Harlan Covington

I Gave My Daughter-in-Law the Family Heirloom Ring, Only to Find It in a Pawnshop Window a Week Later

Wear it carefully, darling. Its not just gold, it carries our familys whole story, I said, handing the

My Husband Invited His Old Mate to Crash at Our Place “Just for a Week”—So I Quietly Packed My Bags and Checked Myself Into a Countryside Spa Hotel

So, you wont believe what happened last weekit was like something straight out of a sitcom, except it

La vida

My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a Passive-Aggressive Cookbook for My 35th Birthday—So I Gave Her the Gift Right Back

Mother-in-law Gave Me a Cookbook for My Birthdaywith a HintSo I Gave the Present Back Did you chop this

La vida

Well, Our Mum’s Not Much to Write Home About — “Anya, have you left the wet towel on the hook in the bathroom again?” The sharp voice of her mother-in-law called out from the hallway just as Anna set foot inside after work. Valentina stood there, arms folded, giving her daughter-in-law the look. “It’s drying,” Anna slipped off her shoes. “That’s what the hook is for.” “In proper homes, towels go on the towel rail. Not that you’d know.” Anna walked past, ignoring her. Twenty-eight, two university degrees, managing her own department—and here she was, getting nagged about towels. Every single day. Valentina watched her go, dissatisfied. That silence—barely answering, acting like she ran the place. Fifty-five years had taught Valentina to judge people, and she’d never liked this one. Cold. Proud. Maxim needed a warm woman—not a statue. In the days that followed, Valentina watched. Noted. Remembered… “Arty, tidy away your toys before dinner.” “Don’t want to.” “I wasn’t asking, I said tidy up.” Six-year-old Artie sulked but started gathering up his soldiers. Anna didn’t look at him, just carried on chopping salad. Valentina was watching. There it was again, that coldness. No smile. No gentle word. Just orders. Poor boy. “Gran,” Artie climbed onto the sofa next to her as Anna went to sort laundry. “Why is Mum always angry?” Valentina stroked his hair. The moment was perfect. “Some people are just like that, sunshine. They can’t show love. It’s sad, really.” “Can you?” “Of course, sweetheart. Grandma will always love you. Grandma’s never angry.” Artie snuggled closer. Valentina smiled. Whenever they were alone, she added another brushstroke to her picture. Cautiously. Bit by bit. “Mum didn’t let me watch cartoons today,” Artie told her the next week. “Poor thing. Mum is strict, isn’t she? Sometimes I think she’s a bit too hard on you. But don’t worry, you come to Granny, I’ll always understand.” He nodded, soaking it all up. Granny—kind. Granny—understands. And Mum…? “You know,” Valentina whispered conspiratorially, “some mums just don’t know how to be cuddly. That’s not your fault, Artie. You’re a wonderful boy. It’s just your mum that’s not very good at being a mum.” He hugged her. Something icy and confusing settled in his heart whenever he thought of Mum. A month later Anna noticed the change. “Arty, darling, come have a cuddle!” He pulled away. “Don’t want to.” “Why not?” “Just don’t want to.” He ran off to his gran. Anna was left standing, arms outstretched, in the playroom. Something had broken in their normal life and she didn’t know when it had happened. Valentina watched from the hallway, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. “Sweetheart,” Anna said softly to Artie that night, “are you upset with me?” “No.” “Then why don’t you want to play with me?” He just shrugged, eyes distant. “I want to be with Gran.” Anna let him go. All that was left was a dull ache of not knowing. “Max, I don’t recognise Artie any more,” she told her husband late that night. “He keeps running away from me. It never used to be like this.” “Come on. Kids are like that. Moody one day, different the next.” “It’s not a phase. He looks at me like…I’ve done something wrong.” “Ana, you’re overthinking it. Mum looks after him while we’re at work. Maybe he’s just attached to her.” Anna wanted to say more, but stopped. Max was already buried in his phone. Meanwhile, as Valentina put Artie to bed on those late nights, she whispered, “Your mum loves you, darling. Just…in her own way. Cold, strict. Not all mums know how to be kind, you see?” “Why?” “That’s just how it is, sunshine. But Grandma will never hurt you. Grandma will always protect you. Not like Mum.” Artie fell