La vida

Diary Entry Last night, something happened that I can’t seem to shake off. It was supposed to be

Yesterday — Where are you putting that salad bowl? You’re blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, will you? Ollie’s coming soon, and you know he likes plenty of space to wave his hands about when he talks. Victor fussed around with the crystal dishes on the table, nearly knocking over the forks. Gail sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since morning; her legs ached like she’d run a marathon, her lower back throbbed in its familiar spot. But there was no time to complain. Tonight the “star guest” was coming — her husband’s younger brother, Ollie. “Vic, take it easy,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. Did you buy wholemeal bread? Ollie moaned last time that we only had white, and you know, he’s ‘watching his figure.’” “Got it, got it, rye, with caraway, just like he likes,” Victor darted to the bread bin. “Gail, is the roast done? You know he’s a foodie — eats out all the time, won’t be impressed with a meatloaf.” Gail pursed her lips. She knew, of course. Ollie — forty, single, calls himself a ‘free spirit’ but mostly gets by on odd jobs and handouts from his elderly mum — considered himself a world-class gourmet. Each visit became an ordeal for Gail, an exam she was doomed to fail. “I made honey-mustard roast pork,” she said crisply. “Fresh meat, straight from the market, seven hundred quid a kilo. If that isn’t good enough, I wash my hands of the whole business.” “Must you always start like that?” her husband winced. “He hasn’t visited in six months. He wants a proper family dinner. Just do your best, all right? He’s having a rough patch — trying to find himself, you know.” “Finding money, not himself,” Gail thought, but said nothing. Victor worshipped his younger brother, saw him as an unappreciated genius and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven sharp. Gail hurriedly shed her apron, fixed her hair, and plastered on her best hostess smile. Victor already had the door open, beaming like a polished brass kettle. “Ollie! Mate! Finally!” Ollie stood on the threshold, dressed to impress: trendy coat left open, a casual scarf flung over one shoulder, designer stubble that was presumably meant to be rugged. He spread his arms for Victor’s hug but only patted his brother’s back in return. Gail scanned his hands, searching for anything — a bag, cake box, even the smallest bunch of flowers. Nothing. After half a year away, to a table groaning with food, he’d arrived as empty-handed as ever. Not even a chocolate bar for the kids (thankfully at their Nan’s tonight). “Hey Gail,” he nodded, strolling through the hallway, not taking his shoes off right away, instead eyeing the décor. “Wallpaper’s new? Bit institutional, isn’t it? Well, as long as you guys like it.” “Hello, Ollie,” she replied, controlled. “Wash your hands, new slippers over there.” “Didn’t bring mine, and don’t fancy catching athlete’s foot from borrowed ones,” he waved her away. “I’ll keep my socks on. Floor’s clean, I hope?” Gail felt her irritation bubbling. She’d mopped twice in anticipation of his visit. “Spotless, Ollie. Come through, dinner’s ready.” They settled in the dining room. The table was festive: white linen, fancy napkins, three salads, a platter of meats and cheeses, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. In the centre: the steaming roast. Ollie sprawled leisurely against his chair, surveying the spread. Victor was busy uncorking a bottle of Cognac — five-year aged, pricey, bought specially for tonight. “To family!” Victor proclaimed, pouring out glasses. Ollie lifted his, held it to the light, sniffed it, then frowned. “Armenian? Pity. I’m more of a French brandy man — more subtle bouquet. This one’s got too much spirit. Still, beggars can’t be choosers…” He threw it back in one go and reached for the cold cuts. Gail noticed he snapped up the priciest piece of cured ham. “Help yourself, Ollie,” she said, nudging over the salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” He speared a prawn, held it up like a jeweller examining a diamond. “Were these frozen?” he asked knowingly. “Well of course, we’re hardly on the coast!” Gail said, surprised. “Bought the best at the supermarket.” “Rubbery,” Ollie declared, dropping it back into the salad. “Boiled too long. Should be two minutes, tops. And the avocado — not ripe. Crunchy.” Victor, halfway through spooning some salad, paused mid-air. “Come off it, Ollie, it’s delicious! I tried it earlier.” “Vic, mate, taste is an education,” said his brother, patronising. “If you eat substitutes all your life, you’ll never understand real cuisine. Last week I was at a restaurant opening, had scallop ceviche — now that’s texture. And this… at least the mayo’s homemade?” Gail felt her cheeks flame. The mayonnaise was shop-bought. She hadn’t had time to whisk her own. “Store brand,” she replied curtly. “Hmm,” Ollie sighed, as if she’d revealed a dire diagnosis. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison. Never mind — let’s try your roast. I hope that survived?” Gail silently served him a generous helping, topped with sauce and roasted potatoes. The aroma was mouth-watering. But Ollie was a “connoisseur.” He chewed a piece, gazing theatrically at the ceiling. The two hosts waited, Victor hopeful, Gail simmering. “Dry,” Ollie pronounced finally. “And the sauce — honey overpowers it. Far too sweet. Meat should taste like meat, Gail, not pudding. Plus, marinade’s too short, fibres are tough. Should marinade in kiwi or sparkling water for at least a day.” “I left it overnight — spices and mustard,” she said softly. “People usually love it.” “Well, ‘people’ is a loose term. Maybe your work friends like it — they’ve never had anything finer. I’m being objective here. You could eat it in a pinch, but it’s hardly a treat.” He pushed his plate aside, nearly untouched, and grabbed the mushrooms. “At least these are homemade? Or from a tin?” “Homemade,” Gail said coldly. “Picked and preserved ourselves.” Ollie chewed, winced. “Way too much vinegar. Will burn your stomach out. And too salty. Gail, you must be in love, salting like that!” He laughed at his own joke. “Vic, watch your blood pressure with this diet!” Victor laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension. “They’re fine, brother! Great with vodka. Pour another round, eh?” They drank. Ollie flushed, loosened his scarf, but kept his coat on — a signal he wasn’t planning to stay, gracing them with his presence as a favour. “Couldn’t find proper caviar then?” he poked a sandwich. “This one’s all skin and bones. On offer down the supermarket?” “Ollie, it’s keta caviar, six grand a kilo,” Gail snapped. Her voice shook. “Bought it specially for you. We never eat it ourselves, it’s a treat.” “Scrimping on food is never smart,” Ollie noted philosophically, popping the “bad” caviar into his mouth. “You are what you eat. I’d rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. You lot fill the fridge with junk from the bargain aisle, then wonder why you’re tired, why you look grey.” Gail looked at Victor, who sat eyes-down, chewing his roast, pretending nothing was wrong. His silence stung more than Ollie’s words. Playing ostrich, letting his “dear brother” trample Gail. “Vic,” she asked, “do you find the meat dry?” He coughed. “N-no, Gail, it’s great. Really lovely. Ollie, he knows his stuff, sharper taste than mine…” “Ah, sharper taste,” Gail set down her fork with a metallic clank, loud as a gunshot. “So mine’s blunt and clumsy. My hands are useless, my food is poison?” “Gail, don’t start with the drama,” Ollie grimaced. “I’m giving constructive feedback. So you can grow, develop yourself. You should thank me. Vic just eats anything and praises it, you get lazy. A woman must strive for perfection.” “Thank you?” Gail repeated. “You expect me to say thank you?” She rose. The chair scraped across the floor. “Gail, where are you going?” Victor asked, alarmed. “We haven’t had dessert…” “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, oddly calm. “Ollie likes sweets.” She went to the kitchen. On the counter stood her ‘Victoria Sponge’, baked last night till the small hours — twelve fine layers, homemade custard, vanilla… She stared at her masterpiece, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of bottled-up resentment finally overflowed. How many times had this man visited, eaten, borrowed money, and never returned a penny? How many times had he slammed her cooking, her décor, her clothes, even her children? And Victor always silent. Always defending, “He’s creative, sensitive.” As if Gail was made of iron. She left the cake alone. She picked up a tray and returned to the dining room. “Is that dessert?” Ollie perked up. “Not a supermarket Swiss roll, I hope?” Gail started calmly clearing plates. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” salad. Then the cold cuts. “Oi, what’re you doing?” Ollie protested as she took his sandwich plate. “I haven’t finished!” “Why eat it?” Gail asked, looking him dead in the eye. “It’s all inedible, according to you. Dry meat, toxic mayo, rubbery prawns, cheap caviar. I can’t let our precious guest poison himself. Wouldn’t wish it on an enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Gail! Stop it! What’s this performance? Put it back!” “No, Vic, the real circus is when a man comes to dinner empty-handed, sits at a table costing a chunk of your salary, and trashes the hostess.” “I was only honest!” Ollie barked, face blotchy. “Freedom of speech, innit!” “Freedom,” Gail nodded, stacking more plates. “Which means I decide who eats in my home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor food? I respect your choice. Go hungry.” She carried the heap back to the kitchen. Silence hung. “You’ve lost it!” Victor hissed, barging in behind her. “You’re humiliating me in front of my brother! Put the food back! Apologise!” Gail set the tray on the counter and turned to him. Her eyes were dry now, only