Wanda Miranda, Author at Trending Link

On the Brink of This Summer While working in a small-town library, Dana felt her life was painfully dull—there were barely any visitors these days, since everyone was online. Most days she spent shuffling books on dusty shelves, her only comfort the endless novels and philosophy tomes she devoured. By thirty, Dana realized that all the romance she read about in books had utterly bypassed her own life. Her age was “respectable,” as her mother put it, and it was high time to think of starting a family. Not that her modest looks, low-paying job, or general inertia helped matters; she’d never seriously thought of changing things up. The only visitors at the library were the odd student, a stray pupil, or an elderly pensioner. Recently, though, she’d been entered—quite unexpectedly—into a county-level professional competition, and, to her own astonishment, had won the grand prize: a fully-paid, two-week seaside holiday. “That’s fantastic. I’m definitely going!” she announced to her mum and best friend, beaming. “It’s not like my salary could ever pay for something like this—just pure luck!” As summer faded, Dana walked along the deserted shore. Most holidaymakers hid in cafés, as the sea was unusually wild that day. It was only her third day at the sea and she’d wanted a little solitude to wander the beach, contemplate, and daydream. Suddenly, she spotted a boy swept off the pier by a crashing wave. Not thinking twice, and despite never being a strong swimmer, Dana raced into the water—thankfully not far from shore. The waves helped and hindered in turns, but she managed, half-standing in the surf, to drag the boy to safety. Gasping and soaked, her summer dress clinging ungracefully to her skin, Dana checked on the teenager—tall for his age but surely no more than fourteen. “What on earth possessed you to swim in this weather?” she scolded gently, relieved as he wobbled to his feet and mumbled his thanks before heading off shakily, leaving Dana bemused. The next morning, sunshine glittered over the rippling waves. Dana, in much brighter spirits, wandered once more to the shore, basked in the warmth, then, nearer sunset, took a stroll through the park, stopping by the shooting gallery. She hadn’t fired a shot since her school and uni days—missed wildly with her first, but nailed the second. “Oi, look here, son, that’s how it’s done!” came a cheerful voice. Turning, she saw yesterday’s boy—and the man beside him, presumably his father, smiling warmly. The boy—Zhenya—seemed startled to recognize Dana, as if worried she might mention his mishap, but she only smiled knowingly. “Maybe you’d give us a masterclass?” the tall, amiable father—Anton—asked, chuckling as he introduced himself and his son, admitting neither was much good at these amusements. The three spent the evening together, sampling ice creams and riding the Ferris wheel. Dana wondered if Zhenya’s mother might join them, but neither father nor son seemed to expect anyone else. Anton proved wonderful company—curious, witty, and easy to talk to—and with every moment, Dana found herself drawn to him. “And how long’ve you been on your holidays here, Dana?” Anton asked as the sun dipped lower. “Just a week so far. I’ve got another to go! Where are you from?” “A bit funny, really—same city as you!” Anton laughed and soon the three were sharing stories about home. That night, as they said goodbye, father and son walked Dana back to her hotel, arranging to meet again at the beach the next day. She arrived early. Her newfound friends were late, nearly an hour so. “Good morning, Dana!” called Anton. “I’m terribly sorry, honestly—we just plain overslept. Forgot to set the alarm!” “Dad, I’m off for a swim!” Zhenya declared, running towards the surf. Dana’s heart leapt. “Stop! You can’t swim!” “Can’t swim?” Anton looked puzzled. “He’s a champion at school! Won swim meets and everything…” She blinked, embarrassed—had she imagined his struggle? Or had something else been troubling him… With evenings spent strolling or lingering over seaside fish and chips, their days together grew idyllic. Dana sensed Zhenya was troubled and longed for a chance to speak with him privately. That chance finally came—Zhenya arrived alone at the beach, informing her his father was ill in bed with a fever. After some friendly prompting, Zhenya thanked her for keeping his earlier accident secret. He admitted the waves had caught him off guard—he really did panic, just that once. Dana hesitated, then gently asked about his mum. Zhenya, after a moment, quietly confided: things at home weren’t easy. His parents’ marriage—a picture of happiness—had been slowly falling apart. When his father travelled for work, his mother spent more and more time with a colleague; eventually, her infidelity led to divorce and she left. Zhenya opted to stay with his dad—he didn’t care for his mum’s new partner or their daughter, Kira. He was angry, but loved his father fiercely, relieved to be away together by the sea. A few days later, when Anton recovered, they made the most of their remaining time—excursions, banter, lazy days in the sun. But soon, summer would end. Anton and Zhenya’s coach drew near; Dana had two days left, and they promised to meet again at home. Anton said he’d pick her up from the airport; Zhenya grinned with approval. Though Dana dared not plan too far ahead, her heart soared with each affectionate message from Anton, counting down days until their reunion. And soon—much to Zhenya’s delight—Dana found herself moving into their comfortable flat, feeling like, at the edge of that unforgettable summer, she’d finally walked into the pages of her own long-awaited love story. On the Brink of This Summer

At the Edge of This Summer Working at St. Albans Public Library, Id always thought my life was rather dull.

