Walton Merritt

THE FOOL Everyone thought Anna was a simpleton. She’d been married to her husband for fifteen years. They had two children: Alice, fourteen, and Sam, seven. Her husband barely bothered to hide his affairs—he cheated on her first on the second day of their marriage, with a waitress, and there was no counting how many followed. Her friends tried to open her eyes, but Anna simply smiled and stayed silent. Anna worked as an accountant at a toy factory. The salary, according to her, was tiny, but the workload was never-ending—even working weekends. During financial reporting season, she might not come home at all. Her husband, meanwhile, earned very well. Still, Anna was a hopeless homemaker. No matter how much money she had for groceries, the fridge was always empty, and the best she ever managed for dinner was borscht or pasta and meatballs. That was life. Everyone around them gossiped, especially when they saw her husband Val with a new flame. He would often come home, as they said, “dry as a bone.” “That Anna’s such a fool, why does she put up with such a cheat?” On the day Sam turned ten, her husband came home and announced he wanted a divorce. He’d fallen in love, he said, and family life no longer suited him. “Don’t take it personally, Anna, but I’m filing for divorce. You’re cold as a fish. At least if you were a good housewife, but you’re not even that.” “Alright, I agree to the divorce,” Anna replied. Val nearly fell off his chair; he’d been expecting a scandal, hysterics, tears—anything but calm acceptance. “Fine, then you pack your things and I’ll stay out of your way. Leave your keys under the mat; I’ll be back tomorrow.” Anna looked at him with a silent, strangely knowing smile. This was all odd, Val thought, but brushed it off—he was imagining his new, happy life, free of children and a tiresome wife. The next day, he returned home with his new flame, checked under the mat for the key—nothing. That annoyed him a little. “No matter, I’ll just change the locks. Easy,” he shrugged to himself and tried his old key. Didn’t fit. He knocked on the door. A burly man in slippers and a dressing gown answered. “What do you want, mate?” “This is my flat, actually,” Val said, not very confidently. “I’d argue with that. Got any documents to prove it?” No, of course he didn’t. He started fumbling for his passport, remembering the address should be inside. The man glanced at it, frowned, then handed it back. “When was the last time you looked at this?” Val nervously flipped the page; there were two stamps—a registration and a deregistration, the latter dated two years ago. How could this have happened? He didn’t push his luck with the bouncer at the door. He tried ringing Anna, but her number was disconnected. He waited for her at the toy factory gates—only to find out Anna hadn’t worked there for a year. His daughter was studying abroad. He thought at least Sam would be at the local school, but the school told him Sam had been transferred—last year. Sorry, confidential. Devastated by all that had happened, Val slumped onto a bench and buried his head in his hands. How had simple, quiet Anna pulled this off? And how had she managed to sell the flat? “No matter, I’ll sort this out at the divorce hearing,” he muttered, grimly. On the day of the hearing, he arrived furious, ready to expose Anna as a fraud and reclaim all that was his—only to learn the hard truth. Two years ago, he’d signed a general power of attorney for Anna, during an affair with stunning Eliza. He’d brushed off the details when Anna, needing paperwork for their daughter’s studies, had suggested it. Advised by his solicitor, he’d unwittingly handed over everything he owned. When Eliza heard he no longer had a flat, she disappeared fast. “Well, at least I’ll get her with child support,” Val consoled himself. But instead of a summons for spousal maintenance, he received a court order regarding a paternity dispute. Anna revealed both children were not Val’s—she’d seen him cheat on their wedding day and embarked on revenge of her own. First, she cheated back, then she hid every penny he gave her for the house, feeding the children at her mum’s and saving up. Anna’s mother had tried to stop her: “Revenge will destroy you, ruin the children,” but Anna would not be swayed. She even did DNA tests, though she already knew who the children’s real father was. Val took the loss of his flat better than the news that the kids weren’t even his. Beware the women you wrong—for a wronged woman’s wrath knows no bounds.

