Emily Taylor

I Think the Love Has Faded — “You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole department,” he said, handing her a bunch of daisies from the flower stall by the tube. Anna laughed, accepting the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer and something indescribably right. Dmitry looked at her like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Their first date was in Hyde Park. Dmitry brought along a blanket, a flask of tea, and homemade sandwiches his mum had made. They sat on the grass until dark. Anna remembered the way he laughed, head thrown back. How he touched her hand as if by accident, and looked at her as if she was the only person in all of London. Three months in, he took her to a little indie cinema to watch a French comedy she didn’t really understand, but she laughed with him all the same. Six months later, he introduced her to his parents. A year on—he asked her to move in. “We’re always together anyway,” Dmitry said, gently running his fingers through her hair. “Why pay for two flats?” Anna said yes. Not for the money, of course. Just because with him, the world made sense. Their rented one-bed flat smelled of Sunday roast dinners and freshly washed sheets. Anna learned to make his favourite cottage pie, exactly the way his mum did. In the evenings, Dmitry read aloud articles from The Economist and The Times. He dreamt of running his own business. Anna listenend, propped on her hand, believing every word. They planned their future. First—a deposit. Then—their own home. After that—a new car. Children, obviously: a son and a daughter. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Dmitry would say, kissing the top of her head. Anna would nod. With him, she felt invincible. …Fifteen years together brought routines, little traditions, and stuff—so much stuff. They had a nice flat with a view over the green, a 20-year mortgage they worked hard to pay off early, sacrificing holidays and restaurants. A silver Toyota in the drive—Dmitry chose it, haggled for it, and polished the bonnet to a shine every Saturday. There was pride—a warm, rising wave. They’d achieved everything on their own. No handouts from parents, no lucky breaks. Just hard work, saving, perseverance. Anna never complained. Not even when she was so tired she fell asleep on the tube and woke up at the end of the line. Not even when she wanted to pack it all in and fly away somewhere sunny. They were a team. That’s what Dmitry always said, and Anna believed him. His happiness always came first. Anna learned that rule by heart, wove it into her very DNA. Rough day at work? She’d make a special dinner and a pot of tea and listen to him. Trouble with his boss? She’d stroke his hair and whisper everything would be alright. Self-doubt? She’d find the right words, pull him out of his slump. “You’re my harbour, my anchor, my rock,” Dmitry would say. Anna would smile. What could be better than being someone’s anchor? There were tough times. The first, five years in—the company Dmitry worked for went bust. He sat at home, scrolling job listings and sinking into gloom. The second was worse. Some colleagues set him up, and not only did he lose his job, he got hit with a big bill. They had to sell the car to pay it. Anna never blamed him. Not a word, not even a look. She took on more freelance work, stayed up late, scrimped every penny. All she cared about was how he was coping. Would he break? Would he lose faith in himself? …Dmitry pulled through. Landed an even better job. They bought another silver Toyota. Life went back to normal. A year ago, they were sitting in the kitchen when Anna finally voiced what she’d been quietly thinking for ages: “Maybe it’s time? I’m not twenty anymore. If we keep waiting…” Dmitry nodded. Serious, thoughtful. “Let’s start getting ready.” Anna held her breath. So many years of dreaming, postponing, waiting for the right moment. Now it was here. She’d imagined it all a thousand times: tiny hands gripping hers, the smell of baby powder, first steps across their flat, Dmitry reading bedtime stories. A child. Their child. At last. Everything changed at once. Anna revamped her diet, her routine, cut back on stress. Saw doctors, took her vitamins, shifted career