Emily Taylor

The Letter That Never Arrived Grandma sat by the window for a long time, though there was little to see. In the English twilight, the lamp post outside flickered lazily, lighting up the patchy footprints of dogs and people in the thin snow. Somewhere in the distance, a caretaker scraped the path, then all was quiet again. Delicate glasses and an old mobile with a cracked screen rested on the windowsill. The phone would sometimes buzz briefly when pictures or voice notes landed in the family group chat, but tonight it was silent. The flat was quiet; the ticking clock sounded louder than she liked. She got up, went to the kitchen, and switched on the light—dim yellow spilling across the table. There was a bowl of cold dumplings covered by a plate, left in case someone dropped by. No one had. She sat at the table, tried a dumpling, but set it aside—the dough had turned rubbery. Still edible, but joyless. She poured tea from her battered enamel kettle, listening to the water, and, surprising herself, sighed aloud. It was a heavy sigh, as if something was torn out of her chest and settled down on the stool beside her. Why am I complaining? she wondered. Everyone’s alive, thank God. I have a roof over my head. And yet… Fragments of recent conversations floated through her mind. Her daughter’s tense voice—”Mum, I can’t go on like this with him. He’s at it again…”—and her son-in-law’s slightly mocking tones: “She’s complaining to you, yeah? Tell her life isn’t all her way.” Her grandson, Alex, now only responding with a sullen “yeah” when she asked about school. Once, he could talk for hours. He’d grown up, of course. But still. They never really argued in front of her—no slammed doors, no shouted words—a silent wall had grown between them. Small barbs, what wasn’t said, old hurts never admitted. She hovered, drifting between her daughter and son-in-law, always careful not to say the wrong thing. Sometimes it seemed to her it was somehow her fault—she’d not raised them right, given the wrong advice, or stayed silent when she should have spoken up. She sipped her tea, winced—the first sip was too hot—and suddenly remembered a time, years ago, when Alex was little and they’d written a letter to Father Christmas together. He’d scrawled in big, careful letters: “Please bring me a building set, and make Mum and Dad stop arguing.” She had laughed at the time, stroked his hair and said Father Christmas would hear every word. Now she felt a prick of shame for that memory, as if she’d lied to the child back then. His parents had never really stopped; they’d just grown better at arguing quietly. She pushed the glass aside, wiped the table, although it was spotless, then wandered to her desk and switched on the lamp. Pen and notebook—untouched for ages, since everything happened on her phone these days—sat ready. She stared at them, then, absurdly, felt a small glow at the idea: writing a letter. A real one, on paper. Not for a present, but just to ask. Not family, who each carried their own baggage, but someone—anyone—outside of it all. She smiled ruefully. An old lady, off her rocker, writing to a fairy-tale granddad. But her hand already reached for the notebook. She sat, adjusted her glasses, found a clean page. She paused, then wrote: “Dear Father Christmas…” Her hand shook. She felt oddly exposed, as if someone peered over her shoulder. But the room was empty. “Well, never mind,” she muttered, and wrote on: “I know you’re for children, and I’m old now. I won’t ask you for a coat or a TV. I have what I need. There’s just one thing: please, could you bring peace to our family? So my daughter and her husband don’t quarrel, so my grandson isn’t silent, like a stranger. So we could all sit around one table and not fear who’ll say the wrong thing. I realise people are to blame. You don’t owe us anything. But if you could help, even just a little, I would be grateful. Maybe I have no right to ask, but I’ll ask anyway. If you can, let us hear each other. With respect, Grandma Nina.” She read it through. The words seemed naive, crooked like children’s drawings. But she didn’t cross them out. She felt lighter, as though she’d shared her worry with someone who might actually listen. She folded the letter, then again, and sat with it in her hands, unsure. Where to put it? Out the window? The bin? Ridiculous. She remembered she’d planned to go to the shop and the post office the next day, to pay the bills. Fine, she thought—she’d drop it in the children’s postbox to Father Christmas, which seem to be everywhere now. Somehow, that made her feel less foolish; she‘d be one among many, not alone. She slipped the letter into her handbag, next to her passport and bills, and turned off the lights. The clock ticked in the stillness as she lay in bed, listening to the hush until sleep came. … The rest of the story weaves together subtle English details—the post office, the street swept by a caretaker, a knock at the door, the quiet visiting family—all circling around that letter. It is found, lost, found again; it floats between hands and hearts, never quite posted, never quite said, but always shaping the quiet, careful peace that settles, finally, around their table. And so, the story ends, not with miracles, but with small, brave steps: a boy’s awkward invitation, a daughter’s honest word, a family’s quiet meal. The letter never arrives, but its wish comes true in simplest, human ways. The Letter That Never Arrived

The Letter That Never Arrived Grandma Nora sat by the window for ages, though there wasnt much to see.