You Just Can’t Find a Way to Connect With Him “I’m not doing it! And stop bossing me around—you’re nothing to me!” Daniel slammed his plate into the sink so hard that water splashed across the counter. Anna froze for a second, stunned. The fifteen-year-old glared at her with the kind of anger that made it seem as if she’d single-handedly ruined his entire life. “I only asked you to help with the washing up,” Anna said, trying to keep her voice calm. “It’s a simple request.” “My mum never made me wash dishes! I’m not some girl! Who are you to tell me what to do, anyway?” Daniel spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Moments later, music began to blare from his bedroom. Anna leaned back against the fridge, eyes closed, taking a shaky breath. Just a year earlier, things had seemed so different… Max had come into her life by chance. He was an engineer in the office next to hers at one of London’s major construction firms. They’d kept crossing paths at meetings—first sharing coffee during breaks, then dinner after work, and finally late-night, hours-long phone conversations. “I’ve got a son,” Max confessed during their third date, nervously twisting a napkin between his fingers. “Daniel. He’s fifteen. His mum and I divorced two years ago. He’s… having a rough time.” “I understand.” Anna placed her hand gently over his. “Divorce is hard on kids. And fifteen’s a tough age.” “Are you sure you’re ready… for the both of us?” At the time, Anna truly believed she was. At thirty-two, one unsuccessful childless marriage behind her, she was desperate to create a real family. Max seemed like the solid, genuine Englishman she could actually build a future with. Six months later he proposed, awkward and endearing, the ring hidden in a box of her favourite Marks & Spencer biscuits. Anna laughed and said yes without hesitation. They opted for a modest wedding: a handful of family members, a few close friends, and a reserved table in a small, stylish pub. Daniel sat in his suit all evening, glued to his phone, not once looking up at the newlyweds. “He’ll come round,” Max whispered, seeing Anna’s uncertainty. “He just needs time.” Anna moved into Max’s spacious three-bed home in West London the very next day. Bright, modern, a big kitchen, and a balcony overlooking the communal garden. Yet from the first moment, Anna couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a guest—an outsider in someone else’s life… Daniel treated her like furniture; he ignored her, looked straight through her. When she entered a room, he’d pointedly put on his headphones. If she dared ask a question, he’d respond with clipped answers, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. The first few weeks, Anna assumed it was just adjustment. After all, it was difficult for any boy to accept a stepmother. Surely, things would improve. They didn’t. “Daniel, please don’t eat in your bedroom. We’ll never get rid of the mice.” “Dad always let me.” “Daniel, have you done your homework?” “None of your business.” “Daniel, could you tidy up after yourself, please?” “Do it yourself. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” Anna tried to discuss things with Max, treading carefully so as not appear the wicked stepmother. “I think we need some ground rules,” she suggested one evening after Daniel went to his room. “No eating in bedrooms, clean up after yourself, homework finished by a certain time—” “Anna, he’s struggling,” Max groaned, rubbing his brow. “The divorce, a new person in the house… Let’s not push him.” “I’m not pushing. I just want some order.” “He’s just a child.” “He’s fifteen, Max! Fifteen-year-olds can learn to wash their own mugs.” But Max just sighed and turned up the telly, making it clear the discussion was over. Every day, things got worse. When Anna asked Daniel to take out the rubbish, he looked openly disgusted by her. “You’re not my mum. You’ll never be my mum. You can’t boss me around.” “I’m not bossing. I’m asking you to help in the house we all live in.” “This isn’t your house. It’s my dad’s. Mine.” Anna went to Max again. He promised to talk to Daniel. But either those talks never happened or they had no effect at all—Anna couldn’t tell anymore. Daniel started returning home well past midnight with no warning, no text. Anna lay awake, listening to every noise in the flat. Max snored away beside her, seemingly oblivious. “Can you at least ask him to message us where he is?” Anna pleaded over breakfast. “Anything could happen.” “He’s old enough, Anna. We can’t control him.” “Old enough? He’s fifteen!” “I was out late at his age, too.” “Yes, but can you at least talk to him? Explain that we worry?” Max just shrugged and left for work… Every attempt to set any boundaries led to a row. Daniel would shout, slam doors, accuse Anna of ruining their family. Every time, Max sided with his son. “He’s having a hard time after the divorce,” he’d repeat like a mantra. “You have to understand.” “But what about me?” Anna finally snapped. “I’m living in a house where I’m openly despised and you pretend everything’s fine!” “You’re exaggerating.” “Exaggerating? Your son told me directly I’m nothing to him. He said that. Word for word.” “He’s a teenager. They’re all like this.” Anna phoned her mum—no one steadies her quite like Mum. “Sweetheart,” her mum’s voice was anxious. “You sound miserable. I can hear it in every word.” “Mum, I