plans—even as her boss offered her a huge promotion. “Are you sure?” her manager asked, peering over her glasses. “A chance like this…” But Anna was sure. The promotion meant late nights, travel, pressure—not ideal for starting a family. “I’ll transfer to the branch near home instead,” Anna said. The manager just shrugged. The branch was a fifteen-minute walk around the corner. The work—dull, routine, no prospects. But she could leave on time and stop thinking about it come Friday. Anna settled in fast. The new colleagues were nice enough, if unambitious. She made her own packed lunches, took walks at lunchtime, was in bed by midnight—all for the baby they hoped for, all for their family. The chill crept in slowly. Anna didn’t notice at first. Dmitry was working a lot, tired—that happened, right? But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped hugging her goodnight. Stopped looking at her the way he did when she was the most beautiful girl at uni. The flat got quiet. Wrong kind of quiet. They used to chat for hours—about work, plans, silly things. Now Dmitry scrolled on his phone every evening, gave short answers, turned his back to sleep. Anna would lie next to him, staring at the ceiling. Between them—a gulf, half the width of a mattress. Intimacy vanished. Two weeks, three, a month. Anna lost count. Dmitry always had an excuse: “I’m just shattered. Tomorrow, alright?” Tomorrow never came. One night, Anna just asked. She blocked his way to the bathroom. “What’s going on? Please, honestly.” Dmitry looked past her, at the doorframe. “Everything’s fine.” “It’s not.” “You’re overthinking. It’ll pass.” He sidestepped her, locked himself in the bathroom. Water started running. Anna stood in the hallway, clutching her chest where it hurt—dull, persistent, constant. She lasted another month. Then she couldn’t bear it any longer. “Do you love me?” she asked, straight out. A pause. A long, awful pause. “I… don’t know what I feel for you.” Anna sat on the sofa. “You don’t know?” Dmitry finally looked her in the eye. There was emptiness. Confusion. None of the fire from fifteen years ago. “I think the love’s gone. Has been for ages. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anna realised she’d been living in this hell for months, desperate for an explanation. Maybe it’s work. Midlife crisis. Just a bad patch. But no—he simply stopped loving her. And said nothing while she planned their future, gave up her promotion, prepared herself for motherhood. The decision came suddenly. No more “maybe,” no more “give it time.” Enough. “I’m filing for divorce.” Dmitry turned pale. Anna saw his Adam’s apple twitch. “Wait. Don’t go so fast. We can try—” “Try what?” “Let’s have the baby, yeah? Maybe a child will bring us together. People say kids do that.” Anna laughed bitterly. “A baby will just make things worse. You don’t love me. Why have a child just to end up divorcing with a newborn?” Dmitry said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Anna left that day. Packed a bag of essentials and moved in with a friend. Filed for divorce a week later, when her hands finally stopped trembling. Sorting out the house and car would take ages. Fifteen years of stuff to split. Life, measured out in square feet and horsepower. Anna listened to the lawyer, taking notes, doing her best not to think about how their life had boiled down to a spreadsheet. Soon, she found a little flat to rent. She learned to cook for one, watch Netflix without commentary, stretch out in bed all by herself. The waves of grief broke at night. She’d bury her face in the pillow and remember: daisies from the market, picnics in Hyde Park, his laughter, his arms, his voice telling her, “You’re my anchor.” The pain was unbearable—fifteen years doesn’t go out with the rubbish. But through the pain came something else: relief. The sense that it was right. She’d stopped in time, before tying herself to someone with a child, before getting stuck in a marriage for the sake of keeping up appearances. Thirty-two years old. Her whole life ahead. Is it terrifying? Completely. But she’ll make it through—there’s no other way. I Think the Love Has Faded: Fifteen Years Together, a Dreamed-of Family, and the Courage to Walk Away in Search of Happiness