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My Mother-in-Law Dug Up My Prized Lawn at Our Country Retreat for Vegetable Beds – But I Made Her Put Everything Back the Way It Was

Simon, are you sure we didnt forget the charcoal? Last time, you had to dash off to that village shop

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My Relatives Took Offense When I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My New Flat: How I Stood My Ground Against Family Expectations in My Hard-Earned London Home

Natalie, have you gone quiet on me? Hello? Im telling you, weve booked the train. It gets into London

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My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage for Christmas Break, but I Refused to Hand Over the Keys — “So, we had a little chat and decided there’s no sense letting your cottage sit empty! We’ll take the kids there for the Christmas holidays—fresh air, nice big hill, and we’ll even heat up the sauna. Len, you’re always working anyway, and Vitya needs a break, though he insists he’d rather catch up on sleep. So give us the keys, we’ll pop round first thing tomorrow.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, was shrieking down the phone so forcefully I had to hold it away from my ear. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, drying a plate, trying to get my head around what I’d just heard. The brazenness of my husband’s family was already a running joke, but this was a new level. “Hold on, Svet,” I said slowly, doing my best to keep the irritation out of my voice. “How did you come to this decision, exactly? With whom? The cottage isn’t a public park or a holiday camp. It’s our home—mine and Vitya’s. And we were planning on spending the holidays there ourselves.” She scoffed. “Oh, get over yourself! You were planning, honestly! Vitya told Mum you’d be spending Christmas at home, watching telly. You’ve got loads of space—two floors! We won’t bother you if you do decide to turn up, but honestly, best not—our crowd gets noisy. Gena’s inviting mates, barbecue, music—know what I mean? You and your books would just get bored.” My cheeks burned. I instantly pictured Gena’s rowdy mates, his taste for loud music and cheap spirits; their two teenagers who treated “no” as a foreign language; and my poor cottage—my pride, my savings for five years—turned upside-down. “No, Svet,” I said firmly. “You’ll get no keys from me. The place isn’t ready for guests. The heating system’s complicated, the septic’s temperamental, and I’m not having a load of strangers trashing my sanctuary.” “We’re strangers now, are we?” she squealed, finally pausing her chewing. “Your husband’s actual sister! And your own nephews! You’ve turned into a right cold cow with all that accountancy. I’ll tell Mum how you treat family!” The line went dead. I set the phone down, my fingers trembling. I knew this wasn’t over—soon Nina Petrovna, my notorious mother-in-law, would arrive with an ultimatum. Viktor came in moments later, trying to wrap an arm round me. “Len, bit harsh, wasn’t it? Svet’s a pest, but family’s family. They’ll be hurt.” I shook off his arm. The exhaustion and resolve in my eyes stopped him short. “Vitya, remember last May?” He winced. “I suppose…” “Suppose?” I snapped. “They came for a weekend ‘barbecue.’ They snapped Dad’s old apple tree, burned a hole in the front-room carpet with a coal, left mountains of filthy dishes with congealed grease—Svet claimed her manicure was too precious, said ‘You’ve got a dishwasher’, then stuffed it with food-covered crockery and blocked the drain! Remember the smashed vase? The trampled peonies?” “They were… just kids. Playing,” Viktor mumbled, examining the lino. “Kids? Your nephew’s fifteen, Vitya, your niece is thirteen! They’re hardly toddlers. They turned the sauna into a bonfire and almost burned the place down! And you’d let them in alone? In winter?” “They promised they’d behave… Gena said he’d watch them.” “Gena will only watch the vodka bottle. No, Vitya. I won’t budge. That cottage is my home, legally and otherwise. I spent my inheritance to fix it up. I know every timber. I’m not letting it become a pigsty.” We spent an evening in stubborn silence. Viktor tried (and failed) to watch telly, then retreated to the bedroom. I nursed a lukewarm tea and remembered scraping paint off pine logs with my bare hands. That house was more than a cottage; it was a dream, my sanctuary. Viktor’s lot saw it as a ‘free resort.’ Next morning, the bell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Nina Petrovna in her best mink hat, lips scarlet, clutching a massive carrier bag with a slab of frozen salmon poking out. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked, ignoring basic greetings. She swept into the hallway like a ship in stormy waters. Viktor darted out but was met with a withering look: “Can’t a mother visit her son without an appointment? Put the kettle on. And fetch my valerian—I haven’t slept in two nights, thanks to you two.” At the table, she went straight for the jugular. “Now, what’s all this about? Why won’t you give Svetochka the keys? Genuine family—your husband’s sister—just asking to take the kids to the cottage for the holidays. There’s renovation dust everywhere in their flat. Your palace is sitting empty. Is it really so hard, Lena?” “Nina Petrovna,” I replied calmly, meeting her stare, “It’s not a palace—it’s a house that needs looking after. Svetlana’s ‘renovation’ has dragged on for five years. That’s no excuse to seize our property. And to be honest, I remember their last visit all too well. I still can’t get the smell of smoke out of the curtains, even though I asked them not to light up indoors.” “Oh, so they smoked, big deal!” she threw up her hands. “You care more about your things than about people. That’s materialism, Lena! We raised Vitya to be generous, not a skinflint. You can’t take the cottage to your grave, you know!” “Mum, Lena really poured her heart into that place…” said