Everyone always thought Emily was a bit of a dimwit. Shed been married to her husband, Martin, for fifteen

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The Recipe for Happiness… The Whole Block Watched as the New Tenants Moved Into the Flat on the Second Floor—The Family of a Factory Foreman at the Town’s Only Major Employer in a Quiet Little English Village “Why on earth would they choose to live in an old Victorian terrace?” pensioner Mrs. Nina Andrews wondered aloud to her friends. “With his pull at the factory, they could’ve easily snagged a shiny new-build!” Her daughter, glamorous thirty-year-old Annie with her signature bold makeup, protested, “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum. These Victorian houses have high ceilings, spacious rooms, a grand hallway—and that balcony might as well be another room! And they got a phone line straight away! There are only three phones in our whole building of nine flats…” “All you want is to gossip on the phone,” her mother scolded. “Leave the new people be—they’ve got better things to do than chat with you!” “They’re not so out of reach—they’re young, their daughter Natasha is only nine! Practically my age, well, a few years older maybe,” Annie replied, casting an indignant look at her mum. The neighbours turned out to be friendly enough—Lydia worked in the local school library and Ivan had already notched up a decade at the factory. Annie wasted no time in getting to know them, regularly popping over to use their phone, unlike some neighbours who wouldn’t even open their door for her half-hour chats with girlfriends. But soon, Ivan grew weary of Annie monopolising their phone line. “I can’t get any calls in from work, and Natasha gets distracted from her homework by the noise,” Lydia admitted. One evening, Annie arrived with a chocolate bar as a sweet gesture, only to be told by Lydia, “Best not—Natasha’s allergic, chocolate is completely off-limits in our house.” Annie, red-faced, took her chocolate home. Determined, Annie returned soon after, notebook in hand, asking Lydia for her secret recipe for those delicious sweet cheese buns she baked each morning. “But why not ask your own mum? Our parents always know best!” Lydia replied, too rushed to help. Annie left, disappointed once more. Finally, Annie turned to the old, well-thumbed recipe notebook buried in her mum’s kitchen cupboard—and there, in spidery cursive scripts, she discovered the exact recipe she’d been searching for. Before long, their own flat was filled with the tantalising warmth of freshly baked buns. With each batch, Annie grew more content in the kitchen—her boyfriend Slava soon followed the scent, and laughter and joy returned to their home. And when Annie found herself awaiting the arrival of a baby, she realised she finally held the true recipe for happiness: a warm home, a loving husband, and the sweet aroma of home-baked treats enjoyed together.

The Recipe for Happiness The entire building looked on with curiosity as new tenants moved into the flat

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I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—Now I Regret It…

I managed to get my son to divorce, and now I regret it My daughter-in-law dropped off my granddaughter

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“So You’re Just Not Going to Take Care of My Son’s Child?”: When Your Future Mother-in-Law Crosses the Line and Old School Friends Can’t Help But Stir the Pot—How Rita Stood Her Ground About Family, Work, and Self-Respect in a Tale of Modern Love, Secret Struggles, and Two London Flats

What do you mean youre not going to look after my sons child? Margaret, my future mother-in-law, hissed

