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I Think the Love Has Faded — “You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole department,” he said, handing her a bunch of daisies from the flower stall by the tube. Anna laughed, accepting the flowers. The daisies smelled of summer and something indescribably right. Dmitry looked at her like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted was her. Their first date was in Hyde Park. Dmitry brought along a blanket, a flask of tea, and homemade sandwiches his mum had made. They sat on the grass until dark. Anna remembered the way he laughed, head thrown back. How he touched her hand as if by accident, and looked at her as if she was the only person in all of London. Three months in, he took her to a little indie cinema to watch a French comedy she didn’t really understand, but she laughed with him all the same. Six months later, he introduced her to his parents. A year on—he asked her to move in. “We’re always together anyway,” Dmitry said, gently running his fingers through her hair. “Why pay for two flats?” Anna said yes. Not for the money, of course. Just because with him, the world made sense. Their rented one-bed flat smelled of Sunday roast dinners and freshly washed sheets. Anna learned to make his favourite cottage pie, exactly the way his mum did. In the evenings, Dmitry read aloud articles from The Economist and The Times. He dreamt of running his own business. Anna listenend, propped on her hand, believing every word. They planned their future. First—a deposit. Then—their own home. After that—a new car. Children, obviously: a son and a daughter. “We’ve got plenty of time,” Dmitry would say, kissing the top of her head. Anna would nod. With him, she felt invincible. …Fifteen years together brought routines, little traditions, and stuff—so much stuff. They had a nice flat with a view over the green, a 20-year mortgage they worked hard to pay off early, sacrificing holidays and restaurants. A silver Toyota in the drive—Dmitry chose it, haggled for it, and polished the bonnet to a shine every Saturday. There was pride—a warm, rising wave. They’d achieved everything on their own. No handouts from parents, no lucky breaks. Just hard work, saving, perseverance. Anna never complained. Not even when she was so tired she fell asleep on the tube and woke up at the end of the line. Not even when she wanted to pack it all in and fly away somewhere sunny. They were a team. That’s what Dmitry always said, and Anna believed him. His happiness always came first. Anna learned that rule by heart, wove it into her very DNA. Rough day at work? She’d make a special dinner and a pot of tea and listen to him. Trouble with his boss? She’d stroke his hair and whisper everything would be alright. Self-doubt? She’d find the right words, pull him out of his slump. “You’re my harbour, my anchor, my rock,” Dmitry would say. Anna would smile. What could be better than being someone’s anchor? There were tough times. The first, five years in—the company Dmitry worked for went bust. He sat at home, scrolling job listings and sinking into gloom. The second was worse. Some colleagues set him up, and not only did he lose his job, he got hit with a big bill. They had to sell the car to pay it. Anna never blamed him. Not a word, not even a look. She took on more freelance work, stayed up late, scrimped every penny. All she cared about was how he was coping. Would he break? Would he lose faith in himself? …Dmitry pulled through. Landed an even better job. They bought another silver Toyota. Life went back to normal. A year ago, they were sitting in the kitchen when Anna finally voiced what she’d been quietly thinking for ages: “Maybe it’s time? I’m not twenty anymore. If we keep waiting…” Dmitry nodded. Serious, thoughtful. “Let’s start getting ready.” Anna held her breath. So many years of dreaming, postponing, waiting for the right moment. Now it was here. She’d imagined it all a thousand times: tiny hands gripping hers, the smell of baby powder, first steps across their flat, Dmitry reading bedtime stories. A child. Their child. At last. Everything changed at once. Anna revamped her diet, her routine, cut back on stress. Saw doctors, took her vitamins, shifted career plans—even as her boss offered her a huge promotion. “Are you sure?” her manager asked, peering over her glasses. “A chance like this…” But Anna was sure. The promotion meant late nights, travel, pressure—not ideal for starting a family. “I’ll transfer to the branch near home instead,” Anna said. The manager just shrugged. The branch was a fifteen-minute walk around the corner. The work—dull, routine, no prospects. But she could leave on time and stop thinking about it come Friday. Anna settled in fast. The new colleagues were nice enough, if unambitious. She made her own packed lunches, took walks at lunchtime, was in bed by midnight—all for the baby they hoped for, all for their family. The chill crept in slowly. Anna didn’t notice at first. Dmitry was working a lot, tired—that happened, right? But he stopped asking about her day. Stopped hugging her goodnight. Stopped looking at her the way he did when she was the most beautiful girl at uni. The flat got quiet. Wrong kind of quiet. They used to chat for hours—about work, plans, silly things. Now Dmitry scrolled on his phone every evening, gave short answers, turned his back to sleep. Anna would lie next to him, staring at the ceiling. Between them—a gulf, half the width of a mattress. Intimacy vanished. Two weeks, three, a month. Anna lost count. Dmitry always had an excuse: “I’m just shattered. Tomorrow, alright?” Tomorrow never came. One night, Anna just asked. She blocked his way to the bathroom. “What’s going on? Please, honestly.” Dmitry looked past her, at the doorframe. “Everything’s fine.” “It’s not.” “You’re overthinking. It’ll pass.” He sidestepped her, locked himself in the bathroom. Water started running. Anna stood in the hallway, clutching her chest where it hurt—dull, persistent, constant. She lasted another month. Then she couldn’t bear it any longer. “Do you love me?” she asked, straight out. A pause. A long, awful pause. “I… don’t know what I feel for you.” Anna sat on the sofa. “You don’t know?” Dmitry finally looked her in the eye. There was emptiness. Confusion. None of the fire from fifteen years ago. “I think the love’s gone. Has been for ages. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anna realised she’d been living in this hell for months, desperate for an explanation. Maybe it’s work. Midlife crisis. Just a bad patch. But no—he simply stopped loving her. And said nothing while she planned their future, gave up her promotion, prepared herself for motherhood. The decision came suddenly. No more “maybe,” no more “give it time.” Enough. “I’m filing for divorce.” Dmitry turned pale. Anna saw his Adam’s apple twitch. “Wait. Don’t go so fast. We can try—” “Try what?” “Let’s have the baby, yeah? Maybe a child will bring us together. People say kids do that.” Anna laughed bitterly. “A baby will just make things worse. You don’t love me. Why have a child just to end up divorcing with a newborn?” Dmitry said nothing. There was nothing left to say. Anna left that day. Packed a bag of essentials and moved in with a friend. Filed for divorce a week later, when her hands finally stopped trembling. Sorting out the house and car would take ages. Fifteen years of stuff to split. Life, measured out in square feet and horsepower. Anna listened to the lawyer, taking notes, doing her best not to think about how their life had boiled down to a spreadsheet. Soon, she found a little flat to rent. She learned to cook for one, watch Netflix without commentary, stretch out in bed all by herself. The waves of grief broke at night. She’d bury her face in the pillow and remember: daisies from the market, picnics in Hyde Park, his laughter, his arms, his voice telling her, “You’re my anchor.” The pain was unbearable—fifteen years doesn’t go out with the rubbish. But through the pain came something else: relief. The sense that it was right. She’d stopped in time, before tying herself to someone with a child, before getting stuck in a marriage for the sake of keeping up appearances. Thirty-two years old. Her whole life ahead. Is it terrifying? Completely. But she’ll make it through—there’s no other way. I Think the Love Has Faded: Fifteen Years Together, a Dreamed-of Family, and the Courage to Walk Away in Search of Happiness

