Harlan Covington

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60. Not a single family member called to wish me a happy milestone birthday. I have a daughter and son, a grandson and granddaughter. Even my ex-husband is still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious universities. Bright, successful, settled. My daughter is married to a high-ranking official, my son to the daughter of a major London business leader. Both have strong careers, own several properties, and besides their government jobs, run businesses of their own. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished uni. Said he was tired of our lifestyle—though his own life was quiet and routine, with weekends spent lounging or out with friends, and month-long holidays with relatives down in the south. I, meanwhile, never took a proper holiday. I juggled three jobs—engineering at a factory, cleaning the offices there, and packing groceries in the local supermarket every weekend from 8 till 8, plus cleaning staff rooms. Every penny went to our children—living in London isn’t cheap, and top-tier education meant sharp clothes, decent food, entertainment. I taught myself to make do with old clothes, mending and reworking pieces, fixing my shoes. I was always clean, presentable. That was enough. My only entertainment was dreaming—sometimes I’d see myself laughing, young, and happy in my sleep. The moment my husband left, he bought a new, luxury car—clearly, there were funds saved up. Our shared life was always odd: besides paying the rent, all expenses fell to me. As for the children’s education, that was my job too. The flat we lived in came from my grandmother. A classic, spacious city apartment with high ceilings, converted from two bedrooms to three. There was a box room with a window, 8.5 square meters—I renovated it, made it cozy for my daughter. My son and I shared a room, but I only came home to sleep. My husband had the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I had the box room. My son kept the bedroom. Our separation came without drama or dividing up property, no accusations. He wanted to LIVE, not just exist, and I was so worn down, I was actually relieved: no more cooking multi-course meals, washing his clothes and bedding, ironing and putting it all away—I could use that time to rest. By then my health had crashed: spine, joints, diabetes, thyroid, sheer exhaustion. For the first time I took a break from my main job just to get treatment. Kept the side jobs, of course. Got a little better. I hired a great tradesman—he and his mate gave me a proper bathroom overhaul in two weeks. For me, it was bliss. My OWN happiness, just for me! All along, I sent money to my successful kids instead of birthday or Christmas gifts, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Later, there were presents for my grandchildren too. So giving up side jobs was impossible. There was never money left for myself. I was rarely congratulated, usually only if I sent wishes first. No gifts. The biggest hurt? Not being invited to my kids’ weddings. My daughter put it bluntly: “Mum, you wouldn’t really fit in with our crowd. The President’s office people will be there.” As for my son’s wedding, I only heard about it from my daughter, after the fact… At least they didn’t ask for money for the wedding. Nobody ever visits, though I always invite them. My daughter calls our town “the sticks”—even though it’s a city with a million people. My son says, “Mum, I literally have no time.” There are seven daily flights from here to London—two hours, tops. How would I describe that period of my life? Probably, suppressed emotions… I lived like Scarlett O’Hara— “I’ll think about it tomorrow…” I pushed away tears and pain, pressing down whatever I felt—from confusion to despair. I became a robot, programmed only for work. Then the factory was bought out by Londoners. Reorganisation started. All those near retirement were made redundant—I lost two jobs in one hit, but could take early retirement. My pension: 800 pounds a month. Try and live on that. Lucky for me, a cleaning job opened up in my five-story block. I took it—another 800 pounds. Still kept my weekend packing and cleaning shift at the supermarket—they paid well, about £120 for a shift. The standing all day was tough. I started to renovate the kitchen, bit by bit. Did it myself, ordered the units from a neighbour—he did a decent job at a fair price. I began saving again. Wanted to refresh the bedrooms, swap out some furniture. Plans, always plans… but none ever included myself! What did I ever spend on me? Food—basic stuff, and I never ate much. And medicine—lots on that. Rent keeps climbing every year. My ex said, “Sell the flat, it’s a good area. You’ll get a good price, buy yourself a one-bedroom.” But I can’t bear to—my grandmother’s memory. My parents died young, she raised me. The flat is my life’s history. My ex and I managed to keep a friendly enough relationship. We talk like old mates. He’s doing well. Never speaks about his private life. Once a month he turns up with heavy groceries—potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water—refuses money. Says delivery isn’t worth it, they always send rubbish. I just agree. Inside, something feels frozen—a knot in my chest. I just keep going, working a lot. No dreams. Nothing I want for myself. I see my daughter and her kids on Instagram, my son’s life flashes by in his wife’s Insta stories. I’m glad they’re all fine—happy, healthy, enjoying trips, eating in nice places. Maybe I didn’t give them enough love. So there’s none in return. My daughter checks in sometimes—asks how I am. I always say “all’s well.” Never complain. My son sends WhatsApp voice notes, “Hi Mum, hope you’re good.” He once told me he didn’t want to hear about dad and my problems—negativity upsets him. So I stopped sharing, stick to “all’s fine, son.” I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but suspect they barely know I exist—a pensioner cleaner grandma. Most likely, to them, I’m already long gone. I can’t even remember buying anything for myself. Some underwear and socks now and then, cheapest possible. Never had a manicure or pedicure… Once a month I get my hair cut at the local place, dye my own hair. The only plus—I’ve kept the same size, 14/16, all my life. No need to update my wardrobe. My biggest fear is that one morning I won’t be able to get up—my spine aches constantly. I’m so afraid of being immobile. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way: no rest, no little joys, always working, always putting everything off for “later.” But where is “later?” It’s gone… My soul feels empty, my heart completely numb… everything around me is empty too… I don’t blame anyone. But I can’t blame myself, either. I’ve worked all my life, and still do. I squirrel away a little rainy day fund, just in case. Not much, but something. Though, let’s be honest—I know if I’m bedridden, I won’t want to live… don’t want to be anyone’s burden. And do you know what’s saddest? No one ever gave me flowers. Not once in my life. Wouldn’t it be something if someone finally brings fresh flowers—for my grave? Honestly, it would be almost funny…

