Grandma’s Girl: Olly’s Journey from Neglect and Heartbreak to Love, Loss, and a New Beginning with Her Grandmother in the English Countryside

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 2

Granddaughter

Emily had never really mattered to her mum, Jean, from the very start. To her, Emily was much like the old armchair in the cornera presence to get used to, but if it vanished tomorrow, she wouldnt have noticed.

There were constant rows between Jean and Emilys dad, Paul. When Paul left to return to his wife, Jean utterly lost her tether.

Left, has he? Couldnt leave his little skivvy, could he! Wore my nerves to shreds! Lied to me, she screamed down the telephone, and now Im meant to look after his brat by myself? Ill drop her out the window or leave her at a train station for the tramps to collect!

Emily covered her ears and sobbed quietly. She absorbed her mothers dislike like rain soaks into earth.

I dont care what you do with your daughter, said Paul, his voice flat and distant on the other end. Im not even sure shes mine. Goodbye.

Jean went wild then, throwing Emilys clothes into a holdall, along with paperwork, and dragged her five-year-old out to a waiting taxi.

Ill show him! Ill show all of them! she thought, her voice ringing harsh as she gave the taxi driver an address on the outskirtsa tone that brooked no questioning.

She planned to dump Emily with Pauls mother, Nora Smith, who lived in a quiet village just outside Reading.

The taxi driver took an instant dislike to Jean, who snapped interruptively at the nervous little girl beside her.

Mummy, I need the loo, Emily whispered, already shrinking her head into her shoulders, bracing for the reaction.

And sure enough, Jean barked at her with such venom the drivers fists clenched around the steering wheel. He had a granddaughter himself, the same age; his daughter-in-law wouldnt dreamed of raising her voice like that.

Hold it in. Go when you get to your grannys.

Jean turned away and stared moodily out the window, breathing hard through her nose.

Easy now, love. Any more of that and Ill leave you here, the driver threatened, Ill take the girl to social services.

Excuse me? You mind your own business. Try playing the white knight and Ill say you were looking at my daughter funny, making moves at meI wonder whom theyll believe? Some cabbie, or a frightened mother? Shes MY daughter. Ill raise her as I please, so keep your trap shut.

The man gritted his teeth. No point arguing with a nutter and, anyway, he pitied the little girl.

An hour and a half later, they pulled up at Noras red-brick cottage.

Stay there, I wont be long, Jean snapped and before shed shut the door, the driver revved off.

Walk home, you snake! came his parting volley.

Jean spat on the pavement, cursed, yanked Emily from the seat, and stomped up the garden path, booting the gate open.

Here! Shes your treasure now, do what you like with her. Your precious son said it himself. Im done. I dont want her! Jean barked in her smoke-hardened voice, and then swirled round and fled, heels clacking away.

Nora watched her go in bewildered silence.

Mum! Mummy! Dont go! cried Emily, her sobs thick, rubbing tears with grubby fists as she chased her mother. But Jean shrugged her off, ripping the little fingers from her skirt.

Get off! Go to your granny. Go live with her! Jean shouted, walking faster to escape her daughters grip.

Neighbours peered over hedges. Nora, heart pounding, caught up to the weeping girl as best she could.

Come, sweetheart. Come on, my darling, Nora coaxed, her own face streaked with tears. She hadnt even known about Emilys existencePaul had never found it necessary to mention his illegitimate child.

I wont hurt you, love, dont be frightened. Would you like some pancakes? Ive got clotted cream too, Nora crooned as she led Emily indoors.

From the garden gate, Nora saw Jean vanish in a passing car, only dust and acrid words left in her wake.

They never heard from her again. But Nora welcomed Emily as a miracle, a gift from abovethere wasnt a question in her mind. She was family. She had Pauls eyes, after alla little mirror of the son she harboured, who visited so rarely she sometimes wondered if shed forget his face.

Ill raise you, Emily. Ill give you everything Ive got, for as long as I can.

And raise her she did, with gentleness and warmth. Nora brought Emily to school on her first day; time flew by.

Now, Emily was finishing her A-levels. She had grown into a real beauty: kind and thoughtful, sharp as a tack and always nose-deep in books. Her dream was medical school, though for the moment, shed settle for a college with hopes for university after.

Its a shame Dad hasnt accepted me, shed sigh, wrapped in Noras arms as they watched pink clouds drift away from Noras porch evenings.

Nora stroked Emilys hair with trembling hands. What could she say? Paul had refused to ever involve himself in his daughters life. Hed patched things up with his wife, doted on their son, but poor Emilyhe couldnt bear the sight of her. When he did visit, he left no chance unused to make her feel small, calling her a ragamuffin.

Youre a ragamuffin yourself! Nora once snapped, You only show up when my pension hits and start begging for money, even though you and the wife work. Yet you wring every quid out of your old mum. Get out, Paul! Dont come backId rather nothing than this.

