La vida

My mother-in-law announced yesterday, Ill have to live with you for a while. To be frank, my wifes reaction

“We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Brazen Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The door buzzer didn’t just ring—it howled, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. on a Saturday. The only morning I’d planned to sleep in after closing the quarterly accounts, not play hostess. My sister-in-law Sarah’s face flashed on the entry screen, looking ready to storm Parliament rather than visit family, with three scruffy-haired kids bristling at her side. “Ian!” I barked without picking up. “Your lot. Sort it out.” He tumbled out of bed, pulling on shorts backwards, knowing from my tone that my patience with his family had expired. As he stumbled over some excuse into the intercom, I stood braced in the hallway, arms crossed. My flat—my rules. I’d bought this three-bed in Central London two years before the wedding, sweating over every mortgage payment. Seeing interlopers ruin it was the last thing I wanted. The door flung open, and a caravan poured into my pristine, scented hallway. Sarah, laden with bags, didn’t bother with a greeting—just shunted me aside like a coat rack. “Oh, thank god we made it!” she puffed, dumping her bags onto the designer tiling. “Alison, are you rooted to the spot? Stick the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Sarah,” my voice was level, though Ian shrank beside me, knowing what was coming. “What’s going on?” “Ian didn’t explain?”—she widened her eyes, all innocence—“Our place is being gutted—plumbing, floors—the dust is unbearable. We’re just crashing here for a week. Loads of room in all these empty square metres, right?” I shot Ian a look; he did a thorough inspection of the ceiling instead of answering. “A week,” I declared. “Seven days, not more. You sort your own food. Kids don’t run around, don’t touch the walls, my office is out of bounds, and I want silence after ten.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “God, Alison, you’re such a warden. All right, deal. Where are we sleeping? Not on the floor, I hope?” And so the nightmare began. A “week” became two, then three. My designer flat was morphing into a pigsty: a heap of muddy shoes in the hallway, sticky puddles and greasy splatters in my shiny kitchen, and Sarah reigning not as guest but queen. “Nothing to eat, Alison?” she whined one evening, surveying the empty fridge. “The kids need yoghurt, and Ian and I fancy some proper meat. Surely you can look after family with your income.” “You’ve got a bank card, you know where Tesco is,” I replied, not looking up from my laptop. “Sainsbury’s delivers 24/7.” “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge hard enough to rattle jars. “You can’t take money with you when you go, remember that.” But the last straw was still to come. One evening, arriving home early, I found my nephew bouncing on my thousand-quid orthopaedic mattress, while Sarah’s youngest daughter was busy turning my bedroom wall into a lipstick mural. With my Tom Ford. Limited edition. “OUT!” I roared—and the children scattered. Sarah burst in, surveyed the damage, and clapped her hands dismissively. “Why are you fussing? They’re just kids! It’s only a scribble. You’ll wash it off. And your lipstick—what is it, painted lard? Just buy another! Actually, we’ve been thinking. Builders are useless, so we’ll stay until the summer. You two must get lonely, don’t you? It’s much livelier with us!” Ian stayed silent. Spineless. I needed air to keep from committing a crime. Later, when Sarah went for a shower, she’d left her phone on the kitchen table. I’m no snoop, but a message popped up loud and clear from “Mandy Lettings”: “Sarah, sent the rent for next month. Tenants are happy, can they extend until August?” Followed by a bank notification: “£800 received.” Suddenly, it all clicked. No renovations, just a cheeky scheme—Sarah had sublet her own flat short-term and come here to freeload off me, pocketing the profits and letting me bankroll her family and her savings. My hands were steady, colder than calm. I took a photo of her screen. “Ian, come to the kitchen.” He paled after reading the message. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” he tried. “No, the only mistake is you still haven’t kicked them out,” I said. “You have a choice: by tomorrow lunchtime, either your family is gone or you all are. You, your mummy, your darling sister, and the whole circus.” “But where will they go?” “I don’t care. Under a bridge or to The Ritz—if their rental money stretches that far.” The next morning, Sarah cheerily announced she’d be “popping to Selfridges for some lovely boots,” leaving the kids with Ian. I waited for the door to shut behind her. “Ian, take the kids out—to the park. For a long time.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the flat.” As soon as the lift doors closed behind them, I called the locksmith, and then our local police support officer. Hospitality was over. It was eviction day. Yesterday’s “maybe it’s a mistake?” echoed in my ears as the locksmith swapped the lock for a brute of a security mechanism. “No one’s getting in without a grinder now, love,” he approved. “Perfect. That’s what I want.” Generous tip, the price of a decent dinner out, but peace was priceless. Then I started gathering stuff. Black bin bags—industrial-sized, 120 litres. I scooped up everything: Sarah’s bras, kids’ tights, toys, make-up spilling off my bathroom shelves. No folded piles, just shovelled in. In 40 minutes, a mountain of bags stood outside my front door. Two battered suitcases joined. The police officer, a tired-looking young man, arrived just as I finished. “Good morning, officer,” I handed him my ID and flat ownership papers. “I’m the sole owner and resident. Some people are about to try to get in—relatives with no tenancy or legal claim. Please record any attempted break-in.” “Relatives?” “Ex-relatives,” I grinned. “We have a family property dispute. It’s just got spicy.” Sarah arrived an hour later, radiant with Selfridges bags. Her smile vanished at the sight of the bin-bag pile and police escort. “What’s this? Alison, are you mental? These are my things!” “Exactly. Your things. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She lunged for the door but the officer blocked her. “Do you live here? Registered resident?” “I’m—Ian’s sister! We’re guests!” she turned to me, face flushed. “Where’s Ian? I’ll call him—just you wait!” “Go ahead. He won’t answer. He’s explaining to your kids why their mum’s so entrepreneurial.” No answer from Ian. Maybe finally he’d grown a spine—or was just scared about losing his share of the flat in a divorce he’d never win. “You can’t do this!” Sarah shrieked, dumping her new shoes on the ground. “We have nowhere to go! What about my kids?” “Stop lying. Say hi to Mandy from Lettings. See if the tenants want to stay till August or if you’ll need to kick them out.” Sarah’s face drained of colour. “How did you—?” “Next time, lock your phone, boss lady. You squatted here for a month on my food and wrecked my home while letting your own out for profit. Well done—very enterprising. But here’s my advice: take your stuff and leave. If you or your brood come within a mile of my flat again, I’ll notify HMRC about your little untaxed rental empire. And the police, too—my gold ring’s gone missing and you’d be amazed what they might find if they search those bags.” The ring, of course, was locked in my safe—but she didn’t know that. Sarah went ashen, foundation masking her panic. “You’re a cow, Alison,” she spat. “God will judge you.” “God’s busy,” I snapped. “But I’m free. And so is my flat.” She staggered off, cursing and fumbling for a taxi, while the officer watched with mild amusement. When the lift swallowed her, her bags, and her big scheme, I turned to the officer. “Thanks for your help.” “Always here—though a strong lock is your best bet next time.” I closed the door. The new lock clicked—loud, secure, satisfying. The flat, now fresh and quiet, carried the citrus tang of professional cleaning. Ian returned two hours later—alone. He’d handed the kids off to Sarah outside, who was still struggling with her luggage and her pride. “She’s gone,” he muttered. “I know.” “She was shouting all sorts about you—” “I don’t care what rats scream as they’re chucked off a ship.” I sat back in my spotless kitchen, sipping fresh coffee from my favourite, unbroken cup. The fridge held only my food. No lipstick drawings left—just clean walls. “Did you know she was letting her flat?” I asked, not looking at him. “No! Honestly, Alison! If I had—” “If you had, you wouldn’t have told me. Listen: this is your one and only warning. Next time your family tries anything, your suitcases will be outside with theirs. Got it?” He nodded, anxious and wary. He knew I meant it. I took a long sip of coffee. Hot, strong, and above all, drunk in perfect silence, in my own home. My crown felt just right.