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Strangers in Our Flat Katya was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside the flat came the sound of the television, voices chatting in the kitchen, and a strange smell. Behind her, Maksim nearly dropped his suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” she whispered, extending her arm. “Someone’s here.” On the beige sofa—their favourite—lounged two total strangers. A tracksuit-clad man clicked through the channels on the remote, beside him sat a plump woman knitting. Cups, plates with crumbs, and various medicines littered the coffee table. “Sorry, who are you?” Katya’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, completely unfazed. “Oh, you’re home,” said the woman, not even pausing her knitting. “We’re Lida’s relatives. She gave us the keys and said there were no owners here.” Maksim blanched. “What Lida?” “Your mum,” the man finally stood. “We’re from Bristol—here with Misha for his check-ups. She put us up here, said you wouldn’t mind.” Katya walked slowly to the kitchen. At the stove, a teenage boy of about fifteen was frying sausages. The fridge brimmed with unfamiliar food. Dirty dishes were piled on the table. “And you are?” “Misha,” he turned. “What, can’t I eat? Grandma Lida said it was fine.” Katya returned to the hallway, where Maksim was already pulling out his phone. “Mum, what on earth are you doing?” His voice was quiet, but angry. From the phone came his mother’s breezy voice: “Maksim, you’re back? Did you enjoy your trip? Listen, I gave the keys to Svetlana, she and Vitya are in London, had to take Misha for some doctors. Thought, well, your flat’s empty, no point letting it go to waste? They’re just here for a week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why ask? You weren’t there. Just tell them I’m responsible for the flat, so they’ll tidy when they leave.” Katya snatched the phone: “Lydia Petrovna, are you serious? You just let strangers stay in our home?” “What strangers? That’s my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as kids.” “And I’m supposed to care who you shared a bed with? This is our flat!” “Katya, don’t get worked up. Family, that’s all. They’re quiet, won’t break anything. Their boy’s sick, they needed help. Or are you that stingy?” Maksim took the phone back: “Mum, you’ve got one hour to come and take them out. All of them.” “But Maksim, they’re meant to stay until Thursday! Misha’s got tests, they needed the consultations. They booked a hotel, I just helped them save money.” “Mum. One hour. If you’re not here, I’ll call the police.” He hung up. Katya sank down onto the hall stool, face in her hands. Suitcases stood unpacked. The television murmured in the lounge, sausages sizzled in the kitchen. Two hours ago, they were on a plane, dreaming of being home at last. Now, she felt like an unwelcome guest in her own flat. “We’ll get ready,” the woman from the lounge appeared, sheepish. “Lida thought you wouldn’t mind. We would have asked, but didn’t have your number. Lida suggested, and we agreed. Thought we’d stay a week, do the hospital stuff.” Maksim stood silently by the window, tension written in his back. Katya knew it meant he was furious at his mother, but couldn’t say so out loud. “Where’s our cat?” she burst out, suddenly panicked. “What cat?” “Murzik. Ginger. We literally left keys for him.” “No idea,” Svetlana shrugged. “We haven’t seen him.” Katya combed the flat. She found the cat wedged under the bed, fur bristled, eyes wide. When she tried to coax him out, he hissed. “Murzik, darling,” she lay on the floor. “It’s me. It’s okay.” He watched her warily. The room reeked of strangers. Unfamiliar pills cluttered her nightstand, the bed was made differently, someone else’s slippers littered the floor. Maksim squatted beside her. “Sorry.” “For what? You didn’t know.” “For my mum. For her being like this.