I Got Married at 50 Thinking I’d Finally Found Happiness, But I Had No Idea What Lay Ahead… My Journey from Bookish Late Bloomer to Unexpected Divorce, Strange Habits, and Returning the Wedding Gifts – Is Lasting Love Possible After 50 in England?

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

I married at fifty, convinced Id finally found happiness, but I had no clue what awaited me

Ive always been one of those women who married late in life. Sadly, my late-in-life relationship unravelled sooner than I ever expected.

People used to call me the bookwormI rather enjoyed learning, you see. After finishing my masters, I became a librarian. Through a mutual friend, I was introduced to the man who would become my husband. His name was Gerald, aged fifty-nine, and while he was older, he hadnt lost hope in finding a wife. I was nine years his junior. Gerald quickly burrowed his way into my heart. He was cultured, unfailingly polite, with a deep love for poetry and English literature. Our conversations soon grew into something more, and a few months later, he knelt and asked me to marry him.

I said yes. Id longed for a family for so many years. After our wedding, we moved into my flathis grown-up daughter and her children lived at his place. Ill be honest: I had no real sense of what was ahead. Id lived alone my whole adult life, and suddenly, everything changed. I felt a deep frustration simmering. A tea stain on a favourite tablecloth, the bedspread crumpled beyond hope, his socks discarded all over the bedroom, and countless other little things that never figured into my quiet life Every single thing grated on me. It felt as if he were a guest at a hotel and I was the one wearing the uniform, responsible for it all. And then the money worrieshe seemed forever in a muddle over finances. I completely lost my patience when, after I asked him to mend the leaky tap, he broke it in two and only then called a plumber.

That was the moment it hit me: I had no desire to grit my teeth and bear itI was too old to force myself to be patient. Were adults; we come with lives and quirks of our own. Not long after, we sat down for a serious talk. As it turned out, Gerald was entirely content with how things were. I am calm by nature, not one for rows or dramatics. But we couldnt find a compromise: his daughter had already mapped out her future living in his house, assuming her father would always stay with me. After three months, he finally agreed to a dignified divorce. He wanted his gifts returned. Giving back the wastebasket and the tacky gold chain hardly cost me a thought.

This chapter left me wonderingdoes a happy marriage after fifty even exist?

