Emily Taylor

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

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

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

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

“I couldn’t leave him behind, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “Do you understand? I just couldn’t Nikita was fourteen, and the whole world seemed against him—or rather, no one cared to understand him. “There’s that troublemaker again!” muttered Auntie Clare from the third flat, hurrying to cross the other side of the courtyard. “Raised by a single mum. There’s your result!” Nikita walked by with his hands shoved into the pockets of his battered jeans, pretending not to hear—though he heard everything. His mum was working late again. On the kitchen table, a note: “Meatballs in the fridge, heat them up.” And silence. Always, endless silence. Now, he was trudging home from school, where teachers had yet again sat him down for “a talk” about his behaviour. As though he didn’t realise he’d become everyone’s problem. He understood. But what did it matter? “Hey, lad!” called Uncle Victor, the ground-floor neighbour. “You seen a lame dog about? Ought to chase it off.” Nikita stopped. Squinted. By the rubbish bins, a dog lay—full-grown, ginger with white patches. Lying still, but its eyes followed people. Clever eyes. And sad. “Someone get rid of it!” Aunt Clare chimed in. “Probably diseased!” Nikita walked closer. The dog didn’t move, only wagged its tail feebly. On its back leg, a ragged wound, dried blood. “What are you staring at?” snapped Uncle Victor. “Grab a stick, get rid of it!” Something snapped inside Nikita. “Don’t you dare touch him!” Nikita burst out, shielding the dog. “He’s done nothing wrong!” “Well, there’s a first,” said Uncle Victor, amazed. “A little defender.” “And I’ll keep defending!” Nikita crouched beside the dog, gently reached out. The dog sniffed his fingers and gave his palm a soft, grateful lick. A warmth flooded Nikita’s chest. For the first time in ages, someone greeted him with kindness. “Come on,” he whispered to the dog. “Come home with me.” Back at home, Nikita made a bed for the dog with his old jackets in the corner of his room. Mum wouldn’t be home till evening—no one to shout or chase “the pest” out. The wound looked nasty. Nikita found articles online about first aid for animals, wincing at medical lingo but determined to learn. “Needs rinsing with antiseptic,” he muttered, searching the medicine cupboard. “Then dab around with iodine—carefully, so it won’t hurt.” The dog rested quietly, trustingly giving his bad leg. Looked up at Nikita in a way no one had for a long time. “So, what’s your name? You’re ginger… Ginger it is—how’s that sound?” The dog barked softly—as if agreeing. Come evening, Mum arrived. Nikita braced for an argument, but his mum silently checked Ginger, felt the bandaged leg. “You did the dressing yourself?” she asked quietly. “Yeah. Found out how online.” “What will you feed him?” “I’ll find something.” She looked at her son a long time. Then at the dog, who gratefully licked her hand. “Tomorrow, we’ll take him to the vet,” she decided. “See what’s up with his leg. Have you settled on a name?” “Ginger,” Nikita answered, beaming. For the first time in months, there was no wall between them. In the morning, Nikita got up earlier than usual. Ginger tried to stand, whining softly. “Stay put,” Nikita soothed. “I’ll get you water, fetch some food.” No dog food at home. He gave up his last meatball, soaked bread in milk. Ginger gobbled it up, but gingerly, licking every crumb. At school, Nikita didn’t talk back to teachers for once. Thought only of Ginger—was his leg hurting, was he lonely? “You’re different today,” his form teacher remarked, puzzled. Nikita just shrugged. He didn’t want to explain—kids would laugh. After school, he dashed home, ignoring neighbours’ stares. Ginger greeted him with happy yelps, able to stand on three legs already. “Right, buddy, want to go outside?” Nikita made a lead out of rope. “Just take it easy, mind your leg.” In the courtyard, something unexpected happened. Aunt Clare saw them and nearly choked on her sunflower seeds. “He’s brought it home! Nikita! Are you mad?” “So what?” said Nikita calmly. “I’m treating him. He’ll get better soon.” “Treating him?” the neighbour stepped closer. “And where do you get the money for medicine? Steal it from your mum?” Nikita clenched his fists, but held back. Ginger pressed close to his leg, sensing his nerves. “Don’t steal. Spent my own—they’re breakfast savings,” he said quietly. Uncle Victor shook his head. “Son, do you get what you’ve taken on? That’s a living soul, not a toy. Needs feeding, healing, walking.” Now, every day began with a stroll. Ginger recovered quickly, soon running about, though still limping a bit. Nikita taught him commands—patiently, for hours. “Sit! Good boy! Give me your paw! Like that!” Neighbours watched from a distance. Some shook their heads, others smiled. But Nikita only