La vida

“I Know About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pale—though inside, everything clenched up tight, like scrap paper before it’s tossed into the bin. He simply froze. Lorraine stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The usual picture—back to her husband, a polka-dot apron, the smell of sizzling onions. Cosy, homely. But her voice, her voice was as cold and matter-of-fact as a BBC newsreader. Victor even wondered if he’d misheard. Maybe she was talking about the cucumbers—knew a good place to buy them? Or the neighbour from upstairs who’s selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Lorraine repeated, not turning around. That’s when the chill really hit him. Because in her tone, there wasn’t a trace of hysteria or accusation. None of what he’d dreaded—no tears, no broken crockery. Just a plain statement, as if she’d announced they were out of milk. Victor had been on this earth for fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of those with this woman. Knew her as well as his own hands: the mole on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkles her nose when tasting soup, the sigh she gives in the morning. But he had never heard that tone from her. “Lorraine—” he began, but his voice gave out. He coughed. Tried again. “Lorraine, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him for a long moment, calm, as if seeing him for the first time. Or rather, as if she was looking at an old photograph that had faded beyond recognition. “About, say… Marianne from Accounts,” she said. “2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. Not a figure of speech—he really felt as if he was floating, unsupported. God. Marianne?! He could hardly remember her face. There’d been something—at a work do? Or afterwards? Brief, nothing serious. He’d promised himself: never again. “And Sophie,” Lorraine continued, unruffled. “The one from the gym, who came up to you. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And how did she know about Sophie? Lorraine turned off the heat. Removed her apron—neatly, calmly, folded it in half. Sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I haven’t said anything?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak—because he couldn’t. “The first time,” Lorraine began, “was nearly ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Fridays especially. Came home cheerful, a spark in your eyes. Smelled of perfume.” She gave a humourless little smile. “I thought: maybe I’m imagining things? Maybe someone in the office got new perfume? Lied to myself for a whole month. Then I found the receipt in your jacket pocket—a dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. We’ve never even been to that restaurant, the two of us.” Victor wanted to say something—to explain, to lie, as he always did. But the words stuck in his throat. “You know what I did?” Lorraine looked him in the eyes. “Cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Greeted you with a smile. Didn’t say a word to our daughter—she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why let her know her dad…” She fell silent. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass. All men go through a midlife crisis—hormones, stupidity. He’ll come back, it’s fine. The main thing is the family stays together.” “Lorraine—” Victor forced out. “No,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He obeyed. “Then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone—never had a password. Thought I didn’t look? I read the messages. Those silly texts: ‘Miss you, bunny,’ ‘You’re the best.’ The photos—how you hugged them, grinned. Her voice faltered—but only for a moment. Then she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I’d ask myself: what’s the point? Why live with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted. “Lorraine, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love convenience. A tidy flat. A hot dinner. Ironed shirts. The kind of wife who doesn’t ask questions.” She stood up. Walked to the window. Stood, looking out into the darkness. “Do you know when I made my decision?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. She said, ‘Mum, you’re different. Quiet. Not yourself, somehow.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really don’t feel like myself. It’s been ten years since I lived for me.” Victor looked at her stiff, straight back—and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not might lose—he was losing. Here and now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he croaked. “Lorraine, please.” “But I do,” she answered simply. “The papers are in. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why now?!” Victor exploded. “Why not before?!” Lorraine turned. Looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then smiled, sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vic. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And for you, I was just… there. Always. Like air.” And that was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa—hunched, suddenly ten years older. Lorraine stood by the front door. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And a chasm. Huge, unbridgeable. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t,” she broke in. “You’ll manage. Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, stepped towards her. “Lorraine, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vic,” she raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what is it?” She paused. Gathering words—ones she’d wanted to say for years, but was afraid. Or didn’t know how. Or maybe just never thought she deserved to be heard. “You know how I felt? Every time you came back from one of your Mariannes or Sophies—I’d lie beside you and feel completely invisible. You didn’t even try to hide it! Your phone in plain sight. Shirts tossed into the laundry with lipstick on the collar. You honestly thought I was a fool. Blind.” Victor swayed, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean?” She stepped right up to him. There were tears glimmering—not of sorrow, but of fury. Years, decades of fury, finally breaking the surface. “You simply didn’t think of me at all. What did you think as you kissed someone else? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What difference does it make?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought of her. At all. Lorraine was just a given in his life. He was certain: she wasn’t going anywhere. She always would be. “You’d come home after your little adventures and feel fine. Because in your mind, nothing had changed. Wife—check. Family—check. All good.” She turned away. “But I wasn’t there. Not in your world. Not at all.” Victor stepped forward. Reached out—to touch her shoulder, to hold her, to keep her. Lorraine pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands instead. “Lorraine, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I swear it!” She looked at their entwined fingers. At his face—drawn, desperate. And suddenly understood: he really was afraid. Only not of losing her. He was afraid to be alone. “You know,” she said quietly, freeing her hands, “I was afraid too. Afraid to be alone. Without you. Without family. But you know what I realised?” She took her bag from the table. Keys. “I’ve already been alone. For years. With you beside me—but alone.” And headed for the door. Three weeks later. Victor sat in an empty flat—Lorraine had moved in with their daughter right after that conversation—and flicked through his phone. Marianne from Accounts. Sophie from the gym. Two, three other names in his contacts, once meaningful. He dialled Sophie’s number. She hung up. He texted Marianne—read, no reply. The rest didn’t even open it. Funny—when he was a married man, they’d all wanted to see him. Now, suddenly single… Nobody wanted him. He sat on that sofa, in a flat that now felt enormous and alien—and, for the first time in fifty-two years, truly felt alone. He picked up the phone again. Found “Lorraine.” Stared at the screen for a long time. His fingers trembled. Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then, finally, simply wrote: “Can I see you?” Reply came an hour later: “Why?” Victor paused. What could he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Pathetic. “I’ve changed”? A lie. He told the truth: “I want to start again. May I try?” Three dots flickered. Disappeared. Reappeared. Finally, a reply: “Come round on Saturday. To our daughter’s. Two o’clock. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would happen. Whether she’d forgive him. Whether she’d ever come back. If he even deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And, for the first time in years, felt truly ready to start afresh. If she’d let him. Should Lorraine have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted the truth and drawn the line at the first betrayal? What do you think?