Oh, thats how it is? Paul snarled. When you die, I wont even bother burying you! He barked for young Sam, his son, whod been teasing Emily outside, pulled him into the car and burned off, not even sparing Emily a glance.

God will judge him, Emily, Nora said, rising. Come on, lets have a cuppa. Youve got exams tomorrow!

Summer vanished in a haze of tending the vegetable patch, and soon enough it was time for Emily to move to the city to study.

Couldnt manage ourselves. Ill ask Victor next door to drive us to your halls, Nora said as she rushed through her packing, fighting a wave of dizziness. There was something she needed to settle before it was too late.

Outside Emilys halls, they hugged for ages.

Work hard, love. Youll need to rely on yourself, soon enough. Im getting on, and who knows how much longer Ill be around.

Emily stifled her tears.

Now, Gran, youre as right as rain! Spry as ever!

Nora smiled, kissed her goodbye and asked Victor to take her to the solicitors office before returning home. After that, she returned to the village, at peace.

Emily visited every weekend at first, worried for her grandmothers health, studying furiously, determined to one day become a doctor and prolong Noras life.

In time, Emilys visits became scarcershed fallen for Alex, a fellow student, clever and kind-hearted, looking forward to university too.

Nora rejoiced for them both. In time, Emily graduated with distinction, and she and Alex married, aged just twenty. On Emilys side, only Nora attended the humble do in a budget-friendly café.

Youre more than just a beloved gran to me, Emily choked as she knelt beside Nora during a toast, voice trembling with gratitude, Youre my mum and dad, all in one. You gave me your heart, your warmth, and your love. You cared for me, fed me, clothed meyou gave me a true home, Gran. I love you. Thank you for everything.

The guests teared up, sniffling into napkins.

Alright, Emily, up you get, youll crease your dress, Nora whispered, awash with pride.

Nothing embarrassing at all! Alex laughed, seating Nora beside him. Youre family, our matriarch. Welcome! He spread his arms to encompass his enormous kin.

The room raised their glasses to Noraher years of devotion, her remarkable granddaughter.

Not long after, Nora took ill, as though her duty was finally finished.

Emily and Alex took turns caring for her, shuttling between the city and village, juggling university demands.

One evening, Nora squeezed Emilys hand.

When Im gone, Paul and his lot will come like vultures. But dont let them. Years ago, I signed everything to you at the solicitorsofficial and legal.

Gran

No, dont. You grew up without real parents; I did my best. I want to leave this world knowing youve somewhere safe to live. You and Alex can sell the house and buy a flat in the city.

Emily could only sob, the lump in her throat refusing to shift.

With gentle care, Nora lived another eighteen months, then quietly slipped away in her sleep, just as shed hoped.

Forty days after, Paul turned up, wife and son in tow.

Move out, he announced, sharp as a knife. You lived here as long as Mum was alive. Now shes gonetime for you lot to clear off.

Emily stood speechless at the door, faced with three strangers: her cold-faced father, his wife shed never met, and her half-brother, Sam, chewing gum and eyeing the house as his future car fund.

Alex entered, groceries in hand, surveying the unwelcome trio.

And who are you? Paul barked. Already having men round?

Alex ignored him, set the shopping on the table.

Im her husband. But youwho are you, again? Dont recall us meeting before.

Paul flushed with fury.

Get out. Both of you.

On what grounds, may I ask? smirked Alex. Emily owns this house now. Would you like to see the deed?

W-what deed? Paul stammered.

Shes tricked old Nora, I just know it, wailed Pauls wife. Well take her to courtstraight to court!

Ill see to it youre out on the street. Youre not my daughter nor my mothers granddaughter! Paul thundered.

Pack your bags, you tramp. You wont be here much longer, Sam snarled. The threat of losing his dream car stoked his anger.

They left, but the emptiness remained. Emily collapsed on the floor, face in hands, crying. Why this cruelty? Her father hadnt once given her so much as a sweet, yet now hed have even the home taken away.

Dont they have lives of their own? Isnt their home enough? This is all Gran left me! Emily managed through sobs.

Alex gathered her up gently.

Well list the house for sale tomorrow. Otherwise, theyll never leave us in peace. RememberNora herself said you should sell and move to the city, one day.

Yes, but I never thought wed have to do it so soon. I spent my whole childhood here.

The house sold quickly to well-off buyers, overjoyed for a spacious country home. Massive, apple trees everywhere, far from the high road. Windows that looked onto the pine woods, a lovely old pergola at the edge of the garden, thick with grapevine. The sturdy brick house was snapped up.

Emily and Alex bought a small but cheerful flat nearer the city centre. Soon, they expected their first childdearly wanted, unconditionally loved.

At night, as she drifted to sleep, Emily whispered a grateful prayer to her grandmother: Thank you, Gran. You gave me my life.

Looking back on it, I know that the real measure of family lies in love, not blood. You dont get to choose where you begin, but you can choose how you go on, and who you hold dear. I am who I am today because Nora loved me when no one else wanted to, and that love is the greatest legacy I could ever hope for.