don’t know what to do. Max won’t even recognise there’s a problem.” “Because for him, there isn’t. He’s comfortable. You’re the one who’s suffering.” Her mother paused, then quietly added: “You deserve better, Anna. Please, think about that.” Feeling untouchable, Daniel really let loose. Music blared until 3 a.m. Dishes showed up everywhere—the coffee table, the windowsill, even the bathroom. Socks covered the hallway; textbooks piled up on the kitchen counter. Anna cleaned, unable to stand the mess. But cleaning made her cry from frustration and helplessness. Eventually, Daniel stopped even acknowledging her existence—except to throw out a nasty remark or sneer. “You just don’t know how to relate to kids,” Max declared one night. “Maybe you’re the problem?” “Relate?” Anna gave a sad, bitter laugh. “I’ve been trying for six months, and he literally calls me ‘that woman’ in front of you!” “You’re being dramatic.” Anna gave it one last try. She found Daniel’s favourite recipe—roast chicken in honey glaze with herby potato wedges—online, bought the best ingredients, and spent four hours cooking. “Daniel, dinner’s ready!” she called as she laid the table. Daniel came in, glanced at the plate, and grimaced. “I’m not eating that.” “Why not?” “Because you cooked it.” He left. Minutes later, the front door slammed—Daniel had gone out to his mates. Max came home, saw the cold dinner and Anna’s defeated face. “What’s happened?” Anna explained. Max sighed. “Come on, Anna… Don’t be upset with the boy. He doesn’t mean it.” “Doesn’t mean it? He goes out of his way to humiliate me. Every. Single. Day.” “You’re too sensitive.” A week later, Daniel brought home five mates from school. They raided the fridge, left food everywhere. “Out, now!” Anna commanded, finding the group sprawled across the living room. “It’s nearly eleven!” Daniel didn’t even turn his head. “This is my house. I’ll do what I want.” “This is our home. There are rules here.” “What rules?” one of Daniel’s friends sniggered. “Dan, who is she, anyway?” “No one. Ignore her.” Anna retreated to the bedroom and called Max. He came home an hour later, after the mates had left. He glanced at the mess, at his exhausted wife. “Anna, stop being so dramatic. They were only here for a bit.” “A bit?” “You’re blowing this out of proportion. In fact—” Max frowned “—it feels like you’re pitting me against my own son.” Anna stared. She barely recognised her husband. “Max, we need a serious talk,” she said the next day. “About us. About our future.” Max stiffened but sat opposite her. “I can’t do this anymore,” Anna said, weighing her words. “For six months I’ve put up with disrespect—Daniel’s rudeness, your total indifference to my feelings.” “Anna, I—” “Let me finish. I tried. I genuinely tried to be part of this family. But there isn’t one. There’s you, your son, and me—the outsider, tolerated because I cook and clean.” “You’re being unfair.” “Unfair? When was the last time your son said anything kind to me? When did you ever take my side?” Max stayed silent. “I love you,” he finally whispered. “But Daniel’s my son. He comes first.” “Before me?” “Before anything.” Anna nodded. Her chest felt hollow and cold. “Thank you for being honest.” Two days later, Anna found her favourite blouse—her mum’s birthday present—shredded on her pillow. There was only one suspect. “Daniel!” Anna stormed in, holding the scraps of fabric. “What is this?!” He just shrugged, eyes glued to his phone. “I’ve no idea.” “That’s my property!” “So?” “Max!” Anna rang her husband. “Come home. Now.” Max arrived, looked at the blouse, at Daniel, at Anna. “Dan, did you do this?” “No.” “See?” Max spread his hands. “He says he didn’t do it.” “Who then? The cat? We don’t own a bloody cat!” “Maybe you tore it by accident—” “Max!” Anna looked at her husband and realised it was pointless. He would never change. He would never take her side. She was nothing but a handy housekeeper to him, and Daniel was all that mattered. “Daniel misses his mum,” Max echoed yet again. “You have to see that.” “I do,” Anna replied quietly. “I understand everything now.” That evening, she pulled out her suitcase. “What are you doing?” Max stood frozen in the doorway. “Packing. I’m leaving.” “Anna, wait! Let’s talk!” “We’ve been talking for six months. Nothing’s changed,” Anna replied as she folded her clothes. “I have a right to be happy too, Max.” “I’ll change! I’ll talk to Daniel!” “It’s too late.” She looked at him—the grown man who’d never learned to be anything but a father. Not a husband. And a father who’d spoiled his son rotten with blind devotion. “I’ll file for divorce next week,” Anna said, zipping up her suitcase. “Anna—” “Goodbye, Max.” Without glancing back, she left the flat. In the hall, she caught sight of Daniel—for the first time, his eyes held something besides disdain. Uncertainty? Fear? Anna no longer cared. Her new rented flat was small but cosy—a North London one-bed with a view across a peaceful street. Anna unpacked, made a cup of tea, and sat on the window ledge. For the first time in months, she felt calm. The divorce was complete two months later. Max tried to call, asking her to come back. Anna politely refused—no. She’d survived. She wasn’t bitter. She simply realised that happiness isn’t endless sacrifice and patience. Happiness is being respected and valued. And someday, she’d find it. Just not with this man.

