Mother-in-Law Tried Snooping Through My Cupboards While I Was Out—But I Was Ready for Her “Why do you have pillowcases from different sets on your bed? It’s terribly uncouth, and surely it must be uncomfortable, too—one’s cotton, the other’s satin, the texture must irritate your skin.” Galina Ivanovna’s voice was soft, with that deceptively caring tone that always made Marina’s left eyelid start to twitch. Marina, who was standing at the stove stirring the ragout, took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The Sunday lunch—which by now felt more like a weekly ordeal—was in full swing. Her mother-in-law sat at the kitchen table, perfectly straight as a rod, scanning the room with her x-ray glare. Not a speck of dust nor a minuscule tile crack escaped her. “Galina Ivanovna, Andrey and I find it comfortable,” Marina replied, trying to keep her tone neutral. “We don’t mind those little things. The important thing is the linen is clean and fresh.” “Little things,” her mother-in-law repeated, sighing as she gingerly broke off a piece of bread. “All of life, Marisha, is made up of little things. Today it’s mismatched pillowcases, tomorrow an unwashed mug left in the sink, and the day after tomorrow—who knows, maybe the whole family falls apart. Domesticity is like cement—it binds or it breaks, depending on how much the lady of the house pays attention to detail.” Andrey, Marina’s husband, kept his eyes on his plate, as if deeply fascinated by the process of chewing carrots. He was a good, kind, and reliable man, but when it came to his mother, he was an ostrich—head firmly in the sand. Marina knew she couldn’t expect much from him during moments like these. He loved them both and panicked at the thought of conflict. “Oh, by the way,” Galina Ivanovna sipped her tea, “I noticed when I went to wash my hands there’s quite a mess on the top shelf of your bathroom cabinet—creams, tubes, all jumbled. Marisha, you really should buy some organisers. They’re on sale now at B&Q. A tidy cupboard means a tidy mind, you know.” Marina froze with the ladle raised. The bathroom. The top shelf. She knew you’d need a stool to even see up there. Which meant her mother-in-law hadn’t just “washed her hands,” but had carried out a full-scale inspection. “You opened the bathroom cabinet?” Marina turned to face her. “My dear, don’t be so rude—‘opened.’” Galina Ivanovna winced. “I was just looking for some cotton pads to fix my makeup. The door was ajar, not my fault your things are a jumble. I’m only trying to help, you know. Makes it easier for you to find things yourself.” The lunch ended in taut silence. When the door finally closed behind her mother-in-law, Marina slumped on the living-room sofa, feeling completely wrung out. This sticky sense of intrusion had been haunting her for months. Ever since they’d given Galina Ivanovna a spare key—“just in case”—strange things had started happening. She’d find her dresses in the closet rearranged—not by length, as she liked, but by colour. The coffee jar would migrate from one shelf to another. Her underwear, always folded in neat stacks, would mysteriously appear rolled into tight cylinders. “Andrey, she’s been going through my things again,” Marina said as her husband cleared the table. “Marina, please, don’t start,” Andrey replied tiredly. “She’s not snooping. Well, maybe she tidied. She’s old-school—order means everything to her. She’s just lonely, so she gets involved. It’s not malicious.” “Getting involved is offering help, Andrey. Not fiddling around in my underwear drawer. It makes me feel like a guest in my own home.” “I’ll talk to her,” he promised, but Marina knew that meant nothing. He’d say something gentle, she’d cry, accuse them of kicking her out of the family, and he’d back down. A week passed. Marina tried not to dwell on her suspicions, burying herself in work. She was a senior logistics manager at a large firm, kept late by her schedule. Then, one Tuesday, she got home early and saw faint bootprints on the doormat. And that familiar, sickly-sweet scent in the air—Red Moscow perfume, Galina Ivanovna’s trademark. In the bedroom, Marina’s heart pounded. Her top drawer, where she kept important documents and a bit of savings, was slightly open—just a millimetre, but Marina always pushed it tightly shut. The folder with their mortgage documents was out of place, and their holiday fund envelope looked crumpled, as if someone had counted the cash. This wasn’t just “tidying the bathroom.” This was a full-blown search. Her mother-in-law was using the spare keys to inspect their finances behind their backs. Marina didn’t confront her straight away. Without proof, Galina Ivanovna would talk her way out of it—say she smelled gas, was looking for a leak, or needed to water the plants and knocked the drawer by accident. Andrey would believe his mother. She needed rock-solid evidence. At lunch the next day, Marina met her friend Svetlana, a battle-hardened woman who knew a thing or two about family intrigue. “She’s off the rails,” Svetlana declared after hearing the story. “She’s counting your money? Classic. Maybe she’s collecting dirt on you! Like, is there a diary where you write about her being a wicked witch?” “You think she’s looking for blackmail material?” Marina laughed, but the idea stuck. “Get a camera,” Svetlana instructed. “A tiny Wi-Fi one. Stick it in your bedroom, disguise it as a clock or something. And then set a trap.” That evening, Marina bought a miniature camera. While Andrey was in the shower, she tucked it among the books, exactly facing the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. The camera was motion-activated and would alert her via phone. But she needed bait. Inspired by Svetlana, Marina placed a bright shoebox in the linen cupboard—her mother-in-law’s favourite inspection zone—wrapped it in red paper, and wrote in big, bold marker: “PRIVATE! DO NOT OPEN! TOP SECRET!” Inside the box, Marina created a little “installation”: a fake novelty store receipt for £5,000, an odd feathered mask, and on top, an A4 sheet reading: “Dear Galina Ivanovna! If you’re reading this, you’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong again. Smile—you’re on camera! The video of your inspection will be sent to Andrey in five minutes. Enjoy the show!” To top it off, she rigged a confetti popper inside the box. On Thursday morning, she theatrically mentioned—loud enough for Andrey, who always relayed updates to his mother—that she’d be back late after work, not before ten. The perfect opportunity. The day was endless. No notifications, then, at last, at 2:30pm—“Motion detected: Bedroom.” Marina darted out of her office and checked her phone. On the black-and-white feed, Galina Ivanovna, now changed into a housecoat she apparently kept at theirs (new information), began her inspection. First, Andrey’s drawers. Then, Marina’s. She unfolded and refolded underwear, examined clothes, checked price tags, sniffed a blouse sleeve. Then—the red box. Frozen, Galina Ivanovna hesitated, curiosity battling caution. Curiosity won. She prised open the lid. POP! Even through the silent video, Marina could see her mother-in-law jump as a burst of confetti showered her hair and clothes. Scrambling for composure, she fished out the note, read it, and panic-set in, scouring the room with wild eyes for the spy camera. Flustered and furious, she hurriedly fled the flat. Shaking with vindication, Marina saved the video and rang Andrey. “Check your messages. Watch the video. I’ll wait.” After a long silence, Andrey was devastated. “Was this today? She…she went through your things?” he asked, voice breaking. “She opened the box? You knew?” “I suspected,” said Marina. “I needed to protect myself.” Andrey resignedly agreed that they’d go see his mother that evening. When they arrived, Galina Ivanovna tried to keep up appearances, smoothing her hair (now sparkling with scraps of confetti). “Oh, Andrusha, Marina… you’re home early! Didn’t expect you!” In the kitchen, Andrey was steely. “Mum, we saw the recording.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her voice trembled. “Enough, Mum,” he said. “There’s a camera in the bedroom. We saw everything. The snooping, the box. Everything.” “You…you were spying on me?! Your own mother? How could you?” “How could you go through my wife’s underwear? Open our drawers? What did you think you’d find—a secret stash of cash? Proof I’m being cheated on?” Marina said, quietly but firmly. “I just wanted to help—your things are such a mess! You’re a terrible housekeeper, Marina! And Andrey’s shirts are never ironed! I just want what’s best for my son and this is how you repay me—with stupid confetti and cameras! I nearly had a heart attack!” “Mum, that’s enough,” Andrey said, his voice cold. “Give me your spare keys. Now.” Broken, Galina Ivanovna burst into genuine tears. With shaking hands, she surrendered the keyring to her son. “Fine! Take them! Live in filth! Drown in debt! But don’t come crying to me! I won’t set foot in your house again!” “Thank you,” Marina said softly, pocketing the keys. “That’s exactly what we want. You’re welcome only by invitation from now on.” Outside, the evening air felt clean and light. The weight was gone. “I’m sorry,” Andrey murmured. “I should’ve believed you.” “You love her. That’s normal. The main thing is—it’s over.” At home, they changed the bedding, ordered pizza, and opened a bottle of wine. Galina Ivanovna didn’t call for a month. Then dry messages to Andrey: “Happy Geologist’s Day”, “How’s the weather?” He replied briefly, politely. She no longer asked to visit. Things settled into “cold peace,” and Marina was fine with that. Six months later, at a family do, they saw her again. She stayed distant but peaceful. When someone joked about hiding delicate china from “nosy kids,” Marina caught Galina Ivanovna’s eye. The mother-in-law blushed and stared at her plate. Marina smiled and winked at her husband. Their boundaries were now safe—and they alone held the keys. Sometimes, to truly tidy up your life, you don’t just need to sort out your things—you have to sweep out those who keep making a mess. And whether it takes a box of confetti or not, in the end, it’s worth it.

