Miss, when that old man finishes his cheap soup, please give me his table—I haven’t got time to waste! I’m feeling generous today, put his bill on me. Yet the humble old man gave the rich gentleman an unexpected lesson! In that cosy little English bistro, tucked away on a quiet street, time seemed to stand still…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 min

Miss, as soon as that old chaps done with his cheap soup, could you give me his table? I havent got all day! Im feeling generous, put his bill on my tab.

But the humble old man was about to give that wealthy blowhard a lesson hed never forget!

In that tiny restaurant, tucked away in a quiet corner of Oxford, time seemed to stroll rather than march. It was a modest place, warm, infused with the smell of fresh bread and steaming broth, where people came not just to eat, but to feel at home.

And every day, at the same hour, he appeared. An old man down on his luck, his jacket threadbare, hands roughened by decades of hard graft, with that weary look only lifes constant jabs can leave behind. He never asked for extras, never complained, never bothered a soul. Hed take his spot in the corner, remove his cap, rub his hands to chase away the English chill, and always asked for the same thing, voice gentle:

Just the soup today, if thats alright.

The waitress knew him by heart. Everyone did. Some regarded him with pity; others, with disdain. Mostly, though, they accepted him as part of the furniturea man whod lost it all but was still clinging to his dignity.

One day, the door flung open, and suddenly the atmosphere changed. In strode a man in a not-so-subtle Savile Row suit, gold watch gleaming on his wrist, with the brisk confidence of someone who expects the world to move out of his way. Meet Charles Montgomery, business magnate, somebody, the sort whose photo glared out from glossy London magazines.

At his entrance, chairs straightened, the waitress forced a polite smile, and the owner dashed out from the kitchen to greet him personally. Charles chose the choicest table near the window, draped his coat over the chair with the air of a man who owned Oxford, then noticed the old man, who was savouring every spoonful of his soup like it was victory itself.

Charles snorted a short, condescending laugh and beckoned the waitress.

Miss once that old gents finished his bowl of bargain soup, Ill be needing his table. Cant be waiting around. Feeling rather magnanimous todayput his bill on mine.

The waitress froze. Not because it was charity, but because his tone reeked of humiliation, not kindness. The old man heard. Everyone did. But the man in the corner didnt get up. He didnt protest or make a fuss. He simply set his spoon down, slowly, and raised his eyes to the bloke in the suit. His gaze wasnt angryjust full of something more piercing: memory.

He paused, then spoke, his voice calm, almost fond:

Good to see you well, Charles

Montgomerys face fell. The restaurant fell silent.

The old man continued, never raising his voice:

But dont forget once upon a time, when you had nothing, it was me who bought you a bowl of soup.

You came from a poor family used to run over to my house at lunchtime, hoping for a bite.

Charles was struck dumb, looking for all the world like his man about town mask had been ripped off in a heartbeat. The waitress looked at him wide-eyed. The other customers began to murmur. Charles tried to laugh, but it stuck in his throat.

N-no, that cant be he stammered.

The old man gave a sad smile.

But it can. I lived next to your mother. I remember how youd hide behind the hedge so no one would see you Ashamed because you were hungry.

Charles eyes darted as if searching for a fire escape. But the exit wasnt the doorit was somewhere much deeper.

You forgot me, the old man said softly. And I get itpeople forget fast when life gets rosy. But I didnt forget you. You were the shivering boy, slurping down hot soup as if sent from above.

Charles gripped his glass so hard his knuckles whitened. His hands trembled.

I I didnt know he whispered, not quite sure what he meant. Not I didnt knowbut I didnt want to remember.

The old man slowly stood, and before he left, said only this:

Youve got everything now yet today you chose to mock a man having his soup. Dont forget, Charles someday life might plant you exactly where you once pointed and laughed.

And then he left.

Nobody in the restaurant breathed quite right after that. The waitress blinked away tears. The owner stared at the floor. And Charles Montgomerya man who seemed to have England by the tailsuddenly seemed very, very small.

