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Dad’s Country Cottage Olga learnt, quite unexpectedly and by chance, that she and her dad’s beloved cottage had been sold. It happened over the phone, as she called her mum from the post office in another town—like something out of a film, when you become the third, unwilling participant in a conversation, except all she did was overhear two people talking. Some cosmic mix-up or perhaps the operator’s error had merged her call with two others—across two cities, two voices sharing in those paid-for minutes what mattered most: the country cottage was gone, sold for a good price, and now there was so much you could do … they might even help Olga out a bit with the money! Olga’s mum and her sister Irene—voices so achingly familiar, separated by seventy-five miles, their words converted to electric signals and relayed down the wires. Physics always baffled Olga, her dad made her study. * “Dad, why is the September sun so different?” “How do you mean, Olly?” “I don’t know … I can’t explain it. The light’s softer. It’s certainly sunny, just not like August.” “You need to study physics—celestial positions in September are totally different! Catch!” Dad laughed and lobbed her a huge, slightly lopsided apple. Shiny, red, smelling of honey. “Is it a Pippin?” “No, of course not, not ripe yet. It’s a striped Russet.” She bit into it with a crunch, a mouthful of sweet white froth, all the warmth of summer rain and earth’s own juice. Apple varieties, like physics, were not Olga’s strong suit—and that was today’s main problem, because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been in love with her physics teacher for two years. Life had become all rays of light, split-open heavens and laws of matter and space that refused to fit into the neat lines of a school notebook. And Dad … he understood, simply by her distant eyes and poor appetite. Olga told him, of course, last year. Wept all night, like a child on his lap. Mum was away at the spa; her older sister studied in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy, whistling tunes, always musical. At home, never; Mum and sister took centre stage there, when Irene came home. Mum was unbelievably beautiful, head librarian at the military library, tall, striking—a spirited northerner with a fiery copper mane she dyed with henna. Every couple of months, Mum would emerge from the bath with a gigantic turban of hair, trailing scents of herbs and rain. Her beauty caught every eye. Dad, a head shorter, nearly a decade older, was unassuming. That’s how Mum described him once—Olga overheard and was hurt. “Sasha’s unremarkable. But men aren’t meant to be pretty.” Unremarkable next to Mum’s blazing copper hair, grand gestures with crockery-smashing and a wild temper. Mum adored order and comfort; Dad’s “soldier-boys”—as he called them—sometimes slept right on their tiny lounge floor. While Dad was in the army, they visited often—some just passing through, others needed a leg up finding work. Dad’s boys. In 1960, he’d come under Khrushchev’s giant army reduction—“One million, three hundred thousand soldiers and officers.” He was discharged a major, then worked as chief mechanic at the telegraph office. Those soldier-boys later helped Dad build the cottage—worked for nothing, swapped shifts, dug virgin soil side by side. A little house: one room and a veranda; in summer, Olga loved to read on the roof. Dad would hand up bowls of gooseberries, cherries, or strawberries. The happiest times. Mum disliked the cottage, came rarely—she looked after her hands. Beautiful, well kept with big nails. Olga admired them, Dad kissed them. “Hands like yours are made for issuing books—not digging up beds!” he’d laugh, wink at Olga. * The first drops of September rain drummed across the veranda roof, lively but not mournful. Olga packed away her book. “Olga, come down—Mum and Irene will be here soon, we need to start lunch,” Dad’s quiet voice rang, unexpectedly cheerful at the cottage. Olga lingered, face tilted at the swelling, grey, but gentle sky. Rain dampened her cheeks; she hugged herself against the chill. Only from the roof—closer to the sky and further from the earth—could she see the sun’s rays breaking through clouds over neighbouring cottages. She forgot all about physics and its stubborn laws. In her first year at journalism school, life followed its own rules. Olga was housed in the dorm almost at once, but spent her first September week in a rented flat with the landlady—other students occupied the next room. During lectures, she was plunged into literature and language; professors the whole group fell for—a magnetic, intellectual allure. After class came waves of homesickness; she had no friends yet. Quick bites in the student canteen, wandering the big city until dark—its strange beauty was cold and lonely, so lonely it felt as if it wasn’t Olga walking that steep slope by the university’s main building, not her going home and hearing barking dogs, not her scuffing her new patent shoes. The kitchen was filled with the scent of Dad’s apples, which he’d given the landlady as thanks. Their sweet, slightly musty smell made Olga tear up, her soul pounding in its cage. When she finally moved into halls, her neighbours were German students—Viola, Maggie, Marion. The German language split her head by evening, so she’d escape outside for air. The Germans would scamper after her, scrounging cigarettes and always paying her back—our girls were shocked. They marvelled at Mum’s pickled tomatoes, gobbling them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s stores ran out, the Germans produced sausages—unimaginable luxuries back then, but never shared