Well stay here until summer!: how I sent my husbands cheeky family packing and changed the locks.

La vida

010

“WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HE’S A VEGETABLE! NOW YOU’LL BE CHANGING HIS BEDPANS FOR LIFE, WHILE I’M YOUNG AND NEED A REAL MAN!” — SHRIEKED THE BRIDE IN A&E. DR. LIDIA SAID NOTHING. SHE KNEW THIS PATIENT WASN’T “BRAIN DEAD,” BUT THE ONLY ONE WHO HEARD HER.

WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HES A VEGETABLE! YOULL BE EMPTYING HIS POTS FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, AND IM YOUNGI

La vida

I Spent Two Years Abroad, and Upon My Return, I Discovered My Son Had a “Surprise” Waiting for Me

Ive been living abroad for two years, and when I finally return to the UK I discover that my son has

La vida

My Husband Gave Me a Royal Birthday Gift: In the Middle of the Celebration, His Pregnant Mistress Called Me

Poppys husband gave her a regal birthday present, and in the middle of the celebration her phone rang

La vida

Deja Vu She Always Waited for Letters, From Childhood Through Her Whole Life—Addresses Changed, Trees Grew Shorter, People More Distant, Hopes More Quiet. He Trusted No One and Expected Nothing—A Sturdy, Ordinary Man With a Job and a Dog, Traveling Alone or With His Four-Legged Friend. She Was a Charming Woman With Big, Sad Eyes—“What Couldn’t You Leave Home Without?” “My Smile!” she’d say, her dimpled cheeks proving it. Nicknamed ‘Pirate in a Skirt,’ her closest childhood friendships were with boys, but privately she dreamed of being a mum with lots of kids, a kind husband, and a big cozy home with a beautiful garden. He Couldn’t Imagine Life Without Sports—Old Trophies and Medals Napping in a Box in the Garage, Saved More Out of Respect for His Proud Parents Than His Own Glory. He Loved Pushing Himself to the Edge, Tasting Exhaustion and That Next Surge of Strength. She Lost Her Parents at Seven, Grew Up in Children’s Homes With Her Younger Brother Sent Elsewhere—A Life of Battles, Sorrows, and Joys That Was Now Behind Her. Now They Lived Across the Street From Each Other in a Quiet English Neighborhood of Low Houses, Warm Streets, Bright Gardens, Farmer’s Markets. Family Was Her Only Real Friend—Her Brother. On a Troubling Winter’s Day Her Shift Ended, She Delivered Freshly Baked Pies to Colleagues—Received a Fatherly Hug From Her Mentor, Vasily, Who Cautioned Her to Rest. Holiday Shifts—Almost Always Together—Three-Person Ambulance Crew, Her Male Colleagues Didn’t Like Her, She Was Too Well-Groomed; She Insisted a Cheerful, Sharp-Looking Doctor Could Make All the Difference. He Raced Home With His White Dog and a Box of Trophies—Parents Had Invited Him for New Year’s, a Rare Gift, His Father, an Ex-Colonel, Proud but Worried for His Wife. Days Before the Holiday, a Midnight Call Came—His Mother Collapsed. Parents Were Always Together, Growing Old as Those Young, Secretly-in-Love Couples Do. She Was Exhausted but Still Delivered Her Pies Around the City—That Day, Even Snuck in a Nap at Work. Ten Miles to Her Parents’ House—Snowstorm Started, She Recalled How Her Dog Resisted Getting in the Car, the Rattle of the Box, Endless Roads… “Hold On, Mum, Dad, I’m Coming…” She Pulled Over in the Blizzard—Only a Few Miles Left—Just One More Pie, to the Cottage Where Her Favorite Patient Lived, a Spirited Older Woman With a Kind Husband and a Sparkle in Their Eyes. Suddenly, a Dark Shape in the Road—A Dog? Wild or Runaway? She Swerved—Crash. “Jack, Buddy… Why Does It Hurt So Much? Mum, Dad, I’m So Close…” Darkness. Vasily Was Unreachable—Gone to the Grandkids. Ambulance Couldn’t Get Through the Drift. A Nearby Car Careened Off the Road—She Saw the Crash. She Managed to Rescue a Man and Two Dogs, Hauled Them to Hospital, Her Brother Met Her Halfway. She Returned Later to Deliver the Pie—Brought Along a Box From the Crashed Car. “Could Be Valuable to Him. They’re Alive. I’ll Return It.” The Patient’s Husband Opened the Door, Looking Lost—His Wife Was Hospitalized, He Was Waiting for Their Son, Couldn’t Get Through… She Offered a Lift, Silence in the Car as the Snowstorm Ceased. He Noticed the Box, Asked About It; She Explained the Accident, the White and Black Dogs. He Grew Quiet—His Son Had a White Dog, His Wife Dreamt Lately of a Black One… When the Man Awoke in Hospital, First Thing He Thought About Was “Those Incredible, Sad Eyes.” His Father Was At His Side. The Family Celebrated New Year in Late January—Mum Recovered, Dad Was Overjoyed, Jack the Dog Walked With a Limp. Work Called Him Back, Boys to Coach, Competitions Ahead. But All He Could Think Of Was Her… Before He Left, His Father Pointed Out Trophies on the Attic Shelf—He Smiled, Remembering His Own Story. Meanwhile, She Hurried Home—Dina, the Dog Rescued From the Crash, Waited for Her, Black With a Heart-Shaped White Patch. Checking Her Letterbox, She Almost Didn’t Notice the White Envelope Inside. Inside, a Note: “I’ll Come Tonight. Thank You, Darling! Love Is a Compass That Always Finds the Way.”

