Harlan Covington, Author at Trending Link

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

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

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.

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?

Don’t Unpack That Suitcase – You’re Moving Out Tonight: Lev Catches His Wife’s New Year’s Lie, a Holiday Betrayal Unfolds, and a Cheating Spouse Gets the Boot After a Festive Double Life Comes to Light

Dont bother unpacking youre moving out. Whats going on? Jessica demanded, authoritative as ever, as she

Even the Good Ones Get Left Behind

A beautiful thirty-five-year-old woman stared back at Anna from the mirror, sorrow glimmering in her eyes.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Natalia Mitchell anxiously kept calling her son, who was away on another long haul at sea, but the signal remained stubbornly silent. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made, my boy!” she sighed fretfully, dialling his number again. No matter how many times she called, she knew she wouldn’t reach him until he docked at the nearest port—which might not happen for ages. And now, of all times! For a second sleepless night, Natalia Mitchell lay awake—her son’s actions playing over and over in her mind! * * * This whole story began years ago, back when Michael hadn’t even dreamt of a life at sea. Already a grown man, with nothing long-term ever sticking with any woman—none of them, apparently, ever quite measured up! With a heavy heart, Natalia watched one relationship after another fall apart, each time thinking the girls perfectly decent—if only her son could see it. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she’d scold. “Nobody’s ever good enough! Who’ll ever be able to meet all your impossible standards?” “Don’t understand what you’re complaining about, mum. You want a daughter-in-law—doesn’t matter to you what she’s like?” “Of course it matters! I just want her to love you, and be a decent person, that’s all!” He’d just fall silent at that, which maddened Natalia. How could the son she’d raised, the boy who once wept on her lap, now act as if he knew better than she did? Who was the grown-up here, after all? “What was wrong with Natalie?!” she’d blurt, frustrated. “I told you already.” “Well… perhaps Natalie wasn’t the best example,” Natalia would admit, but she wasn’t prepared to back down. “Maybe she wasn’t honest, as you say, but I still don’t quite see…” “Mum! I really don’t think it’s worth discussing the details. She just wasn’t the one.” “What about Katie?” “No, not Katie either,” her son would reply calmly. “And Jenna? She was a wonderful girl. Sweet, homely, a little shy—always offered to help around the house. You have to admit, she was good.” “You’re not wrong, mum. She was very kind. But in the end, it turned out she never loved me.” “And did you love her?” “I suppose not.” “And Daria?” “Mum!” “What, ‘Mum’? Honestly, you’re impossible to please! Just a ladies’ man, you! You could settle down, start a family, have kids, for goodness’ sake!” “Let’s just drop this pointless conversation!” Michael would snap, finally storming off. “Just like his father—so fussy and stubborn!” Natalia thought, exasperated. Time passed, and the women changed, but her cherished dream of celebrating her son’s happiness—and looking after grandchildren—never came true. Then Michael changed careers altogether. An old friend convinced him to work on ships, and Michael accepted. Natalia tried in vain to dissuade him. “Mum, what’s the problem? It’s a fantastic offer! Do you know how much the guys earn? We’ll both have everything we need!” “What good is money if you’re never here? I’d rather you started a family!” “But you have to support a family! And if there are kids, I won’t be able to go to sea anyway—I’ll need to be raising them, right? So I’ll work hard while I still can.” Michael really did earn well. After his first trip, he refurbished the flat. After the next, he opened a current account—and handed his mother a card. “This is so you never go without!” “I’m perfectly fine as is! I just don’t have grandchildren, and time’s getting on. I’m old!” “You’re not old! Don’t be silly. You’ve got years to go before retirement!” Michael teased. Natalia never touched the card, her own modest income from the local pharmacy being quite enough for her simple needs. “Let it sit there, as it should. Michael never checks it. Maybe he’ll notice one day what a thrifty mother he’s got!” she’d chuckle to herself. That’s how things went for years. When Michael returned from sea for short stays, he seemed to make up for lost time—meeting friends, going out, seeing women he no longer introduced. Once, when Natalia reproached him, she got the terse reply: “It’s so you don’t worry if I don’t marry them. I have no intention of marrying girls like that, mum!” It hurt, especially when he called her too trusting. “You’re too kind, mum! You hardly knew any of them. They all wanted to seem perfect to you—but really, they weren’t.” That comment stuck with Natalia for ages, for in a single stroke, her son had cast what she saw as a virtue—trust—as stupidity. He called her stupid, essentially! Yet, when she saw him with a pretty girl one evening, Natalia’s fierce desire to see her son settled flared up again. She marched over—Michael, a grown man, went bright red. But a mum’s a mum—he had to make introductions. Milena made a great impression: tall, slim, curly-haired, pleasant. Seeing her and Michael together, Natalia forgot all previous grievances. “Perhaps luck just hadn’t been on Michael’s side. Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t settle before—otherwise he’d have missed out on such a lovely girl!” she thought, hopeful. Michael’s romance with Milena lasted his whole shore leave. At Natalia’s urging, Milena visited several times, and Natalia was delighted—charming, intelligent, witty. But as Michael prepared for another stint at sea, Milena disappeared. “We’re not in touch anymore, and you shouldn’t be either,” Michael said bluntly, and left. Natalia puzzled over what had happened, but no answers were forthcoming. * * * A year passed. Her son came home between trips but, questioned about Milena, would only answer curtly and coldly. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! What was her flaw, then? What was wrong with her?” Natalia asked at last. “Mum, that’s my business. If I ended things, there’s a reason. Please, stay out of it.” Natalia nearly burst into tears. “Oh Michael, I only worry about you!” “Don’t! I told you—don’t talk to Milena, and stop pestering me!” Soon, Michael was off to sea again, and Natalia, heartbroken, got on as usual. Then, one day while at the pharmacy, a young woman came in for baby food. It was Milena, looking bashful and adjusting the hat of a little girl in a stroller. “Milena, darling! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you! Michael explained nothing—just left and told me not to ask about you!” Natalia blurted in relief. “Is that so?” Milena looked down sadly. “Well. So be it.” Natalia grew anxious. “Tell me, love, what happened? I know my son—he’s difficult. Did he hurt you?” “It’s all right… I’m not angry. But we’d best get going—more shopping to do.” “Do come see me! At least pop by the pharmacy. We could have a chat.” And Milena did, during Natalia’s next shift—for more baby food. Gradually, Natalia got her to open up. It turned out Milena had become pregnant with Michael’s child, but upon telling him, he’d said he wanted no part in raising a child. He went away and never returned. “He probably just went to sea,” Milena shrugged. “No matter—my daughter and I will manage fine!” Natalia nearly fell to her knees at the stroller, gazing at the child: “You mean—she’s my granddaughter?” “That’s right,” Milena replied softly. “Her name is Anna.” “Anya…” *** Natalia soon learned that Milena’s living situation was shaky—she had recently arrived in the city and rented a flat, but with a baby and no income, it was barely manageable. She was considering returning to her parents. Natalia’s heart ached at the thought of never seeing her granddaughter again. “Come and live with me, Milena. With Anya! She’s my granddaughter! I’ll help you both, and you’ll find yourself a steady job. And Michael sends so much money now—I barely spend any! Anna will be well cared for.” “What will Michael say?” “Does it matter? He made this mess! Walked out on his child and kept it from his own mother! I’ll make up for him, whatever it takes! And when he’s back, I’ll tell him everything—believe me, I’ll have words with him!” Natalia shook her fist. So they began living together. Natalia spared neither time nor money for her granddaughter. She reduced her work shifts to spend more time with Anna, and Milena, having found a job, left her daughter in Natalia’s care. As Michael’s next return drew closer, Natalia imagined confronting her son and making him apologise to Milena. Milena, meanwhile, grew increasingly anxious. But for Natalia, this only awakened a protective urge. “Michael will come back and throw Anna and me out! I shouldn’t have moved in—I’ll start looking for a new flat tomorrow,” Milena lamented. “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s throwing you out! When Michael returns, I’ll handle him. You hear me?” “Oh, he’ll kick us out for sure! I shouldn’t have relied on your kindness—I want nothing from you. You’re wonderful, and you’ve done so much for Anna and me, but I ought to just go home to my parents. We’ll stay in touch, though!” “You’ll do no such thing! I’m the head of this house, and I decide who lives here—Michael can just try to challenge me!” No matter how much Milena objected, Natalia didn’t budge. She kept them both. “You know, I’m thinking,” Natalia said over dinner one night, “we ought to transfer the flat into Anna’s name. Just so there’s no question later. Michael might never marry, but my granddaughter should have something. Besides, Michael isn’t on the birth certificate,” Natalia glanced at Milena, who looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry—I thought…” “I understand. But if anything were to happen, it’d be difficult to prove he’s her dad, so tomorrow, we’ll make everything official.” “Please don’t, Natalia. My parents have their own flat—” “Don’t try to talk me out of it!” Natalia interrupted. “My mind’s made up!” But the solicitor refused: “Your son must first be formally taken off the deeds.” Natalia was annoyed, but with Michael returning soon, she hoped to settle things then. Meanwhile, Milena began