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Stepping Into the Flat, Olivia Froze: Next to Her and Ivan’s Shoes Stood Expensive High Heels—She Instantly Recognized Them as Ivan’s Sister’s. Why Was She Here? Ivan Never Mentioned a Visit. By Evening, Olivia Overheard a Conversation Revealing Painful Secrets About Foiled Relationships, Jealous Plans, and a Future Suddenly Pulled Out From Under Her—Would Ivan Choose Love, Stability, Or Family Ties?

As I stepped into the flat, a hush fell around me. At the doorway, neatly lined up beside my shoes and

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I Will Always Be with You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You’ll Find Yourself Believing

Ill always be with you, Mum. A Story You Can Believe Evelyn, affectionately known as Nan to most on Ashcroft

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Open Up, We’re Here! Or Not: When Auntie Natasha and Family Decide to Move In—But Julia Has Other Plans

Open up, we’ve arrived “Emily, it’s Aunt Margaret!” The voice on the phone shimmered

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Stepping into the Flat, Olivia Froze: By the Door, Next to Her and Ivan’s Shoes, Stood a Pair of Designer High Heels She Recognised Instantly—Ivan’s Sister’s. Why Was She Here, When Ivan Hadn’t Mentioned a Visit? The Day Suddenly Unravelled, With a Conversation Over Cocoa, Old Flames, and the Bitter Truth About Love, Exes, and Whether Their Marriage Was Built on Revenge or Something Real

As I stepped into the flat, I paused. By the doorway, neatly lined up beside my and Johns shoes, sat