You just cant get through to him Im not doing it! And stop bossing me around! Youre no one to me!

Give Me, Please, a Reason “Have a good day,” Denis leaned in, brushing her cheek with his lips. Anastasia nodded automatically. Her cheek stayed cool and dry—no warmth, no irritation. Just skin, just a touch. The door shut, and silence settled over the flat. She lingered in the hallway for ten more seconds, listening for something within herself. When had it happened, exactly? When did something inside snap and just… switch off? Anastasia remembered sobbing in the bathroom two years ago because Denis forgot their anniversary. She remembered shaking with anger a year ago when he left her to pick Vasily up from nursery—again. Six months ago, she was still trying, talking, explaining. Asking. Now—nothing. Just an empty, scoured field. Anastasia walked to the kitchen, poured herself coffee, and sat down. Twenty-nine years old. Seven of them married. And here she was, sitting in an empty flat with a cooling cup, realizing she’d fallen out of love with her husband so quietly, so ordinarily, she hadn’t even noticed it happen. Denis carried on by habit. Promised to pick up their daughter—never did. Said he’d fix the dripping tap in the bathroom—the tap had been leaky for three months. Swore they’d finally take Vasily to the zoo on the weekend—on Saturdays his friends had sudden plans, on Sundays he’d just sprawl on the sofa. Vasily stopped asking when Daddy would play with her. At five, her daughter already understood: Mummy is reliable. Daddy is someone who sometimes appears in the evenings and watches TV. Anastasia didn’t make scenes anymore. Didn’t cry into her pillow. Didn’t plan how to fix things. She simply erased Denis from her life’s equation. Need the car serviced? She made the call herself. Broken lock on the balcony door? She phoned the locksmith. A snowflake costume needed for the school play? Anastasia sewed it at night, while her husband snored in the next room. Their family became a strange invention: two adults, living parallel lives under one roof. One night, Denis reached for her in bed. Anastasia quietly shifted away—a headache, she said. Then tiredness. Then various ailments that didn’t exist. With every gentle refusal, she built a wall between them, and each time that wall grew a little higher. “Let him have an affair,” she thought, coldly. “Let him give me a real reason. A clear, understandable reason that my parents and his mum will accept. One I won’t have to explain.” Because how do you explain to your own mother that you’re leaving your husband just because he’s… nothing much? He doesn’t hit her, doesn’t drink, brings money home. So he doesn’t help around the house—“men are like that.” So he keeps his distance with the child—“men just don’t know how to be with kids.” Anastasia opened a separate bank account, started saving part of her salary. Joined a gym—not for him, but for herself. For that new life beckoning somewhere beyond the inevitable end. In the evenings, after Vasily was asleep, Anastasia put on headphones and listened to English podcasts: conversational phrases, business correspondence. Her company worked with British clients, and fluency might open entirely new doors. Two nights a week, she took evening courses. Denis grumbled that he’d have to stay with Vasily—though his “watching her” meant just putting on cartoons and staring at his phone. Weekends, Anastasia spent with her daughter: parks, playgrounds, milkshake cafés, matinee movies. Vasily got used to Mummy time—just the two of them. Daddy existed somewhere about the place, like a piece of furniture. “She won’t even notice,” Anastasia told herself, clinging to that hope. “When we divorce, nothing will really change for her.” Convenient thought. She clung to it like a life raft. And then… something shifted. It took a while before Anastasia noticed. One evening, Denis offered to put Vasily to bed himself. Then he picked her up from nursery, unprompted. Then—cooked dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta with cheese, but no reminders, no coaxing. Anastasia watched skeptically. What’s this? Guilt? A momentary blip? Was he hiding some mistake she hadn’t found out about? But the days passed, and Denis didn’t slip back into indifference. He started getting up to take Vasily to nursery. Fixed the leaky tap. Signed her up for swimming, took her every Saturday. “Daddy, Daddy, watch me! I can dive now!” Vasily would shout, running around the