Walton Merritt

Max kept his regret for the hasty divorce to himself—wise men turn lovers into special occasions, but he made his into a wife Maxwell Peters’ uplifted mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered his flat. At home, predictability greeted him: slippers ready for his feet, the appetising smell of dinner, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything spotless. But it didn’t move him; after all, his wife was always home—what else is there for an older English lady to do all day? Bake mince pies, knit socks (alright, he exaggerated about the socks, but the point remained). Marina appeared with her usual smile: “Tired, love? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze, standing in trousers and her house top, hair tucked under a scarf—the way she always cooked. The professional habit of tidying her hair: she’d spent her life as a cook. Eyes lightly pencilled, a bit of gloss—she was always tidy, but today it struck Max as brash. What’s the point of painting up your old age! He probably shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he blurted: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! Doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips trembled, but she said nothing—and didn’t go to lay the table. Just as well. The pies were under the tea towel, the tea was brewed—he’d manage. After his shower and supper, kindness began to seep back into Max, along with memories of the day. Draped in his favourite dressing gown, he settled into his armchair—the one waiting just for him—and pretended to read. What did that new woman at work say to him? “You’re quite an attractive man—and interesting too.” At fifty-six, Max managed the legal department of a major London firm. Reporting to him: a fresh grad and three women over forty. Another woman had gone on maternity: her spot was now filled by Asya. He’d been away for paperwork, so only met her that day. He invited her to his office for a chat and, with her, drifted the scent of delicate perfume and a wave of youthful freshness. Soft features framed by light curls, bright blue eyes meeting his confidently. Juicy lips, a mole on her cheek—was she really thirty? He’d have guessed 25. She was divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. Oddly—he thought: “Good.” Chatting, he mildly flirted, saying, “Now you’ve got yourself an old boss.” Asya fluttered long lashes and replied with words he kept replaying now. His wife, over the offence, soon appeared by his chair with her ritual chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always picks the worst time!”—but drank, not without pleasure. Suddenly, he wondered: what is the young, pretty Asya doing now? And an old, forgotten feeling stabbed through him: jealousy. *** After work, Asya popped into Tesco for cheese, a baguette, and some kefir for supper. At home she was neutral, no smile, hugging her son Vasily more by routine than tenderness when he ran up. Dad tinkered in the balcony workshop, Mum cooked. Putting her shopping away, Asya announced she had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed. Really, she felt bleak. Ever since she divorced Vasily’s dad years before, Asya had only struggled fruitlessly to become someone’s “main woman.” All the good ones turned out solidly married and only wanted something easy. The last one she’d dated from work seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years. He even rented a flat for her (for his convenience, really). But when things got serious, he insisted not just on breaking up, but that she must immediately quit her job. He even found her a new position. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Mum pitied her, Dad said that at least the boy should grow up with a mother—not just grandparents. *** Marina, Max’s wife, long suspected he was struggling with a mid-life crisis. He had everything, but something vital was missing. She feared to imagine what “vital” could mean for him. She tried to soften things—making his favourite food, staying pretty, not pushing for deep conversation (though she dearly missed it). She distracted herself with their grandson, the garden, but Max was always glum, brooding. So, perhaps because they both craved change in their lives, Max and Asya’s affair flared instantly. Two weeks after she started, he asked her for lunch—then gave her a lift home from work. He touched her hand; she turned to him with a glowing face. “I don’t want to say goodbye. Shall we go to my country cottage?” Max said huskily. Asya nodded, and the car sped off. Fridays, Max finished work an hour early, but only at 9pm, the worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max had no idea how accurately he’d described the future—“talking” was pointless now. Marina understood: after 32 years of marriage, one can’t burn with passion forever. But he was so much a part of her that losing him meant losing herself. Let him scowl, grumble, and act up, so long as he stayed—right there, in his favourite armchair, having dinner, breathing beside her. Desperate for words to save her life (really, just her life), Marina didn’t sleep till morning. Out of despair, she fetched the wedding album: young, so beautiful, so much ahead! Many had wished to call her their own. Her husband should remember this. She hoped he’d see those fragments of their old happiness and realise—some things cannot be thrown away. But he came back only on Sunday, and she saw: it was over. Before her, a different Max. He was charged with adrenaline; awkwardness and shame were gone. Unlike her, fearing change, he craved and embraced it. Even planned it. He spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent. From now on, Marina should consider herself free. He’d file for divorce tomorrow. Himself. The son’s family was to move in with her—according to the law: the double-bedroom flat belonged to Max, inherited. Family games. The move into a three-bedroom with Mum wouldn’t worsen conditions for the young family—and she’d have someone to fuss over. The car: of course, his. As for the cottage—he’d keep rights to use it. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unattractive, but she couldn’t hold back tears. They caught in her throat, making speech garbled. She begged him to stop, look back, think of his health, at least… That last bit infuriated him. He approached, whispered, almost shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” *** It would be foolish to claim Asya loved Maxim—she accepted his proposal on their very first night together at the cottage. Being a wife was appealing; she also found great comfort in showing her ex-lover, who’d rejected her, that she’d moved on. She was tired of living in her parents’ flat with Dad’s strict ways. She wanted stability. Maxim could give her that. Not a bad deal, really. Despite nearing sixty, he didn’t look like a grandad—fit, sharp, still a department head. Intelligent, pleasant, even considerate in bed. She liked that there were no rented flats, no cash struggles, no theft. All pluses? Well, she had doubts over his age. After a year together, disappointment grew. She still felt young, craved excitement—frequent, not once a year and dignified. She loved concerts, dreamed of waterparks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, meetups with friends. Her youth and energy meant juggling all that with housework and family was easy. Even her son, now living with her, didn’t slow her down. But Max was clearly flagging. At work, the expert legal manager handled endless tasks briskly; at home, she got a tired man who mostly wanted quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre, beach—allowed, but only in small doses. He was open to intimacy, but then straight to sleep—even at 9pm. Plus, she had to account for his sensitive stomach—no fried food, sausages, supermarket ready meals. The ex-wife had spoiled him. He even felt nostalgic at times for her steamed meals. Asya cooked to suit her son, couldn’t understand why pork cutlets made his side ache. She couldn’t memorise his tablets list either—surely a grown man could sort his own meds. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son as a companion, choosing activities to suit him, teamed up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live faster. They didn’t work together anymore—the directors found it unseemly, and Asya switched to a notary office. She felt relieved not to spend all day with her husband—he was starting to remind her of her father. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Was that too little or just enough for two people to be happy? Max’s sixtieth loomed, and Asya craved a lavish celebration. But her husband booked a table in a familiar, modest restaurant, one he’d visited often. He seemed bored, but that’s normal at his age, she thought. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends from the Marina years—it was awkward to invite them; family was far away, and they hadn’t understood his marriage to a much younger woman. His own son had cut him off. But doesn’t a father have the right to live his life as he chooses? Honestly, when marrying, he’d thought “choosing” would look rather different. That first year with Asya was a honeymoon. He enjoyed being in public with her, encouraging her to spend (not too much), keep up with friends, do fitness classes. He coped with concerts, wild movies, made Asya and her son co-owners of his flat. Later, he even gave her his half of the cottage, previously shared with Marina. Meanwhile, Asya, behind his back, persuaded Marina to sell her half, threatening to offload it to unsavoury buyers. Buying it (of course with Max’s money), she registered the place solely to herself. Her rationale: the river, the woodland—perfect for children. Now, for summer, Asya’s parents and her son moved in at the cottage. In fairness, this worked well: Max was not fond of the boy, who was noisy and lively. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s offspring. The old family took offence. After getting the money, they sold their own three-bed and went separate ways—his son’s family found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Max didn’t care how they lived. Family games. *** Now, Max’s sixtieth: so many wished him health, happiness, love. But he was missing the spark. Each year brought that familiar discontent. He loved his young wife, sure. But couldn’t keep pace with her, that was it. And to “press down”, to rule her, didn’t work. She’d smile and live in her own way. Never crossed a line—he could feel it, but it frustrated him. If only he could transplant his ex-wife’s soul into Asya! Someone who’d bring him chamomile tea, tuck him in if he dozed off. Max would love slow walks in the park together, late-night kitchen chats—but Asya couldn’t bear his long stories, and seemed to be bored in bed now. He grew anxious, which didn’t help. Max kept inside his regret at rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into rare treats; he’d made his into a wife. Asya, with her temperament, maybe ten more years would stay the playful filly. But even at forty, she’d still be much younger than him. That gulf would only widen. If he was lucky, perhaps life would end quickly—but if not? Such “un-festive” thoughts pounded, making his heart race. He scanned for Asya—there she was, dancing, radiant. Happy, though, of course—it’s wonderful to wake with her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing the moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, longing for air, to shake off the gloom. But colleagues flocked over. Uncertain how to deal with the growing pain inside, he bolted for the waiting taxi and urged the driver to hurry. He’d decide the destination later. He yearned for somewhere he was truly appreciated—where arriving meant someone was waiting just for him. Where his time was cherished, he could relax, never feel old or weak or foolish. He rang his son, pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. Receiving a bit of well-earned scorn, he insisted—this was a matter of life and death. He let slip it was his birthday, after all. His son softened slightly and said his mum might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. The surname’s—something funny, Bulkovich?” “Bulkevich,” Max corrected, jealousy flaring. Yes, he’d fancied her once—many did. She was beautiful, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkevich, but Max stole her away. Long ago, but yesterday enough to feel more real than life with Asya. His son asked, “Why do you want it, Dad?” The word “Dad” startled Max, and he realised how much he missed them all. So he answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” Son gave him the new address. The driver stopped. Max got out—he didn’t want to speak with Marina in front of witnesses. He checked the time: nearly nine—she was an owl, who also was his lark. He buzzed at the door. But the answer was a muffled male voice—not his ex-wife’s. She was busy. “What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” Max inquired, nervous. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband—even now! You must be Mr Bulkewich!” Max snapped. “‘Mr’? You’re her ex-husband, so you have no rights to bother Marina,” came the reply. Didn’t bother explaining: the friend was just taking a bath. “What, old flames never rust?” Max asked, gearing up for a long spat with Bulkewich. But he only replied, “No, they turn to silver.” Max never got through that door…

Martin harboured a regret so large it was threatening to burst out of him: he’d rushed into divorce.