Viktor, in a rare show of courage. “Be quiet! Are you a man or a doormat? You let your wife run the show while your own sister and her kids freeze? Gena’s 45th is on the third—they’ve bought the steaks, invited half their mates. You’d have them humiliated in front of everyone?” “That’s not my problem,” I said coolly, “if they planned a party in someone else’s house without asking. That’s just rude, Nina Petrovna.” She paled with fury. Normally her sheer force flattened opposition—especially soft-touch Viktor. But I was no pushover. “Rude, is it? I took you in like a daughter, and you… Vitya, hear how she talks to me? If you don’t hand over the keys this instant, I swear I’ll curse that cottage. You’ll never see me there again!” “You don’t like the garden anyway,” I muttered. “You snake!” She shot to her feet, toppling her chair. “Vitya, give me the keys! I’ll pass them to Svet myself. Are you the man of this house, or what?” Viktor, torn in two, shrank under her glare. He remembered what it was like patching the porch after Gena’s last blunder with the barbecue… “Mum, Lena’s got the keys. We might go ourselves, anyway.” “Liar!” she snapped. “Fine—Svet will be here first thing. The keys had better be left out, along with instructions for the boiler, or you’re no son of mine. And you,” she jabbed at me, “will remember this day. The world goes round, Lena.” She stormed out. For a while, only the tick of the kitchen clock dared disturb the silence. “You’re not really giving them the keys, are you?” Viktor asked softly. “No. In fact, Vitya, tomorrow we head to the cottage ourselves. Early. The only way to keep them out is to actually be there. Your sister would climb in through the window if she decided she ‘needed’ to. This way, she’ll have to turn back.” “…This is war, Len.” “No. This is border control. Pack your things.” We left at dawn. London was magical in the frost, but we weren’t in festive spirits. Viktor fidgeted with his muted phone the whole way. When we got out, the cottage—pretty, warm, snow-topped—was a postcard. I breathed in relief. By noon, there were fairy lights, scent of pine, and mandarins in the air. Viktor, clearing the drive, found a rare contentment. I could see it. At three, trouble struck: cars sounding at the gate. Gena’s Jeep and another car, their whole lot spilling out: Svet, Gena, the teens, some random friends, and a huge Rottweiler without a muzzle. And of course, Nina Petrovna, looming like a general. Viktor hovered, shovel in hand; I pulled on my boots and went to the door. They yelled, rattled the latch, banged on the gate: “Let us in! Surprise! Might as well celebrate together since you’re here!” Hand on Viktor’s shoulder, I said, “We weren’t expecting guests—go celebrate elsewhere.” Svet scoffed and Gena waved a crate of vodka. “Come on, don’t be such a princess. We’ll be good…” “Keep your dog out of my garden!” I snapped as it lifted a leg on my topiary. “Oh, it’s only a tree!” Svet squealed. “Toilets are at the petrol station, five miles that way,” I said crisply. “This place is occupied. We’re here to relax. There’s no room for a party of ten plus a dog.” They stared, slow on the uptake—they’d expected their usual ambush tactic to work, especially with their matriarch in tow. “What, you’re keeping us out in the cold?” Nina Petrovna shrieked. “Vitya, say something!” Viktor, eyes pleading, looked at me. “If you open that gate,” I said levelly, “it’ll be an all-night booze-up. Dog will wreck the flowerbeds, kids will trash the upstairs, your sister will boss me around in my own kitchen, and Gena will chain-smoke all night. Our holiday—ruined. Is that what you want? Or do you want a peaceful Christmas with me? Your call, now.” Viktor turned to the mob at the gate—Gena kicking his tyres, Svet yelling, the kids pelting the house with snowballs, Nina Petrovna clutching her chest in operatic anguish. He straightened, walked to the gate and said—not loudly, but steady: “Mum, Svet. Lena’s right. We already said no keys. Turn around, please.” “What?!” they chorused. “You heard. This is my home too. I don’t want your circus here. Go.” Gena growled, trying to reach through the bars. “You… I’ll—” “Leave, Gena,” Viktor gripped the shovel. “Or I’ll call the police. This estate has private security.” “Strangers, are we now?!” Nina Petrovna gasped. “We’re off, then!” yelled Svet, yanking her family away. “You pair are mad! We’ll go to Tolyan’s place—proper people, even if it’s half-finished!” Engines revved. The motley crew trundled away, Svet flashing a rude sign. Silence returned, broken only by their dog’s signature ‘gift’ on my evergreen. Viktor sank onto the porch steps, head in hands. “God, the shame… my own mother…” I sat beside him. “It’s not shame, Vitya. It’s finally growing up. You stood up for us—our family, not theirs.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She will—as soon as she wants something. That’s how they are. But they’ll know the boundary now.” “You think so?” “I know so. If not, at least we’ll have peace. Let’s get inside—I’ll make some mulled wine.” Inside, I drew the curtains, shutting out the cold and the past. That night was quiet and warm—companionable, not bitter. Three days of bliss—walks, steak-for-two, sauna, books. The phones stayed silent in family boycott. On January third, as predicted, Svet sent Viktor a photo—not an apology but a boast: bleak shed, battered stove, vodka and rowdy faces. “We’re having a ball without you—jealous?” I glanced at swollen-faced Gena in the mess, then at my husband, serene and dozing by the fire. “Nothing to envy, Svet,” I whispered, deleting the message. A week later, Nina Petrovna called—icily polite, asking Viktor to run her to the GP and mentioning the cottage not at all. The boundary was set. There’d be skirmishes yet, but our little fortress stood. And I realised: sometimes you have to be “bad” for others to stay true to yourself and protect your own. The cottage keys now live safe and sound—tucked away in my safe, just in case.

