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The Next Day, Our Neighbour Was Leaning Over Our Fence Again. My Wife Told Her We Had a Lot to Do Today, So We Couldn’t Socialise Like Yesterday. “What About Tomorrow?” Barbara Asked, Curious. “It’ll Be the Same Tomorrow. In Fact, Please Don’t Come Over Anymore.”

The next day, our neighbour was back, leaning over our garden fence as if nothing had changed.

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My Mother-in-Law Was Absolutely Shocked When She Visited Our Garden and Found No Vegetables or Fruit Growing There

My mother-in-laws face was a picture of disbelief as she entered our garden and realised there wasnt

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Granny Always Had a Favourite Grandchild — And what about me, Nan? — whispered Kate. — Oh, you’re fine as you are, Kate, look at those rosy cheeks of yours. Walnuts are for brains, you know. Dima needs to study, he’s a man, the family’s hope. You go on and dust the shelves. Girls should get used to housework. — Kate, are you serious? She’s… she’s not got long now. The doctors said days—maybe hours… Dima stood there, twisting his car keys, looking pretty rough. — Deadly serious, Dima. Do you want some tea? — Kate didn’t even turn from her apple chopping for her daughter. — Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on. — Tea? Kate, are you kidding? — He stepped towards her, frustration in his voice. — She’s lying there, tubes everywhere, gasping… She was calling for you this morning. “Where’s Katie?” she kept saying. My heart nearly stopped. You’re really not going? She’s our nan, Kate. This is your last chance, don’t you see? Kate arranged apple slices on a plate and then finally faced him. — She’s your nan. For her, you’re Dima — her pride and joy, the only heir, the precious hope of the family. And for me… I never really existed for her. Do you honestly think I need to say goodbye? What are we meant to talk about, Dima? What am I supposed to forgive her for—or she, me? — Oh, come off it with these childhood grudges! — Dima slammed his keys on the table. — Yes, maybe she loved me more than you. So what? She’s old, she had her quirks. But she’s dying! Don’t be so… hard-hearted. — I’m not hard-hearted, Dima. I just don’t feel anything for her. Go on, you. Sit with her, hold her hand—she needs you a hundred times more than she needs me. You’re her golden boy. So shine for her till the end. Dima stared, turned, and left, slamming the door. Kate sighed, picked up the apples, and went to her daughter’s room. *** Everything in their family had always been neatly divided. No, their parents loved them equally—both Kate and Dima. The house was always lively, laughter, the smell of baking, a bustle of visits and outings. But Granny—Claudia Watson—was a different sort altogether. — Dima, come here, my clever lad, — Granny would call as soon as they arrived on weekends. — Look what I’ve put aside for you. Freshly shelled walnuts! And these, your favourite toffees! Kate, aged seven then, would stand watching as granny reached deep into the mahogany cabinet for the precious bag. — And me, Granny? — she’d ask quietly. Claudia Watson would cast a prickly glance in her direction. — You’re all right, Kathleen. Those cheeks prove it, don’t they? Walnuts are for clever boys; Dima needs him some brains—he’s a man, the support of the family. You go on and do the dusting. Girls should learn to be useful. Dima, blushing, would take the treats and sidle away, while Kate fetched the dusters. Funny thing was, she never even minded. Young Kate just accepted it like the weather. Some days it rained, and Granny loved Dima best. Life was like that. Usually, her brother waited in the hall. — Here, — he’d press half the toffees and walnuts into her hand. — Just don’t eat them in front of her, she’ll only grumble. — You need them more, for your brain, — Kate would smile. — Oh, stuff that, — Dima would pull a face. — She’s a bit tapped, anyway. Come on, eat up quick. They’d crunch their contraband together on the stairs to the attic. Dima always shared. Always. Even when Granny would slip him money “for ice cream” behind Mum’s back, he’d run to Kate: — Hey, that’s two cones and enough left for a bubble gum sticker! Wanna go? Her brother was always the shield from Granny’s chill. His love more than made up for the shortfall—so much so that Kate barely even noticed she was missing anything. Years passed. Claudia Watson grew old. When Dima turned eighteen, she solemnly announced she was leaving him her spare flat in the centre. — The pillar of the family should have his own place, — she declared. — So he brings home a wife and needn’t sponge off others. Mum just sighed—she knew her mother’s fierce ways and never argued. But later that evening, she sat on Kate’s bed. — Love, don’t you fret… Your dad and I see it all. Here’s what we’ve decided: the money we’ve saved for a bigger house and for a car—we’re giving it to you. A first step