I think the love is gone. Youre the most beautiful girl in this entire department, hed said that day

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This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house where she had grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she already felt completely disillusioned with life. Why had fate dealt her such a cruel hand? Her grandmother had died, university was out of reach because of the girl who’d sat next to her during exams—she’d copied all Alena’s answers, handed in her sheet first, and whispered something to the examiner. He’d frowned, demanded Alena’s paper, and then declared her expelled for cheating. She couldn’t prove a thing. And that girl, as it turned out, was the daughter of a local bigwig. How do you fight against people like that? And so, after so many setbacks, her mother reappeared in her life, along with two half-brothers and a new husband. Where had they been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had only been around until she was about four, and even then there were no pleasant memories—her mother would leave her alone while she went out enjoying herself. Even married, she’d kept looking for “a proper man,” and wasn’t shy about it even after Alena’s father died unexpectedly. After being widowed, Tamara didn’t mourn for long. She packed up, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat she’d inherited from her late husband, and disappeared. Her grandmother Raya tried desperately to appeal to her conscience, but it was no use. Tamara visited sporadically, but Alena was never a priority. She came when Alena was twelve, with her then-seven-year-old brother Svyatoslav, and demanded their mother sign over the house to her. “No, Toma! You’re not getting anything!” her mother refused flatly. “Once you’re dead, it’ll be mine anyway!” Tamara snapped heartlessly, shot Alena an irritated glare, and stormed off with Svyatoslav. “Why do you two always argue when she comes?” Alena asked her grandmother. “Because your mother’s a selfish woman! I didn’t raise her properly—didn’t give her enough of a hiding!” grumbled Raisa Petrovna. Grandmother’s illness came out of nowhere; she’d never once complained about her health. Then one day, Alena came home to find her, usually endlessly busy, sitting pale and still on the balcony. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked, worried. “I don’t feel well… Call an ambulance, Alenushka…” her grandmother said calmly. Then it was the hospital, IV drips, and then death. Raisa spent her final days in intensive care—no visits allowed. Desperate with worry, Alena called her mother. At first, she refused to come, but when told her mother was in intensive care, she reluctantly agreed—arriving only in time for the funeral. Three days later, she shoved a will under Alena’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be coming soon. I know you don’t get along. So you’ll need to stay with Auntie Gail for a while, alright?” There was not a shred of sorrow in her mother’s voice. She almost seemed glad Raisa Petrovna had died—because now she was the heiress! Grief-stricken and powerless to resist, Alena obeyed—after all, the will left everything clear as day. So she moved in with Auntie Gail, her father’s sister. But Gail was scatterbrained, still dreaming of marrying well, and her house was always full of noisy, half-drunk guests. Alena couldn’t stand it—some of the men even began showing an interest in her, which horrified her. Confiding in her boyfriend Paul, Alena was surprised and cheered by his response: “I won’t have all those old blokes staring at you or pawing you!” he said, very determinedly, despite being only nineteen. “I’ll talk to Dad tonight. We’ve got a little flat on the edge of town—Dad promised I could have it once I got into uni. I kept my promise—now it’s his turn.” “I don’t see what I’ve got to do with it…” Alena mumbled. “What do you mean? We’ll live there—together!” “And your parents will agree to that?” “They’ve got no choice! Consider this an official proposal—will you be my wife and live with me?” Alena nearly burst into tears of happiness. “Of course—yes!” Auntie Gail was thrilled to hear about the wedding; Alena’s mother nearly ground her teeth down. “Getting married, are you? Well, you’re quick off the mark! Couldn’t get into uni, so you’ve found a different way to settle down. I’m not giving you a penny—understand? And this house is mine! You get nothing!” Her mother’s words stung. Paul could hardly make sense of her sobs as he brought her back to his parents’ house, where they comforted her as best they could. Paul’s father, Andrew Simon, listened quietly as Alena poured her heart out before saying, “Poor girl! What sort of woman is that?” Paul’s mother exclaimed when she heard Tamara’s threats. “I’m more interested in something else,” said Andrew Simon thoughtfully. “Why is your mother so fixated on this house when there’s a will, and she constantly throws it in your face?” “I don’t know…” Alena sniffled. “She always argued about this house with Grandma—sometimes begged her to sell it and give her the money, then demanded the deeds be signed over. Grandma refused—said if she did that, we’d both be out on the street.” “This is odd! Say, did you go to the solicitor after your