Emily Taylor

She Swapped Her Grandmother’s Unattractive Old Ring for Modern Jewellery—Now Her Mum Has Caused a Scene

My mother gave me my grandmothers ring. It wasnt an exquisite vintage heirloomno, it was an awkward

“Why Do You Need a Mortgage? Just Move In with Us—Our House Will Be Yours One Day!” My Mother-in-Law Insists We Live Together Instead of Buying Our Own Home

You can live with us, theres no need to bother with a mortgage! Youll have our house one day!

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Great Job! Husband Spends Nights With His Current Wife, Days With His Ex – My Life With Frank, His Persistent Ex, and Never-Ending Drama

Well done! Husband with his current wife at night, ex-wife during the day I’m 38 years old, and

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Dad’s Better Than Anyone – A British Family Drama of Divorce, Rivalry and a Teenager’s Hard Lesson in Love “Max, we need to talk.” Olga nervously straightened the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases, trying to hide her anxiety behind a calm voice. Max, hunched over his phone opposite, tapped the screen with dramatic focus – his favourite method of ignoring. “Son… I need to explain something important to you.” No reaction, just the soft clicks of a mobile. Olga took a deep breath, gathering courage for words she’d delayed for a week. “When your dad and I split up… it was half a year before I introduced you to Richard. I didn’t rush. I wanted to be sure it was serious.” Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager lifted his head, eyes flickering with outrage, so intense that Olga instinctively recoiled. “Serious? That bloke means nothing compared to Dad! He couldn’t even hold a candle. Dad’s better than him at everything!” Memories of that first meeting struck Max with painful clarity—a tall stranger in their hall, mum’s anxious smile, the whiff of strange cologne. An intruder, unforgivably filling Dad’s place. “He isn’t a stranger,” Olga replied softly. “He’s my husband.” “Yours!” Max flung his phone onto the table. “Means nothing to me! My dad is Dad. This guy…” He didn’t finish, but contempt did his talking. Richard had tried, lord, how he tried. Evenings spent in the garage fixing Max’s bent bike, hands stained with engine grease, a determined smile against every setback. “Look, got the frame straightened,” he’d say, wiping his hands. “You can take it out tomorrow?” Silence met every gesture – icy, reverberating silence. Every evening Richard sat by Max’s desk, breaking down equations in plain words. “If you move X here—” “I get it,” Max would cut him off, even when it was clear he didn’t. Mornings brought the smell of freshly made pancakes and honey—Max’s favourite. Richard stacked them high on his plate. “Dad made them thinner,” Max would mutter, barely touching his food. “And Dad’s honey was proper. This is rubbish.” Every act of care crashed against a wall of cold indifference. Max seemed to collect ammunition for sarcastic comparisons. “Dad never shouted.” “Dad always knew what I liked.” “Dad did everything right.” Olga and Richard’s wedding shredded the fragile truce. Max took the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. The house became a minefield, mornings chilled by silence, nights ending in slammed doors. Max transformed into a secret agent, tracking every misstep by his stepdad like a detective. A sharp word over dinner – recorded. A sigh over homework – memorised. A tired “not now” after work – banked as grievance. “Dad, he had a go at me again,” Max would whisper in his bedroom. “Really?” Dad tutted, faking sympathy. “Poor lad. Remember those trips to the park? Every weekend, yeah?” “Yeah…” “That’s what a proper family was. Not this.” His dad painted a picture: perfect past, easy happiness, Dad flawless. Richard, meanwhile, felt like an unwelcome