Emily Taylor

My Husband’s Family Forgot My 40th Birthday, So I Gave Them a Taste of Their Own Medicine: How I Finally Stood Up for Myself After Years of Being the Family Fixer

Why has my phone been silent all evening? I remember asking, swirling a glass of red by the fire.

La vida

08

Two Columns She’d already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: “Can you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s running a temperature and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were wet from washing up; the touchscreen instantly blurred. She wiped her palms on the tea towel and glanced at her phone calendar. Tomorrow was the one evening she’d carved out just for herself—an early night, ignoring the world—ahead of a report due first thing, with her head already buzzing. She started typing, “I can’t, I have…”—then stopped. That familiar wave—guilt, almost nausea—rose inside her: say no and you’re letting someone down. You’re not the reliable one. She deleted her words and simply wrote, “Yes, I’ll cover,” and sent it. The kettle rumbled to a boil. She poured a mug of tea, sat down by the window, and opened a note she called “Good Things.” Today’s entry was already ready and waiting: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a full stop, then added a little plus sign at the end, as if it somehow balanced things out. This note had lived with her for nearly a year. She’d started it that January, during the empty lull that settles in after the Christmas holidays, needing proof that her days didn’t just melt into nothing. Back then she’d written: “Gave Mrs Peterson from upstairs a lift to the clinic.” Mrs Peterson, fifth floor, always walking slow with a bag of prescriptions, too nervous to brave the bus. She’d rung the doorbell, said, “You’re driving—could you take me? Otherwise I won’t make it.” So she took her, waited in the car while blood was drawn, drove her back. On the return she’d caught herself being irritable—late for work, everyone at the office already grumbling about queues and GPs. The irritation felt shameful, so she swallowed it and bought coffee at the petrol station. In her note, she logged it delicately, as if the act was pure, unmixed. In February, her son landed a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home, it’s no bother for you,” he said, not asking but assuming. The boy was lovely—loud, non-stop: “Watch, come play, let’s do…” She adored him, but by evening her hands trembled from exhaustion and her head rang like after a gig. After bedtime, she washed up, gathered toys into the box, only for them to spill out again at dawn. On Sunday, when her son returned, she admitted, “I’m worn out.” He smiled, as if it were a joke: “Well, you’re a grandma.” Kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” Next to it, a little heart, so it wouldn’t feel like just obligation. March—her cousin rang asking for money till payday. “I need it for medicine, you understand.” She did. She transferred the cash, didn’t ask when it would be paid back. Then sat in her kitchen, working out if she could get by till her next pay packet, shelving the new coat she’d long been eyeing. It wasn’t a luxury, just her old one’s elbows had worn shiny. In the note: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add, “Put myself on hold.” That felt too trivial to record. April, work—one of the girls, young, eyes red, locked herself in the loo and couldn’t come out. “He’s left me. No one needs me.” She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat on the stairs, paint smell clinging from the recent refit, as the girl repeated herself. She listened, in the dark, missing the back exercise the doctor had prescribed. At home she lay on the sofa, lower back throbbing, angry at the girl, angrier at herself—why can’t you ever say, “I have to go home”? In the note: “Sat with Katie, comforted her.” She used the girl’s name, somehow it felt warmer. Again, she left out, “Skipped something for myself.” In June: Drove a colleague—bags and all—to her allotment when her car broke down. The woman argued with her husband over speaker the whole way, never asked if it was convenient. She kept quiet. At the allotment, her colleague unloaded in a rush: “Thanks, you were going that way anyway.” She wasn’t, but got caught in traffic, missing her mother, who later sulked. Noted: “Gave Tanya a ride to her allotment.” “On the way” stung, and she stared at the screen, unmoving, until it dimmed. August, late night, mum called. Frail voice, anxious: “I don’t feel good, my blood pressure’s off, I’m scared.” She jumped up, pulled on a jacket, ordered a taxi across the sleeping city. The flat was stifling, empty pill packets everywhere. She checked the pressure, gave medication, sat with her mum until she dozed. Next morning, straight to work, no time to go home. On the Tube her eyes closed, terrified of missing her stop. The note: “Went to mum’s in the night.” She nearly put an exclamation mark, then erased it—it felt like shouting. By autumn, her list had grown long as a roll of till receipts, endlessly scrolling. The longer it got, the more she felt that she wasn’t living, just submitting a report. As if any love coming her way came with a receipt, and she saved them all in case anyone asked, “So what have you actually done?” She tried recalling if she’d ever logged something just for her—not “for her,” but “because of her.” The entries were all