I Told You Not to Bring Your Kids to the Wedding! The doors of the reception hall slowly opened, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, clutching the hem, trying not to show the tremble in my hands. Soft jazz was playing, guests were smiling, waiters were arranging champagne glasses… Everything was exactly as Artem and I had dreamed. Almost. As I tried to steady my breathing before entering, brakes screeched outside. Through the glass doors, I saw a battered silver people carrier pull up. The door slid open and out tumbled a chaotic crowd: Auntie Gail, her daughter with husband… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Not this…” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “They actually came?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with the kids.” We stood in the doorway, ready to greet our guests — or rather, frozen like two actors who’ve forgotten their lines on opening night. And that’s when it hit me: if I lose my nerve now, the entire day will fall apart. But, to explain how we got to this mess, let’s go back a few weeks. When Artem and I decided to have a wedding, we knew one thing: it would be quiet, intimate, cosy. Just 40 guests, live jazz, soft lights, a warm vibe. And — no children. Not because we’re “anti-kid.” We just dreamed of an evening without sprints, shrieks, trampoline accidents, spilled juice, and someone else’s parenting drama. All our friends understood. So did my parents. Artem’s parents were surprised, but accepted it quickly. It was the distant relatives… Auntie Gail was the first to call — her voice volume is genetically built-in. “Inna!” she began, no greeting. “What’s this about children not being allowed at your wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We want a quiet evening, so the grown-ups can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She was so scandalized it was as if I’d called for a ban on babies across the country. “You do realise we’re a close family?! We do everything together!” “It’s our day. No one has to come, but that’s the rule.” A pause. Heavy as granite. “Well, fine. We just won’t come,” she snapped, then hung up. I sat there, phone in hand, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button for family disaster. Three days later, Artem came home with a grim face. “Inna… Can we talk?” he said, taking off his coat. “What happened?” “Katya’s in tears. Says it’s an insult to the family. Her three kids aren’t wild monsters — they are people. And if they can’t come, neither will she, her husband, or his parents.” “So that’s five down?” “Eight,” he corrected wearily, sinking onto the couch. “They say we’ve broken tradition.” I just laughed — that crazy, teary laugh. “Tradition? Of bringing children to weddings just to knock trays out of waiters’ hands?” Artem smirked too. “Don’t say that to them. They’re already on the brink.” The onslaught didn’t stop there. A week later, we went to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner. That’s when I got a surprise. His nan — usually quiet, hoping no one drags her into anything — found her voice. “Children are a blessing,” she said, reproachful. “Without them, a wedding feels… empty.” I was about to answer, but Artem’s mum beat me to it. “Mum, enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Children at weddings are chaos. You always complain about the noise. How many times have we dragged little runners out from under tables?” “But families are meant to be together!” “Families should respect the wishes of the bride and groom,” she replied, calm. I wanted to applaud. Nan just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” I realised then: our conflict had become a family saga worthy of “Game of Thrones.” And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout came a few days later. Phone call. Artem’s uncle, Michael. He’s the calmest man alive, never troubled. “Inna, hello,” he began gently. “Look, we’ve been thinking… Why can’t children come? They’re part of the family. We’ve always come to weddings together.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a peaceful evening. No one is forced to attend…” “Yes, yes, I know. But Olya says if her children can’t go, then neither will she. And I’m with her.” Eyes closed. Two more down. By now our guest list was on a strict crash diet — 15 relatives down. Artem sat with me, arm around my shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” he whispered. “Otherwise, it won’t feel like our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Nan dropped hints: “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya wrote a dramatic family group chat post: “It’s sad when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then — the day itself. The people carrier stopped at the steps. The children tumbled out, stomping like a military parade. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her curls. “I’m going to lose my mind…” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “It’ll be fine. We’ll handle it.” Out we went. Auntie Gail stood arms wide. “Well, hello, newlyweds!” she announced. “Sorry we’re late. We decided to come. We’re family! There was no one to leave the kids with, but they’ll be quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem breathed, eyeing the kids peeking under the wedding arch. Deep breath. “Gail… We agreed,” I said firmly. “No children. You knew this in advance.” “But it’s a wedding…” she started. Nan intervened. “We’re here to congratulate you,” she said. “But children are family. Separating us isn’t right.” “Mrs. Paterson,” I replied softly, “we appreciate you coming. Truly. But this is our choice. If it isn’t respected — we’ll have to ask…” I didn’t finish. “MUM!” Artem’s mum said sharply, appearing at the door. “Stop spoiling their day. Grown-ups celebrate — children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Nan faltered. Gail froze. Even the kids fell quiet, sensing the change. Gail sniffled. “Well… alright. We didn’t want to start a fight. Just thought it’d be best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said, honestly. “But the kids must go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. After a tense silence, they led the kids out to the car. Katya’s husband drove them home. The adults stayed. For the first time — by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, soft laughter. Our friends raised glasses, the gentlemen made space, the waiter brought champagne. That’s when I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, my wife… Looks like we did it.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was magical. Our first dance wasn’t interrupted by children underfoot. No shrieking, no cupcakes smashed, no cartoons blaring on phones. Guests talked, laughed, enjoyed the music. Later, Nan approached us. “Inna, Artem…” she said quietly. “I was wrong. Today… is lovely. Peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paterson.” “I just… Old people hang onto habits. But I see you knew what you were doing.” Those words meant more than every toast combined. Near the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching a glass like a shield. “Inna…” her voice was softer. “I overreacted. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s always the way we’ve done it. But today was… beautiful. Quiet. Grown-up.” “Thank you for coming,” I replied, sincerely. “We rarely get to relax without the kids. Today… I felt like myself again,” she admitted. “Strange I never thought of it before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the evening ended, Artem and I stepped outside, under lamplight. He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it round my shoulders. “So, how was our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was it, really. Family is important. So is tradition. But so is respecting boundaries. When the bride and groom say “no children,” it’s not a whim — it’s their right. And even the squeakiest family wheels can adjust — once you make it clear the decision is final. This wedding was a lesson for everyone — especially us: sometimes, to save a celebration, you have to say “no.” And that “no” is what truly makes it a happy day.

