Just a Little Longer to Endure: A Story of Sacrifice, Family Ties, and Finally Choosing Yourself

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 1

Here, Mum. This is for Emilys next term.

Mary laid the envelope gently on the faded oilcloth covering the kitchen table. A thousand poundsshed counted it three times already: at home, on the bus, outside the block of flats. Each time, it was just what she needed.

Eleanor set aside her knitting and peered at her daughter over the rim of her glasses.

Mary, you look awfully pale. Would you like a cuppa?

Ill be alright, Mum. I cant stay long; Im just on a break before my second shift.

The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinalperhaps the joint ointment or maybe the drops Mary faithfully picked up for her mother every month. Fifty quid a bottle, lasting only three weeks. Plus the blood pressure tablets. Plus the quarterly check-ups.

Emily was over the moon when she heard about the internship at the bank, Eleanor said, lifting the envelope as if it were delicate crystal. She says theres real prospects there.

Mary didnt answer.

Tell her, will you? Theres no more money for uni after this.

Final term. For five years, Mary had borne the weight. Every monthan envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every monththe calculator clicking, subtracting endlessly: rent, Mums medicine, groceries, Emilys fees. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat six years old, and dreams of her own place that never stood a chance.

Shed once wanted a trip to London. Just to wander round the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. Shed even started saving, but Mum had her first proper attack, and every spare penny disappeared into doctors hands.

You need a rest, love, Eleanor stroked her daughters arm. You look worn out.

Ill rest soon, Mum. Promise.

Soon. When Emily found work. When Mums condition settled. When there was time at last to breathe and remember herself. Mary had lived on the word soon for five long years.

Emily graduated with an economics degree in June. With honours, tooMary had taken a day off work just to attend the ceremony. Shed watched her younger sister take the stage in a new dressher gift, of courseand thought, At last. Now everything will change. Now Emily will start earning, and I can stop counting every penny.

Four months later, nothing had changed.

You just dont get it, Mary, Emily said, sitting cross-legged on the sofa in fluffy socks. I didnt slog through uni for five years to slave away for peanuts.

A starting salary of £500 isnt peanuts.

Maybe not for you.

Mary clenched her jaw. At her main job, she made £420 a week. The side jobsif they came inadded another £200. So, £620 a week, but after bills and everything for Mum and Emily, she was lucky to have £150 left for herself.

Emily, youre twenty-two. Its time you got on with lifestarted somewhere.

I will! Just not some dead-end job for what theyre offering.

Eleanor rustled around in the kitchen, pretending she couldnt hear the argument. She always did that. Then, when Mary was leaving, she would whisper, Dont be cross with Emily, love, shes young, she doesnt get it.

Doesnt get it. Old enough to graduate, young enough for excuses.

I wont be around forever, Em.

Oh, dont be so dramatic. Its not like Im asking you for money. Im just looking for something decent.

Technically, she never asked. It was Mum who did. Mary, darling, Emily needs money for that English course. Mary, Emilys phones bustshe needs to send CVs. Mary, Em needs a new coat; its nearly winter.

Mary always paid, quietly. She always hadthe one who carried everything; the others just assumed it would be done.

I need to go, she said, standing up. Got another shift tonight.

Ill pop a few pasties in for you! shouted their mum from the kitchen.

They were cabbage-filled, as always. Mary took the bag and stepped into the cold hall, the air heavy with damp and the scent of cats. Ten minutes brisk walk to the stop. Then an hour on the bus. Eight hours on her feet. Then four more by the computer if she could make the extra shift.

Meanwhile, Emily would lounge at home, skimming job ads and waiting for the perfect position to fall from the skya dream job, £1,500 a week, work-from-home.

The first real row came in November.

Have you done anythinganything at all? Mary couldnt keep it in when she saw her sister in the same spot on the sofa, just like the week before. Sent even one application?

Ive sent three.

In a month?

Emily rolled her eyes and buried her face in her phone.

You dont understandtheres ridiculous competition now! You have to pick carefully.

What, the jobs where you get paid for lying on your back on the sofa?

Eleanor peeked in from the kitchen, nervously drying her hands on a dishcloth.

Girls, shall I put the kettle on? Theres homemade cake

No, Mum. Mary rubbed her temples. Her headache was now on its third day. Will someone explain why Im working two jobs and shes not working at all?