I think the love is gone. Youre the most beautiful girl in this entire department, hed said that day

La vida

011

I Think the Love Has Faded — “You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole department,” he said, handing her a bunch of daisies from the flower stall by the tube. Anna laughed, accepting the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer and something indescribably right. Dmitry looked at her like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Their first date was in Hyde Park. Dmitry brought along a blanket, a flask of tea, and homemade sandwiches his mum had made. They sat on the grass until dark. Anna remembered the way he laughed, head thrown back. How he touched her hand as if by accident, and looked at her as if she was the only person in all of London. Three months in, he took her to a little indie cinema to watch a French comedy she didn’t really understand, but she laughed with him all the same. Six months later, he introduced her to his parents. A year on—he asked her to move in. “We’re always together anyway,” Dmitry said, gently running his fingers through her hair. “Why pay for two flats?” Anna said yes. Not for the money, of course. Just because with him, the world made sense. Their rented one-bed flat smelled of Sunday roast dinners and freshly washed sheets. Anna learned to make his favourite cottage pie, exactly the way his mum did. In the evenings, Dmitry read aloud articles from The Economist and The Times. He dreamt of running his own business. Anna listenend, propped on her hand, believing every word. They planned their future. First—a deposit. Then—their own home. After that—a new car. Children, obviously: a son and a daughter. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Dmitry would say, kissing the top of her head. Anna would nod. With him, she felt invincible. …Fifteen years together brought routines, little traditions, and stuff—so much stuff. They had a nice flat with a view over the green, a 20-year mortgage they worked hard to pay off early, sacrificing holidays and restaurants. A silver Toyota in the drive—Dmitry chose it, haggled for it, and polished the bonnet to a shine every Saturday. There was pride—a warm, rising wave. They’d achieved everything on their own. No handouts from parents, no lucky breaks. Just hard work, saving, perseverance. Anna never complained. Not even when she was so tired she fell asleep on the tube and woke up at the end of the line. Not even when she wanted to pack it all in and fly away somewhere sunny. They were a team. That’s what Dmitry always said, and Anna believed him. His happiness always came first. Anna learned that rule by heart, wove it into her very DNA. Rough day at work? She’d make a special dinner and a pot of tea and listen to him. Trouble with his boss? She’d stroke his hair and whisper everything would be alright. Self-doubt? She’d find the right words, pull him out of his slump. “You’re my harbour, my anchor, my rock,” Dmitry would say. Anna would smile. What could be better than being someone’s anchor? There were tough times. The first, five years in—the company Dmitry worked for went bust. He sat at home, scrolling job listings and sinking into gloom. The second was worse. Some colleagues set him up, and not only did he lose his job, he got hit with a big bill. They had to sell the car to pay it. Anna never blamed him. Not a word, not even a look. She took on more freelance work, stayed up late, scrimped every penny. All she cared about was how he was coping. Would he break? Would he lose faith in himself? …Dmitry pulled through. Landed an even better job. They bought another silver Toyota. Life went back to normal. A year ago, they were sitting in the kitchen when Anna finally voiced what she’d been quietly thinking for ages: “Maybe it’s time? I’m not twenty anymore. If we keep waiting…” Dmitry nodded. Serious, thoughtful. “Let’s start getting ready.” Anna held her breath. So many years of dreaming, postponing, waiting for the right moment. Now it was here. She’d imagined it all a thousand times: tiny hands gripping hers, the smell of baby powder, first steps across their flat, Dmitry reading bedtime stories. A child. Their child. At last. Everything changed at once. Anna revamped her diet, her routine, cut back on stress. Saw