towards a place of your own. It’s only fair. — Oh Mum, honestly—Dima needs the flat, he and Irina are getting married. I’ll manage in the halls. — No, love. Your gran’s stuck in her ways, but we’re your parents—it’s wrong for one child to get more than the other. So take it, and don’t argue. But Kate didn’t take it. Dima moved into Gran’s flat the minute he married, and their family house felt suddenly spacious. Kate took his old room, filled it with her books and art, and tasted for the first time the joy of a space filled with equal love. Inheritance never got between her and her brother. If anything, Dima felt awkward. — Pop round to ours, — he’d say, dropping by. — Irina’s made cakes. Gran keeps asking if I’ve wasted “her money” on your hobbies. — And what did you say? — Told her I’d blown the lot on fruit machines and fancy gin, — Dima would laugh. — She huffed for ages, then said, “Katie’s led you astray!” — Naturally, — Kate would grin. — Who else? *** When Kate married Alex and had a baby, housing became an issue. Once more, their mother worked wonders. — Listen, kids, — she said. — We have a three-bed. Dima’s got his flat. You two are renting. Let’s swap: we’ll trade ours for a one-bed and a two-bed. Your dad and I will have the one-bed, Kate, you and Alex the two-bed. — Mum, — Dima interrupted. — I don’t want any share of our old house. Not a penny. Gran’s flat is plenty for me. Let Kate have everything—she needs it, new family and all. — Dima, really? — said Alex, amazed. — That’s a lot of money. Are you sure? — Sure. Kate and I have always split everything. She’s put up with so much because of Gran. Not another word. That’s final. Kate cried that day. Not over square feet, but because her brother was the best person she’d ever know. They swapped the flats. Life carried on. Mum often visited to help with her granddaughter. Dima, Irina, and their boys would come every weekend. Claudia Watson lived alone. Dima brought groceries, fixed things, and listened to endless complaints about her health and “ungrateful Katie”. — Has she ever rung? Has she ever checked on me? — Gran would huff. — You never wanted to know her, Gran, — Dima replied gently. — Twenty years and you never said a kind word—why would she call? — I was just trying to raise her right! — she’d retort. — A woman ought to know her place! And now she’s ended up with the flat, forced myself and her mum out! Dima could only sigh. Explaining was pointless. *** Kate sat in the kitchen, memories drifting through. Granny brushing her hand aside from the jam. Praising Dima’s dodgy drawings, walking past Kate’s prize certificates in silence. She was the queen at Dima’s wedding, never showed for Kate’s—said she was ill. — Mum, why don’t we visit Nana Claudia? — her daughter poked her head in. — Uncle Dima says she’s really poorly. — Nana Claudia only wants to see Uncle Dima, love, — Kate smoothed her daughter’s hair. — That’s just how she likes it. — Is she mean? — her daughter squinted. — No, — Kate reflected. — She just didn’t know how to love everyone at once. Some people only have room for one in their heart. That’s life. That evening, Dima phoned again. — It’s over, Kate. An hour ago. — I’m so sorry, Dima. It must hurt. — She waited for you, you know, — Dima lied gently. Kate knew, but let him. — Said, “Hope Katie will be happy”. — Thank you, Dima… Come round tomorrow. We’ll remember her together—I’ll bake a cake. — Will do… Kate—do you regret it? Not going, I mean? She didn’t lie. — No, Dima. I don’t. Why pretend? Neither of us ever wanted to see the other… He was quiet a moment. — Maybe you’re right, — he sighed. — Always the sensible one, sis. See you tomorrow. The funeral was quiet. Kate went—for Mum and Dima. She stood apart, black coat against the dismal cemetery sky. As the coffin sank, she didn’t cry. Dima came to her, arm round her shoulders. — You all right? — I’m fine, Dima. Really. — I was clearing out her flat… found a box of old photos. You were in there too. Lots. All cut carefully from family photos. She kept every single one. Kate raised an eyebrow in surprise. — Why? — No idea. Maybe deep down she cared, just couldn’t show it. Afraid if she loved you, I’d get less? Old folks can be odd. — Maybe, — Kate shrugged. — But it doesn’t really matter now. They left under one umbrella—tall, sturdy Dima and little Kate. — You know, — said Dima as they reached their cars, — I’m going to sell that flat. I’ll buy a family home, set up a trust for the kids, and the rest… Maybe we should donate it? A children’s hospital, perhaps? So ‘Nan’s’ money finally brings someone some joy… Kate looked at him and, for the first time in days, smiled warmly. — You know, Dima… That would be the sweetest revenge on Granny Watson. The kindest revenge in the world. — So it’s settled? — Settled. They drove away in different directions. Kate, music playing, felt an unexpected, gentle calm settle within. Maybe Dima was right. Some of the money should help heal a child. That would be fair.

