My Husband Suggested We Give Up Our Bedroom to His Parents for the Entire Christmas Holidays and Sleep on the Floor Ourselves

Author Emily TaylorReading 17 minViews 3

My wife suggested we give up our bedroom to her parents for the entire Christmas holiday, and that we sleep on the floor.

You do understand my fathers back is in a terrible state, dont you? Theres absolutely no way he could manage on the sofa, hed never be able to straighten up again. And my mumwell, she barely sleeps as it is, she needs peace and absolute darkness, and the lamp outside the living room window shines right in her eyes. Well get by on the floor for a week, wont we? Were hardly made of glass.

Rebecca froze, ladle in hand, completely forgetting shed been pouring soup. The broth dribbled back into the pot as my words crept into her consciousness like cold treacle. She slowly turned towards me, sitting at the kitchen table and rather studiously focusing on the pattern of the plastic tablecloth instead of her face.

Hang on, Tim, let me see if Ive got this right. Your parents are coming here for the entire Christmas breakfrom the 23rd till New Years Day. We discussed this. Now youre suggesting surrendering our bedroom to them, letting them have our bedthe one with the top-of-the-range orthopaedic mattress we spent ages choosing (and cost an arm and a leg), and we take up residence in the living room?

Yeah, I finally lifted my eyes. Guilt and stubbornness warred in my gaze. Whats the big deal? Theyre my parents. Hospitality, respect for your elders and all that. I cant make Dad sleep on the folding sofa; the springs stick out of it.

That sofa is impossible to sleep onbelieve me, Ive tried, Rebecca nodded. Which is why we dont. But I think youve forgotten something. Ive got a dodgy back too. My historical car accident, remember? And unlike your parents, I have to be at work bright and early in the New Year, balancing end-of-year accounts.

Oh, Becca, dont start… I winced, like someone with toothache. Ive sorted it. We wont even open the sofa bed. My mate Daves lent me his double air mattress. Nice and high, practically a bed. Well put it on the living room floorromantic, like camping in the old days!

Romantic? At thirty-eight, on the floor? Rebecca set the ladle gently on the worktop, irritation simmering inside. Tim, this isnt a festival campsite, its my home. Our bedroom is my one sanctuary. Your mum wakes at six and starts clattering pans. If were sleeping in the loungeopen-plan to the kitchen, I remind youwell be dragged out of bed every morning with her.

Ill ask her to keep quiet, I replied, rather unconvincingly. Please, love, try to see it from their side. Theyve already booked their coach tickets. Theyre coming to see their grandchildrenus, the whole family. Are we really going to be selfish? Ive already assured Mum theyd be comfortableshe was worrying about being a bother, but I swore, Mum, its all sorted, youll be living like royalty.

Oh, you promised, did you? Rebeccas voice was low, tight. Didnt ask what I thought? Just decided about our bedroom, my comfort, without so much as a word to me?

I was only trying to do the right thing! I snapped, temper fraying. Dont make out Im some dictator. I want my folks to have a decent visit. Theyre getting on, you know!

We wound up arguing. Rebecca retreated to the bathroom, turned on the taps and sat on the edge of the bath, gazing at her reflection. She loved me, and (despite the mortgage) she loved our cosy flat. But visits from my parents were always an ordeal. MumPaulinewas irrepressible, noisy and never wrong. My father, Charles, was quieter, but awfully fussy with certain needs.

Rebecca saw shed lost the battle. If she pushed back now, shed become the villain, not just to my mum but to me as wellId slouch around all day looking like a whipped dog, moaning about my hard-hearted wife.

Getting ready for my parents arrival felt like preparing for an evacuation. Rebecca emptied out her half of the wardrobe, transporting dresses and suits onto the rickety coat stand in the hall. She swept her make-up from the dresser, hiding her expensive creams in the bathroom drawersMum loved trying anything left out, then giving a running commentary on the smell or texture.

See, it all fits great, I chirped, energetically pumping up the enormous blue airbed in the middle of the lounge. The contraption buzzed like a hairdryer on steroids. Nice and bouncy! I tested it out myself, its dreamy.

Rebecca eyed the rubbery monstrosity, which now blocked access to the balcony. The acrid stench of new plastic wafted over.

A dream, is it? The fitted sheet will slip straight off that thing, its slippy as an ice rink. And the floors going to freeze us.

Well stick a wool blanket underneath! I countered.

On the morning of the 23rd, the doorbell rang at precisely seven a.m. The in-laws had landed. Pauline, wearing a grand fur hat, filled the whole hallway as soon as she arrived.

