La vida

I Was Eight When Mum Left Home—She Took a Taxi from the Corner and Never Returned. My Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed: Dad Learned to Cook Breakfast, Wash and Iron Uniforms, Clumsily Brush Our Hair Before School, and Never Let Us Go Without. He Never Brought Another Woman Home or Introduced Anyone as His Partner, Never Complained, Took Us Out on Weekends, Made Costumes from Cardboard and Old Fabric, and Filled His Life with Notes to Care for Us—But Was He Ever Happy? Mum Left to Find Her Joy; Dad Stayed and Gave Up His Own So We Wouldn’t Be Alone. Now He’s Gone, and I Wonder If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left home. She walked to the end of the street, caught a black cab

La vida

06

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris

La vida

06

I Was Eight Years Old When My Mum Left Home: She Went Round the Corner, Took a Taxi, and Never Came Back — My Little Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed. My Dad Learned to Cook, Wash Our Clothes, Iron School Uniforms, and Clumsily Braid Our Hair Before School. Despite Mistakes With Rice and Laundry, He Made Sure We Never Lacked Anything. He Came Home Tired, Checked Our Homework, Signed Books, Prepared Next Day’s Lunches. Mum Never Returned, Dad Never Brought Another Woman Home or Called Anyone His Partner. On Weekends He Took Us to Parks, Rivers, Shopping Centres — Even If Just to Window-Shop. He Made Costumes for School Events from Cardboard and Old Fabric, Never Complaining or Saying, ‘That’s Not My Job.’ A Year Ago, My Dad Passed Away Suddenly with No Time for Long Goodbyes. In Sorting His Belongings, I Found Not Love Letters or Photos with Another Woman, But Only Notes About Groceries, Important Dates, Doctor’s Visits — Traces of a Man Who Lived Just for His Children. Now He’s Gone, One Question Haunts Me: Was He Ever Truly Happy? My Mum Left to Find Her Own Happiness; My Dad Stayed, Giving Up His Own. He Never Felt Like Anyone’s Priority Except Ours. Today I Know I Had an Incredible Father — But He Was Also a Man Who Chose to Be Alone So We Wouldn’t Be. And That Weighs Heavy, Because Now He’s Gone, I Don’t Know If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left our home in London. She walked out to the corner of the street