So small.

He followed the old man out, catching him at the door.

Sir please, forgive me.

The old man gazed at him for a long moment.

Its not me you need to ask, he replied at last. Its the boy you once werethe one you buried to play the big man.

Charles looked down.

Then whispered:

Come tomorrow and the day after and as long as you like Youll never pay for that soup again.

The old man smiled, and for the first time in years, a little peace flickered in his eyes.

Because sometimes, its not loss that teaches us; its memoriesmemories that bring us home to our humanity.

If youve read this far, leave a and pass it onsomeone out there might need reminding that our worth isnt counted in pounds, but in heart.

An Elderly Gentleman Struggled From His Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Made His Way to the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Squinted at His Slumbering Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away?”—He Sank to His Knees. “Seems She’s Breathing.” He Stood and Slowly Shuffled Into the Kitchen. Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Headed to His Room. Lying Awake, He Thought: “Lena and I Are Both Ninety. What a Life We’ve Lived! Soon We’ll Be Gone, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter Natasha Died Before Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, But She’s Been in Germany for Over Twenty Years—She Never Remembers Us. She Probably Has Grown-Up Children of Her Own Now.” He Didn’t Notice When Sleep Overtook Him. He Awoke to a Gentle Touch: “Kostya, Are You Alive?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Leaning Over Him. “Lena, What’s the Matter?” “I Saw You Lying So Still, I Was Frightened. Thought You’d Died.” “Still Alive! Go and Sleep!” Shuffling Steps Echoed. The Kitchen Light Flicked On. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Visited the Loo, and Headed to Her Room. She Lay Down, Thinking: “One Morning I’ll Wake to Find Him Gone. What Will I Do Then? Maybe I’ll Be the First to Go. Kostya’s Even Arranged Our Funerals Already—Who’d Have Thought You Could Organise Your Own? But It’s a Good Thing—Who’d Bury Us Otherwise? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us Completely. Only Polina the Neighbour Pops In Anymore—She’s Got a Key. Granddad Gives Her Part of Our Pension. She Gets Our Shopping and Medicines. Where Else Do We Have to Spend Our Money? We Can’t Even Get Down from the Fourth Floor Alone Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sunlight Was Peeking Through the Window. He Stepped Out Onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Tip of the Bird Cherry Tree. He Smiled: “We’ve Lived to See Another Summer!” He Went to Check on His Wife, Who Sat Pensively on Her Bed. “Lena, No More Pouting! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve No Strength Left!” She Struggled from the Bed. “What Are You Up To?” “Come Along Now!” He Supported Her to the Balcony. “Look, the Bird Cherry’s Green! And You Said We’d Never See Another Summer. But We Did!” “It Is—The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Together on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Invited You to the Cinema Back at School? The Bird Cherry Was Leafing Out That Day, Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago Was That?” “Over Seventy… Seventy-Five.” They Sat for a Long Time, Reminiscing About Their Youth—So Much Slips Away With Old Age, Even What Happened Yesterday, but Your Youth—That Sticks with You Forever. “We’ve Chattered Away! Haven’t Even Had Breakfast Yet.” “Lena, Make Us Some Proper Tea, Will You? I’m Tired of This Herbal Stuff.” “We Shouldn’t Really.” “Just a Weak Brew, and a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Weak Tea, Nibbling Cheese on Toast, Remembering How Breakfasts Used to Mean Strong Sweet Tea with Pies or Pasties. Their Neighbour Dropped In and Smiled Fondly: “How Are the Pair of You?” “What Can Possibly Be New When You’re Ninety?”