noticed Ginger’s loyal eyes. He changed. Slowly, over time. Stopped being rude, started tidying at home, even his grades improved. He had a purpose now. And it was just the beginning. Three weeks later, Nikita’s greatest fear came to pass. He was walking Ginger after dark, when a gang of strays burst out from behind the garages. Five or six dogs—angry, hungry, eyes burning in the night. The leader, a huge black mongrel, bared its teeth and charged. Ginger instinctively shrank behind Nikita. His leg still hurt; he couldn’t run. The pack sensed weakness. “Back off!” Nikita shouted, swinging the leash. “Go away!” But the pack closed in. Circled. The black leader snarled, about to pounce. “Nikita!” came a woman’s scream from above. “Run! Leave the dog and run!” It was Aunt Clare, leaning from her window. Other neighbours crowded behind her. “Lad, don’t be a hero!” bellowed Uncle Victor. “That dog’s lame—he’ll never outrun them!” Nikita glanced at Ginger. Trembling, the dog stayed put—pressed to his side, ready to share his fate. The black dog leapt first. Nikita shielded himself, but the bite landed on his shoulder, teeth sinking through his coat. And Ginger—despite his pain, despite his fear—lunged to protect his boy. Sank his teeth into the pack leader’s leg, locked on with all his might. A brawl broke out. Nikita fought off the dogs, kicking, flailing, desperately trying to shield Ginger. Receiving bites, scratches, but refusing to retreat. “Heavens, what’s happening!” wailed Aunt Clare. “Victor, do something!” Uncle Victor ran down with a stick, a metal pipe—whatever came to hand. “Hang on, lad!” he shouted. “I’m coming!” Nikita was nearly overwhelmed when he heard Mum’s voice: “Get off them!” She burst out of the block with a bucket of water, dousing the gang. The strays scattered, spitting and snarling. “Victor, help!” she called. Uncle Victor rushed over with his stick; more neighbours came running. The street dogs, realising they were outmatched, fled. Nikita lay on the tarmac, clutching Ginger. Both bleeding, both shaking—but alive. Safe. “Son,” Mum knelt beside him, examining his scratches. “You scared me half to death.” “I couldn’t leave him, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “You see? I just couldn’t.” “I do see,” she replied softly. Aunt Clare came down to the courtyard. Stared at Nikita, as if seeing him for the first time. “Boy,” she stammered. “You could’ve di—because of a dog.” “It’s not ‘because of a dog’,” Uncle Victor cut in unexpectedly. “It’s for a friend. Understand the difference, Clare?” The neighbour nodded silently, tears running down her cheeks. “Let’s get home,” Mum said. “We need to tend to those wounds. Ginger too.” Nikita struggled to his feet, carried Ginger in his arms. Ginger whimpered, but his tail twitched—he was happy, knowing his master was near. “Wait,” said Uncle Victor. “Going to the vet tomorrow?” “We are.” “I’ll drive you. And pay for the treatment—the dog’s a little hero.” Nikita looked at his neighbour, surprised. “Thank you, Uncle Victor. But I’ll manage.” “Don’t argue. You can pay me back when you earn it. For now…” the man clapped Nikita on the shoulder. “For now, we’re proud of you. Aren’t we?” The neighbours nodded in silence. A month passed. On a typical October evening, Nikita was heading home from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteered on weekends. Ginger trotted alongside—his leg healed, almost no limp. “Nikita!” called Aunt Clare. “Wait a sec!” He paused, bracing for another lecture. But she handed him a bag of dog food. “This is for Ginger,” she said shyly. “Good stuff—expensive. You take such care of him.” “Thank you, Auntie Clare,” Nikita replied sincerely. “But we have dog food. I’m working at the clinic now—Dr. Anna pays me.” “Take it anyway. You’ll be glad you did.” At home, Mum was making dinner. When she saw Nikita, she smiled. “How’s it going at the clinic? Is Dr. Anna pleased with your work?” “Says I’ve got the right touch. Patience too.” Nikita gave Ginger an affectionate pat. “Maybe I’ll be a vet—seriously considering it.” “And how’s your schoolwork?” “Fine. Even Mr. Peterson praised me in Physics. Said I’m more focused.” Mum nodded. In the past month, her son had become unrecognisable. No longer rude, helping at home, greeting neighbours. Most importantly—a purpose. A dream. “You know,” she said, “Victor’s coming round tomorrow. Wants to offer you another little job. His mate runs a dog kennel—needs a helper.” Nikita grinned: “Really? Can I bring Ginger too?” “Think so. He’s almost a working dog now.” That evening, Nikita sat outside with Ginger, practising a new command—“Guard.” Ginger tried his best, watching Nikita with loyal eyes. Uncle Victor stopped by, sat down next to them. “So, off to the kennel tomorrow?” “Yes—with Ginger.” “Then get an early night. It’ll be a busy day.” After Victor left, Nikita stayed in the courtyard a little longer. Ginger rested his head on his master’s lap, sighing contentedly. They’d found each other. And they’d never be alone again.