Oh, finally! That train was a nightmarethe conductor was horrible, and not a cup of tea offered the whole way! she boomed, unbuttoning her coat. Rebecca, love, you look ghastlyarent you sleeping or are you ill? Charles, careful with that case, the one with my chutneys and jams!

Charles silently hauled two immense bags inside, immediately hunting for slippers.

Come on in, shoes off, breakfast is almost ready, Rebecca smiled, though her eyes were bleary from staying up late finishing work so she could have actual time off.

Pauline made a beeline for the bedroom to inspect.

Well, its clean enough, she pronounced, running a finger over the headboard. Though the curtains could be cheerier. And the mattressTim said it was orthopaedic? Looks awfully firm. Charles, come and test it, see how your back feels.

My father dutifully flopped onto our marital bed, still in his travel creases. Rebecca bit her tongue.

Fine, he grunted. Alright. But these pillows, like lumpy sausages… Havent you got normal ones? Feather?

No, Charles. Just the ergonomic kindits good for your neck, replied Rebecca coolly.

Pah! We always had feather ones at home and we were healthy enough, Mum shrugged. Never mind. Tim, where are you two sleeping then? In the lounge?

Yep, double airbed, Mum, lovely and comfy! I said, beaming with pride.

The whole day was mayhem. Cooking, salad-chopping, an endless stream of my mothers chatter about ailments, neighbours and the current government. Rebecca felt like a housekeeper in her own home. Each time she tried to sit down with a cuppa, my mum would summon her: Rebecca, can you change the dish towel in the kitchen? Rebecca, did you get brown bread? Charles wont eat white, you know.

Night time was torture.

The so-called king of comfort was an instrument of torment. Move a muscle and youd bounce your partner halfway to the ceiling. The rubber shrieked with each breath. The sheet, as predicted, wrinkled up after an hour. And the floor, despite the blanket, sent an icy draught seeping up.

Rebecca lay there, staring at flickering fairy lights across the ceiling, listening to my snoring. Her lower back ached. The airbed collapsed her spine into a hammock.

At around three, my father shuffled through the hall to the toilet. Half an hour later, my mother paraded out for water. No door on the archway between kitchen and lounge, so whenever they switched on the corridor light, it seared right into our faces.

Rebecca staggered up next morning feeling like shed been trampled by a rugby team. Her neck wouldnt turn, her back twinged in agony.

Morning! trilled Mum, breezing out of the bedroom in the silk dressing gown Rebecca had given her three years ago. Slept like a baby! Such peace and quiet. Though that mattress is a bit hardCharles woke up sore. You shouldve chosen something softer for him.

Rebecca quietly ground beans for coffee, blinking away tears.

What happened to you two? Mum said sharply. Tim, you look a frightbags under your eyes. Was the floor too much?

No, it was alright, Mum. Well get used to it, I muttered, rubbing my numb arm.

You young people could sleep on nails and cope, Mum chuckled. Rebecca, are those pickled cucumbers in the salad? I always use fresh, much gentler. And your mayonnaise tastes terribly rich…

Rebecca turned, her hand shaking as she gripped the spoon.

Pauline, she said softly. I make salad the way my family likes. If you want yours with fresh cucumbers, theres a bowl in the fridgefeel welcome to make your own.

A hush fell. Mum pursed her lips. I glanced at my wife, worried.

No need for rudeness, Mum said, hurt. Just trying to give advice as someone whos been running a home for decades. Charles, hear that? Not even allowed to speak in my own sons house.

Becca, come on I tried.

Im having a shower, she cut me off, marching out.

In the bathroom, Rebecca found her shampoo exiled to the very back shelf, with an array of my mothers bottles in pride of place. A strange hair dangled from her flannel. The worst shock of all came when she opened her skincare cupboard. Her expensive anti-ageing creamused drop by dropsat uncovered, a huge crater gouged out of the middle where someone had greedily scooped out a third of it.

Rebecca stormed out, still holding the jar.

Pauline, did you use my cream?

That one? Mum didnt even blink from her spot in front of the telly. Yes, Charless heels were dreadful after the journey, all cracked and peeling. Saw you had loads of pots, grabbed something thick and moisturising. Worked a treat! She peered over. Why, is it precious?

His heels? Rebeccas voice nearly cracked. You smeared a face cream costing £120 on my father-in-laws FEET?

How much?! Mum shrieked. Youre mad! £120 for face cream? Tim, are you hearing this? And we slip your wife a tenner for socks!

