Emily Taylor

At 54, I Moved in with a Man I’d Only Known for a Few Months Just to Give My Daughter Space—But It T…

At fifty-four, I moved in with a man Id only known a few months, hoping to give my daughter her space.

“I promise I’ll repay every penny when I’m grown,” the desperate little girl pleaded with the millio…

Ill pay you back every penny when Im grown up, the little homeless girl pleaded with me, begging for

“Don’t Go In! Call Your Dad Now—There’s Someone Waiting Behind That Door!” A Mysterious Old Lady Gra…

Dont go inside! Ring your dad straightaway! Theres someone waiting behind that door! An odd old woman

“You’re an Embarrassment to This Family! Did You Really Think I’d Raise That Mistake of Yours? I’ve Found a Vagrant to Take You Away!” The Notification on David Miller’s Mobile Lit Up the Sterile, Dim Cabin of His Gulfstream G650.

Youve ruined this family! Did you think Id let you waltz around here, dragging your shame along?

Can’t Wait to Get Hitched! — “Dmitry, are you coming home soon?” “Almost there. Just about finished.” “Well, hurry up! We’ve got something to talk about.” “Is something wrong?” Dmitry sounded worried. “Well, how do I put it… nothing’s happened yet, but we need to talk.” Galina was clearly anxious, but it didn’t seem like a disaster had struck. Fifteen minutes later, the head of the family opened the front door. “So, what’s going on here?” he asked his wife cautiously. “Get changed and wash your hands—no need to panic and save the universe just yet,” she said, kissing him and nudging him gently toward the bathroom. Soon he was changed and joined her in the living room. “Come on,” his wife led him to their daughter’s room. Mya sat hunched on her bed, eyes red from crying. “So, what’s happened?” Dmitry tried to stay calm. “Ask your daughter,” Galina huffed. “Go on, tell your dad what you’ve cooked up!” Mya turned away to the window stubbornly, unwilling to voice her problem. “So, ladies,” Dmitry tapped the table firmly, “either you calmly tell me what’s up without drama and theatrics, or I’m off to put my feet up after work!” “We’ve decided to get married,” Galina replied with biting sarcasm, “tonight, no less!” “Excuse me?” Dmitry blinked. “Just like that—married? And who’s the lucky bloke, if it isn’t a secret?” With Mya stonily silent, Mum had to answer again: “Ollie Morrison. That spotty lad with glasses who’s been around a lot recently.” “Ah—Morrison, eh? Well, Mya?” Still silence. “Right then, sweetheart. Enough of this silent treatment. Do I have to do a dance to get you to talk?” Dad’s temper was rising. “We love each other!” Mya blurted out. “Ollie’s the best and we’re getting married!” “Well, at least that’s clear,” Dmitry sighed. “Is he at uni with you?” “Yes, he’s in my course.” “First year,” Dmitry sighed, somewhere between understanding and resignation. “Kids…” “We’re not kids!” his daughter shot back. “We’re both eighteen—adults now!” “Well, if you’re adults, let’s talk like adults. Or shall I start—the usual ‘you’re too young, wait a bit, settle down, test your feelings’ speech you don’t want to hear?” “You want to ruin everything!” Mya shouted, “But we have real feelings! You don’t get it!” “I’m not out to ruin anything,” Dad replied wearily. “So, you both want this, yes? You’re both in?” “I don’t want you talking down to Ollie. He wants this too!” “Okay then—so you’ve got the will. Now, where are you going to live, how will you support yourselves? Thought of that?” “That doesn’t matter! Love is all we need!” his daughter declared. “Mya, how old are you? Feels like you’re in Year One, not a uni fresher. No matter how in love you are, you need somewhere to live, something to eat, every day. Why the mad rush? Nobody’s against Ollie—bring him round, we’ll meet him, talk to his parents—right, Galina?” “Completely right, darling. But there is one catch… they do have a reason to rush.” “What, Ollie getting sent off with the Army? Students don’t get called up anyway…” “No, not the Army and not Ollie.” Mum shot a look at their daughter. “Mya, should I say it all?” “I’m not silent,” Mya muttered angrily, “Ollie and I are having a baby.” “Oh my,” Dmitry muttered, stunned, “That’s… impressive. So, what’s the plan?” “Get married! Have the baby! And don’t even try to talk me into… you know what! Our baby will live!” “Alright, calm down. No one’s suggesting anything like that. Tell me—Ollie’s parents know?” “He’s meant to talk to them today. Each talk to our own parents.” “And? Has he called about it?” “N-no…” “Well, let me know if he does. Now, let me have my dinner—I’ll starve to death with all this drama.” They