asleep with those words. Every morning, he eyed his mum just a bit more warily. Now he clearly showed who he preferred. “Artie, shall we go to the park?” Anna held out her hand. “I want Gran.” “Artie…” “With Gran!” Valentina grabbed his hand. “Stop pestering the boy! He doesn’t want to go with you, see? Come on, Artie, let’s get you some ice cream.” They left. Anna watched as her son ran to his gran—and felt something heavy crush her chest. Her own child was turning away from her, running from her. She had no idea what she’d done wrong. That evening, Max found her staring at cold tea in the kitchen, eyes distant. “I’ll talk to him, I promise.” She just nodded. She didn’t have the strength for words anymore. Max went to join his son in the playroom. “Artie, tell me. Why don’t you want to be with Mum?” Artie looked away. “Just because.” “That’s not an answer. Did Mum upset you?” “No…” “Then what is it?” Artie was silent. A six-year-old can’t explain what he doesn’t understand. When Gran says Mum’s mean, cold—well, it must be so. Grandma didn’t lie. Max left the room, none the wiser… Meanwhile, Valentina prepared her next move. Anna was on the verge of falling apart; you could see it. Just a little longer and she’d pack her bags herself. Max deserved better—a real wife, not an ice queen. “Artie,” she called him when Anna was in the shower, “you know Grandma loves you most in the world, right?” “I know.” “And your mum…well, she’s not much, is she? Never hugs you right, never gentle, always cross. Oh, my poor boy…” She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. “Mum.” Valentina turned. Max was frozen in the doorway. Face white as a sheet. “Artie, go to your room,” his voice was quiet but firm. The boy fled. “Max, I was just—” “I heard everything.” Silence hung thick between them. “You…” Max swallowed. “You’ve been turning him against Anna? All this time?” “I’m only looking out for my grandson! She treats him like a prisoner!” “Have you lost your mind?” Valentina stumbled backwards. Her son had never looked at her like that. With disgust. “Max, listen—” “No, you listen. You turned my son against his own mum. My wife. Do you know what you’ve done?” “I wanted what’s best!” “Best? Artie won’t go near his own mother! Anna’s beside herself! Is this your idea of best?” Valentina raised her chin. “Well, she doesn’t suit you. Cold, unfeeling—” “Enough!” The shout stopped them both. Max was shaking. “Pack your bags. Tonight.” “You’d throw out your mother?” “I’m protecting my family. From you.” Valentina opened her mouth—then shut it again. In her son’s eyes she read her sentence. No appeals. No second chances. An hour later she left. No goodbyes. Max found Anna in the bedroom. “I know why Artie changed.” She looked up, her eyes red. “It was my mum. She’s been telling him you don’t really love him, that you’re mean. She’s been poisoning him against you all this time.” Anna froze, then let out a shaky sigh. “I…thought I was going mad. Thought I was a bad mother.” Max sat beside her, hugged her tight. “You’re a wonderful mum. I don’t know what got into my mother. But she’ll never come near Artie again.” The weeks that followed were hard. Artie asked about Granny and couldn’t understand why she was gone. His parents talked to him, gently, patiently. “Sweetheart,” Anna stroked his hair, “what Gran said about me—it wasn’t true. I love you. So, so much.” He was dubious. “But you’re strict.” “Not mean—just strict. Because I want you to grow up to be a good person. Being strict can be love too, you see?” He thought about it. For a long time. “Will you hug me?” Anna hugged him so tightly he burst out laughing… Gradually, day by day, he came back. The real Artie. The one who ran to his mum with his pictures, who drifted off to her lullabies at night. Max watched his wife and son playing in the living room and thought of his mother, alone in her flat. She’d phoned a few times. He didn’t answer. Valentina was on her own now. No grandson. No son. All she’d wanted was to protect Max from the wrong woman. In the end, she lost them both. Anna put her head on Max’s shoulder. “Thank you for making it right.” “Sorry it took me so long to notice.” Artie bounced over, clambered onto his dad’s lap. “Dad, Mum, can we go to the zoo tomorrow?” As it turned out, life really was getting better…

Our Mum Is a Bit of a Let-down Emily, did you leave that damp towel hanging on the hook in the bathroom again?