So, listen to this. Youre not going to believe the audacity of Marks family. His sister, Claire, called

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There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence Four years had passed since Agatha’s mother died, but the pain and unbearable longing still lingered. She was sixteen then, left with her grieving father in their large, well-built English country house, the silence heavy after the funeral. Time moved on: Agatha trained as a paramedic and started working at the village surgery, living alone in the family home after her father remarried a year ago and settled in a nearby village. Today was her father’s birthday; Agatha arrived in her best dress, carrying a present, only to be greeted at the door by her new stepmother, Katie, and her troublesome step-siblings, Rita and Tom. After an uncomfortable birthday meal where Katie declared Agatha’s father would no longer support her financially—his priority, she insisted, had to be his new family—Agatha fled outside, her day ruined. The next visit from her father and Katie brought worse news: they wanted Agatha to sell her share of the house to make way for their expanding family. Agatha refused. Later, after a distressing confrontation, Agatha’s boyfriend Arthur, a police officer, comforted her and promised help. When Agatha’s father overheard Katie plotting over the phone, suspicions arose, but before he could act, Agatha was attacked and forced into a car by a stranger—a man later revealed to be Katie’s lover and the father of her child. The pair schemed to take the house for themselves, but thanks to Arthur and his police colleagues, Agatha was rescued, and those responsible were arrested. In the aftermath, Agatha’s father divorced Katie and returned home, grateful for his daughter’s forgiveness as she prepared to marry Arthur and begin a happier chapter. The walls of their cherished English home now held new and deeper meaning for them all. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you happiness and good fortune in life!

Coincidences Never Happen Its been nearly four years since Mum passed away, but I still remember the

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I Kicked My Brother-in-Law Out From Our Anniversary Dinner After His Rude Jokes Ruined the Celebration

Arthur, have you put out the good china? The one with the gold trim, not the everyday plates.