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The Taste of Freedom — We finished the renovation last autumn, — began Vera Ignatievna’s story. For ages, we discussed wallpaper choices, vigorously debated bathroom tile colours, and smiled remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed of owning this very three-bedroom flat. “Well,” my husband said with satisfaction as we celebrated the end of our home improvement saga, “now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his bride here, they’ll have kids, and our home will finally be lively and full.” But his dreams weren’t meant to come true. Our eldest daughter, Kate, returned home with two suitcases and two children. “Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she said, and with those words, all our plans vanished. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t protest—just shrugged: “It’s fine, I’ll have my own place soon.” “Own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat—the one with the lovely renovation we rented out to a young family. Each month, the modest yet vital sum appeared on our account—a “safety cushion” for the day when my husband and I might become frail and unwanted. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée, Lara, passing that building, craning their necks and discussing something animatedly. Of course, I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. And one day I overheard: “Mrs. Green, Misha proposed! We’ve even picked out a venue! Imagine—they have a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden…” “So, where will you live afterwards?” I couldn’t help asking. “Such a wedding must cost a fortune!” Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. “We’ll stay with you for now. After that… we’ll see.” “We already have Kate and her kids living with us. It’s more like a hostel than a home,” I protested. Lara pouted. “Well then, maybe we’ll look for a real hostel. At least there, no one will pry into our lives.” That barbed “no one will pry” stung. Had I been prying? I was just trying to keep them from making a foolish move. Later, I had a conversation with Misha—the last attempt to reach him. “Son, why do you need all this fuss? Just get married quietly and put the money towards a deposit instead!” My voice trembled. He stared out the window, face set. “Mum, why do you and Dad celebrate your wedding anniversary at the Golden Dragon every five years? You could just stay home—it’d be cheaper.” I had no answer. “See?” he said with bitter amusement, “you have your tradition—now we want ours.” He compared our modest family dinner every five years with their half-a-million-pound spectacle! In Misha’s eyes, I wasn’t his mother but a judge passing sentence: hypocrite. You allow yourself everything, but deny me every joy. He forgot Dad and I still pay off the loan for his car. The precious “safety cushion” didn’t occur to him. Now he demanded a lavish wedding! Naturally, my son and his future wife resented me—especially when I refused to hand over the keys to Grandma’s flat. *** One evening, coming home late on a nearly empty bus, I caught my reflection in the dark window: a tired woman, looking older than her years, clutching a heavy shopping bag—with fear in her eyes. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised: I did everything out of fear. Fear of being a burden. Fear my children would leave. Fear of the future. I wasn’t denying Misha the flat because I was stingy, but because I was afraid—afraid of being left with nothing. I made him “work for it,” but clipped his wings by paying his way—just in case he failed and was disappointed. Asked for mature actions, yet treated him like a child incapable of understanding or doing anything. But what did Misha and Lara want? Just a beautiful start to life. With a carriage and harp. Yes, foolish and extravagant. But in the end, they have that right! On their own dime. First, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find new accommodation. After a month, I called Misha: “Come over. We need to talk.” They arrived warily, ready for battle. I put tea and the keys to Grandma’s flat on the table. “Take them. But don’t get too excited: it’s not a gift. You have use for one year. During that time, you must decide: either get a mortgage, or stay longer and we’ll talk terms. I’ll lose a year’s rent, but never mind—consider it my investment. Not in your wedding, but in your chance to become a real family, not just flatmates.” Lara’s eyes widened. Misha looked at the keys, bewildered. “But Mum… what about Kate?” “Kate’s in for a surprise too. You’re both grown up now. Your lives are your responsibility. We’re not your background or your wallet anymore—just parents who love, but don’t rescue.” The silence was deafening. “And the wedding?” Lara asked, her voice uncertain for the first time. “The wedding?” I shrugged. “Do what you want. If you find money for the harp—have your harp.” *** Misha and Lara left, and suddenly I was terrified—tears in my eyes. What if they failed? What if they resented me forever? Yet, for the first time in years, I breathed freely. I’d finally said “no!”