Harlan Covington

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val opened the creaking garden gate with great effort, hobbled to the front door, struggled with the old rusty lock for a while, entered her cold, unheated cottage, and sat down on a chair by the chilly fireplace. The house smelled empty and unlived-in. She’d only been gone three months, yet already the ceilings were shrouded in cobwebs, the ancient chair groaned mournfully, the wind rattled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How will we get through the winter now? “Just a moment, my dear house, let me catch my breath… I’ll fire up the stove, we’ll soon be warm again…” Only a year ago, Granny Val was bustling about the old house: whitening the walls, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before the icons, tended the kitchen, and darted through the garden, somehow finding time to plant, weed, and water. The house, in turn, seemed to rejoice with its mistress—floorboards creaked cheerily under her light, hurried footsteps, doors and windows flew open at the gentle touch of her weary hands, and the oven diligently baked fluffy pies. They were good together, Val and her beloved old house. Widowed young, she raised three children, educated them all, and sent them off into the world: one son now a ship’s captain overseas, the other a colonel in the military, both far away and rarely able to visit. Only her youngest daughter, Tamara, stayed behind in the village as chief agronomist—always at work, popping in to see her mother on Sundays with pies to cheer her heart, but gone for the rest of the week. Her main comfort was granddaughter Sweetie (or, as the neighbours called her, “Our Svetlana”): tall and beautiful, with huge grey eyes, a golden mane of hair, and a delicate presence that stopped the local lads in their tracks. A clever girl too—agricultural college in the city, returned to work in the village as an economist, married the local vet, and, thanks to a scheme for young families, moved into a new, solid brick house. Though her new home was modern, it lacked the blooming garden of Granny Val’s beloved cottage. Svetlana, though a country girl, had always been shielded from hard work by her grandmother, and with the birth of her son, Vasya, tending the garden fell by the wayside. She begged Granny Val to come live with her in the new house—no more fire to light, everything modern and easy. At eighty, Granny Val’s health began to fail—her once quick legs grew heavy; weary from a lifetime of work, and she finally gave in. Yet after a few short months, she heard, “Gran, I do love you! But you’re always sitting—you worked all your life, but here you just rest. I want to run a bigger household, and I need help…” “But my legs… They don’t work anymore, pet—I’m getting old…” “Hm… You got old just as soon as you moved in with me, it seems…” Soon, Granny Val—having “failed” her granddaughter—was returned to her own home, heartbroken she couldn’t be the support she wished to be. Her steps grew slower, the journey from bed to table a challenge, and church now too far to reach. Father Boris, longtime family priest and once her partner in all parish duties, stopped by and quickly sized up the cold cottage, the threadbare cardigan, the battered shoes. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared out the stove, fetched extra wood, got the fire going, and set the kettle to boil. He helped Granny address envelopes for her monthly letters to her sons—her trembling hand writing large, shaky letters: “I’m living very well, dear son. I have everything, thank God!” The blots on the page betrayed the truth—those stains were salty tears. Neighbour Anna took Granny Val under her wing, a helpful hand only twenty years younger. Father Boris made sure to visit, provide confession and communion, and on holidays Anna’s husband, old sailor Uncle Pete, would bring Granny to services on his motorbike. Life slowly settled again. But tragedy struck—Svetlana, her cherished granddaughter, grew gravely ill. What she thought was a stomach problem turned out to be lung cancer; within six months, she was gone. Her husband took to sleeping by her grave, relying on bottles for comfort. Four-year-old Vasya was left homeless, dirty, unloved. Tamara took in her nephew Vasyenka, but her work kept her too busy. With nowhere else to turn, Vasya was put on the list for council care. The local home was reputable enough—a caring headmaster, proper food, children sent home on weekends. But it wasn’t family, and Tamara’s job kept her out late. Then on a rainy Saturday, Granny Val turned up at her daughter’s with Uncle Pete at the helm. “I’ll take Vasya home with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk, how will you manage?” “While I live, I won’t send Vasya to a home,” Val replied—and that was final. The usually gentle Val’s firmness stopped Tamara in her tracks, and Vasya’s things were quickly packed. Neighbours tutted: “She needs help herself, yet brings a child into that cold cottage—what is Tamara thinking?” Father Boris visited with dread—would he find a hungry, dirty child and Granny faint with exertion? But in the warm kitchen, he found Vasya clean and happy, listening to nursery stories from a battered record player. Granny Val was bustling around the kitchen as though her legs had never failed—beating eggs, kneading dough, cheerfully preparing tarts for their tea. “Father dear! I tried making your Alexandra some cakes—wait a bit, I’ll send a warm treat home for you!” When he got home, Father Boris recounted the miracle to his wife. Alexandra pulled out an old family diary and read aloud the story of Vera Yegorovna, her great-grandmother, who recovered from her own deathbed rather than leave her new great-grandchild uncared for, saying with a wry smile, “It’s not time for me to go yet—I’ve still got work to do at home!” She lived another ten years, helping to raise her great-granddaughter. And Father Boris smiled at his wife—knowing, as all old houses and loving hearts do, that there’s still work to be done at home.

