Harlan Covington

A Child for My Best Friend When Lily was in the final months of her pregnancy, her younger brother left home and her father began drinking, turning Lily’s life into a living hell. Every morning, Lily would air out the house, pick empty bottles from under the table, and wait for her father to wake. “Dad, you can’t drink! You only just recovered from a stroke.” “I’ll drink if I want to. Who will stop me? It numbs the pain.” “What pain?” “The pain of knowing nobody needs me. Not even you — I’m a burden, Lily. I never should have been born. I never should have married or had children who only inherited my weakness and poverty. Everything is pointless, daughter. Drinking’s simpler.” Already in a foul mood, Lily grew angry. “Nothing is pointless, Dad. Life can get worse.” “How much worse, daughter? You grew up without a mother, and now you plan to raise a child without a father, doomed to the same poverty.” “It’s not all so bleak, Dad. Nothing stays the same forever. Everything can change in an instant.” Lily sadly remembered how not long ago she was happy, preparing to marry Ilya. Yes, life had fallen apart, but she had to live on. That day, her father got drunk again. Lily shouted, “Did you drink the money I put aside for emergencies? How did you find it? You went through my things?” “This is my house and everything in it — including the pension you hide from me! My pension.” “And you’ve drunk it all? Didn’t you think how we’d survive?” “Why should I? I’m a sick man. You’re grown — now you look after me!” Lily searched every cupboard. “I was sure there were two packs of pasta and some butter left yesterday. Now they’re gone! What’s for dinner?” Lily was in shock. She sat down, covering her face with her hands. How could she have known Aunt Natasha had started coming over– getting her father drunk and robbing the house? Natalya had slithered quietly into their home and was doing everything she could to destroy the family. That night Lily sobbed in bed, broken, hungry. In the morning there was a knock at the door and Natalya Anatolyevna entered. In a trendy coat and boots, she didn’t even take her shoes off. “Hello. My friend in the council told me you have utility debts and your electricity will soon be cut off. What’s going on, Lily? Will you at least offer me a cup of tea?” Without waiting for a reply, Natalya went to the kitchen and started searching the fridge and cupboards. “I’ll make tea myself, you’re pregnant like my own Sveta… But you have no sugar, no tea bags — nothing! Come, let’s go to the shop.” Lily avoided her guest’s eyes. “Aunt Natasha, I can’t offer tea. It’s best you leave.” Natalya didn’t give up. “Things are bad, aren’t they? Yes. Remember, I offered for you to move in with me? This time I insist — pack your bags and come now. There’s no future for a baby here, your father drinks, and you don’t have food, let alone fruit or vitamins… Pack up and come.” Lily sat as the world spun; tears slid down her cheeks and Natalya hugged her. “Listen, girl, I know how you feel about me. I can’t be forgiven — my daughter stole your fiancé. But I’m not a monster, and I refuse to watch you suffer. Whether you like it or not, I will take care of you.” The rest was a blur: Natalya helped Lily pack and called a taxi. *** When Lily went into labour, Natalya Anatolyevna was by her side at every moment. “Listen carefully, Lily. I’ve told the staff you want to give the baby up. When she’s born, don’t hold her, don’t feed her. Don’t even look.” Lily writhed in pain. “Aunt Natasha, I don’t care. It hurts… I just want it to end.” “Don’t forget — you can’t raise her alone. I’ve found a lovely couple to adopt your daughter immediately.” A few hours later, a healthy baby girl was born. “Three kilos three hundred, perfectly healthy.” The nurse wrapped the tiny girl up and carried her away, not even showing her to Lily. But the paediatrician frowned at her. “What’s this? You have a beautiful, healthy daughter and won’t even look at her? Elena, bring the baby back, she needs her mum.” Lily shook her head. “I can’t. I have nothing, I never wanted this baby… There are people who need her. I’ll sign — let her be adopted.” “Don’t be ridiculous, at least look at her.” Lily closed her eyes, but felt something soft and warm touch her hand. The nurse laid the baby beside her, the little one nuzzling and rooting blindly; Lily finally looked at her child. Small and helpless, the baby gazed up, squinting. She reached out, arms flailing on Lily’s chest. “That’s it, Mum. Time for a feed,” the paediatrician smiled. She brightened, seeing Lily tremble at the first rush of love for her daughter. “What a pretty girl! She needs you, not adoptive parents — understand?” Lily sobbed, cradled her daughter