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Gone and Good Riddance “What do you mean ‘the number you have called is not available’? I just spoke to him five minutes ago!” Natasha stood in the hallway, phone pressed tightly to her ear. She glanced over at the chest of drawers. The jewellery box was still there—but something looked off. The lid wasn’t quite shut. “Rom?” She called deeper into the flat. “Are you in the bathroom?” Natasha slowly made her way to the dresser. As soon as her hand touched the polished wood, a chill ran down her spine—the jewellery box was completely empty. Even the receipt she’d used as a bookmark was gone. Her jewellery, her money—everything had disappeared. Though, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d handed over the cash herself… “Oh God…” she whispered, sinking to the floor. “How could this happen? We just argued about wallpaper yesterday… You promised we’d go to Cornwall in August…” But it had all started so ordinarily. Last June, Natasha’s little runabout seized up with a broken piston. The mechanic quoted a price she couldn’t stomach, so, frustrated, she posted on her county’s “Auto-Help” Facebook group. “Guys, does anyone know if it’s possible to free up a stuck brake piston yourself? Adding a photo of my filthy wheel.” Comments poured in. Some told her not to mess with it, others advised buying a new part altogether. Then came a message from a Roman85: “Don’t listen to them, love. Get a can of WD-40 and a £3 repair kit. Take the wheel off, gently press the piston out with the brake pedal—but don’t push it too far. Clean everything with brake fluid, grease it up. If the cylinder’s smooth inside, it’ll run sweet as a nut.” Natasha took note—his advice was clear and unpretentious. “What if the cylinder’s pitted?” she asked. “Then you’ll need a replacement. But from your photo, looks a well-kept motor. If you get stuck, message me—happy to help.” And that’s how it started. Roman proved to be a whiz with cars. Within a week he’d walked her through changing the oil, picking spark plugs, even which coolant to avoid. She caught herself looking forward to his messages. “You’re a lifesaver, Rom,” she wrote by the end of July. “Listen, maybe we could meet up? Coffee on me. Or something stronger, with what you’ve saved me!” The reply didn’t come straight away. After about three hours, her phone finally lit up. “I’d love to, Natasha. Truly. But I’m… away with work. Overseas. For quite a while.” “Really?” she replied. “Whereabouts?” “Further than you can imagine. Look—I’ll be honest. I’m not on a business trip. I’m serving a sentence. HMP Dartmoor, if you know it.” Natasha dropped her phone onto the sofa, her heart pounding. An inmate? She, a respectable accountant at a large firm, had been chatting to a convict for weeks? “What for?” she typed, her fingers trembling. “Fraud. Fancied myself a clever clogs, got stitched up, played along. Less than a year left. If you want to stop messaging, I’ll understand.” Natasha didn’t reply. She blocked him and wandered in a daze for three days. Her colleagues asked if she was unwell. Why? she kept wondering. Why did someone so smart, so good with his hands, end up in prison? A week later, she found a new message in her inbox. Roman had once asked for her email—she’d never deleted the contact, only closed the chat. “Natasha,” he wrote. “No hard feelings, honestly. I always knew it would end like this. You’re a bright soul. Guys like me don’t belong in your world. Just wanted to say thanks for talking to me. That was the best fortnight I’ve had in years. Be happy. Goodbye.” She read it at the kitchen table and burst into tears. She felt sorry for him, for herself, for this unfair life. Why does luck always pass me by? she thought. Married men, mummy’s boys, and now the only normal bloke is behind bars. But she never replied again… *** She tried dating but it was hopeless. One date spent half the night going on about his stamp collection, another showed up with dirty fingernails and asked to split the bill. In March, on her thirty-fifth birthday, Natasha felt more alone than ever. That morning, a message popped up. “Happy birthday, Natasha! I know I shouldn’t reach out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Wishing you the very best. You deserve to be cherished. Made you something out of bread and wire… If I could, I’d give it to you. Just know that somewhere out in Birmingham, someone is drinking a really terrible cup of tea to your health today.” “Thank you, Rom,” she replied, giving in. “That means a lot.” “You answered! How are you? How’s the little car? Did it survive those frosty nights?” And things picked up where they left off. Now they talked every day. Rom would ring her whenever he could—his voice deep, a little hoarse. He told her about growing up with his brother, how his nephew needed raising now, how all he wanted was a fresh start. “I won’t go back to my old town, Natasha—too many old mates who’ll pull me down again. I want to move somewhere no one knows me. I’ve got hands, I can work construction or fix cars, always work to be found.” “Where do you want to go?