Galina Returned Home from Shopping and Began Unpacking Groceries, When She Suddenly Heard Strange Noises from Her Son and Daughter-in-Law’s Room—Curious, She Went to Check: “Val, Where Are You Going?” Galina Asked in Surprise When She Saw Her Daughter-in-Law Packing Suitcases. “I’m Leaving!” Valentina Sobbed. “Leaving? Where? What Happened?” Galina Asked—Val Silently Handed Her a Letter That Left Galina Stunned After Reading It

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

Margaret had just returned from the shops, the clatter of grocery bags echoing through the hallway as she laid them out on the kitchen counter. Her thoughts were on the unfinished stew for supper, but a strange noise upstairsa muffled rustlingpulled her away. She wiped her hands on her apron, heart pounding as she headed towards her sons room.

Emily, what on earth are you doing? Margarets voice trembled in the doorway; she stopped short, watching her daughter-in-law hastily stuffing clothes into a suitcase, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Im leaving, Emily sobbed, her hands shaking as she zipped the bag closed.

What do you mean, leaving? Where would you go? Margaret choked out, her world spinning.

Emily silently handed her a letter, the ink smudged where tears had fallen. Margaret unfolded it, her fingers trembling as she readand froze from the words staring back at her.

It had only been a few years since Edward brought his bride Emily back to the family farmhouse in a quiet corner of Yorkshire. Margaret couldnt have been prouderher son, well into his thirties, had finally settled down after sowing his wild oats, just as shed always hoped. Her husband had passed away years before, leaving behind a sturdy house and vast fields. Margaret managed on her own, raising Edward as an only child, never able to have more after a difficult pregnancy, and then took on the hard grind of farm life once her husband fell ill. For three years she cared for him. Learned to manage a tractor, plough the fields, tend the kitchen and animals all on her own.

Emily was ten years younger than Edward, a delicate thing, all soft-spoken and gentle. Margaret remembered herself arriving at that very house with a single suitcase, hardly any trinkets to her name. But if shes who you want, Edward, thats enough for me, shed thought. And Emily, an orphan with no one to care for her, seemed grateful for any kindness.

The village girls watched Emily with envy; shed landed the most eligible bachelor for miles, a man with a fine house to offer. Even after he wed, more than a few tried their luck, but Edward was a family man nowrunning straight home after work to his wife and, in time, three children; two boys and a little girl.

When the youngest turned five and the eldest turned ten, Edward announcedout of nowherethat he and his mate were off to London for work.

Is money so tight we have to do this? Margaret tried to reason with him. Were comfortable hereenough food for all, both your wages, and my pension. Wholl keep up the farm?

Im sick of this endless grind, Mum. Well get settled in London, then Ill bring the family over. The kids should have better opportunities. Its time to sell up. Youll come with us, Edward insisted.

Edward, the school is just next door, Emily pleaded, but he brushed her off.

Youre a city girl at heart. Thisll suit you fine.

If an orphanage in a city counts, I suppose I am, Emily replied, trying to smile. But your mum needs help now. How would we survive in London, three kids and hardly a penny to spare? Tears pricked her eyes.

This isnt up for debate, Edward snapped. Why dont you tidy yourself up? You look exhausted.

Emily and Margaret grew close through those years. Margaret, recalling her own struggles, felt a tenderness towards Emily, came to treat her as her own daughter. And Emily, for her part, soon called Margaret Mum with genuine warmth.

So Margaret let Edward go. Go on, then. You do what you thinks best. Well manage, shed said quietly, though her heart was breaking.

Months passed. Letters came, but only sporadicallythere were no mobiles then. Edward returned at Christmas, gifts in hand, and then was off again by New Years. His mate came home alone. One afternoon the mates wife pulled Margaret aside and whispered that Edward was living in the city with a wealthy woman whose home hed been working on, not working at all, just playing the part of kept man. Margaret said nothing to Emily, hoping it wasnt true, but the whispers spread through the village like wildfire until the day when Emily, pale and distant, began packing her things.

Where are you going? Margaret demanded.

Emily thrust a piece of paper into her handsmore a scrawled note than a letter.

Emily, Im sorry, but theres someone else. Ill inherit the house after Mum, so dont waste your years waiting. Take the money and fend for yourself and the children. Edward.