them. By May, they finished their exchange year and left heaps of winter boots by the kitchen bin—German boots! Our girls hurriedly grabbed them when no one was looking. * “Olly, chop the cabbage—I’ll dig up the carrots. Broth’s nearly done.” Windows fogged up with long boiling; a huge cabbage sprawled lace-like leaves on the board. Olga peeled a leaf off—delicious, earthy. She chopped briskly, sweet smell filling the kitchen. The opened window let in scents of leaf mould, bonfire, and apples. She saw Dad’s back, shovel straining in the soil; she knew his spine hurt. She dropped the knife, dashed outside, hugged him tightly. He turned, silently embracing, kissed her head. Sister Irene came alone; Mum’s headache kept her home. * Years passed—university, a student marriage, a job at the “Pioneer” newspaper at an aviation factory, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter’s birth, then divorce. Five years go quickly. Olga’s husband left her for another; she lived with toddler Mary on a rented flat. Dad visited every second weekend, bringing groceries, playing with his granddaughter. “Olga, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less than I do, all right? She gets travel-sick … And you know, I think she’s got a friend these days …” “Dad, no! You, with a beau at your age?” He laughed, bitterly, then fell silent. Olga saw how grey and drooping he’d become—even stopped whistling. “Dad, let me take holiday next week, shall we go to the cottage while it’s still warm, just us and Mary?” * The cottage was covered in leaves, one last warm October week and Indian summer. They stoked the stove, brewed blackcurrant-leaf tea. Olga fried potato cakes; Dad raked leaves, Mary scattered and giggled. Oil sizzled loud and sharp; somewhere in the orchard, Dad whistled tunes. As evening fell, they made a bonfire. The lane was empty, neighbouring cottages shut; Dad threaded thick bread cubes on cherry twigs for Mary to roast. Olga stretched chilly hands to the flames—always entrancing. She remembered her first student work trip in Kazakhstan—singing with guitars, dizzy with love for the starry night and the endless silence of the steppe; missed guitar chords, faces. Faces by firelight were always different—each had a secret, depths in their eyes. She met her future husband there. That week at work, she was called to a party meeting—her nomination for the Communist Party considered. She had crammed the party statutes, congress materials. Suddenly, questions: who caused the divorce, who lacked moral fibre? Olga stammered, near tears. A colleague stood up for her. “This is a gathering of louts, not communists!” Years later, she’d remember it as wild … When dark fell, the fire was doused. A car stopped at the gate, slammed door. Mum! Glamorous in a bright, fashionable coat—her colleague had given her a lift from work. Mary hurled herself at grandma; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that, then?” “Oh Sasha, it doesn’t matter, he just dropped me. You don’t know him …” Over dinner, conversation stuttered; Mary grew fussy. Mum asked about Olga’s job, clearly far away in her thoughts. Dad watched Mum in silence, lowering his shoulders with every minute—a ruined evening … * A year later, Dad was gone. Massive heart attack, gone in two days, early in warm, sunny October. Olga took time off after the funeral—she stayed at the cottage, Mary with her ex’s mum. She fumbled everything; there were more apples than ever. Olga handed bucketfuls to neighbours, stewed jam with mint and cinnamon, as Dad loved. Dad’s old friend arrived, the two of them had made regular trips to the fruit tree nursery together, buying saplings. “I’ll stay a couple days, Olga, dig the garden and prune the trees, if that’s all right.” “Mr. Johnson, of course … Thank you!” From Dad’s old “Olly,” tears sprang; and in that moment, the dreadful sense of finality—grief, helplessness, orphanhood. Until then, it had felt as if Dad would return, as if it were all a hideous dream. The first few mornings after, in the twilight of waking, she ached from something unknowable, before black waves hit—Dad was gone. Then came guilt for not keeping him here. “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll visit, help out. You know, we chose this Bramley together—he talked about you all the way there, more than about your sister. You were a little thing, funny. Said the trees would outlive him. Always took ages picking out saplings—I’d hurry him, get annoyed …” Mr. Johnson stayed three days, dug the garden, pruned apple trees, spread fertiliser; with Olga’s leave, planted three golden chrysanthemums near the porch. “Should plant them earlier, but autumn’s warm, they’ll take. For Sasha’s memory … Need to cover the roses—next time, I’ll do it.” They hugged goodbye. Rain began to fall. Olga stood by the gate, watching him go. He turned, spotted her, waved— “Go inside!” The wind slammed the gate, the porch blanketed with yellow chrysanthemum petals. Everything here was Dad’s, and always would be; the rain, the trees, autumn’s scents, the very earth. Which meant Dad was somewhere near, always. She’d learn everything in time; she’d come with Mary until the first frost, just a two-hour bus ride. Next spring, perhaps she could get heat installed. She’d start saving. And in spring, she’d travel again with Mr. Johnson to the nursery, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted … * Six months later, in early April, when the last snow was thawing, the cottage was sold. Olga discovered it by accident, over the post office telephone on her way home from the nursery. In the cramped phone booth, a sapling white currant wrapped in a damp old baby vest stood gently by her feet.