—not to them, but to my own fears. I’d let my son step into his complex, grown-up, independent life. Whatever it might hold… *** Now, from my son’s perspective. Lara and I dreamed our wedding would be magical. But my sister’s divorce buried our plans. When Mum said a fancy wedding was pointless, something snapped inside me. “So why do you celebrate your anniversary at restaurants? Couldn’t you just stay home? Wouldn’t that be cheaper?” I saw Mum pale. I did intend the blow. I was hurt to my core. Yes, they gave me a car. But I never asked for it! Now they complain about the loan payments. What does that have to do with me? Their choice, their problem. They renovated the flat, supposedly for us. Now we can’t live there. Grandma’s flat—a sacrosanct “safety cushion”—was seemingly more important than their only son’s wedding! So what were we supposed to do? How could we show the world—and ourselves—that we are a unit? One day, Lara said quietly, eyes downcast: “Misha, I don’t have anything to offer you. My parents can’t help; they have their mortgage.” “You’re giving me yourself,” I replied, trying to comfort her. But deep down, I was angry—not at her, but at the injustice. Why should my parents bear the burden? And why did their help come with such bitterness, each pound feeling like another nail in their coffin? That sort of help isn’t warming—it stings with guilt. Unspoken grievances hung in the air. And then a call. Mum’s voice was strange, resolute. “Come over. We need to talk.” We drove over like to an execution. Lara squeezed my hand. “She’s going to refuse any help for the wedding,” she whispered. “Maybe,” I said. *** On the table lay Grandma’s keys, instantly recognisable. Childhood memories flooded back. “Take them,” Mum said. And delivered an uncharacteristically short, revolutionary speech: one year, make a decision, no more acting as our “wallet and background.” The eternal excuse “we’ve nowhere to live” lost its power; the hope “parents will sort everything” crumbled. I took the keys. They were cold, oddly heavy. Suddenly, clarity struck—sharp and uncomfortable. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never actually said: “Mum, Dad, we understand your fears. Let’s talk about how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No—we’d just waited for them to read our minds and fulfil our desires, as if we were still children. “The wedding?” Lara asked softly, confused. “Your wedding?” Mum replied, “If you can afford the harp, have the harp.” Outside, I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. “What now?” Lara asked—not about the flat, but about everything. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Now it’s our problem…” In that frightening, new responsibility, there was a wild, primal freedom. And the first step: did we really need a carriage and harp? Traditions are fine, but should be rooted in something deeper than one extraordinary day… *** So, what happened? Misha and Lara’s adult lives began the very next day. Finally, together! Living in their own flat! Even if it wasn’t theirs yet. It was small, but cosy. Freshly decorated. Just the two of them—at first, with guests. Every day! Well, it was freedom! A month later, they both felt the same itch: a dog! Not just any dog—a big one. Lara had always dreamed of a dog, but never had one; her mum forbade it. Misha had had one as a boy, but it’d run away—a tragedy for him. So, the missing piece arrived quickly: a charming retriever named Lexus. The three-month-old immediately took charge: clawing corners, chewing furniture legs, and making a mess everywhere. When Mrs. Green visited, she was shocked—no one had informed her of the new resident. “Misha! Lara! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! Such a dog needs constant attention—and you leave him home all day! Of course he’s destructive. And the hair! Don’t you clean? That smell! Absolutely not! You must return the dog—tomorrow!” “Mum,” Misha retorted, “you gave us the flat for a year. Are you just going to tell us how to live every time? Maybe you’d like the keys back?” “Oh no,” Mrs. Green retorted. “I’m true to my word. A year means a year. But remember—you must return the flat exactly as you found it. Understood?” “We understand,” Misha and Lara replied. “Until then, don’t expect me around. I don’t want to see this.” *** She kept her word; didn’t visit, even called rarely. Four months later, Misha returned home: he and Lara had split. He spent ages complaining about her—poor homemaker, fed the pup wrong, didn’t walk him, had to return Lexus to the breeder after much persuading. They even bought three months’ dog food in advance—as the breeder insisted, and it wasn’t cheap! “Did you rush things with Lara, son?” Mrs. Green asked, hiding a smile. “You wanted a wedding with a carriage… and a harp…” “What wedding, Mum?! Please! You can rent out Grandma’s flat.” “Why? You must be used to it by now?” “Nah, I’d rather be home,” Misha shook his head. “Unless you object?” “Never,” Mrs. Green replied. “Especially now that Kate and the kids have gone—our house is empty again…”