Déjà vu Ive always waited for letters. Ever since I was a little girl for as long as I can remember.

La vida

My Ex-Wife… It Happened Two Years Ago, Just Before My Return from a Work Trip to Sheffield. With Three Hours to Spare Before My Train Home to Birmingham, I Wandered the City – and Ran Into My First Wife, Whom I Hadn’t Seen for Twelve Years. Zina Still Looked the Same, Only Paler, and Our Unexpected Meeting Shook Us Both. I Had Loved Her Madly, to the Point of Jealousy and Our Inevitable Divorce. Unable to Bear My Constant Questions and Suspicions, She Finally Left, Leaving a Note Apologising and Asking Me Never to Look for Her. Now, After All Those Years, We Spoke at Length Until I Realised I Was Late for My Intercity Bus. As I Started to Leave, Zina Asked for a Favour: to Escort Her to an Office in a Large Building She Didn’t Want to Enter Alone, and I Agreed. Inside, We Wound Through Corridors and Stairways Among People of All Ages, My Thoughts Consumed by Zina. At Last, She Entered a Room Alone, Gave Me a Strange Farewell Look, and Said, “It’s Odd—I Couldn’t Be With You, Nor Without You.” When She Didn’t Return, I Suddenly Realised I Was Late. To My Horror, I Found Myself Alone in an Abandoned, Derelict Building. I Barely Escaped and Missed My Bus, Only to Learn That It Had Crashed into a River With No Survivors. Two Weeks Later, I Tracked Down Zina’s Mother in London and Learned the Truth: Zina Had Died Eleven Years Ago—A Year After Our Divorce. Sceptical, I Asked to See Her Grave and Stood Before the Headstone, Staring at the Smiling Woman Who, Somehow, Had Just Saved My Life.

My Former Wife… It all unfolded two years ago. My posting in London was drawing to a close, and

La vida

017

Returning Home Early, Zoe Overhears a Shocking Conversation Between Her Husband and Sister—And Her World Turns Upside Down