Get Out of My Flat! – Said Mum — “Get out,” said Mum in a perfectly calm voice. Arina smirked and leaned back in her chair—she was certain her mother was talking to her friend. — “Get out of my flat!” Natasha turned to her daughter. — “Lena, did you see the post?” Her friend burst into the kitchen without even taking off her coat. “Arisha’s had the baby! Seven pounds six, twenty-one inches.” A little copy of his dad, the same snub nose. I’ve already been round every shop, bought loads of babygrows. Why the long face? — “Congratulations, Nat. I’m happy for you,” Lena got up to pour her friend some tea. “Sit down—at least take your coat off!” — “Oh, I can’t stay long,” Natasha perched on the edge of the chair. “So much to do, so much to do. Our Arina’s done it all herself—shoulders to the wheel.” Her husband’s a diamond, got themselves a mortgage, still working on the flat. I’m so proud of my girl. Raised her right, I did! Lena silently set a cup before her friend. Right… if only Natasha knew… *** Exactly two years earlier, Arina—Natasha’s daughter—had turned up at Lena’s door without calling, eyes swollen from crying, hands shaking. “Auntie Lena, please, just don’t tell my mum. I’m begging you! If she finds out, she’ll have a heart attack,” Arina sobbed, twisting a damp tissue. “Arina, calm down. Tell me properly—what happened?” Lena had been genuinely alarmed. “I… I was at work…” Arina gulped. “Someone’s money went missing from a colleague’s bag. Fifty grand.” And the cameras caught me going into the office when no one else was there. I didn’t take it, Auntie Lena! I swear! But they said: either I return fifty grand by tomorrow lunchtime, or they go to the police. They’ve got a ‘witness’ who supposedly saw me putting the wallet away. It’s a setup, Auntie Lena! But who’s going to believe me? “Fifty grand?” Lena frowned. “Why didn’t you go to your dad?” “I tried!” Arina broke into fresh sobs. “He said it was my own fault, not a penny from him if I’m that stupid. Told me: ‘Go to the police, let them teach you a lesson.’ He wouldn’t even let me in, shouted at me through the door. Auntie Lena, there’s no one else. I’ve got twenty grand saved up, but I’m thirty short.” “What about Natasha? She’s your mother.” “No! Mum would kill me. She always says I embarrass her—and now, theft… She works at a school, everyone knows her. Please, can you lend me thirty grand? I swear I’ll pay you back, two or three grand a week. I’ve already found a new job! Please, Auntie Lena!” Lena’s heart ached for the girl. Twenty, just starting her life, and now this stain. Dad had turned his back, and if her mother found out, she really would tear her head off. “Who in life doesn’t make mistakes?” Lena thought at the time. Arina wouldn’t stop crying. “All right,” she said. “I have the money. Was saving up for dental work, but my teeth can wait.” Just promise it’s the last time. And I won’t tell your mum, since you’re so afraid. “Thank you! Thank you, Auntie Lena! You’ve saved my life!” Arina flung her arms round her aunt. The first week, Arina did bring two grand. She came round beaming: everything sorted, no police trouble, the new job was fine. But after that… she stopped replying to messages. A month, then two, three. Lena still saw her at Natasha’s family gatherings, but Arina acted like they were barely acquainted—just a cold “hello.” Lena didn’t push. Thought, “She’s young, embarrassed, so she’s keeping her distance.” Decided thirty grand wasn’t worth ruining a friendship with Natasha. Wrote off the debt, let it go. *** “Are you even listening?” Natasha waved a hand in front of Lena’s face. “What are you thinking about?” “Oh, nothing,” Lena shook her head. “Just my own stuff.” “Listen,” Natasha lowered her voice. “I ran into Ksenia—remember, our old neighbour? She came up to me in the shop yesterday. Seemed odd. Started asking about Arisha, how she’s doing, whether she’d paid off any debts. I couldn’t figure it out. I told her Arinka’s independent, earning her own way. Ksenia just gave me a funny look and left. You wouldn’t know—did Arisha ever borrow money from her?” Lena felt herself tense inside. “No idea, Nat—maybe something small.” “All right, I must dash. Need to swing by the chemist,” Natasha stood up, kissed Lena on the cheek, and breezed out. That evening Lena couldn’t take it anymore. She found Ksenia’s number and called. “Ksenia, hi, it’s Lena. Did you see Natasha today? What debts did you ask her about?” There was a heavy sigh on the line. “Oh, Lena… I thought you’d know. You’re closer to them than any of us. Two years ago, Arinka turned up in tears, said she’d been accused of theft at work. They told her—pay back thirty grand or it’s prison. Begged me not to say a word to her mum, cried her heart out. And me, fool that I am, I gave her the