Walton Merritt

Are you out of your mind? He’s our son, not a stranger! How can you throw him out of his own home?! – shouted the mother-in-law, her fists clenched in fury…

Are you out of your mind? Hes our son, not a stranger! How can you throw him out of this house?

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Get Out of My Flat! — Said Mum “Out,” Mum said, perfectly calmly. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair—she was sure her mother was speaking to her friend. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Len, did you see the post?” her friend burst into the kitchen without even taking her coat off. “Arisha gave birth! Three and a half kilos, fifty-two centimetres.” Spitting image of her dad, same snub nose. I’ve already dashed round all the shops, bought baby clothes. Why so glum? “Congratulations, Natasha. I’m happy for you,” Lena stood to pour tea for her friend. “Come on, take your coat off and have a seat.” “Oh, I can’t really stop, I’ve got so much to do,” Natasha perched on the edge of the chair. “So much to manage. Arinka’s such a star, does it all herself, off her own back.” Her husband’s a gem, they’ve got their new flat on a mortgage now, just finishing the renovations. I’m proud of my girl. Raised her well! Lena silently put a cup in front of her friend. Sure, raised her right… If only Natasha knew… *** Exactly two years ago, Arina, Natasha’s daughter, turned up at Lena’s without warning, eyes swollen from tears and hands shaking. “Auntie Len, please, don’t tell Mum. I’m begging you! If she finds out, she’ll have a heart attack,” Arina sobbed, clutching a damp hanky. “Arina, calm down. Tell me properly. What happened?” Lena had been genuinely scared. “I… at work…” Arina snuffled. “A colleague’s money went missing. Fifty thousand.” And the cameras caught me going into the office when no one was there. I swear I didn’t take it, Auntie Len! Honest! But they said: either I pay back the fifty thousand by lunchtime tomorrow, or they go to the police. They have a ‘witness’ who supposedly saw me hide the wallet. It’s a set-up, Auntie Len! But who’ll believe me? “Fifty thousand?” Lena frowned. “Why didn’t you go to your dad?” “I did!” Arina began crying again. “He said it was my own stupid fault and he wouldn’t give me a penny since I’m a lost cause. Told me, ‘Go to the police, let them teach you a lesson.’ He wouldn’t even let me in the house, yelled through the door. Auntie Len, I’ve got no one else. I’ve saved twenty thousand. I need thirty more. “What about Natasha? Won’t you tell her? She’s your mum.” “No! Mum would kill me. She already says I embarrass her, and now this…” She works at a school; everyone knows her. Please, can you lend me the thirty? I swear, I’ll pay you back two or three thousand a week. I’ve already found another job! Please, Auntie Len!” Lena felt deeply sorry for the girl then. Only twenty, just starting out in life, and here’s this stain. Her father had refused help, turned away; her mother really would tear her head off… “Who doesn’t make mistakes in life?” Lena thought. Arina kept crying. “All right,” she said. “I have the money. Was saving it for dental work, but the teeth can wait.” Just promise me it’s the last time. And I won’t breathe a word to your mum, if you’re that scared. “Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Len! You’ve saved my life!” Arina threw her arms around her. The first week, Arina really did bring two thousand. She was cheerful, said it was all sorted, no trouble with the police, new job going well. Then… she just stopped replying to messages. A month, two, three. Lena saw her at Natasha’s during holidays, but Arina acted as if they barely knew each other—just a cold “hello” and that was all. Lena didn’t push. She thought: “Young, must be embarrassed, that’s all.” She decided thirty thousand wasn’t worth wrecking years of friendship with Natasha. Wrote off the debt—just let it go. *** “Are you even listening to me?” Natasha waved a hand in front of Lena’s face. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh, nothing much,” Lena shook her head. “Just my own stuff.” “Listen,” Natasha lowered her voice. “I bumped into Ksenia, remember our old neighbour? She came up to me in the shops yesterday, acting odd. Started asking about Arisha, how she was, if she’d paid back her debts. I had no idea what she meant. I told her Arinka’s independent now, earning her own money. And Ksenia just gave this weird smile and walked off. Do you know if Arisha ever borrowed anything from her?” Lena felt something tighten inside. “I don’t know, Natasha. Maybe just a bit of small change.” “All right, I’d better go. Need to pop into the chemist,” Natasha stood, kissed Lena on the cheek and hurried out. That evening Lena couldn’t hold back. She found Ksenia’s number and called. “Ksenia, hi. It’s Lena. Listen, you saw Natasha today? What debts were you talking about?” A heavy sigh at the other end. “Oh, Lena… I thought you’d know. You’re closer to them than the rest of us. Two years ago Arina came running to me. In tears, red eyes, said she’d been accused of theft at work. Either she paid back thirty thousand or it was prison. Begged me not to tell her mum, cried and pleaded. Well, like an idiot, I gave her the money. She swore she’d give it back in a month. Then she vanished… Lena gripped the phone. “Thirty thousand?” she repeated. “Exactly thirty?” “Yeah. She said she was short by just that much. In the end, I got five hundred back after six months, then nothing. Later, I heard from Vera in the next building—Arina had gone to her too with the same story. Vera lent her forty thousand. And even Galina Petrovna, their old teacher, ended up ‘rescued’ from the police. Gave her fifty thousand. “Wait a sec…” Lena sat down in shock. “You’re saying she asked everyone for the same amount? With the same story?” “Looks like it,” Ksenia’s voice hardened. “The girl took ‘tribute’ from every one of Natasha’s friends. Thirty, forty thousand from each. Made up the theft story, pulled at our heartstrings. We all care about Natasha, so we just kept quiet—didn’t want to upset her. But Arina, it seems, spent the money. Month after, her social media was full of photos from Turkey. “I gave her thirty thousand too,” said Lena quietly. “There you go,” Ksenia snorted. “Makes five, six of us. That’s not a mistake, Lena—it’s a racket. That’s not ‘youthful error,’ that’s outright fraud. And Natasha’s blissfully proud of her girl, totally oblivious. And her daughter? A thief! Lena hung up. She wasn’t bothered about the money—had already written it off. What made her sick was how cunningly and coldly a twenty-year-old girl had manipulated grown women, exploiting their trust. *** Next day Lena went to see Natasha. She hadn’t planned to make a scene. She just wanted to look Arina in the eye. Arina had just come back from the maternity ward and, while the renovations at her mortgage flat were underway, was staying with her mum. “Oh, Auntie Lena!” Arina flashed a strained smile at her mum’s friend. “Come in. Tea?” Natasha bustled at the stove. “Lena, darling, have a seat! Why didn’t you call?” Lena sat at the table opposite Arina. “Arina,” she began calmly. “Yesterday I saw Ksenia. And Vera. And Mrs Petrovna. We got talking. We rather formed a ‘victim support group,’ you might say.” Arina froze, went pale, risked a glance at her mother’s back. “What’s this about, Lena?” Natasha turned round. “Oh, Arina knows,” Lena kept her eyes fixed on the girl. “Remember, Arisha, that little incident from two years ago? When you asked me for thirty thousand? And Ksenia too. And Vera, forty. Mrs Petrovna, fifty. We all ‘saved’ you from jail. Every one of us thought she alone knew your terrible secret. The kettle shook in Natasha’s hand; boiling water spattered on the hob, hissing. “What fifty thousand?” Natasha put the kettle down slowly. “Arina? What’s she talking about? You borrowed money—from my friends? Even from Mrs Petrovna?!” “Mum… that’s not…” Arina stammered. “I… I gave it back… mostly…” “You gave nothing back, Arina,” Lena cut in. “You dropped off two grand for show, then vanished. You took about two hundred thousand off us with a made-up story. We kept quiet because we felt sorry for your mum. But now I see we should have pitied ourselves, not you. “Arina—look at me. You swindled money from my friends?! Made up a theft story to fleece people I invite into my house?” “Mum, I needed money for the move!” Arina shouted. “You never gave me anything! Dad wouldn’t spare a penny, and I had to start my life somehow! So what? They’re loaded, it’s not like I left them destitute!” Lena wanted to gag. So that’s how it was… “Right. Natasha, sorry to drop this on you, but I just can’t keep quiet anymore. I won’t enable her behaviour. She thinks we’re all idiots!” Natasha stood there, gripping the table. Her shoulders were shaking. “Out,” she said, completely calm. Arina smirked, leaned back—thought her mum meant Lena. “Out of my flat!” Natasha turned on her daughter. “Pack up and go to your husband. I don’t want to see you here again!” Arina went ashen. “Mum, I’ve got a baby! I mustn’t get stressed!” “You have no mother, Arina. The girl I called daughter was honest. You’re just a thief. Mrs Petrovna… Oh God, she phoned every day, asked after me—and never breathed a word… How can I look her in the eye now? How?” Arina grabbed her bag, flung down a teatowel. “You can choke on your money for all I care!” she yelled. “Stupid old biddies! To hell with both of you!” She rushed into the other room, grabbed the baby’s Moses basket and stormed out. Natasha sank onto a chair, covered her face in her hands. Lena felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Natasha…” “No, Lena… I’M sorry. For raising such a… such a wretch. I really thought she’d made her own way in life. And all along… God, what shame…” Lena patted her friend’s shoulder as Natasha broke down in tears. *** A week later, Arina’s husband, white-faced and haggard, went round to each “creditor” to apologise, unable to meet their eyes. He promised to repay everyone. He truly did—fifty thousand to Mrs Petrovna, covered by Natasha. Lena doesn’t blame herself. The cheat deserved what she got. Right?

“Out of my house!” the mother said. “Out,” Jane said, calm and measured.

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The Right to Take Your Time A Text from Her GP Arrives as Nina Clocks the Afternoon: Three Stops on the Bus to the Surgery, a Queue, a Consultation, and Back—While Her Son Promises to Drop By, Her Boss Drops Hints about Extra Work, and She’s Got Papers for Her Mum She Meant to Deliver Tonight—But Today, Nina Decides to Say No, to Slow Down, and to Choose Herself, Even Just for a Little While

The Right Not to Hurry The text from the GP arrives as Alice sits at her desk in a bustling London office

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Mirra: The User’s Agreement — When an App Lets You Rewire Reality, but Every Change Comes with a Price

Update Available The first time the phone began to glow crimson, I was smack in the middle of a lecture.

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I Gave My Daughter-in-Law a Family Heirloom Ring, and a Week Later I Spotted It for Sale in a Pawnbroker’s Window

Wear it carefully, love its not just gold, you know, theres a piece of our familys story in it.

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My Husband Invited His Old Mate to Stay for a Week—So I Quietly Packed My Bags and Escaped to a Spa Retreat

My husband brought a mate home to stay for just a week, so I quietly packed my suitcase and checked into

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My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a “Hinting” Cookbook for My 35th Birthday—So I Gave Her the Gift Right Back

Did you chop this salad yourself, or is it again from one of those ghastly plastic tubs, the kind you

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Mum’s Not Exactly Winning Any Parenting Awards: How Anna’s Cold Mother-in-Law Tried to Turn Her Son Against Her Until the Truth Finally Came Out

Mums Not Exactly the Best Emily, have you left your wet towel hanging in the bathroom again?

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My Husband Suggested a Trial Separation to Test Our Feelings, So I Changed the Locks “You know, Helen, it feels like we’re strangers now. The daily grind has swallowed us up. I’ve been thinking… maybe we should live apart for a while.” Mark said it as casually as if suggesting we buy brown instead of white bread for dinner. He didn’t even look up from his bowl of soup, dunking a piece of bread absently. I froze mid-stir, feeling boiling broth trickle down my wrist—but barely noticed the burn. My ears rushed, like someone had suddenly turned on a vacuum at full blast. “What do you mean—apart?” I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady as I set the ladle into the pot, afraid it might slip from my suddenly weak fingers. “Are you going away for work?” “No, nothing like that,” Mark finally looked up, eyes tired and slightly annoyed, like a teacher explaining the obvious to a clueless pupil. “I mean a pause. A test of our feelings. You know, the spark is gone. I come home, and… it’s stifling. Always the same: work, dinner, telly, sleep. I want to see if I really miss you, or if this is just habit.” I slowly sat down opposite him. Twenty years of marriage. Two children—both at uni, living in other cities. A mortgage paid off three years ago. DIY home improvements, weekends spent ripping off old wallpaper together. And now—“stifling”? “So, where exactly are you going to stay during this… test?” I asked quietly. “I’ve rented a flat. Just a studio, for a couple of months, close to work—so I don’t get stuck in traffic,” he replied a touch too quickly, as if rehearsed. “I’ve started packing, the bags are in the bedroom.” So he’d planned it for ages. While I’d been thinking about rose bushes for the garden or picking out a jumper for him at the spring sales, he’d been flat-hunting. Signed a lease. Paid a deposit. Not a word. “Don’t I get a say?” I looked at him, searching for any hint of the young man I’d married. But sitting across from me was a stranger: heavier, fidgeting, eyes darting down. “Helen, don’t make a scene,” Mark set his spoon down, apparently finally losing his appetite. “I’m not asking for a divorce—yet. Just a time out. It’s normal, loads of people do it. Psychologists recommend it. Maybe we’ll realise we can’t live without each other and get a second honeymoon. Or, if not… at least we’ll know.” He stood up, tossed his napkin down and headed to the bedroom. I heard wardrobe doors opening, the rustling of shopping bags. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at his favourite soup—made just how he liked it—feeling a cold, vast emptiness swallowing up my insides. The rest of the evening passed in a fog. Mark bustled around, ferrying suitcases to the hall. He took his laptop, the coffee maker I’d gotten from my colleagues (which he nearly monopolised), his warm jumpers. “Well, I’m off,” he said at the door, looking a mix of smug and faintly guilty. “Don’t ring me. Let’s do a month of no contact—for the experiment, you know, keep it pure.” “What if there’s a plumbing disaster?” I blurted. “Get a plumber. You’re a grown woman, you’ll cope. I’ll keep my set of keys just in case I urgently need to grab something. Right, that’s all. Bye. Don’t pine for me.” The door slammed. The lock clicked. I was left in a flat that suddenly seemed cavernous and eerily silent. For three days, I barely moved—just enough to drink water or use the loo. Life, I thought, was over. I replayed the past months, searching for where I’d gone wrong. Too much nagging about the socks? Had I put on weight? Was I boring? On the fourth day, my sister Kate crashed in like a tornado, arms full of groceries and wine. Seeing my puffy, bathrobe-clad, unwashed self, she just shook her head. “Right, enough of this. Shower. Now,” she commanded. An hour later, sipping wine in the kitchen, I told her everything. She listened and narrowed her eyes. “Hm, ‘testing his feelings’? He’s ‘stifled’?” Kate scoffed. “Helen, you’re the cleverest person I know—add numbers in your head all day, but you can’t add this up? He’s got another woman.” “Oh come off it,” I waved her off. “Who’d want him? He’s fifty-two, got a dodgy back and constant indigestion!” “Oh please. Love isn’t put off by a few aches—and at fifty, loads of blokes get second-wind mischief. ‘Studio flat’? ‘No phone calls for a month’? That’s classic. He wants to shack up with her—but keep his options open in case she doesn’t cook or do laundry. You’re his safety net in case new girlfriend doesn’t work out. If it does—he’ll divorce you.” Her words hit me like stones. I tried to argue, to defend Mark, but I knew Kate was right. The new phone password a month ago. The overtime at work. The new shirt he bought himself, when he hated shopping. “So what do I do?” I muttered, feeling anger throb where tears had been. “What do you do? Live! Get your hair done. Go shopping. And stop waiting by the phone. Whose name is on the deeds?” “Mine. Mum’s old flat—I inherited it. He never bothered sorting paperwork, he’s registered at his mum’s.” “Well then! You’ve got the legal high ground. Don’t mope. Surprise him.” When she left, I couldn’t sleep. I drifted through the flat, lights blazing. In the bathroom, I spotted his forgotten shaving foam, picked it up, and chucked it in the bin. The thud sounded like the first shot in a new war. The next fortnight passed strangely. I forced myself back to work—colleagues assumed my weight loss was spring blues. I started noticing things I’d missed before. The flat was tidier—no bread crumbs, no jeans on chairs. The fridge stayed stocked; I didn’t need to cook every night—a salad sufficed. My evenings were my own again. I remembered loving knitting, found my old needles and started making a scarf, TV on in the background. Silence wasn’t scary anymore. It was soothing. No droning about politics, no channel-switching during films. But still, a doubt gnawed—what if Kate was wrong? What if Mark was really missing me? Friday night solved it. On my way to grab more wool, I spotted them. Mark, standing outside a jeweller’s. A young woman—no more than thirty, bold coat—hooked on his arm. Mark was smiling at her—his old smile, the smile I’d fallen for twenty years ago. He pointed out a bracelet; she laughed, tossing her head. They looked utterly happy. I backed out of sight, heart pounding in my ears, as I watched my “sparkless,” “needing space” husband cuddle another woman and lead her away. Something snapped inside. But instead of fire, just cool, calm determination. No scene, no confrontation. I went home. There, I found the title deeds: my name, mum’s gift contract, my and the kids’ names in the passport. Mark wasn’t listed. I googled a locksmith. “I need my locks changed—urgent. Yes, paperwork is in order. How soon? An hour? Perfect.” A burly locksmith arrived—a pro, no questions. “Best quality, please,” I said. “Something he definitely can’t open with the old keys.” He grinned. “We’ll fit a British Standard 5-lever mortice. Not even your husband with a duplicate key will get through that.” The drill’s roar was music. As the old lock clattered to the mat, it felt like the old pain was tumbling out too. When he left, handing me shiny new keys, I locked up—four turns. Click-click-click-click. Four walls to my fortress. I bagged up Mark’s leftover things—coats, shoes, fishing gear, tools—into five black bin sacks. Left them by the shared hallway door. Another week passed. No word. Clearly, the “test” with his new muse was dragging on. I was fine. Applied for divorce online—it was surprisingly simple. The doorbell rang early Saturday. I looked through the peephole—Mark, a little dishevelled, but confident, clutching groceries and carnations. I didn’t open. I leaned my forehead against the door, waiting. He tried the old key. Metal scraped. He huffed, tried again. No luck. “Helen! Are you in there? What’s up with the lock?” I stayed silent. “Helen, open up! Your car’s outside! Don’t mess about—we agreed one month but I came early! I missed you!” I drew a breath and called out steadily, “Your things are in the black bags to the left. Take them and go.” Silence. Then the sound of shuffling—he’d seen the bags. “Are you mad?” his voice rose, shrill. “Open the door! I’m your husband! I have a right!” “This isn’t your home, Mark,” I said, calm. “It’s mine. You wanted to live separately? Be my guest—live separately. For good.” “You…you changed the locks?” It finally sank in. “How dare you? I’ll call the police! They’ll break down this door!” “Go ahead,” I said. “Show them your passport. And tell them how you left for a ‘test’—with your girlfriend. The local bobby will have a good chuckle.” “What girlfriend? You’re imagining things! I lived alone!” “I saw you. At the shopping centre. Jeweller’s, red coat. Stop lying. Experiment’s over. Results: failure.” Swearing erupted outside. He kicked the door. “You’ll regret this! No one will want you in your forties—you’ll be left all alone, daft cow! I came back to you out of pity! But you… I’ll take you to the cleaners! Half the car, half the holiday place!” “We’ll split the house and car in court, as the law says,” I answered. “But this flat? It’s not yours. Go away, Mark. Or I’ll call the police—a strange, aggressive man is trying to force entry.” He ranted for a bit, banged the bags. I heard the bouquet hit the floor. Then he gathered his stuff, obviously wondering how to carry it all at once. “Cow!” he shrieked before stomping off. I slumped to the floor, legs shaking, tears streaming down—but not for grief. Just the tension, sluicing out salty and hot. Ten minutes. Then I washed my face in cold water. In the mirror, a tired, older woman stared back—head held high. Text: From Kate—“So, how’s Casanova? I saw his car outside.” Me: “Gone. With his stuff. Locks work perfectly.” Kate: “Brilliant! So proud of you! Be round with cake later—new beginnings!” I went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. I could see the carnations outside—he never remembered, I loathe carnations, always preferred tulips. A month later, the divorce went through—quick, since our kids are adults. The house was sold, proceeds divided; Mark took the car, paid me my half (which funded a lovely solo holiday). Turned out his “muse” dumped him as soon as he lost the cushy flat and his prospects dimmed. He couldn’t afford the studio, ended up at his mum’s little council flat. I heard it from mutual friends. Didn’t care. I’d just got back from Turkey—first solo trip in years, bronzed, in a bright new dress, possibly even started a holiday romance with a charming German. Nothing serious—just enough to remind me I was still desirable. One evening, outside my block, Mark called out: “Helen?” He looked thinner, beaten down, in a creased old jacket. “Hi,” I said, not stopping, but slowing down. “Look, Helen… can we talk? I was a fool. It was a mistake. I miss our place. Your soup. Can we try again? You can’t just throw away twenty years…” I studied his face, surprised to feel—nothing. No anger, no pain, just emptiness, as if a stranger was begging for loose change. “Twenty years can’t be erased,” I replied. “But the past should stay in the past. I have a new life, Mark. There’s no room for old mistakes—or for you.” “But I’ve changed! I know now!” “So have I,” I smiled. “I know it’s not stifling alone. It’s freeing.” I took out my set of shiny new keys and stepped inside. The intercom buzzed, the door shut behind me—leaving Mark and his regrets at the threshold. As the lift carried me up, I thought—I should redo the hallway, maybe peach wallpaper this time. And buy a new armchair, perfect for knitting. My life was only just beginning, and the keys to it—all mine. Like the story? Subscribe and hit like for more real-life tales. Let me know in the comments—did Helen do the right thing?

June 22nd Today might just mark the most surreal turning point in my life. I dont think Ill ever forget

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Turning Up the Heat on a Marriage: When Victor Suggested an Open Relationship, Elena Surprised Him by Embracing Her Own Freedom – Three Years, Heartbreak, and a New Beginning Later, She Finally Discovers Herself

Warming Up the Marriage Listen, Liz… What if we tried an open marriage? Henry asked her gently. What?