Harlan Covington

The Nuisance Next Door – “Don’t you dare touch my cataract lenses!” screeched my former friend. “Why don’t you worry about your own eyes! You think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” – “Oh, so you’re jealous now?” Tamara Bryson was taken aback. “Well, well! Fancy someone, do you? I know exactly what to get you for Christmas—a lip-rolling machine!” – “Why not keep it for yourself?” Lyudie shot back. “Or are your lips beyond repair these days? Think I don’t notice?” Old Tamara swung her feet off her ancient bed and made her way to the family prayer corner for her morning prayer. Not that she was particularly religious: she believed something was out there, obviously—someone had to be running things! But who that was, exactly, always remained a mystery. This greater power had many names: the cosmos, first cause, and of course, the Good Lord Himself—yes, the kindly old man with a white beard and halo sitting on a cloud, thinking about all mortals below. Besides, Tamara had long passed the halfway mark of life, closing in on seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: if there’s nothing up there, the faithful lose nothing; but if there is, the faithless lose everything. At the end of her prayers, Tamara added a few words of her own: as you do. And so, with the ritual complete and her soul somewhat lighter, she was ready to face another day. Tamara Bryson faced two main problems in life—not, as you might expect, fools and roads (that’s so clichéd!), but her neighbour Linda and Tamara’s own grandchildren. With the grandkids, things were obvious: typical modern generation, allergic to hard work. Still, they had parents—let them deal with it! Linda, though—the neighbour—was another story. She’d become a classic nerve-shredder! Feuds between great actresses always look touching in films—real life is far less endearing, especially when the nagging is unprovoked. And Tamara did have a friend—Peter ‘Scooter’ Cosgrove. Full name: Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—it’s all in the surname! He earned his nickname in his youth, forever zipping about on his beloved scooter—a “moped,” as he liked to call it. Decades have passed, the scooter now gathering dust in his shed, but the name “Scooter Pete” stuck—a village thing! They used to be family friends: Scooter Pete and his wife Nina, Tamara and her late husband. The husbands now rest together in the village churchyard. Tamara and Pete’s friendship carried on purely out of habit. After all, they’d known each other since school, and Pete was a true friend. Back then, it was the three of them: Tamara, Pete, and Linda—and they really were just friends, no love triangles at all. They went everywhere arm in arm, like a cup with two handles—designed for a steady grip, just in case! Over time, though, friendship soured—at least on Linda’s side. After her husband died, she became bitter, her envy slowly leaking out in ugly ways. Which, perhaps, was understandable. Tamara, despite her age, stayed slender, while Linda had grown plump and shapeless in comparison. More galling, Pete—their mutual schoolmate—now paid more attention to lively Tamara, sharing private jokes and giggles, leaving Linda stuck in short, awkward conversations. Even Pete dropped in on Tamara for tea more often; Linda had to invite him if she wanted a visit. Maybe she wasn’t as clever as insufferable Tamara, nor half as witty. Pete, after all, always loved a good laugh. Soon Linda was nitpicking over everything. First, she complained about the outside loo: “Your loo stinks!” barked Linda. “Really? It’s been there a hundred years; you only just noticed?” Tamara shot back. “What about your free NHS cataracts? You can’t expect miracles from freebies!” “Don’t you dare touch my lenses!” Linda raged. “You just keep your eyes to yourself! Think I don’t notice?” “Oh, so you’re jealous now? Fancy someone, do you?” Tamara taunted. “I’m getting you a lip-rolling machine for Christmas!” “Why not keep it yourself? Or are your lips beyond all help?” This wasn’t the first or last time. Pete even suggested filling in the outdoor loo, and Tamara’s children chipped in to build her an indoor bathroom—problem solved! But Linda wasn’t finished. Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of nicking the pears from her overhanging tree—a tree whose branches dangled far into Tamara’s garden. “They just thought it was ours!” Tamara tried to explain, though she’d seen no missing pears. “Your chickens tear up my veg patch, and I don’t complain!” “Chickens are stupid! Either egg-layers or broilers!” Linda snapped. “You need to teach your grandkids manners instead of flirting with pensioners!” And so it went, round and round. The grandkids got a scolding, the pears ripened and fell—Linda found something new to moan about. This time it was the branches being damaged. “Where? Show me!” Tamara demanded, seeing nothing amiss. “Right there! And there!” Linda jabbed with a gnarled finger—Tamara’s own hands were delicate and smooth by comparison, the hands of a lady, even in a village. Pete suggested just sawing off the branches—after all, on Tamara’s side, she had every right. “She won’t dare object if I help,” he assured. He was right: Linda watched the pruning in silence. Next, Tamara raised a legitimate complaint: Linda’s new breed of chickens were destroying her garden beds. Chickens—being chickens—scratch everything up, and now all the planting was ruined. Whenever Tamara asked her to keep the chickens contained, Linda would just smirk, as if to say, “Just you try!” Tamara was tempted to catch a couple and roast them in full view but couldn’t bring herself to it. Resourceful Pete found a solution online: place eggs overnight in the flower beds and gather them ostentatiously in the morning as if Linda’s hens had laid them. It worked! Linda was flummoxed, watching Tamara collect eggs from the patch. And after that, the chickens never strayed over again. So, is it peace at last? Not quite. Linda now complained about the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen—her cooking hut. Yesterday it wasn’t a problem; now it was. Maybe the smell of fried meat is off-limits, or perhaps she fancies herself a vegetarian activist. “Where’s the barbecue then?” Tamara reasoned. “You might want to clean your specs, darling!” Normally patient and polite, Tamara had finally had enough—her neighbour was getting utterly impossible. “Maybe she should be handed over for scientific experiments,” Tamara joked to Pete over tea. “She’d eat me alive!” “She’d choke! And I wouldn’t let it happen,” Pete promised. “I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, Tamara was roused by song: “Tama, Tama—come outside for a drama!” Pete stood grinning at her door, astride his newly restored old scooter—Scooter Pete, back on the road! “Know why I was so glum?” he said. “Because my scooter was off the road!” “Well, hop on, gorgeous, let’s go for a ride and relive our youth!” And hop on she did! After all, retirement officially starts at sixty-five now, but active pensioners are all the rage! And off they went, straight into a new chapter of life. Soon after, Pete Cosgrove popped the question, and Tamara became Mrs Cosgrove. The pieces fit at last: she moved in with her new husband, and Linda was left behind, lonely, sour, and twice her original size. Plenty of new reasons for envy. With no one left to quarrel with, Linda’s bitterness turned inward—a pain in need of another victim… So watch out, Tamara! Don’t step outside! Because in the village, life is always a drama. What else did you expect? All that fuss about lavatories for nothing…