money. She promised to pay me back in a month… and vanished.” Lena gripped the phone. “Thirty grand?” she repeated. “Exactly thirty?” “Yes. Said it was just what she was short by. In the end, she sent me a fiver six months later and that was it. But I heard from Vera in number three that Arina hit her up with the same story. And Vera gave her forty grand. And old Mrs Galina, their former teacher, she ‘saved’ Arisha from jail as well—gave her fifty. “Hang on…” Lena sat down hard on the sofa. “You’re saying she asked everyone for the same amount, with the same story?” “So it seems,” Ksenia’s voice hardened. “The girl just milked all Natasha’s pals for thirty, forty grand apiece. Made up a story, tugged at the heartstrings. We all love Natasha, didn’t want to upset her. And Arinka, well, she must have blown the lot—in a month there were photos of her in Turkey on Facebook. “I gave her thirty as well,” Lena said quietly. “So that makes… what? Five, six of us at least. That’s a racket, Lena. That’s not ‘youthful mistake’—it’s good old fashioned fraud. And Natasha doesn’t have a clue. She goes round bragging about her darling daughter, while her darling’s a thief!” Lena put the phone down. Her ears buzzed. She wasn’t bothered about the money—she’d said goodbye to that ages ago. What sickened her was how coldly and cunningly a twenty-year-old had swindled adult women, exploiting their trust. *** The next day, Lena knocked on Natasha’s. No intention of a row—she just wanted to look Arina in the eye. Arina had just come back from hospital, and, while her mortgaged flat was being renovated, she was staying at her mum’s. “Oh, Auntie Lena!” Arina forced a smile. “Come in. Tea?” Natasha was busy at the stove. “Lena, take a seat. Why didn’t you ring first?” Lena sat down opposite Arina. “Arina,” she began calmly, “I saw Ksenia. And Vera. And Mrs Galina. Last night we started a sort of ‘support group for the conned’.” Arina froze, went pale, glanced at her mother’s turned back. “What are you on about, Lena?” Natasha turned round. “Oh, Arina knows very well,” Lena kept her eyes on the girl. “Remember that nasty business two years ago, Arina? When you asked me for thirty grand? And Ksenia for thirty. Vera for forty. Mrs Galina for fifty. All of us ‘rescuing’ you from prison. Each of us thinking she was the only one who knew your dark little secret. The kettle in Natasha’s hand shook, boiling water hissed onto the hob. “What fifty grand?” Natasha set the kettle down, slow and steady. “Arina? What’s going on? Did you borrow money from my friends? From Mrs Galina?” “Mum… it’s not what it looks like… I… I paid most of it back…” “You didn’t pay a penny, Arina,” Lena snapped. “You handed me two grand for show, then disappeared. You milked us for nearly two hundred grand with that fake story. We kept quiet for your mum’s sake. But now I see we should have pitied ourselves, not you.” “Arina, look at me,” Natasha demanded. “You conned my friends out of cash? You made up the theft so you could rob people who’ve visited our home?!” “Mum, I needed money to move out!” screamed Arina. “You wouldn’t give me anything! Dad wouldn’t give me a penny, and I had to make a start! So what? They’re loaded—I didn’t take their last penny!” Lena felt sick. So that’s how it was… “That’s that. Natasha, I’m sorry to dump this on you, but I can’t stay quiet. I won’t let her treat us all like idiots!” Natasha gripped the table, trembling. “Get out,” she said, perfectly calmly. Arina smirked and leaned back, sure her mum meant Lena. “Get out of my flat!” Natasha snapped at her daughter. “Pack your things and go to your husband. I never want to see you here again!” Arina went ashen. “Mum, I have a baby! I can’t be stressed!” “You haven’t got a mother, Arina. The girl I raised had a mother. You’re just a thief.” Mrs Galina… God, she called me every day, worried about us, and never breathed a word. How can I look her in the eye? How? Arina grabbed her bag, threw a towel on the floor. “Keep your bloody money, then!” she yelled. “Miserable old cows! Go rot, both of you!” She stormed into the next room, snatched up the baby’s carrier and stormed out. Natasha sank onto a chair, hid her face in her hands. Lena felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Nat…” “No, Lena… You have nothing to apologise for. I’m sorry—for raising such a… monster. I honestly thought she’d made it on her own—and all this time… the shame…” Lena squeezed her friend’s shoulder as Natasha broke down in tears. *** A week later Arina’s husband, pale and gaunt, visited each “creditor” in turn, apologising, eyes on the floor. Promised to pay everyone back. And the money did start coming—fifty grand for Mrs Galina paid by Natasha herself. Lena doesn’t feel at fault. A cheat deserves to face the music. Right?