Its my money, Rebecca said in an icy tone. I bought it. For me.

Oh, here we go! Such a princess! Apparently a pair of old heels matters less than fancy cream. Self-obsessed, I always said so.

I hovered in the doorway, glancing helplessly from one woman to the other.

Becca, Mum didnt know what it cost… Well get you a new one, just calm down. Its Christmas.

That was when Rebecca snapped. The calm shed built up burst like the airbed if stabbed with scissors. She looked at meonce again neutral, wanting to appease both sidesthen at the blue monstrosity in the lounge, at my mother sat smugly in the kitchen.

Youre right, Tim, she said, suddenly serene. Its Christmas. I dont want to spoil everyones fun with my dramatics or my stinginess.

She turned for the hallway.

Where are you going? I asked, alarmed.

Ill be back.

Rebecca left for the street. The cold air stung her lungs, cleared her head. She took out her phone and opened a hotel booking app. One of the best hotels in towna spa hotel shed always dreamt of but never allowed herselfhad a room free for Christmas Eve. The rate was astronomical, half her monthly wage for a single night. But for once, she didnt care.

She pressed book. Money drained from her account. She felt lighter instantly.

Returning ten minutes later, all she heard was the background drone of the telly and the hum of my mum making an ostentatious show of sipping cough syrup. Rebecca began stuffing her belongings into a holdall.

Becca, what are you doing? I rushed over, ashen.

Im leaving, Tim.

What? Where toyour mums?

No, shes full up with guests. Im going to a hotel.

A hotel? Why? What about Christmas? Your family?

No, Tim, youll have your family. You wanted your parents comfortablethey are. The bedroom is theirs. You wanted a romantic airbed experienceenjoy. I want a proper bed, a bathroom without someone elses hair, and not to hide my belongings. See? Problem solved for all.

Youre leaving me alone with them?! My panic was obvious. You cant! Its betrayal! What am I supposed to tell Mum?

Tell her the truth. That your wife is a selfish spendthrift whos wasting the familys money on her own comfort. Theyll love itsomething to discuss at dinner.

Becca, dont go! I tried to grab her hand. You cant! This is our home!

Exactly. Its my home, too. But when I cant even stretch my legs in peace or keep my things safe, Ill pay for peace elsewhere. Ill come back on the 27th, when theyre off at your aunts for the day. Or the 2nd, when they go home. Havent decided.

Pauline appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Whats going on? Wheres she off to at this hour?

Mum, stay out of it! I barked, surprisingly forceful for once.

Im off to relax, Pauline! Rebecca beamed. Enjoy yourselves. Theres food in the fridge, goose in the ovenjust hit the switch when ready. Merry Christmas!

She shrugged on her puffer, grabbed her bag, and shut the door. As she waited for the lift, I could hear heated voices through the woodmy mother shouting, me frantically trying to explain. But it was all behind her now.

The hotel smelt of pine and expensive cologne. The receptionist greeted her with a warm smile and handed over a key card.

When Rebecca opened her room, she burst into happy tears: a colossal bed, crisp sheets, absolute silence. No aroma of fried onions, no rubber. She shed her clothes, filled a foamy bath, ordered Prosecco and fruit to her room.

Her phone buzzed relentlesslycalls from me, from my mum, even a text from my father: Rebecca, please come back, its simply not done. She switched it off.

She rang in Christmas, wrapped in a plush bathrobe, fizz in hand, watching fireworks spark from the tenth floor window. Shed never spent the holiday alone. Bizarrely, it was the best shed had in years. No orders, no demands. Just existed as herself.

On Boxing Day, she slept till lunchtime; her back had stopped aching. She had a massage, swam in the pool. Only that evening did she switch on her phone.

Ten missed calls from me. One long text:

*Becca, Im so sorry. I was a fool. The airbed deflated at three a.m. Slept on the bare floor. Mums giving me an earful for losing control of my wife. Dads sulking. The goose burned because none of us knows how your oven timer works. I finally get it now. Please come backwell change everything. Ill put them in a B&B, or Ill sleep on the floor myselfjust come home.*

Rebecca smiled. No, not yet. Some lessons must be learned properly.

She returned on the 27th, as originally planned. She let herself in, and chaos met her. Boots everywhere, dirty plates piled high.

I sat, unshaven and rumpled, on the collapsed blue mattress. Soon as I saw Rebecca, I leapt up, almost tripping on the duvet.

