Emily Taylor

No More “You Have To”: Anton Comes Home to Dried Pasta and Teen Silence, Decides to Talk Honestly with Vera and Kostya About Worries, Not-So-Perfect Days, and What Family Really Means

Without the “Must” It seems so vivid now, thinking back to those evenings in the old terraced

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The Last Summer at Home

Last Summer at Home William arrives on a Wednesday, when the midday sun is already warming the slate

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We’ll Live for Each Other After his mother’s death, George slowly started to recover. His mother had spent her last days in the hospital, where she eventually passed away. Before that, she was bedridden at home, with George and his wife, Vera, taking turns to care for her. Their houses stood side by side. He had offered for his mother to move in with them, but she had stubbornly refused. “Son, your father died here, and this is where I want to die. It’s easier for me,” she sobbed, and George couldn’t go against her wishes. It would have been easier for George and his wife to care for his mother if she’d lived with them, but their daughter, Kate, was only thirteen. They didn’t want her to see her grandmother fade away. George worked in shifts, Vera was a primary school teacher, so they managed by taking turns staying the night at his mother’s house. “Mum, is Grandma going to die soon?” Kate once asked. “It’s a shame, she’s so lovely.” “I don’t know, sweetheart, but everyone’s time comes. That’s life.” When Grandma’s condition worsened, she was taken to hospital. George had a younger sister, Rita, three years his junior, with a son, Tony, who was mainly looked after by Grandma and Vera, since Rita was always “away on business trips,” as she claimed. She’d long been divorced, had little interest in caring for their mother, knowing her brother and sister-in-law took care of it all. Rita was George’s polar opposite: hard, selfish, and confrontational. Three days later, their mother passed in hospital. After the funeral, they decided to sell her house, as it needed constant attention or it would soon fall to ruin. Their mother had long since left the house to her son in her will—there had never been a real relationship with the daughter. Rita knew and didn’t even speak to their mother because of it. But after the sale, George’s wife urged him: “As soon as the money’s in your hands, split it fifty-fifty with Rita.” “Vera, Rita’s got her own flat—her ex-husband left her that when he left with nothing. She’ll only squander it anyway.” “Doesn’t matter, George. Our conscience will be clear. Otherwise she’ll just bad-mouth both of us.” George agreed, and handed over half to his sister, who responded, “Is that all? Where’s the rest?” Time passed. Kate turned fifteen, when misfortune struck again—this time, Vera fell seriously ill. She had been feeling unwell, blaming tiredness from work, until she collapsed in the garden. She was hospitalized, but it was already too late: the dreaded disease had taken hold. “Isn’t there anything you can do for my wife?” George pleaded with the doctor. “We’re doing everything we can, but she came to us too late,” the doctor shook his head. George brought Vera home, cared for her alongside Kate; her condition worsened every day. He even took time off work to be by her side, but eventually his leave ran out—while he was at work, Kate took care of her mother, feeding and washing her. One day, Rita turned up: “George, my washing machine’s broken—can you have a look?” “Alright, I’ll drop by,” he promised, and mended it after work. As he was leaving, he said, “You should come by and help us now and then, so Kate’s not left alone with Vera. She’s just a child, and it’s exhausting work even for an adult.” “Oh please, don’t go bringing up favours from years ago. Vera helped me with Tony, yes, but I was away working. Anyway, I gave her a gold ring for all that.” “Yes, you did, but she gave it