La vida

A Mothers Heart I sat at the kitchen table, right in my usual spot, feeling the simple comfort of being home.

In Pursuit of a Mistress — “Vera, what are you doing?” her husband Roman gaped as she handed him a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. — “Nothing much. While you’re lazing about, all the mistresses are being snapped up.” Vera pulled the duvet off him, sending goosebumps racing over poor, defenseless Roman. — “What are you talking about?” — “After the things you said last night, about the day not being far off when you’d get yourself a mistress, I’ve made a decision. The hour is upon us, Roman. It’s half-past five: time to get up and head to your naughty front line.” — “I was joking! We just had a row, remember? I’m sorry, I was out of line.” — “Oh no, you were completely right. It’s me who’s to blame. I let the fire of passion between us fizzle out. Used up all the petrol myself. Now there’s nothing but ash — can’t even grill a potato, let alone ignite a flame. I am rectifying this. Up you get.” — “Are you kicking me out?” — “I’m whipping you into shape. You’ll work out every day until you shake that spare tyre off. A mistress isn’t a wife — she won’t keep a Michelin mascot by her side. Up, I said!” Accepting he was beaten, Roman dutifully rolled out of bed and, in penitence, wriggled into his shorts over his boxers. — “Remind me to get you some proper trunks. In those parachutes, I’m afraid a single gust will carry you right off the lover’s bed.” After ten minutes jogging round the house under his wife’s beady eye, a breathless Roman collapsed indoors and, gripping the floor with his teeth, began to drag himself towards the sanctuary of his bed. — “Where are you slithering off to?” Vera blocked his path. — “I want to die on the mattress, in my sleep.” — “No dying, we’re looking for a mistress, not a coroner. Off to the shower. Twice a day, minimum. You couldn’t spare me, so for heaven’s sake, spare your new friend your natural aromas. And from now on, you brush morning and night!” came her voice, already halfway to the bathroom. “Scrub your head well — we’re off to the photo studio today.” — “Why?” — “To get a proper photo for the dating site. I can’t take it myself, I know you too well — the lens would still see a rigger, the king of pints, and a connoisseur of fried pasta with butter. We need a shot of an alpha male.” — “Vera, seriously, can we stop now?” — “Don’t waste all that wordplay — save it for the ears of tender young damsels. Now, let’s pick a candidate.” Roman perked up — he enjoyed browsing profiles as a harmless fantasy, and now, officially allowed, he could do so with impunity. He began pointing. — “How about her?” — “Are you joking?” — “What’s wrong?” — “Roman, I’m supposed to feel ashamed of myself next to your mistress, not for you. Just look! Even your old Mini looked better before trade-in. She’d need a sign: Caution, Facade Elements Prone to Detach.” — “Then what about her?” — “Her? Oh heavens, Roman! What will people think if my husband cheats with anyone he can get? Now this — this is a good option!” — “No way, she’d never answer me…” — “Honestly… Remind me, how did I fall for such an insecure guy? What was it that kept us together for fifteen years?” — “My sense of humour?” Roman ventured. — “Let’s be honest — if laughter truly extended life, your jokes would’ve widowed me on the honeymoon. Let’s not tempt fate finding out. Come, we’ll buy you a suit — we’ll fish