The Syndrome of A Life Forever Postponed Recollections of a 60-Year-Old Woman Margaret: This year I turned sixty.

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Another Whole Year Together… Arkady Ivanovich hadn’t gone out alone lately—not since the day he wandered to the clinic, forgot his address and even his own name. He’d wandered aimlessly until, by chance, he spotted the familiar clock factory where he’d worked nearly fifty years. He knew the building for certain, but his own identity escaped him, until a friendly tap on the shoulder snapped him back— “It’s you, Ivanich! Uncle Arkady, missing us? We were just reminiscing about our great mentor. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Yura Akulov—thanks to you, I turned out alright!” With those words, memory flooded back, gratefully so. Yura, delighted, offered Arkady a lift home, and from that day on, Natalia Lvovna never let her husband out alone. They walked together to the park, the clinic, and the shop—always side by side. But then Arkady fell ill—fever, fierce cough—and his wife, feeling poorly herself, ventured out alone for medicine and groceries. The simple shopping trip felt like a daunting trek; the weight of the bags heavier than ever. Natalia paused for breath and, finally, set her groceries down in the snow, sinking gently onto the path home. Her last thought: “Why did I buy so much? Old minds don’t think ahead!” Luckily, neighbours came outside, saw Natalia collapsed, called an ambulance, and helped. Natalia was taken to hospital, while neighbours, worried, brought her bag home and knocked at their door. “Arkady must be inside, maybe ill—I haven’t seen him for days,” guessed Nina Mikhailovna. Arkady, feverish, heard their ringing but couldn’t answer, drifting into a strange sleep, longing for his Natasha. Suddenly, she was there—her voice guiding him up, her cold, weak hand supporting him. “Open the door, quickly!” she urged. Confused, Arkady unlocked the door—only to find neighbour Nina and Yura outside. “Ivanich, we rang and knocked—what happened?” “But Natasha was just here…” Arkady muttered, lips pale. “She’s in hospital, love—intensive care,” Nina replied. “He’s delirious,” Yura realised, catching Arkady as he fainted. They called an ambulance—heatstroke, exhaustion. Two weeks later, Natalia came home, cured. Yura drove her; Nina helped Arkady meanwhile, and he recovered too. The important thing: they were still together. At last, alone, husband and wife fought back tears. “Good thing there are kind souls in the world, Arkady. Remember how Nina’s kids came over after school? We fed them, helped with homework, until she finished work.” “Not everyone remembers kindness—but she hasn’t hardened, and it means so much,” Arkady agreed. “And Yura, once a lad—I guided him, and he hasn’t forgotten old friends.” “New Year’s is coming, Arkady—we’re together again,” Natalia whispered, snuggling close. “Natalia, tell me—how did you manage to visit me from hospital and help me open the door to my rescuers? I might have died without you,” Arkady finally asked. He feared she’d think his mind was lost, but instead, she wondered, “So, that really happened? They said I’d died briefly—clinical death—but in that time, I dreamt I visited you. I remember leaving my body in intensive care and coming to you…” “What miracles old age brings! I love you as much as ever—more, even,” Arkady murmured, holding her hands, as they gazed at each other, afraid the world might separate them once more. On New Year’s Eve, Yura visited with homemade pies, and Nina stopped by—they sipped tea, feeling warmth and gratitude. When Natalia and Arkady celebrated New Year’s alone, she confided, “I made a wish—that if we greet this New Year together, it’ll be ours. We’ll have another year yet.” They laughed in happiness. Another whole year of life together—that’s everything. That’s pure joy.