straight back and you took it.” “If she didn’t want it, I’ll keep it. And anyway, it’s not the same as looking after a dying person. Don’t expect it from me.” Rita turned and left without even a thank you. George was done. “Don’t ask me for anything again. You’re heartless.” He put his sister out of his mind after that. Vera faded quickly. One day, Kate saw her father coming down the road and rushed out. “Dad, Mum’s really bad—she’s turned to the wall and won’t eat or talk.” “It’s alright, love, we’ll get through this. We will,” he reassured her, but that night Vera passed away. Father and daughter were now alone in the world. Oddly, George felt a little relief: Vera didn’t have to suffer anymore, and Kate was spared seeing it. He loved his wife, but the cruel illness had worn him and Kate down to the bone. After Vera’s funeral, grief overwhelmed George—he missed her smile, her kindness, her care. Kate mourned, but tried to comfort her father: “Dad, we did everything we could, and even though Mum’s not here, we’ll get used to it in time. The main thing is we have each other.” He was taken aback by his daughter’s maturity. She devoted herself to her father—cooking, managing the house, and sharing their daily news over dinner. Not long after, George came home and Kate told him, “Aunt Rita dropped by for Mum’s old fur coat and some other things. She said you knew.” “I never told her that. Don’t let her in again,” George told her, “lock the door as soon as you’re home. She’s no business here.” Then, George fell ill at work—severe chest pain, struggling to breathe. His colleague called an ambulance; he was rushed to hospital. Kate rushed to his bedside, brokenhearted, but a doctor comforted her: “Don’t cry, your dad just needs rest and treatment—he had a pre-heart attack.” With school, home, her father in hospital, Kate had to step up, stretching herself thin. She visited George daily, even cooking for him. One day Rita turned up with a pie. “Kate, I baked this for your dad in hospital. I won’t visit—he can’t stand me. Take it for him, don’t say it’s from me.” Soon after, Tony arrived—he sometimes helped Kate out, being her cousin. “Forgot my keys at home, just popping in. Wow, did you bake this pie?” “No, your mum did—for my dad. Let me cut you a piece, after school and all.” They shared pie and tea, then set off for the hospital together. Suddenly Tony went pale, gripped the handrail, and collapsed on the hospital steps—the doctors discovered he’d been poisoned. “What did he eat?” the doctor asked Kate. “The pie Mum baked for my dad,” Kate replied. “Don’t give your father any,” the doctor said, and took it away to investigate. Rita was called to the hospital. “Oh my God, Tony, what happened? How could you get so ill?” “It was your pie, Aunt Rita!” Kate blurted, and Rita went white as a sheet. Soon after, Rita was taken away by the police. It turned out she’d poisoned the pie, planning to kill her brother and sell his house; she assumed Kate would go to uni and live in halls. But she hadn’t reckoned on Tony eating it. When George was released from hospital, he visited Rita with Kate and Tony. “Forgive me, George, please Tony, please Kate… I see what I’ve done. Forgive me,” she sobbed. George withdrew the charges, Rita was released. Tony couldn’t forgive her—their relationship shattered—he spent more and more time with George and Kate. “Uncle George, I can never forgive my mother. I hate her—how could she?” “Tony, you can’t choose your parents. What your mum did was terrible, but she sincerely regrets it. Everyone can make a mistake. Give her a chance, forgive her—she’s suffering.” Slowly, things began to mend. Tony got into university, Kate finished school and was also planning to study—she hated the thought of leaving her father alone. “It’s fine, love, I’ll manage. You need to get your degree. We’ll live for each other—you’ll come home for weekends and holidays. Your mother always wanted you to go to teacher’s college.”