I know about your little adventures, said his wife. Matthew went cold. No, he didnt flinch.

La vida

Olga Spent All Day Preparing to Celebrate the New Year: Cleaning, Cooking, and Setting the Table for Her First New Year Away from Her Parents and with Her Beloved for the First Time—But When Her Older, Penny-Pinching Boyfriend Tolik Showed Up Drunk with His Rowdy Mates, Her Dreams of a Romantic Night Collapsed, and She Learned Some Hard Truths About Love, Family, and Herself

Olivia had spent the whole day preparing for New Year’s Evecleaning, cooking, laying out the table

La vida

My Husband’s Family Forgot My 40th Birthday, So I Gave Them a Taste of Their Own Medicine: How I Finally Stood Up for Myself After Years of Being the Family Fixer

Why has my phone been silent all evening? I remember asking, swirling a glass of red by the fire.

La vida

VIC, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS PERSONALLY, BUT I WANT MY DAD TO WALK ME DOWN THE AISLE. HE’S MY REAL FATHER, AFTER ALL. A DAD’S A DAD. AND YOU… WELL, YOU KNOW, YOU’RE JUST MY MUM’S HUSBAND. IT’LL LOOK BETTER IN PHOTOS IF I’M WITH DAD. HE LOOKS SO DISTINGUISHED IN A SUIT. Victor paused, teacup in hand. He was fifty-five, with the calloused hands of a long-haul truck driver and an aching back. Opposite him sat Alina. The bride-to-be. Gorgeous. Twenty-two. Victor remembered her at five, when he first came into their lives—how she’d hidden behind the sofa and shouted, “Go away, you’re a stranger!” But he’d stayed. He taught her to ride a bike. Sat by her bed when she had chickenpox, while her mum Vera was exhausted. He paid for her braces—selling his motorcycle to do so. Paid her university fees—working double shifts and risking his health for it. And her “real dad”, Igor, came by every few months. Brought her a teddy bear, took her out for ice cream, told tall business tales and disappeared again. Never paid a penny in support. “Of course, Alinka,” Victor said softly, setting his cup down with a clink. “Real is real. I understand.” “You’re the best!” Alina kissed his bristly cheek. “By the way, the restaurant needs the rest of its deposit. Dad said he’d send it, but his accounts are frozen for some tax reason. Could you lend me a hundred grand or so? I’ll pay you back… from the wedding money.” Victor silently walked to the old sideboard, took an envelope from under a pile of linen. It was for repairs to his battered old Toyota. The engine was knocking, the overhaul overdue. “Take it. No need to pay me back. It’s my gift.” The wedding was extravagant. At a country club. A flower arch. An expensive master of ceremonies. Victor and Vera sat at the parents’ table. Victor wore his only suit, a bit tight in the shoulders. Alina was radiant. Down the aisle, Igor led her. Igor looked dashing: tall, tanned (just back from Turkey), in a razor-sharp tux. He strode proudly, smiled for the cameras, pretended to wipe away a tear. Guests whispered, “Such elegance! She’s her father’s image!” No one knew the tux was rented—paid for by Alina herself, secretly. At the banquet, Igor grabbed the microphone. “Daughter!” his baritone dripped honey. “I remember the first time I held you—you were a tiny princess. I always knew you deserved the best. May your husband carry you through life as I did!” Applause. Tears. Victor hung his head. He didn’t recall Igor ever carrying Alina—just not turning up to collect her from the hospital. As the party raged, Victor slipped out to smoke, his heart acting up from the noise and heat. Round the veranda in the shadow, voices drifted. Igor, speaking on his phone. “It’s all good, Serge! The wedding’s a blast. Suckers are paying, we’re just partying. Daughter? Sure, she turned out cute. I already chatted up her fiancé—wealthy, dad’s in the council. Hinted I could use some backing for my business—he’s biting. After the drinks I’ll squeeze him for a couple hundred thou ‘as a loan’. Alinka? She’s a lovesick fool, hero-worships her daddy. I threw her two compliments and she melted. Her mum, Vera, is there with her loser driver. Looks ancient. Man, glad I ditched her when I did.” Victor froze. His fists clenched. He wanted to smash that smug face. But he didn’t move—because he saw, in the ivy’s shadow, Alina herself. She’d stepped outside for air. She heard every word. Standing there, hand pressed to her lips, perfect make-up running. Staring at the “real dad” Giggling on the phone, calling her “a resource” and “idiot”. Igor ended the call, straightened his bow tie, beamed, and returned to the party. Alina slid down the wall, wedding dress crumpling on the dirty tiles. Victor came quietly. He didn’t say, “I told you so.” He didn’t gloat. He just took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. “Up you get, sweetheart. You’ll catch cold on the tiles.” Alina looked up, shame and heartbreak in her eyes—so raw she wished she could disappear. “Uncle Vic…” she whispered. “Dad… Vic… He…” “I know,” Victor said calmly. “Don’t worry, come on. It’s your wedding. The guests are waiting.” “I can’t go in!” she sobbed, smearing mascara. “I betrayed you! I invited him, shoved you in the corner! I’m so stupid. God, I’m so stupid.” “You’re not stupid. You just wanted a fairy tale,” Victor held out his hard, warm, rough hand. “But sometimes the ones writing fairy tales are crooks. Come on. Wash up, fix your nose, then go dance. Don’t let him see he broke you. This is your day, not his.” Alina re-entered, pale but holding her head high. The MC announced, “And now—the father-daughter dance!” Igor gleamed and strode out, arms wide. The hall fell silent. Alina took the microphone. Her hand shook but her voice was clear. “I want to change tradition,” she said. “My biological father gave me life, and I thank him for that. But a father–daughter dance isn’t just with the one who gave you life, it’s with the one who protected it. With the one who nursed my scraped knees. Taught me not to quit. Gave up everything so I could stand here in this dress.” She turned to the parents’ table. “Dad Vic. Come dance with me.” Igor froze, smile faltering mid-step. A ripple of whispers swept the room. Victor stood, red with embarrassment. He made his way out—awkward, pigeon-toed, suit too tight. Alina hugged him and pressed her face into his shoulder. “Forgive me, Daddy,” she whispered as they shuffled to the music. “Please forgive me.” “It’s all right, little one. It’s all right,” Victor soothed, stroking her back with his heavy, gentle hand. Igor stood a moment, realising the show was over, then quietly slunk to the bar, and before long slipped out of the reception altogether. Three years later. Victor lies in hospital. His heart ultimately failed him—a heart attack. He lies beneath a drip, weak and pale. The door opens. Alina enters, holding the hand of a tiny boy, not yet three. “Grandad!” shouts the little one, running to the bed. Alina sits beside Victor, kissing his calloused hand again and again. “Dad, we brought you oranges. And soup. The doctor says things look good—you just rest and don’t worry. We’ll get you back on your feet. I even booked a place for you at the spa.” Victor smiles. He doesn’t have millions. Only an old car and a bad back. But he’s the richest man in the world. Because he’s Dad—with no “step” in front of it. Life put everything in its place. Pity that sometimes the price of seeing clearly is humiliation and regret. But it’s better to realise it late than never: fatherhood isn’t about a name on a certificate, but about the hand that lifts you when you fall. The Moral: Don’t chase pretty packaging—inside it’s often empty. Value those who are quietly there for you on ordinary days, who give their shoulder without asking anything back. Because when the music ends and the party’s over, the only one left at your side is the one who genuinely loves you, not the one who just loves being in your spotlight. Did you have a stepdad who became closer than your real father? Or do you think blood is everything? 👇👨‍👧

Ben, please dont take this the wrong way. But I want my dad to walk me down the aisle. After all, hes

La vida

Two Columns She’d already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: “Can you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s running a temperature and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were wet from washing up; the touchscreen instantly blurred. She wiped her palms on the tea towel and glanced at her phone calendar. Tomorrow was the one evening she’d carved out just for herself—an early night, ignoring the world—ahead of a report due first thing, with her head already buzzing. She started typing, “I can’t, I have…”—then stopped. That familiar wave—guilt, almost nausea—rose inside her: say no and you’re letting someone down. You’re not the reliable one. She deleted her words and simply wrote, “Yes, I’ll cover,” and sent it. The kettle rumbled to a boil. She poured a mug of tea, sat down by the window, and opened a note she called “Good Things.” Today’s entry was already ready and waiting: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a full stop, then added a little plus sign at the end, as if it somehow balanced things out. This note had lived with her for nearly a year. She’d started it that January, during the empty lull that settles in after the Christmas holidays, needing proof that her days didn’t just melt into nothing. Back then she’d written: “Gave Mrs Peterson from upstairs a lift to the clinic.” Mrs Peterson, fifth floor, always walking slow with a bag of prescriptions, too nervous to brave the bus. She’d rung the doorbell, said, “You’re driving—could you take me? Otherwise I won’t make it.” So she took her, waited in the car while blood was drawn, drove her back. On the return she’d caught herself being irritable—late for work, everyone at the office already grumbling about queues and GPs. The irritation felt shameful, so she swallowed it and bought coffee at the petrol station. In her note, she logged it delicately, as if the act was pure, unmixed. In February, her son landed a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home, it’s no bother for you,” he said, not asking but assuming. The boy was lovely—loud, non-stop: “Watch, come play, let’s do…” She adored him, but by evening her hands trembled from exhaustion and her head rang like after a gig. After bedtime, she washed up, gathered toys into the box, only for them to spill out again at dawn. On Sunday, when her son returned, she admitted, “I’m worn out.” He smiled, as if it were a joke: “Well, you’re a grandma.” Kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” Next to it, a little heart, so it wouldn’t feel like just obligation. March—her cousin rang asking for money till payday. “I need it for medicine, you understand.” She did. She transferred the cash, didn’t ask when it would be paid back. Then sat in her kitchen, working out if she could get by till her next pay packet, shelving the new coat she’d long been eyeing. It wasn’t a luxury, just her old one’s elbows had worn shiny. In the note: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add, “Put myself on hold.” That felt too trivial to record. April, work—one of the girls, young, eyes red, locked herself in the loo and couldn’t come out. “He’s left me. No one needs me.” She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat on the stairs, paint smell clinging from the recent refit, as the girl repeated herself. She listened, in the dark, missing the back exercise the doctor had prescribed. At home she lay on the sofa, lower back throbbing, angry at the girl, angrier at herself—why can’t you ever say, “I have to go home”? In the note: “Sat with Katie, comforted her.” She used the girl’s name, somehow it felt warmer. Again, she left out, “Skipped something for myself.” In June: Drove a colleague—bags and all—to her allotment when her car broke down. The woman argued with her husband over speaker the whole way, never asked if it was convenient. She kept quiet. At the allotment, her colleague unloaded in a rush: “Thanks, you were going that way anyway.” She wasn’t, but got caught in traffic, missing her mother, who later sulked. Noted: “Gave Tanya a ride to her allotment.” “On the way” stung, and she stared at the screen, unmoving, until it dimmed. August, late night, mum called. Frail voice, anxious: “I don’t feel good, my blood pressure’s off, I’m scared.” She jumped up, pulled on a jacket, ordered a taxi across the sleeping city. The flat was stifling, empty pill packets everywhere. She checked the pressure, gave medication, sat with her mum until she dozed. Next morning, straight to work, no time to go home. On the Tube her eyes closed, terrified of missing her stop. The note: “Went to mum’s in the night.” She nearly put an exclamation mark, then erased it—it felt like shouting. By autumn, her list had grown long as a roll of till receipts, endlessly scrolling. The longer it got, the more she felt that she wasn’t living, just submitting a report. As if any love coming her way came with a receipt, and she saved them all in case anyone asked, “So what have you actually done?” She tried recalling if she’d ever logged something just for her—not “for her,” but “because of her.” The entries were all about others: their pain, their needs, their plans. Her wants looked like selfish whims—best hidden. October brought a sharper scene, quiet but wounding. She’d brought documents her son needed printing; stood in his hallway, folder in hand. He was searching for keys, talking on the phone. The grandson zoomed around, yelling for cartoons. Son half-covered the receiver, tossed out, “Mum, since you’re here, fancy popping by the shops? We need milk and bread—I won’t have time.” She answered, “Actually, I’m tired too.” He didn’t look up, just shrugged: “You can though. You always can.” Then carried on talking. Those words were a seal: not a question, just a statement of fact. Something hot pooled inside her—shame that she wanted to say no, that she suddenly didn’t want to be agreeable. Still, she bought the bread, the milk, threw in apples—her grandson’s favourite. Delivered them, heard the monotone, “Thanks, Mum,” like a headmaster’s tick in a register. She smiled the way she always did and headed home. At home, she logged: “Picked up shopping for my son.” And stared at the line. Her hands shook not from tiredness but from anger. Suddenly, she saw the list was no longer support—it was a leash. November: She finally booked a GP appointment—her back worse now, can’t stand long in the kitchen. Booked it online, Saturday morning, to avoid asking for time off. Friday evening, mum rang: “You coming round? Need the chemist, and anyway, I’m lonely.” She said, “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” Her mum paused, then sighed, “Alright. I suppose I don’t matter.” That line always worked. She’d launch into apologies, promises, shuffle her priorities. This time she opened her mouth—to say she’d come after—but stopped. It wasn’t stubbornness, just weariness; her life, she realised, had weight too. Quietly she said, “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need the doctor’s, it’s important.” Her mum sighed, wounded, “Alright then,” full of disappointment, pressure, habit. Sleep came badly that night—dreams of running office corridors with folders, doors slamming. In the morning, she made herself porridge, took the painkillers that had sat too long in the cupboard, and headed out. At the surgery, waiting, she listened to strangers chat about blood tests and pensions—not thinking about diagnoses, but about how brave it felt, doing something for herself. Afterwards, she made her promised stop at her mum’s, picking up medicine along the way. Her mum met her with silence, then at last, “So, did you go?” She replied, “I did. It was important.” Mum examined her closely—as if, for a moment, she was a person, not an extra pair of hands. Then turned away, walked to the kitchen. That evening, home again, she felt an unfamiliar relief in her chest—not joy, but space. December now—year almost done—she realised she was looking to weekends not for a breather, but a chance. Saturday morning, another message from her son: “Could you take the grandson for a couple of hours? We’re busy.” Her fingers hovered, ready to type “yes.” She sat on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand. The flat quiet, just the radiator ticking. She remembered her plan for the day: head to town, visit the new art exhibit she’d kept postponing. To walk amongst paintings in silence—no one asking about lost socks or dinner. She replied: “Sorry, I can’t today. I’ve got plans.” Sent it at once, phone face down—easier that way. His reply came in a minute: “Alright, you upset with me?” Another: “Are you cross?” She turned it over, read, and felt the familiar urge to explain, to soften the blow, to justify. Instead of the long answer—tired, needing time for herself—she kept it simple: explanations always became bargaining, and she didn’t want to haggle for her own life. She wrote, “No. It’s just important to me,” and nothing else. She got herself ready calmly, like clocking into a shift. Checked the iron, windows, purse, train card. Waited at the bus stop among shoppers, suddenly struck by freedom—nobody to rescue, right now. Unusual, not frightening. The museum was slow and golden. She lingered before portraits, hands, light in painted glass. It felt like relearning attention—not for others’ needs, but for her own. Coffee in the small café, a postcard with a print, rough paper pleasant under her fingertips. When she got home she left her phone in her bag, didn’t check it straight away. Hung up her coat, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Then, at last, sat down and opened her “Good Things” note. Scrolled down to today. She looked at the empty line a long while. Then pressed “plus” and wrote: “Visited the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then did something new. At the top, she split the list into two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” There was only one entry in the “For Myself” column so far, but it was something essential, straightening inside her like a realigned spine. No need to prove to others she was good; she only needed to remember she was here. The phone buzzed again; she didn’t rush. Poured tea, took a sip, only then checked. A short message from her mum: “How are you?” She replied, “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” Then added, before sending, “I was busy today.” Sent it, put the phone down, screen up. The room was quiet, but the silence didn’t press in. It was space, at last, she’d made for herself.

Two Columns She has already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when her managers message pops

La vida

011

Who Slept in My Bed and Left It in a Mess… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Barely Older Than My Daughter — Chubby Baby Cheeks, Naive Eyes, a Nose Piercing (the Same Kind My Daughter Wanted, and He Furiously Forbade). I Couldn’t Even Be Mad at Her — As I Looked at Her Bare, Bluish Legs and Short Jacket, I Wanted to Snark: “If You’re Planning to Have Kids with that Idiot, Get Yourself a Warm Coat and Wear Tights under Your Jeans.” But I Kept Quiet. I Simply Handed Arina the Keys, Grabbed My Two Bags of Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mrs. Harris, What’s That Thing Under the Kitchen Counter?” the Girl Called After Me, “Is it for Storing Dishes?” I Couldn’t Resist and Tossed Back, “I Usually Hide My Husband’s Lovers’ Bodies in There, But You’re Welcome to Wash Plates.” Without Waiting for an Answer or Even Looking at Arina’s Frightened Face, I Walked Down the Stairs Pleased with Myself. Well then — that’s it, twenty years of marriage down the drain. It was my daughter who first discovered that Henry was cheating. She’d skipped classes, expecting nobody to be home, and stumbled upon a young nymph sipping cocoa from her favourite mug. With barely any clothes on the nymph, and Dad splashing in the shower, my clever daughter, Ellie, quickly put two and two together and rang me: “Mum, I think Dad’s got a mistress, and she’s wearing my slippers and drinking from my mug!” Just like in a fairy tale, I thought, remembering Ellie was more upset about her things being touched than Dad’s betrayal. Who slept in my bed and crumpled it… Unlike my daughter, I took it all in stride. Of course my pride was wounded — the girl was young and beautiful, while I had extra pounds, cellulite, and all the not-so-kind badges of a forty-something woman. But really, I felt relief — after all those years of mysterious late-night calls, erratic schedules, coffee shop receipts (never for me!), and not once had I caught him red-handed. Henry was so slick that I ended up feeling guilty for suspecting him. “It’s the first time,” Henry brazenly lied. “I don’t know, some eclipse, like a comet fell out of the sky.” The “comet” turned out to be a hotel worker from Henry’s business trip. She was twenty, with nothing to offer but a pretty face — and apparently not much sense, because she chased Henry to London and rented a grim bedsit with her savings. That’s why they met at our flat — with hot water and the washing machine. No wonder my quick wash was always on instead of “mixed fabrics!” The flat belonged to Henry, left to him by his father before marriage, and since I’d decided to file for divorce, my daughter and I moved out to my grandmother’s old council flat on the outskirts. Ellie was appalled — how would she get to college? “Well, why don’t you stay with us then?” Henry suggested, earning fresh insults. At least my daughter could tell him what she really thought now. At first it was a pain — new routes, shops, an hour’s journey to work and school. But we got used to it — I found a new job, Ellie applied to a nearby college, halving her commute. There wasn’t time to dwell on sadness — everyday problems and exams kept us busy, and when life settled down, we didn’t feel like mourning at all. Arina called me several times — to ask about baking settings and the dishwasher tablets. Once, she even came round carrying forgotten photos needed for graduation. Henry couldn’t manage it (or was afraid), I was out with a cold, and Ellie flatly refused to enter the old flat, sure it would wreck her mental health (she still had computer science exams). “It’s rather cosy,” Arina murmured, surveying the faded wallpaper and dated lamps. I smirked — yes, cosy, what else can you say? There, everything was modern and convenient. I spent twenty years building up that home. Let them have it. That visit, though, would come back to bite me. About a year after the infamous day, one night, the door lock clicked. “Expecting anyone?” I asked Ellie. She just stared. Arina stood in the doorway, mascara streaked down her cheeks, clutching a sports bag. “Has something happened with Henry?” I worried. “Something did!” Arina sobbed. “I caught him with the secretary! Wanted to surprise him since he said he was working late…” She broke down, crying like a child, hidden in her hands. “So what do you expect from me?” I asked, eyeing the bulky bag. “Could I stay here tonight? I haven’t any money. I’ll take the train to my mum’s in the morning.” “How will you travel if you’ve no money?” “I hoped you’d lend me some.” I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Ellie made the choice for me. “Why don’t you get out!” she sneered, adding a string of words she’d never used in front of me before. I gave her a stern look. “Come in, Arina,” I said. “It’s late. I’m not about to turn you out on the street.” From there, things got worse. Ellie was so furious she declared — it’s her or me. I shrugged, her choice, she’s an adult now. If she wanted, she could go to her father. “Oh, as if! I’ll stay at Nat’s!” We got her a taxi to her friend’s. Then I played host to a regretful mistress who had no friends, no job, just another piercing — in her tongue this time. I lent Arina money for the train, what else could I do? Even drove her to the station so she wouldn’t get lost. Arina thanked me for ages, asked forgiveness, and promised to sort her life out, go study, stop messing with married men. “Mum says I’m hopeless. She was right, I guess.” I didn’t see her off at the train — it was unnecessary. I reconciled with Ellie soon, though she couldn’t fathom how I could let “the homewrecker” stay. I stroked her soft hair, smiled and said: “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” Henry rang a week later. Said he’d seen the error of his ways, kicked out Arina, and was ready for a happy reunion. “Run out of clean shirts?” I asked, biting back. “Well, yeah…” my ex sighed. “Besides, she can’t wash — I’ve spent a year in greasy ones.” Obviously, I didn’t go back. Nor did I gloat. But I couldn’t help noticing that, after all this, my spirits had lifted: I felt lighter in head and heart, smiled more often. I got a dog, walked him in the evenings. Met a nice neighbour — so what if he’s ten years older, I’m not a girl myself. And life rolled on as it should.

Whos been lying on my bed and crumpled it A Story. My husbands lover was barely older than our daughterround

La vida

A Parent’s Unbreakable Love: An Emotional Taxi Ride, a Heartfelt Family Gathering, and the Fierce Instinct to Protect When Danger Strikes

Ellie let out an exhausted yet contented sigh as she bundled her two little ones into the back seat of the taxi.

La vida

I Miss Him—I’ve Never Missed Anyone Like This Before, Even Though I Wasn’t Truly Happy With Him and There Were Things I Didn’t Like: From a Facebook Encounter, Late-Night Messages, and a Park Hug That Felt Like Home, to Unraveling Truths, Financial Strains, and Painful Goodbyes—My Honest Story of Loving, Learning, and Letting Go

I miss him. Ive honestly never missed anyone in this way before, and I cant put my finger on why especially

La vida

012

“I Know All About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Ice-Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn pale – though inside, everything crumpled tight, like a piece of paper balled up before being tossed away. He just froze. Larissa stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. A typical scene – her back to her husband, polka-dot apron, the smell of fried onions. A homey picture. Cosy. But her voice was pure newsreader – calm, steady. Victor actually wondered: had he misheard? Maybe she’d said something about the cucumbers – like she knew where to buy the good ones? Or about the neighbour on the third floor selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Larissa repeated, not turning around. Now that chilled him for real. Because in her tone there was no hysteria, no resentment. None of what he’d always feared: no tears, no accusations, no smashed crockery. Just a statement of fact. She might as well have said the milk was finished. Victor had lived fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of them – with this woman. He knew her as if she were as familiar as his own hand: the mole on her left shoulder, how she wrinkled her nose when tasting soup, the way she sighed in the mornings. But he’d never heard this tone from her. “Lar—” he started, but his voice failed. He coughed. Tried again. “Larissa, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him – long and quietly, as if seeing him for the first time. Or perhaps more like looking at an old photograph, faded, where nothing is really clear anymore. “About Marina, for example,” she said. “From your accounts department. 2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground vanish from beneath his feet. No, it wasn’t a figure of speech – the ground truly fell away, and he was just left suspended. God. Marina?! He could barely recall her face. There had been something – the office party, maybe? Or after? Quick. Nothing serious. He’d even promised himself: never again. “And about Sveta,” Larissa continued calmly. “Who approached you at the gym. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. How did she even know about Sveta? Larissa switched off the hob. Took off her apron – neatly, unhurriedly, folded it in half. Sat at the table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I’ve kept quiet all this time?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak – but because he simply couldn’t. “The first time,” Larissa began, “I noticed about ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Especially on Fridays. You came home cheerful, eyes bright. Smelling of perfume. She smirked – bitterly, joylessly. “I thought then, maybe I imagined it? Maybe someone at the office had new perfume? I convinced myself for a whole month. And then I found the restaurant receipt in your jacket pocket. Dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. You and I never went there. Victor wanted to say something – to defend himself, to lie, as usual. But the words stuck somewhere between his stomach and throat. “Do you know what I did?” Larissa looked him in the eye. “I cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Met you with a smile. Didn’t say anything to our daughter – she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why should she know her father… She trailed off. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass by itself. Men are all like that – midlife crisis, hormones, silly mistakes. He’ll come back – and that’s fine. The main thing is the family’s intact. “Lar…” Victor forced out. “Don’t,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He fell quiet. “And then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone – never had a password. Did you think I never checked? I read your messages. Those stupid texts: ‘Miss you, bunny’, ‘You’re the best’. I saw the photos – hugging them, smiling. Her voice wavered – for the first time all conversation. But she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I kept asking myself: why am I putting up with this? Why keep living with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted out. “Larissa, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love the convenience. The clean flat. Hot dinners. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesn’t ask awkward questions.” She stood. Walked to the window. Stared into the darkness. “Do you know when I finally made up my mind?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. And she said, ‘Mum, you’re acting strange lately. Quiet. Like you’re not yourself anymore.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really am not myself anymore. I haven’t lived for myself in years. Victor stared at her back – straight, tense – and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not “could lose” – was losing. Right now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said hoarsely. “Larissa, please.” “I do,” she replied simply. “I’ve already filed the papers. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why?!” Victor erupted. “Why now?!” Larissa turned. Looked at him – long and hard. And smiled. Sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vitya. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And I was just there, to you. Always. Like air.” And it was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa – slumped, suddenly ten years older. Larissa stood in the hallway doorway. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And an abyss. Huge, unbridgeable. “You do know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t be lost, you’ll go on,” she cut in. “Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, took a step toward her. “Larissa, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vitya,” she raised her hand to stop him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what?” She paused. Gathering her words – the ones she’d meant to say years ago, but was afraid to. Or didn’t know how. Or never thought she was worth being heard. “Do you know how it felt? Always, when you came home after another ‘Marina’ or ‘Sveta’ – I’d lie next to you and feel like nothing. You never even really tried to hide it! Didn’t bother with your phone. Put shirts in the wash with her lipstick on the collar. You thought I was thick. Or blind. Victor sagged, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean to?” She stepped right up to him. Her eyes blazed – but not with tears. With fury. Years of pent-up, bursting fury. “You just never thought about me. Did you, when you kissed another? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What does it matter?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought about her. At all. Larissa was simply a given in his life. He always assumed: she’d never leave. She’d always be there. “You’d come home after your little so-called affairs – and nothing changed for you. Wife at home. Family whole. Everything fine. She turned away. “But I didn’t exist. Not in your world. Not at all. Victor stepped closer. Reached out – to touch her shoulder, to hug, to keep her. Larissa pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands. “Larissa, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I’ll be different!” She looked down at their entwined fingers. At his face – twisted, terrified. And suddenly realised: he really was afraid. But not of losing *her*. He was afraid of being alone. “You know,” she said softly, freeing her hands, “I was scared, too. Of being alone. Without you. Without a family. But you know what I’ve realised?” She picked up her bag from the table. The keys. “I already am alone. Have been for years. With you – but alone.” And she walked to the door. Three weeks passed. Victor sat in the empty flat – Larissa moved in with their daughter immediately after that conversation – and scrolled through his phone. Marina from accounts. Sveta from the gym. Two, three more names in his contacts who’d once meant something. He tried Sveta’s number. She rejected the call. He texted Marina – read, no reply. The rest didn’t even view the messages. Funny – when he’d had a family, they all wanted to see him. And now, when he was supposedly free… No one wanted him at all. He sat on the sofa, in this flat, which suddenly seemed vast and alien, and for the first time in fifty-two years felt truly, deeply alone. He got his phone again. Found “Larissa”. Stared at the screen for ages. His hands shook. He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then just wrote: “Can we meet?” Reply came after an hour: “Why?” Victor thought. What should he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Ridiculous. “I’ve changed”? A lie. So he typed the truth: “I want to start over. Can we try?” Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Appeared again. And then came the answer: “Come on Saturday. To our daughter’s. At two. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would come of it. If she’d forgive. If she’d return. If he really deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And for the first time in years, felt ready to start again. If she allowed it. Should Larissa have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted him and drawn the line back at the first sign of infidelity? What’s your view?

I know about your affairs, said his wife. Robert froze. No, he didnt flinch. He didnt turn pale though

La vida

The Waiter Rushed Over and Offered to Take the Kitten Away, But the Six-Foot-Tall Man Gently Picked Up the Crying, Fluffy Baby and Set It on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And the Finest Meat, Please!” “Let’s wear something bold, almost nymph-like, and go to an exclusive restaurant—just to show off and size up the men…” declared one of the three friends, a confident headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school. These “nymphs” were thirty-five, the very age—so they believed—for short skirts and stylish blouses that revealed more than they hid: plunging necklines, flawless makeup—the full power look. They picked a fitting restaurant: posh, top-tier, seriously expensive. Booking a table was easy for them. Seated comfortably, they immediately soaked up admiring glances from men and openly jealous ones from their dates. Predictably, all conversation revolved around what mattered most—men. Dreams, expectations, and strict criteria: tall, fit, attractive, well-off, devoted but never dull, someone who would spoil them and take care of everything. Royal lineage? Absolute perfection. “Just not like them…” they exchanged glances and nodded toward three cheerful, slightly portly, balding men. Beer, chips, and mountains of steak filled their table; the talk was football and fishing, and laughter—loud and sincere—filled the room. “Awful.” “So tacky.” “Ugh.” Their verdict was unanimous: rough, unrefined, totally unsuitable for such glamorous ladies. But then, everything in the restaurant changed in an instant. He walked in—a man arriving in a brand-new scarlet Ferrari. “Lord Coburg Cold Saxon!” announced the maître d’ at the entrance. The friends perked up, hunting-dog alert for opportunity. Tall, fit, salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a bespoke suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks; crisp, immaculate shirt. The whole package. “Oh…” “This is it…” “Mmm…” Their necklines dipped a bit deeper, eyes growing bolder. “Now that’s a man,” whispered one. “A lord, a millionaire,” sighed another. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since I was a little girl.” The third’s eyes said what words could not. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lord’s table. They swept over, oozing regal indifference, especially toward the trio of beer drinkers. The lord was charming, fielding witty social conversation, sharing stories from his ancient lineage, ancestral castles, and art collections. But tension rose—all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The mood broke as dishes arrived: lobster, luxury seafood platters, antique wine. The ladies dined, sending longing glances and dreaming far beyond the restaurant. Flushed, radiant, alluring. The lord glowed too—joking, dazzling, the centre of upper-class tales. At that point, no one cared where the night would go. There was a small garden near the restaurant. The mouthwatering aroma had spilled outside, attracting a skinny, hungry little grey kitten who slunk between tables and settled at the lord’s feet, begging for attention. To no avail. The lord’s face twisted in disgust; he kicked the kitten, sending it flying into the leg of the table where the three men sat. Silence fell. “I can’t stand dirty, mongrel animals,” the lord declared loudly. “My estate is for pedigree hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter hurried to smooth things over: “We’ll sort this out right away, apologies…” He walked toward the beer table, but one man—a giant, nearly six feet tall, face red and fists clenched—had already risen, friends trying to restrain him. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and set it into a chair. “A plate for my furry companion!” he boomed. “The finest meat. Now.” The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen. From the tables came a round of applause. One of the “nymphs” silently stood, walked to the giant, and said, “Move over—order a lady a whisky.” The lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two joined them, shooting the lord a disdainful look. People left the restaurant in new groups—three together: man, woman, and kitten. Time passed. Today, the first friend is married—to that gentle giant, owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his friends, renowned lawyers. All three weddings celebrated together. Now life for the former “nymphs” is all nappies, cooking, cleaning—and daughters, born almost at once. And to escape to their favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the nanny, and reunite for a proper girls’ night: to chat about the big topic…men. A year later, Lord Coburg Cold Saxon was arrested—a notorious con artist preying upon naive women. Real men, thankfully, are nothing like that. I mean those three—paunchy, balding, no glamour or pretence, but truly noble hearts. That’s how it is. There’s no other way.

The waiter dashed over and offered to take the kitten away. But a towering man scooped up the whimpering