La vida

Natalie woke up a minute before her alarm. The room was still dim, the February gloom leaking through

Hang On Just a Little Longer “Mum, that’s for Anna’s next term.” Maria set the envelope on the battered vinyl tablecloth. A hundred thousand. She’d counted the money three times—at home, on the bus, at the doorstep. Each time, exactly enough. Elena put her knitting aside and peered over her glasses at her daughter. “Maria, you look awfully pale. Shall I make you a cuppa?” “No thank you, Mum. I can only stay a minute—I have to make my second shift.” The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought her mother every month. Four grand a bottle, which lasted three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups. “Anna was so thrilled when she heard about the work placement at the bank,” Elena took the envelope as carefully as if it were fragile glass. “She says there are good prospects.” Maria said nothing. “Tell her it’s the last money for her studies.” The final term. Maria had kept this up for five years. Every month—an envelope for Mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand, subtracting bills, medicine, groceries for Mum, Anna’s university costs. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat that was six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own flat. Once, Maria had wanted to visit London. Just for a weekend. To see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. She’d even begun saving—then Mum had her first serious health scare and all the savings went on doctors. “You ought to take a break, love,” Elena stroked her hand. “You look done in.” “I will, Mum. Soon.” Soon—as in, when Anna found a job. When Mum stabilised. When she could finally breathe and think of herself. Maria had been saying “soon” for five years. Anna graduated as an accountant in June—a first, no less. Maria went to the ceremony, taking leave from work, and watched her little sister cross the stage in her new dress (a present from Maria, naturally) and thought: that’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and Maria would finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. “You don’t get it, Maria,” Anna sat curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. “I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts.” “Fifty thousand a year isn’t peanuts.” “Maybe not for you, but for me it is.” Maria clenched her jaw. She made forty-two on her main job. If she was lucky with extra shifts, another twenty. Sixty-two thousand a year, and lucky if she kept fifteen for herself. “Anna, you’re twenty-two. Time to start working somewhere.” “I will. Just not as some nobody in a dead-end office for fifty grand.” Elena fussed in the kitchen, banging pots—pretending not to hear. She always did when the daughters fought. She’d disappear, hide, and later—before Maria left—she’d whisper, “Don’t be cross with Anna, she’s young, she doesn’t understand.” Doesn’t understand. Twenty-two and still doesn’t understand. “I’m not immortal, Anna.” “Oh stop being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money, is it? I’m just looking for a proper job.” Not asking. Technically—no. Mum did: “Maria, Anna could do with English lessons.” “Maria, Anna’s phone broke, she needs to job hunt.” “Maria, Anna would like a new coat, winter’s coming.” Maria sent the money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that’s always how it was: she shouldered the burden and everyone else treated it as a given. “I’ve got to go,” she stood up. “Night shift tonight.” “Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!” Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold, musty stairwell, smelling of damp and cats. Ten minutes to the bus. Then an hour’s ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she caught extra work, four more hours at the computer. Meanwhile Anna would be at home, browsing jobs, waiting for the universe to deliver her an ideal position—one that paid one-fifty a year and let her work from home. Their first big row broke out in November. “Are you doing anything at all?” Maria snapped after seeing Anna in the same position on the sofa as the week before. “Sent off even one application?” “Three. This month.” “Three applications? In a month?” Anna rolled her eyes and retreated into her phone. “You don’t understand the job market. It’s brutal now. You have to choose the right posts.” “What’s right—a job that pays you for lying about on the sofa?” Elena peered out, nervously rubbing her hands with a tea towel. “Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake…” “No, Mum,” Maria massaged her temples. Third day running of headaches. “Just tell me, why am I working two jobs and she’s not working at all?” “Maria, she’s young, she’ll find her way…” “When? In a year? Five? I was already working at her age!” Anna bristled. “Well, sorry, I don’t fancy ending up like you! Like a carthorse, always working and nothing else!” Silence. Maria grabbed her bag and left. On the bus home, she stared at the darkness and thought: a carthorse. So that’s how it looks from the outside. Mum called the next day, asking Maria not to be upset. “Anna didn’t mean it like that. She’s just going through a lot. Just hang on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon.” Just hang on. Mum’s favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad sorts himself out. Hang on until Anna grows up. Hang on until things get better. Maria had been hanging on all her life. Rows became routine. Every visit ended the same: Maria tried to get through to Anna, Anna got stroppy, Elena ran between them pleading for peace. Then Maria left, Elena rang to apologise, everything started again. “You have to understand, she’s your sister,” Mum said. “And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine.” “Maria…” In January, Anna rang first. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Maria! I’m getting married!” “What? To who?” “Dima. We’ve been dating three weeks. He’s… he’s perfect!” Three weeks. And getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, say at least get to know the guy—but she kept quiet. Maybe it would be a blessing. Anna would have a husband to support her, and Maria could finally exhale. That fragile hope lasted just until the family dinner. “I’ve got it all sorted!” Anna beamed. “Hotel reception for a hundred guests, live band, and I’ve found the perfect dress in Selfridges…” Maria lowered her fork. “And how much is all that?” “Well,” Anna gave a disarming smile, “About five, maybe six grand. But it’s a wedding, once in a lifetime!” “And who’s paying?” “Oh Maria, you know… Dima’s parents can’t help, their mortgage is huge. Mum’s nearly on the pension. You’ll probably need to get a loan.” Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Elena looked away. “You’re serious?” “Maria, it’s her wedding,” Mum spoke in that syrupy tone Maria knew from childhood. “Such an event, only once in a lifetime. You can’t skimp…” “You mean I should take a five-grand loan to pay for the wedding of someone who hasn’t even bothered to get a job?” “You’re my sister!” Anna slammed the table. “You have to!” “I have to?” Maria got up. Inside, everything went weirdly quiet and clear. “Five years. I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I’ve got no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight and haven’t bought new clothes for myself in eighteen months. “Maria, calm down…” began Elena. “No! Enough! I’ve supported you both for years, and you think it’s just my duty? That’s it! From now on, I’m living for myself!” She left, grabbing her coat just in time. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the cold. Inside, there was a strange warmth, as if she had finally shrugged off the bag of stones she’d carried all her life. Her phone buzzed with calls. Maria hung up and blocked both numbers. Half a year passed. Maria moved into her own small flat, something she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, long white nights. She bought a new dress. And then another. And shoes. She only heard about her family by accident, through a friend who worked near her mum. “So, is it true your sister’s wedding got cancelled?” Maria froze mid-sip of her coffee. “What?” “Oh, rumour is the groom bailed. Found out there was no money and legged it.” Maria drank her coffee. It was bitter, but somehow delicious. “No idea. We’re not in touch anymore.” That evening, sitting by the window in her new flat, Maria realised she felt no malice. Not a hint. Only a quiet, deep contentment—the contentment of someone who had finally stopped being a beaten carthorse…