La vida

My dear Caroline, dont you think weve grown quite, well strange to each other? Jonathan mumbled as if

La vida

Heating Up the Marriage — “Listen, Liz… what if we tried an open relationship?” Victor suggested cautiously. — “What?” Liz blinked, not quite sure she’d heard right. “Are you serious?” — “And why not? It’s perfectly normal,” her husband shrugged, trying to sound casual. “They do it all the time in Europe. Apparently, it really spices up a marriage. You always said a little treat while dieting doesn’t hurt—keeps you from binging. It’s just about variety.” Liz blinked, trying to process his words. Comparing a mistress to a chocolate bar was either spectacularly stupid, or shameless. — “Vic…” she began. “If you want to leave, just do it properly. I’ll give you your freedom, but don’t drag me into this nonsense.” — “Oh come on, Liz, why are you getting prickly? I love you. It’s just… the spark’s gone. We need a little fire, you know? Half the time we sleep back-to-back and only talk about food shopping and the energy bill. It’s all so dull—we both need a jump start. I’m not restricting you. Go have some fun, talk to other people, unwind a bit. What’s the harm?” Liz narrowed her eyes. Suddenly, she realized Victor was lying. Shifty eyes, nervous fingers tapping the table—he wanted freedom all right. And he wanted it yesterday, not tomorrow or today. — “Vic, be honest. You’ve already found someone, haven’t you? And now you want me to play along so you don’t feel guilty?” — “Here we go!” Victor rolled his eyes. “If that were true, would I even be having this conversation? Honestly, I regret bringing it up. You’re such a throwback! Forget it…” Victor stood in dignified silence and walked off, leaving Liz alone with her thoughts. Twenty-five years. She’d given him her best years, stuck through hard times, money worries, constant late nights at the office—which, with hindsight, looked very different… And now, here he was, well-fed and comfortable, inviting her to help sabotage their family. “Unwind”—what a convenient word. They slept in separate rooms that night. Well, “slept” was generous. Liz lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how they’d gotten to this point. Victor used to bring her armfuls of lilacs, work overtime just to pay for a beautiful wedding, and celebrate when their daughter was born. Now… she almost wished he’d just walked out. Where was the point of no return? When she stopped bothering with makeup at home, trying to look nice for him? When he first forgot their anniversary, blaming work? Did it even matter now? Divorce was tempting—a clean break, a fresh start. But could she really throw out half her life so easily? Maybe there had never been fireworks, but there was habit, a shared home, a well-oiled routine. Victor had always seemed reliable. Their daughter had moved out; retirement was looming. They’d nursed each other through illness, once even taken out a loan to help Liz’s mum. Not every man would do that. Inside, Liz simmered with hurt, fear, and anger. “Does he think I’d never find anyone?” she wondered. “That I’m a washed-up old lady, fit only to cook his dinner, knit socks for the grandkids and wait quietly until he feels like coming home?” No chance. — “Fine,” she told Victor the next morning. “Let’s do it your way.” — “Eh?” — “I agree to your open relationship.” Victor nearly choked on his tea. Expecting a scene, he got a serene “yes.” — “Well… that’s good, then. You might even like it,” he said. “By the way, I’ll be home late tonight.” Her heart twisted. That quickly? …The evening was dull and silent, and Liz felt used up and discarded. Like she’d been appraised and rejected, an outdated phone model. She examined herself in the mirror: tired eyes, wrinkles around the corners, skin not as flawless as before. But her figure was still trim, her hair thick. Maybe she was still attractive. Maybe Victor was the problem, not her. Other men certainly noticed her. There was Andrew from the office—the new branch manager, silver at the temples, slightly gravelly voice, twinkling eyes. Right away, he’d singled Liz out, making polite conversation, holding doors, bringing her coffee, even inviting her to lunch—and last week, dinner. — “Andrew, I’m on a diet called ‘married,’” she quipped. — “Lizzie, being married’s just a stamp, not a scarlet letter,” Andrew laughed. “But I won’t push it.” Victor wanted an open marriage? Wanted her to unwind? Why not. — “Evening, Andrew. Is your dinner invitation still open? I find I have some free time—and a craving to cheat on my diet,” she messaged. It wasn’t revenge. Liz just wanted to feel like a woman again. Wanted to breathe life into a “me” her husband had squashed these last two days. …Dinner went