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My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife and Her Children to Our Holiday Dinner—So I Packed My Bags and Spent New Year’s Eve at My Best Friend’s House

Please tell me youre joking, Greg. Please, said Helen, her brow furrowed so deeply only a tenacious kiwi

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On the Edge of This Summer Working at the library, Dana considered her life boring – few visitors came now, as everyone preferred the internet. She spent her days rearranging books on the shelves, dusting them off. If her job had a single benefit, it was that she’d read an unimaginable number of books with all sorts of plots: romances, philosophy… And by thirty, she suddenly realized that romance itself had passed her by. She was at a respectable age – time to start a family – but her looks were unremarkable, and her job was low-paid. She’d never thought of changing jobs; after all, she was content. Only students, the occasional schoolchild, or pensioners now visited the library. Recently, a professional competition was held at the county level, and to her own surprise, Dana won the grand prize: a free two-week getaway to the seaside. “That’s brilliant. I’m definitely going!” she reported to her friend and mother with delight, “On my salary I’d never get to travel, but this – it’s like happiness fell into my lap.” Summer was drawing to a close. Dana was strolling along the deserted beach – most holidaymakers were in the nearby café, as today the sea was especially restless. It was her third day by the sea, and she wanted to be alone with her thoughts and dreams. Suddenly, she saw a boy swept off the pier by a wave. Without a thought for herself, she rushed to the rescue. Thankfully, it wasn’t far from shore. Dana wasn’t a great swimmer, but she could keep her head above water since childhood. The waves helped push the boy closer to the shore, then tried to drag him back. But Dana persisted, and soon she was standing on the seabed, water up to her chest, determined to keep her balance. At last, they made it. She stood in her pretty dress, which now clung to her, and looked at the boy in surprise. “But he’s just a teenager, fourteen at most, though tall – even a bit taller than me,” she thought, then asked, “What in the world made you go swimming in this weather?” The lad shakily stood up, thanked her, and staggered away. Dana shrugged and watched him go. The next morning, Dana woke up smiling. The sun was shining, the weather perfect; from the window, she saw the sea glistening blue, a bit restless, just not like the day before. It almost seemed as if the sea was apologising for last night’s storm. After breakfast, Dana wandered down to the beach and basked in the sun. Near evening, she decided to go for a walk and headed for the park, where she noticed a shooting gallery. In school and at uni, she’d been quite a shot, but her first attempt missed the target. On the second try, she hit it dead on. “See that, son? That’s how it’s done!” came a man’s voice behind her. She turned around and, to her surprise, saw yesterday’s boy. In his eyes, Dana glimpsed a flash of fear – he recognised her, too – and she realized the father had no idea his son nearly drowned. Dana grinned. “Any chance of a master class?” asked the tall, friendly man. “Jenks here can’t shoot for toffee – nor can I, to be honest,” he added with a warm smile. Afterwards, they strolled together, ate ice cream in a café, and rode the Ferris wheel. Dana half-expected the boy’s mother to join them, but both father and son seemed content to be just the three of them. The father, who introduced himself as Anthony, proved a great conversationalist, knowledgeable and increasingly likeable. “Dana, how long have you been here?” he asked. “It’s my first week – I’ve got another in reserve.” “And where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” Astonishingly, it turned out Anthony and his son lived in the same town as her. All three laughed. “Isn’t it funny? Somehow we never met at home, but here we are!” Anthony beamed, obviously taken with this gentle, pleasant young woman. Jenks joined in, clearly relieved Dana wasn’t planning to mention yesterday’s incident. They parted close to midnight, the men walking Dana to her hotel and arranging to meet again at the beach the next morning. Dana arrived first, but her new friends were nearly an hour late. “Morning!” Anthony called out, “Forgive us, Dana – honestly, we just forgot to set the alarm and slept in!” “Dad, I’m going swimming,” Jenks declared, making for the waves. “Stop! You can’t swim!” Dana cried suddenly. Anthony looked baffled. “Who, him? He swims well – he even competes for his school.” Dana was surprised, but didn’t argue. Maybe, she thought, she’d simply been mistaken. Their hotels were just next-door. The next few days were an absolute dream. They met each morning by the water, parted late at night, visited sights together. Dana