A Heaven-Sent Gift… It was a gloomy morning, with heavy clouds dragging low across the sky. In the distance, muffled growls of thunder could be heard—the first thunderstorm of spring was on its way. Winter had finally ended, but spring seemed reluctant to take its place. It was still cold, gusty winds snatched up last year’s leaves and chased them around, only a few brave blades of grass pushing through the hardened earth. Buds on the trees remained tightly closed, reluctant to reveal their treasures. Nature longed for rain. The winter had been dry, windy, cold. The earth was poorly rested, lacked moisture, hadn’t slept enough beneath its snowy blanket and was now anxiously awaiting the storm. The storm would bring much-needed water, nourish it with generous rain, wash away the dust and dirt, and revive life. Only then would true spring arrive—bountiful, blooming, fresh as a young woman filled with love and tenderness. That’s when the earth would give birth to green grass and colourful flowers, trembling leaves and sweet fruits. Birds would joyfully sing, building nests in blooming gardens. Life would carry on. “Sasha, time for breakfast!” called Victoria. “Your coffee’s getting cold.” From the kitchen wafted the scent of coffee and eggs. It was time to get up. After yesterday’s heavy conversation, Victoria’s weeping, a sleepless night and difficult thoughts, he just wanted to stay in bed. But he had to get up—life carried on. Victoria looked exhausted too—red eyes, dark circles. She offered her pale cheek for a kiss and managed a weak smile. “Good morning, love. Looks like we’re in for a storm. Goodness, how I want some rain! When will real spring finally arrive? Listen, a verse came to mind…” She recited: I wait for spring, as for release From winter’s cold, from homelessness. Spring I await, as if it brings A clearing up of life’s distress. I always think, as soon as she Arrives, all will be bright and dear. I always think that she alone Can make things better, simpler, clear. Where are you, Spring? Come, hurry here! Sasha hugged her frail shoulders, kissed her bowed, golden head. Her hair smelled of meadows and wildflowers. His heart ached with pity. Poor love, why is God punishing us? At least there had been hope—hope had kept them going all these years. But yesterday, a renowned professor, their last tender hope, had dashed their expectations: “I’m very sorry, but you cannot have children. Sasha, your time at Chernobyl has left a mark. Medicine is powerless here. I’m truly sorry I can’t help.” Victoria wiped her eyes, shook back her hair. “Sasha, I’ve thought long and hard. We need to adopt a child from the orphanage. There are so many children who need families. Let’s bring home a boy—let’s raise a son. Agreed? We’ve been waiting for a son for so long…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sasha hugged her and couldn’t hold back his own tears. “Of course I agree! Don’t cry, sweetheart.” At that moment, a deafening crack of thunder echoed; the house seemed to tremble from its majestic roar. The heavens opened—rain finally poured! At last, God heard our prayers! The long-awaited shower fell in torrents. Day darkened as though night had come. Thunder barely paused, lightning flashed right overhead. Sasha and Victoria, embracing, stood at the window, cold drops and the scent of rain drifting through the open pane, invigorating the air. The darkness that had shrouded their hearts seemed to dissolve, wash away with this first spring rain. All they wanted now was for the rain to last longer. This long-awaited spring rain—a symbol of life renewed and blossoming once more. A few days later, they stood before the doors of the children’s home, a meeting arranged. They had come to choose their son—long-awaited, beloved, already loved before they’d even laid eyes on him. Hearts pounding, holding their breath, Sasha rang the bell. The door opened; they were expected. The meeting with the orphanage’s director had been several days before, now they were simply to meet children who might become their son. As they passed through the first room, a little girl caught their eye, sitting in a damp babygro on a sodden mat. Dirty shirt, dried snot under her nose, huge sorrowful blue eyes following every adult that passed. From her radiated neglect, loneliness—her presence pierced the heart. This was the children’s home—a shelter for the unwanted. In the next room, babies sat or lay in cots, clean and tidy, waiting expectantly. The nurse presented them like at a market, ticking off age, brief parent details. Sasha shuddered. Buyers at market… only the price left to ask. “Let’s go back to that poor little girl,” Victoria whispered. Sasha squeezed her shoulder. “Nurse, could