for a mistress bait-and-tackle style.” — “Enough, Vera, can’t we just make up?” — “Where do you see a fight? Having a mistress is a sign of success. And being the wife of a successful man is a status. Frankly, one mistress won’t be enough…” In the shopping centre, Vera steered Roman to the priciest shop and emptied all the mannequins en route. — “Vera, these trousers and this jacket cost as much as winter tyres,” he protested as she pushed him into the fitting room. — “Don’t worry — we’ll get you rubbers at the pharmacy too, any kind you want, summer or winter, and with double protection. I don’t want any stray bouquets in this house.” — “Vera!” — “What, Vera? Safety above all! We’re not picking a scooter here — it’s the hypotenuse for our obtuse triangle.” — “Have you called your boss?” — “About what?” Roman asked, wrestling his arm into the blazer. — “Financial matters, obviously. You’ll need a raise now. How else will you support two ladies? I’m fine with cabbage soup, but a mistress? There’s a formula: one dinner out, three glasses of wine, five stars in the hotel — skimp on anything and the whole foundation collapses.” Roman finally straightened his tie. — “Handsome — just like our wedding day,” sniffed his wife. — “It suits you,” confirmed a neighbouring customer. — “Are you taking him? He’s on the hunt for a mistress.” — “No thanks, I’ve already got three,” she smiled wickedly. — “Don’t even think of picking her, Roman,” Vera warned, “We need someone loyal — like a debit card to another bank: safe for a discreet transfer. Now, to the perfume counter, let’s give you a few spritzes before you’re released into the wild.” They wandered the mall another hour before Vera nodded with satisfaction. — “All right Roman, you’re ready. Even without a photo. Now go and remember everything I taught you — be as suave and confident as you were when you sold the Mini.” Vera went home to make soup. Roman set off in search of the mistress for whom he’d trained all day. An hour later, the intercom buzzed at Vera’s flat. — “Good afternoon, my sweet lady. Is your husband at home?” The velvet, smouldering voice was unfamiliar but thrilling. — “Oh!” Vera gasped, as the ladle slipped from her hands. “No, he’s gone to his mistress.” — “May I come up? I have something rather special to propose.” From the suggestive tone, Vera’s temperature soared then plummeted — she nearly reached for the Night Nurse, but instead, buzzed the visitor in thrice. Within three minutes, Roman appeared at the door holding a lush red bouquet, ushering Vera by the waist. The little hallway suddenly felt very warm. — “Were you crying?” Roman asked, noticing her red eyes. — “A little. Thought I’d mucked things up but turns out, they were just what we needed — for the fire.” — “So, are you up for an evening with a charming, witty companion?” Roman’s eyes burned with hunger and possibly 50ml of brandy’s courage. “I’ll take you to a restaurant and tell the dazzling story of your beauty. True-life narrative — you’ll love it.” — “I w-w-want to,” Vera stammered, joining the game. “Just let me take my soup off the stove and fix my lashes.” — “I’ll call us a cab,” Roman winked. — “Where shall we go?” Vera grinned from ear to ear. — “Five-star restaurant!” — “There aren’t any here — just a ‘Five Cheese’ pizzeria.” — “Then pizza it is! Only the best for my mistress.” — “What if your wife gets jealous?” — “We’ll do our utmost to make sure she does,” Roman winked mischievously.