left to the kitchen while Galina quickly reheated his meal. “What shall we do?” she asked quietly. “I don’t know, honestly. Let’s see what his parents say—maybe we can figure something out together.” But after dinner, bad news came in: Ollie’s parents were dead set against it. Their talk ended in a row. Not looking good… Fifteen minutes later, Mya tiptoed into the lounge with her phone. “Ollie’s mum wants to speak with you. One of you.” Galina crossed her arms: “Love, could you? I just… can’t.” Dmitry rolled his eyes, but picked up. “Hello, I’m Mya’s dad, Dmitry.” “This is Louise—Ollie’s mother. Today our son told us he’s seeing your daughter. Apparently, given her ‘condition’, they’ve already crossed that line and have ‘grand plans’. Are you aware?” “Yes, we spoke to Mya.” “Good. Well, let me make this clear: we are absolutely against these ‘grand’—her voice was razor sharp—plans. Our son needs to study, get a degree, build a career. Getting married in freshers’ year—let alone a baby—is not on.” “It wasn’t part of our plans either,” Dmitry replied. “But a baby’s a baby—and it’s your son’s too, by the way. What do you suggest?” “With respect, that’s your family’s problem. Frankly, I’m not even sure the baby’s his. And even if—this ‘I’m-pregnant-so-we-must-marry’ trick won’t work with us. I understand how girls want to marry well—Ollie isn’t poor, comes from a good family, but as a mother, I’ll do everything to keep my son out of this. My husband feels the same. We’ve talked to Ollie and he agrees—please tell your daughter to leave him be. She can have an abortion or carry on—up to her. Goodbye.” The phone clicked off. Dmitry looked bleakly at his wife and daughter. “You all heard that? No abortions—that baby’s not to blame, and besides, it could be risky. It’ll be tough but we’ll manage—take a year out from uni, then go back. We’ll help, some money, childcare. As for them… we’ll see. What a pair! Right—have some tea, have a cry, but not too long. We will get through this!” He called his wife aside. “Take Mya to sleep in with you tonight, just in case. I’ll sleep in her room.” An hour later, there was a knock at the door. “Who on earth is this at this time?” Dmitry grumbled, opening the door. He soon returned to the lounge with a spotty, bespectacled lad in tow. “Ollie!” Mya ran to him. “You came for me?” “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov, I’ve come to take Mya with me.” “And where, exactly?” “I’m not sure—maybe rent a place. We’re both adults now, so please don’t stop us. Will you come with me, Mya?” “Of course! Anywhere!” “Hold on!” Dmitry held up a hand. “We’ve got some questions. Your mum says your whole family—including you—are against this.” “Not quite, Mr. Ivanov. Mum decided that. Dad just agrees with her by default. I only pretended I agreed so they wouldn’t make a scene. Then I grabbed my wallet with my ID and bank card and—poof! Here I am.” “Well, that’s interesting!” Dad raised his eyebrows. “So—you want to take Mya, rent a place. On what?” “I saved some money, worked evenings, have my own channel with subscribers. Enough for a few months—rent, food, I’ll earn more.” “Hmm… Not bad. Galina, what do you think—let them go?” “I’m not sure—at this time of night…” “That’s right, no running out at night. Look—so you’re getting married?” “Yes!” both answered. “And keeping the baby?” “Yes!” “Then we’ll help—but with some rules. First, Ollie, you do everything you can to get your parents on board—and, Mya, you support him. Ollie stays here tonight—no wandering about. Guest room for you, you’re just Mya’s friend for now. Message your folks you’re at mates’. Then prep them for the tough truth—no drama! No dropping your studies—especially you, Ollie. Mya, you’ll take leave and catch up. We’ll help out—money, babysitting—but you two are putting in the work. Low-key registry office for now—save your cash for later; proper do when things are settled. Deal?” “Yes,” said Ollie, without hesitation. “I wanted a real wedding—veil, limo, guests,” Mya pouted. “Not right now,” he replied. “We’ll do the registry quietly and, later, a big do.” “Alright, if you say so…” “Good—plans made, goals set. Time for bed, everyone’s up early tomorrow.” Later, Galina found her husband in the kitchen. “How did you change your mind so quickly?” “That chat with his mother—she was a right piece of work. Then this lad, who I thought was a hopeless mummy’s boy, turns up and stands his ground—won’t abandon his girl. That’s a real man. I’d trust our daughter in his hands.” “You’re always right, love,” she smiled, kissing him as she went to sort out everyone for the night.