doctors, took her vitamins, shifted career plans—even as her boss offered her a huge promotion. “Are you sure?” her manager asked, peering over her glasses. “A chance like this…” But Anna was sure. The promotion meant late nights, travel, pressure—not ideal for starting a family. “I’ll transfer to the branch near home instead,” Anna said. The manager just shrugged. The branch was a fifteen-minute walk around the corner. The work—dull, routine, no prospects. But she could leave on time and stop thinking about it come Friday. Anna settled in fast. The new colleagues were nice enough, if unambitious. She made her own packed lunches, took walks at lunchtime, was in bed by midnight—all for the baby they hoped for, all for their family. The chill crept in slowly. Anna didn’t notice at first. Dmitry was working a lot, tired—that happened, right? But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped hugging her goodnight. Stopped looking at her the way he did when she was the most beautiful girl at uni. The flat got quiet. Wrong kind of quiet. They used to chat for hours—about work, plans, silly things. Now Dmitry scrolled on his phone every evening, gave short answers, turned his back to sleep. Anna would lie next to him, staring at the ceiling. Between them—a gulf, half the width of a mattress. Intimacy vanished. Two weeks, three, a month. Anna lost count. Dmitry always had an excuse: “I’m just shattered. Tomorrow, alright?” Tomorrow never came. One night, Anna just asked. She blocked his way to the bathroom. “What’s going on? Please, honestly.” Dmitry looked past her, at the doorframe. “Everything’s fine.” “It’s not.” “You’re overthinking. It’ll pass.” He sidestepped her, locked himself in the bathroom. Water started running. Anna stood in the hallway, clutching her chest where it hurt—dull, persistent, constant. She lasted another month. Then she couldn’t bear it any longer. “Do you love me?” she asked, straight out. A pause. A long, awful pause. “I… don’t know what I feel for you.” Anna sat on the sofa. “You don’t know?” Dmitry finally looked her in the eye. There was emptiness. Confusion. None of the fire from fifteen years ago. “I think the love’s gone. Has been for ages. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anna realised she’d been living in this hell for months, desperate for an explanation. Maybe it’s work. Midlife crisis. Just a bad patch. But no—he simply stopped loving her. And said nothing while she planned their future, gave up her promotion, prepared herself for motherhood. The decision came suddenly. No more “maybe,” no more “give it time.” Enough. “I’m filing for divorce.” Dmitry turned pale. Anna saw his Adam’s apple twitch. “Wait. Don’t go so fast. We can try—” “Try what?” “Let’s have the baby, yeah? Maybe a child will bring us together. People say kids do that.” Anna laughed bitterly. “A baby will just make things worse. You don’t love me. Why have a child just to end up divorcing with a newborn?” Dmitry said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Anna left that day. Packed a bag of essentials and moved in with a friend. Filed for divorce a week later, when her hands finally stopped trembling. Sorting out the house and car would take ages. Fifteen years of stuff to split. Life, measured out in square feet and horsepower. Anna listened to the lawyer, taking notes, doing her best not to think about how their life had boiled down to a spreadsheet. Soon, she found a little flat to rent. She learned to cook for one, watch Netflix without commentary, stretch out in bed all by herself. The waves of grief broke at night. She’d bury her face in the pillow and remember: daisies from the market, picnics in Hyde Park, his laughter, his arms, his voice telling her, “You’re my anchor.” The pain was unbearable—fifteen years doesn’t go out with the rubbish. But through the pain came something else: relief. The sense that it was right. She’d stopped in time, before tying herself to someone with a child, before getting stuck in a marriage for the sake of keeping up appearances. Thirty-two years old. Her whole life ahead. Is it terrifying? Completely. But she’ll make it through—there’s no other way. I Think the Love Has Faded: Fifteen Years Together, a Dreamed-of Family, and the Courage to Walk Away in Search of Happiness