One more year together Lately, Arthur Bennett hadnt gone out on his own. Not since that day he wandered

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At the Edge of the World: Snow Packed Into Her Boots, Stinging Her Skin, but Rita Refused to Buy Wellies—She’d Rather Have Knee-High Boots (Though She’d Look Silly Here and Her Dad Had Blocked Her Bank Card). “You’re Really Going to Live in a Village?” He Sneered, Hating the Countryside and Everything Rural. He’d Hoped Rita Would Marry Gosha This Summer and Prepare for a ‘Proper’ City Wedding—But Rita Never Cared for Gosha’s Bragging or Their Obsession with Money; She Dreamed of Love and Drama, Not Predictable Comfort. That’s Why She Accepted a Teaching Job at a Village School with No Internet, Hot Water, or Sewers—The Headteacher Hesitated, But Rita Insisted, Armed with Her Qualifications. At First, Her Class of Twelve Seemed Hopeless, Reading Haltingly and Misbehaving, But Rita Fell for Their Unique Talents: Semyon’s Wood Carvings, Anya’s Poetry, Vovka’s Help, and Ira’s Lamb Companion. She Ignored the Official Curriculum, Bringing Books from the Nearest Town, Even as Winter Made Home Life Tough and She Nearly Wanted to Quit—Yet She Persevered, Now Responsible for Her Pupils. Only One Child Stumped Her—And When She Met the Girl’s Father, Vladimir (Gruff as a London Bricklayer, Never Smiling), He Demanded to Know Why Tanya Only Got Failing Marks. Rita Suspected Autism, but the Deputy Head Urged Moving Her to a Special School. Instead, Rita Sought Advice, Visited Tanya’s Home, and Gradually Won Her Trust, Proving the Girl Was Not ‘Hopeless’ After All. Rita Began Tutoring Tanya for Free, Drawing Disapproval from Staff But Determined to Make a Difference. When Vladimir Invited Rita to Spend New Year’s, Rita Was Torn—Especially When Gosha Unexpectedly Arrived with Champagne and Teacher Gifts, Pledging to Stay in the Village for Her. Yet Rita’s Heart Pulled Elsewhere, Especially After Receiving a notebook of Tanya’s drawings and a gold hummingbird brooch—her mother’s keepsake—from Vladimir. On New Year’s Eve, Faced with Gosha’s Proposal, Rita Realized Where She Truly Belonged: She Returned His Ring and Rushed to Find the ones who needed her most—her unexpected new family, at the edge of the world.

At the edge of the world. Snow crept into her boots, searing her feet. Still, buying wellies was out

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Leonard Refused to Believe Little Irina Was His Daughter—While Vera Worked in the Shop with Men, Only Grandpa Matthew Loved Her and Left Her a Cottage in His Will

Leonard absolutely refuses to accept that Emily is his daughter. His wife, Claire, works at the local shop.