Cant Wait to Get Married Tom, are you nearly home? Almost there. Just finishing up now. Well, hurry up!

She Trampled Across My Fate Like a Passing Rogue “Mum, if you don’t break things off with that brazen hussy, then don’t consider me your mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated yet again. “Mum, I can’t help it! I wish I could…” I tried explaining. …Once, there was my darling girl, sweet little Lena, just fourteen: pure, modest, precious. When I first met her at a school disco, I was eighteen. Lena caught my eye—my heart ached for her! Through her friend, by hook or by crook, I managed to invite Lena out. Did she come? No! I became a hunter, determined to catch my prize. I got her number, kept calling, pleaded for a date. Finally, she gave in, but made sure I came to meet her mum for permission. Sweating and nervous, I stood at Lena’s door. Her mother turned out to be a good-natured lady with a sense of humour—and entrusted me with her treasure for two hours. We wandered the park, chatting and laughing—innocent as you please. But then Lena said, “Vova, I already have a boyfriend. I think I love him. But he’s a terrible player, I’m sick of catching him with other girls. I do have pride, you know. Why don’t we give friendship a try? Would you like that?” Eyebrows raised, I looked at Lena with even greater curiosity. She could seem so untouchable—or so in love. I was captivated. Time flew and I delivered Lena safely home. …As time passed, I couldn’t imagine life without her. Mum also fell for this “little ray of sunshine.” Lena often visited. Mum would share advice and teach her lady’s secrets. Now and then, they’d get to chatting and forget all about me. By the time Lena turned eighteen, we were talking about a wedding. No one—not me, Lena, nor our families—doubted it would happen. The wedding was scheduled for autumn. …Summer arrived. Lena left to visit her gran in the countryside. I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum in the garden. One day, while watering the tomatoes, I heard someone call, “Young man, may I have a drink of water?” Turning, I saw a woman around thirty-five, rather unkempt but with a fire in her eyes. I didn’t recall seeing her at the cottages before. Still, I couldn’t refuse. Pouring her a cup of well water, I handed it to her: “Here you go…” She drank with pleasure, sighing, “Oh, thank you, young man! Thought I would die of thirst. Here, I’ve got a little homemade cordial. Sweet stuff. Take it as a thank you. Don’t be shy.” And she pressed a bottle into my hand. I accepted, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, while eating alone (Mum had gone into town), I drank the cordial. If Mum had been home, she would never have let me touch it. Next day, the visitor returned. Her name was Nina, she said, from the nearby village. I invited her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I fixed a quick salad and sandwiches. We chatted over drinks, not noticing how the bottle emptied. Looking back, I curse myself for what happened next… Nina took charge, as if I were a schoolboy. I was helpless, lost in a fog. When I came round, Nina had gone. Mum stood over me, anxious: “Vova, what happened while I was away? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed all ruffled, like a herd of horses ran over it?” she worried. I could barely open my eyes, my head spinning. I couldn’t explain. That evening, guilt set in—especially for my fiancée Lena… A week passed, and Nina came again. I was glad—even missed her a bit. Mum stormed out the door, hands on hips: “What do you want, woman?” I tried to calm her: “Mum, really—is that how you greet a guest? Maybe she just wants water. Why are you so hostile?” “A guest? That’s Nina the Tramp from the village! Every dog in town knows her! Goes round the dachas, seduces men! Disgraceful! After you, too—well, I won’t allow it! Get her out before it’s too late!” Mum raged. But it was already too late—Nina’s honeyed brew had enchanted me. I was tied to her with invisible strings. I forgot Lena completely. When I told Nina about my fiancée, she just said, “Come now, Vova—first loves aren’t real fiancées.” The wedding was called off. Mum called Lena over and told her everything. “Forgive him, dear—he doesn’t know he’s headed towards ruin. Don’t wait for him.” Lena soon married someone else. But Mum was determined to save me from Nina—she went to the draft office and asked them to send me to the army. So I was packed off to Afghanistan. I won’t describe what happened there—but I returned missing three fingers, just “a light wound”… My mind, of course, was badly affected. I became fearless and numb. Nina had waited for me—and we now had a son. Before heading to war I’d sown my “seed,” unsure I’d come back alive. While fighting, I dreamed of having five children one day. Mum still despised Nina, doted on Lena, and knitted socks and caps for her child—insisting that girl was my daughter. I would have been overjoyed, but alas… Lena got everything right—she would visit my mother, ask about me. Mother would shrug, “Oh, Lena, Vova’s still with that tramp. I doubt he’ll ever leave her. What he sees in her—I’ll never understand…” Years later, Lena told me my mother’s laments. Soon after, I took a job in the North. Nina and our three children came with me. Two more were born—but our five-year-old daughter died of pneumonia. The northern climate was cruel. We returned home, to cope under our own birches. More and more, I found myself longing for Lena, my forsaken bride. Mum gave me her number and even the address, but warned, “Don’t meddle in Lena’s marriage—don’t stir up trouble.” I phoned her—the reunion was instant. Lena had grown more beautiful. She invited me home, introduced me to her husband as an “old friend.” He trusted her fully, and left for his night shift, leaving us alone. There was half a bottle of champagne on the table, fruit—a daughter away with Grandma. “Well then, hello Vova! I know everything about you from your mum. How are things?” Lena sighed, looking deep into my eyes. “Forgive me, Lena. This is how it all turned out—nothing can change now. I have four children,” I stammered. “No need to change anything, Vova. We met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only your poor mother—I feel for her. Be kinder to her,” Lena asked warmly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Time hadn’t touched her—still as lovely as ever. Taking her hand, kissing it tenderly, I burst out, “Lena, I love you as I did when I was young. Our love just floated by. You can’t rewrite life—I’m sorry for everything I put you through!” “Vova, it’s time for you to go. It’s late.” Lena drew the line under our meeting. But could I just walk away like that? Overwhelmed by feelings, swept up by longing and reckless passion… …In the morning I slipped out—Lena fast asleep. We began a secret affair that lasted three years, until Lena’s family moved away and the connection was lost forever. …Nina and I divorced when our children grew up. My mother was right. A tramp is a tramp—she trampled over my fate, broke my heart. …No matter how long you boil water, in the end, it’s still just water. In the end, I had only one real child—my very first son… — She Walked Roughshod Over My Destiny: The Story of a Son Torn Between a Mother’s Warnings, a First Love, and the Allure of a Relentless Stranger

