Harlan Covington

The Fool Everyone Always Thought Anna Was Daft. She’d Been Married Fifteen Years, Had Two Kids — Alice, Fourteen, and Tommy, Seven. Her Husband Cheated on Her from the Second Day of Their Marriage, and Never Bothered to Hide It. Friends Tried to Warn Her, But Anna Always Smiled Silently. Anna Worked as an Accountant at a Toy Factory, With a Tiny Paycheck and Mountains of Work, Even on Weekends. Her Husband Made Good Money, But No Matter What, There Was Never Enough for Groceries, and at Best, Dinner Was Borscht and Meatballs with Pasta. People Always Gossiped About Val With His New Girl. He’d Often Come Home Drunk. “Oh, Anna’s a fool, why does she put up with him?” On Their Son Tommy’s Tenth Birthday, Her Husband Declared He Wanted a Divorce — He’d Fallen in Love and Wasn’t Happy at Home. “Don’t Be Upset, Anna, But I’m Filing for Divorce. You’re so Cold and Not Even a Good Housekeeper,” He Said. “Alright, I Agree,” Anna Replied Calmly, Smiling Oddly, Which Rattled Val. The Next Day, Val Came Home with His New Flame, But Found the Locks Changed and a Mountain of Surprises Awaiting Him. No Key Under the Mat, Just a Burly Man Answering the Door. “Have You Got Any Papers to Prove You Live Here?” Confused, Val Searched for His Passport — Only to Discover He’d Been Removed from the Flat’s Deeds Two Years Prior. Anna and the Kids Had Moved On — His Daughter Studying Abroad, His Son in a Different School, and Anna Gone from the Factory. Crushed, Val Prepared for the Divorce Hearing, Sure He’d Expose Anna as a Swindler. But in Court, He Was Reminded: Two Years Back, Buzzing from a New Affair, He’d Signed Power of Attorney Over to Anna for Household Matters. He’d Lost It All By His Own Hand. His Mistress Eliza Disappeared After Hearing He’d Lost the Flat. Determined to Get Revenge, Val Planned to Refuse Child Support — Only to Receive a Court Summons Contesting His Paternity. DNA Tests Proved Both Children Weren’t His. Anna Had Seen Him Cheat on Their Wedding Day, and Vowed Subtle Revenge — Affair for Affair, Saving Every Penny He Gave Her, Living Frugally so She Could Support the Children Elsewhere, Until She Was Ready to Strike. He Took Losing the Flat Better Than Finding Out Both Kids Weren’t His. Beware the Women You’ve Wronged — In Anger, They Can Do Anything.

SILLY GIRL Everyone thought Annie was a bit daft. Shed been married to her husband for fifteen years.