—Granddad Joked. “Well, If You’re Jokers, You Must Be Fine. Do You Need Anything From the Shops?” “Polina, Could You Get Us Some Meat, Please?” “You’re Not Supposed to Have That.” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Make You Some Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Get Something for My Heart?” the Old Lady Asked. “Elena Ivanovna, I Got You Something Not Long Ago.” “We’ve Run Out Already.” “Maybe I Should Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Tidied the Table, Did the Washing Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Back Out on the Balcony—Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! Can’t Bear Sitting Cooped Up.” Polina Returned, Bringing Their Porridge onto the Balcony Before Starting Soup for Lunch. “She’s a Good Woman,” He Said as She Went. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And You Only Give Her Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, We Left Her the Flat in Our Will and Had It Notarised.” “But She Doesn’t Know That.” They Sat on the Balcony Until Lunch. Lunch Was Chicken Soup—Tasty, with Finely Diced Meat and Mashed Potato. “I Always Made It Like This for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Little,” Elena Ivanovna Reminisced. “And Now, in Our Old Age, It’s Strangers Who Cook for Us,” Her Husband Sighed Heavily. “Seems That’s Our Lot, Kostya. We’ll Die and No One Will Even Shed a Tear.” “Enough, Lena—No More Gloom. Let’s Have a Nap!” “They Say ‘Old Folk Are Just Like Children.’ Here We Are—Pureed Soup, Afternoon Naps, Tea Time…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed Briefly, Then Woke Unsettled—Perhaps the Weather Changing. He Checked the Kitchen—Polina Had Thoughtfully Poured Two Glasses of Juice. He Took Both to His Wife’s Room. She Sat Gazing Out the Window. “Why So Sad, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice!” She Sipped: “You Can’t Sleep Either, Can You?” “It’s the Weather—Must Be My Blood Pressure.” “I Haven’t Felt Right All Morning,” She Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Long Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off, Won’t You?” “Lena, Don’t Talk Nonsense—What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Always Goes First.” “Enough, Now—Let’s Go Onto the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Cheese Fritters, Which They Ate Before Watching TV—As Always, Soviet-Era Comedies and Cartoons, Since Modern Plots Were Hard to Follow. After One Cartoon, Elena Ivanovna Stood: “I’ll Go to Bed—I’m Tired.” “I’ll Join You, Then.” “Let Me Take a Good Look at You,” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “No Reason—Just Let Me.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time, Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Lay Ahead. “Come, I’ll See You to Bed.” She Took Her Husband’s Arm, and They Walked Slowly Together. He Tucked Her In Gently and Left for His Own Room. His Heart Felt Heavy—Sleep Would Not Come. Maybe He Hadn’t Slept at All, but the Clock Showed 2am. He Went to His Wife’s Room. She Lay Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open: “Lena!” He Took Her Hand—It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened! Lena!” Suddenly He Himself Struggled for Air. He Barely Reached His Room, Laid Out Their Documents, and Returned to His Wife. He Looked Long at Her Face, Then Lay Down Beside Her and Closed His Eyes. He Saw His Lively, Beautiful Lena, as She Was Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant Light. He Ran To Catch Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered the Bedroom. They Lay Side By Side, the Same Serene Smile On Both Their Faces. When She Recovered Herself, Polina Called for an Ambulance. The Doctor Who Arrived Looked at Them, Then Shook His Head in Wonder: “Died Together. They Must Have Truly Loved Each Other.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank Powerless onto a Chair, Only Then Noticing the Burial Contract and… a Will in Her Name. She Dropped Her Head in Her Hands and Wept.