Fathers Cottage It was by sheer chance that Olivia found out her father had sold their cottage.

She Was Never Alone: An Ordinary Tale of Grandma Val, Felix the Cat, and Their Loyal Dog in a Cozy English Flat on a Late Winter Morning

She Was Never Lonely. A Simple Tale It was a late winter morning, and dawn crept sluggishly over the rooftops.

Stepping Into the Flat, Olivia Froze: Next to Her and Ivan’s Shoes Stood Expensive High Heels—She Instantly Recognized Them as Ivan’s Sister’s. Why Was She Here? Ivan Never Mentioned a Visit. By Evening, Olivia Overheard a Conversation Revealing Painful Secrets About Foiled Relationships, Jealous Plans, and a Future Suddenly Pulled Out From Under Her—Would Ivan Choose Love, Stability, Or Family Ties?

As I stepped into the flat, a hush fell around me. At the doorway, neatly lined up beside my shoes and

I Will Always Be with You, Mum: A Heartfelt Story You’ll Find Yourself Believing

Ill always be with you, Mum. A Story You Can Believe Evelyn, affectionately known as Nan to most on Ashcroft

Open Up, We’re Here! Or Not: When Auntie Natasha and Family Decide to Move In—But Julia Has Other Plans

Open up, we’ve arrived “Emily, it’s Aunt Margaret!” The voice on the phone shimmered

Stepping into the Flat, Olivia Froze: By the Door, Next to Her and Ivan’s Shoes, Stood a Pair of Designer High Heels She Recognised Instantly—Ivan’s Sister’s. Why Was She Here, When Ivan Hadn’t Mentioned a Visit? The Day Suddenly Unravelled, With a Conversation Over Cocoa, Old Flames, and the Bitter Truth About Love, Exes, and Whether Their Marriage Was Built on Revenge or Something Real