11 I got home unexpectedly early today my GP cancelled all his appointments at the last minute, fell

La vida

“WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HE’S A VEGETABLE! YOU’LL BE CHANGING HIS BEDPANS FOR LIFE, BUT I’M YOUNG—I NEED A REAL MAN!” SCREAMED THE BRIDE IN INTENSIVE CARE. DR. LIDA REMAINED SILENT, KNOWING THIS PATIENT WAS NO ‘VEGETABLE’—HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD HEAR HER. Dr. Lydia Smith was a neurosurgeon, 38 years old, living in the operating theatre. No private life at all. Her husband had left five years earlier for a bubbly fitness instructor, telling Lydia as a parting shot: “You’re like a scalpel, Lida—cold and sharp. It’s always chilly with you.” But she wasn’t cold. Just focused. You can’t afford emotions when you’re working in someone’s brain. That shift, a young man—rider in a horrific motorbike accident—was brought in. Skull fracture, coma. Odds of survival—one in a million. Colleagues shook their heads: “Lydia, he won’t make it. If he does—he’ll be severely disabled. A vegetable.” “We’re operating,” Lydia snapped. For six hours, she pieced his skull together and stitched up shattered vessels. She fought as if he was her own. Why? She couldn’t say. She caught sight of his face before the swelling—a young, stubborn, handsome face—and decided: not today. His name was Tom. He was 29. He survived, but didn’t wake. The coma slipped into a vegetative state. Tubes everywhere—he breathed through a ventilator. Then came his fiancée: a flashy blonde with plumped-up lips. She wrinkled her nose when she saw Tom. “Ugh… That’s him?” “Yes,” Lydia said, checking the monitors. “His condition is stable but serious. Too early for predictions.” “What predictions?!” the young woman shrieked. “Can’t you see? He’s practically a corpse! Our wedding’s in a month! The honeymoon in Bali’s booked! And he’s just… lying here!” “Miss, please—have some respect,” Lydia replied quietly. “He can hear you.” “Hear? His brain’s mush! Look, can’t you, I don’t know… switch him off? Why make him—and me—suffer? I didn’t sign up to play nursemaid to a cripple!” Lydia kicked her out. Hard. “Get out. If I see you here again, I’m calling security.” The girl stalked off, heels clicking. She never came back. Tom was alone. He had no family—grew up in care. Lydia began staying late after shifts—checking his stats at first, then speaking to him. “Hello, Tom. It’s raining today. Horrible weather, but the air’s fresh. You know, I saved an old lady today—she had an aneurysm…” She read him books. Told him about her cat, her ex-husband, her loneliness. It was strange, pouring her heart out to someone lying there motionless, gazing at the ceiling with empty eyes. Still, Lydia felt him there. She massaged his hands so his muscles wouldn’t waste away. Put rock music on his headphones—using the playlist from his phone that came in with his things. Colleagues shook their heads. “Lydia’s lost it. Fallen for a ‘vegetable.’” But she saw how his heart rate changed when she entered the room. Four months went by. One night while filling in files by his bed, Lydia spoke aloud: “You know, Tom—They want to promote me to Head of Department. I’m scared. It’d mean paperwork, management stuff… I just want to treat people.” Suddenly, she felt a touch—weak, barely there. His fingers squeezed her hand. Lydia froze. Tom was looking at her. With recognition. He tried to speak, but the tracheostomy got in the way. His lips moved silently: “T… h… a… n… k… y… o… u…” It was a miracle—medical and human. Recovery was hell. Tom had to relearn everything. Lydia was there—his therapist, psychologist, friend. When he finally spoke, he whispered, “I remember your voice. You read Remarque to me. And told me about Barley—the cat.” Lydia cried. For the first time in years, the “iron lady” wept. Tom was discharged after six months—wheelchair-bound, but with hope to walk again. Lydia took him in. Not as a patient—but because he had nowhere else to go. Their life was strange: her, a doctor; him, her charge. But something more began to grow. Tom was a programmer—soon working remotely from his chair. “I’ll buy you a new coat, Lyds. The blue one you wanted.” “Nonsense! Save up for your rehab.” A year later, Tom walked—with a cane, limping, but up on his feet. And then the ex-fiancée reappeared, having seen Tom’s photo on social media—standing strong, handsome. She came to Lydia’s house. “Tommy! Darling! I suffered so much! Doctors terrified me—you’d die! Forgive me, silly me! I love you!” She clung to him, smelling of pricey perfume. Lydia waited in the hall, fists clenched. Tom calmly but firmly removed her hands. “Christina, I heard everything—in intensive care. Every word—about being a ‘vegetable,’ about unplugging the machines.” “Tom, it was shock! I was in a state!” “No. That was the real you. Leave.” “But—” “Out.” Christina left, cursing the “ungrateful freak.” Tom turned to Lydia. “You know why I came back?” he asked. “Why?” “Because you called me. In the darkness, I followed your voice. You were my lighthouse.” He limped over and hugged her. “Lydia, you aren’t cold. You’re the warmest person I’ve ever known.” They married quietly, without fuss. Tom fully recovered. Now they’re raising their adopted son—the same boy Lydia once operated on after an injury, whose alcoholic parents abandoned him. Lydia became head of her department. She still stays late with her sickest patients, knowing sometimes a kind word works better than the sharpest scalpel—even when the body is silent, the soul can hear you. Moral: Too often we write people off based on diagnoses or circumstances. But love and faith are the strongest tools of recovery. Betrayal in a crisis is never forgotten—it shows someone’s true face. And real love is proven not on a beach in Bali, but at a hospital bedside, carrying bedpans and holding hands in the dark…

