Harlan Covington

You Didn’t Deserve It “I thought after my divorce I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” said Andrew, absently spinning his empty espresso cup between his fingers, his voice trembling so convincingly that Katie leaned in without thinking. “You know, when someone betrays you, it feels like you lose a part of yourself. She did me irreparable emotional harm. I didn’t think I’d ever get out, not sure I’d even survive…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for quite a while. About his ex-wife, who never appreciated him. About pain that wouldn’t let go. About the fear of starting all over again. Every word landed in Katie’s heart like a warm stone, and she was already picturing herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. The one to help him heal. The one who’d show him true happiness was possible—with her. Andrew brought up Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee. “I have a son, actually—he’s seven. He lives with his mum but spends every weekend with me. That’s what the court decided.” “That’s wonderful!” Katie beamed. “Children are such a blessing.” She already envisioned it all: Saturday breakfasts for three, park outings, cozy evenings watching telly. The boy needed a woman’s touch, a bit of motherly warmth. She would be his second mum—not a replacement for the real one, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Andrew studied her face with a strange smile she mistook for distrust. “A lot of women run the other way when they hear about a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a real celebration. Katie made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She sat patiently over maths homework, explained sums in simple words, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and saw to it he was tucked in by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew gently one day, noticing how he had sprawled on the sofa, TV remote in hand. “I can handle things.” Andrew nodded—a grateful nod, she thought. Now she realised it was the nod of a landlord taking what’s due. Months became years. Katie worked as a manager at a logistics company, left the house before eight, came back at seven. Decent pay—by London standards, anyway. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve postponed things again at the site,” Andrew would grumble, as though reporting a natural disaster. “The client’s bailed. But there’s a big contract coming, promise you.” That big contract had stayed on the horizon for a year and a half—sometimes edging closer, sometimes fading away, but never quite real. The bills, however, arrived like clockwork. Rent. Electricity. Broadband. Groceries. Child support to Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Katie paid everything in silence. She scrimped on work lunches, packed cold pasta in Tupperware, walked home in the rain instead of taking a cab. She’d gone a year without a manicure—kept her nails filed herself, trying not to think about when she could afford a proper salon. In three years, Andrew brought her flowers exactly three times. She remembered every sad bouquet—half-wilted roses from a 24-hour shop near the tube, their broken stems speared in cellophane. Probably on a special offer. The first time was because he called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when a friend visited, unannounced. The third—when he missed her birthday entirely, having stayed late with mates. Or simply because he’d forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t care about expensive gifts,” she tried to say gently, choosing her words. “But sometimes I just want to know you’re thinking of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted at once. “You just care about money—that’s it, isn’t it? Presents. What about love? Everything I’ve been through?” “That’s not what I—” “You didn’t deserve it,” he spat, flinging the words like mud. “After all I do for you, more complaints?” Katie went quiet. She always did—it was easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Of course, he always had cash for pub nights with the lads: beers, football matches, Thursday dinners. He’d stagger home, reeking of sweat and smoke, not noticing Katie was still awake. She told herself this was how it was meant to be. Love means sacrifice. Patience. He would change. He had to. She just needed to take care of him better, love him more—he’d been through so much. Discussions about marriage became like tiptoeing through a minefield. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would swat away the topic like a persistent fly. “After what I went through with Marina, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re pressuring me! Always pressuring!” He’d snap, leave the room, and nothing ever came of the conversation. Katie wanted children. Her own, her flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, her biological clock ticked louder in her ear each month. But Andrew had no interest in fatherhood again—he already had a son, that was enough. One Saturday, she asked for just one day. That was all. “The girls have invited me round. Haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll be back tonight.” Andrew glared at her as if she’d just said she was emigrating. “And Max?” “He’s your son, Andrew. Have the day with him. Just you two.” “So you’re just leaving us? On a Saturday? I was counting on a bit of rest.” Katie blinked, once, then again. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry and ironing—all whilst holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… He’s your son. Can’t you cope for one day without me?” “You’re supposed to love my child as much as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing attitude?!” His flat. His food. Katie paid that rent. She bought that food with her pay. For three years, she’d supported a man who shouted at her for requesting a day off to see friends. She looked at him—at his contorted face, the throbbing vein in his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him for the first time. Not a tragic victim of circumstance. Not a lost soul in need of saving. But a grown man who’d mastered the art of using other people’s kindness. To Andrew, she was not a loved one, not a future wife. She was a cash machine and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Marina’s, Katie took out a holdall. Her hands moved steadily, with purpose—no trembling, no second thoughts. Papers. Phone. Charger. A couple of t-shirts. A pair of jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t leave a note. No point explaining yourself to someone who never saw you at all. The door closed softly behind her, drama-free. Within an hour, the calls began. One, then another, then a flood—her phone vibrated with a relentless trill. “Katie, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home—no sign of you! How dare you? Where’s my dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? How can you do this?” She listened to his rage—angry, outraged, self-righteous—and marvelled. Even now, as she left, Andrew only thought of himself. His discomfort. Who would make dinner. Not a word of sorry. Not a word of concern. Just “How dare you?” Katie blocked his number. Then found his profile on WhatsApp—blocked that too. Socials—blocked everywhere. Anywhere he could reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years living with a man who never loved her. Who used her kindness like a limitless resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But love isn’t like that. Real love never means humiliation. It never turns you into a servant. Katie strolled through the evening streets of London and, for the first time in ages, could breathe easy. She promised herself she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again save those who prey on pity. And to always choose herself. Only herself…