As I stepped into the flat, I paused. By the doorway, neatly lined up beside my and Johns shoes, sat

The Taste of Freedom — We finished the renovation last autumn, — began Vera Ignatievna’s story. For ages, we discussed wallpaper choices, vigorously debated bathroom tile colours, and smiled remembering how, twenty years ago, we’d dreamed of owning this very three-bedroom flat. “Well,” my husband said with satisfaction as we celebrated the end of our home improvement saga, “now we can get our son married. Misha will bring his bride here, they’ll have kids, and our home will finally be lively and full.” But his dreams weren’t meant to come true. Our eldest daughter, Kate, returned home with two suitcases and two children. “Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she said, and with those words, all our plans vanished. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Luckily, he didn’t protest—just shrugged: “It’s fine, I’ll have my own place soon.” “Own place” meant my mother’s one-bedroom flat—the one with the lovely renovation we rented out to a young family. Each month, the modest yet vital sum appeared on our account—a “safety cushion” for the day when my husband and I might become frail and unwanted. Once, I saw Misha and his fiancée, Lara, passing that building, craning their necks and discussing something animatedly. Of course, I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. And one day I overheard: “Mrs. Green, Misha proposed! We’ve even picked out a venue! Imagine—they have a real carriage! And a live harpist! And a summer terrace for guests to spill into the garden…” “So, where will you live afterwards?” I couldn’t help asking. “Such a wedding must cost a fortune!” Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. “We’ll stay with you for now. After that… we’ll see.” “We already have Kate and her kids living with us. It’s more like a hostel than a home,” I protested. Lara pouted. “Well then, maybe we’ll look for a real hostel. At least there, no one will pry into our lives.” That barbed “no one will pry” stung. Had I been prying? I was just trying to keep them from making a foolish move. Later, I had a conversation with Misha—the last attempt to reach him. “Son, why do you need all this fuss? Just get married quietly and put the money towards a deposit instead!” My voice trembled. He stared out the window, face set. “Mum, why do you and Dad celebrate your wedding anniversary at the Golden Dragon every five years? You could just stay home—it’d be cheaper.” I had no answer. “See?” he said with bitter amusement, “you have your tradition—now we want ours.” He compared our modest family dinner every five years with their half-a-million-pound spectacle! In Misha’s eyes, I wasn’t his mother but a judge passing sentence: hypocrite. You allow yourself everything, but deny me every joy. He forgot Dad and I still pay off the loan for his car. The precious “safety cushion” didn’t occur to him. Now he demanded a lavish wedding! Naturally, my son and his future wife resented me—especially when I refused to hand over the keys to Grandma’s flat. *** One evening, coming home late on a nearly empty bus, I caught my reflection in the dark window: a tired woman, looking older than her years, clutching a heavy shopping bag—with fear in her eyes. Suddenly, with painful clarity, I realised: I did everything out of fear. Fear of being a burden. Fear my children would leave. Fear of the future. I wasn’t denying Misha the flat because I was stingy, but because I was afraid—afraid of being left with nothing. I made him “work for it,” but clipped his wings by paying his way—just in case he failed and was disappointed. Asked for mature actions, yet treated him like a child incapable of understanding or doing anything. But what did Misha and Lara want? Just a beautiful start to life. With a carriage and harp. Yes, foolish and extravagant. But in the end, they have that right! On their own dime. First, I spoke to the tenants and asked them to find new accommodation. After a month, I called Misha: “Come over. We need to talk.” They arrived warily, ready for battle. I put tea and the keys to Grandma’s flat on the table. “Take them. But don’t get too excited: it’s not a gift. You have use for one year. During that time, you must decide: either get a mortgage, or stay longer and we’ll talk terms. I’ll lose a year’s rent, but never mind—consider it my investment. Not in your wedding, but in your chance to become a real family, not just flatmates.” Lara’s eyes widened. Misha looked at the keys, bewildered. “But Mum… what about Kate?” “Kate’s in for a surprise too. You’re both grown up now. Your lives are your responsibility. We’re not your background or your wallet anymore—just parents who love, but don’t rescue.” The silence was deafening. “And the wedding?” Lara asked, her voice uncertain for the first time. “The wedding?” I shrugged. “Do what you want. If you find money for the harp—have your harp.” *** Misha and Lara left, and suddenly I was terrified—tears in my eyes. What if they failed? What if they resented me forever? Yet, for the first time in years, I breathed freely. I’d finally said “no!”