flat, imitating a swimmer. Denis would scoop her up, toss her laughing, and the flat would ring with his daughter’s delight. Anastasia watched from the kitchen, barely recognising her husband. “I can take Vasily on Sunday,” Denis mentioned one evening. “You’ve got a coffee date with friends, haven’t you?” Anastasia nodded. No date planned—she just wanted some time alone with a book in a café. How did he even know about her friends? Was he paying attention? Weeks blurred into a month, then another. Denis didn’t give up, didn’t revert. “I booked a table for the two of us at that Italian place,” he announced one day. “Friday. Mum’s agreed to watch Vasily.” Anastasia looked up from her laptop. “What’s that for?” “No special reason. I just want to have dinner with you.” She agreed. Out of curiosity, she told herself. Just to see what he was up to. The restaurant was warm, softly lit, with live music. Denis ordered her favourite wine—Anastasia was startled he remembered what it was. “You’ve changed,” she said, straight out. Denis rolled his glass in his hands. “I was blind. Completely foolish—a classic idiot.” “Hardly news.” “I know.” He smiled, but not happily. “I thought I was working for the family. That you wanted more money, a bigger house, a better car. I was really just… running away. From responsibility, real life, all of it.” She let the silence hang. “I noticed you changed. You… didn’t care anymore. And that… that was scarier than any argument. When you yelled or cried, at least it meant something. But then you just… stopped. As if I didn’t exist.” He set the glass down. “I almost lost you. You and Vasily. That’s when I got it—I was doing everything all wrong.” She stared at him, uncertain. Too late? Or not quite? “I was going to leave, you know,” she said softly. “Waiting for you to give me a reason.” Denis paled. “God, Ana…” “I was saving money. Looking for a flat.” “I had no idea it was that bad…” “You should have known,” she interrupted. “This is your family. You should have seen.” Heavy silence. The waiter skirted their table instinctively. “I want to work on this,” Denis said, finally. “On us. If you’ll let me try.” “One chance.” “One is more than I deserve.” They stayed until the lights went out—talking properly, for the first time in years. About Vasily, about money, about chores and expectations. It was a real conversation, not accusations or autopilot small talk. It was slow, rebuilding. Anastasia didn’t embrace him with relief the next morning. She observed, waited, watched for backsliding. Denis kept at it. He took over weekend cooking. Learned the ins-and-outs of the school WhatsApp group. Mastered plaiting Vasily’s hair—wonky and bumpy, but he did it himself. “Mummy, Daddy made me a dragon!” Vasily burst in, waving a cardboard-and-paper monstrosity. Anastasia smiled at the lopsided, one-winged dragon. Six months swept by. December: the whole family went to Anastasia’s parents’ cottage—an old, timber-fragranced house wrapped in snow. Anastasia sat at the window with a mug of tea, watching Denis and Vasily build a snowman. Her daughter gave commands—nose here, eyes higher, scarf tied all wrong!—and Denis complied, giggling, tossing Vasily up into the air as she shrieked with joy. “Mummy! Come on!” Vasily called, waving. Anastasia shrugged on her coat and stepped out into the clear sunlight. Snow bit her cheeks; a snowball suddenly hit her side. “It was Daddy!” Vasily instantly tattled. “Traitor,” Denis muttered, grinning. Anastasia scooped a handful of snow and lobbed it back—missed. Denis laughed, she laughed, and within moments all three were rolling in the drifts, forgetting snowmen, forgetting everything. That evening, Vasily fell asleep on the sofa before her film was finished. Denis carried her gently to bed, tucked her in, brushed her hair from her forehead. Anastasia sat by the fire, warming her hands on a cup. Outside, the snow drifted down, soft and thick, cocooning the world in silence. Denis sat beside her. “What are you thinking?” he asked. “That I’m glad I didn’t get the chance.” He didn’t ask what she meant. He understood. Love takes work—small, everyday effort: to listen, notice, give a hand. Anastasia knew there’d still be rough days, squabbles over nothing, patches of distance. But here and now, her husband and daughter were beside her: real, living, loved. Vasily woke up and snuggled in between them on the sofa. Denis hugged them close, and Anastasia thought—some things are still worth fighting for…