we see the blue-eyed girl from the first room again?” “But you wanted a boy,” the nurse replied, puzzled. “That girl won’t suit you. She’s not ready to meet visitors.” “We want to see her again.” The nurse hesitated, considering an objection, then led them back in silence. “I’ll call Mrs. Peters, the director. Please wait here.” She gestured to some chairs. Victoria pressed close to Sasha. “Let’s choose her, Sasha. My heart gave a jolt when I saw her.” “Mine too. She looks just like you. Eyes, hair… and so lonely!” Soon the nurse returned with Mrs. Peters, clearly concerned. “You’ve chosen a difficult child. She may not be suitable.” “Why not? We like her, she’s the image of Victoria! Just look—they’re almost twins!” Sasha strode towards the room where the girl had been. She’d been tidied up, clean clothes, her little face brighter. As the adults stopped by her cot, she smiled; dimples showed on her cheeks, her arms reached out, and she made an attempt to stand— Victoria clutched Sasha’s hand in shock—the little girl’s feet turned the wrong way. Without hesitation, Sasha scooped her up; she nestled against his face and went still. Tears filled Sasha’s eyes; Victoria buried her face in his shoulder, weeping. Mrs. Peters turned away, dabbing her eyes discreetly. “Come to my office. Nurse, take Lena.” Mrs. Peters led the way firmly. The little girl, Lena, had been born to elderly, struggling parents in a remote northern village. She had deformities—legs twisted, feet misshapen. Her father refused to bring her home. When pressed that surgery could help, he claimed no money and wouldn’t have a cripple in the house with so many mouths already. So Lena was left in care. “Now you must decide for yourselves if you want such a child. She has a good chance, but it will take dedication, expense—and above all, patience and powerful love. Take your time to think, consult with specialists. Here’s the professor who examined her. You have one month—no more visits in the meantime. Our children become attached quickly. It would be cruel to change your mind after promising hope…” A month passed. Sasha and Victoria decided straightaway: Lena was their daughter. The Leningrad professor confirmed: repeated surgery could fix the damage. Even scars would disappear. Their Lena would run like any child. Sasha calculated their finances. They could make it—if they sold the new car and the barely-started house. They’d live in a small flat for now—God would help with the rest, if their daughter was healthy. Finally, the day came—they stood outside the familiar door once more. Sasha held a bouquet of pink peonies, Victoria a huge bag of gifts for the children. Mrs. Peters’s lips trembled, eyes filling with tears. Happiness—another lost child would find a family. Together, they went to the nursery. Lena had grown, fair hair curling, cheeks rosy, new teeth. She babbled, beaming at them. Sasha took her into his arms; she hugged his neck and snuggled close. Victoria’s turn—tears all round. They spent the day at the children’s home, learning from the staff how to care for their new daughter. Legal adoption still awaited—Victoria quit her job, devoted herself to Lena. They prepared for her first operation in Leningrad. A month in hospital, and she was soon showing off to “Daddy Sasha”—eating with a spoon, pretending to be a cat, butting heads like a mischievous goat. The sight of her legs still broke their hearts. Outside, she wore long trousers. She walked with an awkward waddle, but Lena was lively, sociable, talking early, saying hello to everyone. Above all, she adored “Daddy”—her papa, her sunshine. A year later, more surgeries—so much suffering for their child, so much patience for the parents. Victoria spent many sleepless nights at Lena’s hospital bed. But, at last, triumph: her legs, like any other girl’s, could run and jump! At five, Lena went to nursery—her artistic talent noticed. She was sent to art school, and her pictures—joyful landscapes, lively scenes—attracted attention and astonishment; so young and so talented. At seven, she began school, quickly becoming a star pupil—cheerful, clever, artistic, dancing. Always surrounded by friends, she filled every space with laughter. Her parents felt pride at every meeting. No one suspected the hardship Lena and her parents—those who raised and loved her—had overcome. Blessings continued for Sasha and Victoria. With Lena’s arrival, fortunes turned. Sasha’s small business blossomed; they moved to Leningrad, bought a lovely flat, sent Lena to a prestigious school. Now in Year Six, Lena excels—still top of the class, still artistic, blue-eyed, golden-haired, everyone’s favourite, a gentle-hearted girl. A Heaven-Sent Gift—a blessing in their lives.