Well Live for Each Other After my mother died, I began to come to terms with it. Shed been in hospital

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Leave, Chris

Plates of lukewarm dinner still stood untouched on the kitchen table. Eleanor stared through them as

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Time to Stand Up: When the Mother-in-Law’s Criticism Pushed Natalie Too Far in Her Own Home – And Her Husband Finally Took Her Side

Completely Unravelled Daisy, have you completely given up on hoovering? My eyes are streaming with all

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Time to Stand Up: When the Mother-in-Law’s Criticism Pushed Natalie Too Far in Her Own Home – And Her Husband Finally Took Her Side

Completely Unravelled Daisy, have you completely given up on hoovering? My eyes are streaming with all

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012

Haunted by the Past: Living in the Shadow of a Perfect Wife and a Daughter’s Unforgiving Grief

Put your hat on, its freezing out there. Youll catch your death. Caroline held out the woolly hatblue

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John and Mary: A Tale of Choices, Love and Rural Dreams John never wanted to leave his English village for the city. He loved the open fields, the winding river and the woods, and enjoyed the company of fellow villagers. He decided to become a farmer, keeping pigs and selling the meat, hoping his business would grow and that he’d eventually expand. He dreamed of building a big house; he already had a car, though it was modest and old, and he had invested the money from selling his grandmother’s cottage into the farm. But there was another cherished dream – to marry Mary and make her the lady of his future home. They were already dating. Mary knew John’s business wasn’t booming yet, there was no big money, and the house project had only just begun. Mary was a beauty, but she never intended to make her own way in life. “What’s the point of being beautiful if my husband doesn’t provide for me?” she told her friends. “I just need to find the right man who’ll take care of everything. My looks are worth a lot.” “John’s building his house, and he’s got a car too,” said her friend Lucy, “He just needs a bit of time, he’ll get things going.” “But I want it all and I want it now!” Mary pouted. “Who knows how long John will take to succeed? He’s got no real money yet.” John loved Mary, but he sensed her feelings weren’t as strong as he hoped, though he clung to the belief that she’d love him in time. Life might have trundled along, but everything changed when Tom arrived in the village. Tom was in town on holiday with a friend, staying with his gran. At first, Tom looked down on the local girls, hoping for excitement at the village hall, but he soon became bewitched by Mary’s beauty. Mary at first ignored the outsider, but when she learned Tom came from a wealthy family—his father was an important city councillor—she quickly shifted her attention to him. Tom was older and more worldly, smooth-talking and generous with flowers. The bouquets he gave her weren’t sold anywhere in the village; he ordered them specially, which Mary noticed and appreciated. John was perturbed when Mary started accepting Tom’s flowers. “Don’t take his flowers! Why are you winding me up?” he said, but Mary just laughed. “Don’t be silly, it’s only flowers. What’s the harm?” John confronted Tom: “Stop giving flowers to Mary. She’s my girl. I’ve plans for her.” Tom didn’t back down, and soon a fight broke out. Luckily, John’s mates intervened before it got out of hand. But things turned sour between John and Mary; she began to avoid him, and John—hurt—kept his distance. Mary realised Tom was only in the village for a month before he’d return to the city. “I need to act fast, catch Tom’s attention, and head to the city with him. There’s nothing for me here in the village,” she plotted. It wasn’t hard to lure Tom to her house. Her parents were off selling at the market. Mary timed it so that her parents would catch them together. Catching them in bed, her strict father was furious: “What’s all this then?” he demanded. Mary looked down while Tom shifted nervously. “Well. Tom, if you’ve taken advantage of our daughter, you’ll do the right thing by her. You’ll marry her or else,” her father declared, hustling Tom into the next room. No one knows what was said, but the very next day Mary and Tom filed for a wedding license, driven by her father, while her mother began preparing them to move to the city. The news swept the village. John was devastated, though he tried not to show it. Inwardly, Tom berated himself. “Why did I come here? I let myself get ensnared by a crafty country girl.” Mary, meanwhile, looked forward to city life and the happiness—and luxury—she hoped to find. “I’ll love him, have his children, and he’ll thank his stars it worked out this way. I