guest. Every look from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’ll never be my family. The pressure built to breaking point. One evening, disaster struck. “You’ve no right to boss me about!” Max exploded when Richard asked for phones off at dinner. “You mean nothing to me!” Olga froze. Something inside her snapped. Max’s glare was venomous. “My dad is better in every way. He says you ruin everything. Life was better before you!” “Enough,” Olga said quietly. “That’s enough.” The next morning, she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Hands shaking, but her resolve steel. “Tom,” she began evenly, “if you think you’re the better parent, take Max. Permanently. I’ll pay maintenance if need be.” The silence dragged. “Well… the timing’s awkward…” Tom fumbled. “Work’s busy, loads of travel… I’d love to, but…” He shuffled papers, coughed awkwardly. “And, well, Jane—my girlfriend—she’s not ready for a kid yet. We’ve just moved in, trying to settle…” Weak excuses. Tom, who’d encouraged Max to attack Olga’s new family. Who fed him bitter words, stoked every little grievance. Now—just a cramped flat, some DIY and a girlfriend who’d rather not. “I understand, Tom,” Olga said, voice flat. “Thanks for your honesty.” She ended the call. That evening, she called Max to the living room. He slumped into a chair, defiant, but something in Mum’s gaze made him wary. “I spoke to your dad today.” Max tensed. “And what did he say?” Olga sat across from him. “He won’t take you. Not now, not ever. He’s got a new life, a new woman, and there’s no room for you.” “That’s a lie! He loves me! He told me—” “It’s easy to say things,” Olga replied softly. “But when I offered, he remembered his ‘repair work’ and his little flat.” Max’s mouth opened but he couldn’t contradict. “Now listen,” Olga leaned in. “No more comparisons with Dad. No more spying, no disrespect to Richard. Either we’re a family—us three—or you go live with your dad, who doesn’t want the job. I’ll make him take you. Then you’ll see for yourself what he’s really like.” Max sat motionless, eyes wide. “Mum…” “I’m not joking.” Olga didn’t flinch. “I love you more than anything. But I won’t let you destroy my marriage. Your behaviour is unacceptable. I’ve had enough. It’s your choice.” Max froze, his world in pieces. Kindly Dad vs ‘bad’ stepdad wasn’t so simple anymore. Dad wouldn’t take him back. He’d chosen his girlfriend and decorating. Had he used Max only to spite Mum? Painful understanding dawned. All those calls, all the questions—just ammunition. Tom gathering fuel for his own vendetta, Max unwittingly supplying it. He swallowed hard. And Richard? The man he’d mistreated for months? Patiently fixing his bike as Max ignored him. Baking pancakes every morning. Staying, trying, never quitting… Change wasn’t easy. Weeks passed with Max hiding in his room, ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Seeing Richard reminded him of: “You mean nothing to me.” He wanted to disappear. Everyone tread softly, speaking in cautious phrases. The house felt like an intensive care ward, teetering between hope and collapse. First step: a physics problem. Max struggled for two hours, chewed his pencil, finally found the nerve. “Richard…” The word was hard, stuck in his throat. “Can you help? It’s the vectors.” Richard glanced up from his laptop. No surprise or victory, just quiet acceptance. “Let’s have a look.” A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting by the lake, watching the bobbers, Max chatted about school, mates, a girl he fancied. No accusations, no comparisons – just a real conversation. Richard listened, nodded, occasionally added his thoughts. Max realised: this was real family. Not dreamy words or rose-tinted memories, but quiet breakfasts, patience, and sticking around when everyone else gave up. This time, Max chose right…