My True Wife – “How have you managed to stay married to the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” my brother would ask every time he visited. “Love and endless patience. That’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “That’s not for me! I love all women. Every woman is a mystery, and I have no interest in living with a book I’ve already read,” he’d smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. Sweet Anna loved Peter with her whole heart, but Peter only amused himself with her. Anna settled into our crowded family home, where seven relatives lived. She gave birth to their son, Matthew, feeling sure that happiness was within her grasp. The young couple was given a tiny room of their own. Anna cherished her precious collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, lovingly displayed on an old dresser. Our large family knew how much these delicate figures meant to her. Anna would often admire them, lost in thought. At that time, I myself was considering starting a family and was searching for that one special woman. In the end, my wish came true; my wife and I have been happily married for over fifty years. Peter lived with Anna for ten years. Anna had little to boast of in this marriage; she tried to be a good wife and loved her husband and son deeply—obedient, gentle, and easygoing. But Peter wanted something more. One evening, Peter came home drunk and started picking on Anna, joking coarsely and grabbing her by the arms. Sensing trouble, Anna quietly left the room with little Matthew. Suddenly, a terrible crash echoed from inside. Anna instinctively knew what it was—the sound of her treasured figurines smashing. Dashing back, she saw her beloved collection shattered on the floor. Only one figurine had survived. Anna picked it up and kissed it quietly, her eyes brimming with tears. She said nothing. A crack formed in their marriage that night. From then on, Anna seemed to live outside the family in her mind. Though she did her duties and was a model wife and homemaker, it was all without passion, just going through the motions. Peter began drinking more often, and soon started bringing home crude new friends—reckless women and shady characters. Anna suspected everything, but withdrew in silence, becoming distant and lost. Peter stopped coming home altogether, abandoning his family. Anna understood that, as the saying goes, you can’t catch the wind in the field. Eventually, Anna and Peter divorced quietly, without argument or blame. Anna took Matthew and left for her hometown. The one surviving figurine was left behind as a memory. Peter didn’t waste time mourning. He began living wild and free, without rules or commitments. He fell easily in and out of love, and was married and divorced three times. He loved drinking himself unconscious. Despite all this, Peter was a top economist at a London university—he even co-authored a well-known textbook and was seen as having a brilliant future until alcohol and his chaotic lifestyle undid it all. Eventually, our family believed Peter had settled down after marrying a “spectacular” woman with a seventeen-year-old son. At their modest wedding, it was obvious that Peter and his new stepson would never get along. The inevitable happened—after five years and several violent quarrels, Peter and his wife parted ways. Then more fleeting lovers circled Peter—Lisa, Natalie, Sophie. He loved them all, swept up in each affair as if it would last forever. But fate had its own plans. At fifty-three, Peter was diagnosed with a terminal illness. By then, none of his beloved women remained; they had all quietly slipped away. My sisters and I cared for Peter in his final days. “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Hand it to me,” Peter struggled to speak. Under the bed, I found a dusty suitcase. When I opened it, I was shocked—it was full of porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped in a soft cloth. “These… I collected for Anna. I’ve never forgotten her silent reproach the day her collection was smashed. She put up with so much from me. You remember all those work trips across the country? I bought figurines everywhere I went. There’s a false bottom in the suitcase—take the money you’ll find there, too. Give it all to my true wife. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never meet again. Simon, you must promise you’ll bring these to Anna.” Peter turned away. “I promise, Peter. I’ll do it,” my voice caught in my throat. I knew my brother was slipping away for good. “You’ll find Anna’s address under my pillow,” Peter whispered. He never turned to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town; Matthew was unwell with a mysterious illness. Doctors shrugged and suggested going to Europe for help—something I learned from a letter Anna had written, which was under Peter’s pillow. As it turned out, Anna had always kept in touch with her ex-husband, though only by letter—Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last wish. Anna met me at a quiet train station and hugged me warmly: “Oh, Simon, you and Peter look so alike—two peas in a pod!” I handed her the suitcase and gently apologized, as Peter had asked: “Anna, forgive your wayward husband. Here’s something from Peter—money, and a bit more. You’ll see when you get home. Remember, you were always Peter’s true wife. Never forget that.” We parted for good. Later, I received a single letter from Anna: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Matthew and I sold the figurines to a true collector; I couldn’t bear to look at them—every one had passed through Peter’s hands. It’s sad he left us so soon. With the money, we were able to move to Canada, where my sister had long invited us. I had nothing keeping me at home anymore. My only hope had been that Peter would call for us. He never did… But I am happy he still thought of me as his true wife. That means his feelings never died entirely. By the way, Matthew is doing much better here—he really likes it. Goodbye.” No return address…

00

After Talking with the Adopted Girl, I Realised Not Everything Was as It Seemed Next to me, on a park bench, sat a five-year-old girl swinging her legs as she told me about her life: “I’ve never seen my dad; he left me and Mum when I was very little. Mum died a year ago. The adults told me she’d passed away.” The girl looked at me and continued: “After the funeral, my Auntie Helen, who was Mum’s sister, came to live with us. I was told she’d done a noble thing by not sending me to a children’s home. They explained that Auntie Helen was now my guardian and that I’d be living with her.” The girl paused, looked under the bench, and carried on: “After I moved in, Auntie Helen started tidying up our house: she put all Mum’s things in one corner and wanted to throw them away. I started crying and begged her not to, so she let me keep them. Now I sleep in that corner. Every night I curl up on Mum’s things and it’s warm there, as if she’s still with me.” “Each morning, Auntie Helen gives me something to eat. She’s not much of a cook—Mum cooked better—but she asks me to eat everything. I don’t want to upset her, so I do. I understand she’s making an effort. It’s not her fault she can’t cook like Mum did. Then she sends me out for a walk, and I can’t come back home until it’s getting dark. Auntie Helen is ever so nice!” “She loves to brag about me to the other aunties she knows. I don’t really know these ladies, but they always come round to visit us. Auntie Helen sits and has tea with them, tells funny stories, says lovely things about me, and spoils us all with sweets.” After saying this, the girl sighed and continued: “I can’t eat just sweets all the time. Auntie never scolds me for anything. She’s always nice to me. Once she even gave me a doll—of course, the doll’s a bit poorly, it’s got a bad leg and one eye that won’t open properly. Mum never gave me a doll that was already broken.” The girl hopped off the bench and began to skip on one leg: “I have to go now because Auntie said the other aunties are coming today, and I need to dress up before they arrive. She promised me a lovely slice of cake afterwards. Goodbye!” The girl jumped off the bench and dashed away to run her errands. I sat there for ages, my thoughts circling around “good” Auntie Helen. I wondered, what was the purpose of that goodness? Why did she need everyone to think she was so noble? Is it possible to look so indifferently at a child who sleeps on the floor, wrapped in her late mother’s clothes…