I think the love is gone. Youre the most beautiful girl in this entire department, hed said that day

La vida

07

He’s Already 35, Still Single and Childless: How a Mother’s Overprotective Love Shaped Her Son’s Life Last week I visited my mother-in-law with my son. One of her childhood friends was there. This lady spent the whole day playing with my son. “It’s such a shame I don’t have any grandchildren,” she said sadly. My mother-in-law’s friend had her son well into her thirties. She doted on her long-awaited child and let him do as he pleased. Her husband died when their boy was still very young, so she raised him alone while working two jobs. When her son turned 35, she finally asked when she might expect grandchildren. He calmly replied, “Never.” He blamed his upbringing, saying his mother had, let’s say, infantilised him. “I’m used to a simple life. No woman wants to be a second mother to me,” he said. He added that “it suits me well enough, and I’m not going to change for anyone else.” “I don’t need anyone but you,” the son affirmed. “I failed to teach him what’s most important: how to be a man!” she admitted. Do you think that a mother’s love can sometimes protect a child so much that it holds them back from becoming independent? I’m keen to hear your thoughts in the comments.

He was already 35 years old, yet had neither wife nor children. It must have been some years past when

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03

A Parent’s Heart — A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your caring comments and responses to my stories, your subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five feline companions for your generous donations. Please share any stories you enjoy on social media—it means the world to the author! “Why the gloomy face this morning? You’re not even smiling. Come on, let’s have some breakfast.” Her husband wandered into the kitchen stretching sleepily—it was finally the weekend. Eggs and bacon were sizzling on the stove, while his wife poured tea. She slapped most of the eggs onto his plate and handed over some bread, “Eat up, go on!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “We did, both of us—we didn’t raise the children right,” Natalia replied, slumping down next to him and picking at her breakfast without much appetite. “The kids are grown. We denied ourselves plenty, raised them through tough times, supported them—who’s going to support us? Not even with a word. They’re always in some sort of trouble—life is boring for them, or they’re short on money. It’s always complaints from both Sveta and Dima.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and was happily spreading butter and jam on a fresh slice of bread. “Easy for you to say—they always come to me, the mother. Dima wanted to take his family bowling yesterday and asked for money till payday. I got angry and refused, so now he’s upset. And before that, Sveta called, down because her singing career isn’t getting anywhere. I mean, fine, sing for your soul, but you need a real job too! She wants to earn her keep from singing, but it’s just not happening. Not everyone is cut out for that—time to see it and get a proper job! And anyway, they used to be inseparable in childhood, and now they don’t even talk.” Natalia pushed away her now-cold breakfast and sipped her tea. “Don’t be so worried. It’ll all work out. We were young once too—remember?” Arkady tried to cheer her up, but that only fired her up more. “Oh, come on, Arkasha—you remember! We lived within our means and were grateful for it all. When Dima was born—it was pure joy. My friend gave me a pram and a cot, my sister passed down baby clothes—everything was secondhand, but good as new. Kids grow so fast. And we were happy. And when we finally got our Lada, we parked it by the house and felt like royalty! For ours, if they haven’t been abroad, it’s like life’s a failure. Where did they get that?” “It’s just the times, Natasha. So many temptations out there—they’ll see sense, just wait.” “I just hope it’s not too late—they’ll waste everything chasing wealth, and life goes by in a flash. Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder—is that really me, a grandma now? And you’re a granddad…” Just then, the phone rang—it was their son, Dima. “Here we go again,” Natalia muttered, picking up. As she listened, her eyes widened and she leapt to her feet. “Arkady, get dressed quickly—Dima’s in the hospital. His neighbor called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady jumped up, scrambling to get ready. “It’s not clear—an angle grinder mishap, cut his hand. They’re trying to reattach his wrist. I hope it all turns out okay. What a nightmare. Come on, let’s go.” They hastily dressed—not quite old yet, but not young anymore, parents with anxious hearts. They dashed out, forgetting everything else, on their way to their son in hospital… As they hurried, Svetlana called: “Mum, I’ll pop round at lunchtime, okay?” “Come by, love. We should be back by then,” Natalia gasped, not waiting for an answer as she chased after Arkady to the bus stop. At the hospital, they were reassured—his hand had been saved, though they couldn’t see him just yet. “If you won’t let us in, I’m staying right here,” Natalia declared, sitting down in the corridor, Arkady by her side. Suddenly Sveta burst into the hospital and ran straight to them. “Mum, why the long faces? He’s okay—it all worked out! Yesterday Dima was doing odd jobs, fixing someone’s car, and the angle grinder slipped. They stitched him up, and he can move his fingers. You both look dreadful—I promise he’s fine!” “How do you know?” Natalia managed to ask. “Dima and I text all the time—and his wife Lena, too. We help each other. Why?” “It just seemed like you weren’t close anymore. Why not tell us?” Arkady asked. “Dad, you and Mum are both strong—always overcoming everything. We don’t want to worry you,” Sveta smiled, “Besides, you both look much younger than you think—we just let you live for yourselves these days.” “Well, I thought you didn’t care about us anymore,” Natalia smiled back. “Oh come on, Mum! Your generation is something else—super resilient. We try to be like you, but it’s not always easy. We really do try, you know?” Both parents smiled, their worried expressions relaxing. “Mum, Dad, I wanted to tell you—I’ve got a job now. And the singing? I get invited to events all the time—nurseries, and just yesterday in a care home. The residents clapped so much, and an old lady even wept—her daughter’s a famous singer, always on tour, and left her in care. Heartbreaking!” On impulse, Sveta hugged her parents, “We really do love you, don’t ever think otherwise.” Just then, a nurse let them in to see Dima. Natalia nearly broke down, but Dima calmly said, “Mum, relax—it’s all over now. Dad, didn’t you once end up in hospital after getting swarmed by wasps in our old garage? You almost died! These things happen. Once I’m out, let’s spend New Year’s together—it’s all been such a rush and we hardly see each other. And Sveta wants to introduce us to her boyfriend, right, sis?” Natalia and Arkady walked home on foot—they fancied the stroll. Not old, but not young anymore—parents with caring hearts. Oh, that parent’s heart—it’s always aching for the children. You look at other people’s kids and wish yours were just a little bit better, a little more right, a little more obedient. But they have their own path, however it turns out… And our children are good, because, after all—they’re ours.