ice-cold resolve remained. “Humiliating? And when you sat nodding while he insulted me — wasn’t that humiliating? Are you a man or a doormat? He scoffed our caviar in five minutes and said it was rubbish. And you — have you ever bought me caviar just to spoil me? No. We save the best for guests. And our guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! Flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years cooking and cleaning for you. Last night I stayed up half the night sweating over dinner. For what? To be told I’m useless? If you don’t shut up this instant, I’ll crown you with the Victoria Sponge. Don’t tempt me, Vic.” He recoiled. He’d never seen her like this before. Gail was always soft, giving, “the good sport.” Now she was ferocious, ready to tear down everything in her path. Ollie peeked in, looking less cocky, more confused and wounded. “Well this is a first…” he drawled. “Never seen such hospitality. Came here with my heart open, and all I get is scolded about bread?” “With your heart open?” Gail scoffed. “Show me where. Empty-handed, again. In all these years, have you ever brought us anything? A box of tea, even? You come to mooch and to criticise.” “I… I’m broke! Just a rough patch!” “Your ‘rough patch’ has lasted twenty years. New coat, pricey scarf, restaurant launches… but a fiver from your brother, never paid back, that’s tradition.” “Gail, stop!” Victor shouted. “Don’t count other people’s money!” “It isn’t other people’s money — it’s ours! Our family’s budget, wasted feeding this… gourmet!” Ollie clasped his chest theatrically. “That’s enough. I won’t spend another minute here. Vic, I didn’t think you’d wind up with such a shrew. I’ll never set foot in this house again.” He stormed out to the hallway. Victor dashed after him. “Ollie, mate, wait up! Ignore her, she’s hormonal or knackered from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Ollie’s voice was tragic as he pulled on shoes over his socks. “This insult — there’s no going back. Don’t ring me unless she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood in the foyer, staring at the closed door as if heaven itself had been barred to him. Then he turned slowly and trudged to the kitchen, where Gail was calmly boxing up the roast. “Happy now?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve spared us a freeloader,” she replied, not turning. “Sit down, eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you as well?” Victor slumped at the table, cradling his head. “How could you? He’s still a guest…” “A guest behaves like a guest, not a health inspector. Listen carefully: I will never, ever again cook for him. If you want to see him — go to his place. Or to a restaurant, on your own dime. My time and money aren’t wasted on him anymore.” “You’ve become so harsh,” he muttered. “I’ve become fair. Now eat. Or shall I clear away?” Victor eyed the roast. His stomach grumbled loudly. He was starving, and the aroma — despite the row — was irresistible. He hesitantly took up his fork, sliced off a piece, tasted. It was perfectly tender, melting in the mouth. The sauce had a subtle sweetness, mustard a spicy kick. Magnificent. “So?” Gail asked, catching his blissful expression. “It’s delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Gail.” “That’s good. Your brother is just a bitter failure who feels big by putting others down. Can’t you see?” Victor chewed, lost in thought. For the first time, it crossed his mind that Gail might be right. He remembered Ollie arriving empty-handed, his condescending tone, how awkward Victor felt during the barrage of criticism. “The cake?” he ventured. “Shall we have cake?” Gail smiled — for the first time all evening, genuinely. “Let’s. I’ll make some tea. With thyme, just as you like.” She fetched the ‘Victoria Sponge’, glorious and imposing. Sliced it generously. They sat in the kitchen together, drinking tea, eating cake, and the tension gradually ebbed away. “You know,” Victor said, finishing his second helping, “he didn’t give Mum a present for her birthday last month. Said the best gift was ‘himself.’” “There you go,” Gail nodded. “You’re waking up.” Victor’s phone buzzed. A message from Ollie: *“Could’ve packed me some sarnies — left absolutely starving tbh. Send us a fifty for emotional distress, yeah?”* Victor read it aloud. Pause. Gail raised an eyebrow. “So, what’ll you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their warm kitchen, the heavenly cake. Then at his phone. He typed: *“Treat yourself at a restaurant — you’re the connoisseur. We’re skint.”* And hit block. “What did you say?” Gail asked. “Said we’re off to bed.” She pretended to believe him, though she’d glimpsed the screen. She walked over and hugged him from behind. “Well done, Vic. Took a while, but you got there.” That evening, they learned something crucial about each other: sometimes, saving a marriage means kicking people out — even if they’re family. And the roast really was exquisite, whatever the “experts” with empty wallets claimed.