00

Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The orphanage has missed you for years! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a voice on the verge of breaking. The target of my utter fury was my cousin, Danny. Dear God, how I adored him as a child—wheat-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful spirit. That was Danny all over. The whole family often gathered for festive meals. Of all my cousins, I singled out Danny. He could twist words as deftly as a lacemaker, and he drew with real talent. On a good night, he’d dash off five or six lovely sketches in pencil. I’d stare, entranced, and quietly stash away his drawings in my writing desk, cherishing his art. Danny was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mum—my father’s little sister—died suddenly. She just didn’t wake up one morning. The question arose: what to do with Danny? We tried his dad, but it wasn’t simple. His parents had long divorced, and his dad had a new family and refused to upset their happy course. Everyone else just shrugged and muttered about having their own lives. Family in the daylight, but after sunset, nowhere to be found. So, with two children of their own, my parents became Danny’s legal guardians. At first, I was thrilled he’d live with us. However… On his very first day in our house, Danny’s behaviour unsettled me. Mum, wanting to comfort the orphan, asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Danny? Don’t be shy.” Instantly, he replied, “A toy train set.” For the eighties, it was wildly expensive. I was shocked—your mum just died, your world collapsed, yet all you want is a train set? But my parents bought it at once. Then came, “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” Expensive, hard-to-get things. My parents stretched to grant his wishes, denying themselves and us; my brother and I kept quiet and tried to understand. At sixteen, Danny discovered girls. Turned out, my dear cousin was rather a Don Juan—and then he started hitting on me, his own cousin! Fortunately, I was tough and could fend him off, but we fought—physically and emotionally. I cried for hours. I never told my parents; kids rarely voice such personal pain. When I rejected him, Danny swiftly moved on to my friends, who actively competed for his favour. And then Danny started stealing. Blatantly. I’d been saving pocket money to buy presents for my parents—one day my piggybank was simply empty! Danny denied everything, stone-faced, not a blush of guilt. My soul was torn in two—how could he, living under our roof, steal from us? Danny, like a wrecking ball, shattered our family’s harmony. I stewed, resentful, as he genuinely saw nothing wrong—he believed the world owed him. And eventually I yelled at him, for all I was worth: “Get out of our family!” I lashed out at him like a storm, saying more than I could possibly recall. Mum barely managed to calm me. Since then, Danny no longer existed for me—I ignored him completely. Later I learned, other relatives knew just what kind of person Danny was—they all lived close by and had seen it all; our family lived farther away and hadn’t known. Even Danny’s teachers warned my parents: “He’ll be nothing but trouble—even damage your own children.” In his new school, a girl named Kate fell head over heels for him. She married Danny right after school, had a daughter, and patiently endured his antics, lies, endless affairs. The saying “double the trouble when you marry off” fit her perfectly. She gave him unwavering love that, somehow, Danny never deserved. Danny was later called up for National Service, stationed in Yorkshire. There, he set up “another” family. Somehow, during his leaves, he got involved, and after demob, had a son up north. Kate, undaunted, tracked him down and brought him back home to London by hook or by crook. My parents never heard a single thank you from Danny. Not that they expected it. Today Daniel Evans is 60, devoted churchgoer, five lovely grandchildren with Kate. All seems well, yet the bitterness from our relationship with him lingers… And I still can’t bring myself to share honey with him.