only wonder how his parents will take to me,” she thought. But Tom’s parents were delighted: their son had finally brought home a pretty and down-to-earth village girl, not another city gold-digger. Mary quickly won them over, proving herself a capable housekeeper. They all lived together in a large four-bedroom flat, and Mary found herself comfortable and warmly welcomed. Even Tom came to see Mary wasn’t as cunning as he’d suspected. “Sure, she trapped me into marriage, but I think she genuinely believes we’ll be happy,” he thought, even though he himself couldn’t see it working. Tom, however, looked forward to a return to bachelor fun after the wedding—he had plenty of girlfriends in town. But then, over dinner with his parents, Mary dropped a surprise: “I’m pregnant—we’re going to have a baby.” “Congratulations, Mary! We’ve long hoped for grandchildren,” gushed Tom’s mother. Tom realised there was no point protesting; it was too late. The wedding went ahead. Tom’s parents gifted the newlyweds a fully furnished flat. But Mary noticed Tom was less than thrilled to be a father. “He’ll change once the baby arrives. He’ll see how wonderful it is,” Mary hoped, blind to the trouble brewing in Tom’s heart. After the wedding, Tom was rarely home, always away on ‘business trips’. Mary, not knowing exactly what Tom did for work, believed his stories. She never complained to his parents about his constant absences. Instead, she waited for him dutifully, making nice meals and keeping the home tidy—though she missed her own village and old friends, and, more and more, found herself thinking of John. She began to doubt her choices. When asked if he loved her, Tom dodged the question. Tom’s mother noticed Mary’s gloom and guessed the truth about her son. The birth of their son was a joy for the whole family; Tom was briefly touched, but nappies and sleepless nights soon made him irritable. Mary, exhausted, could no longer keep the house perfectly. Tom wanted to escape. Worse, he found that now he was married, most of his flings wanted nothing to do with him. He never spoke about Mary to anyone. She had no qualifications, came from the country, and he worried about her working: “Once the boy is older, what can she do? Cleaner? Stallholder? That’d hurt the family reputation. I suppose I’d be better off just paying child support.” Tom had a regular lover, Kate, who had her own place and money and wanted no children. He felt at ease with her and moaned about his life: “Kate, you should see the state of my house—the chaos! I don’t love my wife, I can’t stand the kid. Mary may be pretty but she’s so country. Honestly, I’m fed up. How can I take her anywhere when she’s never seen anything outside her village and cows?” Mary began to realise her marriage was never going to be what she’d hoped. She suspected Tom had someone else; he returned home smelling of unfamiliar perfumes and smudged with lipstick, snapping at her and their son, sometimes even raising a hand. She rang her mother to complain, but her mother responded: “We didn’t make you marry Tom. We thought you’d marry John. You chose yourself, so make your bed and lie in it. When you’re finished, you can come home, but only if you’re ready to stay.” Mary was left crushed. One evening, she checked Tom’s phone while he was asleep and found shocking messages between him and Kate. She told Tom’s mother-in-law, who warned her: “If you think of divorcing Tom, remember: we’ll go to court for the child. You know what connections my husband has. Tom’s the biological father, he’s well-off and the flat is legally his. What can you give the child—no education, no job, no means? Just think.” One night, as her son fussed with a fever and new teeth, Tom grew impatient with the crying. Kate texted, waiting for him. “Give them the sleeping pills I gave you—they’ll drop off quick,” Kate wrote. Mary read the message and panicked. What if Tom really gave them the pills? What if he poisoned them? While Tom showered, Mary rang John and explained everything. “I’ll come and get you, take you back home,” he said. “Don’t worry about Tom’s family—they’re just scaring you. Just stay calm, settle your son and ring me back when Tom leaves, I’ll be nearby.” Mary managed to get her son to sleep, pretended to sleep herself, and when Tom checked and then left, she quickly packed a bag and called John. He whisked her away to his house. Tom only returned the next evening to an empty flat. He rang his parents. “No, Tom, Mary and the baby haven’t been here. Has she left you?” his mother feigned concern. “Should I call the police?” “No, Mum. Don’t call. In fact, I’m relieved she’s gone. She and the boy have worn me out. Let her do as she likes. Please, Mum,” he pleaded until she agreed. Time passed. Mary divorced Tom and married John. They lived happily in John’s big house, soon expecting another child—at last, Mary realised that her true happiness was with John.