Granny Always Had a Favourite And what about me, Gran? she would ask softly. Oh, youre fine, Catherine.

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When a Husband Is Worth More Than Bitter Grievances “Igor, that was the last straw! We’re getting a divorce. Don’t bother dropping to your knees – it won’t work this time!” I put a firm full stop on our marriage. Of course, Igor didn’t believe me. My husband assumed it would play out like always: he’d kneel, apologise, buy another ring, and I’d forgive. It had happened before. But this time I was determined to break the bonds of matrimony for good. My fingers, loaded down with rings, were empty of happiness. Igor was constantly and heavily hitting the bottle. …And yet, it all began so romantically. My first husband, Edward, went missing in the 90s. Life was frightening back then. He was a difficult man who picked fights. As they say, “the eyes of an eagle, the wings of a mosquito”– all show, little strength. If things weren’t to his liking, he’d throw a fit. I’m sure Edward got caught up in some sort of trouble. No word was ever heard. I was left with two daughters: Lizzie, five, and Rose, just two. Five years passed after his mysterious disappearance. I nearly lost my mind. I had loved Edward desperately, despite his temper. We’d been inseparable, two halves of a whole. I’d decided life was over: I would just raise my girls. Gave up on myself. Those years were harsh. I worked in a factory, paid in irons instead of wages. I had to sell them for food. On winter weekends, standing half-frozen at the market, a man approached me out of pity. “Cold, miss?” he asked gently. “How could you tell?” I tried to joke, though I was frozen through. Yet, his presence felt warm. He offered to help carry my unsold irons and suggested a cafe to warm up. I agreed, desperate not only from the cold but a deeper chill inside. We never made it to the cafe. I dragged him close to my house, left him with my things, and rushed to get my girls from nursery. When we returned, he waited as promised. His name was Igor. I invited him in for tea, and over cups and conversation, he offered me a job with better pay than a year’s worth of factory irons. He was in the midst of a divorce, with a son from his first marriage. Soon, we married and he adopted my girls. Life was good. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with expensive furniture and gadgets, built a summer house, and had seaside holidays every year. Bliss. …For seven cloudless years. Then, having achieved comfort, Igor started to drink. At first, I dismissed it – he worked hard and needed to relax. But drinking became daily, then at work. Pleas fell on deaf ears. I’m a risk-taker. To distract Igor, I decided to have his child – at thirty-nine. My friends laughed but understood. “Go for it, Tanya! Maybe we’ll all become mums again at forty!” they joked. I always said: Better to have a child and never regret it, than not and wonder forever. Our twins were born, bringing our daughters to four, but Igor didn’t stop drinking. I took a wild chance: we moved to the country, started a farm, opened a cafe. Igor became a hunter, out in the woods, shotgun in hand. Things trundled along, until one night when, drunken out of his mind, Igor smashed everything, grabbed his shotgun, and fired into the ceiling. I fled with the girls to the neighbours in terror. Later, seeing the devastation, I gathered our things and went to my mother’s. She said, “What can you do? Every marriage has its troubles. Go back, it’ll pass.” Mum always said: Better to grit your teeth for a handsome husband. A few days later Igor showed up. That’s when I drew the line. He remembered nothing, thought I was making it up. But I was done. We sold the cafe for pennies, hurriedly left for a nearby village, squeezing into a tiny house. The older girls started work and soon married. The twins were still at school. They still loved Igor, kept in touch with him. Through them he begged me to come back; they insisted he’d changed. “Think of yourself! You’re not 25 anymore!” But I held firm – I wanted peace, not drama. …Two years passed. Loneliness gnawed at me. I pawned all my rings for money, couldn’t buy any back. I thought, and remembered. Igor had loved all four daughters, he always cared for me, never failed to apologise. We’d been a good family; you can’t measure happiness by another’s life. In time, even the older girls stopped coming by – only calls now. Youth moves on. Soon my twins would fly the nest, and I’d be alone. So, I had the twins ask Igor about his life – maybe there was another woman? But no: he worked in another city, off drink, single. He left them his address, just in case. One way or another, we’ve now been back together for five years. I did say – I’m a bit of a gambler…