about others: their pain, their needs, their plans. Her wants looked like selfish whims—best hidden. October brought a sharper scene, quiet but wounding. She’d brought documents her son needed printing; stood in his hallway, folder in hand. He was searching for keys, talking on the phone. The grandson zoomed around, yelling for cartoons. Son half-covered the receiver, tossed out, “Mum, since you’re here, fancy popping by the shops? We need milk and bread—I won’t have time.” She answered, “Actually, I’m tired too.” He didn’t look up, just shrugged: “You can though. You always can.” Then carried on talking. Those words were a seal: not a question, just a statement of fact. Something hot pooled inside her—shame that she wanted to say no, that she suddenly didn’t want to be agreeable. Still, she bought the bread, the milk, threw in apples—her grandson’s favourite. Delivered them, heard the monotone, “Thanks, Mum,” like a headmaster’s tick in a register. She smiled the way she always did and headed home. At home, she logged: “Picked up shopping for my son.” And stared at the line. Her hands shook not from tiredness but from anger. Suddenly, she saw the list was no longer support—it was a leash. November: She finally booked a GP appointment—her back worse now, can’t stand long in the kitchen. Booked it online, Saturday morning, to avoid asking for time off. Friday evening, mum rang: “You coming round? Need the chemist, and anyway, I’m lonely.” She said, “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” Her mum paused, then sighed, “Alright. I suppose I don’t matter.” That line always worked. She’d launch into apologies, promises, shuffle her priorities. This time she opened her mouth—to say she’d come after—but stopped. It wasn’t stubbornness, just weariness; her life, she realised, had weight too. Quietly she said, “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need the doctor’s, it’s important.” Her mum sighed, wounded, “Alright then,” full of disappointment, pressure, habit. Sleep came badly that night—dreams of running office corridors with folders, doors slamming. In the morning, she made herself porridge, took the painkillers that had sat too long in the cupboard, and headed out. At the surgery, waiting, she listened to strangers chat about blood tests and pensions—not thinking about diagnoses, but about how brave it felt, doing something for herself. Afterwards, she made her promised stop at her mum’s, picking up medicine along the way. Her mum met her with silence, then at last, “So, did you go?” She replied, “I did. It was important.” Mum examined her closely—as if, for a moment, she was a person, not an extra pair of hands. Then turned away, walked to the kitchen. That evening, home again, she felt an unfamiliar relief in her chest—not joy, but space. December now—year almost done—she realised she was looking to weekends not for a breather, but a chance. Saturday morning, another message from her son: “Could you take the grandson for a couple of hours? We’re busy.” Her fingers hovered, ready to type “yes.” She sat on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand. The flat quiet, just the radiator ticking. She remembered her plan for the day: head to town, visit the new art exhibit she’d kept postponing. To walk amongst paintings in silence—no one asking about lost socks or dinner. She replied: “Sorry, I can’t today. I’ve got plans.” Sent it at once, phone face down—easier that way. His reply came in a minute: “Alright, you upset with me?” Another: “Are you cross?” She turned it over, read, and felt the familiar urge to explain, to soften the blow, to justify. Instead of the long answer—tired, needing time for herself—she kept it simple: explanations always became bargaining, and she didn’t want to haggle for her own life. She wrote, “No. It’s just important to me,” and nothing else. She got herself ready calmly, like clocking into a shift. Checked the iron, windows, purse, train card. Waited at the bus stop among shoppers, suddenly struck by freedom—nobody to rescue, right now. Unusual, not frightening. The museum was slow and golden. She lingered before portraits, hands, light in painted glass. It felt like relearning attention—not for others’ needs, but for her own. Coffee in the small café, a postcard with a print, rough paper pleasant under her fingertips. When she got home she left her phone in her bag, didn’t check it straight away. Hung up her coat, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Then, at last, sat down and opened her “Good Things” note. Scrolled down to today. She looked at the empty line a long while. Then pressed “plus” and wrote: “Visited the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then did something new. At the top, she split the list into two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” There was only one entry in the “For Myself” column so far, but it was something essential, straightening inside her like a realigned spine. No need to prove to others she was good; she only needed to remember she was here. The phone buzzed again; she didn’t rush. Poured tea, took a sip, only then checked. A short message from her mum: “How are you?” She replied, “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” Then added, before sending, “I was busy today.” Sent it, put the phone down, screen up. The room was quiet, but the silence didn’t press in. It was space, at last, she’d made for herself.