grandmother died?” “No, why would I?” Alena was puzzled. “To claim your inheritance rights.” “But my mother is the heir—I’m just the granddaughter. And anyway, she has the will. I saw it.” “It’s not that simple,” Andrew Simon replied. “We’ll go together to see the solicitor after the weekend. For now—you need some rest!” During this time, Alena’s mother brought some documents and tried to force Alena to sign, but Paul intervened: “She’s not signing anything!” “And who are you to say? She’s an adult—she’ll decide for herself!” retorted Tamara, clearly annoyed. “I’m her fiancé, and I won’t risk her safety. So she’s signing nothing right now.” Tamara exploded with insults, but left empty-handed. This only reinforced Andrew Simon’s suspicions. As promised, he accompanied Alena to the solicitor a few days later. “Listen carefully to what they say, and read everything before signing,” he advised. But the solicitor was honest. He took Alena’s statement, and the next day they learned that a probate case had been opened in her name—apparently, Raisa Petrovna had left a savings account for her granddaughter’s tuition. Alena had no idea. “And the house?” Andrew Simon asked. “The house was gifted to the girl a while ago. No other documents exist.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was stunned. “Yes, your grandmother had it drawn up here a few years ago. Now you’re eighteen, you have full legal control of the property.” “What about the will?” “It was drafted seven years ago, but annulled later. Likely, your mother doesn’t know. The house is yours, and you’re fully entitled to live in it.” Andrew Simon’s suspicions proved true. So what now?” Alena asked, bewildered. “What do you think? Tell your mother the house is yours—she’s got to go.” “She’ll never do that! She’s already packed up all my things to throw out!” “That’s what the police are for!” On hearing the news, Tamara was furious: “You wretch! Trying to evict your own mother? Get out of here yourself! I don’t believe your lies—who put you up to this, your fiancé and his dad? You’re two of a kind! I’ve got legal documents too—the will says I inherit this house!” “Exactly! So get out, or I’ll break your legs, see if you ever set foot here again!” Oleg, who’d been glaring the whole time, chimed in. Andrew Simon stood firm. “As for you, sir, threats and intimidation can land you in court!” Andrew Simon warned, polite but firm. “What? Who do you think you are? Get out—this house is for sale! Buyers coming soon!” Instead of buyers, police arrived, demanded the intruders vacate or face arrest. Tamara, her husband and sons were raging—unable to challenge the law. Alena finally returned home. Paul wouldn’t leave her alone, fearing her mother’s husband might threaten her, and moved in too. He was right. Tamara and Oleg harassed Alena for months. Learning of Raisa’s savings, Tamara demanded her share—there was nothing to do but comply, so a portion went to her. But she never got the house no matter what she tried. Only after consulting all the lawyers she could find did Tamara pack up and leave for good. Alena never saw her again. Alena and Paul married. The next summer, she started university for her dream course; by her third year, she’d had her first child. She was grateful to Paul and his family for their support during her hardest moments, and went on to lead a happy life. Author: Odette — — The Mystery The house was old, but well-kept. It had barely sat empty—no time to get wild or fall apart. “Thank goodness!” thought Mary. “I’m not one of those redoubtable British women, handy at every DIY task, stopping runaway horses and braving burning buildings solo!” She climbed the steps, pulled a big iron key from her bag, and unlocked the heavy padlock. *** For some reason, Mary had been left this house by Auntie Lou, an elderly distant relative she barely knew. Strange, but who knows what goes on in the minds of those who’ve lived as long as Auntie Lou—well over ninety by Mary’s reckoning. Mary was, perhaps, her great-niece or second cousin twice removed; in any case, she was no relation of substance—just a working-class seamstress who cooked a mean Sunday roast. Mary had visited Auntie Lou as a girl, and even then Auntie Lou was very old—always preferring to live alone, never asking the family for help. But just recently, she’d died. When Mary got the call telling her that her grandmother had passed away in the village of Puzzle End, it took her a moment to remember Auntie Lou at all—let alone expect she’d inherit the old cottage and its little bit of land. “A nice gift for your retirement!” joked her husband, Michael. “Oh, retirement’s ages away,” Mary protested. “I’m only fifty-four! By the time I limp to sixty, they’ll probably have moved the goalposts again. So let’s just call this a bonus present. I’ve no idea why I deserve it—I didn’t even know Auntie Lou was still alive! I thought she’d passed on ages ago—but I’m hardly in a position to be choosy. If you’re given something, use it.” “Or sell it,” Michael grinned, rubbing his hands. *** Good thing they didn’t sell. Two or three months after Mary became a landowner, another, less pleasant surprise awaited her: she discovered her beloved Michael had been cheating. Yes, just like that—a midlife crisis wrapped up in secrets and lies…