If hes gone, he can stay gone. Youre not going anywhereand youre not dragging the children around after him, Margaret declared, pushing the suitcase back under the bed. You all belong here. I wont let him throw you out.

One summer afternoon Edward returned, this time driving a brand-new car, his new wife on his arm. He wasnt expecting to see the children, but there they were. His daughter, now twelve, flung herself at him, weeping. The oldest son looked at Edward, pushed his little sister behind him, and led both her and his brother out of the house in silence.

Hes no father, hes just a traitor. Come onlets get to work, the eldest muttered as they walked out.

Edward stood stunned at the window, watching the boy starting up the tractor, the others feeding the rabbitsnew animals, since hed last been home. The garden was larger, and the house in better repair than ever. His own family had grown and thrived without him.

And wheres their mother? Left you to deal with them on your own, has she? Edward asked his mother.

Judge no one by your own actions, Margaret replied coldly. Emilys at work. You remember her, dont you? she couldnt hide the bite in her words. Why have you honoured us with your company today?

We need to talk, Mum.

Say your piece, or leave before Emily gets back, Margaret said.

We came for you. Sell the farm, move closer to us. Well buy you a nice place, and youll have enough from the farm.

And where will the children go? Margaret pressed.

Emily can move to London, rent a flat. The kidsll have more chances there.

There are plenty of opportunities here, if they wanted them. Theyd have gone years ago if they did.

Weve said our bit. Theres a buyer waiting. Dont take too long thinking it over.

I have nothing to consider. This is my home.

Mum, please Edward began, but Margaret shook her head, just as Emily arrived.

Well, if it isnt the prodigal son, Emily said, with an air of cheerful indifference. She looked transformed: smart clothes, Margarets old earrings shining in her ears, new haircutconfident, strong. Edward stared a moment too long and got a sharp look from his new wife.

Since our guest is leaving, dont trouble with laying the table, Mum, Emily called out.

Thats right, Ill be off. Said what I came to say. Mind yourself, son. Take care, Margaret said. Goodbye, madam. Lets hope we dont meet again.

Edward left his mother a bit of paper with a phone number. Ring me if you change your mind, he said gruffly, and walked out.

He only came back for his mothers funeral. By then, Emilys children were grownher eldest with a child of his own. When Edward tried to speak to them, their responses were formal, distant. His daughter wouldnt even look at him.

Emily, the children are all adults now. This house is mine by rights. Im moving back. Stay if you wantif not, I wont stop you.

Emily quietly retrieved the paperwork from the drawer. The deeds showed Margaret had left the house to Emily the very year Edward sent that letter. Edward left in silence. Emily did not ask him to stay. She had her children, grandchildren, and a home of her ownher past closed, her future finally serene.

I’ve Read Countless Stories About Women Who Cheat, and While I Try Not to Judge, There’s One Thing I Truly Can’t Understand — Not Because I’m Better Than Anyone, But Because Infidelity Has Never Been a Temptation for Me I’m 34, Married, and Living a Completely Ordinary Life. I Hit the Gym Five Times a Week, Watch What I Eat, and Enjoy Taking Care of Myself. With Long Straight Hair and a Sense of Style, I Know I’m Attractive — People Tell Me So and I See It in How Men Look at Me. At the Gym, Men Often Strike Up Conversations, Asking About Workouts, Dropping Comments Disguised as Compliments, or Being Completely Direct. The Same Happens When I’m Out for Drinks With My Girlfriends — Men Approach, Insist, and Ask If I’m Alone. I’ve Never Pretended It Doesn’t Happen; On the Contrary, I Notice. But I’ve Never Crossed the Line. Not Because I’m Afraid, Simply Because I Don’t Want To. My Husband’s a Doctor — a Cardiologist — Working Long Hours. Some Days He Leaves Before Dawn and Gets Home After Dinner, Sometimes Even Later. Most of the Time, I’m Alone at Home Nearly All Day. We Have a Daughter, and I Look After Her, Our Home, and My Own Routine. Realistically, I Have Plenty of ‘Space’ to Do Whatever I Like, Without Anyone Ever Finding Out. And Yet, I’ve Never Considered Using That Time to Cheat. When I’m Alone, I Keep Busy — Training, Reading, Tidying Up, Watching Series, Cooking, or Going for Walks. I Don’t Sit Around Searching for Gaps to Fill or Craving Outside Validation. My Marriage Isn’t Perfect — We Argue, We Have Differences, There’s Fatigue — But There’s One Thing That Remains: My Honesty. I Don’t Live Suspicious of Him Either. I Trust My Husband. I Know Who He Is, His Routine, His Way of Thinking, His Character. I’m Not Checking His Phone or Dreaming Up Scenarios. This Peace Plays a Part Too. When You’re Not Looking for an Escape, You Don’t Keep a Door Open All the Time. So, When I Read Stories of Infidelity — Not With Judgement, but Genuine Puzzlement — I Think Not Everything’s About Temptation, Beauty, Free Time, or Outside Attention. In My Case, It’s Just Never Been an Option. Not Because I Can’t, But Because I Don’t Want to Be That Person. And That Gives Me Peace. What Are Your Thoughts on the Topic?