disappearing, and Natalia grew suspicious. “Why are you always staying late at work?” Natalia demanded one evening. Milena hesitated. “I’m trying to get an advance on my wages, but my boss says until I finish a task, I can’t get it.” “Why do you need an advance? Are you short of money?” Milena quietly changed into her home clothes. Natalia followed, and spotted a large bag, half-packed, hidden behind the bed. “Where are you going?” Milena stayed silent. “You’re not seriously moving out?” “Natalia, I have to go! Michael’s coming back…” “I won’t let you and my granddaughter leave!” Natalia put her foot down. Then added, thinking it over, “And you know where I keep the card. The pin’s written nearby. You can use it for whatever you need, rather than working all hours. Anna will soon forget what her mum looks like at this rate! If you want Michael to accept you, you need to get used to running a household.” Milena said nothing. Michael was due to arrive in two days. * * * Early on the morning of Michael’s return, Natalia peeked into Milena and Anna’s room. Only Anna slept soundly—Milena was gone. “That’s odd! Where has she gone? It’s only six o’clock—she’s never left so early before!” Natalia returned to the kitchen to prepare Michael’s favourite dishes. She pictured herself greeting her son with Anna in her arms, and imagined making him apologise to Milena on her return. At last, the doorbell rang. Michael stood motionless in the doorway, staring at his mother cradling a child. “Hi, mum. Whose child is that? What did I miss while I was away?” “You should know the answer to that!” “I don’t have a clue,” Michael replied, taking off his shoes. “Go on, tell me your adventures while I was gone.” “Adventures? Well, I found my granddaughter, Anna! That’s what happened!” Natalia replied, resolutely staring her son down. “What granddaughter? I don’t have a brother or sister I don’t know about, do I?” Michael joked. “Stop pretending, Michael! Milena’s told me everything! I didn’t raise you for this! I’m ashamed of your behaviour!” “Milena? I don’t understand. First, I asked you not to speak with her. Second, what has Milena to do with this child?” There and then, Natalia let out the whole story, complete with reproaches. Michael, hearing it all, groaned and held his head. “Oh, mum! Really!” “What, are you going to call me an idiot again? Well, go ahead—but I—” Natalia braced herself. “She’s not my child, mum! Milena’s deceived you. Honestly, you’re too gullible! Wait—she’s only after the money. What did she take?” “Nothing! You—” “Mum! Check your savings! Milena’s probably long gone with them by now!” “She just went to work!” insisted Natalia. They argued for ages, Michael eventually agreeing to wait for Milena to return before jumping to conclusions. They waited, but Milena didn’t come home that evening, nor the next day. Her phone went unanswered. Natalia, taking Anna, went to where Milena claimed to work—only to learn Milena had never been employed there. Showing photos made no difference. Returning home to check her hidden savings, Natalia found the money and card missing—only Anna’s things remained. “How could this happen? I can’t believe she’d abandon Anna and just disappear?” “She could do worse,” Michael said grimly. “Everyone warned me she was trouble… Then a friend told me she’d robbed him, but I ignored it. Later, she announced she was pregnant—goodness knows by whom. She claimed it was mine. But word got back: she’d been with half the neighbourhood.” “Foolish, naïve me!” wept Natalia. “Why didn’t you warn me?” “I didn’t want to upset you. You care so deeply about everyone.” “So what now?” “We go to the police! Good thing you didn’t manage to give the flat to ‘Anna.’ You’d be homeless now.” They filed a police report, but Milena was never found. She vanished completely. Meanwhile, Michael quickly blocked the stolen bank card, which turned up later at a station outside town. At least, while the search went on, Natalia was allowed to care for Anna—she even left her job to do so, Michael’s earnings covering expenses. A DNA test confirmed Michael wasn’t Anna’s father—but by then, Natalia couldn’t bear to part with the little girl. After discussing it, she and Michael decided to raise Anna as their own. Milena was stripped of her parental rights in absentia. It took months of paperwork, but eventually Natalia became Anna’s official guardian. A year later, Michael came home from sea—with a wife: “Meet Sonia, mum. We’re going to live together now.” “But what about—?” Natalia stammered, glancing towards the nursery, unsure if Michael had told his new wife. Sonia smiled warmly: “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell! Michael told me everything, and honestly, I admire you so much! If you’ll let me, I’d love to help raise Anna—” she looked at her husband. “I’ve decided to leave the sea for good, and Sonia and I will formally adopt Anna. This time, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” Natalia beamed with joy: “Oh, what happiness! Come in, both of you! I’ve been waiting, made plenty of food! Now we’ll get to know each other properly! I’m so happy!” she said, brushing away a tear.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Margaret Evans was anxiously ringing her son, who had gone off on another trip.