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” he fumed. “Remember when we first moved, she barged in unannounced? I thought I’d explained—turns out not.” Voices echoed from the hallway. His mum had arrived. Katya stood, smoothed her hair, went out. Lydia Petrovna stood, indignant: “Maksim, are you mad?” “Mum, please, sit in the kitchen.” “Sit? Svetlana, Vitya, start packing, they’re kicking us out. We’ll go to mine.” “Mum, sit. Please.” She noticed his expression and finally fell silent. They all moved to the kitchen, where Misha finished off sausages. “Mum,” Maksim sat opposite her, “explain how you thought it was okay to let people in our flat without asking?” “I was helping! Svetlana phoned, crying—Misha’s ill, needed to come to London, nowhere to stay. Your flat was empty.” “Mum, it isn’t your flat.” “How’s it not mine? I’ve got keys.” “The keys—so you could feed the cat, not run a B&B.” “Maksim, it’s family! Svetlana’s my sister, we’ve always been close. Vitya’s a good lad, hard-working. Misha’s sick, needs help. And you’d turf them out?” Katya’s hands shook as she poured herself water. “Lydia Petrovna, you didn’t ask us.” “Why would I? You weren’t home!” “Which is exactly why you should have!” Maksim was raising his voice now. “We have phones! You could have called, texted—asked. Then we’d have decided.” “So you’d have just said no?” “Maybe. Or agreed for a couple of days, with conditions. But we’d have known. It’s called respect.” Lydia stood up: “Always the way. I try to help and get it thrown in my face. Svetlana, get your things; we’re off to mine.” “Mum, you’ve only got the one-bed. You said yourself it’s too small for four.” “We’ll cope. Better than with the ungrateful.” Katya set down her glass. “Lydia Petrovna, please. You know perfectly well you were wrong. Otherwise, you’d have phoned us.” Her mother-in-law stopped dead. “You knew we’d say no, that’s why you presented it as a fait accompli. You figured we’d come back, see them already here, and just put up with it. Right?” “I only wanted to help.” “No. You wanted it your way. That’s different.” For the first time, Lydia looked lost. “Svetlana was crying. Misha was really suffering. I felt sorry for them.” “And that makes sense,” said Maksim. “But it wasn’t yours to offer. Mum, how would you feel if I let my mates stay in your flat while you were away—without asking?” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence. In the lounge, the family started packing. Svetlana cried quietly, Vitya packed bags, Misha hovered at the kitchen door, eyes downcast. “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. “I thought it’d be okay. Grandma said.” Katya looked at him: just a scared kid. None of this was his fault. “You haven’t done anything wrong; go help your parents.” Lydia pulled out a handkerchief. “I really thought it was for the best. Didn’t cross my mind to ask. You’re my children, I’ve always done everything for you so I just thought…” “We’re not kids anymore, Mum. We’re thirty. We have our own lives.” “I understand,” Lydia stood. “Do you want your keys back?” “Yes,” Katya nodded. “Sorry, but we’ve lost trust.” “I get it.” Svetlana’s family left quickly, with long, awkward apologies. Lydia took them to hers, assuring them they’d squeeze in somehow. Maksim closed the door behind them and slumped against it. They wandered through the flat in silence. Fresh sheets were needed, the fridge had to be cleared out. Signs of other people everywhere: forgotten things, moved furniture, dirty dishes. Murzik still cowered under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Katya asked, opening the kitchen window. “Don’t know. I’d like to think so.” “And if not?” “Then we’ll be firmer. I won’t let this happen again.” She hugged him amid the mess that wasn’t theirs but in their own home. “The worst bit?” she stepped back. “The cat. We did all this for him, and he’s been starving and terrified through this whole circus.” “Do you think they even fed him?” “Doesn’t look like it. His bowl’s empty, water filthy. Probably forgot about him.” Maksim knelt by the bed: “Murzik, I’m sorry mate. Mum’s not getting those keys again.” The cat cautiously stuck out his head, then crept out to rub against Maksim’s legs. Katya fetched some food, which he devoured like he hadn’t eaten in days. They set about cleaning. Threw away the strangers’ food, changed the bedding, washed up. Murzik ate and curled up asleep, flat once again their own. That evening, Lydia called. Her voice was quiet, apologetic: “Maksim, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thank you, Mum.” “Is Katya angry with me?” He looked at his wife, she nodded: “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat for a long time, drinking tea in silence. Twilight thickened beyond the windows. The flat was clean, quiet, theirs again. Their holiday had ended, suddenly and brutally.