A Taste of Freedom We finally finished the renovations last autumn, began Vera Goddard, settling herself

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The Country Cottage Can Mend Anything

The cottage will set things right Have you lost your senses? I told Mrs Green you were coming!

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The Country Cottage Can Mend Anything

The cottage will set things right Have you lost your senses? I told Mrs Green you were coming!

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Always Her First – Going back to her again? Marina already knew the answer when she asked. Dmitri nodded, not meeting her eyes, pulling on his coat, checking his pockets—keys, phone, wallet. Everything in place. Ready to leave. Marina waited. For a word. At least a “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But Dmitri simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked softly—a polite apology for its owner. Marina went to the window. The courtyard below was lit by weak street lamps; she spotted his familiar figure easily. Dmitri walked quickly, determinedly. Like a man who knows exactly where he’s headed. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old daughter, Sophie. Marina pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She had known. From the very beginning she knew what she was signing up for. When they met, Dmitri was still married—technically. The stamp on the marriage certificate, joint flat, child. But he no longer lived with Anna; rented a room somewhere else, only coming back for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” Dmitri said. “I couldn’t forgive her. Filed for divorce.” And Marina believed him. God, how easy it was to believe. Because she wanted to. Because she was in love—foolishly, desperately, like she was seventeen again. Dates in cafés, long phone calls, that first kiss outside her block in the rain. Dmitri looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, plans together, talk of the future. And then it began. First—the calls. “Dima, bring Sophie her medicine, she’s ill.” “Dima, the tap’s leaking, I have no idea what to do.” “Dima, our daughter’s crying, wants to see you, come right now.” Dmitri dropped everything and went. Every time. Marina tried to understand. A child was sacred. Their daughter not to blame that her parents had split. Of course he should help, be there. Sometimes Dmitri listened to her, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna would simply change tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, you’re upsetting her.” “She asked me why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And Dmitri would give in. Every time. Tried to refuse yet another urgent request—Anna knew exactly how to wound him. Within a week, Sophie repeated her mother’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t come up with that herself. Dmitri returned from these conversations shattered, guilty, his eyes dulled. He’d rush back at Anna’s slightest summons—just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t look at him like a stranger. Marina understood. She truly did. But she was exhausted. Dmitri’s figure disappeared around the corner. Marina pulled away from the window, absently rubbed her forehead—a red mark left from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. It was almost midnight when a key turned in the lock. Marina sat in the kitchen, staring at a cold mug of tea. She hadn’t touched it—just watched a dark film spread across the surface. Three hours. Three hours she’d waited, listening for every sound on the staircase. Dmitri entered quietly, slipped off his coat, hung it up. Moved cautiously, as though hoping to pass unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Marina was surprised how calm she sounded. She’d rehearsed that phrase for three hours, and by midnight all emotion seemed charred away inside. Dmitri was silent a moment. “The boiler broke. Had to fix it.” Marina slowly raised her eyes. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to enter. Staring past her, into the dark window at her back. “You don’t know how to fix boilers.” “I called a professional.” “And you had to wait with her?” Marina pushed away her mug. “You couldn’t have called from here? Over the phone?” Dmitri frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened, unpleasant. “Maybe you still love her?” Now he looked up. Sharply, angrily, wounded. “Nonsense. This is all for my daughter. For Sophie! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen; Marina instinctively pulled her chair back. “You knew when you got involved with me that I have to go there. You knew I had a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I see my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Marina had wanted to reply sharply, with dignity, but instead her eyes stung, the first tear slid down her face. “I thought…” she faltered, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. At least make an effort.” “Marina, give it a rest…” “I’m tired!” Her voice rose, and she startled herself. “Tired of being not even second best! Third! After your ex, her whims, broken boilers at midnight!” Dmitri slammed his palm against the doorframe. “What do you want from me? To abandon my daughter? Never go to her?” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Marina leapt up; the mug wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me—to her! Anna!” “I’m tired of your tantrums!” Dmitri grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?!” The door banged in reply. Marina stood in the kitchen as tea dripped onto the linoleum, her ears ringing. She snatched up her phone, dialed his number. The ringtone, again, again. “The person you are calling is unavailable.” And again. And again. Silence. Marina slowly sank onto the chair, pressing the phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Again to her? Or just wandering the night, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Which made it all the worse. The night dragged endlessly. Marina sat on her bed, phone in hand—the screen dimming, flaring. Call, listen to the ring, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Another: “Please answer.” And: “I’m scared.” Send—and watch each lonely grey tick appear below. Not delivered. Or delivered, unread. Not that it mattered. By four a.m., Marina stopped crying. The tears simply dried up somewhere inside, leaving a strange hollow ache. She rose, turned on the bedroom light, opened the wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. She found her dusty suitcase on top of the cupboard, tag torn from some old trip. Threw it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. No sorting, just shoving everything inside she could reach. If he didn’t care—neither did she. Let him come back to an empty flat. Let him call, text messages she’d never read. Let him know how it felt. By six, Marina stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, one bag slung over her shoulder, her coat buttoned unevenly—one side longer than the other. She stared at her bundle of keys. She needed to remove hers, leave it on the hallway table. Her fingers wouldn’t work. She wrestled the ring, tried with her nail, but the key stuck, her hands shook, tears boiled in her eyes—how were there any left? “Oh, for God’s sake!” The bunch clattered to the floor. Marina watched for a second, two—and slumped onto the suitcase, hugging herself, sobbing hard, messy, gulping breath, just like as a child, breaking Mum’s favourite vase and convinced the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Marina…” Dmitri knelt in front of her, straight onto the cold hallway tiles. He smelled of smoke and the night city. “Marina, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up—her face wet, swollen, mascara smeared in dark streaks. Dmitri gently took her hands in his. “I was at my mum’s. All night. She gave me such a talking to….” He gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve had my head sorted, basically.” Marina said nothing. Just looked at him, unable to decide whether to believe or not. “I’m taking Anna to court. I’ll demand a fixed schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, through the authorities, as it should be. She won’t be able to control things or turn my daughter against me anymore.” He squeezed her hands tighter. “I’m choosing you, Marina. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something flickered in her chest. A small sprout of hope, stubborn and silly, she’d tried all night to tear up by the roots. “Really?” “Really.” Marina closed her eyes. She would believe Dmitri. One last time. And then—let life decide…

Back to Her “Going back to her again, are you?” Carolines voice was calm but laced with exhaustion

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013

We Were Just 22 When We Broke Up: The True Story of How He Left Me for an Older Woman—and Spread Awful Rumours About Me That Changed My Life

I was twenty-two when we broke up. One afternoon, he told me he no longer felt the same way, that he