Dads Still the Best Max, we need to have a chat. Helen fussed over the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary

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Temporary Houseguests: When Family Crashes in ‘Just for a Month’ and Leaves Chaos Behind

Listen, love, I need to talk to you about something Emily braced herself for a long chat. Whenever her

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The Truth That Left Her Heart in Knots While hanging out fresh laundry in her backyard, Tanya overheard sniffles and peeked over the fence. Sat at the bottom, by her garden gate, was eight-year-old Sophie – her neighbour’s little girl, small and scrawny for her age, more like six than a second-year primary student. “Sophie, have they upset you again?” Tanya opened up the loose fence panel she kept for Sophie’s escape, and the child darted across as she so often did. “Mum kicked me out,” Sophie sobbed, wiping her eyes. “Said ‘get out’ and shoved me out the door. She and Uncle Colin are inside partying.” “Come in, love. Lizzie and Mike are having lunch, I’ll fix you a plate,” Tanya soothed, guiding Sophie inside. Tanya had rescued Sophie from her mother Anna’s rough hands more times than she could count – Anna’s temper made the girl’s life miserable, but living just across the fence let Tanya step in. She sheltered Sophie until Anna cooled down. Sophie envied Tanya’s kids, Lizzie and Mike – their home was warm, filled with gentle words and caring parents. Tanya and her husband were always kind; arguments were rare, hugs plentiful. Sophie visited as much as she could, desperate for the warmth and comfort. At home, everything was forbidden. Anna made Sophie haul water, scrub the shed, weed the vegetable patch, mop the floors. Anna had Sophie out of wedlock, and from the start, disliked her own child. When Sophie was younger, her gran – Anna’s mum – was still alive, bedridden but loving, a protector. But when Granny passed away just before Sophie turned seven, things got worse. Anna, bitter about life without a husband, spent her days searching for one. Anna worked cleaning at the lorry depot, surrounded by men. A new driver, Colin, arrived, and soon Anna moved him in. Colin – divorced, paying child support – gladly accepted Anna’s invitation, grateful for a roof over his head. Anna fawned over Colin, but her daughter got only chores, scolding, and sometimes a smack. “If you don’t obey, I’ll have you sent to foster care,” Anna threatened. Sophie, weak from overwork, got punished for failing to clean the shed, hiding by Tanya’s currant bush to cry, praying for rescue. She grew timid, withdrawn. Neighbours gossiped about Anna’s cruelty, living in a village where everyone knew everyone. Tanya spoke out, but Anna shot back, spreading rumours: “Don’t listen to that nosy Tanya! She wants my Colin, that’s why she lies about me.” Anna and Colin drank and partied often; those nights, Sophie escaped to Tanya’s, sometimes for the whole night. Tanya alone understood her pain. Years passed. Sophie did well in school. After Year 11, she longed to train as a nurse in the city. Anna said flatly, “No – you’re working now, grown-up. I won’t support you any longer.” Sophie ran from home, tears streaming, because home was no place for crying. She poured out her troubles to Tanya, whose own children studied in the city. Tanya finally confronted Anna. “Anna, you’re no mother – you’re heartless. Most parents do everything for their children; you just make Sophie miserable. You don’t love her, but it’s your duty, your conscience! She passed school with flying colours and you want her working in a dead end? She’s your daughter, Anna – some day you’ll regret this.” “Who are you to tell me how to run my family?” Anna exploded. “Look after your own, not my Sophie. She’s always whining to you!” “Wake up, Anna! Colin sent his son to school in the city, and he doesn’t even live with him! But you torment your girl. Are you really her mother?” Anna screamed, but collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted. “Yeah, I’m strict, maybe harsh – but it’s for her own good. I don’t want her to end up like me, with