We still have things left to do at home… Granny Mabel fumbled with the rusty latch, barely managing

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Love Isn’t for Show: Ann Worries over Her Silent Husband as She Tends to Chores, Longs for Tenderness, and Struggles with Temptation from the Charming Neighbour—But a Secret Conversation in the Bathhouse Reveals Her Husband’s True, Unspoken Devotion

Love Isnt for Show I stepped out of our cottage with a heavy bucket of pig feed, fuming, and marched

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You Were My Teenage Mistake A young girl gave birth at sixteen, the child’s father was also just sixteen. Leaving the scandalous details aside, the couple broke up soon after their son was born. When the girl realized the boy wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, she immediately lost all interest in her child. The son was raised by his grandparents—her own parents. At eighteen, the girl moved to a nearby city with a new boyfriend, never called, never wrote. Her parents didn’t seek her out. Shame and pain lingered—how could she abandon her child? They raised their grandson, who still considers them his parents and is deeply grateful for his childhood, education, and everything. At eighteen, the boy’s cousin got married. All the relatives attended, including his biological mother, now on her third marriage and with two daughters—one ten years old and the other just one and a half. The boy was nervous and excited to meet his mother and sisters—and of course, to ask, “Mum, why did you leave me?” No matter how wonderful his grandparents were, he missed and remembered his mother, even keeping her only surviving photo. His grandfather had burned the rest. At the party, his mother chatted cheerfully about her wonderful daughters. “And me, what about me, Mum?” he asked. “You? You were my teenage mistake. Your father was right, I should have had an abortion,” she replied nonchalantly, turning away. Seven years later, living in his comfortable two-bedroom flat with his wife and son (thanks to his grandparents and in-laws), he got a call from an unknown number. “Son, hi, your uncle gave me your number. It’s your mum. Listen, I know you live near the university your sister attends. Could she stay with you for a while? She’s family, the dorm is awful, rent is expensive, my husband left, things are hard—one daughter’s a student, one’s just starting school, the littlest one’s off to nursery soon,” she said. “You’ve got the wrong number,” he replied and hung up. He picked up his son, held him close, and said: “Right, let’s get ready—first we’ll meet with Mum, then afterwards, a visit to Grandma and Grandpa, shall we?” “And can we all go to the countryside this weekend, Dad?” his little boy asked. “Of course we can. Family traditions are too important to break!” … Some relatives criticised him for not helping his sister, but he believes his loyalty belongs to his grandparents, not to the woman for whom he was just a mistake.

You know, there’s this story about a girl named Emily Taylor who had a baby when she was just sixteen.

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Living Together with My Mum: At 57, I Celebrate Life Side-by-Side with My 86-Year-Old Mother in Our Quiet English Home

I live with my mum. Mum is eighty-six years old now. Life worked out in a way I never expected.

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A man was enjoying his day off and sleeping soundly, when suddenly the doorbell rang. Who could be visiting so early? Upon opening the door, he found an elderly woman he didn’t recognise—she was frightened. “Who are you here to see?” he asked. “Son, don’t you recognise your mother?” “Mum? Come in… you!” he stammered. He remembered the day his mother was taken from him. He had waited for years in the orphanage, hoping she would come and bring him home. Eventually the pain faded. He graduated from school, attended university, and started his own business. When asked about his parents, he always said they had died. Independent and successful, no one would have guessed he was raised in care. The woman could not recall when she lost custody of her child. In her youth she drank heavily, and her mind would shut off during her binges. She spent time in prison, where she thought of her son—not with love, but because she felt sorry for him. When her second son was born, maternal instincts awoke. She would do anything for this child—putting him first, forgetting the elder son entirely. Her younger son grew up just like her—moving through care homes, and at 15 receiving his first suspended sentence, then another, and eventually prison. Now, desperate to save him from jail, she searches for her successful older son. She sits in his home, crying and clinging to him, telling him tales of searching, praying for his health, and hoping every day to see him again. He believes her, but something inside him warns him to keep his distance. Despite his reservations, he rents her a flat, gives her money, and promises support—while watching closely to judge her true intentions. Before Christmas, he visits the children’s home where he grew up, regularly donating toys and food. An elderly carer approaches him. “Your mother was asking for your address.” “Thank you for helping her,” he replies. “But be careful. She wants you only for money, to help her younger son. She never loved you—don’t trust her!” “Do I have a brother?” “Yes. Ask her yourself.” His throat tightens; it’s hard to breathe. He cannot believe his mother may betray him again. Pushing through his emotions, he seeks out the truth. The woman faces his questioning, reluctant to admit the existence of the younger brother for fear he would refuse to help. Days later, the man is attacked—beaten severely. When police catch the assailants, they confess—his mother had hired them, hoping to kill her elder son and inherit his wealth to give her younger son an easy life. In court, she feigns remorse and begs for forgiveness, but he has made up his mind. “I lived without a mother before, and I’ll keep living without one now!” he whispers through tears.