“I couldn’t leave him, Mum,” whispered Michael. “Do you understand? I just couldn’

Circumstances Don’t Just Happen—They’re Made by People: The Story of How Oleg Rescued an Abandoned Dog, Gave Her a Home and Fought to Keep Her When Her Old Owner Returned

Circumstances dont simply come abouttheyre shaped by people. Yet so often, we create the very situations

Max held onto his regret for rushing into divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife Max Peterson’s cheerful mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered the building. At home he was greeted with comforting predictability: slippers at the door, the appetising aroma of dinner, a spotless flat, and fresh flowers in a vase. He wasn’t moved: his wife’s at home, what else would an older lady do with her days? Bake pies and knit socks. (Alright, maybe not the socks—but you get the point.) Marina appeared as usual, smiling and ready: “Hard day? I’ve baked pies—cabbage, apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze. She stood there in her trousered, at-home suit, her hair tucked away under a kerchief—her chef’s habit from a lifetime in the kitchen. Her eyes subtly lined, lips sparkling with gloss: another lifelong habit, one Max now found gaudy. Why doll up old age! He shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he spat out: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips quivered; she didn’t reply and didn’t set the dinner for him. It was just as well. The pies were under a towel, the tea brewed—he could handle it himself. After a shower and dinner, kindness began to return to him, along with memories of the day. Swaddled in his favourite bathrobe, Max settled into his reserved armchair and pretended to read. He recalled what that new colleague had said: “You’re quite the handsome man—and interesting, too.” At 56, Max headed up the legal department of a major firm. A recent graduate and three women over forty reported to him; another was off on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya. Max had been on a business trip during her hiring; he met her properly today. He invited her into his office to introduce himself. With Asya came the scent of delicate perfume and the sense of youth. Blonde curls framed her soft face; confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a telling beauty spot. Thirty, she said? He wouldn’t have guessed above twenty-five. Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old son. He saw it as a good sign—for reasons he couldn’t explain. Chatting, he joked about being “the old boss.” Asya fluttered her lashes and protested with words that lingered with him for hours. His wife, her hurt eased, appeared with his nightly chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always at the wrong moment.” But drank it anyway. Suddenly, he wondered what Asya might be doing now, this young, pretty woman—and felt a sting of long-lost jealousy. **** After work, Asya stopped by the supermarket: cheese, a loaf, kefir for dinner. At home, she hugged her son Vasili with routine more than affection. Her dad tinkered in his workshop, mum made tea. Asya announced a headache—no one to bother her, please. Truthfully, she was simply low. Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…