La vida

06

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house where she had grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she was thoroughly disappointed with life. Why had fate been so cruel to her? Her grandmother had died, and she failed to get into university because of a girl who sat next to her during exams. The girl had copied all of Alena’s answers and, after being the first to hand in her paper, whispered something in the examiner’s ear. He frowned, demanded to see Alena’s answers, and then told her she was being expelled from the exam for cheating. There was no way to prove her innocence. Later, it turned out that the girl was the daughter of the local rich man. How could anyone compete with people like that? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother had suddenly appeared in her life, bringing two half-brothers and a new husband. Where had they been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had only been with her until she was about four years old. Nor did Alena have pleasant memories of that time: while her father was at work, her mother would leave her alone and go off to enjoy herself. Even when married, Alena’s mother was always searching for “a real man” and made no effort to hide it, not back then and not after Alena’s father had suddenly passed away. Left a widow, Tamara did not mourn for long. She quickly packed her things, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat left by her late husband, and disappeared. Grandmother Raya made every effort to appeal to her conscience, but it was useless. Tamara would occasionally visit but never showed any affection for Alena. Once, she came when Alena was twelve, bringing seven-year-old Sviatoslav, and demanded that her mother sign the house over to her. “No, Toma! You’ll get nothing!” her mother refused point-blank. “Once you die, it’ll be mine anyway!” Tamara replied heartlessly, glared irritably at her daughter, who was observing from the adjoining room, gathered Sviatoslav, and slammed the door on her way out. “Why do you always argue when she visits?” Alena asked her grandmother afterwards. “Because your mother is self-centred! I raised her badly! Should have disciplined her more!” Raisa Petrovna snapped. Her grandmother’s illness came suddenly. She had never complained of any health issues. But one day, when Alena returned home from school, she found her usually bustling grandmother pale, sitting quietly on the balcony. Alena had never before seen her grandmother sitting idle. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked, concerned. “I don’t feel well… Call for an ambulance, Alena,” her grandmother requested calmly. Then came the hospital, the drips… the end. Raisa Petrovna spent her final days in intensive care, where visits were not allowed. Driven half mad with worry, Alena finally called her mother. At first, her mother refused to come, but when Alena explained that her grandmother was in intensive care, she finally agreed—yet only arrived in time for the funeral. Three days later, she thrust a will under Alena’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be arriving soon. I know you don’t get along with him. So, go stay with Aunt Galya for a while, alright?” There wasn’t a hint of sorrow in her mother’s voice. She seemed pleased Raisa Petrovna was gone—now she was the heir! Crushed by grief, Alena was helpless to resist. The will was clear. So she began living at her Aunt Galya’s—her father’s sister. But Galya was flighty and still hoping for a wealthy match, so her home was always noisy with half-drunk guests, and Alena found it impossible to stay. Worse yet, some men began to take an interest in her, which frightened Alena terribly. When Alena confided everything to her boyfriend Pasha, his reaction surprised and delighted her: “I won’t have strange old men staring at you or putting their hands on you!” he declared decisively, despite being just nineteen. “I’ll talk to my dad today. We have a small flat on the edge of town. Dad promised I could move in once I got into university. I kept my promise, so now it’s his turn.” “I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” Alena replied, confused. “What do you mean? We’ll live there together!” “Will your parents agree to that?” “They don’t have a choice! You can consider this my official proposal: Will you marry me and live together in that flat?” Alena was on the verge of tears from happiness. “Yes, of course—yes!” Aunt Galya was thrilled to hear about the upcoming wedding, but her mother practically ground her teeth in anger: “So you’re getting married, are you? Look at you, moving quickly! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re sorting yourself out another way! Well, don’t expect any money from me! And this house is mine! You won’t get anything!” Her mother’s words hurt Alena deeply. Pasha barely managed to understand what had happened through her sobs. He took his tearful fiancée home, where his parents comforted her and gave her tea. Andrei Semyonovich listened attentively to the story of his future daughter-in-law, whose few months had brought her more trouble than many people see in a lifetime. “My poor girl! What kind of woman is she?” Pasha’s mother exclaimed when she heard what Tamara had said. “What I’m wondering,” Andrei Semyonovich said thoughtfully, “is why she’s holding so tightly to this house and always throwing it in your face if there is a will?” “I don’t know,” Alena replied through tears. “She always argued with grandmother about it. First she wanted to sell it and take the money, then she demanded Grandma sign it over to her. But Grandma refused. She said if she did that, we’d both end up out on the street.” “It’s all a bit odd! Tell me, did you go to a