This Is Not Your Home Helen looks around the house where she grew up, a wave of sadness washing over her.

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My Husband Came Home Late One Evening and Quietly Placed Something on the Table: It Was the Moment I Truly Felt How Far We Had Drifted Apart

22October2025 James came home late that night and, without a word, set a thick envelope on the kitchen table.

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He’s Already 35, Still Single and Childless: How a Mother’s Overprotective Love Shaped Her Son’s Life Last week I visited my mother-in-law with my son. One of her childhood friends was there. This lady spent the whole day playing with my son. “It’s such a shame I don’t have any grandchildren,” she said sadly. My mother-in-law’s friend had her son well into her thirties. She doted on her long-awaited child and let him do as he pleased. Her husband died when their boy was still very young, so she raised him alone while working two jobs. When her son turned 35, she finally asked when she might expect grandchildren. He calmly replied, “Never.” He blamed his upbringing, saying his mother had, let’s say, infantilised him. “I’m used to a simple life. No woman wants to be a second mother to me,” he said. He added that “it suits me well enough, and I’m not going to change for anyone else.” “I don’t need anyone but you,” the son affirmed. “I failed to teach him what’s most important: how to be a man!” she admitted. Do you think that a mother’s love can sometimes protect a child so much that it holds them back from becoming independent? I’m keen to hear your thoughts in the comments.

He was already 35 years old, yet had neither wife nor children. It must have been some years past when

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Give Me a Reason: Anastasia’s Quiet Journey from Loveless Routine to Rekindled Family, and the Subtle Ways a Marriage Can Change When You Stop Waiting for Excuses

Have a good day, Daniel leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek. Charlotte nodded absently.