My Husband Invited His Mother to Move in With Us for All of January—So I Packed My Bags and Left One day, he very seriously announced that from January, his mum would be living with us. Not just for a couple of days, but for the entire month. He explained it as though it was the most natural thing in the world and had already been decided—for her block of flats was undergoing renovations, it would be noisy and dusty, she was elderly and struggled with high blood pressure, there was no way he could leave her. He didn’t even ask what I thought—he just “informed” me. I just sat there and listened, quietly growing desperate inside. January wasn’t just another month for me—it was my safe haven. I work in a stressful occupation where December feels like a battlefield: deadlines, audits, tension, nerves, people yelling, phones ringing non-stop. I had promised myself that after the holidays, I’d finally catch my breath, switch off my phone, pull the curtains closed, burrow with a book, watch films, and simply enjoy the quiet. I wanted silence. But he was talking about a person who cannot stand silence. Someone who enters your home as if it’s hers, rearranging, commenting, advising, demanding, explaining—never pausing for breath. Someone who can’t accept closed doors and doesn’t understand the word “boundaries.” In previous stays, she’d set everything in motion—furniture, cupboards, routines, advice, remarks. Nothing ever stayed as it was. And me…I just didn’t have the strength for it. I tried to tell him calmly that we’d agreed to have a peaceful month, that I needed a break, that I couldn’t spend all of January with someone who was going to comment on my meals, my clothes, my movements, my sleep, my TV choices, my thoughts. That I wasn’t in the right place to handle constant noise. He frowned and started talking about “selfishness.” How could he say no to his mother? How we had to be decent? That there was plenty of room—our place was big enough, I could just stay in my room if I wanted. Worst of all—he said he’d already bought her ticket and confirmed everything. In other words, not only had he decided for both of us, he’d made it so there was no going back. That’s when something settled inside me—not acceptance, but resolve. In the days that followed, I didn’t create drama. I made festive meals, tidied, behaved calmly. He clearly thought I’d “swallowed” it. Became sweet, gave me a present, acted caring. But I was already changed. As he watched TV, I scrolled through rental listings, choosing my quiet refuge. The second day after the holidays, he got up early to greet his mum. He left thinking everything was fine. Before closing the door behind him, he told me to make breakfast—“something warm”—because she’d be hungry after her journey. I nodded. Smiled. And as soon as I was alone, I pulled out my suitcase. My things were already packed—clothes, cosmetics, laptop, books, my favourite blanket, chargers. I didn’t take everything—I was taking my peace of mind. I moved quickly and quietly—not running, but saving myself. I left the keys, left the joint expense card so there’d be no excuses like “we had nothing to eat.” I wrote a short note. No accusations. No justifications. Just facts. And I left. I rented a small, sunny flat in a quiet neighbourhood. Paid for the entire month. Yes, it was expensive. I blew through savings I’d set aside for something else. But the truth is, peace of mind costs more than anything. Even as I unpacked, my phone exploded with calls. Call after call. When I finally answered, there was hysteria—“Where are you?” “What are you doing?” “How am I supposed to explain this?” “This is a disgrace.” I was calm—for the first time in ages. I simply said there was no crime. That I’d moved out for a month. That I couldn’t spend it in the same house with someone who’d turn my break into a punishment. That