Two Columns She has already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when her managers message pops

La vida

012

“I Know All About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Ice-Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn pale – though inside, everything crumpled tight, like a piece of paper balled up before being tossed away. He just froze. Larissa stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. A typical scene – her back to her husband, polka-dot apron, the smell of fried onions. A homey picture. Cosy. But her voice was pure newsreader – calm, steady. Victor actually wondered: had he misheard? Maybe she’d said something about the cucumbers – like she knew where to buy the good ones? Or about the neighbour on the third floor selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Larissa repeated, not turning around. Now that chilled him for real. Because in her tone there was no hysteria, no resentment. None of what he’d always feared: no tears, no accusations, no smashed crockery. Just a statement of fact. She might as well have said the milk was finished. Victor had lived fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of them – with this woman. He knew her as if she were as familiar as his own hand: the mole on her left shoulder, how she wrinkled her nose when tasting soup, the way she sighed in the mornings. But he’d never heard this tone from her. “Lar—” he started, but his voice failed. He coughed. Tried again. “Larissa, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him – long and quietly, as if seeing him for the first time. Or perhaps more like looking at an old photograph, faded, where nothing is really clear anymore. “About Marina, for example,” she said. “From your accounts department. 2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground vanish from beneath his feet. No, it wasn’t a figure of speech – the ground truly fell away, and he was just left suspended. God. Marina?! He could barely recall her face. There had been something – the office party, maybe? Or after? Quick. Nothing serious. He’d even promised himself: never again. “And about Sveta,” Larissa continued calmly. “Who approached you at the gym. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. How did she even know about Sveta? Larissa switched off the hob. Took off her apron – neatly, unhurriedly, folded it in half. Sat at the table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I’ve kept quiet all this time?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak – but because he simply couldn’t. “The first time,” Larissa began, “I noticed about ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Especially on Fridays. You came home cheerful, eyes bright. Smelling of perfume. She smirked – bitterly, joylessly. “I thought then, maybe I imagined it? Maybe someone at the office had new perfume? I convinced myself for a whole month. And then I found the restaurant receipt in your jacket pocket. Dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. You and I never went there. Victor wanted to say something – to defend himself, to lie, as usual. But the words stuck somewhere between his stomach and throat. “Do you know what I did?” Larissa looked him in the eye. “I cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Met you with a smile. Didn’t say anything to our daughter – she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why should she know her father… She trailed off. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass by itself. Men are all like that – midlife crisis, hormones, silly mistakes. He’ll come back – and that’s fine. The main thing is the family’s intact. “Lar…” Victor forced out. “Don’t,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He fell quiet. “And then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone – never had a password. Did you think I never checked? I read your messages. Those stupid texts: ‘Miss you, bunny’, ‘You’re the best’. I saw the photos – hugging them, smiling. Her voice wavered – for the first time all conversation. But she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I kept asking myself: why am I putting up with this? Why keep living with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted out. “Larissa, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love the convenience. The clean flat. Hot dinners. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesn’t ask awkward questions.” She stood. Walked to the window. Stared into the darkness. “Do you know when I finally made up my mind?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. And she said, ‘Mum, you’re acting strange lately. Quiet. Like you’re not yourself anymore.