Andrew, please, kind sir, I beg you! I’m pleading—help us! A desperate woman threw herself at the feet of the tall man in the white coat and burst into tears. Behind a string of shabby consulting rooms, her child was dying in the medicine-scented A&E of the village hospital. —Try to understand! I can’t do it. I just can’t! That’s why I came here! I haven’t operated in two years. My hand, the conditions… —I beg you! Please!—the woman clung stubbornly to the reluctant doctor. He had to agree. He had to try—because otherwise… Just a few more steps. A creaking, white-painted wooden door. And there he was—her little Michael. Her own, her only. Tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hiding his faded freckles. Still breathing. Still alive. And the blood seeping from the bandage on his head was as thick and dark as last year’s cherry jam. The green line on the heart monitor wavered with every ragged breath. There was no way they’d make it to the city; it was a hundred miles. The helicopter… but the blizzard outside had stolen their last hope. His blood pressure kept falling. His heartbeat weaker and weaker. The paramedics averted their eyes. —Kovalevsky!—an elderly nurse clutching the stretcher seized his arm—Andrew! She pulled a crumpled old newspaper from her pocket, showing a photo of the man in his white coat, smiling children clustered around him like redbreasts on a rowan. Tears blurred lines about an accident, a damaged hand, a failed operation—yet spoke of a world-class neurosurgeon. A godsend. In their backwater… If only he’d agree! —I can’t take that kind of responsibility! Don’t you see? Last time… my wrist… I failed! I can’t operate anymore. I just can’t! The boy on the gurney was growing paler. The blood, like jam. The colleagues clustered at the doorway, uneasily silent. The sobbing mother. Time—against them all. And a dog… —A dog? —What’s a dog doing here? Only whining replied. A Labrador lunged for the stretcher, claws scrabbling on the floor, someone tugging at the collar, but he strained forward, locking eyes on Michael—and no longer whined. He rasped. And still he pressed on… —That’s Loyal—he’s Michael’s,—the woman wept, forgetting to breathe as the doctor’s words dropped like a stone into the heavy quiet: —Prep the operating theatre. He shut his eyes for a moment. Another memory surfaced—another dog. Hope. His father still alive. Andrew as a schoolboy. The icy New Year road. The wrecked car in the snow, like a shattered ornament. His mother crying. The doctor’s hesitant eyes. The impossible operation, the centre so far away. And Hope no longer whined at the grave. Only rasped. Stopped eating on the sixth day. Watched. Then followed her owner. Faded away. —I’ll be a neurosurgeon, Mum. I promised Hope, whispered the tousle-haired boy at the grave. The very best. Do you believe me? How could he forget? Why? ***** The theatre lights, blinding as the sun. The shine of steel. His wrist pulsed again. “Maybe I should get a dog”—what wild thoughts, now of all times! His fingers were wooden. Never mind, he’d manage. The injury was bad. Complicated. Pressure dropping, praying swelling wouldn’t worsen… Delicate tissue damaged. The skull bone in shards to piece back together. Blood vessels… And even the fastest helicopter would have been too late. The local assistants’ eyes shone. For them, this was a miracle. For him? How many times had he done this? Why give up after one failure? Why run away? Why break all ties? The wrist throbbed. And Hope’s eyes seemed to watch from the corner… Or maybe it was the Labrador, ready to follow his boy—Loyal. It was hard to hold the clamp. The staples. His fingers trembled. Nearly there—just a little longer. Breathe, Michael, just breathe. Don’t give up. We won’t let you slip away. Time—now it ticked for Michael. Was that the sound of a helicopter, somehow? Had it finally made it? ***** —Dr. Kovalevsky, someone’s asking for you,—the duty nurse peeked into his office and couldn’t help but break into a wide smile. Everyone smiled these days. Kovalevsky had returned. Every department was abuzz. Critical children were being sent from all over the county. Now the fear was gone. Kovalevsky’s hands were “golden.” Laughter echoed down the paediatric neuro wards again. The little ones were recovering. And the parents… why, they followed him everywhere… —Five minutes. Just let me check on Matthew. Just around the corner to his six-year-old patient’s room. A cheeky red-haired boy. Called him Uncle Andy. Came for a trip to London, fell from the second floor—just like Michael from the village. His skull—Dr. Kovalevsky had pieced it together over eight hours. Managed. Even the wrist barely ached. Maybe it was the children’s laughter—healed something, somehow… It was right, after all, that he came back. He should have done it sooner—never had the right reason. Had forgotten so much. But life, well—life reminded him. The dog, though, he’d never gotten around to. Too busy. He often wondered how that Labrador and Michael were getting on. He thought of them a lot. —Oh, Dr. Kovalevsky, dear! No sooner had he reached the door. Speak of the devil! —Hello, Michael, hello, Natalie,—he smiled—And you too, Loyal. His hand reached for the soft head, a wet nose nuzzled his palm. Gentle brown eyes watched him, full of knowing. —What brings you here? Is Michael all right—or are you in for a check-up? —Michael’s grand,—Natalie gushed—absolutely fine! That’s not why we’re here! Only now did Dr. Kovalevsky notice the radiant smile, the oddly bulging coat, her glittering eyes—but it felt awkward to ask. Loyal whirled around restlessly, breaking his train of thought. —Here! A taller Michael couldn’t hold his silence any longer. He burrowed behind his mother’s coat and handed the bemused Dr. Kovalevsky something small, black, pathetic and floppy-eared. —Ah…?—words caught in his mouth as he lifted the surprise to his face. —Don’t be cross,—Michael babbled—Loyal found him. Mum said we could keep him. And yesterday, we saw your interview on telly. And Loyal dragged him to the screen by the scruff when he heard your voice. So Mum and I thought… —You thought right. Long overdue,—Dr. Kovalevsky winked at the beaming dog—He’ll be my inspiration. I’ll call him Timmy.