A HUSBAND IS WORTH MORE THAN BITTER GRUDGES “Peter, that’s it! This was the last straw. We’

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Gone for Good – Or Is He? When Natasha’s “Mr. Right” Turned Out to Be Mr. Wrong: From Car Trouble and a Chance Encounter in Auto Help UK to a Shocking Disappearance, Love, Lies, and the Lesson of Trust

Gone and Good Riddance What do you mean ‘the number you have dialled is not available’

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A Christmas Eve Miracle: How Dad Forgot the Gift, a White Kitten Appeared Under the Tree, and Kindness Worked Its Magic on the Entire Family

A Christmas Miracle Tom, can you explain to me, please, just how you managed to forget? I reminded you

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010

My Daughter-in-Law Is Angry With Me Over the Flat and Is Turning My Son Against Me: How My Son Fell for a Manipulative Woman and Their Demand That I Exchange Homes for Their Happiness

My daughter-in-law is upset with me over the flat and has started to turn my son against me.

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016

I Won’t Let My Husband Support Another Man’s Child

And how much child maintenance does your ex actually pay you? Charlotte accidentally choked on her tea.

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He Hated His Wife. Truly Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together—Waking Beside Each Other Every Morning—But Only This Past Year Did Her Habits Begin to Deeply Irritate Him. Especially One: Each Morning, While Still in Bed, She’d Stretch Out Her Arms and Say, “Good morning, sunshine! Today will be a marvellous day.” An Ordinary Phrase, Yet Her Thin Arms and Sleepy Face Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Gaze Out the Window for a Moment, Take Off Her Nightdress, and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Their Marriage, He Had Admired Her Body, Her Innocent Freedom Edging on Immodesty. Now, Though Her Figure Remained Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Wanted to Push Her—Shove Her into Starting the Day Faster—But He Settled for Snapping, “Hurry up, I’m sick of waiting!” She Never Rushed. She Knew About His Three-Year Affair and Even Knew the Young Woman Involved, but Time and Quiet Resignation Had Dulled the Wound to Her Pride—Leaving Only Sadness and a Sense of Unimportance. She Forgave His Hostility, Neglect, His Longing to Relive His Youth, Yet She Didn’t Allow Him to Dictate the Pace of Her Life. She Had Lived This Way Since Learning She Was Terminally Ill. Month by Month, Her Illness Consumed Her, with No Hope of Recovery. Her First Impulse Was to Tell Everyone to Ease the Cruelty of the Truth by Sharing It Piece by Piece with Family. But After Surviving the Worst Days Alone, She Decided to Keep Silent. With Each Passing Day, She Found Quiet Wisdom—Learning to Contemplate. She Sought Solitude in a Tiny Village Library, An Hour-and-a-Half’s Walk Away. Every Day She’d Slip Between the Bookshelves Labelled “Mysteries of Life and Death,” Finding Books She Hoped Held All the Answers. Meanwhile, He Felt Alive Only in His Lover’s House—So Warm, Bright, And Familiar After