Shes young, Mary, shell find her place.

When? In five years? At her age Id already been working for years!

Emily jumped up.

Sorry if I dont want to end up like you! Chasing your tail at two jobs and getting nowhere!

A hush fell. Mary grabbed her bag and left. On the bus, she stared at the black window and thought: Chasing my tailthats what it looks like to them.

Eleanor phoned the next day, asking Mary not to be bitter.

She didnt mean it, love, shes just under pressure. Give her timeshell find something.

Give her time. That was always the phrase. Give Dad time to recover. Give Emily time to grow up. Give life a chance to get sorted. Mary had been waiting her whole life.

The arguments turned routine. Every visit ended in the same circular miseryMary reasoned, Emily sulked, Eleanor flitted anxiously between them, begging for peace. Then Mary would leave, Eleanor would call to apologise, and it would all start again.

You have to understandshes your little sister, Mum would say.

And she needs to understand Im not a cash machine.

Mary

In January, Emily rang herself. Mary was startled by a new excitement in her voice.

Mary! Im getting married!

What? Who to?

His names David. Weve been seeing each other for three weeks. Hesoh, Mary, hes perfect!

Three weeks. Mary wanted to say it was madness, that she should slow down, but she bit her tongue. Maybe this was for the bestmaybe a husband would look after her, and Mary could finally breathe.

That hope lasted until the first family dinner.

Ive got it all sorted! Emily twinkled with happiness. The registry, music, dressfound a lovely one on Oxford Street

Mary quietly set her fork down.

And how much is all this?

Well Emily grinned. About £5,000, maybe six. But its my wedding, once in a lifetime!

And whos going to pay for it?

Oh, Maryyou must understand. Davids parents cant, theyve a mortgage. Mums on her pension. Youll probably have to get a loan.

Mary stared at her sister. Then at her mother. Eleanor looked away.

Youre serious?

Its a wedding, love, Mum said, using that syrupy tone from Marys childhood. Its a big day, we dont want to pinch pennies

Im meant to take out a loan for five grand to pay for a wedding for someone whos never even tried to find a job?

Youre my sister! Emily slammed her hand on the table. You have to!

Have to?

Mary stood. Her mind felt oddly calm, everything crystal clear.

Five years Ive paid for your uni. For Mums medicine. For your food, your bills, clothes, the lot. I work two jobs. I have no home, no car, no holidays. Im twenty-eight, and Ive not bought myself something new in over a year. And you lecture me about what I have to do?

Mary, please Mum began.

No! Enough! Ive provided for you both for years while you sit here and talk about my obligations? Thats it. From now on, Im living for me.

She bolted out, grabbing her coat from the hook in time. It was minus five outside, but the cold didnt touch her. Something warm filled her insidea wild relief, as if shed finally shrugged off the backpack of rocks shed carried for years.

Her phone kept ringing. She let the calls go, then blocked both numbers.

Six months later, Mary lived in a tiny studio flather own. She went to London in the summerfour days by the Thames, Whitehall, long afternoons at the National Gallery. Bought herself a new dressand another. Even nice shoes.

News of her family arrived by accidenta school friend who worked round the corner from Mum.

Hey, is it true your sisters wedding fell through?

Mary froze with her mug in hand.

What?

They say the fiancé walked. Heard about the money and did a runner.

Mary sipped her coffee. It was bitterand somehow tasted perfect.

No idea. We dont speak.

That evening, sitting in the window of her new flat, Mary realised something: not a trace of malice or triumph. Only a quiet, contented peace of someone whod finally stopped running in circles, once and for all.