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d come to you, if you’ll have me. Get a room or a cheap flat. Just to know you’re in the same city, breathing the same air. But no pressure, of course…” By May, Natasha was hopelessly in love. She knew his inspection schedule, when he had “washroom duty”, when he was working in the shop. She sent him care packages: tea, sweets, warm socks, little parts for his handiwork. “Romka, just keep your head down and behave, please—no getting into scraps for my sake.” “For you, love, I’ll be as good as gold,” he laughed. “I’m free in April!” “I’ll be waiting.” *** In April, Natasha drove up to the prison gates. She brought him new clothes: jacket, jeans, trainers. Her heart hammered—she thought it might burst out of her chest. When he came out—short, stocky, close-cropped greying hair—she froze at first. He looked different from his photo. But when he smiled and said, “Hello, boss,” she flung her arms round his neck. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she murmured into his prickly cheek. “Where else would I be?” he pulled her close. “You smell amazing. What sort of flowery perfume is that?” They went back to hers. The first week was a dream. Roman got stuck in straight away: fixed a leaky tap, sorted a door lock that had jammed for months. Every evening they sat together in the kitchen, drinking sweet rosé, swapping stories—he laughed about his “old life”, skipping over the darker bits. “Listen, Rom,” she said on day ten, “you know you said about getting your own place… maybe you don’t have to? There’s room here. It’d be more fun with two. Besides, you’ll save for tools and getting yourself set up.” “Natasha, it feels wrong,” he frowned, stirring sugar into his mug. “I’m a man, I should provide a home. I’m already living off you—eating your food…” “Oh, stop it!” she covered his hand with hers. “We’re not strangers. Once you’re on your feet and working, it’ll all be fine.” “My brother called yesterday,” he said, looking away. “My nephew’s really poorly—needs an operation, private one. He’s asked me for a loan, but you see the state I’m in—flat broke. I feel so ashamed, Natasha. Ashamed for my family.” “How much does he need?” she asked gently. “A lot… Five grand. But he says they’ve already raised part.” “I could go up to London on a site, earn good money quickly…” he mused aloud. Natasha hesitated. That five grand had taken three years to save. She’d scrimped and saved, planning to redo the bathroom, replace the old tiles, finally install a proper shower… “I’ve got the money,” she said quietly. Roman’s head jerked up. “Don’t be daft! That’s yours. I couldn’t take it.” “Rom, it’s your family. Like you said, that’s sacred. Take it—you can pay me back later. We’re in this together now.” He protested for two days, brooding and chain-smoking on the balcony, even though he’d promised to give up. In the end, Natasha got the cash out and set it on the table herself. “Here. Take it. Go to your brother, give it to him—or transfer it if you’d rather.” “I’ll deliver it myself,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe see if there’s work where he lives. Better options, you know? I’ll just be gone two days. There and back. Promise…” *** Natasha sat slumped on the hallway floor for an hour. Her legs were numb, but she barely felt it. She replayed the night before. They’d watched some daft comedy, he’d laughed, hugged her, and she’d felt like the luckiest woman alive. “I’ll probably leave early, day after tomorrow,” he’d said before bed. But he left a day sooner. She’d slept through it—never even heard him getting dressed. She thought the front door had banged in her dream, but assumed it was the neighbours. At two in the afternoon, she nervously dialled his brother’s number—the one he’d once given her “in case of emergency”. “Hello?” came a rough man’s voice. “Who’s this?” “Hi… It’s Natasha. Roman’s friend. Did he make it to you today?” A pause. Then a long, heavy sigh. “Miss, what Roman? My brother’s got a different name, and he’s not out of prison till October. Roman… Roman’s my ex-cellmate. He got out two months ago. He nicked my phone when I was still inside and copied all my contacts. You’re not the first ‘pen-pal’ he’s spun a story to. Tongue like Teflon, degree in engineering—the lot.” Natasha lowered the phone, stunned. She remembered how he’d coached her fitting new spark plugs. “Careful not to overtighten,” he’d warned. “You’ll strip the thread, and that’s that.” “I stripped it,” Natasha whispered. “Stripped the lot… set myself up for this.” And she realised she truly knew nothing about him—never even saw his passport or prison release papers. Was his name even Roman at all? *** Naturally, Natasha went to the police and filed a report. She showed them a photo, and learned a lot more about her houseguest. His name really was Roman—about the only true thing he’d told her. He’d gone down for a serious offence, spent half his life inside—met Natasha while serving his third sentence. Natasha crossed herself, changed all the locks, and figured in the end she’d got off lightly—compared to some of his previous women…