and nodded. For the next two hours, Lily rested, unable to take her eyes off her baby. Her maternal instinct had awakened. “She is my purpose — my daughter. It doesn’t matter if Ilya’s gone or my dad’s a mess… My child needs me, so I’ll stay.” *** Lily was woken by Natalya’s voice. Natalya, in her dressing gown, entered the ward. “Have you forgotten what we agreed?” she whispered. “You promised to give up the baby. I’ve arranged for her to be taken today.” “Mrs Anatolyevna, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not giving her up.” “But you’ve no money — you’re basically homeless! Where will you take her?” “Home. I won’t trouble you any longer. I’ll manage.” Natalya’s face twisted with rage. “You’ve lost your mind! You have no money! How will you live — by begging?” Natalya’s outburst woke the baby. Lily scooped her up. “Don’t! I’ll feed her. Tell the doctors you’ve no milk,” Natalya insisted. Lily shook her head. “That’s not for you to decide. She’s my daughter and I’m keeping her. I told you: I changed my mind.” “You can’t! You promised!” Natalya was speechless with fury. “Please leave.” Natalya stormed out. Lily’s neighbor lifted her head. “Who was that?” “My aunt.” “What a nightmare. You did the right thing making her leave. I’m Lera. If you need help, I will. There’s good people in the world.” “I’m Lily.” “Nice to meet you, Lily. I thought that lady was going to snatch your baby and run. She was very odd.” *** Before she was discharged, Lily had another visitor waiting in the corridor. Her former friend, Sveta, with a large pregnant belly, shuffled nervously. “Hi.” Lily lowered herself onto a bench. Sveta sat beside her. “I heard you had the baby.” “Yes. A girl.” Sveta looked shifty. “Listen, Mum’s found people desperate to adopt your baby.” “So?” “They’re lovely. They’re rich — they’ll do anything for your daughter.” She squeezed Lily’s arm. “They’re offering a million — a whole million pounds! You could buy a place to live…” “A million?” Lily nodded. “If you’re so worried, why not sell them your own child?” Sveta pouted but wouldn’t let go. “Lily, please — give your baby to me! I’ll raise her, she’s Ilya’s daughter.” “You think you’ll cope with two?” “You don’t understand! My marriage is falling apart!” Lily stood to go, but Sveta grabbed her sleeve, eyes wild. “I need this baby, Lily!” “Let go.” …A few hours later, Ilya himself burst in. Lily recoiled. “You had the baby? Can I see her?” “No! Your Sveta will give birth soon — go to her!” “We need to talk, Lily. Since you gave birth, I can’t rest. I want to take my daughter. Give her up and I’ll adopt her.” Lily shook her head. “I’m not like you — I’ll never abandon someone who needs me. You can’t have her!” Ilya wouldn’t leave. “That baby’s mine — you had no right to have her! I’ll take what’s mine!” “You? Mummy’s boy? Why not ask mummy’s permission first!” Lily pushed past him with her baby and went to the nurse’s station. “Please, can you keep visitors away from me? I don’t want to see anyone else. This place is like a train station!” Epilogue On the day she left hospital, Lily held her daughter tightly. She wasn’t alone: her roommate Lera was discharged too, greeted by her husband and mother. Lily paused outside, spotting the Reznikovs’ car. Ilya’s mother, Valerie, stepped out, peering coldly at Lily. Lily felt a chill down her back. Her would-have-been mother-in-law looked ready to pounce. Lera noticed. “Who’s that?” “Ilya’s parents.” “She looks like she’s lying in wait. No, Lily, they’re acting strange — something’s off. I told you Mum’s saving you a room with us. Come on.” Lily nodded, uneasy. *** Living with her new friends, Lily found love: Lera’s cousin Ivan, a lifelong bachelor, began courting her. Ivan turned out kind and generous. He married Lily, adopted her daughter, and even supported her struggling father. As for Sveta and Ilya, their marriage crumbled. Sveta had faked her pregnancy with a cushion, deceiving the entire Reznikov clan. Natalya Anatolyevna, desperate to protect her daughter, confessed the early miscarriage to her son-in-law, and then made an offer she thought was ingenious: “Ilya, dear, don’t blame my daughter. She lost the baby, but you’ve also got a child on the way elsewhere. Why not take Lily’s baby? Adopt her — she’s your flesh and blood. And to avoid upsetting your parents, we’ll say nothing about Sveta’s loss, pretend she’s still pregnant, and when Lily gives birth, we’ll pass the baby off as Sveta’s.” Ilya liked his mother-in-law’s plan. Everything seemed set — until Lily refused to abandon her newborn, catching her former friend and her conniving mother completely off guard. Ilya’s mother, Valerie, furious at her daughter-in-law’s lies, threw Sveta out and made Ilya divorce her.