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Ten Years as the Cook in My Son’s Household Without a Word of Thanks: How a Retired Teacher Rediscovered Joy and Freedom After a Decade of Selfless Service to Her Family

Ten years working as a cook in my son’s household and nary a word of thanks Today, I find myself

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Nobody Was Expecting Him: Our Father Disappeared While My Sister and I Were Still in School, Leaving Mum to Lean on Uncle Nick Until a Surprise Homecoming Threatened Our Chosen Family

We Weren’t Expecting You Our dad, Jack, had gone off somewhere to earn a living and disappeared

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“Mum, I’m Getting Married!” – Victor Exclaims Happily. “That’s nice,” Sofia says with little enthusiasm. “Mum, what’s wrong?” Victor asks, surprised. “Nothing… Where are you planning to live?” his mother asks, narrowing her eyes. “Here, of course! You don’t mind, do you? It’s a three-bedroom flat, surely we’ll all fit?” “Do I have a choice?” she replies. “Well, renting is out of the question…” Victor mumbles. “So, I don’t have a choice,” Sofia sighs. “Mum, rental prices are ridiculous these days! We won’t have enough left for food. We’re not here forever—we’ll work and save for a place of our own much quicker this way.” Sofia shrugs. “Fine… You can move in and stay as long as you need, but I have two conditions: the bills get split three ways, and I am not the housekeeper.” “Agreed, Mum, whatever you say,” Victor replies straight away. They celebrate a modest wedding, and soon Sofia, Victor, and his new wife, Eva, are sharing the flat. From day one, Sofia always seems to have urgent plans whenever the couple get home—she’s out, the pans are empty, and the flat is left a mess just as the newlyweds left it that morning. “Mum, where have you been?” Victor asks one evening. “You know, Victor, the Community Centre rang and invited me to join their Folk Choir—I do have a great voice, as you know…” “Really?” Victor is surprised. “Yes! You just forgot. There’s a bunch of other retirees there and we have the best time singing together. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow!” Sofia says cheerfully. “And tomorrow is choir again?” “No, tomorrow’s our literary night—we’re reading Shakespeare. You know how much I love Shakespeare.” “Really?” Victor is surprised again. “Yes! I’ve told you before! You never pay attention to your old mum,” she teases gently. Eva listens silently to the entire exchange. Since Victor got married, Sofia finds a new lease on life: she attends all sorts of groups for pensioners, makes new friends, hosts lively gatherings in the kitchen with tea, biscuits brought by friends, and marathon games of bingo. Sometimes she goes for walks or gets so lost in her favourite soaps she barely hears her son and daughter-in-law come home. Household chores? Sofia is adamantly uninvolved, leaving everything for Victor and Eva. At first, they don’t complain. Eventually, Eva starts casting glances, then they mutter under their breath, Victor sighs loudly, but Sofia remains blissfully unaware and continues her busy social life. One day, she returns home, humming “Greensleeves,” and enters the kitchen where the couple sit over a freshly made soup. “Good news, kids! You can congratulate me—I’ve met a wonderful man, and tomorrow we’re off to a spa together! Isn’t that exciting?” “It is,” Victor and Eva agree in unison. “Is it serious?” Victor asks, worried about another household member. “Well, we’ll see after the spa. Hopefully, I’ll know by then,” Sofia says, happily tucking into her soup. But after the trip, Sofia returns disappointed. “Alex wasn’t a good match, but I’m not giving up!” She throws herself back into her clubs, walks, and gatherings. Eventually, Victor and Eva come home to yet another messy flat and empty kitchen, and Eva snaps, banging the empty fridge: “Sofia, could you please help with the housework too? It’s chaos in here and there’s no food! Why do we have to do everything?” “Now, why are we so irritable?” Sofia asks, surprised. “If you lived on your own, who would be cleaning for you?” “But you’re here!” Eva protests. “I’m not your maid—those days are behind me! I warned Victor I wouldn’t be the housekeeper. If he didn’t tell you, that’s not my fault,” Sofia insists. “I thought you were joking…” Victor says, bewildered. “So you want to live here happily and have me do all the housework too? No chance! I set my terms, and if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to find your own place!” Sofia says, disappearing to her room. The next morning, doing her lipstick and humming “Early One Morning,” she dons her favourite blouse and heads off to the Community Centre for Folk Choir, leaving Victor and Eva to fend for themselves.

