I Got Married at 50, Thought I’d Finally Found Happiness—But I Had No Idea What Challenges Awaited Me… Can You Really Build a Happy Family Life After 50?

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 2

I got married at the age of 50, believing I had finally found happiness, but I had no idea what awaited me…

Im one of those women who married later in life. Sadly, my late-in-life marriage soon came to an end.

Everyone always called me the keen one because I truly loved learning. I finished my masters degree and went on to become a librarian. A friend introduced me to the man who would become my husband. He was 59, never seemed desperate for company, but still hoped to find a wife. I was nine years his junior. David immediately found his way into my affections. He was an educated man, well-mannered, with a fondness for poetry and literature. We began talking, and after a few months, he proposed.

I accepted I had wanted a family for such a long time. After we married, we moved into my place, since his daughter and her family occupied his house. To be honest, I hadnt the slightest clue what I was in for. Id always lived alone, but now so much was different and it unsettled me. The stain on the tablecloth, the crumpled duvet, socks strewn about, and all sorts of odd habits that simply didnt fit into my orderly life Absolutely everything seemed to irritate me. It was as though he thought he was staying in a hotel, and I was responsible for all the household chores. Money was also an issue for him. My patience ran out completely the day he tried to mend the dripping tap, made it worse, and only then called a plumber.

That day, I realised I couldnt bear to be patient and make sacrifices any longer; we were both adults, set in our ways. Shortly after, we sat down to talk; as it turned out, he was perfectly content with how things were. I always preferred peace over rows, but we just couldnt find a calm solution: Davids daughter had already made plans for her life in her fathers flat, thinking hed live with me permanently. Three months later, he finally agreed to divorce. He asked for his gifts back. Returning the rubbish bin and a little chain hed given me hardly cost me much.

This experience made me wonder: can one truly build a happy family life after 50? Ive learnt that love and companionship know no age, but true happiness in marriage relies on tolerance, honest conversation, and a willingness to meet each other halfway qualities that, regardless of age, are never guaranteed.

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.

01

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.

03

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.