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really am not myself anymore. I haven’t lived for myself in years. Victor stared at her back – straight, tense – and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not “could lose” – was losing. Right now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said hoarsely. “Larissa, please.” “I do,” she replied simply. “I’ve already filed the papers. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why?!” Victor erupted. “Why now?!” Larissa turned. Looked at him – long and hard. And smiled. Sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vitya. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And I was just there, to you. Always. Like air.” And it was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa – slumped, suddenly ten years older. Larissa stood in the hallway doorway. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And an abyss. Huge, unbridgeable. “You do know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t be lost, you’ll go on,” she cut in. “Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, took a step toward her. “Larissa, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vitya,” she raised her hand to stop him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what?” She paused. Gathering her words – the ones she’d meant to say years ago, but was afraid to. Or didn’t know how. Or never thought she was worth being heard. “Do you know how it felt? Always, when you came home after another ‘Marina’ or ‘Sveta’ – I’d lie next to you and feel like nothing. You never even really tried to hide it! Didn’t bother with your phone. Put shirts in the wash with her lipstick on the collar. You thought I was thick. Or blind. Victor sagged, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean to?” She stepped right up to him. Her eyes blazed – but not with tears. With fury. Years of pent-up, bursting fury. “You just never thought about me. Did you, when you kissed another? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What does it matter?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought about her. At all. Larissa was simply a given in his life. He always assumed: she’d never leave. She’d always be there. “You’d come home after your little so-called affairs – and nothing changed for you. Wife at home. Family whole. Everything fine. She turned away. “But I didn’t exist. Not in your world. Not at all. Victor stepped closer. Reached out – to touch her shoulder, to hug, to keep her. Larissa pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands. “Larissa, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I’ll be different!” She looked down at their entwined fingers. At his face – twisted, terrified. And suddenly realised: he really was afraid. But not of losing *her*. He was afraid of being alone. “You know,” she said softly, freeing her hands, “I was scared, too. Of being alone. Without you. Without a family. But you know what I’ve realised?” She picked up her bag from the table. The keys. “I already am alone. Have been for years. With you – but alone.” And she walked to the door. Three weeks passed. Victor sat in the empty flat – Larissa moved in with their daughter immediately after that conversation – and scrolled through his phone. Marina from accounts. Sveta from the gym. Two, three more names in his contacts who’d once meant something. He tried Sveta’s number. She rejected the call. He texted Marina – read, no reply. The rest didn’t even view the messages. Funny – when he’d had a family, they all wanted to see him. And now, when he was supposedly free… No one wanted him at all. He sat on the sofa, in this flat, which suddenly seemed vast and alien, and for the first time in fifty-two years felt truly, deeply alone. He got his phone again. Found “Larissa”. Stared at the screen for ages. His hands shook. He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then just wrote: “Can we meet?” Reply came after an hour: “Why?” Victor thought. What should he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Ridiculous. “I’ve changed”? A lie. So he typed the truth: “I want to start over. Can we try?” Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Appeared again. And then came the answer: “Come on Saturday. To our daughter’s. At two. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would come of it. If she’d forgive. If she’d return. If he really deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And for the first time in years, felt ready to start again. If she allowed it. Should Larissa have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted him and drawn the line back at the first sign of infidelity? What’s your view?