WHY DID YOU SAVE HIM? HES JUST A SHELL OF A MAN! NOW YOULL BE EMPTYING CHAMBER POTS FOREVER, AND IM YOUNGI

La vida

073

“I Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Left Three months – that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights with baby Max screaming so loud the neighbours banged on the walls. Three months of Marina stumbling around like a zombie, red-eyed and shaky-handed. And Igor would stalk through the flat, grim as a raincloud. “Can you imagine how I look at work? Like a tramp,” he threw out once, scrutinising himself in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina stayed silent. Feeding, rocking, feeding again. An endless cycle. And somewhere nearby, Igor – her husband – moaning instead of helping. “You know, maybe your mum could come over?” he suggested one evening, stretching after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking, I might pop down to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week?” Marina froze mid-bottle. “I need a break, Marina. Seriously.” Igor started packing his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she has? Her eyelids stick together, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying again. For the fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “I get it’s hard,” he waved off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s important, lots of responsibility. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina suddenly saw them from the outside: her, in a grubby dressing gown, wild hair, baby screaming in her arms; Igor, packing his case, bolting away. “I want to live for myself and finally get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood in the middle of the flat with her crying son and felt everything inside crumble. A week passed. Then another. Igor rang a handful of times, asking how things were. His voice distant, like talking to someone he barely knew. “I’ll be back at the weekend.” He didn’t come. “Definitely tomorrow.” Again, nothing. Marina rocked the screaming baby, changed nappies, mixed formula. Snatched half-hour naps between feeds. “You’re doing alright?” asked her mate. “Brilliant,” she lied. Why does she lie? She’s ashamed. Ashamed her husband left. That she’s alone with a baby. You’d think it couldn’t get worse. But it got more interesting at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s colleague. “Where’s your hubby?” Lena asked. “Busy with work.” “I see. Men are all the same—start working overtime as soon as kids arrive.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor go on business trips often?” “What trips?” “He just went up to Manchester for that seminar! Showed us pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was ‘busy’. Lied, wasn’t busy—he was in Manchester. Igor showed up on Saturday, with flowers. “Sorry I’ve been gone so long. Lot of work.” “Went to Manchester, did you?” He froze with the bouquet. “Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter. What matters is, why are you lying?” “I’m not. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere. “Igor, I need help. Do you understand? I haven’t slept for weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what? You don’t give me any money.” “What do you mean? I pay the mortgage, the bills…” “And food? Nappies? Medicine?” He went quiet. Then: “Maybe you should go back to work? Even part-time? Why stay at home? We’ll get a nanny.” Staying home, as if it’s a holiday! At that, Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and realised: this man doesn’t love her. Not at all. He never did. “Get out.” “Where to?” “Out. And don’t come back till you decide what matters: family or ‘freedom.'” Igor grabbed his keys and left. For two days. Then he texted: “Thinking.” Marina didn’t sleep. She thought too. Imagine being alone with your thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How’re you doing, Marina? Igor not home?” “He’s away for work.” Lied. Again. “Shall I come help?” “I’ll manage.” But that wasn’t it. Her mum came anyway. “What’s going on here?” she looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina looked in the mirror. Rough shape. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s happening?” Marina started crying. Loud, like a child. Desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Her mum stayed quiet. Then: “Bastard. Absolute bastard.” Marina was shocked. Her mother never used foul language. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much?” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I should have understood?” “Is it hard for you, Marina?” At that bluntness, Marina realised: she’d only ever thought about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. About herself—not a word. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned, clearly ‘thinking’ at the cottage. “Can we talk?” “Yes.” They sat at the table. “Marina, I get it’s hard for you. But it’s tough for me too. Maybe we agree? I’ll help with money, visit. But for now I’ll live separately.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, a couple hundred quid?” Two hundred pounds. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. And don’t come back.” “Marina, I’m making an offer here!” “Offer? Want your freedom? What about mine?” Then Igor said the line that made everything clear: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mum!” Marina looked at him: there he was, the real Igor. Infantile, selfish—thinks motherhood is a prison sentence. “I’ll apply for support. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I will.” He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt like she could breathe. Max cried. But now she knew: she would cope. A year passed. Igor tried to come back twice. “Marina, let’s try again?” “Too late.” Igor spread rumours Marina was cold-hearted. Unconvincing. Marina found a nanny, got a job as a nurse. At work, she met Dr Andrew. “Do you have kids?” “A son.” “And his dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought Max a toy car. They played and laughed together. Soon, they often walked together in the park. Igor found out. Called up: “The boy’s only one, and you’re already with another man!” “What did you expect? For me to sit around waiting for you?” “But you’re a mum!” “Yes, I am. So?” He stopped calling. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he showed up straight away. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his country house. Now Max is two. Calls Andrew ‘Uncle.’ Doesn’t remember Igor. Igor remarried. Pays support. Marina doesn’t hold a grudge. Now she’s living for herself, too. And it’s wonderful.

I just want to live for myself and finally get some sleep, my husband announced as he left.