I’ve Had Enough of You!… I Eat Wrong, Dress Wrong, Do Everything Wrong! — Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. — You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Earn Decent Money, Never Help Around the House… — Marina Burst Into Tears, — And We Have No Children…, — She Whispered. Belka — a white-and-ginger ten-year-old cat — Watched Silently from Atop the Wardrobe as Another ‘Family Tragedy’ Played Out. She Knew, She Felt, That Mum and Dad Truly Loved Each Other. So Why the Bitter Words That Hurt Everyone? Mum Ran to Her Room in Tears, Dad Lit Cigarette After Cigarette. Belka, Realising Her Family Was Falling Apart, Thought: ‘There Needs to Be Happiness in This House… And Happiness Means Children… I Must Somehow Find Children…’ Belka Couldn’t Have Kittens — She’d Been Spayed Long Ago. Mum Might, Doctors Said, But Somehow It Just Never Happened… The Next Morning, After the Parents Left for Work, Belka Sneaked Out the Window for the First Time Ever to Visit Her Neighbour, Pawsy, for Advice. — Why Do You Even Want Children? — Pawsy Snorted — Around Here, Kittens are a Handful! Smears of Lipstick, Squeezing so Tight you Can’t Even Breathe! Belka Sighed: — We Need Proper Children… But Where to Find Them… — Well… That Stray, Masha, Had Five Kittens out on the Street… — Pawsy Said Thoughtfully — Take Your Pick… Taking a Risk, Belka Hopped from Balcony to Balcony, Made Her Way to the Basement, and Called Out: — Masha, Please Come Here for a Moment… From Deep Inside Came the Faintest of Meows. Creeping Forward and Keeping a Wary Eye Out, Belka Found Five Blind, Hungry Kittens Beneath the Radiator — Their Mum, Masha, Hadn’t Been Seen For At Least Three Days. Fighting Back Tears, Belka Carefully Carried the Kittens to the Entrance Hall. She Lay Down Beside Them, Holding the Meowing, Hungry Little Bunch Together as She Waited, Scanning the Yard for Mum and Dad. When Pavel and Marina Came Home from Work, They Were Stunned — There on the Step Lay Belka, Who’d Never Set Paw Outdoors, with Five Squeaking Kittens Nuzzling For Milk. — What on Earth? — Pavel Gasped. — It’s a Miracle… — Whispered Marina. Together, They Gathered Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. Watching the Now-Purring Cat with the Kittens in a Box, Pavel Asked: — So What Do We Do Now? — I’ll Feed Them With a Dropper… When They’re Bigger, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Ring Some Friends… — Marina Replied Softly. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By It All, Marina Sat Stroking Her ‘Feline Tribe’, Whispering Again and Again: — Things Like This Just Don’t Happen… Just Don’t Happen… And Then She and Pavel Laughed and Cried With Joy, He Spun Her Around, Both Speaking at Once: — I Didn’t Build This House for Nothing! — Yes, a Baby Needs Fresh Air! — And the Kittens Can Run About! — There’s Room for All of Us! — I Love You! — And I Love You More! Wise Belka Brushed Away a Tear — Life Was Coming Back Together Again…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 2

How you get on my nerves! Nothing I do is ever right for you. The way I eat, the way I dress… absolutely everything, apparently, I do wrong! Williams voice rose into a shout.

And you cant do anything at all right yourself! Charlotte burst into tears. Cant even earn a decent living! Youre never any help around the house! And… we havent got a child she finished, barely above a whisper.

On top of the wardrobe, Muffin, their ten-year-old ginger-and-white cat, looked down in silence at yet another household drama. She could sense, deep down, that Dad and Mum truly loved each othervery much, in fact. It puzzled her why they said such hurtful things, when all they did was make everyone miserable.

Mums sobs echoed as she ran to the bedroom; Dad lit one cigarette after another, brooding in the lounge. Watching her family fraying apart before her eyes, Muffin wondered, What makes a house happy? Well, happiness is children… we need children… but where can I find them?

Muffin herself couldnt have kittens; years ago, she had been spayed. And Mumwell, the doctors had said it was possible, but something never quite worked out

The next morning, once her humans had left for work, Muffin clambered out of the window for the first time and crossed the landing to visit her friend across the hallPaws, another housecat, to seek advice.