Gone for Good What do you mean the number youve dialed has not been recognised? But he was speaking to

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Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Taisha often reflects on her life now that she’s crossed the threshold of fifty. She can’t call her family life happy, and it’s all because of her husband, George. They married for love as young sweethearts, yet somewhere along the way George changed, and Taisha missed the moment. They lived in a cottage in a quiet English village, under the roof of George’s mother, Anne. Taisha worked hard to keep the peace, respecting Anne, who treated her with warmth. Taisha’s own mother lived in the next village with her younger son, bedridden by illness. “Anne, how do you get on with your daughter-in-law Taisha?” nosy villagers asked at the well, in the shop, or just walking down the lane. “I’ve nothing bad to say about Taisha; she’s respectful, keeps the house well, and helps me with everything,” Anne always replied. “Oh, we’ll believe that when we see it! When has a mother-in-law ever praised her daughter-in-law?” scoffed the women. “That’s your concern,” Anne said, walking on. Taisha bore a daughter, Violet, and everyone rejoiced. “Taisha, Violet looks like me,” Anne searched for her features in the baby, and Taisha just laughed, not caring whom her daughter resembled. When Violet turned three, Taisha had a son. Again, the happy bustle. George worked, Taisha was at home with the children, and Anne helped a great deal. They lived quietly, peacefully—even better than most. George wasn’t a drinker like other husbands. Some wives would search for their men behind the village pub, dragging them home drunken and cursing the whole world. When Taisha was expecting her third child, she found out George was having an affair. In a small village, nothing stays hidden; soon everyone was talking about George and Tanya, the widowed neighbour. The neighbour, Valerie, wasn’t above coming over. “Taisha, you’re carrying George’s third child and he’s running off with other women,” she said bluntly. “Valerie, surely not? I’ve noticed nothing,” the wife said, surprised. “Exactly, how could you notice—two children, pregnant with a third, the house and the farm. He’s living for himself. Everyone knows now, and Tanya doesn’t even bother hiding it.” Taisha was upset. Anne knew as well but kept quiet, not wanting Taisha to find out. She often scolded her wayward George. “Mum, you didn’t see anything, did you? Women gossip; that’s what they do,” he retorted. One day, Valerie rushed in: “Taisha, George just sneaked into Tanya’s yard, I saw him myself from the shop. Are you going to let him leave you alone with three children? Go give that shameless woman a piece of your mind. You’re pregnant—George wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.” Taisha knew she didn’t have the courage for a fight with Tanya—Tanya’s reputation for defending herself was well-known. Still she went: “I’ll look George in the eye and get the truth. He’ll just deny it and call it gossip,” she told Anne, who tried to stop her. “It’s late autumn, Taisha. Be sensible,” Anne pleaded. It was getting dark. Taisha knocked on Tanya’s window, waiting, but Tanya addressed her through the closed door, refusing to let her in and telling her to go home. Taisha left, knowing her efforts were wasted. George came home after midnight, drunk, though he rarely drank. “Where were you? At Tanya’s, drinking together—I know! I came over and she wouldn’t open the door,” Taisha confronted him. “What are you imagining?” George protested. “I was drinking with Ben down the pub. Got carried away with the time.” Taisha didn’t believe him but said nothing. What could she do? As the saying goes, “innocent until proven otherwise.” She spent that sleepless night pondering: “Where would I go with two children and a third on the way? Mum’s ill, my brother’s family is crowded—how could I fit in their house?” Her own mother had always said, when she complained: “Grin and bear it, daughter. You married and have children—bear it. Do you think it was easy for me living with your father? He drank and chased us, remember how we used to hide with the neighbours? God sorted it in His own way and called him home. But I endured it. Your George doesn’t drink much and he keeps his hands to himself. Endurance has always been a woman’s lot.” Taisha didn’t always agree, but she understood there was nowhere to go. Even Anne soothed her: “Daughter, you’ve got children, almost three now. We’ll manage together with him.” The third, little Annie, was born weak and prone to illness—perhaps from Taisha’s stress during pregnancy. But in time, Annie grew stronger, thanks to Anne’s tender care. “Taisha, have you heard? Tanya took in Michael after his wife threw him out,” Valerie came saying—the village’s fastest news-bearer. “No matter, let her. At least my George won’t go there now,” thought Taisha to herself. But a month later, Valerie showed up again: “Michael’s gone back to his wife. Tanya’s on the hunt again. Keep your George close by, you know what she’s like.” Life with George settled for a while. Anne was pleased. But once a man’s restless, he won’t stay put. On her way back from the market, Anne met an old friend, Annie: “Anne, what’s wrong with your George? Taisha’s a gem, a good mum and wife. You praise her yourself—what more does he want?” “Aye, Annie, is George at it again?” “He is, running after Vera, the divorced one at the village café…” Anne told off her son privately. But secrets don’t stay secret for long. Taisha learned of George’s latest affections, again thanks to Valerie. Tears and pleas didn’t help—George continued his affairs but never left the family, enjoying the comfort of home while chasing other women for fun. Anne now scolded him openly, but a grown man seldom listens to a tired mother. He’d yell: “Mum, I work for the family, bring in money, and you two accuse me, listening to village gossip.” Years passed. The children grew up. Violet graduated college and settled with her husband nearby, the son finished university and married a local girl. Young Annie finished school and made plans for further study. George finally calmed down—nowadays it’s work and home, even lying on the couch more often as his health declined. He gave up drinking altogether. “Taisha, my heart’s been playing up again,” he would moan. “And my knees ache—maybe it’s my joints. Should I see the doctor?” Taisha no longer pitied him; she’d cried enough tears and endured too much disappointment. “He’s stayed home only because his health’s failed; let his former flings nurse him now,” she thought. Anne passed away and was buried next to her husband. George and Taisha’s home was quiet, but sometimes children and grandchildren visited. The two were happy then. George would complain to the kids about his health, even blaming Taisha for not looking after him. Violet brought medicines, fussing over her father, telling her mum: “Mum, don’t nag Dad—he’s poorly,” and it hurt Taisha that Violet took his side. “Daughter, he brought it on himself, lived too wild a youth, now wants sympathy. I’m not made of stone—I lost my own health worrying about him,” she tried to explain. The son comforted his father when visiting, talking mostly to him—as men do. The children never seemed to understand their mother, no matter how she explained that she tolerated George’s infidelity for their sake, never wanting to deprive them of a father. The pain and loneliness. But their answer remained: “Mum, don’t dredge up the past. Don’t make things hard for Dad,” Violet said, her brother agreeing. “It’s all behind us now, Mum,” her son said, patting her shoulder. Taisha felt a little hurt that the children sided with George, yet she understood. Life simply is as it is. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dont Dig Up the Past I often find myself reflecting on my life now that Ive crossed the threshold of fifty.

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The Day the Lunch Ghost Rode In: How a Mysterious Biker Changed Lives at Lincoln Ridge Middle School

The first time it happened, no one took notice. It was a Tuesday at St. Albans Middle School, one of

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Wife and Father I only ever pretended to want to meet Toms parents. What did I really need them for, honestly?