TRODDEN BY A ROGUE Son, if you dont leave that brazen woman, you can forget you have a mother!

When Little Vasily Rogov Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother, “What a big lad. He’ll be a real hero one day.” His mother said nothing. Even then she looked at the bundle in her arms as though it was not her child. But Vasily didn’t become a hero. He became superfluous. The sort of child, you know, who gets born but nobody quite knows what to do with. “Your strange boy is in the sandpit again—he’s scared off all the other kids!” shrieked Auntie Linda from her second-floor flat, the self-appointed voice of neighbourhood justice. Vasily’s mum, an exhausted woman with a dull, distant look, could only snap back, “If you don’t like it, don’t look. He’s not bothering anyone.” And Vasily really didn’t bother anyone. He was big, awkward, his head always lowered, his long arms hanging at his sides. At five he was mute. At seven, he’d grunt. At ten he finally spoke—but so hoarsely and harshly that silence seemed preferable. At school, he was sat at the back of the class. The teachers would sigh at his empty gaze. “Rogov, are you even listening?” the maths teacher would ask, tapping the board with chalk. Vasily nodded. He listened. He just couldn’t see the point in answering. Why bother? They’d give him a C to keep up the stats and send him on his way. The other kids didn’t hit him—they were scared of him. Vasily was built like a young ox. But nor did they befriend him. They gave him a wide berth, like you’d skirt a murky puddle. With distaste, at arm’s length. Home was no better. His stepdad, who moved in when Vasily turned twelve, made things clear from day one: “I don’t want to see him when I get in from work. Eats like a horse, good for nothing.” So Vasily would disappear. Wander building sites, sit in cellars. He learned to be invisible. That was his one skill—he could blend with walls, with grey concrete, the filth beneath his feet. The night everything changed, a cold, miserable drizzle was falling. Fifteen-year-old Vasily was perched on the stairs between floors five and six, unable to go home—his stepdad had guests, which meant noise, smoke, and likely a heavy hand. The flat opposite creaked open. Vasily shrank into the corner, trying to seem smaller. Out came Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna. She was well into her sixties by the look of her, though carried herself like she was barely forty. The whole estate thought she was odd: never gossiped on the bench, never discussed the price of tea, always walked with her back straight. She glanced at Vasily. Not with pity, not with disgust. Instead, she looked at him thoughtfully—as though sizing up a broken clock, wondering if it could be fixed. “What are you doing sitting there?” she demanded. Her voice was low and commanding. Vasily sniffed. “Nothing really.” “Kittens are born for nothing really,” she cut him off. “Are you hungry?” Vasily was. He always was—growing lads need fuel, and the family fridge might as well have hosted mice for all it held. “Well? I don’t ask twice.” He stood awkwardly and followed her in. Her flat was nothing like the others. Books. Books everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, on chairs. It smelled of old paper and something rich and meaty. “Sit,” she nodded at a stool. “But wash your hands first—in there, use that bar soap.” Vasily obeyed. She placed a plate before him—potatoes and a proper stew, with big chunks of beef. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten real meat. He ate fast, barely chewing. Tamara Ilyinichna just sat, chin in hand, watching. “No need to rush. No-one’s going to take it off you,” she said calmly. “Chew, or your stomach won’t thank you.” Vasily slowed down. “Thank you,” he muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Don’t wipe your mouth on your sleeve. That’s what napkins are for.” She slid the pack over. “You’re practically wild. Where’s your mum?” “At home. With my stepdad.” “Figured. Not much of a place for you there.” She said it so simply that it didn’t even sting. Just a fact, like ‘it’s raining’ or ‘the bread’s gone dear.’ “Listen here, Rogov,” she said sternly. “You’ve got two paths ahead: drift, hang around alleys and play with trouble until it finishes you; or get your act together. You’ve got strength, I can see that. But your head’s full of wind.” “I’m thick,” Vasily admitted. “That’s what school says.” “School says all sorts. Their curriculum’s for average minds. You’re not average. You’re different. Where’d you get those hands?” Vasily stared at his broad, battered knuckles. “Dunno.” “We’ll find out. Come by tomorrow. My tap needs fixing—leaks like mad and calling a plumber’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll give you tools.” From then on, Vasily began calling on Tamara Ilyinichna most evenings. First it was taps, then sockets, then locks. Turned out his hands were skilled indeed. He could sense the mechanism, knew how things worked, not with logic, but with a kind of animal instinct. Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t gentle, but she taught—firmly, with high standards. “You’re not holding it right!” she’d bark. “No-one holds a screwdriver like a spoon! Put your weight behind it!” And she’d rap his knuckles with a wooden ruler—it stung, too. She gave him books—not textbooks, but tales about people who survived against the odds: explorers, inventors, pioneers. “Read,” she insisted. “Let your brain work or it’ll go to rot. Think you’re the only one like this? The world’s been full of ‘em—and they made it. Why shouldn’t you?” Slowly, Vasily learned her story. She’d been an engineer all her life. Her husband had died young, no children. The factory closed in the 90s, she scraped by on a pension and translating technical texts. But she hadn’t broken. She hadn’t turned bitter. She just lived—straightly, sternly, alone. “I’ve got no one,” she told him once. “You haven’t really, either. Doesn’t mean it’s over. It’s a beginning. Understand?” Vasily didn’t really. But he nodded. When he turned eighteen and the time came for military service, she summoned him to a proper sit-down—pies, jam, the works. “Listen here, Vasily,” she used his full name for the first time. “Don’t come back here. You’ll fall right back in—you’ll sink in this marsh. Same estate, same people, same despair. Serve your time, then move on. North, building sites, wherever. But don’t come back. Understood?” “Understood,” he nodded. She handed him an envelope. “Here’s thirty thousand. All I’ve saved. It’ll get you started, if you’re careful. Remember, you owe nothing to anyone but yourself. Be a man, Vasily. Not for me, but for you.” He wanted to say no, not take her last savings. But when he saw her severe, insistent gaze, he realised—this was her final lesson, her final order. He left. And never returned. Twenty years passed. The estate had changed. The old poplars were gone, replaced by tarmacked car parks. The benches were metal and uncomfortable now. The building aged, the facade peeled, but stood stubbornly, like an old man with nowhere else to go. A black SUV pulled up. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fine but understated coat. His face was hard, weathered by northern winds, but his eyes were calm. Certain. Vasily Rogov. Vasily Sergeyevich, as his employees now called him. Owner of a major construction firm in Siberia. One hundred and twenty on staff, three big projects running, a reputation for honest work. He’d built himself up from nothing on those northern sites—labourer, then foreman, then site manager. Studied at night, earned a degree. Saved, invested, took risks. Went bust twice, rebuilt twice. The thirty thousand Tamara Ilyinichna had given him was long repaid—he’d sent her money every month, despite her protests and threats to refuse it. But she always accepted. Then, suddenly, the money bounced back: ‘Recipient not found.’ He stood and gazed up at the fifth-floor window. Dark now. Women sat on the estate benches—new faces, the old ones gone. “Excuse me,” he asked, “does Tamara Ilyinichna still live in flat forty-five?” The women perked up; after all, such a man, in such a car… “Oh, love, well, Tamara… she went downhill fast,” one whispered. “Memory went, got muddled. Ended up signing her flat over to some relatives, so called. They packed her off to a village somewhere. Do you remember where, Nina?” “Sosnovka, I think,” the second replied. “Some ancient family house. Nephew turned up out of nowhere. Though what nephew—she had no kin. Most odd. Flat’s already on the market.” Vasily felt cold. He’d seen such scams plenty in Siberia: find a lonely pensioner, gain their trust, get a deed signed, then ship them off to rot—if they survive at all. “Where’s Sosnovka?” “About forty miles out. Roads are iffy this time of year.” He nodded, climbed into his car, and sped off. Sosnovka was a dying village of three lanes. Half the houses boarded up, roads washed out by autumn rain. A handful of old folk and families with nowhere else to go. Locals gave him directions—a tumbling shack and a collapsing fence. Mud everywhere. On a line, some threadbare laundry. Vasily pushed the rickety gate, which creaked in protest. A scruffy man in a filthy vest, bleary-eyed from drink, emerged. “What you want, mate? Lost?” “I’m looking for Mrs Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily said flatly. “No Tamara here. Off you go.” Vasily didn’t argue. He stepped forward, seized the man by the shirt, and moved him aside, almost gently. The man yelped, landing by the steps. Vasily entered the