Why on earth do you want children? Paws scoffed. Ours only visit from time to time, and we always end up hiding! They draw on my whiskers with lipstick or squeeze me so tight I can hardly breathe!

Muffin sighed, But we want properly-behaved children if only I knew where to find some

Paws thought for a moment and said, Well, that stray Molly from down by the corners just had a litterfive of them. Take your pick, I suppose

So, braving the unknown, Muffin slipped from one balcony to the next and reached the street below. Heart pounding, she squeezed through the bars under the basement window and called gently, Molly, could I have a word, please?

There was nothing but a desperate squeaking from the shadows. Muffin, creeping along and glancing nervously both ways, found the sourcea tiny cluster of five newborn kittens, blind and wriggling under a cold radiator, crying for their mother. When Muffin sniffed them, it was clear: Molly hadnt been back for at least three days, and the kittens were nearly starving.

Swallowing a sob, Muffin carefully picked up each kitten and carried them, one by one, to the front stoop.

She curled herself around the hungry, mewling bunch, keeping as many warm as she could, and watched anxiously towards the street, waiting for Mum and Dad to come home.

William, who had quietly picked up Charlotte after work, was silent as they walked home together. When they reached the front steps, they stopped in surprisethere was Muffin, who had never been outdoors on her own, with five tiny, squeaky kittens nestled into her side, trying to nurse.

How on earth did this happen? William gasped.

Its a miracle Charlotte whispered, and together they scooped up Muffin and her adopted little family and hurried them inside.

As Muffin purred contentedly in a box filled with kittens, William asked, What are we going to do with them?

Ill bottle-feed them… when theyre big enough, Ill find them good homes… Ill ring my friends, Charlotte answered softly.

Three months later, Charlotteoverwhelmed by it allsat stroking the now-energetic gang of kittens and whispered to herself, Things like this just dont happen do they?

But then she and William ended up crying happy tears together, laughing and spinning around the room.

Im so glad we finished the house! William exclaimed.

Yes, its just right for a child to play in the garden! Charlotte replied.

And plenty of room for the kittens to run about!

Well fit, all of uswont we?

I love you so much!

And I love you, more than anything!

Wise old Muffin brushed away a tear with her pawlife, it seemed, was looking up after all.

Sometimes, happiness finds its way into our homes in the most unexpected shapes and sizes; all we need is a little kindness and an open heart for it to grow.