I know about your affairs, said his wife. Robert froze. No, he didnt flinch. He didnt turn pale though

La vida

06

Two Columns She’d already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: “Can you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s running a temperature and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were wet from washing up; the touchscreen instantly blurred. She wiped her palms on the tea towel and glanced at her phone calendar. Tomorrow was the one evening she’d carved out just for herself—an early night, ignoring the world—ahead of a report due first thing, with her head already buzzing. She started typing, “I can’t, I have…”—then stopped. That familiar wave—guilt, almost nausea—rose inside her: say no and you’re letting someone down. You’re not the reliable one. She deleted her words and simply wrote, “Yes, I’ll cover,” and sent it. The kettle rumbled to a boil. She poured a mug of tea, sat down by the window, and opened a note she called “Good Things.” Today’s entry was already ready and waiting: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a full stop, then added a little plus sign at the end, as if it somehow balanced things out. This note had lived with her for nearly a year. She’d started it that January, during the empty lull that settles in after the Christmas holidays, needing proof that her days didn’t just melt into nothing. Back then she’d written: “Gave Mrs Peterson from upstairs a lift to the clinic.” Mrs Peterson, fifth floor, always walking slow with a bag of prescriptions, too nervous to brave the bus. She’d rung the doorbell, said, “You’re driving—could you take me? Otherwise I won’t make it.” So she took her, waited in the car while blood was drawn, drove her back. On the return she’d caught herself being irritable—late for work, everyone at the office already grumbling about queues and GPs. The irritation felt shameful, so she swallowed it and bought coffee at the petrol station. In her note, she logged it delicately, as if the act was pure, unmixed. In February, her son landed a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home, it’s no bother for you,” he said, not asking but assuming. The boy was lovely—loud, non-stop: “Watch, come play, let’s do…” She adored him, but by evening her hands trembled from exhaustion and her head rang like after a gig. After bedtime, she washed up, gathered toys into the box, only for them to spill out again at dawn. On Sunday, when her son returned, she admitted, “I’m worn out.” He smiled, as if it were a joke: “Well, you’re a grandma.” Kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” Next to it, a little heart, so it wouldn’t feel like just obligation. March—her cousin rang asking for money till payday. “I need it for medicine, you understand.” She did. She transferred the cash, didn’t ask when it would be paid back. Then sat in her kitchen, working out if she could get by till her next pay packet, shelving the new coat she’d long been eyeing. It wasn’t a luxury, just her old one’s elbows had worn shiny. In the note: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add, “Put myself on hold.” That felt too trivial to record. April, work—one of the girls, young, eyes red, locked herself in the loo and couldn’t come out. “He’s left me. No one needs me.” She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat on the stairs, paint smell clinging from the recent refit, as the girl repeated herself. She listened, in the dark, missing the back exercise the doctor had prescribed. At home she lay on the sofa, lower back throbbing, angry at the girl, angrier at herself—why can’t you ever say, “I have to go home”? In the note: “Sat with Katie, comforted her.” She used the girl’s name, somehow it felt warmer. Again, she left out, “Skipped something for myself.” In June: Drove a colleague—bags and all—to her allotment when her car broke down. The woman argued with her husband over speaker the whole way, never asked if it was convenient. She kept quiet. At the allotment, her colleague unloaded in a rush: “Thanks, you were going that way anyway.” She wasn’t, but got caught in traffic, missing her mother, who later sulked. Noted: “Gave Tanya a ride to her allotment.” “On the way” stung, and she stared at the screen, unmoving, until it dimmed. August, late night, mum called. Frail voice, anxious: “I don’t feel good, my blood pressure’s off, I’m scared.” She jumped up, pulled on a jacket, ordered a taxi across the sleeping city. The flat was stifling, empty pill packets everywhere. She checked the pressure, gave medication, sat with her mum until she dozed. Next morning, straight to work, no time to go home. On the Tube her eyes closed, terrified of missing her stop. The note: “Went to mum’s in the night.” She nearly put an exclamation mark, then erased it—it felt like shouting. By autumn, her list had grown long as a roll of till receipts, endlessly scrolling. The longer it got, the more she felt that she wasn’t living, just submitting a report. As if any love coming her way came with a receipt, and she saved them all in case anyone asked, “So what have you actually done?” She tried recalling if she’d ever logged something just for her—not “for her,” but “because of her.” The entries were all about others: their pain, their needs, their plans. Her wants looked like selfish