solicitor after your grandmother died?” “No, why would I?” Alena was surprised. “To settle inheritance matters.” “But my mother is the only heir. I’m just a granddaughter. And she showed me the will.” “It’s not as simple as that,” Andrei Semyonovich said. “After the weekend, we’ll go together to the solicitor. For now, you need some rest!” Alena soon saw her mother again. Tamara brought her some documents, trying to force her to sign, but Pasha intervened: “She’s not signing anything!” “And who are you to say?” Tamara snapped, irked. “She’s an adult. She can decide for herself!” “I’m her fiancé, and I think this could harm her. So she’s signing nothing for now.” Tamara exploded with insults, but had to leave empty-handed. The episode only increased Andrei Semyonovich’s suspicions. A few days later, as promised, he accompanied Alena to the solicitor. “Listen carefully to everything, and check every paper before you sign,” he said. But the solicitor was scrupulous. He accepted Alena’s application, and the next day, they learned that an inheritance case had been opened in Alena’s name. It turned out Raisa Petrovna had a savings account to pay for her granddaughter’s studies—a fact Alena was unaware of. “And what about the house?” asked Andrei Semyonovich. “There’s been a deed of gift in the girl’s name for some years now. No other documents exist.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was surprised. “Your grandmother came to our office several years ago to formally gift the house to you. You recently turned eighteen, so now you are the legal owner.” “But what about the will?” “It was written seven years ago, then revoked. It seems your mother doesn’t know. The house is yours, legally, and you may live in it.” All doubts confirmed. “So what do I do now?” Alena asked, flustered. “What else? Tell your mother the house is yours, and she needs to leave.” “But she’ll never go! She’s already packed my things to kick me out!” “Well, that’s what the police are for.” Upon hearing the news, Tamara was furious. “You little wretch! Planning to throw your mother out? You leave! You think I’ll believe your lies? Who put you up to this? Your fiancé and his father? You found your match! I have a document giving me the right to this house! My mother wrote a will saying I’m the heir!” “That’s right! So get out, or I’ll break your legs so you won’t dare come here again!” Oleg, who had sat glaring throughout, joined in. Andrei Semyonovich and Alena stood their ground. “For threatening behaviour, you could be prosecuted,” Andrei Semyonovich replied, calm but firm. “What? Who do you think you are? Get out! The house is being sold! Buyers are coming soon.” Instead of buyers, the police arrived. After reviewing the situation, they ordered the unwelcome relatives to vacate, warning that otherwise, they could face criminal charges. Tamara, her husband, and her sons were furiously angry but had no choice. Alena finally returned to her home. Pasha moved in, worried Tamara’s husband might try something. His fears proved justified. Tamara and Oleg continued to harass Alena for some time. When Tamara learned that Raisa Petrovna’s account existed, she pursued it with the solicitor and managed to claim part of it—but as for the house, nothing she did worked. Tamara only gave up after consulting every solicitor she could find, and eventually left with her family. Alena never saw her mother again. Alena married Pavel. The following summer, she enrolled to study her dream subject at university, and in her third year, had her first child. She was always grateful for the support of her husband and his family, and spent her days in happiness. Author: Odette — — The Village Riddle The cottage was old, but well kept. It hardly stood empty at all—barely enough time for it to grow wild or fall into disrepair. “Well, thank goodness for that!” Masha thought. “There’s no man in my life these days—and probably never will be again. And I’m nowhere near those indomitable Russian women who can do it all: hammer nails, stop runaway horses, and dash through burning houses!” She ascended the little porch, drew the big key from her bag, and unlocked the heavy padlock. *** Why this house had been bequeathed to Masha by Baba Lyuba, she did not know. The elderly woman was a distant relation, barely known. Strange, but who can fathom the minds of very old people? By Masha’s calculation, Baba Lyuba was around a hundred years old. Whether she was Masha’s great-aunt or some kind of cousin, she wasn’t even sure. But back in her youth, Masha would visit Baba Lyuba. Even then, Lyuba was getting on in years and preferred to live alone, never leaning on family or asking for help. And now, with no warning, she had passed away. When Masha got the call that her grandmother had died in the village of Riddle, it took her a moment to realize which grandmother they meant. She certainly hadn’t expected Baba Lyuba’s house and its half-acre plot to come to her. “A retirement gift!” joked her husband, Michael. “Oh, please, retirement’s a long way off!” Masha waved him away. “I’m only fifty-four. And by the time I shuffle to sixty, they’ll probably push it back again. So it’s just a gift. I just can’t imagine what for! I never even knew Baba Lyuba was still alive. I thought she’d long since joined her ancestors. Who knew how old she was. But it’s not the time to be picky. If you’re given something, best to make use of it.” “Or sell it!” Michael rubbed his hands. *** Good thing they didn’t sell. Just a couple of months after Masha became a landowner, she got another surprise—this time, far less pleasant than an inheritance. It turned out that her beloved Michael was having an affair. Yes, even at his age! Grey hairs and a wild streak, as the saying goes…