Mirra: The Update Is Ready For the First Time, My Phone Burst Red in a Lecture—Not Just the Screen, but the Whole Scratched Brick Glowing Like an Ember. “It’ll Explode Any Moment, Mate,” Whispered Alex from the Next Desk. Ignore Pirated Firmware, He Warned. While the Econometrics Lecturer Scribbled at the Board and the Room Buzzed, That Crimson Glow Shone Through My Denim Jacket. The Vibration Wasn’t the Jittery Buzz I Knew—It Was Steady, Like a Pulse. “Update Available,” the Screen Flashed as I Pulled the Phone Out—Underneath, a Creepy Minimalist Icon: Black Circle, White Rune or Perhaps a Stylised ‘M’. I’d Seen a Hundred Similar Apps Before—But This One Felt Like It Was Staring Back at Me. Title: “Mirra”. Category: “Tools”. Size: 13MB. No Rating. “Install It,” Whispered Someone on My Right. I Jumped, but Kat Was Busy with Her Notebook—She Hadn’t Spoken. Then the Voice Was Just There, in My Head, Like a Popup: “Install.” I’m the Guy Who Beta Tests Everything, Flashes ROMs, Pokes Around Where Sane People Wouldn’t. But Even I Found This Strange. Yet My Finger Pressed Download. It Installed Instantly—As if Mirra Had Been Waiting in the System. No Registration, No Logins, No Permissions. Just a Black Screen—“Welcome, Andrew.” How Did It Know My Name? “Young Man, If You’re Finished Talking to Your Phone, Let’s Get Back to Demand and Supply,” the Lecturer Chimed, Glaring Down Her Glasses. The Class Sniggered as I Slid the Phone Under My Desk—Glued to That One Line on Screen. “First Feature Unlocked: Probability Shift (Level 1).” A Button: “Activate.” Tiny Print: “Warning: Use Alters Event Structures. Side Effects Possible.” It Felt Like Some Clickbait ‘Luck Timer’, But My Phone Was Still Hot. I Pressed ‘Activate.’ The World Wobbled—Colours Sharpened, Sounds Faded, A Crystal Rung in My Ears. “Feature Activated. Choose Target.” I Typed: “Not Get Picked During Class.” A Subtle Lurch—As if the Room Dropped by a Millimetre. Then Everything Reset. Lecturer Rattled Off Attendance. My Gut Froze. Surely She’d Call My Name—She Always Did. “…Kovalev? Late Again. Fine. Next… Petrov, to the Board.” Kat Paled and Stumbled Forwards. It Worked. It Actually Worked. After Class, Numb Like After a Gig, I Stared at Mirra—No Rating, No Details, No Permissions. Almost as if It Wasn’t There at All. “It Could Just Be Coincidence,” I Insisted. But the Next Notification Popped: “Mirra Update (1.0.1) Ready. New Feature: Through the Veil.” No Developer, No Android Version. Just That Dry, Oddly Honest Line: “Through the Veil.” I Hit ‘Defer’. The Phone Whined and Installed Anyway. “Feature: Through the Veil (Level 1)—See the True State of Objects and People. Range: 3 Metres. Duration: 10 Seconds Max. Price: Heightened Feedback.” What Feedback? My Spine Turned Cold. Crushed on the Bus, Curiosity Won. “Just Ten Seconds—Just a Peek.” Everything Blurred, Threads Spun from People—Grey and Ragged, Blue and Shivering. The Driver Had a Thick Black Cord Over His Head, Squirming with Shadows. I Checked My Own Hands. Red Veins Flickered—And One Thicker Thread Linked Me to My Phone, Throbbing and Growing. I Cut the App Off. Noise Crashed Back in. “Feedback Increased: +5%.” Again, “Update Mirra for Proper Operation.” “Proper for What?” I Demanded. No Answer. News Broke an Hour Later: A Lorry Jack-Knifed into a Bus at the University Crossroads. The Plate Number Matched. The Driver—I Couldn’t Bear to Look. “Any Change to the Network of Probabilities Redistributes Load Elsewhere,” the App Calmly Explained. “You Lowered Your Odds of Being Called in Class. Elsewhere, Odds Rose.” “But I Didn’t Know!” “Ignorance Doesn’t Break the Connection.” Siren Wails Crept Closer. Another Update: “Cancel Feature Added. Undo a Single Change. But Ripple Effects Will Remain.” If I Undo My Wish? I Can’t Reverse Time. But Maybe Different Outcomes Will Ripple Through Next Time. After Weighing It All, I Installed the Update. The World Twisted—Less a Jerk, More an Alignment. “Cancellation Complete. Lockdown Active. Feedback Level Stabilised.” And That’s the Choice: Start Playing God, or Become a Fuse, the Catch-All for All That Stray Chaos? Mirra Sat Waiting—Version 1.1.0: Forecast Function, ‘Moral Error Fixes’. I Laughed Bitterly—Morality Was the Only Thing I Still Had. I Shut Off Updates, Swore to Watch the System as an Admin, Not a Demi-God. From My Desk, I Drafted “Mirra: A User’s Protocol”—Notes for Anyone Who Might Find Themselves at the Crossroads of Power and Consequence. Of Probability and Price. Because Sometimes, Even the Most Unlikely Outcomes—Deserve Their Chance to Happen.