IN SEARCH OF A MISTRESS Beatrice, whats going on? Henry gawked at his wife as she tossed him a pair of

La vida

The House on the Edge of Town

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La vida

Hope Leonardovna’s Sudden Illness Left Her Alone—Her Daughters Didn’t Visit, Only Granddaughter Natalie Cared for Her. But with Easter Approaching, Her Daughters Returned for Country Delicacies—This Time, Hope Met Them at the Gate with Cold Words: “Why Are You Here?” Stunned, Svetlana Asked, “Mum, What’s Gotten Into You?” Hope Replied, “That’s It, My Dears! I’ve Sold the Whole Farm…” “What? What About Us?” Her Daughters Didn’t Understand What Was Happening.

So, Mary Leonard just became suddenly ill the other week. Not one of her daughters came around to see

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James, I dont understand you. Have you lost your mind? What do you mean, youre leaving? I mean exactly that.

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Simon Harper had decided, against my wishes, to send our boy to his grandmas in the country.

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I took my dear friend Eleanor into my home after her divorce, and as the years slipped by I slowly found

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There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged to the rusty garden gate, fumbled with the ancient lock, and finally stepped inside her chilly old cottage, settling wearily on a chair beside the cold hearth. The house, closed up for three months, smelled unlived-in—dusty ceilings strung with fresh cobwebs, a mournful creak from the antique stool, the wind howling down the chimney—her old home seemed to complain: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave in charge? How will we get through the winter? “Wait a bit, my dear. Let me catch my breath, I’ll light the fire and we’ll be warm again…” Just a year ago, Granny Val bustled around: touching up the paint, fetching water, bowing before her icons, tending the stove, and whirling through the garden, planting and watering. The house had come alive with her—floorboards chirping under her brisk steps, doors and windows springing open to her touch, the oven working overtime baking delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She’d buried her husband early, raised three children on her own, saw them all educated and settled. One son was now a sea captain, the other an army colonel, both living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed nearby in the village, serving as chief agronomist—always at work, popping by on Sundays for quick visits and a taste of Val’s famous pies. Her granddaughter, Svetlana—sworn by all the village as a true beauty, with striking grey eyes and long, golden, wavy hair—was her greatest comfort. Svetlana studied in the city and returned as an agricultural economist, married the local vet, and with a special social programme, moved into a sturdy new brick house—a veritable manor by village standards. But while Val’s garden flourished, Svetlana’s was bare—she wasn’t made for growing things, kept too gentle by her grandmother, and soon the arrival of a son, Vasya, left no time for gardening. Svetlana urged her grandmother to move in with them: the new house was modern, no stove to light, plenty of room. At 80, Val’s once-nimble legs finally faltered, and she agreed. But after a while, Svetlana despaired: “Granny, I love you—but you’re always sitting! I’d hoped you’d help me around the house!” “My legs aren’t what they were, dear…” “Strange, you only got ‘old’ when you came to me!” So, not living up to expectations, Val was sent back home, disheartened and sick from guilt over failing her beloved granddaughter. Now even shuffling between bed and table was a struggle; going to church was impossible. Father Boris, who’d long depended on Val’s help at the historic village church, began visiting her at home. Spotting her shivering in an old cardigan and scuffed slippers, he sighed—Granny needed looking after. He recruited Anna, a sturdy neighbour, and soon the cottage warmed up—Father Boris fetched wood, made tea, wrote her sons’ addresses on envelopes when her shaky hand couldn’t. Her letters boasted, “I’m doing very well, my dear son. Thank God, I have everything I need!” But the pages were smeared with teardrops. Life adjusted. Anna checked in, her husband old sailor Pete ferried Val to services. Svetlana, heartbroken, fell seriously ill and within months, cancer claimed her. Her husband took to her grave, leaving four-year-old Vasya neglected and hungry, until Tamara intervened. But with work and little time, Vasya was set for a local boarding school—well run, but no substitute for home. That’s when Granny Val turned up, delivered by sailor Pete. “I’ll take Vasya,” she declared. “Mum, you can barely walk! You can’t manage a child!” “While I’m alive, he’s not going to an orphanage.” The usually gentle Val’s firm words left Tamara no argument. Neighbours whispered, “She must be losing her mind—she needs looking after herself, and now she’s taken on a child!” Father Boris visited, fearing the worst, but found warmth and laughter: Vasya, clean and content, listened to tales on the old gramophone, while Grannie Val, lively and quick, whipped up curd buns just as she once did. Back at home, Father Boris relayed the miracle to his wife, Alexandra, who responded with a story of her great-grandmother Vera: on her deathbed, Vera overheard her newborn great-granddaughter cry and, against all odds, got up, cared for the baby, and lived ten more years, “because there was still work to be done at home.” As the old song goes: “It’s not our time to go—there’s still work to be done at home!” And Father Boris smiled in agreement.

There are always things yet to be done at home… Old Mrs. Mabel wrestled with the stubborn garden

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“Who Do You Think You Are to Tell Me What to Do!?” – When Stepmother-in-Law Zoya Threw a Rag in Tamara’s Face: Living in Her House, Eating Her Food, Every Day Became a Battlefield. Three Months Married, Already Treated as an Outcast with a Child. When Stepan Stood Up for His Wife, Zoya Snapped: “Now You’re Siding Against Your Own Mother?” – The Struggle of Finding a Home, Building a Life, and Discovering True Family Despite All Odds

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The Irreplaceable Gem

Eleanor Whitaker first laid eyes on Andrew Clarke at the office. Hed turned up for a job interview in