05

Granny Always Had a Favourite Grandchild — And what about me, Nan? — whispered Kate. — Oh, you’re fine as you are, Kate, look at those rosy cheeks of yours. Walnuts are for brains, you know. Dima needs to study, he’s a man, the family’s hope. You go on and dust the shelves. Girls should get used to housework. — Kate, are you serious? She’s… she’s not got long now. The doctors said days—maybe hours… Dima stood there, twisting his car keys, looking pretty rough. — Deadly serious, Dima. Do you want some tea? — Kate didn’t even turn from her apple chopping for her daughter. — Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on. — Tea? Kate, are you kidding? — He stepped towards her, frustration in his voice. — She’s lying there, tubes everywhere, gasping… She was calling for you this morning. “Where’s Katie?” she kept saying. My heart nearly stopped. You’re really not going? She’s our nan, Kate. This is your last chance, don’t you see? Kate arranged apple slices on a plate and then finally faced him. — She’s your nan. For her, you’re Dima — her pride and joy, the only heir, the precious hope of the family. And for me… I never really existed for her. Do you honestly think I need to say goodbye? What are we meant to talk about, Dima? What am I supposed to forgive her for—or she, me? — Oh, come off it with these childhood grudges! — Dima slammed his keys on the table. — Yes, maybe she loved me more than you. So what? She’s old, she had her quirks. But she’s dying! Don’t be so… hard-hearted. — I’m not hard-hearted, Dima. I just don’t feel anything for her. Go on, you. Sit with her, hold her hand—she needs you a hundred times more than she needs me. You’re her golden boy. So shine for her till the end. Dima stared, turned, and left, slamming the door. Kate sighed, picked up the apples, and went to her daughter’s room. *** Everything in their family had always been neatly divided. No, their parents loved them equally—both Kate and Dima. The house was always lively, laughter, the smell of baking, a bustle of visits and outings. But Granny—Claudia Watson—was a different sort altogether. — Dima, come here, my clever lad, — Granny would call as soon as they arrived on weekends. — Look what I’ve put aside for you. Freshly shelled walnuts! And these, your favourite toffees! Kate, aged seven then, would stand watching as granny reached deep into the mahogany cabinet for the precious bag. — And me, Granny? — she’d ask quietly. Claudia Watson would cast a prickly glance in her direction. — You’re all right, Kathleen. Those cheeks prove it, don’t they? Walnuts are for clever boys; Dima needs him some brains—he’s a man, the support of the family. You go on and do the dusting. Girls should learn to be useful. Dima, blushing, would take the treats and sidle away, while Kate fetched the dusters. Funny thing was, she never even minded. Young Kate just accepted it like the weather. Some days it rained, and Granny loved Dima best. Life was like that. Usually, her brother waited in the hall. — Here, — he’d press half the toffees and walnuts into her hand. — Just don’t eat them in front of her, she’ll only grumble. — You need them more, for your brain, — Kate would smile. — Oh, stuff that, — Dima would pull a face. — She’s a bit tapped, anyway. Come on, eat up quick. They’d crunch their contraband together on the stairs to the attic. Dima always shared. Always. Even when Granny would slip him money “for ice cream” behind Mum’s back, he’d run to Kate: — Hey, that’s two cones and enough left for a bubble gum sticker! Wanna go? Her brother was always the shield from Granny’s chill. His love more than made up for the shortfall—so much so that Kate barely even noticed she was missing anything. Years passed. Claudia Watson grew old. When Dima turned eighteen, she solemnly announced she was leaving him her spare flat in the centre. — The pillar of the family should have his own place, — she declared. — So he brings home a wife and needn’t sponge off others. Mum just sighed—she knew her mother’s fierce ways and never argued. But later that evening, she sat on Kate’s bed. — Love, don’t you fret… Your dad and I see it all. Here’s what we’ve decided: the money we’ve saved for a bigger house and for a car—we’re giving it to you. A first step towards a place of your own. It’s only fair. — Oh Mum, honestly—Dima needs the flat, he and Irina are getting married. I’ll manage in the halls. — No, love. Your gran’s stuck in her ways, but we’re your parents—it’s wrong for one child to get more than the other. So take it, and don’t argue. But Kate didn’t take it. Dima moved into Gran’s flat the minute he married, and their family house felt suddenly spacious. Kate took his old room, filled it with her books and art, and tasted for the first time the joy of a space filled with equal love. Inheritance never got between her and her brother. If anything, Dima felt awkward. — Pop round to ours, — he’d say, dropping by. — Irina’s made cakes. Gran keeps asking if I’ve wasted “her money” on your hobbies. — And what did you say? — Told her I’d blown the lot on fruit machines and fancy gin, — Dima would laugh. — She huffed for ages, then said, “Katie’s led you astray!” — Naturally, — Kate would grin. — Who else? *** When Kate married Alex and had a baby, housing became an issue. Once more, their mother worked wonders. — Listen, kids, — she said. — We have a three-bed. Dima’s got his flat. You two are renting. Let’s swap: we’ll trade ours for a one-bed and a two-bed. Your dad and I will have the one-bed, Kate, you and Alex the two-bed. — Mum, — Dima interrupted. — I don’t want any share of our old house. Not a penny. Gran’s flat is plenty for me. Let Kate have everything—she needs it, new family and all. — Dima, really? — said Alex, amazed. — That’s a lot of money. Are you sure? — Sure. Kate and I have always split everything. She’s put up with so much because of Gran. Not another word. That’s final. Kate cried that day. Not over square feet, but because her brother was the best person she’d ever know. They swapped the flats. Life carried on. Mum often visited to help with her granddaughter. Dima, Irina, and their boys would come every weekend. Claudia Watson lived alone. Dima brought groceries, fixed things, and listened to endless complaints about her health and “ungrateful Katie”. — Has she ever rung? Has she ever checked on me? — Gran would huff. — You never wanted to know her, Gran, — Dima replied gently. — Twenty years and you never said a kind word—why would she call? — I was just trying to raise her right! — she’d retort. — A woman ought to know her place! And now she’s ended up with the flat, forced myself and her mum out! Dima could only sigh. Explaining was pointless. *** Kate sat in the kitchen, memories drifting through. Granny brushing her hand aside from the jam. Praising Dima’s dodgy drawings, walking past Kate’s prize certificates in silence. She was the queen at Dima’s wedding, never showed for Kate’s—said she was ill. — Mum, why don’t we visit Nana Claudia? — her daughter poked her head in. — Uncle Dima says she’s really poorly. — Nana Claudia only wants to see Uncle Dima, love, — Kate smoothed her daughter’s hair. — That’s just how she likes it. — Is she mean? — her daughter squinted. — No, — Kate reflected. — She just didn’t know how to love everyone at once. Some people only have room for one in their heart. That’s life. That evening, Dima phoned again. — It’s over, Kate. An hour ago. — I’m so sorry, Dima. It must hurt. — She waited for you, you know, — Dima lied gently. Kate knew, but let him. — Said, “Hope Katie will be happy”. — Thank you, Dima… Come round tomorrow. We’ll remember her together—I’ll bake a cake. — Will do… Kate—do you regret it? Not going, I mean? She didn’t lie. — No, Dima. I don’t. Why pretend? Neither of us ever wanted to see the other… He was quiet a moment. — Maybe you’re right, — he sighed. — Always the sensible one, sis. See you tomorrow. The funeral was quiet. Kate went—for Mum and Dima. She stood apart, black coat against the dismal cemetery sky. As the coffin sank, she didn’t cry. Dima came to her, arm round her shoulders. — You all right? — I’m fine, Dima. Really. — I was clearing out her flat… found a box of old photos. You were in there too. Lots. All cut carefully from family photos. She kept every single one. Kate raised an eyebrow in surprise. — Why? — No idea. Maybe deep down she cared, just couldn’t show it. Afraid if she loved you, I’d get less? Old folks can be odd. — Maybe, — Kate shrugged. — But it doesn’t really matter now. They left under one umbrella—tall, sturdy Dima and little Kate. — You know, — said Dima as they reached their cars, — I’m going to sell that flat. I’ll buy a family home, set up a trust for the kids, and the rest… Maybe we should donate it? A children’s hospital, perhaps? So ‘Nan’s’ money finally brings someone some joy… Kate looked at him and, for the first time in days, smiled warmly. — You know, Dima… That would be the sweetest revenge on Granny Watson. The kindest revenge in the world. — So it’s settled? — Settled. They drove away in different directions. Kate, music playing, felt an unexpected, gentle calm settle within. Maybe Dima was right. Some of the money should help heal a child. That would be fair.

02

📌 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

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