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The Convenient Grannies Irene woke to the sound of laughter. Not a quiet chuckle or a polite giggle, but a thunderous, uninhibited guffaw that filled the hospital ward and grated on her nerves—she’d always detested such noise. The culprit was her bedmate, phone pressed to her ear, gesticulating wildly as if her distant companion could see. “Linda, you’re unbelievable! No, really—he said *that*? In front of everyone?” Irene checked the clock. A quarter to seven in the morning. Fifteen precious minutes before the nurses bustled in and the day properly began. Fifteen minutes she’d hoped to spend in peace, gathering her thoughts before surgery. She’d met her roommate the previous evening—Susan, petite and round-faced, cropped grey hair untouched by dye and clothed in a bright, polka-dotted pyjama set that looked more suited to a sleepover than a hospital stay. Polite, brief greetings, before each retreated into their own anxious thoughts. Irene had been grateful for the silence. But now? It was like a circus. “Excuse me,” Irene said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down a little?” Susan glanced at her, eyes bright, and flashed an apologetic grin. “Sorry! I’m Susan Turner. Did you sleep all right? I never can, not before an op. End up ringing everyone I know.” “Irene Williams. And if you’re up, that doesn’t mean everyone else wants to be.” Susan shrugged and winked. “But you’re already awake! All right, all right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. Before breakfast, she’d managed two more calls, each louder than the last. Irene turned to the wall, blanket over her head, but it made little difference. At breakfast—which neither managed to eat, nerves twisting stomachs—Susan apologised. “My daughter phoned—she’s worried sick, bless her. I try to calm her down.” Irene said nothing. Her own son hadn’t called, but she hadn’t expected it. He’d said he’d be in early meetings; she’d brought him up to value work above all else. Susan was taken to surgery first, pacing down the corridor, waving and chatting at the nurses until they too burst into laughter. Irene hoped, in vain, that her new acquaintance might be shifted to another ward after surgery. Irene’s own operation went as expected—difficult. She woke in pain, nauseous, the nurse reassuring her all had gone well. Irene bore it with the stoicism she’d practised for years. When she was wheeled back to the ward that evening, Susan was already there, grey-faced, eyes closed, an IV in her arm, and—at last—silent. “How are you?” Irene asked, despite herself. Susan’s lips tilted in a tired smile. “Alive, for now. And you?” “Same.” For a while, neither spoke. Night crept in beyond the smeared hospital windows, and the quiet was broken only by the clink of IV stands and distant hospital sounds. “Sorry about this morning,” Susan murmured suddenly. “When I’m anxious, I just… can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but—” “It’s fine,” Irene said, though it wasn’t, but she was too exhausted for anything else. Neither slept much. Both hurt. Susan no longer made calls, but Irene could hear her shuffling, stifling sobs into her pillow. Morning brought the doctor, a brief inspection, praise for their progress. Susan was instantly on the phone again: “Lynn, I’m fine! Told you so. Has Kieran’s fever gone down? Already better? See, nothing to worry about.” Irene half-listened. *Her own phone was silent—a couple of texts from her son, sent last night when she’d been in recovery. “Mum, how are you?”; “Message me when you can.” She replied: “All fine :)”, adding a smiley because Will always said her messages seemed cold without one. His reply came three hours later: “Great! Hugs.” “Do your lot ever visit?” Susan asked over a cup of tea that lunchtime. “My son works. He lives a long way off. And I’m not a child.” Susan nodded. “Mine says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll be fine.’ No point in visiting if there’s nothing wrong, right?” There was something in Susan’s voice that made Irene look up. The smile was in place, but her eyes were weary. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s eight, Maddy and Leo are three and four.” She rummaged for her phone. “Want to see some photos?” For the next twenty minutes they flicked through images: children at the beach, blowing candles, playing in puddles. Susan was in every picture, hugging, pulling faces, clearly adored. Her daughter was absent. “She likes to take the photos,” Susan explained. “Doesn’t like being in them.” “Do you look after them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter and son-in-law work, so I do… well, everything. School runs, homework, cooking.” Irene nodded. She’d been the same for years after her grandson was born—every day at first, then less often, now just once a month, if schedules allowed. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Good boy, does well at school.” “Do you see much of him?” “Some Sundays. They’re busy.” Irene tried to sound understanding. Susan turned towards the window. “Yes. Busy.” Evening fell, and Susan suddenly said, “I don’t want to go home.” Irene looked up. Susan sat huddled, knees to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. “Honestly, I don’t. I’ve thought and thought, and I just… don’t want to.” “Why not?” “What for? I’ll go home and it’ll be Kieran’s homework, Maddy with a runny nose, Leo with torn trousers. My daughter’ll be at work until midnight, son-in-law away on business. There I am: washing, cooking, cleaning, babysitting. And they don’t even…” She trailed off. “Not a thank you. Because that’s what grannies do, isn’t it?” Irene said nothing. Her throat was tight. “Sorry,” Susan dabbed at her eyes. “Just feeling a bit useless, I suppose.” “Don’t apologise.” Irene’s reply was almost a whisper. “I… I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally have time for myself. Wanted to go to the theatre, art galleries, even signed up for a French class. Only lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. She asked for help. I thought, well, I’m a grandmother—it’s no trouble. I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years, every single day. Then the nursery, so every other day. Then school, only once a week. Now… now they barely need me. They’ve got a nanny. I just sit at home and wait – in case they remember me.” Susan nodded. “My daughter was going to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked a dozen pies. But she rang—‘Sorry, Mum, Kieran’s got football.’ She didn’t come. Gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence. It rained outside. “You know what’s silly?” Susan said, voice tight. “It’s not even the visits. It’s that I keep hoping. That I’ll get a call—just a ‘miss you, Mum’, without an ask.” Irene’s eyes stung. “I do as well. Every time the phone rings, I tell myself, maybe this is just for a chat. But it’s always for something.” “And we help,” Susan smiled wryly. “Because we’re mums.” The next days blurred into bandage-changes, brisk nurse visits, slow corridor walks. One day, Susan confessed, “I always thought I had a happy family—a devoted daughter, lovely grandchildren. That they couldn’t manage without me. But this week I realised… they’re managing fine. Maybe it’s just convenient having a free nanny called ‘Nan’.” Irene propped herself up. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his plans matter more than mine. That Mum will always wait, always help, always give up anything.” Susan nodded. “Me too. My daughter calls, I drop everything.” “We’ve taught them we aren’t people,” Irene said slowly, “that we have no life of our own.” “And now what?” “I don’t know.” A week passed. Irene’s son arrived unexpectedly—tall, brisk, bearing a bag of fruit and efficient cheer. “Hi, Mum! How’re you feeling?” After twenty minutes—news updates, money offer—he was gone. Susan was silent throughout, then said softly, “That was your son? Handsome. But cold as ice.” Irene couldn’t reply. Her throat ached. “You know,” said Susan, even softer, “maybe we have to stop expecting love from them. Let go. They’ve grown up, they have their lives. We need to find ours.” “Easier said than done.” “But what else is there? Sit and wait for calls that never come?” “What did you say to your daughter?” “Told her the doctor wants me to rest two weeks. No babysitting. She was cross at first, but I said—‘Lynn, you’re grown up, you’ll figure it out.’ She sulked… but I felt lighter, somehow.” “I’m scared,” Irene admitted. “If I say no, they’ll be cross. What if they stop calling at all?” Susan raised an eyebrow. “Do they call often now?” Silence answered for her. “They can only get better.” Both women were discharged the next day. They exchanged numbers, hugged awkwardly—still careful of stitches. “Thank you,” Irene said. “For… everything.” “Thank *you*. I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in thirty years.” Returning home, Irene unpacked, checked her phone—three texts: “Home yet?”, “Call when you’re in,” “Don’t forget your pills.” She replied: “Home. All fine.” Then, almost shyly, pulled an old folder from the cupboard—French course brochure, theatre list. She stared at them, heart thumping. The phone rang. Susan. “Hi. Sorry to ring so soon. Just… felt like talking.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “Fancy meeting up? A walk, maybe, or coffee—when we’re properly back on our feet.” Irene glanced from the French class leaflets to her phone—and for the first time in years, she smiled. “Let’s. But not in two weeks’ time. Saturday. I’m sick of sitting about.” “Saturday? That’s soon!” “I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I did something for myself.” “Deal. Saturday.” They hung up. Irene opened her laptop and shakily signed up for the French class. The rain tapped on her window—behind it, the sky was lightening. And Irene allowed herself to think—just maybe—her life was only just beginning. **The Convenient Grandmas**