a kid born out of wedlock. Fine, let her go – let her train if she wants,” Anna relented. Sophie got into nursing college, delighted. Her clothes were shabby, but others from rural areas were dressed just as simply, so it didn’t matter. She visited home rarely. She dreaded going back, but holidays forced her to, always stopping in at Tanya’s first, where she was welcomed like family. Anna had new problems – Colin began seeing a younger woman. Anna raged endlessly; Sophie came home during one of these episodes, unwelcome. “What are you doing here? Just here to sponge off me? If you’ve got time off, go work.” One day, Colin appeared and packed his bags. “Where are you going? I won’t let you!” Anna shrieked. “Rita’s expecting my child. I’m not leaving him – unlike you, I care. Rita may bring home a new man someday, and he might hurt my son. No way. Your Sophie’s never felt a mother’s love, like you found her under a bush. My baby will have his mum and dad, and grow up loved. That’s what matters.” He left. His words devastated Anna. She couldn’t scream, beg, or cry. The truth hit – closing her mouth, her eyes, shutting everything inside. She couldn’t even sob. Sophie overheard it all. She didn’t comfort her mother. Memories flashed: every time she’d been yelled at, struck, thrown out for disturbing her stepfather’s peace. Colin never defended her, only watched with a smirk. In her last year, Sophie found work at a hospital to support herself. She stopped going home. Anna drank, her health failing, barely scraping by. Sophie blossomed into a lovely, hard-working young woman, kind to colleagues and patients. People praised her upbringing, assuming Anna had been a good mother. But Sophie kept quiet, smiling: “It’s all Aunt Tanya. I owe her everything – protection, understanding, kindness, and the career I love.” Anna’s new friends were drinking buddies, and every rare visit stunned Sophie with her mother’s decline. Anna had long been fired. Sophie wished she could throw those friends out, fix up the house, start fresh, mend things. But Anna wouldn’t change, sinking ever lower. Sophie held back tears and didn’t cry as she left for area hospital work after graduating top of her class. Arriving one last time, she found her mother alone and bitter. “What do you want? Staying long? There’s nothing to eat, fridge’s off. Give me money – my head hurts.” Sophie felt the lump in her throat, but held firm. “I’m not staying. I passed college with honours, moving to work at the regional hospital. I won’t visit often, but I’ll send a little money. Goodbye, Mum.” Whether Anna even registered Sophie’s words was unclear – her focus was drink, so she demanded cash. “Just give me money – don’t you care about your mother? What kind of daughter are you…?” Sophie quietly set some bills on the table, shut the door behind her, pausing, hoping Anna might chase after her, embrace her. She didn’t. Sophie drifted next door to Tanya’s. Tanya was thrilled, seating Sophie for lunch. “Come join us, Sophie! We’re just sitting down,” Tanya’s husband already at the table. “I almost forgot – here’s a present for passing with distinction – and a little cash to help you get started,” Tanya smiled. Sophie thanked her and broke down in tears. “Aunt Tanya, why? Why does Mum treat me like I’m nothing?” “Don’t cry, love,” Tanya comforted, “Don’t cry now… Anna’s just that way. Maybe you were born at the wrong time. But you’re clever and wonderful – you’ll find love and happiness, Sophie, I promise.” Sophie moved away to work as a surgical nurse in the city. She found love and married Oleg, a young doctor. At her wedding, it was Tanya at her side, beaming with pride. Anna boasted to bar room friends, “My daughter sends money, she’s grateful, I raised her right. Just a shame she didn’t invite me to her wedding or visit, I’ve never even met my son-in-law or grandkids.” Some time later, Tanya found Anna dead in her home – no one knew how long she’d lain there. Tanya realised something was wrong when the yard next door was silent. Sophie and her husband arranged the funeral, sold the house soon after, and visited Tanya and her family from time to time.