Mum, Im getting married! my son announced, cheerful as ever. Thats nice, I answered, maybe lacking a

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“Mum, I’m Getting Married!” – Victor Exclaims Happily. “That’s nice,” Sofia says with little enthusiasm. “Mum, what’s wrong?” Victor asks, surprised. “Nothing… Where are you planning to live?” his mother asks, narrowing her eyes. “Here, of course! You don’t mind, do you? It’s a three-bedroom flat, surely we’ll all fit?” “Do I have a choice?” she replies. “Well, renting is out of the question…” Victor mumbles. “So, I don’t have a choice,” Sofia sighs. “Mum, rental prices are ridiculous these days! We won’t have enough left for food. We’re not here forever—we’ll work and save for a place of our own much quicker this way.” Sofia shrugs. “Fine… You can move in and stay as long as you need, but I have two conditions: the bills get split three ways, and I am not the housekeeper.” “Agreed, Mum, whatever you say,” Victor replies straight away. They celebrate a modest wedding, and soon Sofia, Victor, and his new wife, Eva, are sharing the flat. From day one, Sofia always seems to have urgent plans whenever the couple get home—she’s out, the pans are empty, and the flat is left a mess just as the newlyweds left it that morning. “Mum, where have you been?” Victor asks one evening. “You know, Victor, the Community Centre rang and invited me to join their Folk Choir—I do have a great voice, as you know…” “Really?” Victor is surprised. “Yes! You just forgot. There’s a bunch of other retirees there and we have the best time singing together. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow!” Sofia says cheerfully. “And tomorrow is choir again?” “No, tomorrow’s our literary night—we’re reading Shakespeare. You know how much I love Shakespeare.” “Really?” Victor is surprised again. “Yes! I’ve told you before! You never pay attention to your old mum,” she teases gently. Eva listens silently to the entire exchange. Since Victor got married, Sofia finds a new lease on life: she attends all sorts of groups for pensioners, makes new friends, hosts lively gatherings in the kitchen with tea, biscuits brought by friends, and marathon games of bingo. Sometimes she goes for walks or gets so lost in her favourite soaps she barely hears her son and daughter-in-law come home. Household chores? Sofia is adamantly uninvolved, leaving everything for Victor and Eva. At first, they don’t complain. Eventually, Eva starts casting glances, then they mutter under their breath, Victor sighs loudly, but Sofia remains blissfully unaware and continues her busy social life. One day, she returns home, humming “Greensleeves,” and enters the kitchen where the couple sit over a freshly made soup. “Good news, kids! You can congratulate me—I’ve met a wonderful man, and tomorrow we’re off to a spa together! Isn’t that exciting?” “It is,” Victor and Eva agree in unison. “Is it serious?” Victor asks, worried about another household member. “Well, we’ll see after the spa. Hopefully, I’ll know by then,” Sofia says, happily tucking into her soup. But after the trip, Sofia returns disappointed. “Alex wasn’t a good match, but I’m not giving up!” She throws herself back into her clubs, walks, and gatherings. Eventually, Victor and Eva come home to yet another messy flat and empty kitchen, and Eva snaps, banging the empty fridge: “Sofia, could you please help with the housework too? It’s chaos in here and there’s no food! Why do we have to do everything?” “Now, why are we so irritable?” Sofia asks, surprised. “If you lived on your own, who would be cleaning for you?” “But you’re here!” Eva protests. “I’m not your maid—those days are behind me! I warned Victor I wouldn’t be the housekeeper. If he didn’t tell you, that’s not my fault,” Sofia insists. “I thought you were joking…” Victor says, bewildered. “So you want to live here happily and have me do all the housework too? No chance! I set my terms, and if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to find your own place!” Sofia says, disappearing to her room. The next morning, doing her lipstick and humming “Early One Morning,” she dons her favourite blouse and heads off to the Community Centre for Folk Choir, leaving Victor and Eva to fend for themselves.

Mum, Im getting married! my son announced, cheerful as ever. Thats nice, I answered, maybe lacking a

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We Love Our Grandchildren Dearly, But We’re Simply Too Exhausted to Keep Working for Them: The Struggles of Supporting Our Daughter Through Four Unexpected Pregnancies and Raising Twins Under Our Roof in England

Our grandchildren are dearly loved, but we simply havent the strength to look after them. They say that

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Betrayed by My Own Sister: When Responsibility Became Too Much, She Left Her Daughter with Me and Fled Abroad—How a Month Changed Everything for Our Family

Framed by My Own Sister Em, I cant do this anymore, Sarah sank into the kitchen chair and rubbed her