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 3

And why do you have pillowcases from different sets on your bed? It looks so tacky, and I cant imagine its comfortable. Ones cotton, the others satindifferent textures must irritate your skin, dont they? The gentle tone of Mrs. Helen Smith was deceptively caring, the kind of softness that always set off a twitch in Emilys left eye.

Emily, busy at the stove stirring a bubbling stew, tried to breathe through the sharp surge of anxiety. Traditional Sunday lunch had become its own cruel ordeal. Helen sat rigidly upright at the kitchen table, eyes darting with all the thoroughness of a customs inspector. Not a crumb escaped her scrutiny; no bit of grout between the kitchen tiles went unexamined.

Helen, Tom and I honestly dont notice things like that, Emily responded, straining to keep her voice measured. As long as its clean, were happy.

Details, dear, Helen intoned, breaking a slice of granary bread with a prim sigh. Life is made of little details. Today its mismatched linen, tomorrow its a dirty mug left in the sink, and the next day, goodness knows the whole family falls to pieces. The home, you know, is the cement of a marriage. Or crumbles it, if the lady of the house ahem, isnt attentive.

Tom, who was glaring intently at the carrot in his mouth across from his mother, seemed enthralled by his chewing. A good man, kind and steady, but whenever his mother was involved, he turned into an ostrich, head in the sand. Emily had long learned thered be no backup from him. His love for both women made him hopelessly averse to all conflict.

By the way, Helen sipped her tea, I noticed, while washing my hands earlier, that your bathroom cabinet shelf is a bit disastrous, darling. Creams, tubes all over the place. Why not buy some organisers? B&Q has them on offer at the moment. Order in your cupboards order in your head.

Emily froze, ladle in hand. Bathroom. Cabinet. Top shelf. Which, frankly, couldnt be reached without a step stool. So Helen hadnt just washed her hands she was conducting her own investigation.

Did you look into the closed cabinet? Emily asked as she turned.

Oh, come now, dont be so harsh, Helen winced. I was just looking for some cotton pads to fix my makeup, the door was already a bit open. I cant help if your things are everywhere, it just caught my eye! Im only trying to help; itll be so much easier for you to find what you need later.