A Parents Heart Thank you for your support, for the likes, kindness, and thoughtful comments on my stories

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07

My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded We Give Up Our Flat for Their Growing Family, Then Blamed Me for Her Miscarriage When I Refused

8th June 2024 Ive been married for a decade now, sharing a two-bedroom flat in Manchester with my wife.

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Staying Connected Nadine’s Mornings Always Began the Same Way: Putting the Kettle On, Measuring Out Two Spoons of Tea into Her Trusty Old Teapot, Turning on the Radio for Familiar News Voices, and Casting a Fond Eye at the Wall Clock, Whose Hands Never Faltered—While the Home Phone Rarely Rang Anymore She Missed the Evenings Filled with Chit-Chat about TV Dramas or Doctor’s Appointments, but Now Friends Were Scattered or No Longer There, and the Heavy Receiver Gathered Dust; Her Children and Grandchildren Spoke through Screens, Tapping and Swiping, Fingers Always Busy, Their Lives and “Family Chat” Happening in Those Bright Little Boxes On Her Seventy-Fifth Birthday, Surrounded by the Noise of Family and the Aroma of Bakery Treats, She Was Presented with a “Gift”—a Smartphone, and with It, the Daunting Promise That Now, She Would Need to Learn a New Way to Keep in Touch At First, the Tech Was Foreign and Overwhelming, the Familiar Comforts of Buttons and Receivers Replaced by Swiping and Apps—and the Embarrassment of Mistakes, the Frustration of Passwords, and the Fear of Being Left Behind But Gradually, with Shaky Hands and Family Support, Nadine Found Herself Sending Messages, Booking a Doctor’s Appointment, and Sharing Photos of Her Windowsill Tomatoes—Her First Delicate Steps into This New World, Finding That Threads of Connection Could Stretch Across Any Distance, Even Through a Bright Little Screen And So, While the Landline Remained on the Wall, Nadine Learned That She Could Reach Out—With a Message, a Photo, or a Voice—all in Her Own Time, and That Was Enough to No Longer Feel Alone

You know, mornings for Margaret Edwards were always the same. Kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of loose

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Summer House Rules

Summer Rules When the train screeched to a halt at the tiny country stop, Mrs Edith Brown was already

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Mother-in-Law’s Generous Offer to Move into Her Flat Clearly Came with Strings Attached—Why We Politely Declined and Chose Our Own Family Space Instead

The mother-in-laws suggestion to move into her flat was obviously a calculated move. Oh, thank you so

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020

Setting Boundaries with Brazen Relatives on a ‘Family Getaway’: Two Weeks in a Rundown British B&B, Entitled Auntie Nina, and Mum Who Can’t Say No—How I Finally Put My Foot Down and Refused to Be the Family Doormat Any Longer

On holiday with cheeky relatives: Time to draw the line Ive been putting up with this for two weeks, Alex!

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08

A Bench for Two: An Everyday Tale of Companionship, Loneliness, and Small Acts of Kindness in Later Life

A Bench for Two The snow had long melted, but the soil in the park remained dark and damp, and on the