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That Lingering Disgust “It’s over, there’s not going to be any wedding!” cried Marina. “Wait, what happened?” Illya stammered. “Everything seemed fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Well… fine. Except,” she paused for a few feverish seconds, trying to work out how to explain it… then blurted out the simple truth, “your socks stink! I’m not ready to live with that smell for the rest of my life!” “Is that honestly what you told him?” Marina’s mother gasped when her daughter announced she was withdrawing the marriage application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the would-be bride. “It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.” “Of course I noticed,” mum said, embarrassed, “but… that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a good lad, after all. And socks—well, that’s fixable.” “How?” Marina shot back. “Teach him to wash his feet? Change his socks? Use deodorant? Listen to yourself, mum! I was supposed to be getting married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an overgrown boy!” “Then why did you get involved with him? Why submit the application?” “That was all you, mum! ‘Illy is such a kind, lovely boy. I really like him’—your words! And let’s not forget: ‘You’re twenty-seven. It’s time you got married and gave me grandchildren.’ Why are you silent now? Is that not so?” “But, Marin, I never thought you were still unsure. I thought it was serious between you two,” her mum replied, “and, you know, I’m glad I was right about you: you thought it over and made your choice. Just, darling, the stinky socks thing… it’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you at all.” “I did it on purpose, mum. So it was clear. In a way that would make sure there’s no going back…” *** At first, Illya struck Marina as funny and a little awkward. Always in the same jeans and t-shirt. He didn’t show off about Picasso, but could go on for hours about old films. In those moments, his eyes would positively sparkle. He was easy to be with. Peaceful. And that peacefulness attracted Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and the hunt for ‘the one’. After two months of cinema trips and coffee dates, Illya shyly suggested, “Maybe come back to mine? I’ll make you homemade dumplings—made them myself!” The invitation was so warm, so homely it made Marina’s heart leap. And that ‘I made them myself’—it floored her. She agreed… *** Marina didn’t like Illya’s flat. No grime, but chaos, lack of taste, and a strange sense of neglect. Grey paint peeling off, an ancient sofa with just one shabby cushion. Stacks on the floor—boxes, books, old magazines. Trainers in the centre. Plus, stale air thick with dust and must. The room felt like a transit lounge waiting for someone to finally move out—but nobody did. “What do you think of my castle?” Illya spread his arms, smiling without a hint of embarrassment. He was proud! Genuinely blind to anything odd. Marina forced a smile. She liked the guy—no need for fights. Onwards to the kitchen. Not much better: a dust-filmed table, sink full of dirty dishes and limescaled mugs, battered saucepan on the hob. Her eyes caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” Marina mused. Her mood soured. She half-listened to Illya’s stories, his attempts to make her laugh. But when he handed her the dumplings, she refused, blamed the diet… She had no intention of putting anything prepared in that kitchen in her mouth. Later at home, Marina analysed the visit. At first glance, Illya’s place was nothing major. A guy living alone, what’s the big deal? But beneath that untidiness there was something else, something huge and abstract—how can someone live this way? Not laziness, but… for him, this was normal! There was, well… that lingering disgust. *** Then Illya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed for the notice. Her parents started prepping for the wedding. To be a bride—lovely. Yet, whenever Marina was alone, thinking of Illya’s ceaseless efforts to please her, his dumpling-making and joke-cracking, the image of the inexplicably coloured kettle surfaced. And Marina realised: that kettle wasn’t just a kettle. It was a clue. A clue to Illya’s attitude to life, to the home, to himself—and probably to her. One time, Marina imagined their morning together and was horrified. She’d wake, come into the kitchen, find cold tea and bread crumbs. When she’d say, “Darling, please tidy up,” he’d stare in surprise, just as he did at his own flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t yell. He just… wouldn’t get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. Her love would slowly die from a thousand tiny stabs he’d never even see. And mum was thrilled her daughter was getting married. *** Getting married… All the warmth Marina once felt with Illya seeped away, replaced by a nagging sense of dread. “Marina,” Illya would ask anxiously, peering into her eyes each day. “We’re okay, aren’t we? We love each other?” “Of course,” she’d reply, aware something inside her was breaking. Eventually, she confided in her friend. “So what?” Katya was baffled. “A bit of dust, a kettle? My husband would leave a tank in the kitchen if he could and never even notice. Men don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see,” Marina whispered. “And he never will. But I will! Every day! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, Marina didn’t blame him. He hadn’t deceived her. He was nothing but sincere. He simply lived in another world—a world where a dirty plate was normal. For her, it signaled misunderstanding and indifference. It wasn’t about hygiene. It was about seeing the world differently. The crack in her mind would only grow into a chasm. Better to end things now than to find herself at the bottom of that pit in a few years’ time. She just had to wait for the moment… *** Illya and Marina were invited to a house party. They arrived, took off shoes in the hallway… Walked in… The unpleasant smell trailed right behind. Marina didn’t immediately realise where the stink was coming from—but when she saw that everyone else realised too, she wanted the ground to swallow her. Without a word, she dashed to the hall, threw her coat on, and left. Illya chased her. Caught up, grabbed her hand. She whirled and threw it at his face, almost hatefully: “That’s it! There’s not going to be a wedding!” *** And there wasn’t. Marina thinks she did the right thing—and has no regrets. As for Illya… He still doesn’t get it: what was the problem, really? Stinky socks, so what? He could have just taken them off…

An Unpleasant Aftertaste Its over! Theres not going to be any wedding! Sarah exclaimed. Wait, whats happened?

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His Wife Packed Her Things and Vanished Without a Trace: When Deception Shatters a Family, Who Picks Up the Pieces?

The wife packed up her things and vanished off the face of the earth. Stop acting like youre the sainted victim.