Youre back! I could have wept with relief.

Pauline stomped out of the bedroom, face combative, but something in her eyes had changed.

Well, have you had a nice time swanning about? She began the usual tirade, but stopped short at Rebeccas clear, refreshed face.

Afternoon. Festivities going well? Rebecca asked lightly.

Dreadful! Mum blurted. Tims sickhis backs gone. No proper meals, weve been having takeaway, now my tummys upset. And you abandoned us!

I didnt abandon you; I gave you the room, Rebecca replied coolly. You wanted comfort. And I found it for myself, so I didnt end up bitter and broken.

Mum, enough, I said, finally decisive. Weve discussed it. Dad agrees we handled it poorly. Well move their stuff to the lounge. I even fixed the sofaputting a board under the springsits fine now. You can have our room back, love.

Rebecca looked at me askance. I fixed the sofa? All by myself? Apparently two nights on the floor had worked wonders as a learning tool.

What about Dads back? she asked, eyebrow arched.

Oh, Ill cope, Dad muttered, peering out of the kitchen. Actually, its not too bad with a flat surface. And anyway, well probably head off on the 29th. Need to stop in at the in-laws too, you know.

Pauline started to protest, opened her mouth, but glanced at her sons determined face and her daughter-in-laws calm, and merely huffed.

Do whatever you like. I only tried my best…

That evening, my parents bedded down on the sofa bed, which (surprise) worked acceptably with some ingenuity. Rebecca and I returned to our own bed.

Did you really spend that on the hotel? I whispered, hugging her.

Every pennyand worth it.

Ill pay you back. Out of my next paycheque.

No need. Consider it couples therapy. For you.

I fell silent, then snuggled up.

I swear, Ill never ask you to sleep on the floor again. Ever. Ill buy you that fancy face cream, too.

Ill hold you to it, Rebecca chuckled. And the airbed? Get rid, please. Or send it to your worst enemy.

I already slashed it with scissors, accidentally, the morning after Christmas, I confessed.

Rebeccas laughter rang out in the darkness. The tension of the season finally dissolved. She was home, in her own bed, the borders of her little kingdom restored. It had cost dearlybut she learned self-respect is always the best investment of all.

Even now when I look back, I realise the cost of comfort is nothing compared to the value of drawing your own line. That Christmas, we both learned the true meaning of boundaries.