I suppose, looking back now, that I used to believe Id never trust anyone again after the divorce.

La vida

What You Need Isn’t a Wife—It’s a Housekeeper

You dont need a wife, you need a housekeeper. Mum, Sallys chewed up my pencil again! Martha dashed into

La vida

I’m 45 and I No Longer Welcome Guests Into My Home Some people, when they visit, completely forget they’re guests. They’re rude, offer unsolicited advice, and overstay their welcome. I used to be incredibly hospitable, but my attitude changed quickly. Once I hit forty, I stopped inviting people over. Why should I bother? Dealing with inconsiderate guests is simply frustrating. This year, I celebrated my birthday in a restaurant, and I absolutely loved it—it’s what I’ll do from now on. Let me tell you why. Hosting a gathering at home is expensive. Even a simple dinner requires a substantial outlay. If you’re organising a festive celebration, the costs go up even more. Guests turn up with token gifts—times are tough, after all—and then linger well into the night. I want to relax, not spend hours washing up and cleaning afterwards. I no longer wait for anyone within my own four walls. I clean and cook on my own schedule. In the past, after hosting festive parties at home, I’d feel exhausted and deflated. Now, after the holidays, I can take a nice bath and get an early night. I have plenty of free time and use it wisely. My friends are welcome to pop in for a cuppa, but I never stress about not having treats to serve. These days, I speak my mind freely. If I want to rest, I’ll point guests towards the door. It might not seem very polite, but I don’t care. My comfort comes first. And here’s the funniest thing: the people who love showing up at others’ homes for a good time never seem to host themselves. It’s easier to enjoy yourself in someone else’s space without worrying about cleaning or cooking. Do you still host guests? Would you call yourself a hospitable person?

Im 45 now, and Ive put a stop to having guests round my house. Some people, once they cross your threshold

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“We’ll Be Staying With You for a While, Since We Can’t Afford Our Own Flat!” – My Friend Announced. I’m an Active 65-Year-Old Woman Who Loves New People and Places, but This Unexpected Visit Ended Our Friendship Forever

Well have to stay with you for a bitwe cant afford to rent our own place! Thats what my old friend told me.

La vida

My Ex-Husband’s Son from His Second Marriage Became Seriously Ill and My Ex Asked Me for Financial Help—But I Said No!

My ex-husbands son from his second marriage fell ill, and my ex asked me for financial help.

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My Children Are Well Provided For, I Have Money Set Aside, and I’ll Be Drawing My Pension — The Story of Edward, Our Neighbour and Family Friend, Renowned Mechanic, Who Worked Tirelessly Until His Final Days

You know, my kids are well looked after, Ive got a bit tucked away, and soon Ill be getting my pension.

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Little by Little, We Brought Water and Finally Gas to My Aunt’s House—Then We Renovated Everything, Only to Find Her Home Listed on an English Property Website

Gradually, we managed to get running water into her house, and eventually, mains gas as well.

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“I Had to Get My Own Fridge So Mum Would Stop Taking My Shopping” – Anna Shares Her Absurd Living Situation: Owning Half the Flat But Unable to Sell, Juggling Bills, and Struggling for Independence as a Young Professional in Her Family Home

I had to get a separate fridge so my mum wouldnt take my food shopping. I had to get my own fridge, says Emily.

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You’re the Eldest Brother, So You Have to Help Your Younger Sister—You Own Two Flats, Give One to Your Sister!

Youre the older brother, so naturally, its your duty to help your little sister. Youve got two flats

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My Thrifty Friends Invited Me to Their Birthday Party – I Went Home Hungry

My thrifty friends invited me to a birthday party. I came home ravenous. I have friends I call the frugal sort.