surprisingly well. Andrew was the perfect gentleman: pulling out her chair, topping up her wine, really listening, giving her that look—the kind that makes you feel you’re the only woman in the world. Liz felt guilty but alive, excited to finally be the star in her own life, not just the housewife who catered to Victor’s every whim. — “Shall we go back to mine?” Andrew suggested over dessert. “I’ll pick up a bottle of wine, we’ll watch something… make a night of it.” She nodded. Inside, something shrieked, “Stop!” But then she saw Victor’s face again, heard his “unwind.” They’d barely arrived at Andrew’s when her phone started buzzing—her husband. She rejected the call once, then again, but he wouldn’t give up. — “Yes?” she answered, struggling for composure. — “Where are you, then?” Victor exploded. “It’s ten at night! There’s nothing to eat, house is empty! Have you completely lost the plot?” Andrew tactfully withdrew to another room. The romance instantly evaporated. — “Honestly… I’m on a date, Vic.” — “What do you mean, a date?!” — “You want it spelled out? You suggested an open relationship, told me to meet new people and have a bit of fun. Well—I’m doing it. Don’t like the taste of your own medicine?” Silence, broken only by Victor’s indignant breathing. Then his dam of feigned calm burst. — “You actually went and did it? I was joking! I wanted to test you! Get it? Test you! And you just jumped at the chance, did you? Pouted for a day and raced off to the first bloke you found?” Liz was dumbfounded. — “And where were you tonight?” — “At work! That’s it,” Victor snapped. “I don’t want any, you know, diseases from your side. Either pack your bags, or I’m out. We’re getting divorced.” He hung up. Liz stared at the wall, horrified and humiliated. — “Are you alright?” Andrew’s voice came from behind her. — “Yeah… I’ll be fine,” Liz tried to smile, but couldn’t. — “Liz… Look, I think the mood’s changed. Maybe you should go, sort things out at home.” Cinderella’s ball was over. The carriage became a pumpkin, and her charming suitor just wanted to keep out of her drama. Fair enough—he’d signed up for a pleasant evening, not a family soap opera. Maybe she should’ve just filed for divorce straight away—but good ideas always arrive too late. That night, Liz didn’t go home. She booked a hotel. Facing Victor wasn’t an option, and she needed time to accept that things would never be the same. Three years passed… In that time, life slowly chiselled away anything unnecessary—even as it hurt. Victor acquired a new girlfriend suspiciously fast—even before the divorce was finalized. She vanished as soon as they’d sold the flat, taking his half of the money. Things with Andrew fizzled out. They still saw each other at work, but nothing more than bland pleasantries. Liz realized something: men happy to play “lover” roles quickly melt away when you need a companion for the hard days or a bit of moral support. Liz wasn’t looking anymore, anyway. When she finally had a place of her own, she discovered a sudden surplus of time and energy. Life had always been about Victor, about the chores, the drama. Now she invested in herself—not for anyone else, but for her. Mornings at the pool cured her backache. English classes kept her mind sharp. She cut her hair, revamped her wardrobe. Most important—she became a grandmother. Her daughter, Mary, had a baby girl, Sophie. At first, Mary had sided with Victor over the messy breakup—he’d painted Liz as the homewrecker, the cheater, the traitor. But time set things straight. Mary came to talk—ready to confront her mum, to look her in the eye. But instead of a “scarlet woman,” she saw a tired but honest woman. Liz told her side: Victor’s idea, his late nights at the office, the loneliness that had begun to eat her alive years ago. Mary—now married herself—understood. And once Victor showed his true colours, Mary stood firmly at her mother’s side. Now, Liz was sitting in Mary’s kitchen, holding baby Sophie as the tiny girl tried to snag her finger. — “Dad called again today,” Mary said, with a scowl. “He wanted to visit and see Sophie.” — “And?” Liz asked quietly. — “I told him we were out of town,” Mary sighed. “I don’t want him here, Mum. One minute he bad-mouths you, the next he wants us to patch you up. Every time I see him I get anxious. And I don’t want him turning Sophie against you, not even a little. Let him carry on with his ‘freedom’…” Liz just squeezed her granddaughter a little closer. Victor had gotten exactly what he wanted: total freedom. No one bothered him for attention, no one interrupted his TV shows, no one waited up for him at night. And yet, when he finally tasted freedom—he discovered it had the bitter tang of loneliness. But it was too late now.