Lunch ended in a silence pulled taut. The moment the door closed behind her mother-in-law, Emily all but collapsed on the living room sofa. She felt completely wrung out. That sticky, intrusive sensation had dogged her for months. Ever since theyd given Helen a set of keys, just in case in case the boiler burst, or the cat needed feeding weird things had started happening.

Shed find her dresses in the wardrobe organised by colour instead of length, or see the coffee jar moved to a new spot, or her underwear rolled into little tubes instead of stacked, the way she liked.

Tom, shes been at my things again, Emily said, watching her husband clear the plates.

Please, Em, not again, Tom groaned. Shes not snooping, maybe she just looked for something and tidied a bit. Shes just old-fashioned, she finds order comforting. She means well.

Meaning well is asking first, Emily bit out. Not reorganising my knickers without telling me. Its a violation of privacy, Tom. I feel like a guest in my own home.

I promise Ill talk to her, Tom offered, but with that familiar look in his eyes. Thered be no talk, just a gentle hint. Shed cry, claim she wasnt wanted, and Tom would cave.

A week passed. Emily buried herself in work, trying to ignore the suspicion. It wasnt until Tuesday blessedly home early due to a cancelled meeting that she noticed light boot prints on the doormat. Faint, but undeniable. And that unmistakable fragrance in the air the heavy floral scent of Rose Moon, Helens perfume.

Emily headed for the bedroom. Her heart thudded. The top drawer of her dresser where important documents and some savings were kept was ever so slightly ajar. Emily always shut it flush.

She pulled it open. The file with their mortgage papers sat atop the passports, though Emily recalled putting it at the bottom. The holiday money envelope was crumpled, as if thumbed through.

Red, suffocating fury boiled up. This wasnt just order in the bathroom; this was a search, a proper rummage. Her mother-in-law had come in using the emergency keys and gone through their things.

Emily held her tongue. Without proof, Helen would wriggle out of it easily: I thought I smelled gas, or I came to water the plants and mustve brushed past. Tom would believe his mum. She needed hard evidence.

Over lunch the next day, Emily met her friend Jane in a café Jane, whod survived two divorces and more drama than a soap opera.

Shes crossed the line, Em, Jane declared, twirling her cappuccino. Counting your money? Classic. Making sure you arent wasting her precious sons wages, probably. But you sure shes after cash? What if its something else dirt on you?

What dirt? Im not a spy. Its just work and home.

You never know. Maybe she thinks youre writing in some secret diary that shes a wicked old crone. Or hiding receipts from posh shops. Some women love building a file, so one day they can pounce: Look what your wife secretly bought while you were slogging away!

That struck a chord. Emily had an idea.

Jane, I want to catch her red-handed. No denying it, so Tom will finally see.

Cameras, Jane deadpanned. Get one of those tiny Wi-Fi cameras, hide it in the bedroom. They do them in alarm clocks now, even teddies. And set a little trap.

A trap?

Leave her bait she cant resist.

That evening, while Tom showered, Emily slipped a pinhole camera between the books on the shelf facing both wardrobe and dresser. It was motion-detecting, sending alerts to her phone.

But that wasnt dramatic enough. She recalled Janes advice about bait and set up a proper lure.

She cleared a spot on the bedding shelf Helens favourite to inspect. Then, using an old shoe box wrapped in bright red paper, she wrote in bold black: PRIVATE! DO NOT OPEN! STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL!

Anyone nosy would be powerless to resist. In the box Emily placed, among odd but harmless things, a joke shop receipt for five thousand pounds, a feathered mask, and, right on top, a sheet of A4 paper:

Dear Mrs. Smith, If youre reading this, youre snooping again. Smile youre on camera! A video of your inspection will be sent to Tom in 5 minutes. Enjoy!

Just for dramatic effect, she rigged a confetti popper inside when the lid opened, a shower of glitter would burst out.

The trap was set. All that remained was to give her a window of opportunity.

On Thursday morning, as she gathered her bag, Emily said loudly (knowing Tom would relay all):
What a day Ive got. Ill not be back until at least tenlate meetings.

Tom, oblivious, nodded,
Mum asked if she should pop by to check the plants, since its hot. I told her not to bother, but, you know

She can come if she likes, Emily shrugged, suppressing a smirk. Id hate her to get bored.

They left. From her phone app, Emily checked the camera. Everything was ready; the red box all but winked from the shelf.

The day crawled. Hour after hour: nothing. She started to doubt. But at 2:30pm, her phone pinged: Motion detected: Bedroom.

Emily excused herself, heart pounding, and opened the app in the corridor.

Grainy black and white footage: Helen, her mother-in-law, entering the bedroom in her dressing gown (presumably kept at their house another revelation). She gave the place an assessing sweep.

First it was Toms nightstand. She rifled the drawer, found nothing thrilling, and moved to Emilys dresser, shuffling underwear, tutting at colours and styles, and refolding everything to her own system.

Emily gritted her teeth and hit record.

Having finished rearranging, Helen went for the main event the wardrobe. She flicked through hangers, checked labels, lifted sleeves and sniffed, clearly judging.

And then she spotted the box.

Helen froze. She glanced at the door. Alone. Excitement warred with caution. Curiosity won. She lifted the box onto the bed, and, revelling in the forbidden, lifted the lid.

BANG.

Even without sound, Emily could see her jolt. A cloud of glitter and confetti shot up, sprinkling into her hair, onto the bedspread, everywhere. Helen clutched her chest, aghast.

Recovering shakily, she peeked into the box, found the note and squinted. She read, face shifting from disbelief to horror to pure panic. She started looking round the room, wild-eyed, desperate to spot the camera. Even in black and white, her embarrassment was unmistakable.

She flung the paper back into the box and tried frantically to sweep away the confetti, but only spread it further. Then she darted out of the room. A moment later, another motion alert from the hallway Helen making a quick escape.