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The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block eagerly watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the factory workshop manager, whose role was quite prestigious in their quaint English market town. “Why would they choose to live in this old Victorian place?” wondered pensioner Mrs. Nora Andrews aloud to her friends. “Surely with his connections, they could’ve bagged themselves a flat in those new builds.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna—thirty, still single and all bold lipstick—chimed in. “Who needs a new build when we have these grand Victorian ceilings, big separate rooms, a generous hallway, and the balcony’s as good as an extra room! Besides, they got their phone line connected straight away. In our block of nine, only three flats even have one.” “You only care because you want to chat on the phone all day,” her mum scolded. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t go badgering those people—they’re important and busy.” “Oh, they’re not so serious,” Anna replied, rolling her eyes. “They’re young—a nine-year-old daughter, Natasha. Practically my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be charming and polite: Lydia worked at the local school library, while John had a decade’s experience at the button factory. Anna loved to keep everyone apprised of their business when she joined her mother and her friends in the courtyard. “And how do you know all this?” the women quizzed. “Well, they let me in to use the phone! Not like some people who’d rather I didn’t call my friends for half an hour about nothing,” Anna shot back, meaningfully. Anna soon became a regular visitor to the newcomers—sometimes turning up in new dresses, other days in cosy dressing gowns—all in pursuit of friendship with Lydia and John. One afternoon, she noticed John decisively closing the lounge door when she arrived to use the phone—a gesture that became a habit. After her calls, Anna would peek into the kitchen to thank Lydia, who would reply only with a polite nod and ask her to close the front door. “Can’t—I’m elbow-deep in flour,” Lydia would say, displaying her hands. “Our lock’s French; it snaps shut itself.” “Oh, are you baking again—more pastries? I wish I could do that,” Anna would sigh. “Yes, cheese danishes for breakfast. No time to bake in the morning, so I do it now…” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would grimace and leave, frustrated she hadn’t been invited to linger. One evening, John mentioned, “Lydia, I know you don’t want to seem rude, but she monopolises our phone every evening—my mates can’t get through. This can’t go on.” Lydia agreed, “She comes in as if our home’s a waiting room!” Soon Anna, dolled up once again, plonked herself on their hallway stool for another long call to a friend. “Anna, will you be long? We’re waiting for a call,” Lydia asked after ten minutes. Anna nodded, hung up, and produced a chocolate bar: “Brought a treat—let’s have tea, get to know each other.” She headed to the kitchen, setting the chocolate down invitingly. “No, sorry—please, put that away. Natasha has an allergy. Chocolate is a strict no-go here. I’m afraid tea together won’t work. Don’t be offended, but in our family, chocolate is off the table.” “What? Off the table? I just wanted to say thanks…” Anna blushed in confusion. “No need for thanks, but please, only use the phone for emergencies—doctor, ambulance, fire crew—that’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we understand. But for anything else, please…” Lydia managed, “John needs business calls, and Natasha’s doing her homework. We try to keep things quiet.” Anna retrieved the chocolate and left, fuming—to her, Lydia was just jealous of her youth and looks. “She’s just envious I’m younger and prettier,” Anna told her mother. “I tried to be nice—brought my own chocolate—and she didn’t even offer me a cuppa!” “Silly girl,” Nora chided her, “Stop butting into other families. They don’t want you forever using their phone. Make friends elsewhere—better yet, find your own fella and your own phone!” Anna’s final push for friendship was to ask Lydia for her famous cheese danish recipe. “Could you write it down for me? I’d really like to learn,” Anna pleaded. “Why not ask your mum? Our mums know everything!” Lydia replied, surprised. “Anyway, I bake by instinct—never measured a thing. Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” Anna flushed and trudged back. She knew full well her mum had a battered old recipe notebook stuffed with secrets, most of them devoted to baking. But Anna didn’t want to bake herself, and her mum had stopped, struggling with her weight. But Anna retrieved the book, leafed through, and found what she needed—her mother was astonished. “You’re going to bake?” “Well, why not?” Anna replied, closing the book around the dog-eared page. “Is this about that boy, Simon?” her mother asked. “I thought you’d finished with him, like all the others.” “Not at all! He’ll be back.” Anna snapped. “Suit yourself, but you’d better get a move on if you want to settle down.” A few days later, the unmistakable aroma of baking filled the flat. “Is it possible? Baking—here!” her mother exclaimed. “You must be in love!” “Shh—not so loud!” Anna laughed. “Ready for a taste test? They’re cheese danishes—classic ones.” The kettle boiled, cups were out, and on a plate glowed golden danishes, like tiny suns. “You’ve still got it!” her mother exclaimed. “Not bad at all.” “Don’t just humour me—try one,” Anna insisted. “Tastes just right!” her mother confirmed. Anna remembered her father’s words: “Edible—that’s the highest praise.” “I’ll invite Simon over for tea. What do you think, will he like them?” Anna grinned. “He’ll love them! I won your dad’s heart with these very danishes,” her mother replied. As Simon became a regular for tea and laughter echoed from the kitchen, Anna’s mother grew used to her daughter spending more time at the stove—with Simon, no less. The news they planned to marry brought tears to Nora’s eyes. Anna slimmed down in anticipation of her wedding, Simon teasing, “Don’t forget to bake danishes for the wedding feast!” The big day was celebrated simply, with Anna, her mother, and her aunt preparing treats for just twenty family guests. The couple set up home in a grand room of their Victorian flat, and with time, every neighbour enjoyed the luxury of their own telephone. Anna made quick calls now—no more lingering. “Oh, Rita, can’t chat—my dough has risen and Simon will be home soon. Talk later!” She hurried to the kitchen to check on her pillow-soft dough—Anna was expecting a baby, on the cusp of maternity leave, but still couldn’t resist baking up treats for her husband, and herself. Homemade cheese danishes—such delicious happiness! And Simon simply adored her for it, for her baking, her kindness, and her warmth.

The Recipe for Happiness… The entire block watched as new tenants moved into the flat on the second floor.