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The Daytime Cuckoo Outstayed Her Welcome — “She has got to be joking!” Sasha erupted. “Yura, get in here! Now!” Her husband, who’d just kicked off his trainers in the hallway, popped his head into the doorway, loosening his shirt collar. “Sash, what is it this time? I’ve literally just finished work and my head is splitting…” “What is it?!” Sasha pointed at the edge of the bath. “Take a good look. Where’s my shampoo? Where’s my hair mask—the one I bought yesterday?” Yura squinted at the neat row of bottles. There stood a massive bottle of tar shampoo, an oversized “Nettle & Burdock” conditioner, and a heavy glass jar of some thick brown cream. “Uh… Mum brought her own toiletries. Maybe it’s easier for her to have everything at hand?” he mumbled, avoiding her glare. “Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! Now look down.” Sasha crouched and pulled a plastic basin from under the bath. In it lay her expensive French products, her loofah, and her razor. “What is this, Yura? She dumped all my things into this grotty old basin and lined up her stuff on display!” She’s decided my things belong next to the mop while her precious ‘Burdock’ gets pride of place!” Yura heaved a sigh. “Sash, don’t start. Mum’s having a rough time, you know that. Look, I’ll put your things back and then we can have dinner—Mum’s made stuffed cabbage, by the way.” “I’m not having her stuffed cabbage,” Sasha snapped. “Why is she always hanging about here, Yura?! Why does she act like she owns my house?!” I feel like a lodger, lucky for toilet access. Sasha shoved past him and stormed off, while Yura quietly nudged her basin back under the bath with his foot. The housing headache that’s ruined the lives of millions never touched Yura and Sasha. Yura’s spacious modern one-bed flat, inherited from his grandfather; Sasha’s comfy little place from her grandmother. After their wedding, they moved into his place—for the fresh decor and the air conditioning—and rented Sasha’s out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents were maintained in a state of polite neutrality, occasionally drifting into gentle fondness. Svetlana and her reserved husband Victor lived clear across town. Once a week: tea, obligatory questions about work and health, swapped smiles. “Oh, Sasha darling, you’ve lost even more weight,” Svetlana would remark, handing her a too-large slice of Battenberg. “Yura! Aren’t you feeding your wife?” “Mum, we just go to the gym,” Yura would shrug. That was that. No surprise visits, no household advice. Sasha even bragged to friends: “I lucked out with my mother-in-law. She’s pure gold—never interferes, never nags, never fusses at Yura.” Everything changed on a rain-soaked Tuesday when Victor, after thirty-two years with Svetlana, packed his bag, left a note—“Gone to the coast, don’t look for me!”—blocked her everywhere and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just an expression, but a forty-something health-spa manager in Brighton where they’d holidayed for three summers. Svetlana’s world collapsed. The weeping started, along with late-night calls and endless nitpicking: “How could he? Why? Sasha darling, how could this happen?!” At first, Sasha sympathised. She fetched calming teas, listened to the same tales, and nodded politely as Svetlana damned her “roving old fool.” But her patience wore thin as the “poor me” chorus grated on her nerves. “Yura, your mum’s called five times—before lunch,” Sasha sighed at breakfast. “She asked you to go fit a lightbulb. In her corridor. When will this end?” His face fell. “She’s lonely, Sash. You know she lived her whole life depending on Dad, and now…” “Look, she could just call someone in—or do it herself. But it has to be you. Or me. Why should I care?” Sleepovers followed—Yura started staying at his mum’s. “Sash, Mum’s scared to sleep alone,” he’d mutter, stuffing a bag. “The quiet gets to her. I’ll be back in a few days, okay?” “A few days?” Sasha frowned. “Yura, we’ve only just married and you’re already moving out half the week. I don’t want to sleep alone.” “Babe, it’s only for a bit. She’ll get through it…” ‘Only’ lasted a month. Svetlana insisted—her son must camp at her place four nights a week. There were faked dizzy spells, panics, even self-made blocked sinks. Sasha watched her husband drain himself running between two homes—and made the mistake that would haunt her daily. *** She decided to clear the air with her mother-in-law. “Listen, Svetlana,” she ventured during Sunday lunch, “If it’s so hard for you alone in your flat, why not come here during the day?” Yura would be at work; Sasha