Three Years. He Loved Her Madly, Jealously, Even Desperately. Today, He Arrived with a Solid Decision: Divorce. Why Torture All Three of Them Anymore? He Didn’t Love His Wife—He Hated Her! Here, He Would Start Again, Happier. He Tried Remembering How He’d Once Felt About His Wife But Failed. It Seemed She’d Annoyed Him from the Very Beginning. Pulling a Photo of Her from His Wallet—A Simple Act Sealing His Decision—He Tore It to Shreds. They Agreed to Meet in the Restaurant Where, Six Months Ago, They’d Celebrated Their Fifteenth Anniversary. She Arrived First. He Stopped by Home to Gather Divorce Papers, Rummaging through Drawers in a Fluster. In One Drawer He Discovered a Dark Blue Sealed Folder He’d Never Noticed. Kneeling On the Floor, He Tore Off the Tape, Expecting Anything—Even Blackmail Photos. Instead: Medical Reports, Lab Results, Doctor’s Letters—All with His Wife’s Name. Realisation Struck Like Lightning, Sending Chills Down His Spine. Illness! He Googled the Diagnosis. The Screen Displayed: “6 to 18 months.” Looking at the dates, He Saw Six Months Had Already Passed Since Her Tests. After That, Everything Blurred—His Mind Echoing Only the Words, “6-18 months.” She Waited 40 Minutes. No Answer to Her Calls. She Paid the Bill and Stepped Into a Beautiful Autumn Day—Gentle Sun Warming Her Heart. “How Beautiful Life Is—How Lovely to Be Here, With Sunlight and Trees.” For the First Time Since Learning Her Fate, She Felt Truly Sorry for Herself. She Had Kept Her Terrible Secret from Husband, Family, and Friends, Sparing Them at the Cost of Her Own Shattered Life. Soon, All That Would Remain Would Be a Memory. She Walked the Streets, Watching People’s Joyful Eyes Looking Forward—To Winter, Then Spring. She’d Never Know Such Hope Again. Grief Swelled Up and Spilled Over In Endless Tears… He Prowled His Room, Suddenly Overwhelmed by the Fragility of Life. He Remembered His Wife When They First Met, Young and Hopeful. He Once Had Loved Her! It Was as if the Past Fifteen Years Had Vanished, And All that Remained Was Youth, Happiness, Promise… In Her Final Days, He Surrounded Her with Tenderness, Refusing to Leave Her Side—Feeling More Alive Than Ever. He Was Terrified of Losing Her and Would Have Given His Life to Save Hers. If Reminded That Just a Month Ago He Had Hated Her, He’d Swear, “That wasn’t me.” He Saw How Hard Death Was for Her—How She Wept at Night, Believing Him Asleep. He Knew There Was No Greater Punishment than Knowing When You’ll Die. He Saw Her Fighting for Every Day, Clinging to the Faintest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Road from Their Home to the Cemetery in Flowers and Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered into the Earth—A Thousand Years Older, All at Once… At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found Her New Year’s Wish: “To Be Happy With Him Until the End of My Days.” They Say All Wishes Made on New Year’s Eve Come True. Perhaps They Do—Since In That Same Year, He’d Written: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Received Exactly What They Had Wished For…

He loathed his wife. Loathed her… Theyd spent fifteen years togetheran entire decade and a half.