Oi, dont you dare touch my glasses, you hear me? bellowed my ex-mate Margaret from the other side of

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His Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Word: A Tale of Betrayal, Control, and the Fight for Freedom in a British Family

His wife packed her bags and vanished without a word. Stop acting so innocent. Shell calm downthey always do.

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Nobody’s Home

Nobodys Home Graham wakes before his alarm, as always, at half past six. The flat is quiet, save for

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The Letter That Never Arrived

A Letter That Never Arrived Grandmother used to sit for hours by the cold-paned window, even though there

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My Mother-in-Law Tore Up My Prized Lawn for Vegetable Beds at Our Country Cottage—So I Made Her Undo It All and Restore My Garden to Its Former Glory

Tom, are you sure we didn’t forget the charcoal? Remember last time we had to drive down to the

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My Family Fell Out with Me Because I Refused to Let Them Stay Overnight in My New Flat

Friday, April 22nd Sometimes, I look around at my flatnew, bright, every touch and corner my ownand I

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My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage—But I Refused to Hand Over the Keys —“Well, we’ve made up our minds: why should your place stand empty? We’re heading to your country cottage for the Christmas holidays with the kids. Fresh air, sledging hill by the house, a nice sauna. You’re always at work anyway, Lena, and Vitya needs a break—but he says he just wants to sleep in. So hand over the keys, we’ll pop round tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, was barking down the phone so brashly I had to hold it away from my ear. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, still drying a plate, stunned by her nerve. My husband’s relatives were infamous for their cheekiness, but I never expected this level of pushiness. “Hold on, Svetlana,” I said as calmly as I could, trying not to let my irritation show. “Who decided this? With whom? The cottage isn’t some public leisure centre, it’s our home. And we were planning to go ourselves, as it happens.” “Oh come on!” Svetlana scoffed, munching on something so loudly I could hear it. “You were ‘planning’, sure. Vitya told mum you’d be home watching telly. There’s plenty of room—two floors! We won’t bother you if you show up… but better not, we’re a noisy crowd. Gena’s inviting friends: barbecue, music… you and your books would be bored to tears.” I felt my face flush as an all-too-familiar image filled my mind: Gena with his mates and their favourite loud, trashy music; their two teenage kids with zero boundaries; and my poor cottage, into which I’d poured five years of savings and all my heart. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “I’m not giving you the keys. The place isn’t ready for guests, you need to know how to winterise the heating, and the septic tank is temperamental. Plus, I simply don’t want a mass party in my home.” “We’re not strangers!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “I’m your husband’s own sister, and those are your nieces and nephews! What’s wrong with you—have you gone all cold from crunching numbers? I’m ringing mum right now to tell her how you treat your family!” The dial tone exploded in my ear. I put my phone down, hands trembling. I knew this was only the beginning—soon my mother-in-law, Queen Nina, would roll out “heavy artillery,” and the siege would begin. Viktor sloped into the kitchen, guilty smile already in place. Of course he’d overheard, but preferred to hide out, hoping I’d sort everything myself. “Lena, did you have to be so harsh?” he started, trying to put an arm around me. “Svetka’s a pain, but they’re family… they’ll take offence.” I shook him off and turned to face him. The look I gave Viktor stopped him short. “Do you remember last May?” I said. Viktor grimaced. “Well, it was—” “‘It was’? They came for a ‘quick barbecue’, trashed the apple tree my father planted, burned holes in the sitting room carpet (which I scrubbed for a week), left a mountain of dirty dishes because Svetlana claimed, ‘I’ve got a manicure—use your dishwasher,’ then stuffed everything in there and clogged the filter. Don’t forget the broken vase, or the trampled peonies.” “They’re just kids…” Viktor mumbled, tracing patterns on the lino. “Kids? Your nephew’s fifteen and the niece is thirteen. They rammed the steam room door