As Long As You’re Alive, It’s Never Too Late: A Heartwarming Story About Family, Second Chances, and Finding Happiness at Any Age

As Long as Theres Life, Its Never Too Late. A Story Well then, Mum, just as we discussed, Ill pick you

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house where she had grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she was thoroughly disappointed with life. Why had fate been so cruel to her? Her grandmother had died, and she failed to get into university because of a girl who sat next to her during exams. The girl had copied all of Alena’s answers and, after being the first to hand in her paper, whispered something in the examiner’s ear. He frowned, demanded to see Alena’s answers, and then told her she was being expelled from the exam for cheating. There was no way to prove her innocence. Later, it turned out that the girl was the daughter of the local rich man. How could anyone compete with people like that? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother had suddenly appeared in her life, bringing two half-brothers and a new husband. Where had they been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had only been with her until she was about four years old. Nor did Alena have pleasant memories of that time: while her father was at work, her mother would leave her alone and go off to enjoy herself. Even when married, Alena’s mother was always searching for “a real man” and made no effort to hide it, not back then and not after Alena’s father had suddenly passed away. Left a widow, Tamara did not mourn for long. She quickly packed her things, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat left by her late husband, and disappeared. Grandmother Raya made every effort to appeal to her conscience, but it was useless. Tamara would occasionally visit but never showed any affection for Alena. Once, she came when Alena was twelve, bringing seven-year-old Sviatoslav, and demanded that her mother sign the house over to her. “No, Toma! You’ll get nothing!” her mother refused point-blank. “Once you die, it’ll be mine anyway!” Tamara replied heartlessly, glared irritably at her daughter, who was observing from the adjoining room, gathered Sviatoslav, and slammed the door on her way out. “Why do you always argue when she visits?” Alena asked her grandmother afterwards. “Because your mother is self-centred! I raised her badly! Should have disciplined her more!” Raisa Petrovna snapped. Her grandmother’s illness came suddenly. She had never complained of any health issues. But one day, when Alena returned home from school, she found her usually bustling grandmother pale, sitting quietly on the balcony. Alena had never before seen her grandmother sitting idle. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked, concerned. “I don’t feel well… Call for an ambulance, Alena,” her grandmother requested calmly. Then came the hospital, the drips… the end. Raisa Petrovna spent her final days in intensive care, where visits were not allowed. Driven half mad with worry, Alena finally called her mother. At first, her mother refused to come, but when Alena explained that her grandmother was in intensive care, she finally agreed—yet only arrived in time for the funeral. Three days later, she thrust a will under Alena’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be arriving soon. I know you don’t get along with him. So, go stay with Aunt Galya for a while, alright?” There wasn’t a hint of sorrow in her mother’s voice. She seemed pleased Raisa Petrovna was gone—now she was the heir! Crushed by grief, Alena was helpless to resist. The will was clear. So she began living at her Aunt Galya’s—her father’s sister. But Galya was flighty and still hoping for a wealthy match, so her home was always noisy with half-drunk guests, and Alena found it impossible to stay. Worse yet, some men began to take an interest in her, which frightened Alena terribly. When Alena confided everything to her boyfriend Pasha, his reaction surprised and delighted her: “I won’t have strange old men staring at you or putting their hands on you!” he declared decisively, despite being just nineteen. “I’ll talk to my dad today. We have a small flat on the edge of town. Dad promised I could move in once I got into university. I kept my promise, so now it’s his turn.” “I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” Alena replied, confused. “What do you mean? We’ll live there together!” “Will your parents agree to that?” “They don’t have a choice! You can consider this my official proposal: Will you marry me and live together in that flat?” Alena was on the verge of tears from happiness. “Yes, of course—yes!” Aunt Galya was thrilled to hear about the upcoming wedding, but her mother practically ground her teeth in anger: “So you’re getting married, are you? Look at you, moving quickly! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re sorting yourself out another way! Well, don’t expect any money from me! And this house is mine! You won’t get anything!” Her mother’s words hurt Alena deeply. Pasha barely managed to understand what had happened through her sobs. He took his tearful fiancée home, where his parents comforted her and gave her tea. Andrei Semyonovich listened attentively to the story of his future daughter-in-law, whose few months had brought her more trouble than many people see in a lifetime. “My poor girl! What kind of woman is she?” Pasha’s mother exclaimed when she heard what Tamara had said. “What I’m wondering,” Andrei Semyonovich said thoughtfully, “is why she’s holding so tightly to this house and always throwing it in your face if there is a will?” “I don’t know,” Alena replied through tears. “She always argued with grandmother about it. First she wanted to sell it and take the money, then she demanded Grandma sign it over to her. But Grandma refused. She said if she did that, we’d both end up out on the street.” “It’s all a bit odd! Tell me, did you go to a solicitor after your grandmother died?” “No, why would I?” Alena was surprised. “To settle inheritance matters.” “But my mother is the only heir. I’m just a granddaughter. And she showed me the will.” “It’s not as simple as that,” Andrei Semyonovich said. “After the weekend, we’ll go together to the solicitor. For now, you need some rest!” Alena soon saw her mother again. Tamara brought her some documents, trying to force her to sign, but Pasha intervened: “She’s not signing anything!” “And who are you to say?” Tamara snapped, irked. “She’s an adult. She can decide for herself!” “I’m her fiancé, and I think this could harm her. So she’s signing nothing for now.” Tamara exploded with insults, but had to leave empty-handed. The episode only increased Andrei Semyonovich’s suspicions. A few days later, as promised, he accompanied Alena to the solicitor. “Listen carefully to everything, and check every paper before you sign,” he said. But the solicitor was scrupulous. He accepted Alena’s application, and the next day, they learned that an inheritance case had been opened in Alena’s name. It turned out Raisa Petrovna had a savings account to pay for her granddaughter’s studies—a fact Alena was unaware of. “And what about the house?” asked Andrei Semyonovich. “There’s been a deed of gift in the girl’s name for some years now. No other documents exist.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was surprised. “Your grandmother came to our office several years ago to formally gift the house to you. You recently turned eighteen, so now you are the legal owner.” “But what about the will?” “It was written seven years ago, then revoked. It seems your mother doesn’t know. The house is yours, legally, and you may live in it.” All doubts confirmed. “So what do I do now?” Alena asked, flustered. “What else? Tell your mother the house is yours, and she needs to leave.” “But she’ll never go! She’s already packed my things to kick me out!” “Well, that’s what the police are for.” Upon hearing the news, Tamara was furious. “You little wretch! Planning to throw your mother out? You leave! You think I’ll believe your lies? Who put you up to this? Your fiancé and his father? You found your match! I have a document giving me the right to this house! My mother wrote a will saying I’m the heir!” “That’s right! So get out, or I’ll break your legs so you won’t dare come here again!” Oleg, who had sat glaring throughout, joined in. Andrei Semyonovich and Alena stood their ground. “For threatening behaviour, you could be prosecuted,” Andrei Semyonovich replied, calm but firm. “What? Who do you think you are? Get out! The house is being sold! Buyers are coming soon.” Instead of buyers, the police arrived. After reviewing the situation, they ordered the unwelcome relatives to vacate, warning that otherwise, they could face criminal charges. Tamara, her husband, and her sons were furiously angry but had no choice. Alena finally returned to her home. Pasha moved in, worried Tamara’s husband might try something. His fears proved justified. Tamara and Oleg continued to harass Alena for some time. When Tamara learned that Raisa Petrovna’s account existed, she pursued it with the solicitor and managed to claim part of it—but as for the house, nothing she did worked. Tamara only gave up after consulting every solicitor she could find, and eventually left with her family. Alena never saw her mother again. Alena married Pavel. The following summer, she enrolled to study her dream subject at university, and in her third year, had her first child. She was always grateful for the support of her husband and his family, and spent her days in happiness. Author: Odette — — The Village Riddle The cottage was old, but well kept. It hardly stood empty at all—barely enough time for it to grow wild or fall into disrepair. “Well, thank