01

Injustice “Mum,” Alina repeated, “Why didn’t I get the whole million? Why just three hundred and thirty thousand… What’s with that amount?” She could hear the hairdryer buzzing at her mum’s. Vera switched it off and called back to Alina: “Yes, that’s right,” Vera, ever so resourceful when it came to someone else’s million, replied. “Three hundred and thirty.” But Alina was supposed to have received much more. “Three hundred and thirty? Mum, where’s the other six hundred and seventy thousand? I was expecting almost a million. It’s Dad’s money—you were supposed to transfer it after selling the flat.” “Oh Alina, don’t start on your accounting again,” her mother tutted, “I did everything properly, you know that.” “Properly? Pardon me, but how is that ‘proper’? The floor creaked indignantly underfoot. “I gave you power of attorney to sell my flat, the one I inherited from my father. I asked you to transfer the money. Where is it, exactly?” Relaxing, it turned out, had been a mistake. “And I did!” The hairdryer fired up again. “But I acted as a mother, a good mother. I shared it out amongst all the children. Equally. Your legal third is in your account.” What she was truly owed should have been hers. “You split my father’s legacy three ways? For me and for them?” Alina meant her stepbrothers. “Mum, that money was mine! My father’s! We have different fathers, in case you’ve forgotten.” “What difference does it make who the father is?” her mother replied, now styling her hair. “The money is for the family. They’re your brothers. I’m your mother. Did you want me to sit by, watching you enjoy all that money, while your brothers just looked on? No, it had to be fair! I equalised everyone’s chances.” She wished she could go back to the day she signed that power of attorney and give her younger self a good shake… “Equally? You split my million into three? Three hundred and thirty-three thousand each! Where’s the rest, Mum? And the flat sold for a bit more than that.” “Yes, there was a little over a million after deductions and taxes,” Vera answered. “I rounded it off. And the extra—I kept it for all the hassle. Would you have dealt with all that paperwork? No! I did everything while you worked.” “Lucky you didn’t wear yourself out!” “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” her mum snapped. “Your father may have been your dad, but I’m your mum. I decide. And besides, you’re a grown girl, the oldest, you need less than they do. I divided it equally. The boys need to start families soon. You’re a girl—a lot less is expected of you.” “So I don’t need a family of my own, then? Should I starve just because I’m a girl and ‘less is expected’?” Alina snapped back sarcastically. “Transfer the rest of the money. Now.” “No.” Short and sharp. Full stop. Her mother knew Alina wouldn’t do anything about it. Sue her own mum over money? No one would understand, everyone would judge. Mum is still mum—and at least they still talked. A couple of weeks later, after she’d calmed down and sorted her finances, Alina saw the photos on social media. Ivan posed with his brand new blue Polo. Dima posted, “My new ride!” The brothers had bought themselves cheap cars. Well, so be it. Alina set her three hundred and thirty thousand aside and decided to wait. Patience, as her gran always said, is golden. More than a year passed. Alina worked, saved, planned. She’d moved on, but hadn’t forgotten. Mum acted as if nothing had happened—still called, still chatted away. But today her mother’s voice was oddly chilling. Alina tensed. “What’s happened, Mum?” “Granny—” her mum stammered “—Ivan and Dima’s gran… she died this morning.” Alina felt a strange, cinematic detachment. That granny was never her granny, never played any role in her life. For Alina, she was just “mum’s mother-in-law” or “the boys’ gran.” Of course, she felt sorry for the loss. “Oh… my condolences.” “Someone has to organise the funeral, the paperwork—I’m all alone. The boys… they don’t know what to do. Can you come? Can you help?” Not out of spite, Alina explained she couldn’t get leave from work—it simply wasn’t possible for her to drop everything and fly across the country for the funeral of someone she’d met maybe three times. “Mum, I’m at work. I actually can’t make it to the funeral of a person I barely knew,” Alina replied. They’d never invited