longed to talk to Jenks alone; she sensed something troubled him – or maybe she was just imagining things. She already knew the father and son were staying in the hotel next to hers. Soon the chance came. One day Jenks arrived on the beach alone. “Hi – Dad’s ill, got a fever,” he told her, “but I asked him – told him I’d be with you, so he let me out,” he smiled. “Sorry for assuming – I just didn’t want to be stuck in our room.” “Jenks, give me your dad’s number; I’ll call just to check.” She phoned Anthony. “Hello, Dana. To be honest, I’m not feeling great – got a temperature. Please keep an eye on my lad; he’s promised to follow your lead…” “Don’t worry, and get better. He’s more or less grown up, after all. I’ll come visit you soon,” Dana promised. After a swim, Jenks spawled on the lounger and suddenly said: “You know what? You’re a real friend, Dana.” She glanced at him; he grinned. “What makes you say that?” “Thank you for not telling Dad about that thing – about the pier,” Jenks stammered, embarrassed. “It happened so suddenly – the wave just swept me off, and I sort of panicked.” “Oh, don’t mention it,” she smiled. After a pause, “Jenks… where’s your mum? Why are you two by yourselves?” Jenks hesitated, as though deciding how much to share, then, gathering courage, launched into his story. Anthony’s work sometimes took him away on business trips, leaving Jenks with his mum, Marina. Outwardly, theirs was a model family. But it was, Jenks now realised, all for show – and it was all Marina’s fault. One day, Anthony said to his wife: “Look, I’ve been sent to London for a three-week course – if I pass, I’m tipped for a promotion. It’ll mean a big pay rise…” Marina seemed almost relieved. Her husband left, and she stayed home with their son. Two days later, she told Jenks, “Darling, we’ll have company tonight – my colleague Arthur is coming with his daughter. Arthur and I have drawings to finish; you can keep Kira company. She’s a bit older than you.” Kira, a confident girl, suggested heading out together. Marina handed her son a £20 note. “Of course, treat Kira to an ice cream,” she smiled. Jenks was surprised – his mum never gave him so much pocket money. They hung out for a few hours. Kira, a couple years older and quite savvy, was fun – Jenks was nearly fourteen but tall for his age. The three weeks passed quickly. On the day before Anthony’s return, Kira said, “Well, it’s lucky your dad’s coming soon – I’m sick of distracting you. I only did it because your mum made a deal with mine – that I’d take you out so they could… well, you know.” She cackled unpleasantly. “My lot have been divorced ages, still fighting over the flat…” Jenks felt uncomfortable at how she talked about their parents. Deep down, he believed her. By the time his dad came home, Jenks sensed something was badly wrong. “Should I keep quiet? Tell Mum how I feel? Or tell Dad everything?” Within days, his mother’s coldness to Anthony became clear, and their family was teetering. That night, Jenks decided to tell his father everything, but came home to a fierce row. “Yes, I’ve been unfaithful. What are you going to do about it?” his mother’s voice rang out as he came in from football practice. “Nothing,” his father replied. “I’ll just file for divorce. Jenks will stay with me – seems he means nothing to you.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, fine – I’ll have a new family,” Marina retorted. Jenks quickly darted to his room and overheard the rest. His mum declared she’d been seeing Arthur for ages and would move out the next morning. Saturday, Jenks lazed in bed, hearing his mum packing. Anthony stared silently at his laptop. Jenks had long since decided to stay with his dad – he disliked Arthur and Kira. He heard the front door slam. His father tried to explain, but Jenks interrupted: “Dad, you don’t have to. I already know – I even thought to tell you myself. I love you. We’ll be fine, just us two.” His father ruffled his hair. “Didn’t know you’d grown up so much, son. I’m glad you’re here. As for seeing your mother – that’s your choice.” But Jenks wanted no contact with Marina just yet; he still hadn’t forgiven her. After the beach, Jenks and Dana dropped in to see Anthony, bringing some fruit. He was feeling perkier and promised to be back on the beach next day. Three days later, Anthony and Jenks had to return home, while Dana had a couple more days left. Summer was ending. On the edge of this summer they said goodbye. Anthony promised to meet Dana at the airport, while Jenks grinned from ear to ear. Dana made no plans, just smiled as she reread Anthony’s sweet messages, always confessing how much he missed her. Before long, Dana moved in with Anthony and Jenks, and it seemed the happiest of all was Jenks: happy for his dad, for himself, and for Dana. — **Title rewritten, as per instructions:** On the Edge of This English Summer: Dana’s Quiet Library Life, an Unexpected Seaside Adventure, and a New Chapter with Anthony and Jenks