goodness for that!” Masha thought. “There’s no man in my life these days—and probably never will be again. And I’m nowhere near those indomitable Russian women who can do it all: hammer nails, stop runaway horses, and dash through burning houses!” She ascended the little porch, drew the big key from her bag, and unlocked the heavy padlock. *** Why this house had been bequeathed to Masha by Baba Lyuba, she did not know. The elderly woman was a distant relation, barely known. Strange, but who can fathom the minds of very old people? By Masha’s calculation, Baba Lyuba was around a hundred years old. Whether she was Masha’s great-aunt or some kind of cousin, she wasn’t even sure. But back in her youth, Masha would visit Baba Lyuba. Even then, Lyuba was getting on in years and preferred to live alone, never leaning on family or asking for help. And now, with no warning, she had passed away. When Masha got the call that her grandmother had died in the village of Riddle, it took her a moment to realize which grandmother they meant. She certainly hadn’t expected Baba Lyuba’s house and its half-acre plot to come to her. “A retirement gift!” joked her husband, Michael. “Oh, please, retirement’s a long way off!” Masha waved him away. “I’m only fifty-four. And by the time I shuffle to sixty, they’ll probably push it back again. So it’s just a gift. I just can’t imagine what for! I never even knew Baba Lyuba was still alive. I thought she’d long since joined her ancestors. Who knew how old she was. But it’s not the time to be picky. If you’re given something, best to make use of it.” “Or sell it!” Michael rubbed his hands. *** Good thing they didn’t sell. Just a couple of months after Masha became a landowner, she got another surprise—this time, far less pleasant than an inheritance. It turned out that her beloved Michael was having an affair. Yes, even at his age! Grey hairs and a wild streak, as the saying goes…

This Isnt Your Home Ellie gazed around the house shed grown up in, her heart heavy. At eighteen, she

Accommodating Grannies Eleanor Smith woke up to laughter. Not a quiet giggle or a polite chuckle, but a booming, irreverent guffaw, the kind that seemed wildly out of place in a hospital ward— the kind she’d never tolerated her whole life. The culprit was her bedmate, clutching a phone to her ear, gesticulating as if the person on the other end could actually see her. “Len, you’re unbelievable! Seriously? He said that in front of everyone?” Eleanor glanced at the clock: quarter to seven. Fifteen minutes until the official wake-up call— precious minutes that could have been spent in silence, composing herself before surgery. The night before, when Eleanor was wheeled into the ward, her roommate was already tapping away briskly on her phone. A brief exchange of “Good evening” and “Hello,” and then each woman retreated into her own thoughts. Eleanor had appreciated the silence. Now— this was a circus. “Excuse me,” she said, quietly but distinctly. “Could you keep it down?” The other woman turned. A round face, short-cropped greying hair, not even an attempt at dye, and a bold red polka-dot pyjama— in hospital, no less! “Oh, sorry, Len— I’ll call you back, someone’s giving me a telling-off,” she said into the phone. Turning to Eleanor with a smile, she added, “Sorry! I’m Cathy Johnson. Did you sleep all right? I never sleep before surgeries, so I’ll just ring everyone I know.” “Eleanor Smith. Just because you’re awake doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need some rest.” “But you’re up now!” Cathy winked. “Promise, I’ll whisper. Cross my heart.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d already managed two more calls— somehow even louder than before. Eleanor ostentatiously turned toward the wall and pulled the duvet over her head, but it was useless. “My daughter rang,” Cathy explained over the breakfast they both ignored—surgery day. “She’s worried, poor thing. I do my best to reassure her.” Eleanor said nothing. Her own son hadn’t called— though she couldn’t expect it, he’d warned her about a crucial morning meeting. That’s how she’d raised him: work comes first, it’s a responsibility. They took Cathy off to surgery first. She sashayed down the corridor, waving and shouting something to a laughing nurse. Eleanor found herself hoping they’d relocate her to another room after her own operation. An hour later, it was her own turn. She’d always struggled with anaesthesia, and woke up groggy, sick and sore. The nurse told her everything had gone well, she’d just have to be patient. She was patient— always had been. By evening, they brought her back. Cathy was already in her bed— ash-grey, eyes closed, drip in hand. Silent for the first time. “How are you?” Eleanor ventured, surprising herself. Cathy’s eyes flickered open. She smiled faintly. “Still here. You?” “Me too.” They sat in silence as dusk fell. Drips tinkled gently into silence. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I just can’t stop talking. I know it’s irritating, but I can’t help it.” Eleanor meant to say something cutting, but found herself too tired. “It’s fine.” Neither woman slept that night. Both ached. Cathy didn’t call anyone, simply lay quietly, but Eleanor heard her shifting, sighing—maybe even crying, softly into her pillow. Next morning, the doctor did her rounds: checked stitches, took their temperatures, and congratulated both—“Well done, you’re recovering nicely.” Cathy immediately grabbed for her phone. “Len! Hi! I’m alive, don’t worry. How’s everyone? What, really, Kir’s got a temperature? Are you… what? Sorted now? See, I told you it wasn’t serious!” Eleanor couldn’t help listening. “Everyone” meant grandchildren, she realised. The daughter was reporting in. Her own mobile was silent. Just two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s it going?” and “Text when you’re able.” Both sent the previous evening, while she was out cold. She replied: “All fine.” Added a smiley. He liked smileys, said otherwise her messages sounded curt. Three hours later, his reply: “Great! Love you.” “Do yours visit?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son works. He lives far. There’s no need— I’m not a child.” “Right,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says the same— Mum, you’ll cope. No point visiting if you’re all right, right?” There was something in her voice that made Eleanor look more closely. Cathy was smiling, but her eyes weren’t cheerful. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the eldest, he’s eight. Then Maya and Leo, three and four— just a year apart.” Cathy pulled her phone from the drawer. “Wanna see photos?” They spent twenty minutes poring over photos— kids at the seaside, at the allotment, with birthday cakes. Cathy was in every snap, pulling faces, hugging, kissing. The daughter behind the camera—never in the shots. “My daughter doesn’t like being photographed.” “And are the grandkids with you a lot?” “I live with them, practically. My daughter works, her husband too— so I help. School run, check homework, cook tea.” Eleanor nodded. Much the same. She’d done it every day for the first years after her grandson was born. Then less often, as he grew. Now about once a month—if the diary aligned. “What about you?” “One grandson. Nine. Good at school, plays sports.” “Do you see him much?” “Sundays sometimes. They’re busy. I get it.” “Yeah,” Cathy turned to the window. “Busy.” Silence fell. Rain sprayed the glass. That evening Cathy said, “I don’t want to go home.” Eleanor looked up. Cathy was sitting with her knees to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. Been thinking about it all day, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What for? I’ll go home, and Kieran’ll be behind on homework, Maya’ll have a cold, Leo will have ripped his jeans again. My daughter will work late, her husband’s always away. I’ll be washing, cooking, tidying, helping—and they won’t even…” she trailed off. “They don’t even say thank you. Because I’m just Gran— it’s what I’m meant to do.” Eleanor was silent. There was a lump rising in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “I’m falling apart.” “Don’t be sorry,” Eleanor said quietly. “I… I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally do something for myself—go to the theatre, exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked if I’d help. I mean, I’m Gran, not working any more—why not? I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. Now, with school, just once a week. Now… now they don’t really need me. They have a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting. If they remember.” Cathy nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit in November. To me—my house. I cleaned everywhere, baked pies. Then she rang—‘Mum, sorry, Kieran’s got football, can’t make it.’” “She didn’t come?” “No. I took the pies to my neighbour.” They sat quietly. Rain pattered the glass. “You know what’s the worst?” Cathy spoke after a long pause. “Not that they don’t visit. That I still wait. I clutch my phone, thinking maybe they’ll call, say they miss me. Just for me, not because they need something.” Eleanor’s nose prickled. “I wait, too. Every time the phone rings, I think my son just wants to chat. But he always wants something.” “But we always help,” Cathy smiled sadly. “Because we’re mums.” “Yeah.” The next day came dressings—painful for both. Afterwards, they lay silently, until Cathy said, “I always believed my family was happy. My daughter’s lovely, her husband nice, grandkids adored. That I was needed. That they couldn’t cope without me.” “And?” “And it’s only here I realised—they actually manage fine. My daughter hasn’t once mentioned struggling these four days. If anything, she sounds more energetic. She can manage. It’s just convenient—having Gran the free nanny.” Eleanor propped herself on her elbow. “I realised I’m to blame. I taught my son Mum will always help, always drop everything, will always wait. My plans weren’t important. His plans mattered most.” “I was the same. Drop everything, rush when my daughter calls.” “We taught them we don’t count,” Eleanor said slowly. “That we have no life of our own.” Cathy nodded, thoughtful. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Eleanor got out of bed without help. By day six, she walked the ward’s length and back. Cathy trailed a day behind, but was determined. They walked together, leaning on the wall for support. “After my husband died, I was lost,” Cathy confided. “I thought life was over. My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. But this purpose… it’s a one-way thing. I give, they take. They only notice if I’m useful.” Eleanor spoke about her divorce thirty years before. How she’d raised her son alone, went to night school, worked two jobs. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up, lives his own life,” Cathy finished gently. “Yes. And maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so alone.” “I didn’t, either.” On day seven, Eleanor’s son showed up—unannounced. She was reading when he walked in, tall, in a posh coat, fruit in a carrier bag. “Mum! How are you? On the mend?” “Getting there.” “Great! Doctor says you’ll be discharged in three days. I thought—you could come to ours? Olesya says the guest room’s free.” “Thanks, but I’ll be better at home.” “If you’re sure. But call—if you need anything. We’ll be there.” He stayed twenty minutes. Talked about work, the grandson, his new car. Asked if she needed money. Promised to visit next week. Left quickly, with a sense of relief. Cathy lay pretending to sleep. Once the door shut, she opened her eyes. “That was your son?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as ice.” Eleanor didn’t reply. Her throat tightened so much she could hardly breathe. “You know,” Cathy said softly, “I’ve been thinking… Maybe we just need to stop expecting their love. Just… let go. They’ve grown up, they have their own lives. We need to find ours.” “Easier said than done.” “Harder to do. But what other choice do we have? Or we’ll sit here forever, waiting for them to remember us.” “What did you say to them?” Eleanor asked suddenly, shocking herself by using “you” instead of “Mrs.” “To my daughter? Said after discharge, I need a couple of weeks to rest. Doctor’s orders. Can’t help with the grandkids.” “And she?” “At first, she was furious. I just said, ‘Len, you’re a grown-up—sort it yourself. I can’t for now.’” “She’s annoyed?” “And how!” Cathy grinned. “But you know, it’s a relief. Like I shrugged off something heavy.” Eleanor closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no, if I refuse, they’ll be hurt. They might stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “Well, then. Can it get any worse? Maybe it’ll get better.” Day eight—discharged together. They packed in silence, as if parting forever. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Eleanor nodded. They entered numbers into their mobiles. Stood facing each other. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “For being here.” “No, thank you. I haven’t had a conversation like this in thirty years.” “Me neither.” They hugged, careful of their stitches. The nurse brought the discharge forms, called the taxis. Eleanor left first. Home was quiet. She unpacked, showered, lay down on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you out?” “Call when you’re home,” “Don’t forget your pills.” She replied, “Home. All good.” Put the phone down. She got up, found a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French class brochure, and a printout of theatre showtimes. She stared at them. The phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry it’s so soon. I just… wanted to call.” “I’m glad. Truly glad.” “How about we meet up, once we’re both stronger? A little café, or a walk. If you’d like, of course.” Eleanor looked at the brochure, then at her phone. Then back to the brochure. “I’d like that. In fact, let’s not wait two weeks. Saturday, maybe? I’m tired of lying around.” “Saturday? Really? The doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve been putting everyone first for thirty years. Time to put myself first.” “Deal. Saturday.” They said goodbye. Eleanor picked up the brochure. French classes started in a month—registration still open. She opened her laptop, began filling in the form. Her hands trembled, but she completed it. All the way to the end. Rain fell outside, but through the clouds, the sun shone—pale and autumnal, but sun nonetheless. And for the first time, Eleanor thought life might just be beginning again. She sent the application.

Convenient Grannies Margaret Collins woke up to laughter. Not a quiet laugh, nor a muffled giggle, but