her to granny’s. “Oh please!” her mum begged. “I really, really need help.” “I can’t come, but I’ll help with money. How much do you need? Tell me—I’ll send it straight away.” Her mother hesitated, but didn’t say no. Money was always welcome. “It’s not the same, of course… but fine. Can you add twenty thousand?” “Of course. And Mum—I’ll send a little more besides, so you’ve got something for the little things. Call it my contribution to her memory… to their gran’s memory.” “Thank you, darling. You always help.” Alina hung up, feeling a grim satisfaction. She’d bought herself the excuse: she hadn’t gone, but she’d helped. No one could reproach her now. Six months passed, and the funeral faded into the background. Dima and Ivan seemed to have new toys—maybe motorbikes or new phones. One quiet Tuesday, Alina decided it was time. Sitting in the staff canteen, prepping for another meeting, she phoned her mum. “Hi Mum! How are you?” “Alina! All good. Dima’s got a new job—better than the old one. Ivan’s fine too, met a girl.” “I’m glad,” Alina replied. “Mum, I wanted to ask about something…” “What about?” her mother sounded wary. “I presume the six months have passed since granny’s death. Have all the inheritance matters been settled?” This conversation was even harder than the one over the original three hundred and thirty thousand. “Alina, what are you getting at? Of course it’s settled.” “So—where’s my share of the inheritance?” “What inheritance?” Mum feigned innocence, but Alina could tell she was lying; it was obvious. “From granny.” “But she wasn’t your gran.” “And what difference does that make?” Alina led her mum to her own logic, “I’m your child, you said no child should be deprived. You split my million three ways—made everything fair, remember?” “Alina, this is different!” Vera protested. “Totally different!” “How exactly is it different? You said inheritance is family property, you decide, and all children must be supported equally.” “Oh, don’t compare the situations…” “How convenient!” Alina retorted, dripping with sarcasm. “When it was my million—my father’s inheritance—suddenly everything had to be split in the name of family unity. But when it comes to their granny’s flat, now the inheritance strictly follows bloodline?” “Stop twisting my words!” her mother huffed. “You can’t mean you want to claim your brothers’ inheritance? How am I meant to explain that to the boys?” “I just want you to acknowledge you abused my trust by taking a third of my money on the grounds of ‘one family, one inheritance’. I’d like to use the same logic now, since you’re so fond of it. You helped them sell the flat, didn’t you?” “The money’s already gone.” “Gone where? Cars? Decorating? Then I want in too. Where’s my share, Mum? You told me I had to make do with less because I’m a girl. I don’t agree.” Her mother was taking her time, obviously chewing over how to wriggle out of the trap she herself had set a year before. In their family, it had always been this way. For the boys, her stepdad was Dad: they got all the best, all the necessary. That granny couldn’t stand Alina—she was only the “outsider” girl, never really a granddaughter. And her mother had never stuck up for her. “What’s wrong with you, Alina?” At a loss, her mum resorted to indignation. “Why do you need the money? You’ve got a job, you’re young, you’re healthy. You don’t need as much. Dima and Ivan—well, they need to start thinking about homes. They’re men! It’s harder for them!” “So, to sum up: my father’s inheritance is family property, because we’re siblings. Their granny’s inheritance is personal, because they’re men and I’m only a girl expected to need less?” “Don’t be cheeky,” her mother snapped. “Where does all your greed come from?” Her mother would never admit she was wrong. To her, Alina was just a penny-pincher for daring to demand fairness. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but that power of attorney obliges you to transfer the full proceeds from the flat. And the statute of limitations hasn’t expired. Not to threaten you, but…” “Alina! You’re not threatening your own mother, are you?” her mother whispered nervously. “No, Mum. Just reminding you—I’m still entitled to claim my money. Think about it.” Within a month, the full owed amount landed in Alina’s account. And then, pointedly, she was blocked.