Emily downloaded the video, exhaled, and dialled her husband.

Tom, are you free? This cant wait.

Whats wrong? He sounded on edge.

Nothing serious, I just need you home early. And we need to see your mum. Tonight.

Mum? But you said

Plans have changed, Tom. I sent you a video on WhatsApp. Watch it now, please.

Silence, muffled office noises, the sound of a file playing.

A long, long pause.

This this was today? Toms voice was strained.

Twenty minutes ago.

She was going through your things? And the box you set her up?

I suspected. I had to be sure. I needed to protect myself, Tom. You wouldnt take my word for it.

Another heavy silence.

Ill get off early, he said finally. Meet you at the car.

The drive to Helens felt endless. Tom was stone-faced, white-knuckled on the wheel. Emily stayed quiet; he was reeling.

Helen answered the door. Her hair was damp from a hasty wash, but rogue flecks of confetti glinted in the strands around her ear.

Oh, Tom, Emily I wasnt expecting you back so soon she stammered, fussing with her robe, blocking the hall.

Mum, we need to talk, Tom said, pushing gently past.

Helen hurried into the kitchen, busying herself with the kettle, rattling mugs, not meeting their eyes.

Sit down, Mum, Tom said firmly. Leave the tea.

Helen perched at the edge of a stool, hands clasped on her lap like a reprimanded schoolgirl.

We saw the video, Tom began.

What video? she tried wide-eyed innocence, but her voice shook.

From the camera in the bedroom. We saw everything. You opening drawers, searching, opening that box.

Helen flushed crimson.

You were spying on me? Your own mother? Like a criminal? How dare you!

And how dare you go through my underwear drawer, Mrs. Smith? Emily said, level but cold. You come into our home, uninvited, and rummage through our things. What were you hoping to find? Evidence of some crime? Money?

I was only trying to help! Helen screeched, tears springing to her eyes. Your home is chaotic! Youre a poor housekeeper, Emily! Tom wears creased shirts! I break my heart for my son, and you you set traps! I nearly had a heart attack!

Enough, Mum, Tom snapped, slamming his palm on the table. My shirts are my business. If someone does the ironing, its because we agreed it. And even if not its between us. You have no right coming in and touching our things.

He opened his hand, palm outstretched.

The keys.

What? she whispered.

Give back the keys to our flat. Now.

Youre taking your mothers keys? For her? Over some laundry and knickers? Tom, I raised you! I gave you everything!

You violated our trust, Mum. Youve humiliated my wife and broken my confidence. I dont want to worry that someones been reading my letters or counting my money. The keys, please.

Helen wept not crocodile tears this time, but shocked, helpless sobbing. With trembling hands she lifted the keys off the peg by the door still on the teddy bear keyring Tom had given her as a child and threw them on the table.

Take them! Live as you please! Fill your house with filth and debt, but dont come running to me! Ill never set foot here again!

Thank you, Emily replied calmly, pocketing the keys. Thats exactly what we wanted. Youll only come with an invitation from now on.

They left the building in silence. The evening air tasted fresher than Emily had felt in months; the weight on her shoulders had gone.

Im so sorry, Tom murmured as they sat in the car, not meeting her gaze. I should have believed you long ago.

You just love her, Emily placed her hand over his. Its hard to accept those close to us can do something so wrong. But its over now.

Yes, he said, finally meeting her eyes, something new respect shining there. Youre so clever. And brave. The box that was genius.

Had to get creative, Emily smiled. Ill vacuum up any glitter left behind.

That night, first thing, they changed the bed linen. Emily wanted to erase all trace of Helens presence. They ordered pizza and opened a bottle of wine.

Helen didnt call for a month. When she did, it was only curt texts: Happy St. Georges Day, Hows the weather? Tom replied, courteous but brief. She asked to visit no more, and nor did they invite her. It became a sort of cold peace, and Emily was perfectly happy with that.

Half a year later, at Toms aunts birthday, they saw Helen again. She kept her distance, pursing her lips at Emily, but didnt start a scene.

As everyone sat down for dinner, the aunt gaily declared her new china was far too fragile for prying hands to touch, shooing the curious away:

Children are so nosey, always poking in cupboards

Emily caught Helens eye; her mother-in-law flushed and looked quickly down.

Emily smiled and winked at Tom. Their boundaries were secured. The only keys now belonged to them; their home was their own at last.

Sometimes, to achieve true order, its not enough to rearrange your cupboards you have to banish those who bring chaos. Even if you must wield a glitter cannon to do it, its worth every sparkle.

