**A Cursed Love**
*”What happens now?”* Olesya asked anxiously, more to herself than to her sweetheart.
*”What do you mean? I’ll send matchmakers. Just wait,”* the lad replied coolly.
…Olesya returned from the date (the one that would turn her life upside down) giddy and mysterious. She gave her two younger sisters a detailed account of her evening with Borislav. The girls already knew she was madly in love with him. Borislav had promised to marry her in autumn, once the harvest work was done.
Now, after their rather *close* encounter in the hayloft, the boy was downright *obliged* to propose. But… the fields had been cleared, the grain stored, and New Year’s approached—yet no matchmakers came.
Olesya’s mother, Auntie Hanya, noticed a change in her eldest. Usually cheerful, Olesya had grown quiet and—somehow unevenly—rounder. A heart-to-heart followed. After Olesya’s tearful confession, Auntie Hanya decided to look the would-be son-in-law square in the eye—and ask why those matchmakers seemed to have gotten lost on the way.
Without hesitation, she marched to the next village, where Borislav lived. His mother, clueless about her son’s exploits, welcomed her. Auntie Hanya didn’t mince words, and soon, both women rounded on Borislav. His defence?
*”How should I know who got Olesya with child? The village is full of lads. Am I to claim every baby as mine?”*
Auntie Hanya was livid. As she stormed out—never to return—she spat:
*”May you marry and marry again, you wretch!”*
And, as if heaven itself took notes, Borislav went on to marry four times.
Olesya read the bad news on her mother’s face. Auntie Hanya laid down the law: *”Not a word to your father. We’ll handle this.”*
*”Olesya, you’ll go to relatives in Liverpool. When the child’s born, leave it at the hospital. Otherwise, the village gossips will never let us live it down. We’ll manage. God willing, it’ll all sort itself.”* She sighed. *”Girls, sin’s sweet, but people are sharper.”*
Auntie Hanya’s husband, Dennis, was the village intellectual—addressed strictly by his full name, respected by all. A strict but fair schoolteacher, he settled disputes and gave advice. And now? His own daughter, carrying a child out of wedlock! The scandal would rock the entire parish!
Auntie Hanya couldn’t risk it. So off Olesya went. To Dennis, she lied: *”Let her work in the city. She’s twenty—old enough.”* She kept a closer eye on her younger girls after that.
As if that helped. Middle daughter Stacy soon left for Manchester on a work assignment; the youngest, Evelyn, moved to London.
…In villages, words echo. Eventually, gossip reached Dennis—via his own pupils, no less.
*”Can’t guard every wagging tongue,”* he muttered before unleashing fury on his wife. *”A child—to an orphanage? Our first grandchild! Bring her home at once!”*
Auntie Hanya hadn’t expected this outburst—though she’d wept all year, knowing the baby was in care. Too afraid to visit, too afraid of the pull of blood. *”My daughter ate the berries, but I got the sour taste,”* she lamented.
…Soon, Auntie Hanya and Olesya brought baby Annie home. The girl had spent her first year unaware of her family—a guilt Olesya would carry forever. No matter what Annie did (and she did plenty), Olesya bore it patiently.
Dennis, Auntie Hanya, and Olesya raised Annie together. Often, Olesya recalled that last evening with Borislav—the sweet, dizzying scent of hay, those reckless moments of tangled limbs. She still loved him. Shamed, betrayed, heartbroken—still. *”Love’s not a potato; you can’t toss it out the window.”*
And so Olesya became a single mother. Annie had Borislav’s fire, his stubborn chin. Olesya moved through life in a daze, joy dulled—even silly little Annie brought a pang. *”Ah, fatherless child…”*
At twenty-five, a new suitor appeared: Freddie, her almost-brother. They’d grown up together—Auntie Hanya’s sister had married a widower with three children, Freddie among them.
Reluctantly, Olesya let him court her. Life alone was hard, and she was still young. Freddie would’ve made a fine husband—but Annie? Would he resent her? He knew the whole sorry tale, yet he’d adored Olesya since childhood. *”I’d wed her with three children, let alone one,”* he’d say.
…They married in a boisterous village affair, then moved to London—away from prying eyes. Their fragile secret needed shelter.
Soon, Olesya had another daughter, Lucy. To Freddie, both girls were his. He adopted Annie without a second thought, treating the sisters equally. He lived for his family.
Olesya bloomed—a fine wife, mother, homemaker. Freddie mended her broken spirit. Their home brimmed with peace.
…Ten years flew by.
One summer, Annie, Lucy, and four cousins stayed with Granny Hanya—now a proud woman, boasting three married daughters and six grandchildren.
While tidying a dusty storeroom, one cousin stumbled upon a tiny notebook hidden under yellowed papers. She gasped. *Every page was scrawled with the name Borislav.*
News travels fast among children. Soon, Annie snatched the damning diary and demanded answers from Granny Hanya—who, regretfully, spilled everything. *”Should’ve burned the wretched thing,”* she muttered.
Annie reeled. *They’d hidden her true father all these years?!* She insisted on meeting him. Granny Hanya, cornered, gave the address.
Annie dragged her cousin along for moral support.
Borislav’s mother—instantly recognising her granddaughter’s uncanny resemblance—fussed and wept. *”I always remembered you, but he forbade me—”*
Borislav shuffled in, eyed the girls, and asked: *”Which of you’s mine?”*
Annie scoffed. *”I *could’ve* been your daughter!”*
They spoke privately in the yard. Annie stormed back, seething.
The girls refused the homemade gin—then drank it anyway. How they stumbled home, they couldn’t recall.
Granny Hanya wrung details from them. *”Should we tell Freddie and Olesya?”*
Annie was firm. *”Freddie’s my only father.”*
Yet she silently blamed Olesya—for cowardice, for the orphanage, for the lie.
Years passed.
Annie and Lucy married. Annie had two sons—the eldest, Borislav’s mirror image.
And Borislav? He never forgot Olesya. They met occasionally in London. She’d arrive splendidly dressed—proof she’d thrived without him.
She never mentioned Annie’s decade-long grudge, nor her own exile from her grandchildren. *”Old sins cast long shadows,”* Olesya thought.
Freddie was her comfort. To him, she was flawless. *”A spotless apple’s wormhole isn’t a flaw”*—his only jest before their wedding.
She’d grown to love him deeply.
At their golden anniversary, surrounded by family, Annie pulled Olesya aside, tearful. *”Forgive me, Mum. I had no right to judge.”*
Even Borislav called to congratulate them.
*”Four wives—yet I’ll never make fifty years with one. Still don’t know why I let you go,”* he sniffed.
Olesya cut him off. *”You didn’t love me. But I’m happy now—my Freddie, my life. I forgave you long ago. Let it go, Borislav.”*