Malcolm harboured a persistent regret over his quick divorce. Clever men, he mused, turn their lovers

“Dad, please meet my future wife and your daughter-in-law, Barbara!” Boris beamed with happiness. “Who?!” exclaimed Professor Dr. Roman Fillimore, incredulous. “If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny!” Roman eyed the rough hands and dirty fingernails of his supposed new daughter-in-law with distaste, convinced this country girl had never seen soap or water. “My goodness! How lucky my dear Laura didn’t live to see this disgrace! We tried to teach Boris good manners,” he thought in dismay. “It’s not a joke,” Boris challenged. “Barbara is staying with us, and in three months we’ll be married. If you don’t want to support your son, I’ll manage without you!” “Hello!” Barbara smiled and strode confidently into the kitchen. “I’ve brought pies, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms…” she listed off the items from her tattered bag as Roman watched in horror; a splatter of jam ruined the pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth. “Boris! Wake up! If you’re doing this to spite me, it’s awfully cruel. Which village did you find this uncouth girl in? I won’t let her stay in my home!” the professor shouted in despair. “I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live here,” Boris replied mockingly. Roman realized his son was taunting him and retreated in silence to his study. Their relationship had changed since Laura’s passing. Boris became unruly, dropped out of college, disrespected his father, and lived carelessly. Roman still hoped Boris would return to the thoughtful, kind boy he once knew, but every day his son grew more distant. Now, Boris had brought home a country girl, knowing his father would never approve. Eventually, Boris and Barbara married—without Roman’s blessing. The professor refused to attend the wedding, unwilling to accept this unrefined daughter-in-law. It irked him that Barbara, so uneducated and awkward, replaced the wonderful Laura as mistress of the house. Barbara seemed oblivious to his hostility and tried her best to please him, only making things worse. Roman saw nothing good in her, only bad manners and ignorance. Boris, after his brief stint as a model husband, returned to his old drinking and carousing. Roman often overheard their heated arguments and secretly hoped Barbara would leave for good. One day, Barbara burst in, sobbing. “Professor Fillimore! Boris wants a divorce, he’s kicked me out—and I’m pregnant!” “Out on the street? Surely not—go back to your village,” he replied lightly. “Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship,” he added cheerfully, pleased to finally be rid of his bothersome daughter-in-law. Barbara wept and gathered her things. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or how Boris could toss her aside so carelessly. She was from the countryside, yes, but she had a heart and feelings, too… *** Eight years passed. Roman Fillimore now lived in a care home, his health rapidly declining. Boris wasted no time placing him there, eager to avoid extra responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other choice. After a lifetime teaching thousands the virtues of love and respect—letters of thanks still arrived from former pupils—he’d failed to raise his own son right… “Roman, you’ve got guests,” his roommate said, returning from a walk. “My son? Boris?” Roman blurted, though he knew that was wishful thinking—Boris would never visit; his resentment ran too deep. “Dunno. The nurse said I should fetch you. What are you waiting for? Go on!” his friend encouraged. Roman took his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. As he descended the stairs, he immediately recognized her—eight years on, yet unchanged. “Hello, Barbara,” he said softly, guilt lingering for his past refusal to support this honest, simple woman. “Dr. Fillimore?” Barbara gasped, surprised. “You’ve changed so much… Are you ill?” “Yes, a bit…” he answered with a sad smile. “How did you find me?” “Boris told us. He won’t see his son at all, but the boy keeps begging to visit his dad, or his grandad… Ivan isn’t at fault that you don’t acknowledge him. He’s lonely without family. We’re alone together…,” Barbara’s voice trembled. “Sorry if this was a bad idea.” “Wait!” said Roman. “How’s Ivan now? I remember last time you sent a photo, he was just three.” “He’s at the entrance—shall I call him?” Barbara offered nervously. “Of course, dear—call him!” Roman replied, delighted. Ivan, a ginger-haired boy who resembled Boris, came shyly to meet his grandfather for the first time. “Hello, son! You’ve grown so much…,” Roman said, moved to tears as he hugged his grandson. They spent the day walking through the autumn park, Barbara sharing her struggles: her mother’s early death, raising Ivan and managing the farm alone. “Forgive me, Barbara. I’ve been so wrong. Despite thinking myself clever and educated, I’ve only just realized people should be valued for their sincerity and kindness, not just their intellect and manners,” Roman confessed. “Dr. Fillimore, we have a proposal,” Barbara said, smiling nervously. “Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’d be wonderful to have family close.” “Grandad, come on! We’ll go fishing, pick mushrooms in the woods… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room in our house!” Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go!” Roman said, smiling. “I missed my chance to raise Boris well, but maybe I can give you what I didn’t give him. Besides, I’ve never lived in a village—I think I’ll like it!” “You’ll love it!” Ivan replied, bursting with laughter.