now nobody was bothering anyone—his mum was comfortable, he was with her, and I was resting. That I’d come back when she left. He shouted that it was “childish behaviour.” That people would talk. That it was “family time.” I listened and thought: family time isn’t prison. It’s not “You put up with it, because you have to.” Family time is respect. I turned my phone off. The first few days felt like healing silence. I slept in, read, took baths, watched series, ordered the food I’d never allow myself at home because “it’s not healthy.” No one told me how to live. No one entered my room without knocking. No one forced conversations when silence was my only remedy. After a few days, I switched my phone back on. He called—his voice was no longer triumphant. It sounded beaten. And he started describing what it’s like living with his mum. How she’s up before sunrise. How she clatters about. How she noisily does “useful things.” Fries fish until the whole place stinks. Washes and irons everything her way. Never stops talking. Won’t let him enjoy TV in peace. Checks up on him, asks, controls, then cries and clutches her chest if she doesn’t get attention. I didn’t mock him. I just didn’t rescue him. He asked me to come home, because he needed a “lightning rod.” That’s when I realised—he didn’t want me back for my sake. He wanted me as a shield. As the person to take the brunt instead of him. I said “no.” Once, I popped home to collect something I’d forgotten. I walked in unannounced and felt the tension instantly—smell of medicines and burnt food, TV blaring, strange shoes in the hallway, clothes that weren’t mine, an immediate sense that my home was no longer mine. She was sitting comfortably, as if she’d always been there. She greeted me with accusations—that I’d “run away,” I was a “cuckoo,” I’d left my husband “unfed.” That I was to blame for everything, including the dust she’d found behind the cabinets. He looked like a different person—bent, exhausted, grey. When he saw me, his eyes lit with hope that hurt me. He whispered for me to take him with me. To take him out. To escape. I looked at him and told the truth: I couldn’t save him from his lesson. He invited her. He decided without me. He needed to face the consequences. And if I rescued him now, he’d never understand. I left him there—not out of cruelty, but out of care for our future. Two weeks later, the month was up. I came home. The house was quiet. Spotlessly clean. He sat, alone, looking like someone returned from a long battle. He didn’t smile at first. He simply hugged me and said, “Forgive me.” And for the first time, I heard not just excuses, but real understanding. That my boundaries weren’t whims. That this wasn’t “female nagging.” That our home is ours, and no one should be invited for a month without both of us agreeing. That loving a parent is one thing, but living under constant criticism and control is another. He told me he’d never make such decisions alone again. And I believed him—because this time, he didn’t say it to win me back. He said it because he’d lived through what I’d refused to endure for him. We sat together that evening and simply enjoyed silence. No TV. No phones. Just quiet—the kind I’d dreamed of. Then a text came—his mum had “an idea to visit in the summer.” I looked at him. He laughed nervously, then typed out a short, confident reply: No chance. We’re busy. We have plans. It’s not happening. That’s when I realised: this wasn’t just a story about a holiday. It was a story about boundaries. About how sometimes you have to leave your own home just to save it. And about how, if someone doesn’t learn their lesson, they’ll keep repeating it—and make you pay the price every time. 🤔 Do you think it’s right to put up with it “for the sake of peace,” or to set firm boundaries, even at risk of shaking the relationship for a while?