often worked from home. She’d have the city centre, parks; Sasha expected a couple visits a week, arriving around noon, leaving before Yura. But Svetlana had her own plan—she showed up at exactly 7am. “Who’s that?” muttered Yura, sleepily at the doorbell. He answered it. “It’s me!” came Svetlana’s cheery voice. “Brought you some lovely fresh cottage cheese!” Sasha pulled the duvet over her head. “For heaven’s sake…” she hissed. “Yura, it’s seven a.m.! Where does she even get ‘fresh’ cottage cheese at this hour?” “Mum’s an early riser,” Yura muttered, pulling on trousers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll let her in.” From then on, life became hell. Svetlana didn’t just drop by—she colonised the flat for a full eight hours. Sasha tried working at her laptop, but the running commentary never stopped: “Sash, how haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth—let’s just sort that.” “Svetlana, I’m working—I have a call in five minutes!” “Oh, you and your ‘calls,’ just watching videos. By the way, darling, you’re ironing Yura’s shirts all wrong. The creases should be razor-sharp.” Let me show you, while you wait for your so-called ‘clients.’ Everything was criticised. How she sliced veg: “Yura likes them in matchsticks, not cubes like school dinners.” How she made the bed: “The bedspread should touch the floor, not hover midway.” The bathroom’s aroma: “Should be fresh and sweet, not damp and musty.” “Sash, don’t take it personally,” came Svetlana’s voice over her shoulder at the hob. “Your soup’s too salty. Yura’s stomach is sensitive, you know.” Sasha was close to exploding by lunchtime—she’d leave for a café just to avoid the constant criticism, then return home even more upset. First, a garish mug—“Best Mum Ever”—appeared in the kitchen. Next, her spare mac hung in the hallway; then, a whole shelf in the wardrobe for “change of clothes” and a couple old lady dressing gowns. “Why do you need dressing gowns here?” Sasha asked, discovering the fluffy pink monstrosity in with her silks. “Well, my dear, I’m here all day—I get tired, want to change into something comfy. We’re family now—why are you so cross?” To every complaint, Yura replied the same way: “Sash, be kind. She’s had it tough. Just let her feel at home. Does it really hurt to sacrifice a shelf?” “It’s not the shelf, Yura—your mum is edging me out of my own home!” “You’re exaggerating. She helps—cooks, cleans; you always said you hated ironing.” “I’d rather look crumpled than wear anything she’s ironed!” Sasha barked. But her husband just wouldn’t listen. *** The bottles in the bath tipped her over the edge. “Yura, come eat—your food’s going cold!” Svetlana called from the kitchen. “Sasha, love, I left the hot sauce off yours—knew you wouldn’t want it.” Sasha stormed to the kitchen. “Svetlana, why did you move my things under the bath?” Svetlana didn’t even blink. She set a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled. “Oh those old bottles? They were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell—knocked me sick. I put out my tried and tested ones. Yours are fine down there until you need them—keeps things neat.” “I mind,” said Sasha. “This is my bathroom. My things. My home!” “Oh, don’t be silly, love—this is Yura’s flat. Of course you’re the woman of the house, but still… a little respect for your husband’s mother wouldn’t hurt.” Yura, hovering in the doorway, paled. “Mum, come on… Sasha’s got a flat too—we just live here…” “What, that old granny-flat?” Svetlana scoffed. “Yura, eat up. See, your wife’s in a mood—probably just hungry.” Sasha looked at her husband, waiting: Waiting for him to say: “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed a line. Pack up and go home.” Yura hesitated, glanced between them both—and just sat down. “Sash, come eat. Let’s just talk it over. Mum, you shouldn’t have moved Sasha’s things…” “See!” Svetlana cried triumphantly. “My son gets it. You’re just being selfish, Sasha. Family means sharing everything.” Sasha’s last thread of patience snapped. “Everything shared?” she repeated coldly. “Fine.” She turned and walked out. Yura called after her but she ignored him, packing her bags in under twenty minutes, leaving Svetlana’s “tried and tested” products in place. She left to the soundtrack of her husband’s pleading and her mother-in-law’s not-so-subtle jibes. *** Sasha had no intention of returning to her husband; she filed for divorce almost immediately after her “escape.” Her soon-to-be-ex rings her daily, begging her to come home, while his mother quietly ferries more of her things into his flat. And Sasha is certain—that’s all her mother-in-law ever wanted.