Dad, let me introduce youthis is my future wife, and your daughter-in-law, Harriet! David beamed, his

The Lonely Heart of the Cat Thudded in His Chest, Thoughts Racing and Soul Ached—What Had Happened for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Lesley Was Gifted a Pitch-Black British Shorthair for Her Housewarming, She Barely Recovered from Shock… Her Modest One-Bedroom Flat, Financed with Great Effort, Was Barely Furnished, and Life Was Full of Other Worries. Suddenly, There Was a Kitten. Still Reeling, Lesley Looked into Its Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a boy or a girl?” “A boy!” “All right, you’ll be called Felix,” she said to the kitten. The kitten opened his tiny mouth and obediently squeaked, “Meow”… ***** It turned out British Shorthairs make wonderful companions. And for three years now, Lesley and Felix have lived together in perfect harmony. Through sharing life, Lesley discovered Felix’s touching soul and big heart. He eagerly greeted his owner after work, warmed her at night, watched films snuggled by her side, and trailed after her during chores. Life with Felix became vibrant. It was nice to have someone waiting at home—someone with whom to laugh or cry, who understood her instantly. It seemed all was perfect, but… Recently Lesley noticed pain in her right side. She blamed an awkward twist, then heavy food, but as things worsened, she saw a doctor. When the doctor revealed her diagnosis and explained what lay ahead, Lesley sobbed all evening into her pillow. Felix, sensing her pain, quietly curled beside her and tried to comfort her with his soothing purr. Unknowingly, lulled by Felix’s purring, Lesley fell asleep. By morning, resigned to her fate, she decided not to tell her family about her illness—she wanted to spare herself pity and awkward offers of help. She still hoped medicine might help. A course of treatment was recommended. Then came the question: Where would Felix go? Deep inside, accepting that her illness could end tragically, she decided to find Felix a loving new home. She posted online, offering purebred Felix to good hands. When the first caller asked why she was parting with an adult cat, Lesley, not fully understanding herself, explained she was expecting a baby and had developed an allergy during pregnancy. Three days later, Felix departed with his carrier and belongings for a new family—and Lesley entered the hospital… Two days on, she phoned Felix’s new owners to ask after him, but, after many apologies, they explained Felix had escaped that same evening and couldn’t be found. Her first impulse was to run from hospital and search for her cat. She even pleaded with the nurse, but was sternly sent back to her ward. Her roommate, a frail elderly lady, noticed Lesley’s distress and asked what had happened. Lesley, in tears, confided everything. “Don’t despair, dear,” said the kind old woman. “Tomorrow a top specialist is coming from London. My own diagnosis is grim—my son wanted to transfer me, but I refused. He managed to arrange for this specialist anyway. I’ll ask her to see you too; maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” she said, gently patting Lesley’s shoulder. **** Once Felix escaped his carrier, he realised he was in a strange home. A hand reached out to stroke him—he snapped, clawed the hand, and fled to a dark corner. “Paul, leave him be for now. Let him adjust,” came a gentle female voice, but not the voice of his beloved Lesley. Felix’s heart beat dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, and his soul ached. What could possibly have happened for Lesley to give him away? Why had she left him? His amber eyes scanned the room fearfully. He spotted an open window. In a flash, the