house. Damp, mould, sourness hit his nose. Dishes, bottles, filth everywhere. In the second room—on an iron bed—lay Tamara Ilyinichna. Tiny now, dried up. Grey hair matted, her face ashen, bruises beneath her eyes, lips cracked. But it was her. The woman who’d taught him to hold a screwdriver, to believe in himself. The one who’d given him all she had and told him: “Be a man.” She opened her eyes, unfocused. “Who’s there?” Her voice was weak, broken. “It’s me, Tamara Ilyinichna. Vaska. Rogov. Remember? The one who fixed your taps.” She peered at him, blinking tears from her eyes. “Vaska…” she whispered. “Come back… I thought I was seeing things. You’re so big now. A real man…” “I am, Tamara Ilyinichna. Thanks to you.” He wrapped her in a blanket—so light, she barely weighed anything—and lifted her in his arms. Beneath the smell of sickness and damp, he caught the familiar scents of her—old paper and soap. “Where are we going?” she asked, frightened. “Home. To mine. It’s warm there. And there are books. Lots of books. You’ll like it.” On the way out, the sorry man tried to bar the way. “Oi! You can’t just take her! Show me your papers! She signed the house to me, I look after her!” Vasily stopped, looked at him—calmly, with no anger. The man blanched. “You can explain it to my lawyers,” Vasily said evenly. “And the police. And the court. And if I find out you tricked her—believe me, I’ll make sure you pay. Got it?” The man nodded furiously. It took months—hearings, paperwork, court battles—to overturn the deed, proven signed when Tamara Ilyinichna wasn’t competent. The so-called nephew was a scam artist, a repeat offender. The flat was restored; he was sent to prison. But Tamara Ilyinichna no longer needed the flat. Vasily built her a home—a real home, not a mansion, but a solid timber house on the edge of a Siberian city. Scents of wood, a crackling stove, and sunlight filled the rooms. She lived in the brightest room on the ground floor. The best doctors, a carer, nutritious food. She got better, gained some colour. Her memory never returned fully, but her spirit was intact. She read again, bossed the housekeeper, pointed out dust on shelves. “What’s that cobweb? This a house or a barn?” she’d grumble. And Vasily would smile. But he didn’t stop there. One night he came home with a thin young lad, wary and skittish, a scar along his jaw, clothes swallowing his frame. “Tamara Ilyinichna,” Vasily introduced, “this is Alex. Found his way onto the building site. No home. An orphanage boy—just turned eighteen. Great with his hands, mind’s a bit breezy.” She put down her book, fixed her glasses, and took him in, head to toe. “What are you standing around for? Wash up—soap’s in the bathroom. We’ve got meat pies tonight.” Alex jumped, glanced at Vasily for assurance. Vasily smiled and nodded. A month later, a girl arrived—Katie. Twelve, slight limp, head always bowed. Vasily became her guardian after her mum was stripped of parental rights for drink and violence. The house grew fuller—not charity, not for show but for real family. A family of those who never belonged anywhere. The rejects, who’d found each other. Vasily would watch as Tamara Ilyinichna taught Alex to plane wood, rapping his knuckles with that ancient ruler. As Katie read aloud in a slow, stumbling voice but read all the same. “Vasily!” called Tamara Ilyinichna, “Why are you dawdling? Come help! The youngsters can’t move the wardrobe on their own!” “Coming,” he’d reply. He’d step towards them—towards his strange, patchwork, difficult family. And for the first time in forty years, he knew he wasn’t superfluous. He was exactly where he was meant to be. “Well, Alex,” Vasily asked one evening as the house slept, “how do you like it here?” The lad sat on the porch, staring at the stars. The Siberian sky was massive, cold, full of light. “It’s alright, Uncle Vasily. Just weird, that’s all. Why would you bother with me? I’m a nobody.” Vasily sat beside him, handed over an apple from his pocket. “Once someone told me: ‘Kittens are born for nothing, really.’” Alex chuckled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means nothing happens for no reason. Not good, not bad. There’s always a reason, always a consequence. You’re here now—not for no reason. So am I.” Light burned late in Tamara Ilyinichna’s room, her reading way past doctor’s orders. Vasily shook his head. “Off to bed, Alex. We’ve a fence to mend tomorrow.” “Yeah. Goodnight, Uncle Vasily.” “Goodnight.” He stayed a while on the porch. Perfect silence. No shouting neighbours. No fights. No fear. Just crickets and the distant hum of the road. He knew he couldn’t save everyone who’d been cast aside. But these ones—he had. Tamara Ilyinichna. Himself. For now, that was enough. And then, he’d get up and carry on—just as she’d taught him.