Yesterday Honestly, where are you putting that salad bowl? Youre blocking the sausage rolls!

Neto’s Bold Plan for Exile: Grandma Sells the Flat with No Regrets

When the grandmother learned that her grandson intended to evict her from the flat, she sold it without

La vida

017

My Husband Compared Me to His Friend’s Wife at Dinner—So He Ended Up with a Salad in His Lap

So, you know what happened to me the other night? It was Richards big birthdayfifty, can you believe?

La vida

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My Husband Compared Me to His Friend’s Wife at Dinner—So He Ended Up with a Salad in His Lap

So, you know what happened to me the other night? It was Richards big birthdayfifty, can you believe?

La vida

I’m 45 Years Old and I’ve Stopped Welcoming Guests into My Home.

Im fortyfive now, and I no longer welcome anyone through the front door of my flat. Some folk forget

La vida

Relentless Divorce: The Tale of Oksana and Archibald

The cold divorce: the tale of Mabel and Arthur It still feels bitter to recall how love turned, without

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048

My Son Missed My 70th Birthday Claiming Work—Then That Evening I Saw Him Celebrating His Mother-in-Law’s Birthday at a Fancy Restaurant on Social Media

A telephone call split the midday hush, slicing through the faint light that drifted like fog through

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This is No Toy!

It isnt a toy Why on earth would you want a child, Nora? Youre pushing forty! Children are for the young