“Hello, I’m Your Husband’s Mistress.” I paused my magazine layout work and looked up at the glamorous blonde who appeared at my office door. She smirked and added, “I have bad news for you—I’m pregnant. Naturally, by your husband.” Business-like, I asked, “Do you have proof?” She flashed a triumphant smile and produced a medical certificate from her designer handbag. She was well prepared. I inspected the certificate. It was authentic—not that surprising, really. When you bring such news to your lover’s wife, fakes won’t fly. “Alright,” I agreed, “it seems you really are pregnant. Now all that’s left is a paternity test to prove the baby is my husband’s, and then everything can be sorted.” This seemed to shake her a bit. She hesitantly asked, “Sorted—how?” I explained cheerfully, “My husband will pay child support, I’ll find you a good doctor, book you a top hospital—you can have your baby in comfort, no worries for you or the child.” The blonde looked unsettled. “Don’t you understand? I’m having his baby. He needs to be a father.” I answered patiently, “Our three children need a father too, and, thank God, they have one. But don’t worry, my husband will see your baby as well and take him to school when the time comes. Your child could even stay with us for a while—we have excellent nannies, and I adore children. It’ll give you time to get your own life in order. Believe me, it’s hard to date when you have a child.” Now she was upset, twisting her expensive bag. “Don’t you get it? I’m sleeping with your husband. I’m having his child. He doesn’t love you, he loves me!” I felt sorry for this young woman. Real life quickly banishes hopeless romantic dreams, even from girls who think they can snatch a wealthy husband for free. “Honey, you’re the fourth woman to come to me with this story. The first didn’t even have a certificate; the second and third brought forgeries… there was even one with a real pregnancy, but the paternity test failed. Neither I nor my husband have ever refused help, but we won’t tolerate lies—not even a kind man like my husband.” She looked lost. I continued, “As for sleeping with my husband—he sleeps with me, and many other hopefuls. I can’t deny my beloved his little indulgences. It doesn’t affect me or the children at all. Leave your number, I’ll arrange the paternity test, and we’ll be in touch.” She lost her nerve and ran out. I lit a cigarette. I’d been waiting for this visit—I knew about my husband’s latest fancy. I got through the conversation, as I had with the others, though it wasn’t easy. It would have been simpler to snap, make a scene, and let my very rich, successful husband leave for another woman. That’s exactly how I got him from his ex—when I turned up with news of my pregnancy, she made a scene, and he couldn’t stand drama. He married me, and I sealed the deal by having two more children. Deep down, I know a man who cheated on his wife with me won’t be faithful forever. There’ll always be new contenders. But I won’t make his ex-wife’s mistake—I’ll never give them a chance. I will endure. I can do this.