La vida

030

— Dad, please meet my future wife—and your daughter-in-law—Barbara! Boris beamed with happiness. — Who?! — Professor Roman Philipson, Doctor of Science, asked in surprise. — If this is a joke, it’s not very funny! He eyed the “daughter-in-law’s” rough fingers with distaste, especially her nails. It seemed to him this girl had never heard of soap and water—how else to explain that ingrained dirt under her nails? “My God! How lucky my Lara didn’t live to see this disgrace. We tried so hard to teach Boris the best manners,” raced through his mind. — I’m not joking! — Boris declared defiantly. — Barbara will be staying with us, and in three months we’re getting married. If you won’t participate in your son’s wedding, I’ll manage without you! — Hello! — smiled Barbara, striding confidently to the kitchen. — Here are pies, raspberry jam, dried mushrooms… — she listed foods pulled from a well-worn tote. Roman Philipson clutched his heart as Barbara ruined his pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth with spilled jam. — Boris! Come to your senses! If you’re doing this just to spite me—it’s not worth it… It’s too cruel! What backwater did you bring this uncouth girl from? I won’t let her live under my roof! — the professor cried in despair. — I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live in my home! — Boris smirked mockingly. Roman Philipson knew his son was tormenting him. Not wishing to argue further, he silently retreated to his room. Relations with his son had changed drastically since his wife’s death. Boris had become unruly, dropped out of university, spoke rudely to his father, and led a wild, reckless life. Roman Philipson hoped his son would change—become thoughtful and kind once more. But each day Boris grew farther apart. And now, Boris had brought this village girl home, knowing full well his father would never approve… Soon Boris and Barbara were married. Roman Philipson refused to attend the wedding and accept the unwelcome daughter-in-law. He was bitter that the place of Lara—the perfect homemaker, wife, and mother—was now filled by this uneducated girl who struggled to string two sentences together. Barbara seemed oblivious to her father-in-law’s dislike, trying to please him—but only making matters worse. He saw no good in her, only poor manners and ignorance… After his stint as the model husband, Boris resumed drinking and partying. His father often overheard their quarrels, secretly pleased—hoping Barbara would leave the house for good. One day, Barbara burst in crying. — Roman Philipson! Boris wants a divorce, and he’s throwing me out in the street. Plus, I’m expecting a child! — Why out on the street? You’re not homeless.… Go back to wherever you came from. Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship, — the man said, inwardly rejoicing that he’d finally be rid of the annoying daughter-in-law. Barbara packed in despair, unable to understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or why Boris had treated her like a pet then cast her out. So what if she was just a village girl? She had a heart and feelings too… *** Eight years passed… Roman Philipson was living in a nursing home. In recent years, the elderly man had grown frail, and Boris had quickly took the opportunity to send him away—relieving himself of any further trouble. Resigned, the old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. He’d taught thousands of students love, respect, and care. He still received letters of thanks from former pupils. But he’d failed to raise his own son to be a decent person… — Roman, you have guests, — his roommate said, returning from a walk. — Who? Boris? — the old man blurted out, though deep down he knew it was impossible; his son would never visit—his bitterness toward his father ran deep… — Don’t know. The nurse told me to come get you. What are you sitting there for? Run along! — his roommate smiled. Roman took his cane and slowly made his way out of the small, stuffy room. Descending the stairs, he saw her from afar—and instantly recognised her, though it had been years since their last meeting. — Hello, Barbara, — he said softly, head bowed. Perhaps he still felt guilt over not defending that sincere, simple girl all those years ago… — Roman Philipson?! — the rosy-cheeked woman was startled. — You’ve changed so much… Are you ill? — A little…, — he smiled sadly. — How did you find me? — Boris told me. You know, he refuses to speak to his son. But the boy keeps asking to visit his dad—and his granddad… Ivan’s not to blame that you won’t acknowledge him. He desperately needs family. It’s just the two of us…, — Barbara said with a trembling voice. — Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have disturbed you. — Wait! — the old man pleaded. — How old is Ivan now? I remember your last photo—he was only three. — He’s just at the entrance. Shall I call him? — Barbara asked, hesitantly. — Of course, dear, bring him in! — Roman Philipson brightened. In came a ginger-haired boy—Boris’s spitting image in miniature. Ivan hesitantly approached the grandfather he’d never met. — Hello, sonny! You’ve grown so much…, — the old man teared up, embracing his grandson. They talked for ages, strolling through the autumn park beside the nursing home. Barbara spoke of her tough life—about losing her mother young and raising her son and farm alone. — Forgive me, Barbara. I owe you a great apology. For all my learning and education, it’s only now I understand—people should be valued not for wit and manners, but for their sincerity and kindness, — the old man said. — Roman Philipson, we’d like to make a suggestion, — Barbara smiled, nervous and stammering. — Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’s so important to have family close by. — Granddad, come on! We can go fishing together and hunt mushrooms in the forest… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room at home! — Ivan pleaded, not letting go of his grandfather’s hand. — Alright! — Roman Philipson smiled. — I missed my chance with Boris, but maybe I can give you what I couldn’t give your father. Besides, I’ve never been to the countryside—maybe I’ll like it! — You’ll love it! — Ivan laughed.