You Didn’t Deserve It “I thought after my divorce I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” said Andrew, absently spinning his empty espresso cup between his fingers, his voice trembling so convincingly that Katie leaned in without thinking. “You know, when someone betrays you, it feels like you lose a part of yourself. She did me irreparable emotional harm. I didn’t think I’d ever get out, not sure I’d even survive…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for quite a while. About his ex-wife, who never appreciated him. About pain that wouldn’t let go. About the fear of starting all over again. Every word landed in Katie’s heart like a warm stone, and she was already picturing herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. The one to help him heal. The one who’d show him true happiness was possible—with her. Andrew brought up Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee. “I have a son, actually—he’s seven. He lives with his mum but spends every weekend with me. That’s what the court decided.” “That’s wonderful!” Katie beamed. “Children are such a blessing.” She already envisioned it all: Saturday breakfasts for three, park outings, cozy evenings watching telly. The boy needed a woman’s touch, a bit of motherly warmth. She would be his second mum—not a replacement for the real one, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Andrew studied her face with a strange smile she mistook for distrust. “A lot of women run the other way when they hear about a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a real celebration. Katie made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She sat patiently over maths homework, explained sums in simple words, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and saw to it he was tucked in by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew gently one day, noticing how he had sprawled on the sofa, TV remote in hand. “I can handle things.” Andrew nodded—a grateful nod, she thought. Now she realised it was the nod of a landlord taking what’s due. Months became years. Katie worked as a manager at a logistics company, left the house before eight, came back at seven. Decent pay—by London standards, anyway. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve postponed things again at the site,” Andrew would grumble, as though reporting a natural disaster. “The client’s bailed. But there’s a big contract coming, promise you.” That big contract had stayed on the horizon for a year and a half—sometimes edging closer, sometimes fading away, but never quite real. The bills, however, arrived like clockwork. Rent. Electricity. Broadband. Groceries. Child support to Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Katie paid everything in silence. She scrimped on work lunches, packed cold pasta in Tupperware, walked home in the rain instead of taking a cab. She’d gone a year without a manicure—kept her nails filed herself, trying not to think about when she could afford a proper salon. In three years, Andrew brought her flowers exactly three times. She remembered every sad bouquet—half-wilted roses from a 24-hour shop near the tube, their broken stems speared in cellophane. Probably on a special offer. The first time was because he called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when a friend visited, unannounced. The third—when he missed her birthday entirely, having stayed late with mates. Or simply because he’d forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t care about expensive gifts,” she tried to say gently, choosing her words. “But sometimes I just want to know you’re thinking of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted at once. “You just care about money—that’s it, isn’t it? Presents. What about love? Everything I’ve been through?” “That’s not what I—” “You didn’t deserve it,” he spat, flinging the words like mud. “After all I do for you, more complaints?” Katie went quiet. She always did—it was easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Of course, he always had cash for pub nights with the lads: beers, football matches, Thursday dinners. He’d stagger home, reeking of sweat and smoke, not noticing Katie was still awake. She told herself this was how it was meant to be. Love means sacrifice. Patience. He would change. He had to. She just needed to take care of him better, love him more—he’d been through so much. Discussions about marriage became like tiptoeing through a minefield. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would swat away the topic like a persistent fly. “After what I went through with Marina, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re pressuring me! Always pressuring!” He’d snap, leave the room, and nothing ever came of the conversation. Katie wanted children. Her own, her flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, her biological clock ticked louder in her ear each month. But Andrew had no interest in fatherhood again—he already had a son, that was enough. One Saturday, she asked for just one day. That was all. “The girls have invited me round. Haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll be back tonight.” Andrew glared at her as if she’d just said she was emigrating. “And Max?” “He’s your son, Andrew. Have the day with him. Just you two.” “So you’re just leaving us? On a Saturday? I was counting on a bit of rest.” Katie blinked, once, then again. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry and ironing—all whilst holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… He’s your son. Can’t you cope for one day without me?” “You’re supposed to love my child as much as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing attitude?!” His flat. His food. Katie paid that rent. She bought that food with her pay. For three years, she’d supported a man who shouted at her for requesting a day off to see friends. She looked at him—at his contorted face, the throbbing vein in his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him for the first time. Not a tragic victim of circumstance. Not a lost soul in need of saving. But a grown man who’d mastered the art of using other people’s kindness. To Andrew, she was not a loved one, not a future wife. She was a cash machine and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Marina’s, Katie took out a holdall. Her hands moved steadily, with purpose—no trembling, no second thoughts. Papers. Phone. Charger. A couple of t-shirts. A pair of jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t leave a note. No point explaining yourself to someone who never saw you at all. The door closed softly behind her, drama-free. Within an hour, the calls began. One, then another, then a flood—her phone vibrated with a relentless trill. “Katie, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home—no sign of you! How dare you? Where’s my dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? How can you do this?” She listened to his rage—angry, outraged, self-righteous—and marvelled. Even now, as she left, Andrew only thought of himself. His discomfort. Who would make dinner. Not a word of sorry. Not a word of concern. Just “How dare you?” Katie blocked his number. Then found his profile on WhatsApp—blocked that too. Socials—blocked everywhere. Anywhere he could reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years living with a man who never loved her. Who used her kindness like a limitless resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But love isn’t like that. Real love never means humiliation. It never turns you into a servant. Katie strolled through the evening streets of London and, for the first time in ages, could breathe easy. She promised herself she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again save those who prey on pity. And to always choose herself. Only herself…

I’m 46 and if you looked at my life from the outside, you’d think everything was just fine. I married young – at 24 – to a hardworking, responsible Englishman. I had two children close together – at 26 and 28. I quit university because the schedules didn’t fit, the children were small, and I thought “there’d be time for it later.” There were never any big scandals or drama. Everything went along the way it’s “supposed to.” For years, my routine was always the same. I’d get up before everyone else, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, and head to work. I’d get home on time to finish chores, cook, wash, tidy up. Weekends were for family gatherings, birthdays, commitments. I was always there, always the one to take responsibility. If something was missing, I fixed it. If someone needed help, I was there. Never once did I ask myself if I wanted something more. My husband was never a bad man. We’d have dinner, watch telly, and go to bed. Not particularly affectionate, but not cold either. Didn’t want much, but never complained. Our conversations always revolved around bills, the kids, and chores. One ordinary Tuesday I sat in the living room, in silence, and realised I had nothing to do. Not because everything was fine, but because, in that moment, nobody needed me. I looked around and saw that for years, I’d kept this home running – but now, I didn’t know what to do with myself inside it. That day, I opened a drawer of old papers and found certificates, unfinished courses, ideas jotted in notebooks, projects set aside “for later.” I looked at photos from when I was young – before I was a wife, before I was a mum, before I was the one who fixed everything. I didn’t feel nostalgia. I felt something worse: the sense that I’d achieved everything without ever asking if it was what I wanted. Suddenly, I started to notice things I’d always thought were normal. That nobody asked how I was. That even when I came home exhausted, it was still down to me to sort everything out. That if he didn’t fancy a family gathering, that was fine, but if I didn’t want to go, it was still expected I would. That my opinion was there, but it didn’t carry any weight. There were no rows or drama, but there wasn’t space for me either. One night at dinner, I mentioned I wanted to go back to uni or try something different. My husband looked surprised and said, “What for, now?” He didn’t say it unkindly. He said it the way someone who doesn’t understand why anything needs to change says it. The kids were quiet. No one argued. No one forbade me. And yet I realised my role was so clearly defined that stepping out of it felt uncomfortable. I’m still married. I haven’t left, I haven’t packed my bags, I haven’t made any big decisions. But I’m not pretending to myself anymore. I know that for over twenty years, I’ve lived to hold together a structure where I was needed, but never the main character. How do you put yourself back together after something like that?