shut, nearly set our house on fire! And you want to hand them the house for a week? In winter?” “Well, they promised to be careful. Gena said he’d supervise.” “Gena supervises the drinks cabinet. No, Viktor. I said no. It’s MY home—legally and in fact! Every penny from Grandma’s flat went into the renovation. I know every nail. I won’t have it turned into a pigsty.” That evening passed in heavy silence. Viktor tried the TV, then retreated to bed. I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea, thinking how we’d built that place. It was a sanctuary—not just a holiday let. For his family, though, it was a free hotel by default. Next morning, the doorbell rang. Nina Petrovna in full regalia—fur hat, scarlet lipstick, and a massive handbag with a frozen fish tail sticking out. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked without so much as a “hello.” Soon enough, she’d stationed herself like a judge at the kitchen table. “Explain yourself, dear daughter-in-law,” Nina began primly, sipping her tea. “What’s wrong with Svetochka? We asked nicely: give us the keys, we just want a peaceful break. Their flat’s being renovated—dust and mess everywhere. And there your palace sits, empty. What’s it to you?” “Nina Petrovna,” I answered evenly, “it’s no palace—just a house in need of care. For over five years Svetlana’s had ‘renovations’ as her excuse to annex our place. And last time, your family smoked inside despite my asking you not to. The smell is still in the curtains.” “A bit of smoke! Air it out! You, Lena, care more about things than people, that’s materialism, that is!” my mother-in-law snapped. “We raised Viktor to be kind, not a miser!” “Mum, Lena really did put everything into the place—” Viktor offered. “Quiet!” Nina shot back. “Her way or nothing—making a henpecked husband out of you. Your sister and her children should freeze outside in January? Gena’s birthday is the third, a big milestone! Guests already invited—meat bought. What are we supposed to do now, cancel and be humiliated?” “That’s not my problem,” I said coolly. “Inviting guests to someone else’s house without asking first—that’s called rudeness, Nina Petrovna.” She flushed beetroot red—unused to rebuttal, especially from Viktor. I was tougher than she liked. “Hmph! Is this how you talk to your mother-in-law?” Nina grabbed at her heart, playing wounded. “Vitya! Give me the keys, I’ll hand them to Svetlana myself! Are you the man of this house or what?” Viktor looked helplessly from her to me, torn in two. In truth, he too valued the cottage; he hated the chaos each visit brought. “Mum, the keys are with Lena, and we might go there ourselves.” “Lies!” she thundered. “Alright. Svetlana’s turning up in the morning. Keys on the table, and write her instructions for the boiler. If not—Vitya, you’re no son of mine. And as for you,” she jabbed at me, “remember this day. The world turns.” She stormed out, slamming the door. “You won’t cave in?” Viktor asked quietly after a while. “I won’t,” I said. “And we’re going to the cottage tomorrow. Ourselves.” “But you’ve got deadlines, you said—” “Plans change. If we don’t get there first, they’ll try to break in. You know your sister. She’ll climb through a window if she wants. If we’re in, they’ll have to go away.” “Lena… this is war.” “No, Viktor—this is drawing the line. Pack your bags.” We left before dawn. The city was gorgeous in its festive finery, but all joy had been drained from us. Viktor fretted, glancing at his silenced phone. The drive was quiet. The cottage gleamed under its snowy hat—like the cover of a Christmas card. Safely inside, we turned the heating up, dug out Christmas baubles, breathed as relief set in. For a few hours, peace. At 3pm, horns blared at the gate. I saw a crowd: Svetlana’s old SUV, an unknown sedan, children, a giant, unmuzzled Rottweiler, a random couple, and the matriarch herself. Viktor stood stock-still, shovel in hand. “Open up, lads! We’re here!” Gena shouted from behind the fence. I stepped onto the porch. Viktor hovered by the gate. “Vitya, let us in, we’re freezing!” Svetlana whined. “Lena, we wanted to surprise you! If you’re here, even better! Let’s all celebrate together!” I put my hand on Viktor’s shoulder and said, loud and clear: “Sorry, we weren’t expecting company.” “Oh quit the act!” Gena boomed. “We brought meat and crates of vodka, look—Tolya brought his wife and the dog. The dog’s friendly! Let us in, Vitya!” “The dog?” I saw the Rottweiler already peeing on my beloved shrub. “Get the dog off my plants!” “It’s just a tree!” Svetlana giggled. “Come on! The kids need the loo!” “There’s a toilet at the petrol station, five miles that way,” I replied crisply. “As I told you—our cottage is occupied. We’re here, and there’s no room for ten people and a dog.” A stunned silence hung over the crowd. They’d confidently expected that a full-frontal siege would override our boundaries. “You’re really not going to let us in?” Nina Petrovna’s voice shook with icy rage. “Your own mother, left out in the cold? Vitya—say something!” Viktor looked at me, pleadingly. “Lena… they’ve come all this way… How can you?” “Like this, Viktor.” I fixed him with a stare. “If you open that gate, within an hour it’ll be a drunken mess. The dog will wreck the garden, the kids will trash the bedrooms, your sister will ‘teach’ me to cook in my own kitchen, Gena will smoke indoors… and we won’t have our Christmas at all. So: chaos, or a peaceful holiday with me. You choose—now.” Viktor looked at the yowling family outside. Memories of last time flashed through his mind; the swing he’d spent three days repairing, the burnt carpet, his longing for simple peace. He straightened, stepped to the gate and said, maybe softly, but with real resolve: “Mum, Svetlana, Lena’s right. You were told—no keys, no guests. Please leave.” “What?!” they howled. “You heard me. This house is mine too, and I don’t want a circus. Off you go.” Gena started ranting, grabbing for the gate, but Viktor hefted his shovel. “Off you go, Gena, or I’ll call the police. This estate has security.” “Strangers?! STRANGERS?!” Nina shrieked. “Traitor! And your witch of a wife! I’ll never set foot in your life again!” “Come on, let’s leave this madhouse,” Svetlana yelled, giving me a rude gesture as they bundled into their cars. “We’ll go to Tolya’s place—at least he’s got soul!” Engines revved, wheels span, and within five minutes, only silence and the whirl of pale snow remained. Viktor slumped to the steps, face in his hands. “Oh God, how humiliating. My own mother…” I sat beside him, hugged him tight. “It’s not humiliation, Viktor. It’s growing up. You stood up for our family—for us. Not their ‘clan’—us.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She’ll forgive you—when she needs something. Money for medicine, help with her leaky roof. That’s how it works. They never stay offended if it’s inconvenient. But now they know—not to barge in. Not without respect. You’ve earned it. If not… at least we’ll be at peace.” “You think so?” “I know so. And if not—so be it. Now, come inside before you freeze. I’ll make mulled wine.” We went in, drew the curtains, and shut out the cold and the shouting world. That night by the fire, we sat in companionable silence—true, restorative quiet. Three blissful days followed. Walks in the woods, cozy evenings, just us. Family phones stayed silent—boycott in full effect. On January 3rd, as predicted, a message arrived from Svetlana. No apology—only a photo of a grim shed, battered stove, bottles everywhere, red-faced Gena. Caption: “We’re having a blast without you! Jealous?” I looked at the messy photo, then at my husband—peaceful, book in hand. I smiled and deleted the message. Back in town a week later, Nina Petrovna herself called—her voice stiff, but asking Viktor to drive her to the clinic. The cottage was never mentioned. The boundary had been set. Skirmishes would follow, but our sanctuary stood strong. I’d learned the hardest lesson: Sometimes, you have to be the “bad guy” for others—to be true to yourself and protect your marriage. The cottage keys, from then on, lived safely locked away. Just in case.

My Wifes Family Invited Themselves to Our Cottage for the Holidays, but I Refused to Give Them the Keys –

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There’s No Such Thing as Coincidence: Four Years After Her Mother’s Death, Sixteen-Year-Old Agatha Navigates Grief, a New Stepmother, and Unexpected Betrayal—But When Her Father’s New Family Tries to Force Her Out of Their Cherished Family Home, Agatha Fights Back for Her Future with the Help of Love and the Law

There Are No Coincidences Its been nearly four years since her mothers passing, but Emily still feels

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I Kicked My Brother-in-Law Out from Our Anniversary Dinner After His Rude Jokes Ruined the Celebration

“Harry, have you got out the best china? The one with the gold rim, not the everyday set.

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My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife and Their Children to Our Holiday Celebration, So I Packed My Bags and Spent New Year’s Eve with My Best Friend

Tell me youre joking, Oliver. Please dont tell me youre being serious. Or maybe I misheard because of