Warmed-Over Marriage “Listen, Liz… How about we try an open relationship?”

La vida

017

Just Hold On a Little Longer — Mum, this is for Anna’s next term. Maria placed the envelope on the faded vinyl tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the flat’s front door. Each time, just enough. Ellen laid aside her knitting and looked at her daughter over the top of her glasses. — Mary, you look ever so pale. Tea? — No, Mum. I’m only here for a minute—I’ve got to get to my evening shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought for her mother every month. Forty quid a bottle, lasting three weeks. Plus blood pressure pills, plus quarterly check-ups. — Anna was so pleased about her work placement at the bank—Ellen took the envelope carefully, as though it were fragile glass.—She says there are good prospects. Maria said nothing. — Tell her this is the last money we have for her studies. Final term. For five years, Maria had shouldered it all. Every month—a cash envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand and relentless subtraction: minus bills, minus medication, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s course fees. And what was left for her? A rented bedsit in a shared flat, a winter coat already six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own home. Once, Maria had longed for a weekend in London. Just to see the National Gallery, to wander along the Thames. She’d even started saving—then Mum had her first bad turn, and every penny went on doctors. — You should have a break, love—Ellen stroked her hand.—You look done in. — I’ll rest. Soon. Soon—when Anna gets a job. When Mum’s health settles. When she could actually breathe and think about her own life. Maria had been promising herself “soon” for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—a first, no less. Maria took the day off work and watched her younger sister cross the stage in a new dress—a gift from her, of course—thinking: That’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and finally, Maria could stop counting out every penny. Four months passed. — You don’t get it, Mary—Anna sat on the sofa in fluffy socks.—I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts. — Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. — Maybe not for you. Maria gritted her teeth. Her main job paid forty-two. Overtime and temp work—another twenty, if she was lucky. Sixty-two per annum, and if Maria kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. — Anna, you’re twenty-two. You’ve got to start somewhere. — I will. Just not in some dead-end job for a pittance. Ellen fussed around the kitchen, clattering dishes, pretending to ignore the row. She always did this, hiding away when her daughters argued. Then, when Maria was leaving, she’d whisper: “Don’t be hard on Anna, she’s still young, she doesn’t understand.” She doesn’t understand. Twenty-two—and she doesn’t understand. — I’m not going to live forever, Anna. — Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money. I’m just looking for the right opportunity. Not asking. Technically—not asking. But Mum would. “Mary, Anna needs money for English lessons.” “Mary, Anna’s phone’s broken, she needs it for job applications.” “Mary, Anna needs a new coat before winter.” Maria transferred money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was just the way—she provided, they accepted. — I’m off—she stood up.—Evening shift tonight. — Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!—Mum called from the kitchen. They were filled with cabbage. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold lobby reeking of damp and cats. Ten minutes’ brisk walk to the bus stop. Then an hour’s ride. Eight hours on her feet. If she got home in time, another four hours on the computer for more work. Meanwhile, Anna would be at home, scrolling through job sites, waiting for the universe to present her with a perfect position—£60k and remote working. The first real fight happened in November. — Do you even do anything?—Maria lost her patience when she saw her sister still lounged on the couch.—Sent out your CV at all? — I have. Three times. — Three CVs in a whole month? Anna rolled her eyes, glued to her phone. — You don’t understand today’s job market. The competition’s mad, you’ve got to be selective. — Selective how? You want to be paid for lying on the sofa? Ellen poked her head from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel, anxious. — Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake… — Don’t bother—Maria rubbed her temples. Third day in a row with a headache.—Just tell me why I have to work two jobs and she can get away with none? — Mary, Anna’s still young, she’ll find her path… — When? In a year? Five years? I was already working at her age! Anna sprang up. — Sorry I don’t want to end up like you! Run into the ground, working yourself to death! Silence. Maria wordlessly picked up her bag and left. Watching the rain splatter the bus window, she thought: Run into the ground. That’s what I look like from the outside. Ellen called the next day, begging her not to be upset. — Anna didn’t mean it. She’s worried. Just, please, hold on a little longer—she’ll find a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on, till Dad sorts himself out. Hold on, till Anna grows up. Hold on, till things get better. Maria had held on her whole life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same—Maria trying to reason with her sister, Anna snapping, Ellen pleading for peace. Maria would leave, Ellen would call with apologies, and the cycle would repeat. — You must understand, she’s your sister—Mum would say. — And she must understand I’m not a cash machine. — Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice was bright with excitement. — Mary! I’m getting married! — What? To whom? — His name’s David. We met three weeks ago. He’s just… Mary, he’s perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks and getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, that she barely knew him, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If Anna had a husband, he could support her, and Maria could, at last, breathe. The hope lasted precisely one family dinner. — I’ve got it all planned!—Anna beamed.—Reception for a hundred, live band, and there’s a dress I love, on Regent Street… Maria set down her fork. — How much is all this? — Well—Anna shrugged with that disarming smile.—About twenty grand. Maybe twenty-five. But it’s my wedding! Once in a lifetime! — And who’s paying? — Well, you know… David’s parents can’t help—they have a mortgage. Mum’s on a pension now. You’ll probably have to take out a loan. Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Ellen looked away. — Are you serious? — Mary, it’s a wedding—Mum used her syrupy, persuasive voice.—Once in your life. Don’t be so tight-fisted… — You want me to borrow twenty grand for the wedding of someone who never bothered to get a job? — You’re my sister!—Anna slammed her palm on the table.—It’s your duty! — My duty? Maria stood up. Her mind was suddenly calm and clear. — Five years. Five years I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I have no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. — Mary, don’t get upset…—began Ellen. — No, I’m done! I’ve supported you both for years, and now you want to tell me what I owe you? That’s it. From now on, I’m living for me! She left, just managing to grab her coat. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the chill. Warmth spread within her, as though she’d finally dropped a heavy sack she’d hauled all her life. Her phone was soon buzzing with calls. Maria declined them, blocking both numbers. …Six months later, Maria moved into a tiny place of her own, which she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, bright nights. She bought a new dress. And another. And shoes. She heard about her family by chance—from an old school friend who worked near her mum. — Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was cancelled? Maria froze, coffee mug in hand. — What? — Yeah, apparently her fiancé legged it when he realised there was no money. Maria sipped her coffee. It was bitter and, somehow, delicious. — No idea. We’re not in touch. That evening, Maria sat by the window in her new flat, thinking how she didn’t feel the least bit spiteful. Not at all. Only a gentle, quiet satisfaction—of someone who has finally stopped living life as a workhorse. Just Hold On a Little Longer