Backstabbed — Sophia Andrews, please meet Mila, our new team member. She’ll be joining your department. Sophia glanced up from her monitor to see a young woman in her early twenties. Her light brown hair was neatly tied back in a ponytail, and she wore an open, slightly shy smile. Mila shifted nervously on her feet, clutching a slim folder of documents to her chest. “Nice to meet you,” the young woman tilted her head slightly. “I’m so glad I got the job. I promise I’ll do my best.” The manager, Mr. Paul Gregory, had already turned to leave but paused at the door. “Sophia, you’ve been with us in logistics for twenty years. Please get Mila up to speed. Show her everything—the system, the routes, how to work with the hauliers. In a month, she should be able to manage her section independently.” Sophia nodded, studying the newcomer. Twenty-three—old enough to be Sophia’s daughter, if she’d ever had children. At fifty-five, Sophia had long since made peace with the fact that family would always be an impossible dream. Just work, a flat with geraniums on the windowsill, and her cat, Barney. “Take a seat,” Sophia indicated the desk beside her. “Let’s get started.” In her first week, Mila confused haulier codes and forgot to enter data into the log. Sophia patiently corrected her, explained again, drew diagrams on scraps of paper. “Look, here you put Exeter, but the consignment’s going to Edinburgh. That’s a four-hundred-mile difference, see?” Mila blushed to her roots, apologised, fixed it straight away. And then made mistakes somewhere else. By the middle of the second week, things started to look up. Mila picked things up quickly, scribbling Sophia’s every word into a battered notebook with cartoon cats on the cover. “Sophia, why don’t we work with this haulage company? Their prices are good.” “Because they missed deadlines. Twice. Reputation’s more important than a discount—remember that.” Mila nodded, jotting it down. Then, suddenly: “Do you bake your own pies? Your lunch smells amazing.” Sophia smirked. The next day, she brought in a bigger container—cabbage pies. Mila devoured them at lunch with such joy, it was as if she’d never tasted anything so wonderful. “My gran used to bake like this,” Mila said, gathering up the crumbs. “She passed away two years ago. I really miss her.” Without thinking, Sophia placed her hand gently on Mila’s thin fingers. Mila didn’t pull away, instead offering a grateful smile. Then came apple cake, cottage cheese biscuits, honey sponge—which Mila declared the best cake of her life. Sophia realised she was baking extra just to share with Mila. A strange and long-forgotten warmth settled in her chest. “Sophia, can I ask your advice? Not work-related.” “Go ahead.” “My boyfriend proposed. But we’ve only been together six months. Do you think it’s too soon?” Sophia put her papers aside, looked at Mila’s anxious eyes. “If you’re unsure, it’s too soon. When you meet the right one, you won’t need to ask.” Mila sighed in relief, as if Sophia had lifted a weight from her shoulders. By the end of week three, Mila was negotiating with hauliers herself, double-checking routes, spotting others’ mistakes. Sophia watched with quiet pride—she’d done it. She’d taught her well. “You’re like a mum to me,” Mila said one day. “Only better. My mum’s always criticising, but you support me.” Sophia blinked, turning to the window. “Get on with your work,” she muttered, but a smile stayed on her lips the entire evening. Over a month, Mila blossomed. Sophia noticed the confident way she spoke with pugnacious hauliers, how quickly she processed requests, how easily she navigated the database. Her pupil exceeded all expectations. …At the Friday staff meeting, Mr. Gregory looked grimmer than usual. He sat at the head of the table, twirling a pencil, silent for a long while. “It’s a difficult situation,” he said, scanning the room. “The market’s down, three major clients have gone to competitors. Senior management has decided to streamline staff.” Sophia exchanged glances with her colleagues. Everyone understood what “streamline” meant. Layoffs. “Decisions will be made over the next month about each department,” Mr. Gregory continued. “For now, business as usual.” After the meeting, Sophia returned to her desk, casting a furtive glance at Mila, who stared blankly at her monitor, fingers frozen above the keyboard. Fifty-five. Sophia knew the arithmetic. Her salary—one of the highest. Her tenure—long, which meant a generous redundancy package. From a bean counter’s perspective—the perfect candidate for the chop. Bitter, unfair, but she’d cope. Retirement soon, savings in the bank, mortgage long paid off. But Mila… The girl had changed. She no longer chatted at lunch, no longer asked for seconds of apple cake, barely responded when Sophia addressed her. “Mila, what’s up?” Sophia perched on the edge of her desk. “Worried about the cutbacks?” Mila jolted, giving a brittle smile. “No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” But Sophia could see—she wasn’t fine. Poor girl. Just found her feet and now this. Unfair. Two tense weeks crawled by. Colleagues whispered in corners, speculated on who’d go first. Mila worked in silence, focused. Sophia caught her looking at her oddly more than once, but put it down to general nervousness. Thursday after lunch, an internal email pinged up: “Sophia, please see the director.” Sophia stood, straightened her jacket. That was it. Twenty years in the company, and now—out. She steeled herself, opened the office door, and stopped dead. Across from Mr. Gregory sat Mila. Back straight, folder on her knee, face unreadable. “Come in, have a seat,” Mr. Gregory gestured. “We’ve got a serious matter to discuss.” Sophia sat, glancing between them. Mila didn’t look her way. “Mila’s been working hard,” Mr. Gregory opened some papers, “and she’s identified a number of significant errors. In your work, Sophia.” Sophia stopped breathing. Her brain scrambled: Mila, with her cat notebook, the word “errors.” The same Mila who’d devoured her pies, asked for advice about marriage. “I’ve gone through the data from the past eight months,” Mila finally spoke, but only to Mr. Gregory, as if Sophia didn’t exist. “I found eleven critical discrepancies in the paperwork. Incorrect route codes, invoice mismatches, shipping dates muddled.” She opened her folder, pulling out sheets with highlighted lines. Sophia recognised her handwriting. “I believe I can manage the section better,” Mila continued, levelly, almost as if reciting a procedure. “Sophia’s an experienced employee, but age takes its toll. It’s cheaper for the company to keep me—lower salary, higher efficiency. It’s just maths.” Mr. Gregory leaned back, drumming his fingers. “What do you say, Sophia?” Sophia stood up, took the papers, scanned the highlighted rows. Errors that weren’t errors at all. “I’m not going to make excuses,” she returned the papers. “In twenty years, I’ve learnt one thing: you can’t do every step to perfection. The result is what matters—goods arrive on time, clients are happy, the accounts add up.” “But mistakes like these could ruin us!” Mila leaned forward, letting emotion slip for the first time. “I’m just trying to help!” Mr. Gregory smirked—not nastily, but wearily, like a man who’s seen this before. “You know the type of staff we really don’t need, Mila? Those who’ll throw a colleague under the bus for their own gain.” Mila paled. “I’m well aware of these so-called errors,” he continued. “They’re not mistakes. They’re the wisdom of someone who’s learned how to navigate the system’s bureaucratic roadblocks, speed up the process where it jams. On paper, yes, it’s breaking protocol. In reality? It’s expertise. You’re just too green to know the difference.” Mila gripped the armrests. “You’ll work your notice, then you’re done,” Mr. Gregory concluded, closing the folder. “Letter on my desk by the end of the day.” “Please—” Mila’s voice broke. “I need this job. I’ve got a mortgage, I’ve only just started…” “You should have thought sooner. That’s all. You’re dismissed.” Mila stood, her folder slid from her hands, papers scattering across the floor. She scrambled to gather them, head bowed, face wet with tears. The door closed quietly behind her. “Well, Sophia,” Mr. Gregory shook his head, “she nearly elbowed you out—a real snake in the grass, that one. You took her under your wing.” Sophia said nothing. Her chest felt hollow and echoing. “You’re with us until the company shuts its doors,” he added. “Talent like yours? We don’t let go.” She nodded, and left. Mila sat at her desk, staring at the monitor. As Sophia walked by, Mila looked up—eyes prickly, hostile, glittering with tears. Sophia didn’t look back. She sat at her computer, opened her work program. The pies on the window ledge stayed untouched until evening… Backstabbed