My Ex Invited Me to Dinner After Years Apart… And I Went, Just to Show Him the Woman Who Walked Away When your ex messages you out of the blue after years, it’s not like the movies. It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet. It’s not “meant to be.” First, there’s silence in your stomach. Then, a single sentence in your head: “Why now, of all times?” The message arrived on an ordinary Wednesday, right after I’d finished work and made myself a cup of tea. It was that moment in the day when the world finally stops pulling at you and you’re left with just yourself. My phone buzzed quietly on the worktop. His name lit up. I hadn’t seen it like that in years. Four years. At first, I just stared at it. Not in shock, but with the curiosity that comes when you’ve survived something and it doesn’t sting the same way anymore. “Hi. I know this is odd. But… would you spare me an hour? I want to see you.” No hearts. No “I miss you.” No drama. Just an invitation, written as though he still had the right to ask. I sipped my tea. And smiled. Not because I was pleased. I smiled because I remembered the woman I was years ago—the woman who would have trembled, over-thought, wondered if it was some “sign.” Today, I didn’t wonder. Today, I chose. I replied ten minutes later. Short. Cool. Dignified. “All right. One hour. Tomorrow. 7 PM.” He replied immediately: “Thank you. I’ll send you the address.” And it was right then I sensed—he hadn’t been sure I’d agree. Which meant he didn’t really know me anymore. And I… I was a very different woman now. The next day, I didn’t get ready for a date. I got ready for a scene, where I wouldn’t play someone else’s role. I chose a dress that was calm and elegant—deep emerald, simple, long sleeves. Neither provocative, nor modest. Exactly like my character these days. Hair loose. Makeup subtle. Perfume—luxurious but understated. I didn’t want to make him regret. I wanted him to understand. There’s a world of difference. The restaurant was the sort of place where voices are never raised—just glasses, footsteps, quiet conversation. The entrance glistened and the lighting made every woman look more radiant, every man more self-assured. He was waiting inside. More refined, more put together. With that confidence of a man used to getting second chances—because someone always gives him one. He smiled widely when he saw me. “You look incredible.” I nodded thanks. Not flustered. Not giving him any more gratitude than he deserved. I sat down. He launched in immediately—almost as if he feared I’d walk out if he hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about you lately.” “Lately?” I repeated quietly. He gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah… I know how it sounds.” I said nothing. Silence is very uncomfortable for people used to being rescued by words. We ordered. He insisted on choosing the wine. I could feel how hard he was trying to be “the man who knows.” The man who controls the evening. The same man who once controlled me. But now… there was nothing left to control. As we waited for the food, he started talking about his life. His successes. His people. How busy he was. How “everything happens too quickly.” I listened with the attention of a woman who no longer dreams about him. At one point, he leaned in slightly and said, “You know what’s the strangest? No one was ever… like you.” Once, that would have touched me—if I hadn’t seen this move before. Men so often return when their comfort runs out. Not when love is reborn. I looked at him calmly. “And what exactly does that mean?” He sighed. “It means you were real. Genuine. Loyal.” Loyal. The word he once used to justify everything he put me through. Back then, I was “loyal” while he got lost in mates, ambition, other women, himself. Loyal, as I waited for him to become a man. Loyal, as humiliation collected inside of me like water in a glass… And then the glass overflowed—and he said I’d become “too sensitive.” I looked at him. My smile was soft, but not warm. “You didn’t invite me here just to compliment me.” He was taken aback. Not used to a woman reading him so directly. “All right…” he admitted, “Yes, you’re right. I wanted to say I’m sorry.” I stayed silent. “I’m sorry for letting you walk away. For not stopping you. For not fighting for you.” That sounded… a little truer. But sometimes, truth comes too late. And late truth isn’t a gift—it’s an apology overdue. “Why now?” I asked. He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Because… I saw you.” “Where?” “At an event. We didn’t speak. But you were… different.” Inside, I let out a quiet laugh. Not because it was funny. But because it was so typical. He only noticed me the moment I looked like a woman who no longer needed him. “And what exactly did you see?” I asked, without aggression. He swallowed. “I saw a woman who’s… at ease. Strong. Everyone around you seemed… to respond to you.” There it was. The truth. Not “I saw a woman I love.” But “I saw a woman I can’t have so easily anymore.” That was his hunger. His thirst. Not love. He pressed on: “And I thought: I made the biggest mistake of my life.” Years ago, those words would have made me cry. Would have made me feel special. Would have warmed me. Now, I just looked at him. And in that look, there was no cruelty. Only clarity. “Tell me something,” I began softly, “When I left… what did you say about me?” He shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” “To your friends. Your mum. People. What did you tell them?” He tried to smile. “That… we couldn’t make it work.” I nodded. “And did you tell the truth? That you lost me because you didn’t protect me? Because you abandoned me, even while I was still right there?” He said nothing. And right there—that was my answer. Years ago, I looked for forgiveness. For explanations. For closure. Now, I wasn’t looking for anything at all. I was simply taking my voice back. He reached his hand out, but didn’t touch mine. Just hovered there, like someone testing if they still have the right. “I want to start again.” I didn’t jerk away, panicked. I just gently folded my hand into my lap. “We can’t start again,” I said gently, “Because I’m not at the beginning anymore. I’m all the way beyond the end.” He blinked. “But… I’ve changed.” I looked at him calmly. “You’ve changed enough to forgive yourself. Not enough to keep me.” My words sounded sharp, even to me. But I didn’t say them with anger. I said them with truth. Then I added, “You invited me here to see if you still have any control. If I can still melt for you. If I’ll follow if you look at me the right way.” He blushed. “That’s not it…” “Yes, it is,” I whispered. “And there’s no shame in it. But it doesn’t work any longer.” I paid for my own meal. Not because I needed to, but because I didn’t want any “gestures” that could buy him access to me. I stood up. He did too, worried. “You’re leaving like this?” he asked quietly. I put on my coat. “I left like this years ago,” I said simply. “Except back then, I thought I was losing you. What I was really doing… was finding myself.” I looked at him one last time. “Remember this: you didn’t lose me because you didn’t love me. You lost me because you were sure I had nowhere else to go.” Then I turned and walked toward the exit. Not with sadness. Not with pain. But with the feeling that I’d walked away with something far more valuable than his love: My freedom. ❓What would you do if your ex came back “changed”—would you give them a chance, or would you choose yourself with no explanations?