Here, Mum, this is for Emilys next term. Harriet set the envelope gently onto the faded oilcloth that

La vida

Run Away From Him “Oh, hey, love!” Natasha dropped into the chair next to Lila. “Long time no see. How are things?” “Hi, Nat,” Lila replied, sounding a bit distracted. “Everything’s great.” “Then why won’t you look me in the eye?” Natasha studied her friend closely. “Roma up to something again? What’s happened this time?” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Lila rolled her eyes, clearly regretting ever coming into this café. “Everything’s fine with me. And Roma and I are perfect. Honestly, he’s a good man. Let’s just drop it, okay?” Ignoring whatever Natasha tried to say, Lila left, abandoning her half-eaten slice of cake. She didn’t want to listen to anyone, naively believing everyone was simply jealous. Roma was… well, brilliant. Handsome, successful, caring. True, his demands were sometimes odd. Like forbidding Lila to dye her hair blonde. That was their first real row. It almost ended in a breakup! And all over such a silly thing. Lila had gone to get her hair freshened up at the salon. Her stylist was convinced she was born to be blonde. Lila gave in. She came home with platinum curls. Roma turned white with rage. A book he’d been calmly reading on the sofa went flying. There were harsh words, and the demand: dye it back. Immediately. He wouldn’t tolerate blondes in his house. Choking back tears, Lila rushed to the nearest salon. They tried to talk her out of it—the colour really did suit her—but seeing her cry, quickly fixed it all. Roma simply nodded in satisfaction and said nothing more. The next morning, he gave her an expensive bracelet as compensation. And then, there was no wearing white. Red, blue, green—any other colour, but not white. She once jokingly asked what colour her wedding dress would be. The look he gave her made her drop the topic on the spot. “Run away from him,” Natasha implored her, back then. “Don’t look back, Lil. Today it’s ‘no white dresses,’ tomorrow—what next? No stepping outside? However ‘good’ he may seem, you need to find someone else. Someone normal.” “Everyone’s got their quirks,” Lila shrugged. “It’s serious, Nat. We’re even planning a baby. Roma really wants a girl. He’s already picked the name—Angela. And you’re telling me to run.” **************************************** She should have listened to her friend. Natasha, as it turned out, was spot on about Roma’s oddness. Lila would soon see for herself. There was always one room in the house Lila was never allowed to enter. Always locked. She once joked: “You’re not related to Bluebeard by any chance?” “Don’t worry,” Roma snorted, “no bodies of ex-wives in there.” That ended the conversation about the mysterious room. Until, by chance, Lila glimpsed inside. Her last class of the day had been cancelled; she came home early. She knew Roma was in, but couldn’t find him. Passing by the forbidden door, she heard a strange voice. Carefully, she pushed at the door. Through a narrow gap, she saw a scene that chilled her to the bone. A giant portrait of a girl covered the wall. Roma knelt before it. The girl in the painting smiled sweetly, arms outstretched. She looked uncannily like Lila. They’d be sisters, if not for the hair—the girl in the portrait was blonde. “Just a little longer, Angela,” Roma kept repeating. “We’ll be together soon. She’ll give me a daughter—you’ll be reborn in that little body. Then you’ll be with me. Always. I’ll take care of you, and once you grow up, we’ll love each other again.” Lila’s mind screamed, “Psycho!” She bolted for the exit. Her friends had been right. But now what? How does one escape a madman? Especially, terrifyingly, because Lila was pregnant. Who was to judge what to do—it was still so early. Her parents were far away; her only close friend was Natasha. So that’s who she ran to. “I never imagined Roma could be like this,” Lila whispered, wringing her hands. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d never have believed—” “Calm down,” Natasha handed her a glass of water. Lila drank gratefully. “You’ve got to decide what you’re going to do. Will you stay with him?” “Not a chance!” she shook her head wildly. “He’s mad! I’m scared for myself and for the baby.” She forced a crooked smile. “Well at least now I know why I wasn’t allowed to dye my hair or wear white—he wanted me to look less like her.” “Thank goodness you found out before the wedding,” Natasha said sensibly. “You haven’t told him about the baby yet?” “I wanted it to be a surprise…” “Well, don’t. Just tell him you’ve met someone else. Then leave. Go home, transfer to a local uni. The important thing is to stay away from him.” “I suppose you’re right.” ***************************************** The last six months were gruelling for Lila—emotionally more than physically. Moving, explaining things to her parents… She had to drop out of uni because of the baby—she couldn’t bear the thought of an abortion; after all, the baby was innocent. As it turned out, she had a daughter, just as Roma had hoped for. Surprisingly, Roma let her go without much fuss. He only hinted that loose tongues could get her in trouble, and never asked where she went—it was as though he really didn’t care. Sometimes Lila wondered if she’d made the right decision in leaving him, and never telling him about the child. That evening, after putting little Ellie to sleep, she gazed out of the window, lost in thought. The doorbell rang. It was a food delivery—Lila never did learn to cook. After a quick dinner, she sat down at her books, determined to get back to her studies. The words blurred on the page, her head spun… Lila reached for her phone to call an ambulance, but her hands wouldn’t work. She couldn’t move at all. Just before she lost consciousness, she saw Roma, gently cradling their newborn daughter. *********************************************** Lila came round in hospital. Her mother had picked the perfect moment to visit. The police tried to find the baby—but there was no trace. Roma had vanished with the little girl, as if swallowed by the earth. It would be years before the grieving mother received any word. A photograph—of Roma, holding a beautiful blonde child in his arms.

Run from Him – Oh, hello, love! Natalie slid onto the chair next to me at the cafe. Havent seen

La vida

The Unwanted, Yet Wanted Granddaughter

Useless, Useful Granddaughter Look, over there. Thats her, Im telling you! hissed a stately woman to

La vida

011

Another Woman’s Son – When a Stranger Claims: “Your Husband Is the Father of My Child” As Christina enjoys a peaceful lunch, an unknown woman suddenly announces, “Your husband is the father of my child.” Unfazed, Christina calmly asks about the child’s age and learns he is eight—long before her marriage to Arthur. Uninterested in the past, Christina shrugs off the revelation, suggesting Arthur would want to help, while the woman, Marina, demands child support and threatens court. A swift DNA test confirms young Egor is indeed Arthur’s son. Curious about Egor’s withdrawn temperament, Christina visits Marina’s upscale flat, noticing Egor’s lack of toys and signs of emotional neglect, while Marina claims poverty yet flaunts luxury goods. When the case goes to court, evidence and testimony from neighbours and a child psychologist reveal Egor’s mistreatment. The judge rules in Arthur’s favour—granting him full custody and the chance for Egor to finally experience a loving family. Now, Egor has a spacious room of his own, toys galore, a computer, and, most importantly, parental love from both Christina and Arthur—something he’s never known before.

Your husband is the father of my child. With this announcement, an unfamiliar woman swooped down on Sarah