It was Alice who first put her key in the door and immediately froze on the threshold. The faint sound

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“I Didn’t Invite You to My Home! — The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke. — You Were Not Welcome Here!”

I didnt invite anyone over! Emilys voice broke as she spoke. I didnt ask you to come! Tom was in the

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— I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors to the reception hall slowly opened, releasing a warm golden glow into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, quietly holding the hem, doing my best to hide the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was exactly as Artem and I had dreamed. Almost. As I steadied my breathing before our entrance, squealing brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors, I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door flew open, and out tumbled a noisy crowd: Aunt Sally, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already dashing circles around the car. A chill ran down my spine. “Not this…” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “They came after all?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with kids.” We stood in the doorway, ready to join our guests, when instead we froze—like two actors on opening night who’d just forgotten their lines. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold it together now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, you need to go back a few weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing for sure: it would be a small, intimate, cosy celebration. Just 40 guests, live jazz, warm lighting, and a relaxed mood. And—no children. Not because we dislike kids. We just wanted a peaceful evening without little feet thundering about, shrieks, trampoline mishaps, spilled juice, and other people’s parenting dramas. All our friends understood. My parents were fine with it. Artem’s parents were a little surprised at first, but quickly accepted it. The extended family, however… First to call was Aunt Sally—a woman whose voice volume seems coded in her DNA. “Ina!” she began, skipping any greeting. “What’s this I hear about no kids at your wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Sally,” I calmly replied. “We want a quiet evening, so the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” she exploded, as if I’d suggested banning babies nationwide. “Don’t you know we’re a close family? We always do everything together!” “This is our day. We’re not making anyone come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Well, fine then. We won’t come,” she snapped, and hung up. I stared at my phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button that triggers a disaster. Three days later, Artem came home with a troubled look. “Ina… We need to talk,” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three children aren’t some sort of delinquents, but real people. And if they’re not invited, neither she, her husband, nor his parents will come.” “So, minus five people?” “Eight,” he corrected, sitting down wearily. “They think we’re breaking tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with a tinge of desperation. “Tradition? You mean the one where kids knock over trays of food at weddings?” Artem cracked a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re already fuming.” But the campaign didn’t end there. A week later, we went to a family dinner at his parents’ house. And that’s where a surprise awaited me. His grandmother—gentle, quiet Mrs. Parker, who usually prays not to get involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she gently scolded. “A wedding without them feels… empty.” I was about to respond, but Artem’s mother jumped in. “Oh, Mum, that’s enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings are chaos. You’ve always complained about the noise. Remember how many times we had to catch little ones under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “And family should respect the couple’s wishes,” his mum calmly replied. I wanted to stand and applaud. But Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the conflict had turned into a full-blown family saga—Game of Thrones-level drama. And we were the crowned couple they were all trying to overthrow. The knockout punch came soon after. Another call. It’s Uncle Michael—generally the calmest, most laid-back, “this doesn’t concern me” type. “Ina, hello,” he began gently. “There’s just… we thought—my wife and I—why no kids? They’re part of the family. We always bring them to weddings.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a quiet evening. No one’s banned from coming…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But look, my wife says if our kids aren’t allowed, neither is she. And I’ll be with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more gone. By now, our guest list was thinner than a Vogue model. Artem sat next to me and hugged my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he whispered. “Otherwise, it’s not really our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Gran would hint that “it’ll feel dead without children’s laughter.” Katya would post a dramatic message in the family group chat: “So sad that some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And finally—the wedding day. That minivan pulled up to the steps. The children leapt out first, stamping across the cobblestones like they’d rehearsed a parade. Aunt Sally followed, adjusting her hair. “I’m going to lose it…” I muttered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.” We stepped forward. Aunt Sally was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Well, hello, newlyweds!” she announced, arms outstretched. “Sorry we’re late. But we had to come. We’re family! We just couldn’t leave the kids. But they’ll keep quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem murmured, watching the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Sally… We agreed,” I said calmly and clearly. “There would be no children. You knew that.” “But weddings are…” she started. Then Gran spoke up. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But children are family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Mrs. Parker,” I replied gently, “we really value you being here. Honestly. But this is our choice. If that’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I never finished. “Mum!” Artem’s mother suddenly called, coming out of the hall. “Stop spoiling their day. Adults celebrate—children stay home. That’s it. Let’s go.” Gran faltered. Sally froze. Even the children fell quiet—picking up on the mood shift. Sally sniffed. “Well… alright. We didn’t want to fight. Just thought it was best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I told her. “But the children do need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silence—then they quietly walked the kids back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home, leaving the adults. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect—candlelight, jazz, a gentle buzz of conversation. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen cleared the way, a waiter handed us champagne. And I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artem bent down to me. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. We danced our first dance with no children weaving between our feet. No one shouted, no desserts crashed to the floor, no cartoons blared on phones. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours later, Gran approached us. “Ina, Artem…” she said gently. “I was wrong. Tonight has been… lovely. Really lovely. Without all the commotion.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.” “It’s just…” she sighed. “Old folks cling to old ways. But I see now—you knew best.” Those words meant more than any toast that night. At the very end of the celebration, Aunt Sally came over, clutching her glass like a shield. “Ina…” she lowered her voice. “I was too harsh. Sorry. It’s just, we’ve always done things as a family. But tonight… it’s beautiful. So peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thank you for coming,” I replied honestly. “We so rarely get time as adults. Tonight… I finally felt like a person again,” she confessed. “Almost makes me wish I’d thought of it sooner.” We hugged. Weeks of tension finally melted away. When the evening ended, Artem and I stepped outside under the soft glow of the streetlights. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. Traditions, too. But having your boundaries respected matters just as much. And when a bride and groom say “no children,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turns out, even the oldest family habits can change—if you make it clear your decision is final. This wedding taught everyone a lesson—especially us: sometimes, to save the day, you have to be able to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes a truly happy celebration.

I expressly said not to bring your children to the wedding! The double doors of the reception hall slowly

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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.

La vida

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