Go Away and Never Come Back — Go, Do You Hear Me? Go and Never Return! Never. With trembling hands, Michael unclipped the heavy metal chain, dragged Berta to the garden gate and, flinging it wide open, tried to push her out onto the road. But she didn’t understand what was happening. Was she really being thrown out? But why? She hadn’t done anything wrong… “Go, please, I’m begging you,” Michael repeated as he hugged the dog tight. “You can’t stay here. He’ll be back any minute and…” Just then, the front door slammed open, and a drunken Victor staggered out onto the porch with an axe in his hand. ***** If people could imagine, even for a moment, how harsh life is for the dogs abandoned to the streets through no fault of their own, perhaps they would look at them with sympathy and compassion, not resentment or disdain, as so often happens. But how can we know what our four-legged friends go through, what trials they must face? How can we possibly understand? Dogs cannot tell us their stories. They cannot complain about their fate. All their pain, they carry in silence. But I will tell you one story—one of love, betrayal and loyalty… And my story begins with Berta, who was unwanted from her very first days. No one really knows what it was about her that displeased her first owner. Maybe just for being born. And he could think of nothing better than to take the then two-month-old puppy to the nearest village and… just leave her by the roadside. Yes, just abandon her—not even in the village where someone might have taken her in, but right on the edge of the road. He drove away with a clear conscience, leaving her in harm’s way, where cars, buses, lorries sped past at terrifying speeds—a single misstep and that was it. Perhaps that’s what he hoped would happen. If not, what chance did she have to survive alone, hungry and thirsty? She was only a baby. But that day luck was on her side. That day, the nameless little pup met Michael. And thanks to him, she lived. It happened on the very day Michael was given a brand new bike for his fourteenth birthday. He couldn’t wait to take it for a spin. “Don’t ride out of the village!” called out his mother, Annie, as Michael cycled off, excitement in his legs. “Alright, Mum! Everything will be fine!” chirped Michael as he whisked away. But of course, he left the village. The roads in the village were full of potholes—awful to ride on, and hard to walk, especially at night. Just a month ago, the city road had been freshly paved, and Michael wanted to feel the wind in his hair. There weren’t many cars out on a weekend morning. So, as he neared the road and prepared to turn back, he noticed a tiny pup running frantically at the roadside—darting toward passing cars, then jumping back just in time. Horrified, Michael pulled over, gently placed his bike in the grass, and approached the trembling puppy. ***** “Mum, Dad, look who I found!” beamed Michael as he entered the house. “Someone dumped her by the road. Can we keep her? Please?” “Michael, did you leave the village? I told you not to!” Annie exclaimed. “Sorry, Mum… I just wanted to ride to the road and back. And look—I didn’t go for nothing. If I hadn’t picked up this pup, she might have died!” “What about you?” sighed Annie. “You could’ve been hit, too. Roads are no place for children.” “I won’t do it again, I promise. But what about the puppy? Can we keep her? Please? It’s my birthday, after all.” “It is your birthday, isn’t it?” Annie shook her head. Michael clutched the puppy tightly, afraid she’d be taken back out to the roadside. “Annie, stop scolding the boy,” Michael’s dad, Victor, interrupted, his mood bright from a few celebratory drinks. “He’s fourteen now. And look, he picked up a fine pup—not a scraggy mutt but a proper one. She’ll look after the yard. Let him keep her. I’ve no problem.” “Well, if Dad says yes, then I do, too,” Annie smiled at her son. “Thank you! You’re the best parents in the world!” Michael was overjoyed. That very day he named the puppy—Berta. At first, he thought she was a boy, but he quickly realised she was a girl—a good girl: kind, gentle, and instantly attached to Michael. The bike was forgotten. From then on, Michael spent every hour with his fluffy four-legged friend. Life at last seemed perfect—Berta safe from death, Michael finally with the dog he’d always dreamed of. His parents were happy to see their son so happy, too. Fairy tale ending? If only. Trouble came—six months later. It started when Victor lost his job and began drinking heavily, spending all the family savings. No pleas or tears from Annie could sway him; they only made him angrier, more cruel, especially with vodka in his blood. He even began hitting Annie, for any or no reason at all. And Annie strictly forbade Michael from interfering. “You could get hurt too,” she would say. “Better not try your luck.” During arguments, Michael escaped to Berta, stroking her, watching the house as his parents fought. Berta would gently lick Michael’s salty cheeks. Once Victor caught Michael playing with Berta and, without provocation, gave him a series of rough cuffs round the head. Michael tried to hold back the tears, tried to break free, but Victor’s grip was fierce. Suddenly, mild, gentle