I’m 41, and I live in the house that once belonged to my grandparents. After they passed away, my mum stayed here, and when she too was gone, the home became mine. It’s always been a quiet, orderly, peaceful place. I work all day and come home alone. I never imagined that routine could be shattered by a decision I made “just to help.” Two years ago, a distant cousin called me in tears. She was splitting up, had a young son, and nowhere else to go. She asked if she could stay for “a few months” while she sorted things out. I agreed—she was family, and I didn’t think it would affect me. At first, she took one room, chipped in a little for bills, left early for work. Her son stayed with a neighbour. No trouble. After three months she left her job. She said it was temporary, that she was looking for something better. She started staying home all day. Her son no longer went to the neighbour, he stayed here. The house began to change—there were toys everywhere, noise, unexpected visitors. I’d come home tired to find strangers sitting in my living room. When I asked her to let me know in advance, she told me I was overreacting, that “it’s her home too now.” Gradually she stopped contributing to expenses. First she said she couldn’t, then that she’d catch up. I started paying for everything—utilities, food, repairs. One day I came home and found she’d rearranged the furniture “to make it cosier”—without asking. When I objected, she took offence, calling me cold and saying I don’t understand what family living is. Things got worse when she started inviting over her ex—the very man she said she was escaping. He’d stay overnight, use the shower, eat here. One day I found him coming out of my room because he’d “borrowed a jacket” without asking. That’s when I told her it couldn’t continue, that there had to be boundaries. She cried, shouted, reminded me I’d taken her in when she had nothing. Six months ago, I tried to set a date for her to move out. She said she couldn’t—no money, her child’s school was nearby, how could I kick her out? I feel trapped. My home doesn’t feel like mine. I slip in quietly to avoid waking the child, eat in my room to steer clear of arguments, and spend more time out than in. I still live here, but it no longer feels like home. She acts as if the house is hers. I pay for everything, and am called selfish whenever I ask for order. I’m desperate for advice.