—not to them, but to my own fears. I’d let my son step into his complex, grown-up, independent life. Whatever it might hold… *** Now, from my son’s perspective. Lara and I dreamed our wedding would be magical. But my sister’s divorce buried our plans. When Mum said a fancy wedding was pointless, something snapped inside me. “So why do you celebrate your anniversary at restaurants? Couldn’t you just stay home? Wouldn’t that be cheaper?” I saw Mum pale. I did intend the blow. I was hurt to my core. Yes, they gave me a car. But I never asked for it! Now they complain about the loan payments. What does that have to do with me? Their choice, their problem. They renovated the flat, supposedly for us. Now we can’t live there. Grandma’s flat—a sacrosanct “safety cushion”—was seemingly more important than their only son’s wedding! So what were we supposed to do? How could we show the world—and ourselves—that we are a unit? One day, Lara said quietly, eyes downcast: “Misha, I don’t have anything to offer you. My parents can’t help; they have their mortgage.” “You’re giving me yourself,” I replied, trying to comfort her. But deep down, I was angry—not at her, but at the injustice. Why should my parents bear the burden? And why did their help come with such bitterness, each pound feeling like another nail in their coffin? That sort of help isn’t warming—it stings with guilt. Unspoken grievances hung in the air. And then a call. Mum’s voice was strange, resolute. “Come over. We need to talk.” We drove over like to an execution. Lara squeezed my hand. “She’s going to refuse any help for the wedding,” she whispered. “Maybe,” I said. *** On the table lay Grandma’s keys, instantly recognisable. Childhood memories flooded back. “Take them,” Mum said. And delivered an uncharacteristically short, revolutionary speech: one year, make a decision, no more acting as our “wallet and background.” The eternal excuse “we’ve nowhere to live” lost its power; the hope “parents will sort everything” crumbled. I took the keys. They were cold, oddly heavy. Suddenly, clarity struck—sharp and uncomfortable. We’d wanted so much, resented so much, but never actually said: “Mum, Dad, we understand your fears. Let’s talk about how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No—we’d just waited for them to read our minds and fulfil our desires, as if we were still children. “The wedding?” Lara asked softly, confused. “Your wedding?” Mum replied, “If you can afford the harp, have the harp.” Outside, I fiddled with the keys in my pocket. “What now?” Lara asked—not about the flat, but about everything. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Now it’s our problem…” In that frightening, new responsibility, there was a wild, primal freedom. And the first step: did we really need a carriage and harp? Traditions are fine, but should be rooted in something deeper than one extraordinary day… *** So, what happened? Misha and Lara’s adult lives began the very next day. Finally, together! Living in their own flat! Even if it wasn’t theirs yet. It was small, but cosy. Freshly decorated. Just the two of them—at first, with guests. Every day! Well, it was freedom! A month later, they both felt the same itch: a dog! Not just any dog—a big one. Lara had always dreamed of a dog, but never had one; her mum forbade it. Misha had had one as a boy, but it’d run away—a tragedy for him. So, the missing piece arrived quickly: a charming retriever named Lexus. The three-month-old immediately took charge: clawing corners, chewing furniture legs, and making a mess everywhere. When Mrs. Green visited, she was shocked—no one had informed her of the new resident. “Misha! Lara! How could you?! You didn’t even ask! Such a dog needs constant attention—and you leave him home all day! Of course he’s destructive. And the hair! Don’t you clean? That smell! Absolutely not! You must return the dog—tomorrow!” “Mum,” Misha retorted, “you gave us the flat for a year. Are you just going to tell us how to live every time? Maybe you’d like the keys back?” “Oh no,” Mrs. Green retorted. “I’m true to my word. A year means a year. But remember—you must return the flat exactly as you found it. Understood?” “We understand,” Misha and Lara replied. “Until then, don’t expect me around. I don’t want to see this.” *** She kept her word; didn’t visit, even called rarely. Four months later, Misha returned home: he and Lara had split. He spent ages complaining about her—poor homemaker, fed the pup wrong, didn’t walk him, had to return Lexus to the breeder after much persuading. They even bought three months’ dog food in advance—as the breeder insisted, and it wasn’t cheap! “Did you rush things with Lara, son?” Mrs. Green asked, hiding a smile. “You wanted a wedding with a carriage… and a harp…” “What wedding, Mum?! Please! You can rent out Grandma’s flat.” “Why? You must be used to it by now?” “Nah, I’d rather be home,” Misha shook his head. “Unless you object?” “Never,” Mrs. Green replied. “Especially now that Kate and the kids have gone—our house is empty again…”