The Truth That Struck to the Core Sarah was hanging freshly washed clothes on the line in her back garden

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Happy Women Always Look Fabulous: Lila Finds Confidence and Love After Her Husband’s Betrayal at Forty, With a Little Help From Her Glamorous School Friend

Happy women always look wonderful Eleanor was shattered by her husband’s betrayal. At forty, she

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ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, marriage was never part of my plan. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s relentless courtship, I’d probably still be flying free as a bird. Artem fluttered after me like a lovesick moth, never letting me out of his sight, eager to please, never missed a detail. Eventually, I gave in. We got married. Artem instantly felt like home—a familiar, comforting presence, as easy as slipping into cosy slippers. A year later, our son Svyatoslav was born. Artem worked in another city, coming home once a week, always bringing tasty treats for me and our little Svya. During one of those visits, as I prepared to do his laundry, I went through the pockets—and out tumbled a neatly-folded list. I unfolded it. It was a long list of school supplies (it was August), and at the end, in a child’s handwriting: “Daddy, come home soon.” So that’s what my husband gets up to on the side! A double life! Instead of causing a scene, I packed my bag, grabbed Svya (not quite three yet) by the hand, and moved in with Mum. Mum gave us a room: “Stay until you make up.” Thoughts of revenge crept in. I remembered my old classmate, Roman. He’d never taken no for an answer, at school and beyond. So I called him. “Hi, Romka! Married yet?” “Nadia? Hello! Married…divorced…it’s all the same! Shall we meet?” My unplanned fling with Roman lasted six months. Artem brought child support for Svya every month, handing it silently to my mum and leaving. I knew he was living with Katya Yevseyeva, who had a daughter from her first marriage. Katya insisted her little girl call Artem ‘Daddy’. They all lived in Artem’s flat. As soon as Katya found out I had gone, she moved with her daughter to Artem from another city. Katya worshipped him—knitted socks, warm jumpers, cooked delicious meals. I’d only hear about it later. I still tease Artem about Katya to this day. Back then, our marriage seemed dead in the water. …Yet, over coffee (to discuss the divorce), Artem and I were suddenly swamped by fond memories. He confessed to an all-consuming love, repented, and admitted he didn’t know how to get rid of persistent Katya. I felt unbearably sorry for him. We reunited. For the record, Artem never learned about Roman. Katya and her daughter left town for good. Seven happy years flew by. Then Artem was in a car accident. Several surgeries, rehab, a walking cane—the recovery lasted two years. It wore him out. Artem began drinking heavily, shutting down completely. Words failed; he wore himself and us out. Refused help. Meanwhile, at work, my “shoulder to cry on” was Paul. Paul listened to me in the smoking area, walked me home, comforted me. He was married, expecting his second child. I still don’t know how we ended up in bed together. Madness. He was a head shorter than me, not remotely my type! And so it began! Paul dragged me to exhibitions, concerts, ballet. Once his wife had their daughter, Paul stopped the fun, quit our office, got another job. Maybe he thought: ‘out of sight, out of mind’? I never made demands, so I let him go. He only numbed my heartache. I never meant to interfere in another family’s love. My husband drank on. …Five years later, Paul and I bumped into each other. He seriously proposed. I just laughed. Artem managed to pull himself together—briefly—and went to work in the Czech Republic. While he was away, I was the model wife and mother, every thought revolving around my family. He came back after six months. We renovated the flat, bought appliances, and Artem finally fixed