whims—best hidden. October brought a sharper scene, quiet but wounding. She’d brought documents her son needed printing; stood in his hallway, folder in hand. He was searching for keys, talking on the phone. The grandson zoomed around, yelling for cartoons. Son half-covered the receiver, tossed out, “Mum, since you’re here, fancy popping by the shops? We need milk and bread—I won’t have time.” She answered, “Actually, I’m tired too.” He didn’t look up, just shrugged: “You can though. You always can.” Then carried on talking. Those words were a seal: not a question, just a statement of fact. Something hot pooled inside her—shame that she wanted to say no, that she suddenly didn’t want to be agreeable. Still, she bought the bread, the milk, threw in apples—her grandson’s favourite. Delivered them, heard the monotone, “Thanks, Mum,” like a headmaster’s tick in a register. She smiled the way she always did and headed home. At home, she logged: “Picked up shopping for my son.” And stared at the line. Her hands shook not from tiredness but from anger. Suddenly, she saw the list was no longer support—it was a leash. November: She finally booked a GP appointment—her back worse now, can’t stand long in the kitchen. Booked it online, Saturday morning, to avoid asking for time off. Friday evening, mum rang: “You coming round? Need the chemist, and anyway, I’m lonely.” She said, “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” Her mum paused, then sighed, “Alright. I suppose I don’t matter.” That line always worked. She’d launch into apologies, promises, shuffle her priorities. This time she opened her mouth—to say she’d come after—but stopped. It wasn’t stubbornness, just weariness; her life, she realised, had weight too. Quietly she said, “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need the doctor’s, it’s important.” Her mum sighed, wounded, “Alright then,” full of disappointment, pressure, habit. Sleep came badly that night—dreams of running office corridors with folders, doors slamming. In the morning, she made herself porridge, took the painkillers that had sat too long in the cupboard, and headed out. At the surgery, waiting, she listened to strangers chat about blood tests and pensions—not thinking about diagnoses, but about how brave it felt, doing something for herself. Afterwards, she made her promised stop at her mum’s, picking up medicine along the way. Her mum met her with silence, then at last, “So, did you go?” She replied, “I did. It was important.” Mum examined her closely—as if, for a moment, she was a person, not an extra pair of hands. Then turned away, walked to the kitchen. That evening, home again, she felt an unfamiliar relief in her chest—not joy, but space. December now—year almost done—she realised she was looking to weekends not for a breather, but a chance. Saturday morning, another message from her son: “Could you take the grandson for a couple of hours? We’re busy.” Her fingers hovered, ready to type “yes.” She sat on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand. The flat quiet, just the radiator ticking. She remembered her plan for the day: head to town, visit the new art exhibit she’d kept postponing. To walk amongst paintings in silence—no one asking about lost socks or dinner. She replied: “Sorry, I can’t today. I’ve got plans.” Sent it at once, phone face down—easier that way. His reply came in a minute: “Alright, you upset with me?” Another: “Are you cross?” She turned it over, read, and felt the familiar urge to explain, to soften the blow, to justify. Instead of the long answer—tired, needing time for herself—she kept it simple: explanations always became bargaining, and she didn’t want to haggle for her own life. She wrote, “No. It’s just important to me,” and nothing else. She got herself ready calmly, like clocking into a shift. Checked the iron, windows, purse, train card. Waited at the bus stop among shoppers, suddenly struck by freedom—nobody to rescue, right now. Unusual, not frightening. The museum was slow and golden. She lingered before portraits, hands, light in painted glass. It felt like relearning attention—not for others’ needs, but for her own. Coffee in the small café, a postcard with a print, rough paper pleasant under her fingertips. When she got home she left her phone in her bag, didn’t check it straight away. Hung up her coat, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Then, at last, sat down and opened her “Good Things” note. Scrolled down to today. She looked at the empty line a long while. Then pressed “plus” and wrote: “Visited the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then did something new. At the top, she split the list into two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” There was only one entry in the “For Myself” column so far, but it was something essential, straightening inside her like a realigned spine. No need to prove to others she was good; she only needed to remember she was here. The phone buzzed again; she didn’t rush. Poured tea, took a sip, only then checked. A short message from her mum: “How are you?” She replied, “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” Then added, before sending, “I was busy today.” Sent it, put the phone down, screen up. The room was quiet, but the silence didn’t press in. It was space, at last, she’d made for herself.