02

Every Tuesday Rushing Through the Underground with an Empty Bag: Liana’s Search for the Perfect Gift, Childhood Memories, and the Quiet Rituals That Bind Us Across Distance Every Tuesday, Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic shopping bag—a stark symbol of her failed two-hour hunt across high street shops for a gift worthy of her 10-year-old goddaughter, Hannah. Long gone were the days of unicorn toys—now it was astronomy that sparked Hannah’s imagination, and finding a decent telescope that didn’t break the bank felt like an astronomical feat. Evening had fallen, and a distinct fatigue lingered throughout the tube. As she squeezed onto the escalator, Liana caught a snippet of conversation behind her—a young, wavering voice, clear amid the commuter chaos. “…Honestly, I never thought I’d see him again. But now, every Tuesday, he picks her up from nursery. In his car. They go to that very park with the carousel…” Liana froze on the rumbling steps, glancing back just in time to spot the speaker—a woman in a bright red coat, excited face lit up in storytelling, with a friend listening intently. Every Tuesday. She’d once had such a day. Not a stressful Monday, or a Friday full of weekend anticipation, but Tuesday—a day her world revolved around. Every Tuesday, at precisely five, she’d dart from the school where she taught English and literature, dashing across the city to the Royal College of Music in an old building with creaking floors. She’d collect Mark, her precocious seven-year-old nephew with a violin nearly as tall as he was—a boy made suddenly solemn when his father, Liana’s brother Daniel, died in a tragic accident. In those first hard months after the funeral, these Tuesday rituals were a lifeline—for Mark, locked silent in his grief; for his mother Sarah, who could barely rise from bed; and for Liana, anchoring what she could of their shattered lives. She remembered everything: Mark’s quiet shuffle out of lessons, handing off the heavy violin case, their journeys on the tube as she told him stories—of silly classroom typos and clever city crows. One rainy November, Mark suddenly asked, “Auntie Liana, did Dad hate the rain too?” Liana, aching with love and loss, replied gently, “He did. Always ran for cover at the first drop.” Mark took her hand, not to be led, but to keep hold of something slipping away—not just her, but the memory of his father, real and ordinary and missed. For three years, her life was before and after, and Tuesday was the pivot—a day she lived through the hardest and most genuine moments, while others blurred into background noise. She prepared meticulously: apple juice for Mark, cartoons preloaded for tube journeys, new anecdotes for conversation. Then, slowly, Sarah found work. Eventually, love. When she chose to start fresh in a new city, Liana packed their boxes, zipped Mark’s violin into a soft case, hugged him hard on the platform. “Write. Call. I’ll always pick up.” At first, the Tuesday calls were clockwork. She transformed, briefly, back into Auntie Liana, ready to squeeze a whole week’s questions into fifteen minutes. Even as the calls became fortnightly, then just on birthdays and Christmas, she understood—new schools, new clubs, a stepfather named Steve, and eventually, a baby sister, Emma. The photos showed Mark holding Emma with awkward tenderness, life’s unstoppable march healing and reshaping scars. Now, in the hum of evening, the overheard “every Tuesday” didn’t sting—it echoed. A gentle reminder of the anchor she once was, the quiet, steadfast love of being truly needed. The woman in red had her own story, her own hard balance between memory and present. But “every Tuesday”—this stubborn ritual—was a language everyone knows: I’m here, you can count on me, you’re important to me, this hour, this day. As the train pulled in, Liana straightened, her reflection steady in the black tunnel glass. She stepped off, knowing tomorrow she’d order two matching telescopes—modest, but special. One for Hannah. One for Mark, posted to his door. She’d message him: “Mark, now we can watch the same stars, even in different cities. Next Tuesday at six—if the sky’s clear—shall we both look for the Big Dipper and sync our watches? Love, Auntie Liana.” Rising into a crisp London evening, Liana found her next Tuesday newly filled—not an obligation, but a gentle promise between two people forever connected by memory, gratitude, and the quiet, unbreakable thread of family. Life moved on. But in her calendar there were still days not just to endure—but to appoint. For rituals of wonder shared across miles, for memories that comfort instead of ache, for a love that’s grown quieter, stronger, wise to the languages of distance.