Mother-in-Law Anne Peterson sat at her kitchen table, watching as the milk gently simmered on the stove. Three times she’d forgotten to stir it, and each time she remembered too late: the foam rose, spilled over, and she’d grumble, wiping the stove with a cloth. In those moments, she felt it clearly: the problem wasn’t really the milk. Since the birth of her second grandchild, everything in the family seemed to have come off the rails. Her daughter was worn thin, losing weight, speaking less. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anne Peterson saw it all and thought: how can anyone leave a woman alone like this? She tried to speak up. At first gently, then more firmly. At first to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something odd: after her words, the atmosphere in the house only grew heavier, not lighter. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew more withdrawn, and Anne returned home feeling as though she’d somehow only made things worse. That day, she visited the vicar—not for advice, really, but simply because there was nowhere else to take her feelings. “I must be an awful person,” she said, not looking at him. “I keep doing things wrong.” The vicar was writing at his desk. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anne Peterson shrugged. “I tried to help. But all I do is upset everyone.” He looked at her closely, but without judgement. “You’re not awful. You’re exhausted. And very worried.” She sighed. That sounded about right. “I’m scared for my daughter,” she said. “She’s just different since the baby. And he…” she waved her hand, “acts like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anne thought back: how last week, he’d done the washing up late at night, thinking nobody was watching. How he took the pram out on Sunday when he seemed desperate just to flop into bed. “He does… probably,” she said uncertainly. “But not the way he should.” “And how should he?” the vicar asked gently. Anne wanted to answer straight away, but suddenly realised she didn’t know. In her mind: more, more often, and with more attention. But precisely what, she couldn’t say. “I just want it to be easier for her,” she said. “Then that is what you should remind yourself,” the vicar said quietly. “Not him—yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean right now, you’re not fighting for your daughter—you’re fighting with her husband. And fighting means tension. That tires everyone out. You, and them.” Anne Peterson was silent for a long while. Then she asked: “So what should I do—pretend it’s all fine?” “No,” he said. “Do what helps. Not words, but actions. And do it for someone, not against someone.” On the way home, she pondered it all. She remembered how, when her daughter was little, she didn’t give lectures—she simply sat beside her when she cried. Why should things be different now? The next day, she turned up at their house unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anne Peterson said. “Just came to help.” She stayed with the children while her daughter slept. She left quietly, saying nothing about how hard things were, nor about what they ought to do. A week later, she did it again. And again, the next week. She still noticed her son-in-law wasn’t perfect. But also started to see: how tenderly he held the baby, how he tucked her daughter under a blanket in the evening, thinking no one saw. One day she couldn’t help herself and asked him in the kitchen: “Is it hard for you right now?” He seemed surprised, as if no one had ever asked him that before. “It is,” he said after a pause. “Very.” And that was all. But something sharp and tense disappeared between them. Anne Peterson realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But really, she needed to begin with herself. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so”—she just listened, took the children sometimes so her daughter could rest. Sometimes she’d call her son-in-law, just to ask how he was. It wasn’t easy—it was much easier to be angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect—just quieter. Without the ever-present tension. Then one day, her daughter said: “Mum, thank you for being with us now, and not against us.” Anne thought a lot about those words. She realised something simple: reconciliation doesn’t mean admitting fault. It means someone has to stop fighting first. She still wished her son-in-law would be more attentive. That never disappeared. But next to that wish lived something bigger: that their home might be at peace. And whenever old feelings—resentment, frustration, the urge to say something sharp—rose up, she’d ask herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her the way forward.