On the Edge of This Summer Working in the library, I, Harriet, always thought of my life as rather dull.

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You Just Can’t Find Common Ground With Him “I’m not doing that! Don’t order me around! You’re nothing to me!” Daniel slammed the plate into the sink so hard that water sprayed across the kitchen counter. Anna stopped breathing for a moment. The fifteen-year-old glared at her with the kind of fury you’d think only someone who’d had their life ruined could muster. “I just asked you to help with the washing up,” Anna tried to keep her voice calm. “It’s a normal request.” “My mum never made me do dishes! I’m not a girl! Who are you anyway to start giving orders?” Daniel turned on his heel and stormed out. Seconds later, music blasted through his bedroom walls. Anna leaned against the fridge and closed her eyes. A year ago, everything seemed so different… Max walked into her life by chance. He was an engineer in the next department of a large London construction firm. They kept running into each other at meetings. First coffee over lunch breaks, then dinners after work, long phone conversations until midnight. “I’ve got a son,” Max confessed on their third date, fiddling with a napkin. “Daniel’s fifteen. His mum and I divorced two years ago, and he’s… he’s finding it hard.” “I understand,” Anna placed her hand over his. “Children always struggle when parents split. It’s normal.” “Are you really ready to take us both on?” Anna truly believed she was. She was thirty-two, with a failed first marriage but no children, and she longed for a real family. Max seemed just the man to build it with. Half a year later, he proposed—awkwardly but endearingly—hiding the ring in a box of her favourite Mark & Spencer pastries. Anna laughed and said yes without a moment’s hesitation. They held a small wedding: parents from both sides, a few close friends, a modest gastropub in Islington. Daniel stared at his phone the entire evening, never once glancing at the couple. “He’ll come round,” Max whispered, noticing Anna’s nerves. “Give him time.” Anna moved into Max’s spacious three-bed flat in Clapham the day after the wedding. It was a lovely place—bright, big kitchen, a balcony looking out over the communal gardens. But from the start Anna felt like a guest in someone else’s home… Daniel looked through her as if she were furniture—past her, beyond her, not bothering to notice. If Anna entered a room, he’d pointedly pull on his headphones. If she asked him anything, he’d grunt a monosyllable without meeting her eyes. For the first two weeks Anna put it down to adjustment. Of course, it’s hard for a teenage boy. Hard to accept that Dad has a new wife. It’ll settle down. It didn’t. “Daniel, please, don’t eat in your room. It’ll bring mice.” “Dad let me.” “Daniel, have you done your homework?” “None of your business.” “Daniel, tidy up after yourself, please.” “Do it yourself. You’ve got nothing better to do.” Anna tried to talk to Max. Treading carefully, trying not to sound like a wicked stepmother. “I think we need some basic house rules,” she said one night after Daniel had disappeared to his room. “No eating in bedrooms, clean up after yourself, homework before gaming…” “Anna, he’s struggling,” Max rubbed his temples. “The divorce, a new person in the house… Let’s not push him.” “I’m not pushing. I just want some order.” “He’s still a child.” “He’s fifteen, Max. He should know how to put his cup in the dishwasher by now.” But Max only sighed and switched on the football, making it clear the discussion was over. Things got worse day by day. When Anna asked Daniel to take the rubbish out, he looked at her with open contempt. “You’re not my mother. You’ll never be. You can’t boss me around.” “I’m not bossing. I’m asking for help. We all live here.” “This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. And mine.” Anna tried to talk to her husband again. He listened, nodded, promised to have a word. But nothing changed—or maybe those chats never even happened. Anna lost track. Daniel started coming home long after midnight. No warning, no calls. Anna would lie awake, straining to hear each creak in the corridor. Max snored beside her, blissfully unbothered. “Can you just tell him to message when he’s out late?” Anna pleaded over breakfast. “Anything could happen.” “He’s old enough, Anna. You can’t control him.” “He’s fifteen!” “I was always out late at that age.” “Still, can’t you talk to him? Say we worry?” Max shrugged and left for work. Every attempt at boundaries became a row. Daniel would shout, slam doors, accuse Anna of breaking up their family. Every time, Max sided with his son. “He’s hurting after the divorce,” he repeated like a mantra. “You need to understand.” “And what about me?” Anna finally snapped. “I live in a home where I’m openly disrespected and my husband pretends everything’s fine!” “You’re exaggerating.” “Exaggerating?! Your son told me to my face that I’m nobody here. Word for word.” “He’s a teenager. They’re all like this.” Anna phoned her mum, who always had the right words. “Sweetheart,” her mother’s voice was worried, “you’re miserable. I hear it in every word.” “Mum, I don’t know what to do. Max won’t admit anything’s wrong.” “Because for him, nothing is. He’s content. The only one suffering is you.” Anna’s mother paused, her voice soft: “You deserve better, darling. Remember that.” Daniel, sensing total impunity, really let loose. Music blared into the early