When they brought Simon Turner out of the maternity ward, the midwife told his mother, “

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Fairy By the time she was in Year 7, it was clear to everyone that Lisa Bradshaw would make a wonderful

The Further Apart We Are, the Closer I Feel… “You know what, my dear grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one option: I won’t go stay with my daughters anymore, nor wander from friend to friend, and I’m not going to look for a ‘companion’ at my age. Honestly! Trying to marry me off in my sixties! “Gran, it’s what I keep telling you! Mum says it too — move into a retirement home. Just transfer the house to my name, they’ll give you a room, Mum will sort it out. You’ll have neighbours your age, someone to talk to, and you won’t be in my way.” “I’m not leaving my home, Sasha. If I bother you, there’s the door in every direction. You’re young and clever, go find a flat and live as you please. Didn’t want to study? Go get a job. Bring a new girlfriend over every day if you want. I’m nearly 65; I need my peace and quiet. “I’ve drifted about long enough — it’s time to come home. It’s not right, being forced out of my own house, while you and your parade of fiancées live off my pension. My pension isn’t endless, you know. You have one week. Find a flat or go stay with your friends, or that, what’s-her-name — forgot again — but I want you out by tonight. Imagine it! Trying to send me to a home, or set me up with a suitor at my age! “The grandson tried to argue, but Lydia turned away, went to her room, and shut the door, head pounding. She’d have taken a pill, but didn’t want to cross paths with her grandson in the kitchen, so she sipped the last of the mineral water from her bedside bottle instead. *** Lydia surprised herself with her resolve. Years of frustration had finally boiled over. She’d put up with it for two years — bouncing from one daughter’s house to the other, always shooed home after a hint that her stay had ‘dragged on.’ “Now her twenty-year-old grandson is playing master in her cottage. One week it’s this girlfriend, next week another, and Gran gets in the way, wheezing on the other side of the wall, ruining the romance. “Gran, go visit someone. Then Dasha, Masha, Chloe, Sarah — whomever I’m dating this week — and I could have the place to ourselves.” And so Lydia would traipse to her cousin’s, or her mate’s, or an old colleague’s — overstaying each welcome until, inevitably, she wore out her hosts. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a new baby. Life in London, a mortgage, an older child at school — she needed Gran’s help as much as ever. Lydia moved in, and at first, everyone was delighted: hot meals, a spotless flat, looked-after grandchildren. But within a few months, the son-in-law — just ten years younger than Lydia — began to complain: “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages — they’re dreadful for us. You’re home all day, is it really that hard to make proper food? Cutlets, maybe, or roast chicken…” “Cutlets are good, but you’re spending a fortune on groceries!” “Do I look like some grass-munching herbivore? There’s barely any meat!” On and on, always something not quite right. “You’re at home with the kids, surely you could help the older one with her homework — why pay tutors with a grandmother here?” Even her older granddaughter — only in Fourth Year, mind you — was mortified by Gran’s unfashionable clothes and her insistence on studying. “Gran, why are you even here? You’ve got your own cottage in the country, go back there and be bossy!” Lydia stayed silent, making up for her “shameful” granny ways by giving pocket money, buying meat out of her tiny pension, sometimes topping up her grandson Sasha’s energy bills. Telling her daughter was useless — the girl wouldn’t hear a word against her precious husband, never mind she’d poached him from another family. Whenever the little one was in nursery, they’d gently drop hints — Lydia’s help was no longer needed. The moment she realised it, Lydia left without waiting to be pushed. Coming home, she found Sasha, her eldest daughter’s son, installed — and not alone, but with his girlfriend, her little house a mess, bills unpaid. She had no choice but to cover the costs with a loan and tidy up. But apparently, her presence ruined her grandson’s “personal life” in the two-bedroom cottage. Almost before she could settle, her younger daughter called for help with the new baby, and off Lydia went again. Three months later, sensing she was a nuisance once more, she returned home — but Sasha was still dissatisfied. So she might have endured it all again, had one incident not tipped her over the edge. *** “Sasha, I’m off to Shirley’s for her birthday — I’ll be late, just lock up, I’ll sneak in the back so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay overnight? Give us a couple days to ourselves, yeah?” “I’m only just home a week — how could you be fed up with me already?” “Well, a week is long enough. Staying over or not?” “No. I’m coming home.” At Shirley’s, they celebrated — memories, laughter, trying not to mention the problems. Then Shirley got a call — Lydia’s daughter, asking Shirley to keep her mum overnight so the young couple could have the house to themselves. “She even rang last week,” Shirley whispered after the call, “asking me if I knew any older fellas with a spare flat for you to move in with. All so Sasha could have the cottage.” *** Lydia poured her heart out — about living with her eldest daughter and then the youngest, about feeling like an intruder in her own home thanks to her good-for-nothing grandson. “I’m not even mistress in my own house anymore. Sasha left for town after school, but his step-granddad made him feel unwelcome, so he came back, no college, not drafted. Now he’s my permanent houseguest.” Lydia refused to stay that night, went home, and finally told Sasha everything she’d kept bottled up. Sasha complained to his mother, but Lydia stood her ground. Sasha moved out in a huff — “Don’t expect help from me, Gran!” he snapped. Lydia was glad to be alone. For once, she could breathe, after a life spent catering to everyone else. Her daughters begged her to move back in for help with the grandchildren. But Lydia refused. “Bring them to me,” she said. “The air’s healthier here. At last, I’m mistress of my own home.” Now, whenever her daughters and grandchildren visit, she welcomes them gladly — but no more moving or putting her life on hold. Lydia says, the further apart we are, the closer we become. And I think she’s right.

The further away, the closer to heart You know what, my dear grandson! If Im truly such a burden to you