black cat shot across the room and out! Luckily, it was only the second floor and a soft lawn beneath—the beginning of Felix’s perilous journey back home… ***** The specialist appeared: a pleasant woman in her forties, named Dr. Mary Powell. She reviewed Lesley’s file, asked her to lie on her left side, and carefully performed examinations and tests. Lesley hoped for nothing. She returned to her room, finding her roommate already resting. “So, what did she say, love?” “Nothing yet; she’ll come to the ward later.” “I see. Sadly, my diagnosis was confirmed,” said the woman. “I’m so sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, unsure how to comfort someone aware her end was near. Half an hour later, Dr. Powell returned, accompanied by other doctors. “Well, Lesley, I have good news! Your condition is treatable. I’ve arranged your course already—stay a couple of weeks, complete treatment, and you’ll be healthy again,” she smiled. As the doctors left, her roommate said, “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, dear.” ***** Felix had no guiding star, but followed his feline intuition homeward. His journey was fraught with danger and comic mishaps—the once sheltered Brit transformed, overnight, into a streetwise predator. Dodging busy roads, darting stealthily, climbing trees, Felix pressed on toward his purpose… In one quiet yard, he came snout-to-snout with an old alley cat, who instantly marked Felix as an outsider. With a yowl, he attacked, but Felix, more bandit than aristocrat now, did not back down. Their scuffle was short—the local boss retreated, nursing a torn ear. How else? That alley cat wanted to show who’s boss; Felix was simply intent on getting home. The journey continued. Drawing on distant ancestry, Felix learned to nap on forked branches and, shamefully, eat from bins and steal scraps from other strays. Once, a pack of mongrels chased him up a spindly tree, barking and clawing at the trunk. Locals shooed the dogs away. One kindly woman tempted Felix with tasty sausage, and he let her scoop him up, seeking warmth, food, and safety. But, after resting and refuelling, Felix remembered his mission, sprinted out after her, and slipped back through a fortuitously open door—resuming his journey home… ***** Discharged from hospital, Lesley returned home, her mind echoing the kind woman’s wish for happiness. Of course, she was thrilled by her recovery. But her heart ached for Felix. She couldn’t imagine how she’d enter an empty flat, never to be met again. Barely across her threshold, Lesley phoned Felix’s previous adopters, got their address, and went to investigate Felix’s escape. She was told it was impossible, that two weeks had passed, that a pampered house cat couldn’t survive on the street—but she refused to accept it. Lesley wandered street after street, peering into every yard, scouring parks and garages, trying to think like a cat who had never braved the outdoors before. Calling Felix, peering into the darkness of cellar windows. Nearing her own block, she realised Felix had vanished without a trace. And how could he possibly find his way here—a route she’d walked for two hours, even with delays? She entered her courtyard, head bowed, eyes brimming with tears, heart heavy with grief. Through misted eyes, she saw, from the other side of the pavement, a black cat approaching. “A black cat”—the thought flashed through her mind. Lesley stopped, stared, and recognised him. She broke into a run, shouting, “Felix!” The cat didn’t run; he simply had no strength left. He sat down, squinting with happiness, and quietly squeaked, “Made it!”

The heart of the cat thumped dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, his soul ached. What on earth could