The Daytime Cuckoo Out-Cuckooed Us All For heavens sake, shes having a laugh! Lucy huffed. James!

La vida

The Awakening That Turned Life Upside Down Until the age of twenty-seven, Mike lived like a spring brook—loudly, recklessly, and without a care. He was the life and soul of the village, restless and full of mischief. He could gather his mates after a long day’s work to go fishing three miles away, returning at dawn only to immediately lend a hand fixing a neighbour’s shed. “Lord, that Mike is a wild one, always carefree,” the old folks would shake their heads. “He lives without a thought in his head—reckless, that’s the word,” his mother sighed. “What’s so special? He’s just living like the rest of us,” shrugged his mates who already had families, gardens, and homes of their own. But then he turned twenty-seven. It wasn’t like thunder from the sky, but quiet—like the first wilted leaf falling from an apple tree. One morning, he awoke at dawn to the sound of a rooster’s cry, not as a call to a day of fun, but as a reproach. An emptiness he’d never noticed before rang in his ears. He looked around: his parents’ house, sturdy but ageing, needing a man’s hands not just for an hour, but for life. His father, bent from years of care, talked more and more about haymaking and feed prices. Things changed for Mike at a distant relative’s country wedding. Mike, ever the entertainer, was joking and dancing. Then in the corner, he saw his father quietly chatting with a silver-haired neighbour. They watched his uninhibited cheerfulness without judgment, only weary sadness. At that moment, Mike saw himself with brutal clarity—not a boy, but a grown man dancing to someone else’s tune as life quietly slipped by. No purpose, no roots, nothing of his own. He felt uneasy. The next morning, he woke anew. The reckless ease had vanished, replaced by a calm heaviness, a sense of adulthood. He stopped flitting to every party, took over his late grandfather’s abandoned plot on the edge of the village near the woods, cut the grass, felled two dead trees. At first, the villagers teased him. “Mike’s building a house? He can’t even hammer in a nail straight!” But he learned, clumsily, often hitting his fingers instead of the nails. He obtained permission to chop wood, dug up stumps. The money he once squandered now saved for nails, tiles, and glass. He worked from dawn to dusk, silently, stubbornly. By evening, he slept with a new feeling—that the day hadn’t been wasted. Two years passed. On that plot stood a modest but solid cabin, smelling of pine and fresh wood. Nearby—a bathhouse, built by his own hands. In the garden, the first vegetable rows appeared. Mike lost weight, was tanned, and the carelessness in his eyes was replaced by steadiness. His father came to see his new house, offered help, but Mike refused. His father wandered around in silence, inspected corners, peered inside. Then he praised his son. “Solid work…” “Thanks, Dad,” Mike replied quietly. “Now you need a bride—a homemaker,” his father said. Mike smiled, gazing at his handiwork and the dark forest rising beyond. “I’ll find one, Dad. Everything in its own time.” He slung his axe over his shoulder and went to the woodpile. His movements were slow and sure. That careless, worry-free life was a memory, replaced by a life of concern and hard work. But for the first time in twenty-nine years, Mike felt truly at home—not just under his parents’ roof, but in a home of his own. That reckless, empty youth was gone. Then came the discovery, on a typical summer morning as Mike prepared to drive to the woods for firewood. He was starting his old Ford when she emerged from the neighbour’s gate—Julia. The very same Julia he remembered as a tomboy with two plaits, always scraped knees, who’d left for university to train as a teacher. Out of that gate walked not a girl, but a beautiful young woman. Sunlight played in her golden hair, tumbling over her shoulders. Her walk was upright and elegant, a simple dark dress hugged her figure, and her eyes—always laughing—now shone with new, warm depth. She was thoughtful, adjusting her shoulder bag, unaware at first of Mike’s stare. Mike was dumbfounded, forgetting the engine, forgetting the woods. His heart pounded stupidly. “When? God, when did you become so beautiful? Only yesterday you were a scruffy kid…” She caught his stunned gaze, stopped, and smiled—a smile not of a neighbour’s girl, but one both shy and tender. “Morning, Mike. Can’t start the car?” Her voice was velvet, with none of the girlish squeak when she called him a “tiddler.” “Julia… Jules…” was all he managed. “To school?” “Yep,” she nodded. “My lessons start soon, can’t be late.” She walked away, light on the dusty lane. And Mike watched her, while amid his calculations of logs and walls, a clear, blinding thought struck: “She’s the one. She’s who I should marry.” He had no idea that for Julia, this morning had been one of the happiest in years—because finally, that wild, oblivious Mike had seen her. Not through her, not as a piece of furniture, but truly saw her. “Is it possible? I’ve wished for this since I was thirteen. He always called me ‘kiddo’. I cried when he went off to the army. Older girls hung on him, and I was left out. I even returned to the village to work in the school—because of him.” Her quiet, secret affection for her older neighbour boy suddenly sparked hope. She walked on, barely suppressing a smile under his intense, bewildered gaze. Mike never made it to the woods that day. He wandered around his new cabin, chopped wood furiously, fixated on one thought: “How did I never notice? She’s always been nearby, growing up, while I chased other girls…” That evening at the village well, he saw Julia again. Returning home, tired, with the same bag. “Julia—Jules,” he called out, surprised by his own boldness. “How’s… the job? Are your pupils still cheeky and wild?” She stopped by the fence, her eyes weary but kind and lovely. “It’s work, you know. Kids are kids—noisy, but they make your heart glad. I love working with them, they’re inventive… And your new house is solid.” “Not finished yet,” he muttered. “Everything unfinished can be finished, you know,” she said softly, suddenly bashful about her own wisdom, and waved goodbye. “Alright, see you.” “Everything can be finished,” Mike repeated to himself, “and not just the house.” From then on, his life had a new goal. He was building not just any house—but a home for someone. He knew exactly who he wanted to bring there. He imagined living there with the woman he loved. Flower pots on the windowsill, not jars of nails. Sitting together on the porch, not alone. He didn’t rush, wary of spoiling his quiet dream. Mike “happened to” cross Julia’s path more often, first just nodding, then asking about her class. “How are your pupils?” He’d often see her outside, surrounded by noisy children calling, “Goodbye, Miss Julia…” One day he brought her a whole basket of wild forest nuts. Julia accepted his shy gestures warmly. She saw how he’d changed—from impulsive lad to steady, reliable man. And the feeling she’d long cherished blossomed strong. As autumn drew in, low heavy clouds gathered over the village. When Mike’s house was nearly finished, he couldn’t wait. He waited by Julia’s gate, clutching a bunch of bright red rowan berries. “Julia,” he said nervously, “the house is almost done. But… it feels so empty. Awfully empty. Would you come see it sometime? Actually—I want to ask for your hand in marriage. I’ve known for a long time how much you mean to me.” Mike looked at her with earnest, slightly scared eyes, and Julia saw everything she’d waited for. She gently took the rowan berries from his work-toughened hand, pressed them to her heart. “You know, Mike,” she whispered, “I’ve watched that house go up from the very first log. I always wondered what it would be like inside, waiting for you to invite me… I’ve dreamed of this. So yes, I’ll come…” For the first time in months of shyness and beauty, her eyes flashed with the same spirited spark he’d once missed—the spark that, it turned out, had only been waiting for its moment to truly shine. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing everyone luck and happiness!

The Realisation That Overwhelmed Me Up until he turned twenty-seven, Michael lived like a spring streamloud

La vida

065

Hand Over the Key to Our Flat

Give me the key to our flat Weve come to a decision, your father and I, Margaret laid her hand gently