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019

The Cuckoo Stayed Longer Than Expected — Seriously? She can’t be for real! — Sasha flared up. — Yura, come here! Right now! Her husband, just having kicked off his trainers in the hallway, peeked through the doorway, unbuttoning his collar as he entered. — Sash, what now? I’ve only just got home, my head’s splitting… — ‘What now?’ — Sasha gestured furiously at the edge of the bath. — Have a proper look. Where’s my shampoo? What about the hair mask I literally bought yesterday? Yura squinted, his eyesight not what it once was, scanning the neat row of bottles. A giant bottle of tar shampoo (who even uses that?) had pride of place, next to a family-sized “Burdock” and a heavy brown glass jar of some unbelievably dark hair cream. — Erm… That’s all Mum’s stuff. She must have brought it round. She probably finds it easier having her things to hand… — he muttered, avoiding eye contact with his wife. — Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! And now, check down there. Sasha crouched and pulled out a plastic basin from underneath the bath. Her expensive French toiletries had been dumped inside, along with her loofah and razor. — What is this, Yura? She’s swept all my things up into this filthy tub and arranged her own products like royalty! She decided my things belonged next to the mop, but her “Burdock” deserves pride of place on the bath ledge! Yura gave a heavy sigh. — Sash, don’t get worked up. Mum’s really not well at the moment, you know that. I’ll just put it all back, and we can go have dinner. She’s made cabbage rolls, by the way… — I’m not eating her cabbage rolls, — Sasha shot back. — Why is she always here anyway? Why does she treat my home like her own, Yura?! I feel like a lodger, and I’m lucky if I’m even allowed to use the toilet. Sasha stormed out, pushing past her husband, while Yura quietly slid the tub of her things back under the bath with his foot. The so-called “housing problem”, the one that’s plagued millions, hadn’t even touched Sasha and Yura. Yura had his own spacious flat in a new-build, inherited from his paternal grandfather. Sasha had a cosy one-bedroom she’d got from her grandma. After their wedding, they decided to settle in Yura’s place — it was recently renovated, had air-con — and Sasha’s was let out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents had always followed the “armed neutrality verging on polite sympathy” rule. Svetlana Anatolievna and her husband, the ever-civil and practically mute Viktor Petrovich, lived on the other side of London. There were weekly teas, the usual check-ins about health and work, polite smiles exchanged. — Oh Sasha, you look like you’ve lost weight, — Svetlana would say, nudging a slice of cake her way. — Yura darling, aren’t you feeding your wife? — Mum, we’re just going to the gym now, — Yura would laugh it off. And that was it. No unannounced visits, no advice on managing the house. Sasha would even boast to her friends: — I’m so lucky with my mother-in-law. She’s golden. Never interferes, never lectures me, never nags Yura. Everything fell apart one gloomy Tuesday, when Viktor Petrovich, husband of thirty-two years, suddenly packed a suitcase, scrawled a note — “Gone to the seaside, don’t look for me!” — blocked every contact, and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just a phrase, but an actual sun-tanned administrator from a Bognor Regis spa hotel they’d visited together over the past three summers. For sixty-year-old Svetlana, her world turned upside down. First came the tears, then 3am calls, endless rehashing: — How could he? Why? Oh Sasha, how could this happen?! Sasha was genuinely sympathetic at first. She bought sedatives for her mother-in-law, listened to the same story for the tenth time and nodded, even when Svetlana cursed “that ancient womaniser”. But soon her patience wore thin — and the ceaseless whining started to really get on her nerves. — Yura, she called five times before noon, — Sasha grumbled one breakfast. — She wants you to change a lightbulb in her hallway. I get it, I do. But… when will it ever end? Yura looked crestfallen. — She’s lonely, Sash. She’s always had Dad to rely on, it’s… Don’t be upset with her, please… — She can change a bulb or call a handyman. She just wants one of us to come over. Why should I have to? Then came the sleepovers — her husband started staying at his mum’s. — Sash, Mum can’t sleep alone, — Yura said apologetically, packing his overnight bag. — She says the silence is too much. Just a couple nights at hers, yeah? — Couple nights? — Sasha frowned. — Yura, we’ve only just got married and you’re already moving out half the week! I don’t want to sleep alone every other night. — Sash, it’s temporary. She just needs to get her bearings, then things’ll go back to normal. “Temporary” dragged on for a month. Svetlana demanded her son stay four nights a week — evenings and nights. She feigned dizzy spells, panic attacks, even engineered drains to get blocked in the sink — all to keep Yura there. Sasha watched her husband being ground down, split between two homes, and finally made the mistake she’d regret every day afterwards. *** She decided to have a heart-to-heart with her mother-in-law. — Listen, Svetlana, — she began at Sunday lunch. — If you really can’t stand being alone in those four walls, why don’t you come to ours during the day? Yura’s at work, I often work from home. You can wander the park, sit