A Child for a Friend I remember those days clearly, though they seem so long ago now. When Lily was nearing

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He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself as a spineless and weak-willed man. Every day depended on the mood with which he woke up. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and lively all day, cracking jokes and laughing heartily. But most of the time, he was wrapped in gloomy thoughts, drinking cup after cup of tea, and wandering around the house as moody as any stereotypical tortured artist. And indeed, he considered himself one—Victor Dudley worked in a village school, teaching art, woodwork, and sometimes music if the regular teacher was off sick. He longed for creativity, yet couldn’t fully unleash his artistic potential at school, so he took it out on the house—Victor converted the biggest and brightest room into his own studio. This room, incidentally, was the one Sophie had earmarked for a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered tubes of paint and clay everywhere, and created—he painted obsessively, sculpted, modelled… He might devote an entire night to a peculiar still life or spend the whole weekend making an inscrutable figurine. He never sold his “masterpieces”—everything stayed at home, so every wall was covered with paintings (which, by the way, Sophie didn’t care for), and the cupboards and shelves bowed under the weight of his clay figures and statuettes. And if only these had been beautiful things—but no. The handful of old art school friends who occasionally visited always fell silent, averted their eyes, and sighed while examining his paintings and sculptures. Not one of them ever offered a compliment. Only Leo Percival, who, by the way, was the oldest of the lot, exclaimed, after a bottle of rowanberry gin: “Oh my, what an absolute load of rubbish! What is this supposed to be? I haven’t seen one thing worth a glance in this house—apart from the lovely lady of the house, of course.” Dudley took the criticism badly, shouting, stamping his feet, and demanding his wife throw the rude guest out. “Get out! You scoundrel! You’re the one who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, now I see the truth—you’re just jealous you can’t hold a paintbrush with your drink-shaking hands, so you belittle everyone and everything!” …Leo dashed down the front steps and lingered at the garden gate. Sophie caught up with him to apologise for her husband: “Please, don’t take what he said seriously. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should’ve warned you how sensitive he is.” “There’s no need to explain, dear girl,” Leo nodded quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a taxi and head home. But you have my sympathies. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings spoil the lot! And those ugly clay figures—honestly, you should hide them from visitors. Knowing Victor, I imagine life’s difficult for you. But this is how it is with us artists—what we create reflects our souls! And Victor’s soul is as empty as all these canvases.” Kissing Sophie’s hand, he left the inhospitable house. Victor raged for days, smashing sculptures, tearing up paintings, and flying into tantrums for a month before he calmed down. *** Throughout all this, Sophie never argued with her husband. She’d decided that in time, when they had children, he’d give up his hobbies and convert the studio into a nursery, but until then, she’d indulge his fancies. For a while after their wedding, Victor put on an act as the model husband, bringing home fruit and his salary, caring for his young wife. But that soon stopped. He grew cold towards her and stopped sharing his wages. Sophie was left caring for the home and her husband alone. There was also the garden, the chickens, and her mother-in-law to look after. …Victor was initially overjoyed at the news of a baby on the way, but the joy was short-lived—within the week, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and lost the pregnancy early on. Victor was transformed by the news: he became sullen, nervous, shouted at his wife and locked himself in the house. Sophie barely made it home from the hospital, only to find Victor refusing to let her in. “Open up, Vic!” “I won’t,” Victor whimpered from behind the door. “Why have you come back? You were meant to carry my baby, but you couldn’t handle it! And today, because of you, my mum has ended up in hospital with a heart attack! Why did I even marry you—you’ve brought nothing but trouble! Don’t stand on the doorstep, go away! I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision blurred, and she sat down on the steps. “Vic, please… I’m suffering too—open the door!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie sat outside until dark. At last, Victor emerged, thin from grief, locking up behind him but fumbling with the unfamiliar lock—he never really knew where things were, always asking Sophie. Without looking at her, he strode off. When he was gone, Sophie let herself in and collapsed onto the bed. She waited all night for him. The next morning, a neighbour brought terrible news: Sophie’s mother-in-law had died after her heart attack. What happened destroyed Victor. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed to Sophie: “I never loved you, and I don’t. I only married you because my mum wanted grandchildren. But you ruined our lives and I’ll never forgive you.” The words hit hard, but Sophie decided not to leave her husband. Time passed, but nothing improved. Victor still refused to get out of bed, lived on water, barely ate. His ulcer worsened, he grew more apathetic, eventually stopped getting up at all, claiming he was too weak from lack of food and vitamins. And then the divorce papers arrived. Sophie wept for days. She tried to embrace Victor, kiss him, but he pushed her away and whispered that as soon as he recovered, he’d throw her out. She’d ruined his life. *** Sophie had nowhere to go—her own mother, having all but married her off straight from school, soon set off to live with a widower down by the seaside. She remarried, briefly returned home to sell the house, and left Sophie homeless. She was trapped by circumstance. *** One day, every scrap of food in the house was gone. Sophie boiled up the last egg, scraped out the last bit of porridge, and spoon-fed Victor. Yes, life had decreed it so—Sophie might have been feeding her own baby by now, had she not overexerted herself with chores, but instead she had to cater to her ex-husband, who did nothing for her. “I’m just popping to the village fete. I’ll try to sell or trade the chicken for food.” Victor, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, croaked, “Why sell it? Make me some broth. I’m tired of porridge.” Sophie twisted the hem of her only dress. “You know I can’t bring myself to—I’d rather trade her. She’s attached to me.” “‘Pesto’—you give the chickens names? How silly. But I shouldn’t be surprised, not from you…” Sophie bit her lip. “If you’re off to the fete,” Victor perked up, “take a couple of my sculptures and paintings—maybe someone will buy them?” Sophie tried to avoid this, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two poorly made bird-shaped whistles and a big, lumpy piggy bank, then hurried out, dreading he’d chase after her with more “art”. After all, she was mortified at the thought of trying to sell his dreadful paintings. *** The day was sweltering. Sophie, in her thin summer dress, sweated in the heat. She stopped by the last stall, clutching the chicken. She hated parting with her beloved hen, the one she’d nursed back to health years before. The bird tried to poke out of the bag, pecking her hand as if sensing her sadness. *** An older stallholder spotted Sophie. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Got silver, gold-plated, lovely chains.” “No, thank you. I’ve come to sell a live hen—she lays big eggs.” “A hen? What’ll I do with her…” Then a young man at the stall perked up. “Show me the chicken.” Sophie nervously passed the chicken to him. “How much? That cheap—what’s the catch?” “She limps a bit, but she’s otherwise healthy.” “I’ll buy her. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the clay ornaments. “Just some figurines, whistles, and a piggy bank. All handmade. I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller snorted. “What do you want with that, Dennis? Toys? Go help your brother with the BBQ.” When Sophie realised he ran the grill stall, she panicked. “Wait! If you’re selling barbecue, I can’t sell you my hen! She’s not a meat bird!” Dennis dodged, holding onto the chicken. “Relax—I’ll give her to my mum. She keeps hens.” “You promise?” He smiled warmly. “Of course. You can come visit her any time. Didn’t know chickens had names.” *** As Sophie walked home, Dennis pulled up in his car. “Excuse me, miss—do you have more clay figurines? I could buy some—for gifts, you know.” Sophie, squinting at the sun, smiled. “We have loads at home!” *** Back at the house, Victor, waking up to the sound of voices, groaned. “Who’s there, Soph? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” Standing at the door, Dennis glanced around and eyed the paintings. “Amazing,” he whispered. “Who painted these—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she passed with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor called from bed. “And I didn’t paint—I create!” Propping himself up, Victor stared at the guest. “Why do you care about my pictures, anyway?” he whined. “I like them. I’d like to buy them. And the sculptures—whose are those?” “They’re mine too!” Victor snapped. Shuffling out of bed, Victor hobbled over, eager to show off his “art”, oblivious to the fact that Dennis only had eyes for Sophie. *** EPILOGUE Sophie was astonished by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery”. Victor had never been ill—in fact, he perked up as soon as someone showed an interest in his “art”. Dennis came by every day, buying up all the pictures, then the figurines. Victor feverishly made more, but was blind to the real attraction. With every visit, Dennis spoke at length to Sophie on the porch, and—slowly but surely—feelings blossomed. Eventually, Dennis took what he’d always wanted from the Dudley house—Sophie herself. Whenever Dennis returned from the village, he tossed Victor’s paintings on the fire and stashed the grotesque clay figures in a sack, still unsure where to get rid of them. He remembered Sophie’s lovely face—how he’d noticed her at the fete in her summer dress, instantly knowing she was his destiny. Learning of her wretched home life with a delusional “artist”, he had no choice but to come every day, buying dreadful art just to see her. In the end, Sophie realised it too. *** Victor Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis stopped visiting as soon as he married Sophie and took her away. Victor heard about it and, in bitter retrospect, realised he’d been outsmarted. The truth is, finding a good wife isn’t easy—and Sophie had been one. She put up with everything, cared for him, loved him, but Victor had thrown it all away. Too late, he realised he’d lost his greatest treasure. Who would ever look after him again, feed him, fetch his water, or care for his house? He’d lost the best wife he could ever wish for—because he set his sights on someone else’s treasure and never appreciated his own.