Berta barked fiercely at Victor—so fiercely he froze. Michael seized his chance and pulled away. But Victor stormed into the house, slurring threats of violence. Michael knew he would be back—with something heavy. What could he do? “Go, do you hear me?” Michael whispered, tears flowing. “Go, and don’t come back! Never.” His hands trembled as he undid Berta’s chain, tugged her to the gate, and tried to push her out. She didn’t understand—was this really goodbye? “Please, you must go,” Michael repeated, hugging her close. “It’s not safe here. Dad will be back and…” At that moment, the door crashed open and Victor, axe in hand, staggered onto the porch. “Michael!” came his father’s enraged roar. “Why did you let the dog go?” “Dad, please, don’t—” Michael stammered, backing away. He wanted to run, but couldn’t leave his mother inside with the madman. “Don’t touch the dog, Dad. Just go sleep it off. You’re not yourself—” “Oh, I’ll show you, you insolent whelp! I’ll deal with that mangy mutt and then teach you some respect!” Victor lurched forward, losing his footing but clinging to the rail, lumbering down the steps. “Hurry!” Michael turned to Berta, looked her in the eyes, kissed her black nose, and with a desperate shove, sent her out into the road. “Run! Run and forgive us… forgive us, Berta. I never wanted this.” Fury twisted Victor’s face as he realised Michael was letting the dog go. Berta looked at Michael one last time before bolting towards the woods—her only chance of survival. “Don’t come back, Berta, or he’ll kill you!” Michael yelled after her. What happened next, Berta never saw. She could only hope her beloved friend and his mother would be safe. ***** Seven years passed—a lifetime for a dog. Seven years Berta waited for a miracle, hoping to see Michael again, but each year hope faded as she never found Michael or Annie. Returning to her old home after six months, she found only a charred ruin of a house. No Michael, no Annie, certainly no Victor. She came back a few times, but always alone. Eventually, Berta wandered from village to village, until an old man found her, outside the very forest she once ran into. “Lost, are you?” the grey-haired, bearded man chuckled. “Want to live with me?” And Berta did. She had no other choice. The old man, though partial to drink, was kind. He fed her well and took her to work with him—as a night caretaker at a cemetery. At first, Berta hated the graves, but in time, she grew used to them—and to Nicholas, her lonely companion. When he drank, he didn’t turn cruel, but wept and confided his heartbreak—about the wife who left, the daughter who wanted nothing to do with him. Berta would snuggle by his feet and listen in silence. And when Nicholas fell silent, Berta remembered the happy days with Michael and Annie—and tried to forget Victor for good. One day, Berta came across Victor’s grave. She sniffed it, not believing it—yet the hateful, bitter scent was unmistakable. “You’re stuck there, are you?” Nicholas said, noticing her halted by the grave. “Victor, it says… Must be the one who drank himself to death in his own house after the family left for the city.” Five years Berta stayed at the cemetery, until Nicholas, too, died, leaving her alone once more. She stayed on. Where else could she go? No one would take in an old dog now. She decided she’d wait for the end among the stones. But then, when the first snow fell, the impossible happened. While searching for food, Berta heard voices—by Victor’s grave. A man and a woman. She crept closer—curious who would visit him. “Told you, Ox,” the man said, “it’s pointless coming here. Why should I care about the grave of a father who made life hell for my mum and me? Forgive him? For what?” “You have to, Michael,” said the woman. “Forgive and let go. Otherwise, you’ll never have peace. Your nightmares will go on forever.” “Maybe you’re right…” Michael sighed, looked at the grave and said, “I forgive you, Dad— for Mum, for myself, for Berta… I just wish I hadn’t had to send my best friend away. I hope she’s alright.” All the while, Berta stood behind Michael, scarcely believing it was him—her beloved person. He was grown, a man now, but she knew him instantly. Would Michael know her? He turned, feeling eyes on his back. “Mike, what is it?” Oksana asked. “It’s a dog,” Michael replied. “Silly—there are lots of dogs at the cemetery.” But Michael stared, stepped closer, hesitated—then stepped closer again. Berta wagged her tail and crept forward. Then they both ran—flinging themselves into each other’s embrace. Oksana barely had time to react before Michael was kneeling, hugging the dog he hadn’t seen in seven years, while Berta licked his cheeks, nose and chin in a joyful frenzy. Her greatest dream had come true at last. ***** Of course, Michael brought Berta home. She and Oksana became fast friends, and soon their little family grew. First three of them, then four—when Berta found a tiny kitten and no one could resist taking him in. Then five, when a baby boy named Nick arrived. Later, Michael rebuilt the house in the village, and every year they spent summers there together. Despite all the pain and trials that life brought, both Michael and Berta found happiness.