Convenient Grandmothers Margaret White awoke to laughter. Not a muted giggle, not a polite chuckle, but

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I Think Our Love Has Faded: Anna’s Journey from a Blossoming Romance at University—Picnics, Daisy Bouquets, and Shared Dreams—to Fifteen Years of Building a Life Together, Heartbreak, and Finding the Courage to Start Over Alone at Thirty-Two

I think our love has faded Youre the prettiest girl in this whole department, he said back then, holding

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The Handy Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a soft chuckle or a polite giggle, but a booming, hearty cackle, the kind she’d avoided her entire life and found especially inappropriate for a hospital ward. The culprit was her bedside neighbour, phone pressed to her ear, waving her free hand enthusiastically as if her caller might see. “Len, you’re kidding! Seriously? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. They still had fifteen precious minutes of morning peace before the nurses would come bustling in—a few moments to gather herself before her surgery. Last night, when Helen was wheeled in, the woman across the way was already tapping away at her phone. Their greeting was brief: a “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then silence. Helen was grateful for the quiet. And now, this circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you lower your voice, please?” The neighbour turned around—round-faced, short grey hair left defiantly uncoloured, and a bright pyjama set covered in red polka dots. In hospital, no less! “Oh, Len, I’ll call you later, someone’s telling me off,” she cheerily ended the call and turned to Helen, beaming. “Sorry! I’m Cathy. Did you manage any sleep? I never do before surgery, that’s why I’m on the phone to everyone I know.” “Helen. And if you can’t sleep, it doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to rest.” “But you’re awake now, right?” Cathy winked. “Fine, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d made two more calls, and her voice only got louder. Helen ostentatiously turned away and pulled her covers over her head, to no effect. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained over untouched bowls of hospital porridge. “She’s worried because of the surgery, poor thing. I try to reassure her, you know?” Helen remained silent. Her own son hadn’t rung, but she hadn’t expected it: he’d warned her of an early meeting, very important. She’d taught him that—work comes first, that’s responsibility. Cathy was taken to surgery first. She waved goodbye all the way down the corridor, shouting something to a giggling nurse. Helen hoped the staff would move her to a new room after the operation. Her own turn came an hour later. She never took anaesthetic well—came round nauseous, her side pounding dully. The nurse patted her hand: all went well, you just need to rest. Helen did what she’d always done: she endured. By the evening, back in her room, Cathy was lying on her bed, her face ashen, eyes closed, drip in her arm. Silent, for once. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking, against her intentions. Cathy opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still alive. You?” “Me too.” They fell quiet as dusk thickened outside, the IV bags softly clinking. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but I just can’t help myself.” Helen wanted to make a sharp retort, but she was too tired. She just managed: “It’s fine.” That night neither of them slept—a dull ache kept both awake. Cathy made no more calls, just shifted and sighed. Once, Helen was sure, she heard her crying, muffled into the pillow. In the morning, the doctor came—examined their stitches, checked their temperature, gave a cheery, “Well done, ladies, you’re both doing brilliantly!” Cathy instantly grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! I’m alive, you don’t need to worry. How’s my bunch? Kieran still have a fever? What? It’s cleared up? See, I told you so!” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My bunch”—must be grandkids, her daughter reporting back. Her own phone lay silent. Two texts from her son, sent last night, as she was still groggy. “Mum, how are you?” and “Message me when you can.” She wrote back: “All fine 😊”. Her son loved emojis—said messages seemed cold without them. His reply came three hours later: “Awesome! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t visiting?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son’s busy. Lives far away. Besides, I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says, ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you can manage!’ Why bother coming if it’s all okay, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closer. Cathy smiled, but her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the oldest, eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy pulled out her phone. She showed Helen pictures for nearly twenty minutes—children at the beach, at home, blowing out birthday candles. In every photo, Cathy’s right there with them, hugging, pulling faces, cuddling—her daughter behind the camera, never in the shot. “She’s not fond of photos,” Cathy explained. “I’m with the kids most of the time. My daughter works, son-in-law too, so I’m…well, I help. Pick them up, homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same at first—helped out every day when her grandson was born. Now she visited maybe once a month, usually Sundays, if their schedules matched. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does activities.” “You see him much?” “Sundays…sometimes. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Yeah. Busy.” They sat in silence, watching the drizzle patter the window. That evening Cathy said, out of the blue: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cathy was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “Really, I don’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What’s the point? I’ll get home—Kieran will have fluffed his homework, Maddy will be full of snot again, Leo will have ripped his trousers. My daughter will be at work till late, son-in-law always travelling. Me? I’ll be on laundry duty, cooking, babysitting, always on call. And they never even—” she paused, voice catching, “—they never even say thank you, because that’s just what grandmas do, right? We’re meant to.” Helen said nothing. There was a lump in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Falling apart.” “Don’t be,” Helen said quietly. “I…retired five years ago. Finally thought I’d have time for myself. Go to the theatre, galleries, learn French even. I made it to two weeks of French class.