Set His Eyes on Another Mans Wife Looking back over the years, I remember how Victor Dudley revealed

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For Better or Worse: The Story of Antonia’s Early Widowhood, Her Daughter Nina’s Move Up North, A Struggle for Livelihood, New Neighbours, Heartbreak—and Finding Love Again in the English Countryside

For Better, For Worse Margaret was widowed young, at forty-two. By that time, her daughter, Alice, had

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Wife and Father I only ever pretended to want to meet Toms parents. What did I really need them for, honestly?

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His Wife Packed Her Things and Vanished Without a Trace: When Deception Shatters a Family, Who Picks Up the Pieces?

The wife packed up her things and vanished off the face of the earth. Stop acting like youre the sainted victim.

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A Caregiver for the Wife — Lida’s New Life, Broken Promises, and a Twist of Fate in a Quest for Stability and Love

A Carer for the Wife What do you mean? I could barely believe what I was hearing. Where am I supposed to go?

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We Didn’t Let Our Daughter In: — But why didn’t you let her in? — Veronica finally voiced the question that had been haunting her. — You used to, always… Her mother gave a bitter smile. — Because I’m scared for you, Nicky. Do you think we don’t see how you cower in the corner when your sister barges in after midnight? How you hide your textbooks so she doesn’t ruin them? She looks at you and she’s angry. Angry because you’re normal. You’ve got another life ahead, and she’s already drowned hers in a bottle… Veronica shrank into her chair, frozen above her open textbooks — next door, the shouting had started again. Dad hadn’t even taken his coat off — he stood in the hallway, phone gripped tight, shouting. — Don’t try and spin me a story! — he roared. — What did you waste it all on? It’s only been two weeks since payday! Only two weeks, Larissa! From the kitchen, Tania peered out. She listened to her husband’s monologue for a minute, then asked, — Again? Valery just waved her away and put the phone on speaker — instantly, the sobbing came through. Veronica’s older sister was a natural at wringing pity — even from stone. But after years of torment, her parents had grown armour. — What do you mean “he threw you out”? — Valery started pacing the narrow hall. — He did right. Who’d put up with you being in that state all the time? Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You’re thirty and look like a battered dog. Veronica carefully cracked open her door just a little. — Dad, please… — the sobbing suddenly stopped. — He threw my things out into the stairwell. I’ve got nowhere to go. It’s raining out, it’s cold… Let me stay with you for a few days. Just to get some sleep. Mum lunged forward, wanting to grab the phone, but Valery turned away sharply. — No! — he cut in. — You’re not coming here. We agreed last time, remember? After you pawned the TV while we were away at the cottage, you’re barred from this house! — Mum! Mum, talk to him! — the phone shrieked. Tania buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. — Larissa, how could you… — she said flatly, not looking at her husband. — We took you to the doctors. You promised. They said the last treatment would last three years. You didn’t even make it a month! — Those treatments are rubbish! — Larissa snapped, her tone shifting from pitiful to vicious. — They just want your money! I feel awful, don’t you get it? Everything inside me’s on fire, I can’t breathe! And you’re on about the television… That’s what you care about! I’ll get you a new one! — And how would you pay for it? — Valery stared at the wall. — With what money? Blew it all again, didn’t you? Begged more off those mates of yours? Or nicked something from that boyfriend of yours? — Doesn’t matter! — Larissa shouted. — Dad, I have no place to go! You want me living under a bridge? — Try a shelter. Go where you like, — his voice was chillingly calm. — You’re not coming here. I’ll change the locks if I see you at our door. Veronica sat on her bed, hugging her knees. Usually, when her sister pushed her parents to breaking point, their anger ricocheted back at her. — Why are you just sitting there? On your phone again? You’ll turn out useless like your sister! — words she’d heard for three years. But today, they’d forgotten all about her. No one yelled, no one nagged. Dad cut the call, hung up his coat, and both her parents moved to the kitchen. Veronica crept carefully into the hall. — Val, you can’t, — her mother pleaded. — She’ll end up lost. You know what she’s like… when she’s like this. She can’t even control herself. — And do you expect me to control her? — Dad slammed the kettle down. — I’m fifty-five, Tanya. I just want to come home and sit in my chair. I’m tired of hiding my wallet under the pillow! I’m tired of neighbours complaining they saw her in the stairwell with unsavoury types, or that she mouthed off at them! — She’s our daughter, — mum whispered. — She was our daughter up to twenty. Now she’s just draining the life from us. She’s a hopeless drunk, Tanya. That can’t be cured unless she actually wants it. And she doesn’t. She likes living this way. Wake up, find a little bottle, polish it off and pass out! The phone rang again. The parents went quiet, then Dad answered. — Hello. — Dad… — Larissa again. — I’m sitting at the train station. Cops are walking around, they’ll pick me up if I stay. Please… — Listen carefully, — Dad cut her off. — You’re not coming home. That’s it. — So I should just top myself? — there was a challenge in Larissa’s voice. — Is that what you want? A call from the morgue? Veronica froze. This was Larissa’s classic. When nothing else worked, she’d play this card. It used to work. Mum would break down, Dad would clutch his chest, and soon there’d be money, food, or a place to stay. But today Dad was having none of it. — Don’t threaten, — he said. — You care too much about yourself for that. So. Here’s what we’ll do. — What? — there was hope in Larissa’s voice. — I’ll find you a room. Cheapest I can, on the edge of town. I’ll pay for the first month. And buy you some groceries. That’s all. After that—you’re on your own. Get work, sort yourself out, you’ll be fine. If not—you’re out on the street and I won’t give a damn. — A room? Not a flat? Dad, I can’t do it alone. I’m scared. And the neighbours could be awful. I haven’t even got bedding, that bastard kept everything! — Mum’ll pack some sheets. We’ll leave them with the warden for you. Don’t come up to the flat, I warned you. — You’re heartless! — Larissa screamed again. — Kicking your own daughter out! Into some dump! You’re in your big flat and I’m left to skulk like a rat? Mum couldn’t take it, grabbed the phone. — Enough, Larissa! — she yelled so loud Veronica jumped. — Your father’s right! This is your only chance. Room or street. Decide now, because tomorrow you won’t even get the room! There was silence. — Fine, — Larissa muttered at last. — Send me the address. And some money… my card, now. I’m starving. — No money, — Valery cut her off. — I’ll get the food and give it to you in a bag. I know what you’d spend cash on. He ended the call. Veronica figured now was the time. She went to the kitchen, acting like she wanted a drink. She braced herself for the usual blast of pent-up resentment. Dad would look at her t-shirt and tell her she looked scruffy. Mum would complain she didn’t care—the family had problems and she didn’t even notice. But neither parent even looked at her. — Veron, — mum called softly. — Yes, mum? — In the cupboard, top shelf, there are some old sheets and pillowcases. Pack them into that blue bag in the closet, okay? — Sure, Mum. Veronica set about her task. She wondered: how will Larissa manage? She can’t even cook pasta. And her habit… Veronica just knew her sister wouldn’t last two days sober. She came back into her parents’ room, climbed