Go, and Never Come Back — “Go, do you hear me?” Mikhail whispered through tears. “Go, and never come back! Never.” With trembling hands, the boy unclipped the heavy metal chain, pulled Berta toward the gate, flung it open, and tried to push her out onto the lane. She didn’t understand what was happening. Could she really be cast out? Why? She hadn’t done anything wrong… “Go, please,” Mikhail repeated, hugging his dog. “You can’t stay here. He’ll be back any minute and—” At that moment, the house door burst open and drunken Vasily stumbled out onto the porch, axe in hand. ***** If only people could imagine, even for a moment, how hard life can be for dogs forced onto the streets, many would surely look at them with more pity and understanding than with outrage and contempt, as so often happens. But how could people ever know the trials our four-legged friends face or what they must endure? Dogs can’t tell their stories. Nor complain of their fate. They hold all their pain inside. Well, perhaps I’ll tell you just one story. A story of love, betrayal, and loyalty… Let me start by telling you that Berta was unwanted from a very young age. What exactly her first owner found so objectionable about her remains unknown. But for some reason, he decided one day to take the two-month-old pup to the nearest village and… leave her by the roadside. Yes, just leave her. He couldn’t even be bothered to take her into the village, where someone might have taken her in. He just left the pup next to the road and drove off to the city with a clear conscience. Cars, buses, lorries, all thundered down that road at terrifying speed – a single wrong move and the tiny puppy could have ended up beneath the wheels. Perhaps that’s what her owner was counting on. Even if she didn’t die in traffic, she never would have survived long without food or water. She was only a baby, after all. But that day, her luck turned. That day, a yet-unnamed little pup met Mikhail. And because of that, she lived. It happened that, on that very day, Mikhail’s dad had given him a brand-new bike for his fourteenth birthday, and the boy was eager to have his first ride. “Just don’t go beyond the village,” Antonina called as he pedalled off, brimming with excitement. “You hear me, son?” “Alright, Mum…” Misha called back joyfully. “All will be well—oooh…” But Mikhail did go beyond the village, because the roads in the village were terrible – pothole after pothole. Not just impractical for cycling, even walking was tricky. And just outside the village, a brand-new tarmac road had recently been laid, and Mikhail wanted to ride on it, fast. There were usually few cars, and being the weekend, the roads were quiet. As he neared the main road and was preparing to turn back, he spotted a little puppy running frantically along the verge, dashing towards cars then springing away at the last moment. It was a frightening sight. “What’s wrong with it… and what’s it doing there?” Mikhail wondered, dismounting. He laid his bike gently on the grass and hurried over to the puppy. ***** “Mum, Dad, look who I found!” Mikhail beamed as he entered the house. “She was dumped on the road. Can we keep her? She’s lovely.” “Misha, you went out past the village?” Antonina scolded. “I told you!” “Mum, I only wanted a quick ride to the road and back,” he said guiltily. “And as you see, it was worth it. That puppy might have died if I hadn’t picked her up.” “And you?” Antonina sighed. “Did you think about yourself, son? You could have been hit by a car. Children mustn’t be alone near the road. Especially on bikes.” “Mum, I promise I won’t do it again. So… what about the puppy? Can we keep her? I’ll look after her. I’ve wanted a dog for ages… and it’s my birthday…” “So it’s your birthday,” Antonina shook her head. “You deserve a good hiding for not listening.” Mikhail hugged the puppy tighter, afraid his parents would take her away. “Tonia, don’t scold the lad like a schoolboy,” his father said, slightly tipsy and in a good mood. “He’s fourteen today! A proper young man. And he’s found a fine puppy. Not some mangy stray – she looks purebred. Let her guard the yard. Keep her, son, I don’t mind.” “Well, if Dad doesn’t mind, I don’t either,” Antonina smiled. “Hooray! Thank you! You’re the best parents in the world!” Mikhail was over the moon. That same day, he named his dog (well, his girl dog) Berta. At first he thought she was a boy, but on closer inspection, discovered otherwise – and she turned out to be a wonderful girl: gentle, kind, affectionate. She and Mikhail bonded instantly. Forgetting all about his new bike, Mikhail and his furry friend spent every day together, and life seemed perfect. What could possibly go wrong when everything ended so well? The puppy was saved from certain death, Mikhail was delighted to have the dog he’d always dreamed of (secretly – he’d believed his father would never allow it), and his parents were happy their son was so cheerful. Happy ever after? If only… But bad things did happen, six months later. It all started when Vasily, Mikhail’s father, lost his job and began to drink, heavily. He spent the family’s savings and ignored all of Antonina’s pleas or warnings. The more she implored, the angrier he became. Eventually, even Antonina got on his nerves. Vasily became a different person – vodka changed him into a cruel, angry brute. He even occasionally hit his wife, often over the smallest things – or no reason at all. Bread missing from the fridge, a leaky roof, rising prices – it was all Antonina’s fault. There was no point explaining: “Me?! My fault?” he’d roar. In reality, it was all down to him. No one forced him to drink. He could have found another job: maybe not in the village, but in the city – as a driver, a loader, anything. His son was soon applying to university, and they needed money. But Vasily didn’t want to work in the city. And since the farm where he’d worked for more than twenty years had gone under, there was no work in the village. Certainly nothing decent. “Tonya! Where have you hidden my vodka?!” Vasily would shout