with us… Yura can drop you home in the evenings. Svetlana gave her a strange look. — Actually, Sasha, you clever thing… Why am I rotting at home? Sasha expected a visit or two a week, imagining the mother-in-law would rock up around noon and leave by the time Yura was back… But Svetlana had her own ideas — she arrived at exactly 7am. — Who’s there? — Yura murmured, half asleep, hearing the doorbell. He went to open it himself. — It’s me! — rang out Svetlana’s cheery voice. — I brought you some fresh cottage cheese! Sasha pulled the covers over her head. — For crying out loud… — she hissed. — Yura, it’s 7am! Where does she even get fresh cottage cheese at this time?! — Mum’s an early bird, — Yura was already pulling on his trousers. — You go back to sleep, I’ll let her in. From then on, their life became a nightmare. Svetlana didn’t just visit — she spent every working hour in the flat. Sasha tried to work, but her mother-in-law hovered: — Sasha, haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth, here, I’ll do it now. — Svetlana, I’m actually busy, I’ve got a call in five minutes! — Oh, what call? Just staring at the screen. And by the way, dear, you iron Yura’s shirts wrong. The creases should be sharp. I’ll show you, while you’re waiting for “clients”. Everything was criticised. How she chopped veg: “Yura likes them sliced, not diced like a school canteen.” How the bed was made: “The cover should reach the floor. Yours is half-hearted.” How the bathroom smelt: “Should be fresh and lovely; smells musty in here.” — Sash, darling, don’t take it the wrong way, — her mother-in-law’d say, peering in the soup pot. — But you’ve oversalted this. Yura’s got a sensitive stomach, you knew that, right? You’ll ruin him, cooking like that. Move aside, I’ll fix it. — He likes the soup, — Sasha muttered, fists clenched. — He had two bowls last night. — Oh, he’s just too polite to upset you, the poor thing. By lunch, Sasha was ready to snap. She’d hide in a coffee shop for hours just to avoid hearing the relentless nagging. When she returned, her mood soured further. First, her “favourite mug” appeared — a massive, tacky thing saying “Best Mum”. Then a spare raincoat turned up on a hook, and a week later, Svetlana had a shelf in the wardrobe for “indoor things” and a couple of housecoats. — Why do you need housecoats here? — Sasha asked, finding a pink terry monstrosity squeezed in with her silk slips. — Well, darling, I’m here all day. I get tired, so I want to change into something relaxing. We’re family. Why so huffy? Yura had a single answer to every complaint: — Sash, have a bit of understanding. She’s lost her husband. She needs to feel wanted. It’s just a shelf. — It’s not the shelf, Yura! Your mum is squeezing me out of my own flat! — Don’t exaggerate. She cooks, she cleans. You said yourself you hate ironing. — I’d rather be wrinkled than pressed by her! — Sasha shouted. Her husband didn’t hear. *** The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw. — Yura, come out, — Svetlana called from the kitchen. — The cabbage rolls are getting cold! Sasha, come on, I made yours with less pepper. I know you don’t like the heat. Sasha burst into the kitchen, where her mother-in-law was already setting out plates. — Svetlana, — she said as calmly as possible. — Why did you put my things under the bath? Her mother-in-law didn’t even blink. She gently placed a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled: — Oh, those bottles? But yours were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell… so strong, gave me a headache. I’ve put my own in — they’re much nicer. Yours are safe under there, out of the way. You don’t mind, do you? A bit of a tidy was overdue anyway. — I do mind, — Sasha moved towards the table. — That’s my bathroom. My things. And my home! — Oh, is it really yours, dear? — Svetlana sat down with a theatrical sigh. — The flat’s Yura’s, after all. You’re in charge, of course, but… you know. A wife should have respect for her husband’s mother, too. Yura, pale at the door, stammered: — Mum, come on… Sasha’s place is ours too, we just live here… — What place? — his mother waved him off. — Just an old granny flat. Yura, sit down. Look, your wife’s in another mood again – probably hungry. Sasha looked at her husband. She waited. Waited for him to say, “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed the line. Pack your things and go home.” Instead Yura hesitated, flicking his eyes between them… and sat down at the table. — Sash, come on, eat something. Let’s just talk this through, calmly. Mum, you shouldn’t have touched her stuff… — See! — Svetlana exclaimed. — He understands. But you, Sasha, you’re so hard. Don’t be so territorial. Family is about sharing. Sasha’s patience finally shattered. — Sharing? — she echoed. — Fine. She turned and left the kitchen. Yura called after her, but she didn’t listen. She packed her things in twenty minutes, stuffed everything into suitcases. Didn’t bother with the bottles — she’d buy new ones. She left to a chorus of voices: her husband pleading, her mother-in-law sighing with barely-veiled insults. *** Sasha didn’t look back. She filed for divorce almost the moment she left. Her still-legal husband calls daily to beg her return, while her mother-in-law slowly transports her belongings into his flat. Sasha is certain: that was what she wanted all along.

A Cuckoo in the Daylight Outstayed Her Welcome She’s got to be joking! I shouted. George, can you