a stool, pulled out the linens. — Don’t forget towels! — Dad called from the kitchen. — Already packed them, — Veronica called back. She saw Dad go to the hallway, put on his boots and leave, saying nothing. Guess he’s off to find that “dump,” she thought. Veronica went into the kitchen. Mum was still sitting, unmoving. — Mum, want me to get your tablets? — Veronica asked quietly. Mum looked up. — You know, Nick… — she started in a hollow tone. — When she was little, I thought she’d be my helper when she grew up. We’d talk about everything, just us. But now I just sit here and hope… she doesn’t forget that address. Just—makes it there… — She’ll make it, — Veronica perched on the chair. — She always lands on her feet. — Not this time, — mum shook her head. — Her eyes are different now. Empty. Like there’s nothing left inside, just a shell that needs that poison to keep going. And I see how you’re afraid of her… Veronica was silent. She’d always thought her parents had never noticed her fear, too caught up saving “lost cause” Larissa. — I thought you didn’t care about me, — she whispered. Mum stroked her hair. — We do care. But we can’t go on. You know how, in planes, they say put your oxygen mask on first, then your child’s? We spent ten years putting her mask on. Ten years, Nicky! We tried clinics, churches, specialists. And we almost suffocated ourselves. The doorbell rang. Veronica flinched. — Is it her? — she asked, frightened. — No, Dad’s got the keys. Probably grocery delivery, he ordered some bits. Veronica opened the door. The delivery man handed over two heavy bags. She unpacked them on the kitchen table: pasta, tins, tea, oil, sugar. The basics. — She won’t eat this, — Veronica said, putting aside the packet of buckwheat. — She only eats ready meals. — If she wants to live, she’ll cook, — her mum snapped, old firmness in her voice. — We’ve spoiled her enough. Our pity’ll be the death of her. An hour later, Dad came back. He looked like he’d worked three back-to-back shifts. — Found it, — he announced. — Keys are here. Landlady’s strict, retired teacher. Told me straight: the first smell of drink or a single row, she’s out without a word. I told her, “Throw her out right away if you have to.” — Oh, Valery… — mum sighed. — What? No point lying. She deserves to know. Dad grabbed the bag and groceries, headed out. — I’ll leave them with the warden. I’ll text her the address. Veronica, lock up tight behind me. Don’t answer the phone if it rings. Dad left, and Mum went and cried, locked in the kitchen. Veronica’s heart ached. How can it be? She doesn’t live, just stumbles from drink to drink, and won’t let Mum and Dad live either… *** Their hopes were dashed — a week later, Valery got a call from the landlady: their daughter had been chucked out with the police after bringing three men to the flat for an all-nighter. Once again, the parents couldn’t abandon her — Larissa was sent to a rehab centre. A secure one, where they promised to cure even the worst. Maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope… ***(Adapted for an English cultural context and idioms, while retaining names, details, and specifics of the original.)***

Didnt Let the Daughter Cross the Threshold – Why didnt you let her in? I finally asked my mum a

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The Country House Confrontation – A Daughter Reclaims What’s Rightfully Hers

Country Retreat A Daughter Reclaims Her Own Lucy, try to see sense, the situation is desperate, Bernard

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A Grandson’s Place: When Grandma Chooses Favourites and Family Loyalties Are Tested

Grandson Not Required Mum reckons that Emilys the fragile one, my husband finally blurted out.

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Came Home Early: When My Husband Chose a Spotless House Over His Pregnant Wife’s Wellbeing – A British Wife’s Unexpected Homecoming Turns into a Domestic Drama

Came Home Early Are you at the bus stop? My husbands voice leapt to a high pitch. Right now?