Dad, let me introduce you to my future wife, and your daughter-in-law, Harriet! beamed Boris, positively

La vida

The Heart of a Cat Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered and Soul Ached: What Could Happen for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Olesya Was Given a Pure Black British Cat at Her Housewarming, She Was Stunned for Several Minutes… Her Modest, Previously-Owned One-Bedroom Flat, Bought with Hard-Scraped Savings, Was Barely Furnished. Other Problems Demanded Her Attention. And Then, Out of the Blue, a Kitten. Astounded, She Looked into the Little One’s Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a tomcat or a queen?” “A tomcat!” “All right then, Tomcat, you’ll be called Whiskers,” she said to the kitten. He opened his tiny mouth and meekly squeaked, “Meow…” ***** It Turned Out British Shorthairs Were Quite Comfortable Company. Three Years Later, Lesley and Whiskers Lived in Harmony, and Through Shared Life She Discovered His Touching Soul and Big Heart. He Joyfully Greeted Her After Work, Warmed Her As She Slept, Watched Movies Snuggled by Her Side, and Trailed After Her as She Tidied Up. Life with a Cat Became Much Brighter. It’s Comforting to Know Someone Waits at Home for You—Someone to Laugh or Cry With and, Most Importantly, Understands You Instantly. It Seemed Like Life Couldn’t be Better, but… Recently Lesley Began Noticing Pain in Her Right Side. First, She Thought She Pulled a Muscle or Blamed Rich Food. But When Pain Worsened, She Went to the Doctor. After Hearing the Diagnosis and What Lay Ahead, Lesley Cried All Evening Into Her Pillow. Whiskers, Sensing Her Mood, Quietly Snuggled Close and Tried to Comfort Her with Musical Purring. Unaware, Calmed by Whiskers’ Purrs, Lesley Fell Asleep. In the Morning, Having Accepted Her Fate, She Decided Not to Tell Family, Sparing Herself Sympathy and Awkward Attempts to Help. She Still Clung to a Ray of Hope that Doctors Could Treat Her Illness. They Offered a Course of Treatment that Might Improve Her Condition. But There Was the Question of Where to Place Her Cat. Deep Down, Fearing Her Illness Might End Tragically, She Decided to Find Whiskers a New Home with Good Owners. She Made an Online Post Offering Her Pedigree Cat to a Loving Home. When the First Caller Asked Why She Was Parting with an Adult Pet, Lesley, Without Really Knowing Why, Said She Was Expecting and Had Developed an Allergy to Cat Hair During Pregnancy. Three Days Later, Whiskers, in His Carrier with All His Belongings, Left for His New Owners, and Lesley Was Admitted to Hospital… Two Days Later, She Called the New Owners to Ask About Whiskers, and Apologetically They Told Her the Cat Had Escaped That Very Night and Couldn’t Be Found. Her First Instinct Was to Flee the Hospital and Search. She Even Pleaded with the Duty Nurse, Who Sternly Sent Her Back to Her Bed. Her Roommate Noticed Lesley’s Distress and Asked What Had Happened. Lesley, Sobbing Bitterly, Told Her Everything. “Don’t Grieve Yet, Dear,” said the thin elderly woman. “Tomorrow, a specialist from London is meant to visit. I also have a bad diagnosis, my son—he’s a businessman—wanted to move me to another clinic, but I refused. He managed to arrange for the specialist here. I’ll ask if she’ll see you too; maybe things aren’t so hopeless,” she comforted Lesley, gently rubbing her shoulder. **** Emerging from the Carrier, Whiskers Realized He Was in a Strange House. Someone Unknown Reached to Stroke Him… The Cat’s Nerves Snapped—he Gave a Fierce Swipe and Bolted into a Dark Corner. “Paul, don’t approach him yet, let him settle,” Whiskers Heard a Soft Female Voice, But It Wasn’t His Owner’s Voice. The Cat’s Heart Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered, Soul Ached. What Could Have Occurred for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers, Why Had She Abandoned Him? His Amber Eyes Scanned the Room in Panic. Then He Spotted an Open Window. With a Black Flash He Darted Across the Room and Leapt Outside! Luckily, It Was Just the Second Floor—and a Well-Kept Lawn Beneath. From There, Whiskers Began His Journey Home… ***** The Specialist Appeared Before Lesley as a Pleasant Woman Just Past Forty. She Introduced Herself as Dr. Mary Palmer, Carefully Studied Lesley’s Medical File, and Asked Her to Lie on the Couch, Turn to Her Left Side. She Probed and Tapped for Some Time, Asked Where It Hurt and What Kind of Pain. Then She Checked the File Again and Repeated Tests on Medical Equipment. Lesley Expected Nothing Good. She Returned to Her Bed, Where Her Neighbor Already Lay. “So, what did they say, dear?” the woman asked. “Nothing yet, said they’d come to the ward again.” “I see. Well for me, they confirmed the diagnosis,” she said sadly. “I’m very sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, not sure how to comfort someone who knew she didn’t have long. Half an Hour Later, Dr. Palmer Entered the Ward with Other Doctors. “Well, Lesley, I Have Good News for You. Your Illness Is Treatable—I’ve Prescribed Your Course. Stay Two Weeks, Complete Treatment, and You’ll Be Healthy,” She Told Her With a Smile. Once the Doctors Left, Her Neighbor Spoke: “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, darling,” she added. ***** There Was No Guiding Star for Whiskers—and He Wouldn’t Have Known of One. The Cat Simply Headed Home, Driven by His Feline Inspiration. The Road Through Thorns to the Stars Was Full of Dangerous Adventures and Silly Mishaps. Unfamiliar with the Streets, The Noble Brit Quickly Became a Fierce Predator, His Instincts Sharpened. Avoiding Busy Roads and Noisy Streets, Whiskers Sneaked, Sprinted, and Flew Over the Ground (or so it felt while fleeing dogs), Scampered Up Trees, and Doggedly Pressed On… In One Quiet Yard, Fleeing the Nearby Road’s Roar, He Came Face-to-Face with an Experienced Alley Cat. That Cat Didn’t Waste Time Inspecting Whiskers and Instantly Recognized Him as an Outsider. With a Loud Meow, the Alley Cat Attacked, and Whiskers—transforming from a Stately Aristocrat to a Furious Bandit—Didn’t Back Down. The Scuffle Was Brief; The Local Feline Boss Retreated in Shame to the Bushes, Leaving Behind a Slightly Torn Ear as a Souvenir. What Else Could the Cat Do? The Alley Cat Was Showing Off, Trying to Prove He Was Boss, but Whiskers Was Headed Home and Nothing Would Stop Him. The Journey Continued. Summoning Memories of His Wild Ancestors, Whiskers Learned to Sleep in Tree Forks. Oh God, How Embarrassing, but Whiskers Learned to Eat Out of Bins and Steal Food from Other Alley Cats, Thanks to Sympathetic Locals. Once, He Ran Into a Pack of Stray Dogs. They Chased Him Up a Fragile Tree, Barking, Jumping, and Scraping the Trunk. People Gathered, Driven by the Noise, and Chased the Dogs Away. One Woman Decided to Adopt Whiskers, Tempting Him with a Piece of Delicious Sausage. Hunger and Fear Clouded the Brit’s Judgement, So He Let Her Pet Him and Carry Him Inside. However… After Resting and Eating in Warmth and Safety, Whiskers Remembered His Mission, Bolted Out After the Woman and Slipped Into the Lobby as the Door Opened, Continuing His Trek Home… ***** Discharged from Hospital, Lesley Went Home. She Couldn’t Stop Thinking of the Woman Who Wished Her Happiness. Of Course, She Was Thrilled Her Diagnosis Wasn’t Confirmed and She Was Well. But Her Heart Ached for Whiskers. She Couldn’t Imagine Returning to A Lonely Flat With No One To Greet Her. No Sooner Had She Crossed the Threshold than She Phoned Those Who’d Adopted Whiskers, Asking For Their Address. Arriving, Lesley Learned How Whiskers Had Escaped, and Decided to Trace His Steps. She Was Told It Was Impossible, That Two Weeks Had Passed, That No House Cat Could Survive on the Streets—But She Didn’t Want to Believe It. Lesley Walked Through Every Yard, Checked Nearby Parks and Garages. She Tried to Think Like a Cat Who’d Never Been Outdoors. She Called Out for Whiskers, Peering Into the Darkness Beneath Basement Windows. Nearing Her Own Building, She Realized The Cat Had Disappeared Without Trace. It Was Unreal That He, Unfamiliar With The City, Could Reach This Far, Where She Had Walked For Two Hours With Many Delays. She Entered Her Courtyard with a Heavy Heart, Eyes Filling With Tears, Soul Burdened and Sore. Through Her Blurry Vision, She Saw, Across the Pavement, a Black Cat Limping Her Way. “A Black Cat” Flared in Her Mind. Lesley Stopped and, Staring Hard, Understood. She Broke into a Run, Shouting: “Whiskers!” But the Cat Didn’t Rush to Her—He Simply Had No Strength Left. He Sat Down, Squinting with Joy, and Quietly Squeaked, “I made it!”

The heart of the cat thudded quietly in his chest, thoughts scattered, soul aching. What could have happened

La vida

015

Well, Your Precious Nancy Has Changed! People Say Money Ruins Character, but I Never Realised What I’d Done Wrong – Once I Had a Perfect Marriage, Two Wonderful Children, but Everything Fell Apart After My Husband’s Accident. I Pulled Myself Together for the Kids, Worked Hard, Moved Abroad, Sent Money, Bought Flats for My Children – Yet After Years in England and Meeting a New Ukrainian Man, I Finally Returned Home to Hurtful Gossip from My Late Husband’s Family Demanding I Support Them Too. Now, I’m Torn – Am I Really Obliged to Help My Former In-Laws After All I’ve Endured?

My, hasnt your Emily grown proud! People say money changes folk, and it seems theyre right!

La vida

012

“You Have to Let Me Know First! I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Even Realise How Expensive It Is to Host Guests?” – My Mother-in-Law Yelled I’m an ordinary working daughter-in-law, nothing special, no crown on my head. My husband and I live in our own flat in the city, which we pay for ourselves – mortgage, bills, work from dawn till dusk. My mother-in-law lives in the countryside, as does my sister-in-law. All would be well, except they’ve decided our flat is their weekend holiday resort. At first it sounded quite sweet: “We’ll pop round on Saturday.” “Just for a bit.” “We are family, after all.” Except “a bit” means overnight stays, “pop round” means arriving with bags, empty pots, and expectant looks, waiting for a feast. Every weekend, it’s the same: after work, I run round shops, cook, clean, lay the table, smile, and spend half the night washing dishes and tidying up. Valentina Ivanovna sits and comments: “Why isn’t there sweetcorn in the salad?” “I like my borscht richer.” “We don’t do things this way back in the village.” And my sister-in-law adds: “Oh, I’m so tired from the journey.” “No dessert?” And never once: “Thank you”, “Can I help?” One day, I snapped and told my husband: “I’m not a housemaid, and I don’t want to serve your family every weekend.” “Maybe we should really do something about this.” That’s when an idea struck me. Next time, mother-in-law calls: “We’re coming round on Saturday.” “Oh, we’ve got plans for the weekend,” I say calmly. “What plans?” “Just our own.” And you know what? We really did go out – not to our ‘plans’, but to Valentina Ivanovna’s. Saturday morning, my husband and I are standing in her yard. My mother-in-law opens the door – and freezes. “What’s this?!” “We’ve come to visit you. Just for a bit.” “You have to let me know first! I didn’t prepare anything! Do you even realise how expensive it is to host guests?!” I look at her and respond quietly: “See, that’s how I live every weekend.” “So you wanted to teach me a lesson?! How rude!” She shouted so much, the neighbours came out to see, and we went home. Funny thing? Ever since – not a single visit without an invitation. No more “we’ll just pop round” and no more weekends in my kitchen. Sometimes, to be heard, you just have to show people what it’s like to be in your shoes. Do you think I did the right thing? What would you do in my situation?

You cant just turn up without warning, I havent prepared anything! Do you realise how much it costs to

La vida

“Mick, We’ve Waited Five Years, the Doctors Said We’d Never Have Children – Then That July Morning Changed Everything: The Boy Who Heard With His Heart, The Basket by the Garden Gate, and the Painting That Said ‘Thank You, Mum’”

Michael, weve waited five years. Five. Doctors keep saying there’ll be no children for us.

La vida

You’ll Find Your Fate—No Need to Rush, Everything Comes in Its Own Time Polly had an old, rather quirky tradition: every year, just before New Year’s Eve, she’d visit a fortune teller. Living in bustling London made it easy to find a new psychic each time. The thing was, Polly was lonely. No matter how she tried to meet a wonderful young man, it was all in vain. It seemed all the decent guys were already taken… “This year you’ll meet your destiny!” declared the dark-eyed fortune teller, gazing into a sparkling crystal ball. “But where? Where will I meet him?” Polly asked impatiently. “Every year it’s the same promise. The years keep moving on, and I haven’t found my fate yet.” “You came recommended as the strongest psychic in town. I demand to know the exact place! Otherwise, you’ll be getting some very bad reviews from me…” warned Polly. The fortune teller rolled her eyes, realising she was dealing with a difficult customer who wouldn’t leave easily. She knew if she didn’t give Polly an answer now, the girl would camp out all evening, clogging up the queue of others hoping to glimpse their future. “On a train—you’ll meet him on a train!” the psychic intoned, closing her eyes. “I see him clearly… tall, blonde, very handsome. Just like a fairytale prince…” “Oooh!” Polly squealed with excitement. “Which train? And when exactly?” “Right before New Year’s!” The fortune teller played along. “Go to the station. Your heart will guide you to the right ticket window…” “Thank you!” said a delighted Polly, flashing a happy smile. Polly hurried from the psychic’s flat, grabbed a cab to King’s Cross Station, and joined the line at the ticket window. Her spark of enthusiasm dimmed as she stared, bewildered, at the departures board, not sure at all what ticket to buy… “Cashier! Speak up!” barked an annoyed attendant, snapping Polly out of her confusion. “Manchester… For December thirtieth. A compartment seat, please,” Polly mumbled. She imagined herself in a cosy train carriage, sipping tea, when suddenly the door would swing open and in would walk her prince… Once home, Polly began hurriedly packing her essentials. Her train was late that night… She didn’t think about the consequences, or what she’d do alone in a strange city on New Year’s Eve. All she wanted was for the fortune teller’s prediction to come true as quickly as possible. It was so painful to feel unwanted—especially at holiday time. Everyone else, it seemed, was shopping with family, buying gifts for each other… Everyone except her. A few hours later, Polly sat in her compartment with a cup of tea, just as she’d imagined. Now all she had to do was wait for her prince to step through the door. “Good evening!” greeted an elderly lady, hoisting a massive suitcase into the compartment. “Where’s the other seat?” “Here…” said Polly, blinking in confusion and gesturing to the opposite berth. “Are you sure this is your carriage?” “No mistake, dear,” smiled the granny, settling comfortably on the spare seat. “Excuse me, let me through,” Polly stammered, realising she’d made a foolish mistake. “I want to get off—I’ve changed my mind about this trip!” “Wait a moment, let me stow my bag,” replied the old lady, not understanding the drama. “Well… the train’s moving now,” Polly sighed heavily. “What now?” “Why did you want to get off so suddenly? Forget something?” the woman asked. Polly ignored the question and turned to gaze out the window, realising the lady was blameless—it was her own fault for believing in fortune tellers. Meanwhile, Mrs. Smith dug into her bag and produced some warm homemade pasties, offering them to Polly. “Went to visit my daughter,” she explained. “Now I’m rushing home—my son and his fiancée are coming for New Year’s. We’ll celebrate together.” “Lucky you… I’ll probably spend New Year’s at the station,” Polly said sadly. One conversation led to another, and at last Polly poured out her whole story to the kindly old lady. “Oh, you silly thing! Why do you trust these charlatans?” the woman scolded. “You’ll find your fate—there’s no need to rush. Everything has its time…” The next day, Polly stepped onto the platform of a city she’d never seen before, helping her fellow traveller off the train and pausing with no clue what to do next. “Thank you, Polly! Happy New Year to you!” Mrs. Smith said warmly. “And you!” Polly replied, though her smile was tinged with sadness. The woman looked at Polly, wondering how to cheer up the poor girl. She understood that seeing in the New Year at a train station wasn’t the happiest prospect. “Polly, come with me!” Mrs. Smith suddenly suggested. “We’ll decorate the Christmas tree, lay out a festive spread…” “Oh—no, I shouldn’t,” Polly stammered, embarrassed. “And sitting in the station is better?” the old lady smiled. “Come along, it’s settled!” So Polly accepted the invitation. Mrs. Smith was right—a blizzard had burst outside and wandering the station made no sense. “Sasha and Lisa are already home,” Mrs. Smith beamed. Sasha spotted his mum arriving in a taxi, and hurried to the lift to take the heavy bag from her. “Sasha, darling! And I’m not alone—I brought a guest. This is the daughter of an old friend of mine, Polly,” Mrs. Smith winked at Polly. “Brilliant!” Sasha smiled. “Come in, please, Polly!” Polly blushed when she saw the tall, handsome blonde. She realised he matched the very image she’d imagined on the train. Fate, it seemed, was playing tricks on her again… “And where’s Lisa?” his mother asked. “Mum, Lisa’s gone, and she won’t be coming back. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Sasha frowned. “All right…” his mother murmured, unsure. That evening they all sat down together, seeing out the old year. “Polly, how long will you stay with us?” Sasha asked, smiling as he passed her another helping of salad. “Not long—I’ll be off in the morning,” Polly replied, somewhat sadly. She found herself not wanting to leave the warmth of this home so soon. Polly felt as though she’d known Mrs. Smith and Sasha all her life. “I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry!” Mrs. Smith protested. “Polly, stay a while longer!” “Really, Polly, stay! We’ve got a fantastic ice rink, we can visit tomorrow evening. Don’t rush off,” Sasha suggested. “All right, you’ve convinced me,” Polly smiled. “With pleasure, I’ll stay.” The following New Year’s, there were four at the table: Mrs. Smith, Sasha, Polly—and little Arthur… Do you believe in New Year’s miracles?

Youll find your destiny. No need to rush. Everything in its own time. I have this peculiar ritual I cant

La vida

010

“Gran, Hello!” cried Matthew. “Who gave you permission to keep a wolf in the village?”

Gran, Mary! I called out as I entered the garden. Who said you could keep a wolf in the village?