This Isnt Your Home Ellie gazed around the house shed grown up in, her heart heavy. At eighteen, she

La vida

09

Mum, Give Us a Smile Arina never liked it when the neighbours would pop round and ask her mum to sing them a song. “Anna, give us a tune – your voice is so lovely! And you’re a great dancer too!” her mum would start singing, the neighbours would join in, and sometimes the whole group would be dancing in the garden. Back then, Arina lived with her parents and her little brother, Tony, in their house in a small country village. Her mum was always cheerful and welcoming, sending the neighbours off with, “Come round again – that was lovely, such a good time,” and the neighbours would promise to return. But for some reason, Arina always hated her mum singing and dancing. She felt embarrassed, though she could never quite explain why. She was in Year 5 at the time and once said to her mum: “Mum, please don’t sing and dance…I feel so awkward.” Even now, as an adult and a mum herself, Arina still doesn’t know why she felt that way, but her mum, Anna, replied: “Don’t be ashamed when I sing, Arisha – be glad! I won’t be able to sing and dance forever, only while I’m still young…” Arina, of course, didn’t understand then – life isn’t always so full of joy. When Arina was in Year 6 and her brother was in Year 2, their dad left them for good. He packed his things and walked out. Arina never knew what happened between her parents. When she was old enough, she finally asked: “Mum, why did Dad leave us?” “You’ll understand when you’re older,” her mum replied. Anna couldn’t tell her daughter yet that she’d caught her husband at home with another woman – Vera, who lived just a few doors down. Arina and Tony were both at school, and Anna had only come home after work because she’d forgotten her purse. The front door was unlocked, even though her husband should have still been at work – it was only about eleven in the morning. She walked in and found them both in the bedroom, not the least bit ashamed. There was a row that night, after her husband came back from work, but the children didn’t hear it – they were playing outside. “Pack your things, I’ve put them in a bag in the bedroom,” Anna told her husband. “I’ll never forgive your betrayal.” Ivan knew she meant it, though he tried to explain: “Anna, it was just a mistake, can’t we forget it and move on? We’ve got the kids…” “I said leave,” were her final words before she stepped out into the garden. Ivan took his things and left. Anna, hidden around the side of the house, watched, but she never wanted to see him again – the betrayal had cut too deep. “We’ll manage, somehow, with the kids,” she thought, and cried. She never forgave him. So Anna was left alone with two children. She knew it would be hard, but not how hard – she only realised that later. She had to work two jobs. During the day she cleaned floors; at night she worked in a bakery. She was always exhausted – the smile disappeared from her face forever. Although her dad had left, Arina and Tony still saw him; he and Vera only lived four houses away. Vera had a son the same age as Tony – they were in the same class. Anna never stopped the children seeing their father, and they visited him often, playing at his house or in his garden, but always came home to eat. Vera never fed them or made them welcome – playtime was fine, though. Sometimes, Vera’s son would come over to Arina and Tony’s house, and the neighbours would look surprised. Anna would feed all the children – she never minded her former husband’s stepson being there. But Arina never saw her mum smile again. She was kind and caring, but grew quiet and withdrawn. Sometimes Arina, coming home from school, would be desperate for her mum to talk to her, so she’d tell her stories about what happened at school. “Mum, guess what – Genka brought a kitten to class and it kept meowing during lessons! The teacher couldn’t work out where the noise was coming from, and told Genka off, thinking it was him. Then we said, ‘It’s in his bag,’ and she sent Genka – and the kitten – out, and called his mum in!” “Hmm. I see…” was all her mum would say. Arina saw that nothing made her mum happy any more. She even heard her crying at night, staring for ages out of the window, lost in her thoughts. Only when Arina got older did she understand. “Mum must have been completely exhausted, working two jobs and barely sleeping. And she probably didn’t have enough vitamins either. She did everything for me and Tony. We were always dressed well, our clothes were clean and ironed,” Arina often remembered. Back then, she’d plead, “Mum, please smile… I haven’t seen your smile for such a long time.” Anna loved her children, very much, but in her own way. She didn’t hug them often, but sometimes praised them for doing well at school and not causing her trouble. She was a good cook, there was always delicious food on the table, and the house was spotless. Arina felt her mum’s love most when she braided her hair – her mum would gently stroke her head, but always with a sadness, as though the burden had bent her shoulders. Anna’s teeth started to fall out early, and she never replaced them. After finishing school, Arina didn’t even consider going off to study – she didn’t want to leave her mum alone, and besides, studying elsewhere would cost money. She got a job as a shop assistant near home, to help her mum out. Tony was growing fast, always in need of new clothes and shoes. One day, a man named Michael came into the shop. He wasn’t local – he was from a village eight miles away. He liked Arina at once, even though he was nine years older. “What’s your name, gorgeous?” he said with a grin. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’ve not seen you before when I’ve stopped by.” “Arina. I haven’t seen you before either.” “I’m from a village eight miles from yours. Michael’s my name.” That’s how they met. Michael started coming to see Arina regularly in his car, picking her up after work. They went for walks, sat chatting in his car, and he even took her to meet his mother, who was unwell. Michael had split up with his wife – she’d moved to the county town with their daughter, unwilling to look after her mother-in-law. Michael had a good-sized house and a big smallholding. When Arina visited, he was generous: the table was loaded with sour cream, meat, and sweets. She liked it there. “Arina, will you marry me?” Michael asked one day. “I really like you. I’ve got to be honest though: Mum will need looking after, but I’ll help.” Arina was quietly delighted, though she didn’t show it. After all she’d been through, looking after an ailing mother was no hardship. Michael waited anxiously. “Why not – at least I’ll eat my fill of meat and sour cream,” she thought. “Alright, I’ll marry you,” she said out loud. Michael was over the moon. “Arisha, I’m so happy – I love you… I doubted you’d agree, you being so young and me an older, divorced man. But I promise: I’ll never hurt you, and we’ll have a happy life together.” Michael worked hard and helped with everything at home. After the wedding, Arina moved to his village. Truthfully, she was ready for a change. By now, Tony had grown up, studying car mechanics at college in the county town, only coming home on weekends and holidays. Time passed. Arina was truly happy with her husband. She gave birth to two sons, one after the other. She didn’t work – there were enough chores at home, what with the children and the smallholding (Michael’s mum died two years into their marriage). Michael was still a generous husband, doing most of the heavy work. “Don’t carry those heavy buckets – that’s my job,” he’d say to his wife. “You milk the cow, feed the chickens and ducks, I’ll take care of feeding the pigs.” Arina knew Michael loved her and adored their children. She never had a big home or lots of stock with her mum, but she knew how to manage, and Michael appreciated everything she did. “Arina, let’s take your mum some meat and sour cream and milk. She has to buy everything, and we have our own, all home-grown.” Anna always accepted the gifts gratefully, but she never smiled, not even with her grandsons. They visited often, but Arina always felt sorry for her, not knowing how to bring her mum back to life. “Arisha, maybe you should speak to the vicar for advice – he might know what to do,” Michael suggested, and Arina jumped at the idea. The vicar promised to pray for Anna, and said, “Ask God to send your mum a good person to meet,” so Arina prayed as hard as she could. One day Anna asked her daughter, “Love, could you lend me some money? I want to get my teeth sorted.” “Oh Mum, I’d pay for everything for you!” Arina replied, delighted. But she knew her mum would insist on paying her back, which she did. Not long after, Arina hadn’t managed to visit her mum because Michael was busy helping his Uncle Nick, who was moving from the county town to their village after splitting with his wife, and needed help with paperwork for his new house. Sometimes Arina went with Michael to visit Nick, but one day Michael came home and said, “You know, I think Uncle Nick wants to get married – I heard him talking on the phone…” “And why not?” Arina agreed. “He’s still young – with a nice house, what good is it staying alone?” Soon Nick himself invited them for a visit. “I want you round. I’ve met my first love – we were at school together. She’s coming here tomorrow – pop down for tea the day after.” Two days later, with gifts in hand, Arina and Michael went to see Nick. But as Arina walked in, she froze in disbelief – her own mother was standing there, smiling shyly. Anna looked so much brighter and happier than before. “Mum! I’m so happy for you… but why didn’t you say anything?” “I didn’t want to jinx it, in case nothing worked out.” “Uncle Nick, why did you keep it quiet?” “I was afraid Anna might change her mind… But now we’re happy.” Arina and Michael were overjoyed – Anna glowed with happiness and couldn’t stop smiling. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life