Keep Your Distance! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Besides, How Do I Even Know That Child Is Mine? Maybe She Isn’t Mine at All? That’s what Victor—who was only in their village on business—told a stunned Valentina. She couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. Was this really the same Victor who had once declared his love and treated her like a princess? Once, he’d called her “Valyusha,” promised her the world, but now he looked like a sullen stranger… Valentina wept for a week after waving Victor goodbye forever. At thirty-five, plain and resigned to the unlikelihood of finding happiness, she made the decision to become a mother. When her time came, Val—now on her own—gave birth to a noisy little girl she named Mary. Mary grew into a quiet, undemanding child, almost as if she knew that crying would get her nowhere… Val cared for her daughter, made sure she was fed, clothed, and had toys—but real motherly affection seemed absent. A hug, a cuddle, a walk—these simple acts rarely happened. Little Mary would reach for her mother, but Val would brush her aside: busy, tired, a headache… Maternal instinct just never woke in her. When Mary was seven, something unexpected happened—Val met a man and even brought him home! The village gossips were shocked: “Has Val lost her mind?” Her new partner, Igor, was an outsider, didn’t have steady work, and nobody really knew anything about him. Maybe a rogue… Val didn’t listen to the whispers. She seemed to know this was her last chance at happiness. Soon, though, opinions shifted: Igor, it turned out, was handy and kind. He fixed the porch, patched the roof, raised the fallen fence—every day he improved their tired old house. People started to seek his help, and he’d tell them, “If you’re poor or old, I’ll help for free. Otherwise, pay with cash or food.” Sometimes money, sometimes homemade jam or eggs or ham. Val had a vegetable patch but no livestock—until Igor, and soon their fridge had fresh cream and milk. Val even softened—she smiled more, became gentle, and started showing Mary little acts of love. Mary, now in school, thrived under Igor’s quiet care: he cooked, told her stories, bandaged her knees, taught her to fish, and bought her first bike. At Christmas, he gave her white skates and carved a patch of ice on the river for her to learn. He held her hand every time she fell. She learned to stand and glide, and one day, overjoyed, she hugged him and whispered, “Thank you, Dad…” Igor brushed away tears so she wouldn’t see. Even as Mary grew up and moved to the city, he was always there—at her graduation, carrying groceries to her student flat, walking her down the aisle at her wedding, and cradling his grandchildren with boundless love. When Igor was gone, at his graveside, Mary and her mother mourned deeply. Throwing a handful of earth and sighing, Mary whispered, “Goodbye, Dad… You were the best father in the world. I’ll always remember you.” And in her heart, Igor lived on—not as stepfather, not as ‘Uncle,’ but as her true Dad. Because a Father isn’t always the one who gives life, but the one who raises you, who shares your sorrows and joys, and who’s always by your side. A Touching True-Life Story: Thank you for reading—don’t forget to follow for more incredible stories!