A Taste of Freedom We finally finished the renovations last autumn, began Vera Goddard, settling herself

The Country Cottage Can Mend Anything

The cottage will set things right Have you lost your senses? I told Mrs Green you were coming!

The Country Cottage Can Mend Anything

The cottage will set things right Have you lost your senses? I told Mrs Green you were coming!

Always Her First – Going back to her again? Marina already knew the answer when she asked. Dmitri nodded, not meeting her eyes, pulling on his coat, checking his pockets—keys, phone, wallet. Everything in place. Ready to leave. Marina waited. For a word. At least a “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But Dmitri simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked softly—a polite apology for its owner. Marina went to the window. The courtyard below was lit by weak street lamps; she spotted his familiar figure easily. Dmitri walked quickly, determinedly. Like a man who knows exactly where he’s headed. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old daughter, Sophie. Marina pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She had known. From the very beginning she knew what she was signing up for. When they met, Dmitri was still married—technically. The stamp on the marriage certificate, joint flat, child. But he no longer lived with Anna; rented a room somewhere else, only coming back for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” Dmitri said. “I couldn’t forgive her. Filed for divorce.” And Marina believed him. God, how easy it was to believe. Because she wanted to. Because she was in love—foolishly, desperately, like she was seventeen again. Dates in cafés, long phone calls, that first kiss outside her block in the rain. Dmitri looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, plans together, talk of the future. And then it began. First—the calls. “Dima, bring Sophie her medicine, she’s ill.” “Dima, the tap’s leaking, I have no idea what to do.” “Dima, our daughter’s crying, wants to see you, come right now.” Dmitri dropped everything and went. Every time. Marina tried to understand. A child was sacred. Their daughter not to blame that her parents had split. Of course he should help, be there. Sometimes Dmitri listened to her, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna would simply change tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, you’re upsetting her.” “She asked me why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And Dmitri would give in. Every time. Tried to refuse yet another urgent request—Anna knew exactly how to wound him. Within a week, Sophie repeated her mother’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t come up with that herself. Dmitri returned from these conversations shattered, guilty, his eyes dulled. He’d rush back at Anna’s slightest summons—just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, wouldn’t look at him like a stranger. Marina understood. She truly did. But she was exhausted. Dmitri’s figure disappeared around the corner. Marina pulled away from the window, absently rubbed her forehead—a red mark left from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. It was almost midnight when a key turned in the lock. Marina sat in the kitchen, staring at a cold mug of tea. She hadn’t touched it—just watched a dark film spread across the surface. Three hours. Three hours she’d waited, listening for every sound on the staircase. Dmitri entered quietly, slipped off his coat, hung it up. Moved cautiously, as though hoping to pass unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Marina was surprised how calm she sounded. She’d rehearsed that phrase for three hours, and by midnight all emotion seemed charred away inside. Dmitri was silent a moment. “The boiler broke. Had to fix it.” Marina slowly raised her eyes. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to enter. Staring past her, into the dark window at her back. “You don’t know how to fix boilers.” “I called a professional.” “And you had to wait with her?” Marina pushed away her mug. “You couldn’t have called from here? Over the phone?” Dmitri frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened, unpleasant. “Maybe you still love her?” Now he looked up. Sharply, angrily, wounded. “Nonsense. This is all for my daughter. For Sophie! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen; Marina instinctively pulled her chair back. “You knew when you got involved with me that I have to go there. You knew I had a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I see my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Marina had wanted to reply sharply, with dignity, but instead her eyes stung, the first tear slid down her face. “I thought…” she faltered, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. At least make an effort.” “Marina, give it a rest…” “I’m tired!” Her voice rose, and she startled herself. “Tired of being not even second best! Third! After your ex, her whims, broken boilers at midnight!” Dmitri slammed his palm against the doorframe. “What do you want from me? To abandon my daughter? Never go to her?” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Marina leapt up; the mug wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me—to her! Anna!” “I’m tired of your tantrums!” Dmitri grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?!” The door banged in reply. Marina stood in the kitchen as tea dripped onto the linoleum, her ears ringing. She snatched up her phone, dialed his number. The ringtone, again, again. “The person you are calling is unavailable.” And again. And again. Silence. Marina slowly sank onto the chair, pressing the phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Again to her? Or just wandering the night, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Which made it all the worse. The night dragged endlessly. Marina sat on her bed, phone in hand—the screen dimming, flaring. Call, listen to the ring, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Another: “Please answer.” And: “I’m scared.” Send—and watch each lonely grey tick appear below. Not delivered. Or delivered, unread. Not that it mattered. By four a.m., Marina stopped crying. The tears simply dried up somewhere inside, leaving a strange hollow ache. She rose, turned on the bedroom light, opened the wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. She found her dusty suitcase on top of the cupboard, tag torn from some old trip. Threw it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. No sorting, just shoving everything inside she could reach. If he didn’t care—neither did she. Let him come back to an empty flat. Let him call, text messages she’d never read. Let him know how it felt. By six, Marina stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, one bag slung over her shoulder, her coat buttoned unevenly—one side longer than the other. She stared at her bundle of keys. She needed to remove hers, leave it on the hallway table. Her fingers wouldn’t work. She wrestled the ring, tried with her nail, but the key stuck, her hands shook, tears boiled in her eyes—how were there any left? “Oh, for God’s sake!” The bunch clattered to the floor. Marina watched for a second, two—and slumped onto the suitcase, hugging herself, sobbing hard, messy, gulping breath, just like as a child, breaking Mum’s favourite vase and convinced the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Marina…” Dmitri knelt in front of her, straight onto the cold hallway tiles. He smelled of smoke and the night city. “Marina, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up—her face wet, swollen, mascara smeared in dark streaks. Dmitri gently took her hands in his. “I was at my mum’s. All night. She gave me such a talking to….” He gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve had my head sorted, basically.” Marina said nothing. Just looked at him, unable to decide whether to believe or not. “I’m taking Anna to court. I’ll demand a fixed schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, through the authorities, as it should be. She won’t be able to control things or turn my daughter against me anymore.” He squeezed her hands tighter. “I’m choosing you, Marina. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something flickered in her chest. A small sprout of hope, stubborn and silly, she’d tried all night to tear up by the roots. “Really?” “Really.” Marina closed her eyes. She would believe Dmitri. One last time. And then—let life decide…

Back to Her “Going back to her again, are you?” Carolines voice was calm but laced with exhaustion