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A Taste of Freedom – We finished our renovation last autumn, – began Vera Ignatievna as she told her story. We spent ages picking wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over bathroom tile colours, and smiled, remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed about this very “three-bed”. – Well, – my husband said contentedly when we celebrated the end of our long renovation saga, – now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his wife here, they’ll have kids, and our house will finally be noisy and truly alive. But his dreams were not meant to be. Our eldest daughter Katya came back home with two suitcases and two children. – Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go, – she said, and those words erased all our plans. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t complain—just shrugged: – It’s fine, soon I’ll have my own place. “My own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat. Recently renovated, we’d been renting it out to a young family. Every month, a modest but crucial amount landed on our account—our “safety net” for when my husband and I got old and useless. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée Lera walking past the building, looking up and chatting animatedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. Then one day I overheard: – Vera Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We even found the perfect wedding venue! Just imagine! – Lera was glowing with happiness. – There’s a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden… – And where will you live afterwards? – I couldn’t help asking. – That kind of wedding must cost a fortune! Lera looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. – We’ll stay with you for a bit. After that…we’ll see. https://clck.ru/3RKgHm – We already have Katya with her children living with us, – I said slowly. This’ll be more like a hostel than a flat. Lera pouted. – Yeah. Probably not a good idea. We’ll look for a proper bedsit. At least no one will meddle. Her sharp “no one will meddle” really stung. Had I meddled? I’d just tried to stop them making stupid decisions. Next came my talk with Misha. My last attempt to get through. – Son, why the grand show? Just get legally wed quietly, and put the money towards a mortgage! – My voice shook. He stared out the window, his face hard. – Mum, tell me, why do you and dad always celebrate your wedding anniversary at “The Golden Dragon”? You could’ve had a cheaper dinner at home. I couldn’t think of a reply. – See? – he smiled slyly. – You have your traditions, we’ll have ours. He compared our modest family meal every five years with their half-a-million pound extravaganza. In that moment, Misha saw not his mother, but a judge. Someone who’d delivered a verdict: you’re hypocrites. You allow yourselves everything but me nothing. He’d forgotten that mum and dad were still paying off the loan for his car. As for our “safety net”—he’d never thought about it. But now he needed a wedding. And what a wedding! In the end, my son and future daughter-in-law, of course, resented me. Especially for not handing them the keys to grandma’s flat. *** One night, heading home late on an almost empty bus, I looked at my reflection in the dark window. I saw a tired woman, much older than her years. My hands clutched heavy bags of groceries, and in my eyes: fear. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised—I did everything out of…fear! Fear of being a burden. Fear of being abandoned by my children. Fear for the future. I don’t give Misha the flat—not out of selfishness, but out of fear I’ll end up with nothing. I make him “struggle”, yet clip his wings by paying his way—what if he fails, and my boy gets upset? I expect adult decisions from him, but treat him like a child who understands nothing. Yet Misha and Lera just wanted a beautiful start to adult life. Carriage and harp—it’s silly, it’s wasteful, but in the end, they have every right! On their own dime. First things first, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find somewhere else quickly. A month later, I phoned Misha: – Come over. We need to talk. They arrived tense, ready for battle. I set out tea and…placed a set of keys to mum’s flat on the table. https://clck.ru/3RKg9f – Take them. Don’t get too excited: this isn’t a gift. The flat’s yours for a year. In that time, you decide: either get a mortgage, or stay—but on different terms. The lost rental money, well, I’ll count it as an investment. Not in your wedding. In your chance to be a family, not just flatmates. Lera’s eyes widened. Misha stared at the keys as if he didn’t understand. – Mum… what about Katya? – There’s a surprise for Katya too. You’re adults now. Your lives are your own responsibility. We’ll stop being your backdrop and your bank. From now on, we’re just parents. Who love, but don’t rescue. The silence was thunderous. – And the wedding? – Lera asked, uncertain for the first time. – The wedding? – I shrugged, – Do whatever you like. If you can afford a harpist, have a harpist. *** Misha and Lera left, and I was terrified. Terrified they’d fail, terrified they’d resent me forever. But for the first time in years, I could breathe deeply. I’d finally said “no”! Not to them. To my own