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I Pushed My Son to Divorce His Wife—and Now I Regret It…

Managed to get my son divorced, and ended up regretting it My daughter-in-law dropped off the granddaughter

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“What Do You Mean You Won’t Take Care of My Son’s Child?” – The Mother-in-Law Couldn’t Hold Back “Firstly, I don’t turn my nose up at little George! Let’s not forget, in this very house, I’m the one coming home after work, like a proper wife and mother, and pulling a double shift with cooking, laundry, and cleaning. I’m happy to help out and offer advice, but I don’t intend to take on full parental responsibility. ‘What do you mean—you’re not going to? So that’s it, is it, you’re just a hypocrite?’ ‘Come off it, Rita. Who wants a job if you don’t get paid for it?’ – As expected, at the school reunion, Sue hadn’t dropped her old habits of judging and criticising everything and everyone. Those days when Rita was lost for words were long gone. Now she always had a comeback and didn’t hesitate to put sharp-tongued Sue in her place. ‘Just because you have to worry about money doesn’t mean everyone else has the same problems,’ Rita said with a casual shrug. ‘I inherited two flats in London from my dad—one we lived in before he and Mum split up, the other he got from my grandparents and then passed on to me. And you know what London rents are like—not exactly peanuts—so I have enough for life’s little luxuries. I get to choose a job I like, not just one that pays the most. That why you went from doctor to shop assistant, Sue?’ That was meant to be a secret. Rita had promised never to say a word. But if Sue really wanted to keep it quiet, she should’ve thought twice about what she said—at least not called Rita ‘an idiot’ in public. Did she really think Rita would just let that slide? If so, it’s definitely not Rita who’s the idiot. ‘A shop assistant, really?’ ‘You promised not to tell!’ Sue squeaked, grabbing her bag and dashing out of the restaurant, clearly barely holding back tears. ‘Serves her right,’ commented Andy after a moment’s silence. ‘Honestly, who even invited her?’ Tanya asked. ‘I did, sorry,’ said Anna—the old head girl and now the organiser—apologetically. ‘Remember, Sue was always a bit unpleasant at school, but people change. Or so I hoped. Not always, though,’ Rita shrugged, making the group laugh. After that, they had plenty of questions about Rita’s job—out of pure curiosity, not judgement. Not many people know the field (and wouldn’t wish it on anyone), so there are plenty of myths. Rita spent the evening busting them. ‘Why even bother treating them if you don’t think it works?’ one old classmate asked. ‘Who says it doesn’t?’ Rita replied. ‘Take this one little boy I work with—five years old, birth went wrong, he ended up with developmental delays. Yes, it’s tough, but with the right support, there’s every chance he’ll end up in a mainstream school and live a normal life. Without help, it would be a completely different story. ‘So, you’re doing meaningful work because you don’t have to chase every penny,’ Val summed up, and the conversation moved on to classmates’ lives and families. Rita suddenly sensed someone watching her—a fleeting, strange feeling she soon shrugged off. A week after the reunion, Rita tried to leave for work but her car was blocked in by another. She called the number in the window and a pleasant young man named Max came to apologise and move his car. There was something instantly likable about him—his manners, clothes, even the aftershave. When he asked her out, she happily agreed; one date became two, and soon Rita couldn’t imagine life without Max. His mother and his young son from a previous relationship welcomed Rita as family. The boy, George, had special needs, but thanks to Rita’s professional skills, she built a bond with him and helped Max with new ways of supporting his son. After a year, Rita and Max moved in together—she let out her old flat through the same agency that handled her London properties, and moved in with Max and George. That’s when the early warning signs began. It was little things at first—‘Can you help George get ready?’, or ‘Watch him while I pop to the shops.’ This was manageable, as Rita and George got on, and she was free when asked. But the favours grew more burdensome. Rita had to have a word: Max, your son is your responsibility. I’m happy to help, but I won’t take on more than a fifth of the parenting just because he’s not my child—and I deal with children with special needs at work already. Max seemed to understand. But, as the wedding approached, he and his mother began discussing George’s therapy programme, making it clear they expected Rita to take it on in her spare time. ‘Hang on a second,’ Rita interrupted. ‘Max, we agreed you’d handle your son’s needs. I don’t ask you to clean my mum’s place or fix her problems—that’s on me. The same should go for George.’ ‘Not the same!’ his mother huffed. ‘A mum is an adult, living independently. A child is a child! Or are you planning to turn your nose up at George after the wedding and expect us to accept it?’ ‘I don’t turn my nose up at him. But I won’t take on his full rehab on top of working and running the house—he’s your son, Max. You should be in charge. I can advise, but that’s as far as it goes.’ ‘What do you mean, you’re not going to? So you’ll wax lyrical about your work to your friends, but when it comes to actually caring for a child, you’re nowhere to be found—just a hypocrite!’ ‘Excuse me?’ Rita said, then realised: Max’s mother worked part-time as a dishwasher at the very restaurant where the reunion was held. It all made sense. ‘So, you planned the whole thing just to foist your sick child onto me?’ ‘Did you really think I was excited to date someone like you?’ Max blurted out. ‘If it wasn’t for George and your job, I wouldn’t have looked twice at you…’ ‘Well, don’t look now,’ Rita retorted, pulling off her engagement ring and tossing it to her now ex. ‘You’ll regret this,’ Max and his mother threatened. ‘No real man wants a plain Jane with a dead-end job and no money.’ ‘I’ve got two London flats—so yes, I do have money,’ Rita shot back, enjoying the look on both their faces. She packed up, brushing off Max’s efforts at reconciliation and his empty promises: ‘I’ll do more, I’ll never speak to you like that again, I’m just stressed at work, please forgive me, I love you.’ Of course, Rita wasn’t buying it. She made a joke about him losing his “mouse”—and it didn’t look like she was the one with any regrets. Later, her old classmates got a laugh out of the whole saga. As for Rita, she hasn’t given up hope of someday finding someone who loves her for who she is—not her money or her skills. For now, she’s content with her job, her friends, and plans to get a cat—at least that’s an animal you can train, unlike some men.