Mum, Please Smile Arina never liked it when the neighbours came over and asked her mother to sing a song. “Anna, sing us a tune, your voice is lovely and you dance so well,” they’d say. Her mother would begin singing, the neighbours would join in, and sometimes they’d all dance together in the courtyard. Back then, Arina lived with her parents and her younger brother, Tony, in their own house in an English village. Her mother was cheerful and welcoming, and when the neighbours left, she’d say, “Come again sometime, it was lovely to spend time together,” and they’d promise they would. But Arina couldn’t explain why she felt embarrassed when her mother sang and danced. She was in Year 5 at the village school when she finally said, “Mum, please don’t sing and dance… I get embarrassed,” though she didn’t quite understand why herself. Even now, as a grown woman and a mother herself, Arina can’t explain what she felt. But Anna replied, “Arina, darling, don’t be ashamed when I sing—be happy! I won’t always sing and dance, not when I’m older…” But back then, Arina didn’t think about how life isn’t always joyful. When she was in Year 6, and her brother was in Year 2, their father left. He packed his bags and left forever. Arina never knew the reason. As a teenager, she asked, “Mum, why did Dad leave us?” “You’ll know when you’re older,” her mother replied. Anna couldn’t bear to tell her daughter that she’d caught her husband at home with another woman, Vera, who lived nearby. Arina and Tony were at school, but Anna came home early after forgetting her purse. Surprised to find the door unlocked at eleven in the morning, she walked in and saw the devastating scene in their bedroom. Her husband and Vera stared at her, as if she was the intruder. There was a terrible row that evening. Anna packed his things and told him, “Go. I will never forgive your betrayal.” Ivan tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen. “You have my things and my final answer,” she said, and left for the garden. Ivan took his things and left while Anna watched discreetly from around the corner, too hurt to face him again. “We’ll survive somehow,” she thought, as tears streamed down her face. “But I’ll never forgive.” And she didn’t. Anna was left alone to raise two children and soon realised how hard it would be. She took two jobs—cleaning by day and working nights at the local bakery. Exhausted, her smile slowly vanished. Though her father lived only four houses down with Vera, Arina and Tony still saw him. Vera had a son Tony’s age, who was in the same class as him. Anna never forbade her children from seeing their father; they’d play together, but always ate at home as Vera never fed them. Sometimes, even Vera’s son would come to their house, to the neighbours’ surprise. Anna would feed them all; she didn’t resent her ex-husband’s stepson. But from then on, Arina never saw her mother smile. Anna was kind and caring, but closed in on herself. Sometimes, Arina would come home from school wanting her mum to talk to her. She’d offer up stories from her day, like, “Mum, imagine, today Genka brought a kitten to class, it started meowing during lessons, and even the teacher couldn’t work out who it was. We told her it was in his bag, and she sent both Genka and the kitten home, calling his mum to school.” To this, her mum could only reply, “Right… I see…” Her laughter had gone. But Arina often heard her crying softly at night. It was only when she was older that Arina understood her mother’s tiredness. “She worked two jobs, staying up at night; she must’ve been exhausted and probably lacked vitamins. She always made sure Tony and I were well-dressed and our clothes were clean and ironed,” Arina later recalled. Back then, she’d often beg, “Mum, please smile—I haven’t seen your smile for so long.” Anna loved her children in her own way. She didn’t often hug them, but would praise them for good grades and never causing trouble. She cooked well, and their home was always tidy. Arina felt her mother’s love especially when she braided her hair. Anna would stroke her daughter’s head, always with that sad gentleness. She lost her teeth early, but never replaced them. After school, Arina didn’t even consider going off to university—she didn’t want to leave her mum alone, knowing it would cost money. She got a job in the village shop nearby, helping support her mum as Tony grew up fast and needed new clothes and shoes. One day, a new customer came in—a man named Michael, from a neighbouring village eight miles away. He smiled and said, “What’s your name, beautiful? You’re new here, I haven’t seen you before when I’ve passed through.” “I’m Arina, and I haven’t seen you either.” He introduced himself, and soon started visiting often, picking Arina up after work for long walks or a spin in his car. Once, he even brought her to his own home. He lived with his mother, who was in poor health; his wife had left him and taken their daughter to town, not wanting to care for his mum. He had a big farm and a good house, and always treated Arina to delicious meals—cream, meat, sweets. She liked his home and soon, he asked her to marry him. “I’ll be honest—you’ll need to look after Mum, but I’ll help.” Arina agreed, happy inside, but didn’t show too much. Looking after his sick mother wouldn’t be a problem. Michael was nervous, but delighted when she accepted. After their wedding, Arina moved to Michael’s village. Tony was grown up, away learning to be a mechanic. Arina and Michael soon had two sons in quick succession. She was busy at home—after his mum died, the farm still needed constant work. Michael never let her do the heavy lifting, always saying, “You leave that to me—just milk the cows and feed the chickens; I’ll see to the pigs.” He was a loving husband and great with the children. Though Arina had never lived on a big farm before, she knew how to do everything, and Michael was generous, often saying, “Arina, let’s take some meat and cream and milk to your mum—she has to buy everything, while we’ve got it all fresh and homemade.” Anna would accept with thanks, but never smiled. Even when surrounded by her grandchildren, she remained solemn. Arina often wondered how to help bring her mother back to life. “Arina, maybe you should talk to Father Joseph at church, he might have some advice” Michael suggested, and Arina took the idea to heart. The priest promised to pray for Anna and told Arina to ask God to bring a good person into her mother’s life. One day, Anna asked her daughter, “Could you lend me some money? I want to get my teeth done.” Arina was overjoyed—anything to help her mum smile again. She gave her the money, though Anna insisted she’d repay it. They caught up by phone as Michael was busy helping his Uncle Colin, who’d just bought a nearby house and moved in after things didn’t work out with his wife. Uncle Colin invited Michael and Arina to visit—they were surprised to meet his new partner: Anna, Arina’s mum. Anna blushed but was smiling. She looked younger, happier, completely changed. “Mum! I’m so happy… why didn’t you say anything?” “I didn’t want to tell you in case it didn’t work out.” “Uncle Colin, why didn’t you tell us?” “I was afraid Anna might change her mind. But now we’re happy.” Michael and Arina were thrilled that Anna and Colin had found each other. Anna was transformed—beaming and always smiling now. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life.