Mum, Give Us a Smile Emily never liked it when the neighbours popped over and, before long, were nudging

La vida

03

Accommodating Grannies Eleanor Smith woke up to laughter. Not a quiet giggle or a polite chuckle, but a booming, irreverent guffaw, the kind that seemed wildly out of place in a hospital ward— the kind she’d never tolerated her whole life. The culprit was her bedmate, clutching a phone to her ear, gesticulating as if the person on the other end could actually see her. “Len, you’re unbelievable! Seriously? He said that in front of everyone?” Eleanor glanced at the clock: quarter to seven. Fifteen minutes until the official wake-up call— precious minutes that could have been spent in silence, composing herself before surgery. The night before, when Eleanor was wheeled into the ward, her roommate was already tapping away briskly on her phone. A brief exchange of “Good evening” and “Hello,” and then each woman retreated into her own thoughts. Eleanor had appreciated the silence. Now— this was a circus. “Excuse me,” she said, quietly but distinctly. “Could you keep it down?” The other woman turned. A round face, short-cropped greying hair, not even an attempt at dye, and a bold red polka-dot pyjama— in hospital, no less! “Oh, sorry, Len— I’ll call you back, someone’s giving me a telling-off,” she said into the phone. Turning to Eleanor with a smile, she added, “Sorry! I’m Cathy Johnson. Did you sleep all right? I never sleep before surgeries, so I’ll just ring everyone I know.” “Eleanor Smith. Just because you’re awake doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need some rest.” “But you’re up now!” Cathy winked. “Promise, I’ll whisper. Cross my heart.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d already managed two more calls— somehow even louder than before. Eleanor ostentatiously turned toward the wall and pulled the duvet over her head, but it was useless. “My daughter rang,” Cathy explained over the breakfast they both ignored—surgery day. “She’s worried, poor thing. I do my best to reassure her.” Eleanor said nothing. Her own son hadn’t called— though she couldn’t expect it, he’d warned her about a crucial morning meeting. That’s how she’d raised him: work comes first, it’s a responsibility. They took Cathy off to surgery first. She sashayed down the corridor, waving and shouting something to a laughing nurse. Eleanor found herself hoping they’d relocate her to another room after her own operation. An hour later, it was her own turn. She’d always struggled with anaesthesia, and woke up groggy, sick and sore. The nurse told her everything had gone well, she’d just have to be patient. She was patient— always had been. By evening, they brought her back. Cathy was already in her bed— ash-grey, eyes closed, drip in hand. Silent for the first time. “How are you?” Eleanor ventured, surprising herself. Cathy’s eyes flickered open. She smiled faintly. “Still here. You?” “Me too.” They sat in silence as dusk fell. Drips tinkled gently into silence. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I just can’t stop talking. I know it’s irritating, but I can’t help it.” Eleanor meant to say something cutting, but found herself too tired. “It’s fine.” Neither woman slept that night. Both ached. Cathy didn’t call anyone, simply lay quietly, but Eleanor heard her shifting, sighing—maybe even crying, softly into her pillow. Next morning, the doctor did her rounds: checked stitches, took their temperatures, and congratulated both—“Well done, you’re recovering nicely.” Cathy immediately grabbed for her phone. “Len! Hi! I’m alive, don’t worry. How’s everyone? What, really, Kir’s got a temperature? Are you… what? Sorted now? See, I told you it wasn’t serious!” Eleanor couldn’t help listening. “Everyone” meant grandchildren, she realised. The daughter was reporting in. Her own mobile was silent. Just two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s it going?” and “Text when you’re able.” Both sent the previous evening, while she was out cold. She replied: “All fine.” Added a smiley. He liked smileys, said otherwise her messages sounded curt. Three hours later, his reply: “Great! Love you.” “Do yours visit?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son works. He lives far. There’s no need— I’m not a child.” “Right,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says the same— Mum, you’ll cope. No point visiting if you’re all right, right?” There was something in her voice that made Eleanor look more closely. Cathy was smiling, but her eyes weren’t cheerful. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the eldest, he’s eight. Then Maya and Leo, three and four— just a year apart.” Cathy pulled her phone from the drawer. “Wanna see photos?” They spent twenty minutes poring over photos— kids at the seaside, at the allotment, with birthday cakes. Cathy was in every snap, pulling faces, hugging, kissing. The daughter behind the camera—never in the shots. “My daughter doesn’t like being photographed.” “And are the grandkids with you a lot?” “I live with them, practically. My daughter works, her husband too— so I help. School run, check homework, cook tea.” Eleanor nodded. Much the same. She’d done it every day for the first years after her grandson was born. Then less often, as he grew. Now about once a month—if the diary aligned. “What about you?” “One grandson. Nine. Good at school, plays sports.” “Do you see him much?” “Sundays sometimes. They’re busy. I get it.” “Yeah,” Cathy turned to the window. “Busy.” Silence fell. Rain sprayed the glass. That evening Cathy said, “I don’t want to go home.” Eleanor looked up. Cathy was sitting with her knees to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. Been thinking about it all day, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What for? I’ll go home, and Kieran’ll be behind on homework, Maya’ll have a cold, Leo will have ripped his jeans again. My daughter will work late, her husband’s always away. I’ll be washing, cooking, tidying, helping—and they won’t even…” she trailed off. “They don’t even say thank you. Because I’m just Gran— it’s what I’m meant to do.” Eleanor was silent. There was a lump rising in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “I’m falling apart.” “Don’t be sorry,” Eleanor said quietly. “I… I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally do something for myself—go to the theatre, exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked if I’d help. I mean, I’m Gran, not working any more—why not? I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. Now, with school, just once a week. Now… now they don’t really need me. They have a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting. If they remember.” Cathy nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit in November. To me—my house. I cleaned everywhere, baked pies. Then she rang—‘Mum, sorry, Kieran’s got football, can’t make it.’” “She didn’t come?” “No. I took the pies to my neighbour.” They sat quietly. Rain pattered the glass. “You know what’s the worst?” Cathy spoke after a long pause. “Not that they don’t visit. That I still wait. I clutch my phone, thinking maybe they’ll call, say they miss me. Just for me, not because they need something.” Eleanor’s nose prickled. “I wait, too. Every time the phone rings, I think my son just wants to chat. But he always wants something.” “But we always help,” Cathy smiled sadly. “Because we’re mums.” “Yeah.” The next day came dressings—painful for both. Afterwards, they lay silently, until Cathy said, “I always believed my family was happy. My daughter’s lovely, her husband nice, grandkids adored. That I was needed. That they couldn’t cope without me.” “And?” “And it’s only here I realised—they actually manage fine. My daughter hasn’t once mentioned struggling these four days. If anything, she sounds more energetic. She can manage. It’s just convenient—having Gran the free nanny.” Eleanor propped herself on her elbow. “I realised I’m to blame. I taught my son Mum will always help, always drop everything, will always wait. My plans weren’t important. His plans mattered most.” “I was the same. Drop everything, rush when my daughter calls.” “We taught them we don’t count,” Eleanor said slowly. “That we have no life of our own.” Cathy nodded, thoughtful. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Eleanor got out of bed without help. By day six, she walked the ward’s length and back. Cathy trailed a day behind, but was determined. They walked together, leaning on the wall for support. “After my husband died, I was lost,” Cathy confided. “I thought life was over. My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. But this purpose… it’s a one-way thing. I give, they take. They only notice if I’m useful.” Eleanor spoke about her divorce thirty years before. How she’d raised her son alone, went to night school, worked two jobs. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up, lives his own life,” Cathy finished gently. “Yes. And maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so alone.” “I didn’t, either.” On day seven, Eleanor’s son showed up—unannounced. She was reading when he walked in, tall, in a posh coat, fruit in a carrier bag. “Mum! How are you? On the mend?” “Getting there.” “Great! Doctor says you’ll be discharged in three days. I thought—you could come to ours? Olesya says the guest room’s free.” “Thanks, but I’ll be better at home.” “If you’re sure. But call—if you need anything. We’ll be there.” He stayed twenty minutes. Talked about work, the grandson, his new car. Asked if she needed money. Promised to visit next week. Left quickly, with a sense of relief. Cathy lay pretending to sleep. Once the door shut, she opened her eyes. “That was your son?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as ice.” Eleanor didn’t reply. Her throat tightened so much she could hardly breathe. “You know,” Cathy said softly, “I’ve been thinking… Maybe we just need to stop expecting their love. Just… let go. They’ve grown up, they have their own lives. We need to find ours.” “Easier said than done.” “Harder to do. But what other choice do we have? Or we’ll sit here forever, waiting for them to remember us.” “What did you say to them?” Eleanor asked suddenly, shocking herself by using “you” instead of “Mrs.” “To my daughter? Said after discharge, I need a couple of weeks to rest. Doctor’s orders. Can’t help with the grandkids.” “And she?” “At first, she was furious. I just said, ‘Len, you’re a grown-up—sort it yourself. I can’t for now.’” “She’s annoyed?” “And how!” Cathy grinned. “But you know, it’s a relief. Like I shrugged off something heavy.” Eleanor closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no, if I refuse, they’ll be hurt. They might stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “Well, then. Can it get any worse? Maybe it’ll get better.” Day eight—discharged together. They packed in silence, as if parting forever. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Eleanor nodded. They entered numbers into their mobiles. Stood facing each other. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “For being here.” “No, thank you. I haven’t had a conversation like this in thirty years.” “Me neither.” They hugged, careful of their stitches. The nurse brought the discharge forms, called the taxis. Eleanor left first. Home was quiet. She unpacked, showered, lay down on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you out?” “Call when you’re home,” “Don’t forget your pills.” She replied, “Home. All good.” Put the phone down. She got up, found a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French class brochure, and a printout of theatre showtimes. She stared at them. The phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry it’s so soon. I just… wanted to call.” “I’m glad. Truly glad.” “How about we meet up, once we’re both stronger? A little café, or a walk. If you’d like, of course.” Eleanor looked at the brochure, then at her phone. Then back to the brochure. “I’d like that. In fact, let’s not wait two weeks. Saturday, maybe? I’m tired of lying around.” “Saturday? Really? The doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve been putting everyone first for thirty years. Time to put myself first.” “Deal. Saturday.” They said goodbye. Eleanor picked up the brochure. French classes started in a month—registration still open. She opened her laptop, began filling in the form. Her hands trembled, but she completed it. All the way to the end. Rain fell outside, but through the clouds, the sun shone—pale and autumnal, but sun nonetheless. And for the first time, Eleanor thought life might just be beginning again. She sent the application.