What do you mean youre not planning to look after my sons child? snapped the mother-in-law, unable to

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Strangers in Our Home Katya Was First to Unlock the Door and Froze on the Threshold – The Television Was On, Voices Chattered in the Kitchen, and a Strange Smell Hung in the Air; Behind Her, Maksim Nearly Dropped His Suitcase in Shock. On Their Favourite Beige Sofa Sat Two Complete Strangers: a Man in Tracksuit Flicking Channels and a Plump Woman Knitting, Cups and Crumbs on the Table, Medicine Scattered About. “Sorry, Who Are You?” Katya Asked With a Trembling Voice. “Oh, You’re Back?” the Woman Responded Casually. “We’re Lida’s Relatives. She Gave Us Keys, Said the Owners Were Away.” In the Kitchen, a Teen Boy Fried Sausages, and the Fridge Was Crammed With Someone Else’s Food. The Cat Was Missing. When They Phoned Maksim’s Mother, Lidia, She Cheerfully Explained She’d Offered Their Flat to Family Friends for a Week—After All, No Good Letting an Empty Home Go to Waste. Shocked, Upset, and Suddenly Guests in Their Own Place, Katya and Maksim Faced Lidia’s Conviction That Family Ties Justify Everything—even Uninvited Guests, a Disrupted Homecoming, and a Terrified Cat Hiding Under the Bed.

Sophie was the first to unlock the door and froze on the threshold. From inside came the muffled sound

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“I Didn’t Invite You!—The Daughter-in-Law’s Voice Broke—You Weren’t Asked Here!”

“I never invited any guests!” The daughter-in-law’s voice snapped, fraying at the ends. “

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“I Specifically Asked: Please Don’t Bring Your Children to Our Wedding!” — Or How Standing Our Ground Turned a Family Drama into the Perfect English Wedding

I told you not to bring your children to the wedding! The double doors to the reception hall eased open

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Are You Out of Your Mind? That’s Our Son, Not a Stranger! How Can You Throw Him Out of His Own Home?! – Shouted Mrs. Thompson, Clenching Her Fists in Rage as Storm Clouds Gathered Over the Family’s Cozy London Kitchen…

Have you lost your mind? Hes our son, not some stranger! How could you even think of kicking him out?

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Get Out of My Flat! — Said Mum “Out,” Mum said, utterly calm. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair—she was sure Mum was talking to her friend. “Out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. “Len, have you seen the post?” her friend practically flew into the kitchen, not bothering to take off her coat. “Arina’s had her baby! Three kilos four hundred, fifty-two centimetres long. Looks just like her dad, same bouncy nose. I’ve already blitzed all the shops, bought so many outfits. Why so glum? “Congratulations, Nat. I’m happy for you,” Lena stood up to pour her friend some tea. “Sit down, at least take your coat off.” “I can’t stay long,” Natasha sat on the edge of the chair. “So much to do. Arina’s such a good girl, does everything herself. Her husband’s a gem, they’ve bought a flat on mortgage, nearly finished the renovations. I’m so proud of my girl. I must’ve done something right in raising her!”

Out of my flat! said Mum. Out, Mum said, her voice perfectly calm. Anne leaned back in her chair and

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The Right to Slow Down

The Right Not to Rush A text from my GP pinged as I sat at my desk, typing out another email at work.