hours. Dirty plates appeared everywhere—on the coffee table, the bedroom windowsill, even in the bathroom. Socks lay strewn in the hallway, textbooks on the kitchen counter. Anna cleaned up, because she couldn’t stand mess. She cleaned and wept in frustration. At some point, Daniel stopped greeting her at all. Anna only existed for him as a target for sarcasm or rudeness. “You just don’t know how to connect with my child,” Max told her one day. “Maybe the problem’s you?” “Connect?” Anna gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve tried for half a year. He calls me ‘what’s-her-name’ in front of you.” “You’re being dramatic.” Her last attempt to break the ice took her all day. She found Daniel’s favourite meal online—honey-glazed chicken with village-style potatoes. She bought the finest ingredients. Spent four hours in the kitchen. “Daniel! Tea’s ready!” she called, laying the table. He came out, looked at the plate, and grimaced. “I’m not eating that.” “Why not?” “Because you made it.” He turned on his heel and left. A minute later, the front door slammed—off to his friends’. Max came home, saw the untouched dinner, the upset wife. “What happened?” Anna explained. Max sighed. “Don’t take it personally, Anna. He doesn’t mean it.” “Doesn’t mean it?! He humiliates me! Deliberately! Every day!” “You’re overreacting.” A week later, Daniel brought five mates home after school. Anna found the kitchen strewn with leftovers and dirty plates. “Out—all of you! It’s nearly eleven!” Anna barked, standing in the living room where the lads sprawled. Daniel didn’t even turn his head. “It’s my house. I’ll do what I like.” “It’s our house. There are rules here.” “What rules?” one of Daniel’s friends sniggered. “Dan, who’s she?” “No one. Forget her.” Anna retreated to the bedroom and rang Max. He arrived an hour later, just as the boys were leaving. He surveyed the chaos, then his exhausted wife. “Anna, don’t make a scene. The boys just popped round for a bit.” “A bit?!” “You’re overreacting. And honestly,” Max frowned, “it feels like you’re trying to turn me against my son.” Anna looked at her husband and barely recognised him. “We need to talk, Max. Seriously. About us. About our future.” Her husband tensed but sat opposite. “I can’t do this anymore,” Anna said, choosing her words with painful care. “I’ve endured half a year of disrespect. Daniel is rude, and you—well, you don’t care about how I feel at all.” “Anna, I—” “Let me finish. I tried. I honestly tried to be part of this family. But it’s not a family. It’s you, your son, and me—the outsider no one wants, except for cooking and cleaning.” “You’re being unfair.” “Unfair? When was the last time your son said one kind word to me? When was the last time you stood up for me?” Max was silent. “I love you,” he whispered at last, “but Daniel is my son. He’ll always come first.” “Before me?” “Before any relationship.” Anna nodded. Hollow. Cold inside. “Thank you for your honesty.” The final straw came two days later. Anna found her favourite blouse—a birthday present from her mum—shredded to rags on her pillow. No doubt who’d done it. “Daniel!” Anna stormed out, holding the scraps in her hand. “What is this?!” The teenager shrugged, eyes glued to his phone. “No idea.” “That’s my property!” “So?” “Max!” Anna called her husband. “Come home. Now.” Max turned up, saw the blouse, his son, his wife. “Dan, did you do this?” “No.” “See?” Max spread his hands. “He says it wasn’t him.” “Then who? The cat? We haven’t got one!” “Maybe you ripped it by accident…” “Max!” Anna stared at her husband. Pointless. He wouldn’t change. He’d never take her side. There was only one person that mattered to him—his son. She was just a convenient extra in someone else’s house. “Daniel misses his mother,” Max said for the hundredth time. “You have to understand.” “I do,” Anna said quietly. “I understand everything.” That night she took out her suitcase. “What are you doing?” Max froze in the bedroom doorway. “Packing. I’m leaving.” “Anna, wait! Let’s talk!” “We’ve been talking for half a year. Nothing’s changed.” She folded dresses into her bag. “I have a right to happiness too, Max.” “I’ll change! I’ll speak to Daniel!” “Too late.” She looked at her husband—a good man, maybe, but never truly a husband. Just a father. The kind of father who ruins his child with blind devotion. “I’ll file for divorce next week,” Anna said, zipping the suitcase. “Anna!” “Goodbye, Max.” She walked out and didn’t look back. In the hall, Daniel’s face flashed by—something like confusion, maybe fear, crossed his features for the first time. Anna didn’t care anymore. The rented flat was small but cosy—a one-bed in a quiet suburb, with windows overlooking a peaceful street. Anna unpacked, made herself a cup of tea, and sat in the window. For the first time in six months, she felt calm. The divorce came through two months later. Max rang a few times, asking for another chance. Anna was polite but firm: no. She didn’t break. Didn’t become bitter or vindictive. She just realised happiness doesn’t mean endless sacrifice or patience. Happiness is being respected and valued. And one day, she’d find it. Just not with this man.

You cant tell me what to do! Youre not my mum! Ben banged his plate into the sink so hard that water

La vida

014

Just Give Me a Reason: A Quiet Love Lost and the Unexpected Fight for a Marriage in Suburban England

Have a lovely day, Daniel murmured, briefly pressing his lips to her cheek. Emily nodded, barely aware