Hang On Just a Little Longer “Mum, that’s for Anna’s next term.” Maria set the envelope on the battered vinyl tablecloth. A hundred thousand. She’d counted the money three times—at home, on the bus, at the doorstep. Each time, exactly enough. Elena put her knitting aside and peered over her glasses at her daughter. “Maria, you look awfully pale. Shall I make you a cuppa?” “No thank you, Mum. I can only stay a minute—I have to make my second shift.” The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—either joint cream or those drops Maria bought her mother every month. Four grand a bottle, which lasted three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets, plus quarterly check-ups. “Anna was so thrilled when she heard about the work placement at the bank,” Elena took the envelope as carefully as if it were fragile glass. “She says there are good prospects.” Maria said nothing. “Tell her it’s the last money for her studies.” The final term. Maria had kept this up for five years. Every month—an envelope for Mum, a transfer for her sister. Every month—calculator in hand, subtracting bills, medicine, groceries for Mum, Anna’s university costs. What was left? A rented room in a shared house, a winter coat that was six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own flat. Once, Maria had wanted to visit London. Just for a weekend. To see the National Gallery, stroll along the Thames. She’d even begun saving—then Mum had her first serious health scare and all the savings went on doctors. “You ought to take a break, love,” Elena stroked her hand. “You look done in.” “I will, Mum. Soon.” Soon—as in, when Anna found a job. When Mum stabilised. When she could finally breathe and think of herself. Maria had been saying “soon” for five years. Anna graduated as an accountant in June—a first, no less. Maria went to the ceremony, taking leave from work, and watched her little sister cross the stage in her new dress (a present from Maria, naturally) and thought: that’s it. Now everything will change. Anna will get a job, start earning, and Maria would finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. “You don’t get it, Maria,” Anna sat curled up on the sofa in fluffy socks. “I didn’t spend five years studying to slog for peanuts.” “Fifty thousand a year isn’t peanuts.” “Maybe not for you, but for me it is.” Maria clenched her jaw. She made forty-two on her main job. If she was lucky with extra shifts, another twenty. Sixty-two thousand a year, and lucky if she kept fifteen for herself. “Anna, you’re twenty-two. Time to start working somewhere.” “I will. Just not as some nobody in a dead-end office for fifty grand.” Elena fussed in the kitchen, banging pots—pretending not to hear. She always did when the daughters fought. She’d disappear, hide, and later—before Maria left—she’d whisper, “Don’t be cross with Anna, she’s young, she doesn’t understand.” Doesn’t understand. Twenty-two and still doesn’t understand. “I’m not immortal, Anna.” “Oh stop being dramatic. It’s not like I’m asking you for money, is it? I’m just looking for a proper job.” Not asking. Technically—no. Mum did: “Maria, Anna could do with English lessons.” “Maria, Anna’s phone broke, she needs to job hunt.” “Maria, Anna would like a new coat, winter’s coming.” Maria sent the money, bought the things, paid the bills. Silently. Because that’s always how it was: she shouldered the burden and everyone else treated it as a given. “I’ve got to go,” she stood up. “Night shift tonight.” “Wait, I’ll pack you some pasties!” Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Maria took the bag and stepped out into the cold, musty stairwell, smelling of damp and cats. Ten minutes to the bus. Then an hour’s ride. Then eight hours on her feet. Then, if she caught extra work, four more hours at the computer. Meanwhile Anna would be at home, browsing jobs, waiting for the universe to deliver her an ideal position—one that paid one-fifty a year and let her work from home. Their first big row broke out in November. “Are you doing anything at all?” Maria snapped after seeing Anna in the same position on the sofa as the week before. “Sent off even one application?” “Three. This month.” “Three applications? In a month?” Anna rolled her eyes and retreated into her phone. “You don’t understand the job market. It’s brutal now. You have to choose the right posts.” “What’s right—a job that pays you for lying about on the sofa?” Elena peered out, nervously rubbing her hands with a tea towel. “Girls, shall I make tea? I baked a cake…” “No, Mum,” Maria massaged her temples. Third day running of headaches. “Just tell me, why am I working two jobs and she’s not working at all?” “Maria, she’s young, she’ll find her way…” “When? In a year? Five? I was already working at her age!” Anna bristled. “Well, sorry, I don’t fancy ending up like you! Like a carthorse, always working and nothing else!” Silence. Maria grabbed her bag and left. On the bus home, she stared at the darkness and thought: a carthorse. So that’s how it looks from the outside. Mum called the next day, asking Maria not to be upset. “Anna didn’t mean it like that. She’s just going through a lot. Just hang on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon.” Just hang on. Mum’s favourite phrase. Hang on until Dad sorts himself out. Hang on until Anna grows up. Hang on until things get better. Maria had been hanging on all her life. Rows became routine. Every visit ended the same: Maria tried to get through to Anna, Anna got stroppy, Elena ran between them pleading for peace. Then Maria left, Elena rang to apologise, everything started again. “You have to understand, she’s your sister,” Mum said. “And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine.” “Maria…” In January, Anna rang first. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Maria! I’m getting married!” “What? To who?” “Dima. We’ve been dating three weeks. He’s… he’s perfect!” Three weeks. And getting married. Maria wanted to say it was madness, say at least get to know the guy—but she kept quiet. Maybe it would be a blessing. Anna would have a husband to support her, and Maria could finally exhale. That fragile hope lasted just until the family dinner. “I’ve got it all sorted!” Anna beamed. “Hotel reception for a hundred guests, live band, and I’ve found the perfect dress in Selfridges…” Maria lowered her fork. “And how much is all that?” “Well,” Anna gave a disarming smile, “About five, maybe six grand. But it’s a wedding, once in a lifetime!” “And who’s paying?” “Oh Maria, you know… Dima’s parents can’t help, their mortgage is huge. Mum’s nearly on the pension. You’ll probably need to get a loan.” Maria stared at her sister. Then her mother. Elena looked away. “You’re serious?” “Maria, it’s her wedding,” Mum spoke in that syrupy tone Maria knew from childhood. “Such an event, only once in a lifetime. You can’t skimp…” “You mean I should take a five-grand loan to pay for the wedding of someone who hasn’t even bothered to get a job?” “You’re my sister!” Anna slammed the table. “You have to!” “I have to?” Maria got up. Inside, everything went weirdly quiet and clear. “Five years. I paid for your studies. For Mum’s medicine. For your food, clothes, bills. I work two jobs. I’ve got no flat, no car, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight and haven’t bought new clothes for myself in eighteen months. “Maria, calm down…” began Elena. “No! Enough! I’ve supported you both for years, and you think it’s just my duty? That’s it! From now on, I’m living for myself!” She left, grabbing her coat just in time. It was minus five outside, but Maria didn’t feel the cold. Inside, there was a strange warmth, as if she had finally shrugged off the bag of stones she’d carried all her life. Her phone buzzed with calls. Maria hung up and blocked both numbers. Half a year passed. Maria moved into her own small flat, something she could finally afford. That summer, she visited London—four days, the National Gallery, riverside walks, long white nights. She bought a new dress. And then another. And shoes. She only heard about her family by accident, through a friend who worked near her mum. “So, is it true your sister’s wedding got cancelled?” Maria froze mid-sip of her coffee. “What?” “Oh, rumour is the groom bailed. Found out there was no money and legged it.” Maria drank her coffee. It was bitter, but somehow delicious. “No idea. We’re not in touch anymore.” That evening, sitting by the window in her new flat, Maria realised she felt no malice. Not a hint. Only a quiet, deep contentment—the contentment of someone who had finally stopped being a beaten carthorse…