I Can’t Be Your Mum and I Can’t Love You the Way You Want, But I’ll Take Care of You—Please Don’t Be Upset. Life with Us Will Be Better Than in a Children’s Home It Was a Difficult Day Today. John Was Burying His Sister—Wayward as She Was, She Was Still Family. They Hadn’t Seen Each Other for Five Years, and Now This Tragedy. Victoria Did Her Best to Support Her Husband, Taking On Most of the Responsibilities. Yet After the Funeral, Another Important Matter Awaited Them. Irene—John’s Sister—Had Left Behind a Young Son. All the Relatives Who Had Come to Say Goodbye to Irene Immediately Placed the Responsibility on Her Younger Brother. Who Else but His Uncle Should Take Care of the Boy? It Wasn’t Discussed—Everyone Just Assumed This Was the Only Right Solution. Victoria Understood, and She Wasn’t Really Against It, But There Was One Thing—She Had Never Wanted Children of Her Own, Let Alone Someone Else’s. She’d Made That Decision Long Ago, and Had Told John Honestly Before Their Wedding. He’d Brushed It Off, Not Worrying—Who Thinks Seriously About Kids in Their Early Twenties Anyway? “No Kids—We’ll Just Live for Ourselves,” They Had Agreed Ten Years Ago. And Now She Had to Take In a Child Who Wasn’t Her Own. There Was No Choice. John Would Never Let His Nephew End Up in a Children’s Home, and Victoria Couldn’t Bring Herself to Suggest It. She Knew She’d Never Love This Boy, or Be Able to Replace His Mum. The Boy Was Wise Beyond His Years, Clever and Perceptive, So Victoria Decided to Be Completely Honest with Him. “Will, where would you rather live—with us or in the children’s home?” “I want to live at home—by myself.” “But you can’t stay alone—you’re only seven. You have to choose.” “Then with Uncle John.” “Alright, you’ll come with us, but I must tell you something. I can’t be your mum, and I can’t love you the way you want, but I’ll take care of you—and you mustn’t be upset. Life with us will be better than in the children’s home.” Some of the formalities sorted, at last they could return home. Victoria figured, after that talk, she wouldn’t have to pretend to be a doting aunt—she could just be herself. Cooking, washing, helping with homework was fine, but pouring out her feelings was not. And little Will never forgot that he wasn’t loved—and that, if he behaved, he wouldn’t be sent away. At home, Will was given the smallest room, and Victoria immediately threw herself into transforming it for him—choosing wallpaper, furniture, décor—her favourite things. She let Will choose the wallpaper, but handled everything else herself. She spared no expense; she wasn’t stingy, just not fond of children. The room turned out beautifully. Will was happy! If only his mum could see it. If only Victoria could love him. She’s kind and good—she just doesn’t love children. Will often lay thinking about that before he fell asleep. He found joy in everything—a circus outing, the zoo, fun at the park—his delight was so sincere that Victoria began to enjoy these trips herself. She enjoyed surprising him, then basking in his reactions. That August, Victoria and John were supposed to go to the seaside, with a close relative taking Will for ten days. But at the last minute, Victoria changed her mind. She suddenly wanted Will to see the ocean. John was surprised, but deep down he was glad—he’d grown attached to the boy. And Will was almost happy! If only someone loved him. Never mind—he’d see the ocean! The trip was wonderful—the sea was warm, the fruit was sweet, everyone’s spirits were high. But all good things must end, and so did the holiday. Ordinary life resumed: work, home, school. But something in their little world had shifted—a hint of new joy, of hope, of something magical beginning. And then the miracle happened—Victoria came back from the seaside expecting a baby. How had it happened, after all these years of careful planning? She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell John, or decide everything herself? After Will’s arrival, she wasn’t sure John was truly committed to a child-free life. He loved spending time with Will, taking him to football matches, helping him with school. Victoria had faced one challenge; she wasn’t ready for another. She’d made her decision. Victoria was sitting at the clinic when she got a call from school—Will had been rushed to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Everything would have to wait. She rushed to the hospital—Will lay pale and shivering. Seeing Victoria, he burst into tears. “Victoria, please don’t go—I’m scared. Just for today, can you be my mum? Please—only for one day, I’ll never ever ask again.” He clutched her hand, sobbing as if his heart would break. Victoria had never seen him cry, except the day of the funeral. Now, he was inconsolable. Victoria pressed his hand to her cheek. “My boy, hang in there—a doctor will be here soon. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” How she loved him in that moment! This boy with the shining eyes—he was her world. Child-free? What nonsense. Tonight she would tell John about their coming baby. She made her decision then, as Will squeezed her hand in pain. Ten years passed. Today is almost a milestone for Victoria—it’s her 45th birthday. There’ll be guests and celebration, but for now, she sits with her coffee, swept away by memories. How quickly time has flown. Youth, young adulthood—gone. Now she’s a woman—a happy wife and mother of two beautiful children. Will is nearly eighteen; Sophie is ten. And she regrets nothing. Well—except one thing, deeply. Those words about not loving Will. How she wished he’d forget them, that they’d never hurt him. Ever since that day at the hospital, she’d tried to tell him as often as possible that she loved him, but she never dared ask if he remembered her first confession.