The man was enjoying a rare day off and snoring away quite contentedly, only to be jolted awake by the doorbell.

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My Husband Works, But I Pay for Everything – How I Became the Breadwinner in My Marriage and Why Love Made Me Blind to Inequality

My husband has a job, but I pay for everything. You ask how I ended up here, how I allowed my life to

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When He Got Home From Work, The Cat Was Gone: How Quiet Patrick Chose His Unlikely Cat Over a Demanding Girlfriend and Found True Loyalty

When he came home from work, the cat was gone. James is a reserved young man without any bad habits.

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She Stole My Father — Mum, I’ve moved in! Can you believe it? Finally! Oxana pinched her phone to her ear with her shoulder, wrestling with a stubborn lock. The key turned reluctantly, as if testing its new mistress. — Darling, thank goodness! And the flat, is it all right? — her mother’s voice trembled with excitement and concern. — Perfect! Bright, spacious. Balcony facing east, just like I wanted. Is Dad there? — Here I am, here! — Victor’s deep voice came from the speaker. — Mum put it on speaker. Well, has the fledgling left the nest? — Dad, I’m twenty-five, not a fledgling. — You’ll always be a fledgling to me. Have you checked the locks? Windows draft-free? The radiators… — Vicky, let the child settle! — interrupted her mother. — Oxana, be careful there. Newly-built, you never know about neighbours. Oxana laughed, finally conquering the lock and pushing open the door. — Mum, this isn’t a seventies council flat. Decent building, decent people. It’ll be fine. The following weeks became a blur — between DIY shops, furniture showrooms, and her new flat. Oxana fell asleep with wallpaper catalogues under her pillow, woke up thinking about the right shade of grout for her bathroom tiles. On Saturday, she stood in her lounge, staring at swatches for curtains, when her phone buzzed again. — How’s it all coming along? — her father asked. — Slowly but surely. Today it’s curtains. Torn between “ivory” and “warm milk.” What do you think? — I think they’re the same colour, but the marketers are different. — Dad, you don’t understand the subtlety of shades! — I do understand electrics. Sockets done properly? The renovations ate up time, money, and nerves, but every new touch turned bare walls into a real home. Oxana picked out creamy beige wallpaper, found a good floor-layer, invented a way to make her tiny kitchen look more spacious. When the last contractor took away the rubbish, Oxana sank to the spotless floor amidst gleaming surfaces. Soft light streamed through new curtains, fresh paint hung in the air. Her very first home… She met her neighbour three days after moving in completely. Oxana fiddled with her keys at the door when the lock opposite clicked. — Oh, the new girl! — A woman in her thirties poked her head out. Cropped hair, bold lipstick, curious eyes. — I’m Alison. I live right opposite — guess that makes us neighbours. — Oxana. Lovely to meet you. — If you ever need sugar, salt, or a chat, just pop in. Weird being alone at first in a new build, I remember. Alison proved to be good company. They drank tea in Oxana’s kitchen, swapped stories about the building management and layout details. Alison shared her wisdom: the best Wi-Fi, trusty plumber, and the shop with the freshest groceries. — Tell you what, I have a recipe for apple sponge — out of this world! — Alison flicked through her phone. — I’ll send it over. Done in half an hour, tastes like you’ve slaved all day. — Yes please! Haven’t tried my oven yet. Weeks rolled on, and Oxana was glad for such an open neighbour. They bumped into each other on the stairs, popped in for coffee, exchanged books. On Saturday, Victor came to help with a shelf. No matter how she tried, it wouldn’t stay up. — Wrong wall plugs, — he diagnosed, inspecting the fittings. — These are for plasterboard. Yours’s concrete. All right, I’ve proper ones in the van. Within an hour, the shelf hung firm. Victor gathered his tools, scrutinised his handiwork, satisfied. — There you go. That’ll last twenty years. — You’re the best, Dad! — Oxana hugged him. They headed down, chatting about nothing in particular. Victor asked about work, Oxana griped about her new boss who mixed up deadlines and lost papers. At the entrance, Alison approached with supermarket bags. — Oh, hi! — Oxana waved. — Meet my dad, Victor. Dad, this is Alison, my neighbour I told you about. — Lovely to meet you, — Victor greeted with his trademark friendly smile. Alison froze briefly, eyes flitting between them. Her smile looked forced, glued on. — Likewise, — she muttered, hurrying inside. Everything changed after that. Next morning, Oxana met Alison on the landing and greeted her — only to receive a frosty nod. Two days later, she invited her for tea. Alison fobbed her off with a hasty excuse. Then, the complaints