“You Never Truly Loved Me. You Married Me Without Love—Now That I’m Ill, Will You Leave Me?” “Never!,” said Marina, wrapping her arms around Igor. “You’re the best husband—I won’t leave you for anything.” He couldn’t quite believe it was true. Igor’s mood was heavy… Marina had been married for twenty-five years, and throughout it all, she’d continued to attract men. In her youth, she was the girl all the boys in school wanted to date, even though she wasn’t considered a classic beauty. She hadn’t divorced her first husband, Vadim, despite his complicated nature. Marina stayed by Vadim’s side until the very end. Together, they raised their daughter, Dasha, who eventually married and moved to Italy with her husband. They even invited Marina to visit, sending cheerful photos. Marina considered going, but Vadim never even had the chance—he died in a tragic car accident after apparently becoming unwell behind the wheel. In shock, Marina leaned on her best friend Elena, a doctor, who helped arrange the funeral. Marina was left alone in their large, lovingly-built family home, wrestling with loneliness and memories. Dasha visited for the farewell to her father and gently suggested selling the house and moving Marina to Italy, but Marina flatly refused. “I didn’t build this house just to sell it. I’m not interested in Italy—I’ve seen plenty of it,” she said with a teary smile. Marina reflected on her marriage: Vadim could be loving and attentive, but he also often wore on her nerves when in a bad mood, only to later apologize. She’d learned, after twenty-five years, not to get stuck on his flaws. After Dasha left, Marina only stayed lonely for a short while: within half a year she discovered a new circle of admirers. Even her mum had marvelled: “What is it about you? The men just fall at your feet! You’re hardly a classic beauty…” Marina shrugged: “A woman should be charming and charismatic—that’s enough.” Years later, approaching fifty herself, Marina’s life repeated this pattern. While others lamented the lack of available men over forty, she found herself with two suitors—Dmitry, charming but impractical, and Igor, quiet, steadfast, and handy with everything around the home. Marina chose Igor, knowing in her heart he was the right man despite their different kind of connection. Igor was overjoyed, though he wondered if Marina had married him for practical reasons, not love—especially when he fell gravely ill. He feared she would leave him now that he wasn’t strong and capable. But Marina never left. Through Igor’s illness and slow recovery, she stayed, organised his birthday party alcohol-free, lifted his spirits, and showed that love is not always about grand speeches or passionate beginnings. Sometimes, it’s about quiet loyalty, gentle care, and growing together through all of life’s seasons. On a starlit evening, as they sat together on the porch, happiness finally settled into Igor’s heart. “Everything’s good,” he told her, and for the first time in months, it was true. Friends, if you enjoy our stories, please leave your comments and don’t forget to like—it inspires us to write more!