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked for help. ‘You’re grandma, you don’t work, it’s easy for you.’ I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years babysitting all day. Then, when he started nursery, every other day. Then school, so, once a week. And now…now they have a nanny. I sit at home, waiting for a call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded solemnly. “My daughter promised to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked pies. She rang last minute—‘Sorry Mum, Kieran’s got sports, we can’t come.’” “And she never came?” “Never came. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence, listening to rain against glass. “You know what’s hardest?” Cathy said. “Not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I keep that phone in my hand, hoping they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.” Helen’s nose prickled. “I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I think, maybe my son just wants a chat. But it’s always practical.” “And we drop everything to help,” Cathy gave a short laugh. “Because we’re mums, after all.” “Yeah.” The next day began with painful dressings. Afterwards, they lay quietly, until Cathy suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Loving daughter, good son-in-law, grandchildren. I believed I was needed. That they couldn’t manage without me.” “And?” “And now, here, I see they’re coping just fine. My daughter, four days, never once complained. She’s even cheerful on the phone. So—they can do without me. I just make things easier. One free granny-nanny.” Helen pushed herself up on one elbow. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his mum would always help, always be there, her plans coming second to his.” “I did the same. My daughter calls—I drop everything.” “We taught them that we’re not people,” Helen said slowly, “that we don’t have lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. Silence. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day Helen could get up without the nurse’s help. On the sixth she walked to the end of the corridor. Cathy followed a day behind, the two of them shuffling along arm-in-arm. “After my husband died,” Cathy said, “I was lost. My daughter told me, ‘Your new purpose is the grandchildren. Live for them.’ So, I did. But that purpose…felt one-way. I’m there for them—but they’re only there for me when it suits.” Helen told Cathy about her divorce—thirty years ago, when her son was five—how she’d raised him alone, worked evenings, two jobs, fittings studies in between. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d always be grateful.” “But he grew up and lives his own life,” Cathy finished. “That’s right. And that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son turned up unannounced. Tall, smartly dressed, a bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doc says a few more days, you’ll be home. Fancy coming to ours for a bit? Olesya says the guest room’s ready.” “Thanks, but I’d rather be at home.” “Whatever you want. Just ring if you need anything.” He stayed twenty minutes—shared his news, chatted about work and new car, asked if she needed money, promised a visit next week. He left quickly, clearly relieved. Cathy pretended to sleep during the visit. When the door closed, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” “Yes.” “Handsome.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice.” Helen said nothing, her throat tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe we just need to stop waiting for love from them. Just…let go. See that they’re grown up, living their own lives. Let’s find our own, too.” “Easier said than done.” “Hard to do. But what choice is there? Keep waiting forever?” Helen surprised herself by shifting to a familiar tone. “What did you tell your daughter?” “Told her: after the operation, I need two weeks rest. Doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “And?” “At first she protested. I said, ‘You’re an adult, you’ll manage. I can’t right now.’” “Was she cross?” “Oh, furious,” Cathy giggled. “But you know? I felt lighter. Like I’d taken off some heavy coat.” Helen closed her eyes. “I worry if I say ‘no’, they’ll stop calling altogether.” “How often do they call now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can hardly get any worse.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed quietly, as if parting for good. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Helen nodded. They added numbers. Stood awkwardly, not quite able to let go. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “Thank you. I haven’t talked to anyone like this in thirty years. Not really.” “Me neither.” They hugged, gingerly, careful with their stitches. The nurse brought their paperwork, called them taxis. Helen left first. At home, it was silent, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Call me when you get in”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She wrote: “Home now. All good.” Put the phone down. She stood up, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French course brochure, and a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the brochure, thinking. Her phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry for calling so soon. I just…wanted to.” “I’m glad you did. I really am.” “Listen, want to meet up again? When we’re stronger. Maybe in two weeks? A coffee? Walk in the park? If you want, of course.” Helen looked at the brochure. At her phone. Then back at the brochure. “I’d like that. Very much. You know what? Why not this Saturday? I’ve had enough of lying at home.” “Saturday? Really? Did the doctor say—?” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to think about myself.” “Deal. Saturday it is.” They hung up. Helen picked up the French course brochure—the new term started in a month. Enrolment still open. She reached for her laptop and began filling in the registration form—her hands were shaking, but she filled it all in. Rain tapped at the window, but sunlight started to break through the clouds—faint, autumnal, but sunlight nonetheless. And Helen realised, perhaps for the first time, that her life might just be beginning. She hit ‘submit’.