Two Columns She has already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when her managers message pops

La vida

08

The Kitchen Timer: How Ten-Minute Conversations Each Thursday Helped Us Break the Cycle of Silent Resentment, Missed Connections, and Habitual Arguments—A British Couple Learns to Listen, Speak Honestly, and Start Again

Timer on the Table Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she says, still stirring the pot.

La vida

02

Maria Turned 64… Still Paying the Bills for Her 33-Year-Old Son Who Never Managed to Move Out Maria always dreamed of two things: her children growing up healthy… and one day, the chance for just a little rest for herself. Not luxury. Not travel. Not comfort. Just rest. But life had other plans. Her eldest son, Andrew, finished university… but never found a steady job. Four temporary jobs. Poorly paid. No benefits. Shifts that felt more like punishment than work. He tried to rent a room. He didn’t have enough money. He tried to save. He couldn’t. He tried to “pull himself together.” Reality hit just as hard. So he moved back home. With a backpack, a few shirts… and a loss he never spoke of. Maria welcomed him as only a mother could: with a hot meal, a made bed, and the words, “Don’t worry, love… things will get better.” Months. Years. Her door never closed to him. Then came Maria’s 64th birthday. A modest cake. Three candles. One unspoken wish. As she cut a slice, Andrew heard her say something that pierced him: — “I just hope one day I can stop working… at least a year before I die.” Andrew lowered his gaze. Not out of shame. But out of pain. It was then he understood what he’d refused to see for so long: 💔 It’s not that he didn’t want to move out. It’s that this country makes a prepared adult live like a teenager without means. 💸 Wages aren’t enough. Rents are impossible. Opportunities are few. And inflation… spares no one. Maria wasn’t supporting an irresponsible son. She was supporting a son whose wings had been clipped by the system. Andrew wasn’t “sponging off” her. He was part of a generation working harder… to end up with less. That evening, watching his mum wash the dishes on her own birthday, Andrew made a quiet vow: “Mum, I won’t let you spend the end of your life supporting me. I’ll find a way. Even if it takes time. Even if it hurts. Even if I have to start over a thousand times.” Because some truths split the heart in two: 🧠 Many parents keep supporting their grown children… not because they want to, but because life has become more expensive than dreams. And many children remain at home… not to “live off their parents,” but because the street is no place to call home. 💬 FINAL WORDS Don’t judge the child who hasn’t left yet. Don’t ignore the parent who keeps on giving. The problem isn’t the family… it’s the reality they’re forced to face.

Today I turned 64still covering the expenses of my son, Stephen, who is now 33 and never really managed

La vida

04

I Went to Visit My Brother for Christmas… Only to Discover He Hadn’t Invited Me Because His Wife “Didn’t Want People Like Me” in Their Home

25th December I never thought Id have to write something like this, but perhaps this is the only place

La vida

06

I Made the Most Romantic Financial Mistake of My Life: I Built My Dream Home on Someone Else’s Land When I got married, my British mother-in-law smiled and said, “Dear, why rent? There’s space above our house. Build your own flat upstairs and live in peace.” At the time, it sounded like a blessing. I believed her. I also believed in love. My husband and I put every saved pound into building this future home. We didn’t buy a car. We skipped holidays. Every bonus, every saving—spent on materials, builders, windows, tiles. We built for five years. Slowly. With hope. We turned an empty space into a real home. With the kitchen I’d always dreamed of. With big windows. With walls in the colours I imagined for “our home.” I used to say proudly, “This is our home.” But life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Our marriage began to crack. Arguments. Shouting. Differences we couldn’t overcome. On the day we decided to separate, I learned the most expensive lesson of my life. As I packed my clothes through tears, I looked at the walls I had sanded and painted myself and said: “At least give me back some of what we put in. Or pay me my share.” My mother-in-law—the same woman who once suggested “building upstairs”—stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes cold: “There’s nothing here that belongs to you. The house is mine. The papers are mine. If you’re leaving, you leave with what you can carry. Everything else stays here.” That’s when it hit me. Love doesn’t sign documents. Trust isn’t ownership. And hard work without a deed is just a loss. I walked out with two suitcases and five years of life poured into bricks and walls that were no longer mine. I left with no money. No home. But with clarity. The worst money lost isn’t what you spend on pleasure. The worst is what you invest in something that was never truly yours. Bricks don’t have feelings. Words drift away. But documents last. And if I can say just one thing to every woman: No matter how much you love, never build your future on someone else’s property. Sometimes, trying to “save rent” can cost you your whole life.

I made the most romantic financial mistake of my life: I built my own paradise on someone elses land.

La vida

023

My Husband Unfavourably Compared Me to His Mother, So I Suggested He Move Back in With Her

Why are these burgers so dry? Did you bother soaking any bread in milk? Or did you just chuck some water

La vida

015

My Husband’s “Helpless” Old School Friend Kept Calling for Help—So I Finally Stepped In

Oh, Oliver, please! I honestly dont know what to do. Waters gushing everywhereIm about to flood the neighboursand