La vida

015

Breaking Free from a Mother’s Shadow: At Thirty-Five, Barbara Finds the Courage to Escape Her Controlling Parent, Discover Herself, and Embrace Love After Years of Living in the Grip of Her Mother’s Power

Under Her Mother’s Shadow When I think back, I remember how, at thirty-five, Barbara Harris was

La vida

043

I Don’t Know How to Write This Without Sounding Like Cheap Drama, But This Is the Most Brazen Thing Anyone’s Ever Done to Me: I’ve Been Living With My Husband for Years, While the Second Key Player Is His Mother, Who’s Always Been Overly Involved in Our Marriage—Up Until Now, I Thought She Was Just Meddling “Out of Care,” but Turns Out That’s Far From the Truth. A Few Months Ago, He Convinced Me to Sign Papers for a House—He Told Me It Was Finally Something of Our Own, That Renting Was Nonsense and We’d Regret Not Doing It Now; I Was Overjoyed Because I’d Long Dreamt of Having a Home Instead of Living out of Suitcases and Boxes, So I Signed Without Question, Thinking It Was a Family Decision. The First Odd Sign Was When He Started Handling Institutions Alone, Saying It Was Easier, I’d Waste Time, and He’d Manage—He’d Come Home with Folders He Never Let Me See and Explained Things to Me Like I Was a Child; I Assumed Men Just Like to Control These Matters. Then Began the “Little” Money Games: Suddenly, the Bills Became Harder to Pay, Though His Salary Was the Same—He Pressured Me to Pay More Because “Right Now, We Have To,” and Promised It Would Be Fine Later. I Ended Up Paying for Groceries, Part of the Mortgage, Repairs, Furniture—Because, After All, We Were “Building Our Home.” Then, One Day While Cleaning, I Found a Folded Document in the Kitchen, Not a Regular Bill—It Was an Official Paper, Date-Stamped, Clearly Listing the Owner. It Wasn’t Me. It Wasn’t Him. It Was His Mother’s Name. I Stood There, Reading Over and Over, Unable to Process That I Was Paying, Taking Loans, Renovating, Buying Furniture—Yet His Mother Was the Sole Owner. The Overwhelming Feeling Wasn’t Jealousy—It Was Humiliation. When He Came Home, I Didn’t Make a Scene—Just Placed the Document on the Table and Looked at Him. I Didn’t Beg or Plead. I Was Simply Done Being Played. He Didn’t Look Surprised. He Didn’t Ask “What’s This?” He Merely Sighed, As If I Was the Problem Because I’d Discovered the Truth. Then Came His Most Brazen “Explanation” Yet—He Said, Calmly, That It Was “Safer” This Way, His Mother Was the “Guarantor,” and If Anything Ever Happened Between Us, the House Wouldn’t Be Split; He Explained It Like Shopping for a Washing Machine Instead of a Dryer. I Felt Like Laughing Out of Despair—This Wasn’t a Family Investment; This Was a Plan for Me to Pay and Leave With Nothing But the Clothes I Owned. The Worst Part Was Not Just the Document—It Was Realizing His Mother Knew Everything, Too; That Same Evening She Called, Lecturing Me As If I Were the Intruder, Saying She Was “Only Helping,” the Home Had To Be “In Safe Hands,” and That I Shouldn’t Take It Personally. Can You Imagine? I’m Paying, Sacrificing, Making Compromises, and She Talks of “Safe Hands.” After That, I Started Digging, Not Out of Curiosity, but Because Trust Was Gone. I Checked Bank Statements, Transfers, Dates—and Uncovered Something Dirtier: The Mortgage Wasn’t Just “Our Loan,” As He Claimed. There Was Another Debt, Paid From Money I Contributed, Including Payments Toward an Old Debt That Had Nothing To Do With Our Home—It Was His Mother’s. In Other Words, I Was Paying Not Only for a Home That Wasn’t Mine, but Also for Someone Else’s Old Debt, Dressed Up as a Family Need. That Was the Moment the Curtain Lifted—Suddenly, Past Situations Made Sense: Her Constant Interference, His Unwavering Defence of Her, My Role as the “Naïve One,” and How Decisions Were Always Just Between Them While I Simply Funded It All. The Most Painful Truth Was Realizing I’d Only Been Convenient—Not Cherished—The Woman Who Worked, Paid, and Didn’t Ask Too Many Questions for the Sake of Peace. But Peace in That House Was Clearly for Them, Not Me. I Didn’t Cry or Shout—Instead, I Sat in the Bedroom and Did the Maths: What I’d Given, What I’d Paid, What I Had Left; For the First Time, I Saw Just How Many Years of Hope Had Made Me Easy To Use, and Being Made a Fool with a Smile Hurt More Than Losing the Money. The Next Day, I Did the Unthinkable—Opened a Bank Account in My Name, Moved All My Income There, Changed Every Password and Locked Him Out; Stopped Funding Anything “For Us,” Because There Clearly Was No “Us.” Most Importantly, I Began Gathering My Documents and Evidence Since I No Longer Believe in Promises. Now We Live Under the Same Roof, But I’m Alone—No Begging, No Fighting, Just Looking at the Man Who Chose Me as His Cash Machine and at His Mother, Who Thinks She Owns My Life. I Wonder How Many Women Have Endured This, Whispering “Stay Quiet or It’ll Get Worse.” But Honestly—Is There Anything Worse Than Being Used With a Smile? ❓ If You Found Out You’d Spent Years Paying for a “Family Home” That Was in His Mother’s Name, Making You Just the Convenient One—Would You Leave Immediately, or Fight To Get Back Everything You’ve Put In?

Im not sure how to share this without it sounding like some cheap soap opera, but honestly, its the cheekiest