04

Grandma Always Chose One Grandchild — “What about me, Gran?” Katya would ask softly. — “You’re a good girl, Katya. Just look at those cheeks. The nuts are for thinking, and Dima needs to study—he’s a man. Our family’s future.” — “You get on now, go dust the shelves, dear. A girl’s got to learn the value of hard work.” “Are you serious, Katya? She’s not got long… The doctors said a couple of days, maybe hours…” Dima, clutching his car keys, looked wretched in the kitchen doorway. “I’m absolutely serious, Dima. Want some tea?” Katya kept slicing apple for her daughter without turning around. “Tea? Now?” Dima stepped further in. “She’s lying there, tubes everywhere, gasping…” “She was calling for you this morning. ‘Where’s my Katya?’ she asked. My heart broke. Won’t you go see her?” “She’s your grandma! This is your last chance…” Katya arranged the apple slices on a plate and finally faced her brother. “To you, she’s Grandma. To her, you’re Dima—the golden boy, the one and only heir.” “And me? I never really existed for her.” “Are you sure I need some ‘goodbye’? What should I forgive her? Or she, me?” “Oh, give over, Kat!” Dima slammed his keys down. “Yes, she loved me more. So what? She’s old, set in her ways. But she’s dying! Do you really have to be so… cruel?” “I’m not cruel, Dima. I just feel nothing for her. Go on. Sit with her if you must. Your hand will mean more to her than I ever could.” “You’re her golden child. Shine on for her till the end.” Dima looked at his sister, turned sharply, and left, the door snapping shut behind him. Katya sighed, picked up the plate, and headed to her daughter’s room. *** In their family, things were always split down the middle. Their parents loved Katya and Dima equally. The house was always full of laughter, baking, constant coming and going. But Grandma Claudia was a different sort. “Dima darling, come here, my boy,” Grandma would croon when they visited. “Look what I’ve saved for you! Freshly shelled walnuts, and a whole bag of teacakes, just for you!” Seven-year-old Katya would watch as the special treats appeared from the old cupboard. “And me, Grandma?” she’d ask quietly. A sharp glance was all she’d get. “You’re well enough as you are, Katya. Look at those rosy cheeks. Dima needs brains for school—he’s the man. And you go on and dust those shelves. A girl must get used to her chores.” Dima, red with embarrassment, would pocket his goodie bag and sneak away, while Katya went off to the dusting. She didn’t even feel hard done by. It was just the weather—sometimes it rains, sometimes Grandma loves Dima more. Dima would always be waiting for her on the landing. “Here.” He’d push half the treats and a handful of walnuts into her hand. “Just don’t eat them in front of her, or she’ll moan again.” “You need them more—for your brains.” Katya would smile. “Oh, forget it,” Dima would grin, “she’s bonkers. Quick, eat up, before she comes!” They’d sit, munching their forbidden sweets on the stairs to the attic. Dima always shared, no matter what—even when Grandma sneaked him money “for ice cream”, he’d come running: “Hey, enough here for a couple of 99s and some bubblegum. Let’s go!” Her brother had always been her rock—the warmth he gave filled the gap left by Grandma’s chill so well that Katya hardly noticed. Years passed. Grandma Claudia aged, and when Dima turned eighteen, proclaimed that he’d get her precious city flat. “A man must have his own place to bring his wife home to!” Mum just sighed—she knew better than to argue. That night, she came to Katya. “Don’t worry, love… Your father and I will give you what we’ve saved. A nest egg towards your own home. To keep things fair.” “Mum, it’s okay,” Katya hugged her. “Dima needs it more—he’s starting a family. I’ll be fine in halls for a while.” “No, love. We can’t give to one and not the other. Take it, and don’t argue.” But Katya didn’t. Dima moved into Grandma’s flat. Katya got her brother’s old room, filled it with her books and art, and for the first time felt what it was like not to have love measured out on scales. Dima felt guilty. “Come round, Kat,” he’d