began… The first time, a community officer knocked at nine in the evening. — Received a noise complaint, — the elderly policeman looked sheepish. — Loud music, banging noises. — Music? — Oxana was baffled. — I was reading a book. — Well, neighbours are complaining… The letters snowballed — management got notes about “unbearable stomping,” “constant racket,” and “late-night music.” The police visit became routine, every time the officer apologetic and helpless. Oxana realised where it was coming from. What she didn’t know was — why. Every morning was a lottery — today it might be eggshell smeared on the door, coffee grounds between the frame and panel, a bag of potato peelings placed beneath her mat. Oxana got up half an hour earlier to clean the mess before work. Her hands stung from cleaning supplies, throat tight with stress. — I can’t go on like this, — she muttered one night, searching online for video door viewers. Installation took twenty minutes. The tiny camera disguised as a peephole recorded everything on the landing. Oxana connected it to her phone and waited. She didn’t wait long. At 3 a.m., the screen lit with motion alert. Oxana, incredulous, watched Alison — in a dressing gown and slippers — methodically smearing something dark over her door. Deliberate, precise, like a familiar chore. The next night, Oxana waited up. At half two, there were noises outside. She flung open the door. Alison froze, holding a bag that sloshed with something unpleasant. — What did I do to you? — Oxana’s voice caught, pitiful even to herself. — Why are you doing this? Alison slowly set the bag down. Her features twisted, bitterness distorting her attractive face. — You? Nothing. But your precious father… — What about my dad? — The fact that he’s my father too! — Alison almost shouted, uncaring who heard. — Only, he raised you, spoiled you, loved you, while he left me when I was three! Never sent a penny, never called once! Mum and I scraped by while he built his happy family with your mother! So you, you basically stole my father! Oxana backed up, hitting the doorframe. — You’re lying… — Lying? Ask him! Ask if he remembers Marina Solloway and little Alison, the daughter he tossed out like rubbish! Oxana slammed the door and slid to the floor, one thought thundering: it’s not true, it’s not true. Dad couldn’t. Couldn’t. Next morning she drove to her parents. All the way, she rehearsed questions, but seeing her dad, calm as ever with his newspaper, she choked. — Oksy! What a surprise! — Victor looked up. — Mum’s at the shop, she’ll be back soon. — Dad, I need to ask… — Oxana perched on the sofa, twisting her handbag strap. — Do you know a woman named Marina Solloway? Victor froze. The paper slipped from his hands. — Where did you… — Her daughter — my neighbour. The one I introduced you to. She says you’re her dad. Silence hung like a shroud. — Let’s go to her — Victor said abruptly. — Right now. I need to make this right. The drive to the new build took forty minutes. There was no talking; Oxana stared out at passing houses, mind trying to make sense of everything. Alison opened straight away, as if she’d been waiting. She looked them both up and down, then stood aside for them to come in. — Come to confess? — she threw at Victor. — Thirty years later? — I’ve come to explain. — Victor pulled a folded paper out of his jacket. — Read this. Alison took the document suspiciously. As she read, her expression shifted — anger to confusion, confusion to bewilderment. — What… is this? — DNA test results, — Victor replied calmly. — I did them when your mum tried to take me to court for child support. The test says: I’m not your father. Marina cheated on me. You’re not my child. The paper fluttered to the floor… Oxana and her dad left Alison’s flat. At home, Oxana stepped towards Victor and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his coat. — I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry for even doubting you. Victor stroked her hair, just like he did when she was a little girl who’d had a fight with friends. — There’s nothing to forgive, love. Other people made this mess. Relations with Alison never recovered. But Oxana didn’t want them to. After everything, she had lost all respect for that neighbour forever…

Took My Father Mum, Ive finally moved in! Can you believe it? At last! Sophie cradled her mobile between

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She Gave Birth Silently and Prepared to Give Up Her Baby: A Midwife’s Tale of a Student Mother, an Absent Businessman Father, and the Fight for a Happy Ending in an English Hospital

She gave birth quietly and was about to give her baby away I’ve been a midwife for more years than I’

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Five Homes in the Family, Yet We Still Have to Rent – How Our Parents’ Attitude Is Forcing Us to Struggle Despite Their Property Wealth

Five flats in the family, and yet were forced to rent Im so used to it now that nothing surprises me anymore.