Convenient Grannies Margaret Collins woke up to laughter. Not a quiet laugh, nor a muffled giggle, but

La vida

04

I Was Eight Years Old When My Mum Left Home: She Went Round the Corner, Took a Taxi, and Never Came Back — My Little Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed. My Dad Learned to Cook, Wash Our Clothes, Iron School Uniforms, and Clumsily Braid Our Hair Before School. Despite Mistakes With Rice and Laundry, He Made Sure We Never Lacked Anything. He Came Home Tired, Checked Our Homework, Signed Books, Prepared Next Day’s Lunches. Mum Never Returned, Dad Never Brought Another Woman Home or Called Anyone His Partner. On Weekends He Took Us to Parks, Rivers, Shopping Centres — Even If Just to Window-Shop. He Made Costumes for School Events from Cardboard and Old Fabric, Never Complaining or Saying, ‘That’s Not My Job.’ A Year Ago, My Dad Passed Away Suddenly with No Time for Long Goodbyes. In Sorting His Belongings, I Found Not Love Letters or Photos with Another Woman, But Only Notes About Groceries, Important Dates, Doctor’s Visits — Traces of a Man Who Lived Just for His Children. Now He’s Gone, One Question Haunts Me: Was He Ever Truly Happy? My Mum Left to Find Her Own Happiness; My Dad Stayed, Giving Up His Own. He Never Felt Like Anyone’s Priority Except Ours. Today I Know I Had an Incredible Father — But He Was Also a Man Who Chose to Be Alone So We Wouldn’t Be. And That Weighs Heavy, Because Now He’s Gone, I Don’t Know If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left our home in London. She walked out to the corner of the street

La vida

010

Elderly Woman Shares Heartbreak as She Reveals the Last Time She Saw Her Son Was Over Six Years Ago – “When Did Your Son Stop Speaking to You?” I Asked My Neighbour… and in That Moment, My Heart Broke: After His Wife Turned Me Away From Their Home, He Took My Money for a Flat and Never Called Again – Now, After Raising Him Alone, I Face Old Age Without My Only Child

The pensioner said the last time she saw her son was more than six years ago. How long has it been since

La vida

03

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris

La vida

05

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris