Walton Merritt

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

La vida

02

Raising a Wimpy Kid, or Why Did You Enroll Him in Music School?

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

La vida

07

Raising a Wimpy Kid, or Why Did You Enroll Him in Music School?

Raising a Push-over Why did you sign him up for music lessons? Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging

La vida

08

Even now, I sometimes wake in the dead of night and ask myself when my dad managed to take absolutely everything from us. I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but cosy house – furniture in its place, the fridge stocked well on shopping days, and the bills almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were getting through Maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without saying hello, toss his keys on the table, and head straight to his room with his phone in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you reckon this house keeps itself?” He’d just reply in a flat voice, “Just leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to all of it from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him in the garden talking on the phone. He laughed under his breath and said things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” As soon as he saw me, he hung up quickly. I felt a weird ache inside, but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted at him, “A while with who? Just tell the truth!” Then he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I broke down crying, “What about me? My school? The house?” He just replied, “You’ll figure it out.” He shut his suitcase, grabbed the documents from his drawer, picked up his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, mum tried to get money from the cashpoint but her card was blocked. The next day she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they’d saved together. On top of that, we learnt he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan behind mum’s back, naming her as guarantor. I remember mum sitting at the table, sifting through scraps of paper with an old calculator, crying and muttering, “It’s not enough… it’s just not enough…” I tried to help sort out the bills but didn’t understand even half of what was happening. A week later they cut off our internet, and soon nearly disconnected the electricity, too. Mum started cleaning people’s houses for work. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing in the corridor with a bag of chocolates at break time, but I did it because at home we barely had the basics. There was one day I opened the fridge and there was only a jug of water and half a tomato inside. I sat in the kitchen and cried on my own. That same night we had plain rice – nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to provide as she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook of dad with that woman at a restaurant – raising a glass of wine together. My hands were shaking. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that, he never called again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He simply vanished. Now I work, pay for everything on my own, and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of money – because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and moved on with his life as if nothing ever happened. And even now, so many nights I wake up with the same question lodged in my chest: How does a person survive when their own father takes everything, leaving them to learn to fend for themselves while they’re still just a child?

Even now, there are nights when I wake suddenly and find myself wondering how my father managed to take

La vida

013

Letting Trouble In: When a Father Moves In, and Brings Unwanted Company—Kristina’s Battle to Protect Her Home, Her Rules, and Her Peace

Letting All the Wrong People In Dad, where did all these new things come from? Did you raid an antique

La vida

014

Even now, I sometimes wake in the dead of night and ask myself when my dad managed to take absolutely everything from us. I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but cosy house – furniture in its place, the fridge stocked well on shopping days, and the bills almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were getting through Maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without saying hello, toss his keys on the table, and head straight to his room with his phone in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you reckon this house keeps itself?” He’d just reply in a flat voice, “Just leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to all of it from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him in the garden talking on the phone. He laughed under his breath and said things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” As soon as he saw me, he hung up quickly. I felt a weird ache inside, but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted at him, “A while with who? Just tell the truth!” Then he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I broke down crying, “What about me? My school? The house?” He just replied, “You’ll figure it out.” He shut his suitcase, grabbed the documents from his drawer, picked up his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, mum tried to get money from the cashpoint but her card was blocked. The next day she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they’d saved together. On top of that, we learnt he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan behind mum’s back, naming her as guarantor. I remember mum sitting at the table, sifting through scraps of paper with an old calculator, crying and muttering, “It’s not enough… it’s just not enough…” I tried to help sort out the bills but didn’t understand even half of what was happening. A week later they cut off our internet, and soon nearly disconnected the electricity, too. Mum started cleaning people’s houses for work. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing in the corridor with a bag of chocolates at break time, but I did it because at home we barely had the basics. There was one day I opened the fridge and there was only a jug of water and half a tomato inside. I sat in the kitchen and cried on my own. That same night we had plain rice – nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to provide as she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook of dad with that woman at a restaurant – raising a glass of wine together. My hands were shaking. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that, he never called again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He simply vanished. Now I work, pay for everything on my own, and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of money – because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and moved on with his life as if nothing ever happened. And even now, so many nights I wake up with the same question lodged in my chest: How does a person survive when their own father takes everything, leaving them to learn to fend for themselves while they’re still just a child?

Even now, there are nights when I wake suddenly and find myself wondering how my father managed to take

La vida

018

Letting Trouble In: When a Father Moves In, and Brings Unwanted Company—Kristina’s Battle to Protect Her Home, Her Rules, and Her Peace

Letting All the Wrong People In Dad, where did all these new things come from? Did you raid an antique

La vida

06

Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.

Dads Cottage Its a testament to the power of cosmic mix-ups that Emily Bradshaw learned her dad had sold

La vida

0122

Knock Knock, We’ve Arrived: When Family Invades Without Asking, and How to Finally Say ‘No’—A Story of Auntie Natasha, Relentless Relatives, and Closing Your Own Front Door

Open Up, We’ve Arrived “Emily, it’s Aunt Patricia!” The voice on the phone had

La vida

0212

Stepping Inside, Olivia Paused: By the Door, Beside Hers and Ivan’s Shoes, Sat His Sister’s Costly High Heels—But Ivan Hadn’t Mentioned She Was Visiting. Later That Evening, After Refusing a Café Invitation from Her Colleague Paul, Olivia’s World Was Shaken by a Hidden Conversation—Old Rivalries, Family Pressure, and Unresolved Love Echoed through Their Flat, Forcing Her to Confront the Truth about Her Marriage, Ivan’s Past with Vera, and the Life They Were Building in His Sister’s London Apartment.

Entering the flat, Emily paused. There by the doorway, neatly placed next to hers and Davids shoes, stood