July 22nd Ive always known I could never leave my village. The rolling hills, winding rivers, endless

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I Learned Someone Had Left This Baby at the Baby Hatch Next to the Maternity Unit—Three Months After My Husband’s Death, I Decided to Adopt the Child Abandoned by Their Parents

I learned that someone had left a newborn in the Baby Safe Haven near the maternity wing of St.

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Every Man for Himself “Mum, you wouldn’t believe what’s happening on the housing market right now,” Max fidgeted with the stack of printouts, alternating between piling them neatly and fanning them across the kitchen table. “Prices are jumping every week. If we don’t put down a deposit now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of lukewarm tea towards her son and took a seat opposite him. Floor plans, numbers, repayment charts flashed across the pages. Three bedrooms in a new development: a room for Tim and Sophie, finally their own space. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s a lot. But Anya’s at her wit’s end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hiding in rented corners…” Lydia looked at her son and saw the little boy who used to bring her bunches of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, two children… and the wrinkle between his brows was the same as when he worried over his homework. “I’ve got savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay it back, honestly. As soon as things settle down, I’ll start saving again.” She covered his hand with hers, roughened from decades of cooking and cleaning. “Max, this is for my grandchildren. There’s no question of repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank branch, Lydia filled in the forms with the precise handwriting that came from thirty years as an accountant. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly everything she’d saved over recent years. For a rainy day. Just in case. “What if.” Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter, not caring about the queue. “You’re the best, Mum. Really. I’ll never forget it.” She patted his back. “Go on now. Anya must be waiting.” …The first months after the housewarming blurred into endless journeys across the city. Lydia would arrive laden with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, cheese, yogurts for the kids. She helped Anna hang curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she shouted as she juggled curtains with explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cabbage rolls. Anna nodded, scrolling through her phone. Max would appear in the evening—tired from work—snap up Mum’s cooking and vanish into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d call over his shoulder. “Don’t know what we’d do without you!” …Six months later her familiar number flashed on the screen. “Mum, I need a favour… This month’s mortgage payment coincided with car repairs. We’re thirty-five grand short.” Lydia transferred the money, no questions asked. Life’s tough for the young ones—everyone knows that. New expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. Never mind, they’ll get back on their feet—and the money, well, they’ll return it. Or not. What does it matter, really, when it’s family? The years slipped by quicker than water through fingers. Tim turned seven, and Lydia gifted him that Lego set he’d begged his parents for all year. Sophie twirled in a pink dress sparkling just like a princess’s. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie swung from her neck, smelling of children’s shampoo and toffees. Every weekend Lydia whisked the grandkids off—to the theatre, the park, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her old coat bulged with sweets and wet wipes. Five years melted into this generous, voluntary servitude. Mortgage money—“Mum, we’re strapped this month.” Sick days with the kids—“Mum, we just can’t get off work.” Groceries—“Mum, you’re at the shops anyway.” Gratitude faded with time… …That morning she studied the water stains on her kitchen ceiling. Rusty streaks spread across the plaster. Her flat was flooded—impossible to live in now. She dialled her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve no idea when I’ll get compensation…” “Mum,” Max cut her off, “You know my priorities are totally different now. Clubs for the kids, Sophie’s ballet, Anya’s signed up for an evening course…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a builder, or—” “I’ve literally no time for this, Mum, not for something so trivial,” Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. “Let’s come back to it later. We’ll chat, ok?” The dial tone… Lydia lowered the phone. Her screensaver flashed—a photo from last New Year’s Eve. Her, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a thought. The weekends she’d given to his children. The time, the energy, the love—all that was “back then.” Now—it was “different priorities.” A drip from the ceiling splashed onto her hand. Cold… The next day Anna called—a rare event that set Lydia on edge even before her daughter-in-law spoke. “Lydia, Max told me about your chat,” Anna sounded irritated, “But everyone has to deal with their own problems, don’t they? We’re paying off the flat ourselves now, the mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been covering every third month. The deposit—almost entirely from her. “Of course, Anya,” she answered evenly. “Each to their own.” “Exactly. We’re on the same page. Max was worried you’re upset though—you’re not upset, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone… Lydia placed the phone on the table and gazed at it for a long time, as if it were some alien insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—there was nothing out there for comfort. Nights turned into endless hours—the ceiling pressing down, her thoughts restless. Lydia lay in the dark, counting off the last five years like rosary beads. She had done this herself. Raised in her son the certainty that a mother is an endless resource. The next morning, Lydia phoned the estate agent. “I’d like to put my country cottage up for sale. Six plots, Surrey. Electricity connected.” The cottage she and her late husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted, pregnant with Max. The veranda—so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up in a month. Lydia signed the papers without allowing herself to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account and she methodically planned it out: repairs, a new savings account, a small rainy day fund. The workmen started on her flat the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, the wallpaper, the fittings herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting things away “just in case” or thinking which family member might need her help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three. A month. Lydia remained silent too. The phone rang after the renovations were done. The new kitchen gleamed, windows sealed tight, pipes no longer groaned with rust. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “Been busy.” “With what?” “My life, Max. My own life.” She visited the following week. Brought books for the grandchildren—good gifts, but nothing extravagant. Sat for two hours over tea, discussing the weather, Tim’s schoolwork. Declined to stay for dinner. “Mum, could you mind the kids on Saturday? Anya and I—” “Can’t. I’ve got plans.” She saw his face fall. He didn’t understand. Not yet. The months rolled by and understanding came—slowly, painfully. Without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage devoured a third of their income. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Meanwhile, Lydia opened a high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Took herself to a spa for two weeks. Enrolled in a Nordic walking group. She remembered how Anna’s parents had always kept their distance. Polite birthday cards, dutiful visits every couple of months. No money, no help—in fact, no sacrifices at all. And not a single complaint from their daughter. Perhaps they were right all along? Rare visits with the grandchildren turned into a formality. Lydia would come, bring simple gifts, chat about school, friends… Leave after a few hours, not staying overnight or whisking the children off for the weekend. Tim once asked: “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s got things to do these days, Timmy.” The boy didn’t get it. But Max, standing in the hallway, perhaps at last began to. Lydia would return to her newly renovated flat, filled with the smell of fresh paint and new furniture. Brew fine tea, settle into the comfy chair she’d bought with the cottage money. Guilt? Yes, it crept in now and then. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love doesn’t mean self-sacrifice. Not when no one notices or values your sacrifice. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood, she chose herself.

Every Man for Himself Mum, you cant imagine whats happening on the housing market at the moment, James