Well, Your Precious Anastasia Has Gotten So Pompous! You Know What They Say—Money Changes People! I Had No Idea What Was Going On or How I’d Offended Anyone Once, I had a wonderful marriage—a loving husband and two great kids. Then everything fell apart in an instant when my beloved died in a car accident on the way home from work. The grief was almost unbearable, but my mum insisted I hold myself together for the children. So I did. I began working tirelessly and, when my kids grew up, I travelled abroad for work to support them, as I had no help at all. That’s how I ended up in Poland, and then in England. I changed jobs many times before earning a decent living. I sent money home every month, eventually bought my children their own flats, and renovated my own place. I was proud of myself and planned to return to Ukraine forever. But last year my life changed when I met a man—a fellow Ukrainian who’d lived in England for twenty years. We began talking, and I wondered if something real could blossom. But doubts haunted me. Artur couldn’t move back to Ukraine, and I wanted to go home. Recently, I finally returned, first meeting with my children and parents, but had no time to visit my in-laws. One day, my friend who works as a shop assistant came to tell me: —Your mother-in-law is upset with you! —How do you know? —I overheard her saying you’ve become arrogant and money has turned your heart. Plus, you never helped them financially. Hearing this hurt deeply. I raised two kids alone and did everything for them—I couldn’t afford to support my late husband’s parents too. I needed something for myself, you know? After that, I didn’t want to see my in-laws. But I forced myself, bought groceries, and visited. At first, all was well, but thoughts of the conversation stuck with me, so I said: —You know, life wasn’t easy all these years. I did everything for my kids because I had no one else to rely on. —We had no help either. Everyone else’s children support them, but we’re on our own—like orphans! You should return and look after us. My mother-in-law made me feel ashamed. I couldn’t even bring myself to admit I have a partner in England. I left, feeling heavy-hearted. Now I don’t know what to do. Am I really obligated to support my late husband’s parents? I just can’t take it anymore!

Well, your Emily is quite stuck-up now! They say money ruins people, and it surely has changed her!

You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?! Screamed My Mother-in-law I’m Just a Normal, Working Daughter-in-law—No Crown on My Head. My Husband and I Live in Our Own City Flat, Juggling Mortgage, Bills, and Jobs from Morning till Night. My Mother-in-law Lives in the Countryside, Along with My Sister-in-law. It Would All Be Fine, If Only They Didn’t Treat Our Place Like a Weekend Getaway. At First, It Seemed Sweet: ‘We’ll Just Pop Over This Saturday.’ ‘Just for a Bit.’ ‘We’re Family, After All.’ Just for a Bit—Means They Stay the Night; Pop Over—Means They Arrive with Empty Bags, Pots, and Eyes Expecting a Feast. Every Weekend It’s the Same: After Work, I Rush Through Supermarkets, Cook, Clean, Set the Table, Smile for Hours, Then Stay Up Washing Dishes. Valentina Sits and Critiques: ‘Why’s the Salad Missing Sweetcorn?’ ‘My Favourite Borscht Is Thicker Than This.’ ‘We’d Never Make it Like This in the Village.’ My Sister-in-law Chimes In: ‘Oh, The Journey Was Exhausting.’ ‘No Dessert?’ And Never a ‘Thank You,’ or ‘Need a Hand?’ One Day I Said to My Husband: ‘I’m Not a Maid, and I Don’t Want to Spend Every Weekend Catering Your Family.’ ‘Maybe We Really Should Do Something About This.’ That’s When I Had an Idea. Next Time My Mother-in-law Called: ‘We’re Coming Over Saturday!’ ‘Oh, We’ve Got Plans for the Weekend,’ I Said Calmly. ‘What Plans?’ ‘Just Our Own.’ And You Know What? We Did Have Plans—But at Valentina’s Place. Saturday Morning, My Husband and I Were Standing on Her Doorstep. She Opened the Door—And Froze. ‘What’s This?!’ ‘We’re Visiting You. Just for a Bit.’ ‘You Should Have Warned Me—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests!?’ I Looked Her in the Eye and Said Calmly: ‘See? This Is How I Live Every Weekend.’ ‘So You’re Trying to Teach Me a Lesson? How Dare You!’ She Yelled So Loud The Neighbours Looked Over—and We Went Home. Here’s the Best Part: Since Then, No More Visits Without an Invitation. No More ‘Just Popping Over’ and No More Weekends Gone in My Kitchen. Sometimes, To Be Heard, You Just Need To Show People What It’s Like To Walk in Your Shoes. Do You Think I Did the Right Thing? What Would You Do in My Place?

One must really give fair warning; I wasnt at all prepared! Do you know how much it costs to host guests?

“The Silent Gift: Five Years of Waiting, a Miracle at the Garden Gate, and How Our Deaf Son’s Art Taught Us What Family Truly Means”

“James, we’ve waited five years. Five. Doctors say theres no chance of children for us.