fears. And let my son step into adult, difficult, independent life. Whatever it would be… *** Now, let’s look at things through my son’s eyes. Lera and I dreamed of an unforgettable wedding. But my sister’s divorce dashed our plans. When mum said we shouldn’t splurge on a fancy do, something inside me snapped. – Then why do you dine at a restaurant for every wedding anniversary? – I blurted out. – You could eat at home! It’d be cheaper! I saw my mother pale. I really did want my words to sting. I was deeply hurt. Sure, they bought me a car. So what? I didn’t ask for it! They keep reminding me they’re paying for the loan. What’s that got to do with me? Their decision. They said they renovated the flat “for us”. But now we can’t live there. Gran’s one-bed flat—a “sacred cow”, the precious reserve more important than their only son’s wedding! So what now? How do we prove to ourselves, and to the world, that we exist—that we’re a real couple? Lera once admitted, eyes downcast: – Misha, I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help. They’ve got their own mortgage. – You give me yourself, – I said, trying to reassure her. But inside, I was angry. Not with her, with the injustice. Why does everything fall on my mum and dad? And why do they help with such bitterness, as if every quid is another nail in their coffin? That sort of help doesn’t warm—it burns with guilt. Unspoken grievances lingered in the air. Then, a phone call. Mum’s voice was strange and firm. – Come over. We need to talk. We drove there as if to an execution. Lera squeezed my hand: – She’ll cut us off…for our wedding. – Maybe, – I nodded. *** The keys to grandma’s flat lay on the table—I recognised the childhood fob. – Take them, – said mum. Her speech was brief, but revolutionary. One year. A decision. No more being our “bank and backdrop”. Our old excuse—“nowhere to live”—was gone, and our eternal hope—“parents will fix everything”—had collapsed. I took the keys. They were cold. And unbelievably heavy. Just then came a sudden, awkward realisation. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never truly talked to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we get your fears. Let’s discuss how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just waited for them to magically guess and fulfil our wishes—no conversation, no conditions, just a smile. Like when we were kids. – The wedding? – Lera whispered, lost. – Your wedding? – mum shrugged, – If you find money for a harp, then have a harp. We stepped outside. I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. – What now? – Lera asked. Not just about the flat. About everything. – I don’t know. – I answered honestly. – Now it’s our problem. In this scary, new responsibility was a kind of wild and primal freedom. And the first step: figuring out if we really need that carriage and harp. Traditions are good, but they must rest on more than just a single special day… *** So, what happened in the end? Misha and Lera’s adult life began the very next day. Finally, together! Their own place! It’s not technically theirs yet, but still. Small, but cosy, freshly renovated. And best of all, no one else! Visitors came in droves at first. Well, it’s freedom, isn’t it? A month later, an unexpected joint itch: let’s get a dog! And no small mutt—a big one! Turns out, Lera had always wanted one, but mum never let her. Misha had had a dog once, back at school, but it ran away—a childhood tragedy. Soon, the missing piece of happiness appeared: a cute retriever, Lexus. https://clck.ru/3RKgGM Three months old, he immediately started ruling the place. Scratching the corners, chewing the furniture, making messes everywhere. Vera Ignatievna visited. No one had told her about the new arrival. – Misha! Lera! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! A dog like that needs attention. All day alone—it’ll misbehave, of course! So much fur! Do you ever clean? And the smell! No! This is outrageous! You must return the dog! Tomorrow! – Mum, – Misha said, annoyed, – you gave us the flat for a year. So, what? Are you going to tell us how to live, every time? Maybe you want your keys back? – Absolutely not, – Vera Ignatievna snapped, – I keep my word. A year means a year. But remember: it must be returned in the same condition. Got it? – Got it, – Misha and Lera replied in unison. – Then don’t expect me to visit until then. I don’t want to see this. *** Mum stuck to her word. She didn’t visit, barely phoned. Four months later, Misha was back home: he and Lera had split up. He spent ages explaining how bad she’d been as a housekeeper. Didn’t cook, didn’t look after the pup, didn’t walk him. Had to take Lexus back to the breeder—it took a week to convince them! They’d bought a three-month supply of dog food—quite pricey! – Maybe you rushed things with Lera, son? – Vera Ignatievna asked, hiding a smile, – Didn’t you want a wedding, with a carriage and a harp…? – What wedding, mum?! Please! Rent out grandma’s flat. – Why? You could live there, you must be used to it? – No, I prefer home, – Misha shook his head, – or do you mind? – I’m always happy, – answered Vera Ignatievna, – especially now Katya and the kids have moved out. It’s quiet again…

The Taste of Freedom We finished the renovations just last autumn, began Vera Knight, her voice trailing