La vida

Don’t Stir Up the Past Often, Tessa reflects on her life now that she’s crossed the fifty-year threshold. She can’t call her married life happy—and all because of her husband, George. When they were young, they married for love, both devoted to one another. Yet somehow, something changed in George, and she missed the moment it happened. They lived in a country village, sharing a house with George’s mother, Anne. Tessa worked to keep peace and respected her mother-in-law, who was always warm towards her. Tessa’s own mother lived in the next village with her younger son, frequently ill. “Anne, how do you get on with your daughter-in-law, Tessa?” idle gossips would ask when meeting by the well, in the shop, or just along the lane. “Nothing bad to say about Tessa—she’s respectful, manages the house well, and helps me in everything,” Anne would always answer. “Oh, as if! When did a mother-in-law ever praise her daughter-in-law? We don’t buy it,” the neighbours would retort. “Well, that’s your business,” Anne would reply, moving on. Tessa had a daughter, Vanessa, and everyone rejoiced. “Tessa, Vanessa’s got my nose!” claimed Anne, trying to spot her own features in her granddaughter while Tessa laughed—it didn’t matter to her who the child resembled. When Vanessa turned three, Tessa gave birth to a son. More joyful, busy days followed. George worked, Tessa kept house with the children, and Anne helped tremendously. Life ticked along quietly, perhaps even better than most—George wasn’t a drinker, unlike other husbands who’d be found by the village club, so drunk their wives dragged them home, cursing their fate. While expecting her third child, Tessa learned George was cheating. In the close-knit village, word spread fast about George and Tina, the local widow. The neighbour, Val, wasn’t shy about sharing. “Tessa, you’re carrying George’s third child and he’s running around. He’s ungrateful—chasing other women.” “Val, really? I haven’t noticed anything unusual,” Tessa replied, surprised. “Of course you haven’t! You’re busy—two kids, one on the way, house, mother-in-law, farm. He lives for himself. The village knows; Tina doesn’t even hide it.” Tessa was heartbroken. Anne knew but kept silent, pitying Tessa and afraid for her. She’d scolded George, who dismissed her concerns. “Mum, you didn’t see anything. Women talk. That’s what they do.” One evening, Val rushed over. “Tessa, George just slipped into Tina’s yard—I saw it myself, just back from the shop. You want to end up alone, with three kids and no husband? Go, drag Tina out by her hair! You’re pregnant—George won’t dare hit you.” Tessa knew she didn’t have it in her to fight Tina. She was tough, a fighter, her own husband having drowned in the river. Reluctantly, Tessa went to confront George. “I’ll look him in the eyes and get the truth. He never admits anything—always says it’s gossip,” Tessa said to Anne, who tried to stop her. “Tessa, don’t do it—have mercy on yourself…” It was late autumn, already dark. Tessa knocked on Tina’s window. Tina answered from behind the door. “What do you want, banging on my windows?” “Let me in. I know George is with you—people talk.” “Yeah, right. Like I’m letting you in. Go home, stop making a show,” Tina laughed. Tessa left, knowing she wouldn’t open up. George came home drunk after midnight—rare, but it happened. His wife was awake. “Where have you been? I know about Tina. I came by, she wouldn’t answer the door…” “What are you imagining?” George bristled. “I was with Jim—drinking, lost track of time.” Tessa didn’t believe him, but held her tongue; she wasn’t one for rows. What could she do? “Innocent until proven guilty,” as they say. She lay awake all night, thinking, “Where would I go, two children, another on the way? Mum’s sick, and my brother’s family is squeezed in already—even if I did leave, how could we fit?” Her mother had always advised endurance when Tessa complained about George’s affairs. “Endure, love; you married, you have children. Do you think I had it easier with your father? He drank, chased us—remember hiding at neighbours’? God took him, but I endured. At least George isn’t a drunk and never hits you. Women must endure, that’s always their lot.” Tessa didn’t agree entirely but understood—she couldn’t leave George. Anne helped her settle. “Daughter, where would you go with three children? Soon you’ll have the third. We’ll manage together.” Their third child, Alice, was frail and sickly—Tessa’s own distress had taken its toll during pregnancy. Over time, Alice grew stronger, thanks to Anne’s constant care. “Tessa, have you heard?” Val blurted out again—ever the village gossip. “Tina has let Mike move in; his wife threw him out.” “Who cares, let her,” Tessa replied, glad George would stay away. But a month later, Val returned. “Mike’s gone—back to his wife. Tina’ll be hunting for another man again. Keep George close; you never know…” Life settled again; Anne was pleased. But if a man’s restless, he won’t sit still. Anne bumped into her old friend Agnes on her way home from the shop. “Anne, how did George turn out like he did? Tessa’s a good woman, a good wife, even you say so—what’s his problem?” “Agnes, is George playing up again?” “He’s definitely wandering—this time with Vicky, the divorced one from the café…” Anne tried to reason with George, but he wouldn’t listen to his old mother. He shouted, told her to mind her own business. “Mum, I work, support the family, and you both accuse me—believe all the women’s gossip,” he protested. He stopped drinking entirely as the years went by. The children grew. Vanessa married and stayed in town where she attended college. Their son finished university in the city and married a local girl. Young Alice was about to finish school, planning to move to the district centre. George had quieted; now it was just work and home. With his health failing, he lay often on the settee, rarely drank—now, not at all. “Tessa, my heart’s playing up—hurts in my back.” And later, “Tessa, my knees ache. What’s that mean—joints? Maybe I should see a doctor.” Tessa felt no pity; her heart had hardened after so many tears and disappointments before George settled down. “He complains of bad health because he has to stay home—let him go and whinge to his old flames. Let them look after him now,” she thought. Anne had passed away, buried next to her husband. Their home was quiet now. Sometimes, the children and grandchildren would visit; both parents rejoiced. George would complain to the kids about his health—even accuse Tessa of neglect. The eldest daughter brought medicine, fussed over him, and even said to her mum, “Mum, don’t go hard on Dad—he’s poorly,” which stung Tessa, as her daughter took her father’s side. “Darling, he’s to blame—he had his fun in youth and now wants sympathy. I’m not made of steel myself—I lost my health worrying over him,” Tessa defended herself. The son, too, cheered up his father when visiting—men stick together. The children couldn’t seem to understand their mother’s pain, even when she told them about George’s affairs and how she endured for their sake. How could she have left them without a father? How hard, how bitter it all was. But all she ever heard in reply was, “Mum, don’t stir up the past, stop upsetting Dad,” said the eldest. Her brother always agreed. “Mum, what’s done is done,” he comforted her and patted her shoulder. Though Tessa was hurt that her kids sided with their father, she understood—they’re just living their lives. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for all your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dont Dwell on the Past Sarah often found herself reflecting on her life, especially after celebrating