ *** On Dmitri’s return day, Eva cooked a proper home dinner, poured herself into a glamorous—almost scandalous—outfit, scattered fragrances round the flat, dimmed the new lighting, and waited. Dmitri was late. When Eva began to notice her dress biting uncomfortably into the spot she’d been working on in the gym for months, she heard a key in the lock. ‘It’s a new lock, just push, it’s not locked!’ Eva called out, flustered but inviting. She wasn’t afraid of judgement—she’d done such a good job on the flat, she’d be forgiven anything. Just as the door opened, Eva received a sudden text from Dmitri: ‘Where are you? I’m home. The flat looks just the same. My mates warned me you’d drown it in cosmetics!’ Eva only saw the message later. Meanwhile, five complete strangers entered: two young men, two kids, and a very old gentleman, who instantly straightened up and patted his hair upon seeing Eva. ‘Wow, Dad, they’re rolling out the red carpet! And why’d you need the health spa, when there’s ‘all-inclusive’ at home?’ said one young man, only to get an elbow from his wife for staring. Eva stood frozen at the doorway, two brimming glasses in hand. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t overcome her shock. A triumphant spider tittered in the corner. ‘Excuse me, and who are you?’ Eva squeaked. ‘I’m the master of this den. And you, I suppose, are from the clinic, here to do the bandages? I said I’d manage myself,’ replied the granddad, eyeing Eva’s nurse outfit. ‘Uh, yes, Adam Mathews, your place is such a haven now!’ the young man’s wife peered hopefully behind Eva. ‘So much better; before it was like a crypt. And you, dear, what’s your name? Isn’t our Adam Mathews a little too old for you? Although, he does have his own place…’ ‘E-e-va…’ ‘Well, well! You’ve picked a winner, Adam Mathews, no doubt about that!’ Judging by his twinkling eyes, granddad felt the same. ‘Where’s Dmitri?’ Eva whispered, nervously downing both glasses. ‘That’s me!’ chirped the eight-year-old lad. ‘Not yet, son—it’s too soon for you to be a Dmitri,’ his mum said, shooing the kids and husband back toward the car. ‘I…I’m sorry, I must have the wrong flat,’ Eva stammered, remembering her misadventures with the lock. ‘This is Lilac Street, eighteen, flat twenty-six?’ ‘No, this is Beech Street, eighteen,’ the old man replied, ready to unwrap his surprise visitor. ‘Oh…’ Eva sighed dramatically. ‘I must’ve mixed it up. Well, make yourselves at home. I just need to make a call.’ She grabbed her phone and dashed to the bathroom, barricading herself and wrapping up in a towel to finally read Dmitri’s message. ‘Dmitri, I’ll be there soon, just got held up in the shop,’ she replied. ‘Great, I’m waiting. If you don’t mind, grab a bottle of red,’ Dmitri left in a voice message. Eva would certainly bring the red—now boiling inside her. Clutching her bath mat and removing the curtain, she waited till the strangers entered the kitchen, then made her escape. Quickly packing up, she ran from the flat. *** ‘I’ll explain later,’ Eva mumbled about her appearance as Dmitri opened the door. Moving like she was sleepwalking, she passed him without a glance, headed straight to the bathroom, rehung the curtain and laid out the mat—then collapsed on the sofa and slept till morning, letting all the stress and all the ‘red’ fade away. Upon waking, Eva saw an unfamiliar young man waiting for an explanation. ‘Can I just ask… what’s this address?’ ‘Boot Avenue, eighteen.’

Blimey, Dad, what a welcome committee youve got. And what was the point of that spa holiday, when home