say. “Irina’s made apple tart. Oh, and Gran called—wanted to know if I’d wasted ‘her’ money buying you things…” “And what did you say?” “I said I’d blown it all on pinball and fine brandy,” Dima would laugh. “She huffed for a full minute, then said: ‘That Katya’s been a bad influence on you!’” “Of course! Who else?” *** When Katya married Oleg and a baby arrived, housing became urgent. Their mum swept in. “Look, we’ve got our big three-bed. Dima has his place. Katya, you rent. Let’s swap—Dad and I’ll take a small flat, Katya gets the bigger place for her family.” “Mum,” Dima jumped in, “I waive all claim to our old place. I’ve got Gran’s flat, more than enough. Let Katya have what she needs—they’ve got a child.” “Dima, are you sure?” Oleg was taken aback. “That’s a lot of money…” “I’m sure. Kat and I have always shared. She missed out because of Gran. Don’t argue. I mean it.” Katya cried—not over the money, but because her brother was good, through and through. They swapped flats, and everyone had what they needed. Mum came to help often; Dima and his family visited every weekend. Grandma Claudia lived alone. Dima delivered shopping, fixed leaks, listened to her complaining about her health—and “ungrateful Katya”. “She never calls. Never once asks after me!” “Gran, you never wanted to know her,” Dima would say gently. “You never said a kind word to her in twenty years. Why would she call?” “I was bringing her up! Women should know their place! And look at her—grabbed herself a flat, turned her mother out!” Dima would only sigh. No point arguing. *** Katya would sit in the quiet kitchen, recalling things: Her hand pushed away from the jam. Her certificate ignored, while Dima’s childlike sketch was praised. At Dima’s wedding Grandma sat proud as a queen, but she missed Katya’s—“not well”. “Mum, why don’t we see Grandma Clarrie?” her daughter asked. “Uncle Dima says she’s really ill.” “Grandma Clarrie only wants to see Uncle Dima, love. It’s how she is.” “Is she mean?” the girl squinted. “No,” Katya mulled. “She just couldn’t love everyone. Her heart only had room for one. It happens sometimes.” That evening Dima called. “She’s gone, Kat. About an hour ago.” “I’m sorry, Dima. I know this is so hard.” “She kept asking for you,” Dima lied, wanting peace between them. “She said: ‘I hope Katya will be happy.’” “Thank you, Dima… Come over tomorrow. We’ll have a little gathering. I’ll bake a pie.” “I will… Kat, do you regret not going?” Katya didn’t lie. “No, Dima. I don’t. Why be hypocritical? She never wanted to see me. Nor I, her.” A pause. “Maybe you’re right. Always the sensible one… See you tomorrow.” At the funeral, Katya stood in black a little apart. Dima took her shoulder. “You all right?” “I’m fine, Dima. Really.” “Look, I was sorting her flat and found an old box… It was full of photos. You’re in loads, all carefully clipped out, kept separate. Why, do you think?” Katya raised her brows, surprised. “I don’t know. Maybe she cared, just couldn’t show it? Or was scared loving you meant loving me less? Old folks… they’re odd.” “Maybe,” Katya shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter now.” They walked out together under one umbrella—tall Dima and delicate Katya. “Listen,” Dima said by the cars, “I’ll sell that place. Buy a bigger flat for us, little ones for the boys, and the rest… Let’s set up a fund. Or give it to a children’s hospital. Let that ‘grandma’s money’ do some good at last.” Katya smiled warmly for the first time in days. “You know, Dima… that would be the best revenge on Gran Claudia. The kindest revenge there is.” “Deal?” “Deal.” They drove away in different directions, Katya letting the city’s music wash over her as she finally felt a deep, settling calm. Maybe Dima was right. Let some of that money help a child. That would be fair.

06

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Got Married at 50 Thinking I’d Finally Found Happiness, But I Had No Idea What Lay Ahead… My Journey from Bookish Late Bloomer to Unexpected Divorce, Strange Habits, and Returning the Wedding Gifts – Is Lasting Love Possible After 50 in England?