Have a good day, Dan leant in and brushed his lips across her cheek. Emily nodded absentmindedly.

It Feels Like the Love Has Gone: Anna’s Journey from Market Flowers to Divorce After Fifteen Years, and Finding Herself Again at Thirty-Two

I think love has faded Youre the most beautiful girl in this whole department, he told her back then

It Feels Like the Love Has Gone: Anna’s Journey from Market Flowers to Divorce After Fifteen Years, and Finding Herself Again at Thirty-Two

I think love has faded Youre the most beautiful girl in this whole department, he told her back then

He’s Already 35, Still Single with No Kids: A Mother Wonders If Her Devotion Has Held Back Her Son’s Independence

Hes already 35 and has neither children nor a wife Just last week, I found myself at my mother-in-laws

A Parent’s Heart: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, interest, comments on my stories, subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five furry cats for your generous donations. Please share your favourite stories on social media—it means a lot to the author too! “Why the gloomy face this morning? Not even a smile—come on, let’s have breakfast,” Her husband wandered sleepily into the kitchen—it was finally a weekend. Bacon and eggs sizzled on the stove, while his wife poured the tea. She slapped most of the eggs onto his plate, added a slice of bread, and said, “Eat up, use your fork!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “You did. We both did. We raised our children all wrong,” replied Natalie, sitting down beside him and picking at her food without much appetite. “Our daughter and son have grown up. We sacrificed for them, did without while we raised them—those were hard times. We supported them… so who supports us now, at least with kind words? All they have are problems—bored with life or complaining about money. Both Sasha and Dima, the same old grumbling.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and was happily spreading butter and jam on a fresh slice. “It’s just easier for you—they pour it all out to me, their mother. Yesterday, Dima wanted to take his family bowling, asked for a loan until payday, but I was annoyed and said no. He was offended, and before that, Sasha called about her music career not working out—she was so down. It’s getting out of hand. Sure, she likes singing, but it’s not paying the bills! Time she faced facts and found a proper job; not everyone can make it as a singer. Back when they were little, those two were so close—now it seems they barely talk at all.” She pushed her cold eggs away and sipped her tea. “Don’t get so worked up. Everything will be okay—we were young once, remember?” Arkady tried to comfort her, but she only got more animated. “That’s easy for you to say—think about it. We lived within our means and were grateful. When Dima was born, we were over the moon. A friend gave me a pram, my sister handed down baby clothes—second-hand, but as good as new, kids grow fast! And we were happy. And when we finally got that old Ford Escort, we felt rich as kings! Parked it right out front and felt on top of the world! But our two, if they haven’t been on a trip abroad, think life’s a bust. Did we ever teach them that?” “These days, Natasha, there are more temptations and they’re young. Give it time—they’ll understand.” “But what if it’s too late? They’ll waste their lives chasing riches and life just flies by. I look in the mirror and can’t believe it—am I really a grandmother now? And you, a grandfather…” At that moment, the phone rang—her son Dima was calling. “Here we go again,” Natalie grabbed the phone, and as she listened her eyes went wide and she jumped to her feet. “Arkady, get dressed, quick! Dima’s in hospital—his neighbour just called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady leapt up and started throwing on his clothes. “I’m not sure, something with an angle grinder—blade snapped and cut his hand. They’re trying to save his wrist, I just hope they succeed! Let’s go.” The not-so-old but not-so-young parents threw on their coats, worry etched across their faces, and rushed out to see their son. As they hurried, Sasha rang—“Mum, I’ll come round at lunchtime, okay?” “Of course, darling. We’ll probably be back by then,” panted Natalie, barely waiting for a reply before she dashed after Arkady. At the hospital, they were quickly reassured—Dima’s hand had been saved, but they weren’t allowed to see him yet. “I’m not leaving this spot until I see him,” Natalie sat down in the lobby, Arkady by her side. Suddenly Sasha burst into the hospital, hugging them both. “Mum, why are you two so upset? Everything’s okay! Dima was just doing a cash job fixing someone’s car, something wouldn’t come off, he was cutting bolts and slipped. But he’s fine, stitches in, fingers moving—honestly, Mum, you look dreadful. It’s not as bad as it sounds.” “How do you know?” Natalie asked in disbelief. “Dima and I always text, and I chat with Lenny, his wife, too. We help each other, you know?” “We thought you barely spoke anymore,” Arkady explained. “Dad, you and Mum are so strong, so capable—you can handle anything. We try not to worry you. And, if you must know, you both still look young—so we try to let you live your own lives a bit now!” “Really now, I thought you didn’t care anymore!” Natalie managed a smile. “No way, Mum! Your generation—tough as nails. We try to follow your example, but it’s not always easy. But we really do try, honestly.” At that, their worried looks eased a little. “Mum, Dad—I wanted to tell you, I’ve got a new job. And people now invite me to sing at events—nurseries, care homes; yesterday I sang for a group of pensioners. They clapped so hard! One old lady cried—her daughter’s a well-known singer but always away on tour, so she’s dropped her off there… it’s awful.” Sasha suddenly hugged them tight—“We really love you both, never doubt it…” A nurse appeared, allowing them a short visit to Dima. Natalie almost cried, but Dima was calm. “Mum, relax. The worst is over. Dad, you always told that story about the wasp nest in the garage—got stung so badly you nearly died in hospital. Stuff happens. Once I’m out, you must all come celebrate New Year’s with us. We don’t see enough of each other, do we? And Sasha wants to introduce you to her boyfriend too, but hasn’t had a chance yet…” Natalie and Arkady walked home, deciding to take their time. Not so old, yet not so young, these parents with ever-worried hearts. Oh, the parent’s heart—it’s always aching for its children. Always comparing, always wishing they’d be better, wiser, more obedient. But they have their own paths to walk—no matter what. And ours—they’re good kids, after all. Our very own.

A Parents Heart Thank you so much for your support, your likes, your thoughtfulness, your kind comments

My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded We Give Them Our Flat—But When I Refused, Things Took a Shocking Turn

My brothers pregnant wife demanded that we give them our flat. Ive been married for a decade now.

Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs Margaret Hope followed the same routine: kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of tea into her old bulbous teapot—the very one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world felt full of endless tomorrows. While the water warmed, she’d switch on the kitchen radio and listen to the news with half an ear; the voices of the presenters felt more familiar than most faces these days. Above the table, a clock with golden hands ticked on diligently. But the old landline phone below it grew quieter each month. Once, it would crackle every evening as friends called to discuss the soaps or blood pressure—now, those friends were more often unwell, drifting away to live with family in far-off towns, or quietly leaving forever. The phone, heavy and reassuring in her palm, stood in the corner. Sometimes, Margaret stroked it in passing, as if checking whether this way of reaching out to the world still lived. Her children’s calls came through mobiles now—well, she assumed they did, for whenever they visited, their phones never left their hands. Her son would pause mid-conversation, eyes fixed on the screen, mutter, ‘One moment,’ and begin tapping away. Her granddaughter, a thin girl with a long ponytail, barely let go of her own device. All their lives, it seemed, were there. All Margaret had was an old push-button mobile, bought after her first spell in hospital when, as her son said, ‘We need to know you’re always reachable.’ It sat in its fraying case on the hall shelf, sometimes forgotten and out of charge, sometimes buried under receipts and handkerchiefs at the bottom of her bag. It rang rarely, and when it did, she’d often fumble and miss the call—chiding herself for being too slow. She turned seventy-five that day. The number felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else. Inside, she still felt sixty-five. Perhaps sixty. But ID cards don’t lie. Her morning followed its usual patterns: tea, radio, the gentle stretches her GP had shown her, then a simple salad and the cottage pie she’d baked the night before. The children had promised to come by two. She still found it odd that birthdays were now arranged not over the phone, but in some ‘family chat.’ Her son said, ‘Tanya and I organise everything in our group chat. I’ll show you one day.’ But he never did. To Margaret, the word ‘chat’ sounded like another world, one where people lived inside little windows and spoke in typed letters. At two they all arrived. First her grandson Jamie tumbled into the hallway with his rucksack and headphones, then her granddaughter Lucy slipped in quietly, followed by her son and his wife, arms heavy with shopping bags. Suddenly, the flat was full of bustle and perfume, bakery scents and that fresh, restless tang she could never quite place. ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ her son said, hugging her briskly, almost as if eager to move on. The gifts piled onto the table, the flowers arranged in a vase. Lucy instantly asked for the WiFi password. Her son, frowning, dug the paper from his wallet and dictated a string of letters and numbers that made Margaret’s mind buzz. ‘Gran, why aren’t you ever on the group chat?’ Jamie asked, heading for the kitchen. ‘That’s where everything happens.’ She waved a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t need all that. This old phone is plenty for me.’ Her daughter-in-law broke in awkwardly, ‘Actually, that’s why… well, we’ve bought you something.’ She exchanged a glance with her husband. He handed Margaret a smooth white box. She felt a pang of worry—she guessed what was inside. ‘A smartphone,’ he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. ‘Not top of the range, but a decent one. Camera, internet—the lot.’ ‘What on earth for?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘So we can have video calls, Mum,’ her daughter-in-law replied, her tone bright and automatic. ‘We put family news and photos in the chat, and everything’s online now—doctors, bills, appointments. You complained about NHS queues, remember?’ ‘I’ll manage the old way—’ she started, but saw her son sigh, carefully masking his impatience. ‘It’ll put our minds at rest. If you need us, you can reach us straight away. No more hunting for the green button.’ He smiled hopefully, but she felt the sting all the same. The green button, as if she was useless now. ‘All right,’ she relented, eyes on the box. ‘If it means that much to you.’ They opened it together, like sharing out presents at a children’s party. Only now the children were grown, and she sat in their midst feeling less a guest of honour than a student on her first day. Out came the sleek black rectangle—cold, slippery, buttonless. ‘Everything’s touch-screen,’ Jamie explained. ‘You just swipe—like this.’ His finger flicked across the glass. The screen lit up with bright icons. Margaret startled, half-expecting the thing to demand some secret code, a password, or start barking out commands she’d never understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said gently. ‘We’ll set it all up. Just… don’t press anything by yourself yet, OK?’ Oddly, that hurt the most—like being told not to touch Grandma’s best vase. After lunch, the whole family sat with her in the lounge. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placing the phone on her lap. ‘Now, see here,’ he began, far too quickly, demonstrating buttons and swipes and passwords, until the words jumbled together like a foreign tongue. ‘Wait, one at a time,’ she pleaded, ‘or I’ll forget.’ ‘You’ll pick it up. It’s easy, you’ll see,’ he said, waving off her worries. She nodded, though she knew it would take time—time to accept that the world now lived in these little rectangles, and somehow, she had to fit inside one too. By evening, numbers for the family, her friend Mrs Valentine from down the hall, and the local GP were all stored in the phone. Her son installed a messenger, set up an account and added her to the family group. He enlarged the font so she wouldn’t need to squint. ‘This is the chat. Here’s how to write. If you don’t want to type, you can send a voice message—just hold down the microphone.’ Cautious, her hands trembling, she hit the wrong keys—‘thakn you’ instead of ‘thank you.’ They all laughed—she tried to hide her shame. After they left, the flat was quiet again. On the table: crumbs of the pie, wilting flowers, the phone’s white box. The device itself lay face down. Margaret turned it over, pressing the button as shown. The screen lit up with a photo—her whole family, last New Year. She swiped, looking at the unfamiliar icons. Remember, don’t press anything you shouldn’t. She left the mobile on the table and did the washing up. Let it get used to living here. The next morning, she woke earlier. There was the phone: unfamiliar, but less frightening. She brewed her tea, sat at the table, summoned her courage, and switched it on. The New Year’s photo greeted her again. She poked at the little green phone—the only icon she recognised. A list of contacts appeared. She selected her son. The phone hummed and swirled. ‘Hello?’ her son answered, sounding surprised. ‘Everything all right, Mum?’ ‘Just checking the thing works,’ she replied, feeling a quiet pride. She’d managed on her own. ‘Told you you’d get it. Well done! Next time use the messenger though, it’s cheaper.’ She laughed, heart pounding. She hung up—all by herself. Soon after, the first message arrived in the family chat: ‘Gran, how are you?’ from Lucy. She hesitated, then typed—slowly, painstakingly—‘All good. Having tea,’ and sent it, misspellings and all. ‘Wow, did you write that yourself?!’ came Lucy’s reply, followed by a heart emoji. Margaret caught herself grinning: her words, on the family’s screen at last. When neighbour Mrs Valentine popped in later, she chuckled, ‘So they’ve got you one of those clever phones, eh?’ ‘A smartphone,’ Margaret replied, the word still odd in her mouth, but not unwelcome. ‘Is it biting yet?’ sniffed Valentine. ‘It mostly just beeps, and there aren’t any buttons.’ ‘My grandson swears I need one, but I’m too old for all that online nonsense.’ The word ‘too old’ stung. Margaret used to feel it herself. But now, the phone on her table suggested otherwise—it wasn’t too late to try. A few days on, her son rang: ‘I booked your GP appointment online, Mum. It’s all through Services Online now. You can do it too—I wrote the password down for you.’ She turned to the slip of paper, feeling like it was a prescription—understandable in theory, impossible in practice. But she tried. She opened the browser, typed the address in. It was slow, frustrating—passwords, missed keys, blank screens. She nearly gave up, picking up the landline to confess defeat. ‘I can’t work your passwords. This is just cruel.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you again. Jamie’s better at it anyway.’ Jamie visited that evening. He explained faster than she could follow, but patiently, showing her how to check appointments and send messages to her doctor. ‘If you mess it up, it’s no disaster—you start over,’ he reassured. For him, perhaps, it was simple. For her, every click and tap felt like crossing a minefield—but after he left, she practised. Because now, the world required her to. A week later, trouble struck—she couldn’t find her GP appointment. Maybe she’d clicked the wrong thing before. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself, found the right page, and booked a slot herself. She even managed to send a voice note to her GP via messenger, explaining the problem, just as Jamie had shown her: ‘Hello, Doctor—I’m having trouble with my blood pressure. I’ve booked for Friday morning. Please keep an eye out for me.’ Within minutes, a reply: ‘I’ve got you on my list. Call if you feel worse.’ And it was all done—without calling in anyone for help. That night, she wrote in the family chat: ‘Booked my GP online! On my own!’ The replies came fast: ‘You’re amazing, Gran!’ ‘So proud of you, Mum.’ ‘See, I told you it’d work!’ With every answer, Margaret felt the thread growing stronger. She might not know the memes, nor fire off emojis at speed, but she could reach them when it mattered. There was a connection now—a lifeline. Later that week, she even dared send a kitchen snapshot to the chat: ‘My tomatoes are coming along,’ she typed. The photos poured in—Lucy’s messy revision notes, her daughter-in-law’s salad, her son’s ‘Office selfie: whose day is more exciting, yours or mine?’ For the first time in years, the kitchen was full of voices, laughter, and gentle arguments, even though everyone was elsewhere. Sometimes, everything went wrong—she’d send voice notes to the wrong chat or type public questions she meant for private eyes. But the responses were always gentle. She was learning, and everyone knew it. Gradually, she used the old landline less and less. She realised she could check the bus times herself, look up recipes, send a question or a photo and hear back in minutes. The world hadn’t passed her by. She hadn’t vanished behind the window pane. One quiet evening, reading family chat on her phone—their photos and jokes, her updates about tea and tomatoes—Margaret smiled. The house was still, but not empty. With a gentle tap, she answered her granddaughter: ‘Call me after your test, I’ll always listen.’ She turned out the kitchen light, glanced back at the phone resting on the table, and knew—as long as she wanted, she could reach out, and someone would answer. And for now, that was enough.

Staying Connected My mornings start in much the same way every day. I put the kettle on, scoop two spoons

House Rules for a British Summer: When the Grandchildren Arrive at the Cottage with Smartphones, Fussy Appetites, and Minds of Their Own

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