his foreign car. Life should have been perfect. But no—he relapsed. Hell resumed. His friends carried him home. I’d run round our neighbourhood in search of my absent husband, finding him asleep on benches, pockets turned out, dragging him back. …One spring day, I was waiting at a bus stop, feeling low. Birds chirping, sunshine sparkling, but I couldn’t care less. Someone softly whispered in my ear: “May I help with your troubles?” I turned. Good heavens! What a handsome, fragrant man. And at 45, could I really become a berry again? I flushed like a shy girl. Thankfully, the bus arrived. I hopped on, escaping temptation. He waved. All day at work, my thoughts drifted to him. For a few weeks, I played hard to get, just for show… But Egor—so he was called—powered through my defences like a tank. He waited for me every morning at the same stop. I’d watch for him. He’d spot me and blow kisses. One morning, he brought a bouquet of red tulips. “What am I supposed to do with flowers on my way to work? The girls will suspect something!” Egor smiled, handed the bouquet over to an intrigued old lady. “Thanks, dearie! May you find a passionate lover!” I blushed at her words—thank heaven she didn’t wish for a younger one! Egor said: “Come on, Nadia, let’s both be guilty! You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the offer was irresistible and timely. My husband was out of action, lying in a drunken stupor. Egor was a teetotal, non-smoking former athlete (57 years old) and a wonderful conversationalist. Divorced. Something enchanting about him! I plunged headlong into this affair! It was a whirlwind of passion for three years. I was torn between home and Egor, my soul in turmoil. Stopping wasn’t an option—but when the desire to leave did come, I lacked the strength. As they say, ‘the girl drives the lad away, and he won’t go.’ Egor completely possessed me, body and soul! When Egor was nearby, I could barely breathe! It felt like madness! But I knew this obsession would end badly. I didn’t love Egor. Coming home drained (after my fiery lover), I just wanted to cuddle my husband—blearily drunk, smelling foul, but so familiar and pure! Better plain bread with your own than someone else’s fancy cakes! That was my truth. Passion—as in suffering—made me want to get it over with and return to family life, not keep chasing excitement. At least, that’s how my mind reasoned. My body ignored it. Still, I couldn’t stop myself. My son knew about Egor. He saw us at a restaurant with his girlfriend; I had to introduce them. They shook hands. Later, Svya looked at me for an explanation. I joked: a colleague invited me to discuss a new project. “Right…in a restaurant,” he replied knowingly. Svya never judged me—asked me not to divorce Dad. Maybe he’d come round. I felt like a lost lamb. My divorced girlfriend urged me to “ditch these miserable lovers and settle down.” Her advice carried weight—she’d finished off husband number three. Though, it was all logical, I could only stop when Egor raised his hand to me. That was the breaking point. As my friend warned: “The sea’s calm as long as you stay on shore…” The scales fell from my eyes. Life was in colour again! Three years of anguish—gone. Freedom and long-awaited peace! Egor kept chasing me everywhere, begging publically for forgiveness. I stood firm. My friend kissed me and gave me a mug that said “You Did the Right Thing!” As for Artem, he knew all about my escapades. Egor called him, told him everything. My lover was sure I’d leave my family. Artem told me: “When I heard your suitor’s serenading, I just wanted to quietly die. But I brought this on myself. Lost my wife to drink. What could I say to you?” …Ten years have passed since then. We have two granddaughters. One day, sitting at our kitchen table, sipping coffee, I gaze out the window. Artem gently takes my hand: “Nadia, stop looking around. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Truth be told, I never really planned on getting married. If it werent for the