Hold On a Little Longer Mum, this is for Janes next term. Mary placed the envelope onto the worn oilcloth

La vida

“You Never Truly Loved Me. You Married Me Without Love—Now That I’m Ill, Will You Leave Me?” “Never!,” said Marina, wrapping her arms around Igor. “You’re the best husband—I won’t leave you for anything.” He couldn’t quite believe it was true. Igor’s mood was heavy… Marina had been married for twenty-five years, and throughout it all, she’d continued to attract men. In her youth, she was the girl all the boys in school wanted to date, even though she wasn’t considered a classic beauty. She hadn’t divorced her first husband, Vadim, despite his complicated nature. Marina stayed by Vadim’s side until the very end. Together, they raised their daughter, Dasha, who eventually married and moved to Italy with her husband. They even invited Marina to visit, sending cheerful photos. Marina considered going, but Vadim never even had the chance—he died in a tragic car accident after apparently becoming unwell behind the wheel. In shock, Marina leaned on her best friend Elena, a doctor, who helped arrange the funeral. Marina was left alone in their large, lovingly-built family home, wrestling with loneliness and memories. Dasha visited for the farewell to her father and gently suggested selling the house and moving Marina to Italy, but Marina flatly refused. “I didn’t build this house just to sell it. I’m not interested in Italy—I’ve seen plenty of it,” she said with a teary smile. Marina reflected on her marriage: Vadim could be loving and attentive, but he also often wore on her nerves when in a bad mood, only to later apologize. She’d learned, after twenty-five years, not to get stuck on his flaws. After Dasha left, Marina only stayed lonely for a short while: within half a year she discovered a new circle of admirers. Even her mum had marvelled: “What is it about you? The men just fall at your feet! You’re hardly a classic beauty…” Marina shrugged: “A woman should be charming and charismatic—that’s enough.” Years later, approaching fifty herself, Marina’s life repeated this pattern. While others lamented the lack of available men over forty, she found herself with two suitors—Dmitry, charming but impractical, and Igor, quiet, steadfast, and handy with everything around the home. Marina chose Igor, knowing in her heart he was the right man despite their different kind of connection. Igor was overjoyed, though he wondered if Marina had married him for practical reasons, not love—especially when he fell gravely ill. He feared she would leave him now that he wasn’t strong and capable. But Marina never left. Through Igor’s illness and slow recovery, she stayed, organised his birthday party alcohol-free, lifted his spirits, and showed that love is not always about grand speeches or passionate beginnings. Sometimes, it’s about quiet loyalty, gentle care, and growing together through all of life’s seasons. On a starlit evening, as they sat together on the porch, happiness finally settled into Igor’s heart. “Everything’s good,” he told her, and for the first time in months, it was true. Friends, if you enjoy our stories, please leave your comments and don’t forget to like—it inspires us to write more!

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