Convenient Grandmothers Eleanor Smith wakes to laughter. Not to a quiet giggle or a restrained chuckle

La vida

“While We’re Selling the Flat, Why Don’t You Stay in a Care Home for a Bit,” Suggested Her Daughter Lydia Married Late in Life—She’d Nearly Given Up on Love by Forty, but Along Came Edward, a Divorced Man with Three Grown Children and No Home of His Own. After a Few Months of Renting, Lydia Had No Choice but to Move Her Husband into Her Sixty-Year-Old Mother Mary’s Council Flat. From the Start, Edward Complained About the ‘Old Person Smell’, and Soon Lydia Was Insisting Her Mum Give Up Her Bedroom for the Newlyweds. When Edward Grew Even Less Tolerant, He Urged Lydia to Send Her Mother Away—After All, the Flat Would Be Theirs Someday. Bowing to Pressure, Lydia Told Her Mum, “While We’re Selling the Flat, Why Don’t You Stay in a Care Home for a Bit—Just for Now, and Then We’ll Bring You Back.” Trusting Her Daughter, Mary Signed Over Her Flat, Only to Be Unceremoniously Packed Off to a Residential Home, Never to Return. Lydia, Consumed by Guilt After Her Mother’s Death and Her Own Betrayal, Ultimately Fled to a Convent to Atone for Her Sins.

6th March Mum, while were sorting the sale of your flat, do stay at the retirement home, my daughter said.

La vida

I Fell for the Neighbour: My Son Wants Nothing to Do with Me

Are you out of your mind, Mum?! my son roared, his face flushed scarlet. You with the neighbour?