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The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60. Not a single family member bothered to call and wish me a happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and my ex-husband is still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious universities there. Both smart, successful. My daughter is married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son married the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers and plenty of properties; besides their public sector jobs, each runs their own business. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished university. Said he was tired of living life at such a pace. Yet he always worked quietly at one job, relaxed with friends at weekends or lounged on the sofa, and spend his holidays for an entire month visiting relatives in Cornwall. I never took time off — worked three jobs at once: as an engineer in a factory, cleaning in management offices there, and, on weekends, as a packer at the local supermarket from 8 to 8, plus cleaning staff rooms and storage areas. Every penny I earned went to the kids — London is expensive, and studying at elite universities required good clothes, food, and social life. I learned to wear old clothes, mended and patched shoes. Always clean and tidy. It was enough. My only escape was my dreams — sometimes I’d see myself, happy and young, laughing. After he left, my husband bought himself a new luxury car, probably saved up plenty. Our life together was odd — all expenses were mine, except council tax. That was his one contribution. I put the kids through school… The flat we lived in came from my nan. A lovely, well-kept Victorian two-bed, converted into three rooms. There was an 8.5 square metre storeroom with a window that I renovated, making a cosy space with bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves; my daughter lived there. My son and I shared a room (I was only home to sleep), my husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her storeroom; my son had the bedroom. We parted calmly, no rows, no dividing up stuff or blame. He wanted to LIVE a happier life — I was so worn out, I felt relief… No need to cook meals, wash his clothes, iron, fold, hang — I could use that time to rest. By then, my health was shot — back, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves. For the first time ever, I took annual leave and focused on getting well. I kept my side jobs. Got better. Hired a great tradesman, got a proper bathroom remodel. That was real joy — HAPPINESS for myself! All these years, I sent my successful kids money instead of presents at birthdays, New Year’s, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Then came the grandkids. So I couldn’t give up work. Never spent money on myself. Rarely got any congratulations back, just occasional replies. No presents. Worst of all, neither child invited me to their wedding. My daughter said honestly, “Mum, you wouldn’t really fit in with the crowd. There’ll be people from the Cabinet Office.” My son — I only knew he’d married from my daughter, after the big day. At least they didn’t ask for money for weddings… Neither child ever visits, no matter how much I invite. My daughter said, ‘Why would I go to the back of beyond?’ (Our city’s got a million people.) My son — ‘I’m busy, Mum!’ There’s a train to London every hour! Only two hours away… What would I call that period? Probably ‘Life of suppressed emotions.’ I lived like Scarlett O’Hara — “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Bottled up tears and pains, from bafflement to despair. Like a robot programmed only to work. Then the factory was sold to Londoners, reorganisation happened. Us older staff were made redundant; overnight, I lost two jobs, but got early retirement out of it. My pension is £800… Try living on that. Luckily, a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey Victorian block — went to scrub stairwells — another £800. Still pack and clean on weekends at the supermarket, decent pay per shift. Hardest bit is being on my feet all day. Started fixing the kitchen myself bit by bit, hired my neighbour to fit a new one — did a good job, not too pricey. Saved up again. Wanted to redo the rooms, update some furniture. Didn’t have myself in the plan, though! What did I buy for myself? Just basic food, and never much at that. Medication — costs a lot. Rent’s up every year. Ex-husband says, ‘Sell the flat, it’s a great area, you’ll get a fair price. Buy yourself a one-bed.’ But I can’t let it go. Memories of my nan. I don’t remember my parents. My nan raised me. My whole life is in this flat. Managed to stay friendly with my ex. We talk now and then, like old neighbours. He’s fine. Never talks about his private life. Once a month he brings shopping — potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. Heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says delivery brings rubbish, bruised and rotten. I agree. Inside, everything feels stuck — all tight and pinched. Just keep going. Work a lot. No dreams, nothing I want for myself. Only see daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. Glimpse my son’s life on my daughter-in-law’s Instagram. I’m glad they’re well. All healthy, enjoying lovely holidays, fancy restaurants. Maybe I never gave them enough love. That’s why there’s no love for me. My daughter sometimes asks how I am. I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son sometimes sends WhatsApp voice notes: ‘Hi Mum, hope you’re OK.’ He once said he didn’t want to hear about family problems, couldn’t handle drama. So I stopped telling him anything, just reply, ‘Don’t worry, son, all’s well.’ I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know they have a living grandma — a pensioner and cleaner. Probably, officially, grandma’s long since gone… I don’t even remember the last time I bought something just for myself, except maybe some underwear or socks, the cheapest kind. Never been to a salon for my nails… Once a month I get my hair cut at the barber’s on the corner. Dye my hair myself. My one comfort — same dress size in youth and now, so I don’t ever update my wardrobe. And I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed — the back pain never stops. Scared of being bedridden. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way — no breaks, no small pleasures, always working and always putting everything off ‘for later.’ And where is ‘later?’ It’s gone… My soul is empty… my heart is numb… Emptiness all around me… I don’t blame anyone. And I can’t blame myself, either. I worked all my life and I’m still working. Building up a little safety net, just in case I can’t carry on. Not much, but it’s something… Although, truthfully, I know if I can’t get up, I won’t go on living… don’t want to be a burden to anyone. And you know the saddest thing? No one ever gave me flowers… EVER… Wouldn’t it be funny if the first bouquet comes to my grave… honestly, it’d be laughable…

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed… A Confession from a Sixty-Year-Old Woman Susan: This

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Another Year Together: Arkady and Natalie’s Unbreakable Bond, Memory Lost and Found, Illness, Miraculous Encounters, Loyal Friends, and the Joy of Welcoming the New Year as One

Another whole year together… Lately, Arthur Robinson hadnt been going out alone. He stopped after