La vida

021

Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman. You could call me a wallflower—plain looking, nowhere near a good figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be; I believe all men are basically the same—just animals out for a full belly and the sofa. Not that anyone ever asked me out or proposed anyway. My elderly parents live in Norwich. I’m an only child—no sisters, no brothers. There are distant cousins, but I don’t speak to them, nor do I want to. I’ve been working and living in London for 15 years now. I’m at an office job, the usual work-to-home routine. I live in a typical high-rise in a residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical, don’t love anyone. Don’t like children. For Christmas, I went to Norwich to visit my parents. Once a year, I go home. This year was the same—I came back and decided to clean the fridge. Threw out all the old frozen dinners—ready meals, fish fingers, stuff I bought but didn’t like. Bagged it all up and went to chuck it away. Took the lift down, and there’s a boy, about seven. I’ve seen him with his mother and a baby, thought to myself, “She’s got a handful!” He stares at my box. We exit; I head for the bins, he follows. A timid voice: “Can I have that?” I tell him, “It’s old!” But then I think if he wants it, let him have it—it’s not rotten. As I walk away, I glance back; he’s carefully taking the bag, clutching it to his chest. “Where’s your mum?” I ask. “She’s sick, and my baby sister too. Mum can’t get up.” I turn and head home. Go into my flat, start making dinner. I sit and think. The boy won’t leave my mind. I’m not the caring type, never felt obliged to help. But something pushes me; I grab whatever food I have: ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions—snatch a hunk of meat from the freezer. Realise in the lift I don’t even know which floor they’re on. Head up, floor by floor, and after two floors, the boy opens the door. At first, he’s unsure, then lets me in. The flat is sparse but spotless. His mum’s curled on the bed next to the baby, a basin of water and flannels on the table—clearly fighting a fever. The girl is asleep, breathing raspy. “Got medicine?” I ask the boy. He shows me some ancient, expired tablets, useless. I check the mum’s forehead—burning. She wakes and stares at me, confused. Sits up: “Where’s Anton?” I say I’m a neighbour. Ask about their symptoms, call an ambulance. While we wait, I make her tea and a sandwich. She eats in silence—starving, clearly. How was she breastfeeding? The paramedics arrive, check them over, prescribe a heap of medicines and injections for the little one. I dash to the pharmacy, buy everything, then hit the shop for milk and baby food. On a whim, I buy a garish yellow monkey toy—I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name is Ann, 26 years old. From the fringes of Manchester. Her mum and grandma were Londoners, but her mum married a man from Manchester and moved there, worked in a factory; he was a technician. When Ann was born, her father was electrocuted at work. Her mum, jobless, left with a baby, started drinking heavily, lost it in three years. Neighbours somehow tracked down Ann’s grandma in London, who took her in. When she was 15, gran told her the lot—even that her mum died of TB. Grandma wasn’t chatty, was stingy, and chain-smoked. At 16, Ann worked at a corner shop—packing, then cashiering. A year later, gran died. Ann was on her own. At 18, she dated a guy who promised marriage; after she got pregnant, he vanished. She worked until she could barely stand, saved every penny; she knew there was no one to help. After the baby, she started leaving him home while she cleaned stairwells. The baby girl came about when the shop owner she’d returned to work for after her son grew up started raping her, threatening to fire her and ruin her prospects if she told. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her 200 quid and told her never to return. That night, she told me all this, thanked me for everything, insisted she’d work it off with cleaning or cooking. I stopped her thanks and left. Didn’t sleep a wink that night. Thought about my own life, why I am how I am—never caring for my parents, never calling, loving no one. Hoarding my savings with no one to spend it on. And here’s someone else’s fate—nothing to eat, no money for medicine. Morning comes; Anton appears, hands me a plate of pancakes, and scurries away. I stand at my doorway holding the warm plate, feeling the heat thaw something inside me. Suddenly, I want to laugh, cry, and eat all at once. Near our block, there’s a small shopping centre where a lady runs a children’s boutique. She couldn’t pin down the sizes I needed, so she even agreed to come with me to their place! Was it wanting to make a sale, or was she moved by my care? Who knows. In an hour, there were four huge bags of clothes for the boy and girl. I bought duvets and pillows, bedding, food, even vitamins. I wanted to buy everything. For once, I felt needed. Ten days have passed. They call me Auntie Rita now. Ann’s a dab hand at crafts—my flat is cosier. I’ve started calling my parents, texting ‘HELP’ donations for sick kids. I can’t fathom how I ever lived before. Every day after work, I rush home. I know someone’s waiting for me. And this spring, we’re off to Norwich together. We’ve already bought the train tickets.

Auntie Rita Im forty-seven. Nothing special about me just an ordinary woman, invisible, really, a proper