first thing each morning with a hangover. Antonina tried everything to stop him – but nothing worked. Speak back to him, and there’d be a major row; hide his vodka, there’d be violence. Antonina strictly forbade her son to get involved, to avoid catching the worst of his father’s temper. At moments like these, Mikhail would leave and sit with Berta, stroking her head in silence, listening to the sounds of his parents’ arguments. And Berta, sensing his pain, would lick his salty tears. She supported him the only way she could. And she, too, would gaze sadly towards the house. One day, Mikhail got caught in the crossfire himself, when his mother was at the shops and he was out in the yard with Berta. Vasily summoned him, grabbed him by the arm, and cuffed him, again and again. Mikhail tried to bear it but eventually cried out in pain, and, twisting free, managed to escape. Berta, to everyone’s amazement, barked fiercely at Vasily – so fiercely that he faltered. Mikhail seized the moment and fled, but knew his father wouldn’t let this pass and would soon return – with something heavy. What should he do? “Go, do you hear me?” Mikhail whispered through tears. “Go, and never come back! Never.” With trembling hands, the boy unclipped Berta’s chain, pulled her to the gate, swung it open and pushed her towards the road. She didn’t understand what was happening. Could she really be cast out? Why? She’d done nothing wrong… “Go, please,” Mikhail said again, hugging his dog. “You can’t stay here. My dad will come back and he’ll…” At that very moment, the door burst open and out staggered a drunken Vasily, brandishing an axe. “Misha!” came the furious shout. “Misha, why did you let the dog loose? Did anyone ask you to?” “Dad, don’t…” Mikhail said fearfully, backing away. In that moment, Mikhail was so frightened he was ready to run away with his dog. But… he couldn’t leave his mother alone with such a monster. “What do you mean, ‘don’t’? Don’t touch the dog? She shouldn’t have barked at me. I fed her, gave her water, and she barks at me… I’ll sort her out, and then I’ll sort you out. Where’s the respect, eh? I’ll teach you to respect your elders.” Vasily took a step forward, stumbled, managed to grip a post, and then started quickly down the steps. “Bring her here!” “Vasya, don’t, please…” Antonina screamed, returning from the shop. “She’s just a baby! You’ll kill her!” “Don’t you beg me. This cur needs to learn who’s boss! Misha, bring her here!” They couldn’t wait any longer. Mikhail turned to Berta, looked her right in the eyes, kissed her soft black nose and, pushing her hard on the road, shouted: “Go! Go now! And forgive us… Please forgive us, Berta. I never wanted this to happen…” “You little—!” Vasily raged, realising what his son was doing, but too late. And Berta, giving Mikhail one last look, ran towards the woods – the only place she could hide. “Don’t come back, Berta, or he’ll kill you!” Mikhail shouted after her. What happened next, Berta never saw. She only hoped that her beloved boy and his mother would be alright. ***** Since that moment, it wasn’t a month, or even a year – but a whole seven years. Seven long years of waiting and hoping that one day she might see Mikhail again. But each year, hope faded. Mikhail and Antonina were gone from the village. Berta returned only six months after she ran away, but… slowly nudged the slightly open gate and found only a burnt-out house. No one there. Not Mikhail, nor Antonina, nor Vasily (who Berta least wished to see). She returned three or four more times, but never found a soul. Deep down, she didn’t sense anything bad had happened to them – they must just have moved on. But where, and when, Berta had no idea. She realised they’d probably never return. Their home was gone, her own family was gone… She wandered for a year or more between villages, never staying in any one place, until she was found by an old man – near the same village where she once lived. Déjà vu… “Lost, are you?” the old man with silver hair and a long beard chuckled. “Want to come live with me?” Berta followed – she had no other option. And the old man, as it turned out, though partial to a drop himself, was kind. He kept her well-fed with broths, porridge, and meaty bones. He took her to work – as a night watchman at the cemetery. At first, Berta was uneasy among so many graves, but she got used to it – and to Nikolai Fyodorovich, as the old man was called. He proved a decent sort, just lonely and longing for company. When he drank, unlike Vasily, he was never violent – if anything, he’d sigh and tell Berta sad stories, about being abandoned by his wife, estranged from his daughter, and his life as a failure. At such times Berta would curl up beside him, listening, knowing how much it meant. When he fell silent, she’d remember happier times: Antonina, Mikhail – and try to forget Vasily, once and for all. But fate had another twist. One day, during her rounds at the cemetery, Berta came across Vasily’s grave. She could hardly believe it: but the scent was the same – full of bitterness and drink. “Why did you stop?” Nikolai Fyodorovich asked, noticing the dog by a grave. “Vasily… that must be the one who burned in his own house.” Berta looked at him in surprise. “Yes, there was such a man. His wife and son, thank God, left for the city, but he drank himself silly and suffocated in the fire. A stupid death. People said he abused his family. If so, he got what he deserved. But… about the dead, speak well or not at all. Let’s go. May the earth rest lightly on him.” Berta lived nearly five years with the cemetery watchman, but when he died, she was alone once again. Old now, she knew no one would take her in, so she decided to remain at the cemetery, where food could sometimes be found. This would be her resting place too; she needed no new master – and she saw Nikolai not as a ‘master’ but as a fellow sufferer. So, as the first snow fell, something utterly unexpected happened. That day, on her usual foraging walk, she heard voices near Vasily’s grave – a man and a woman. Unusual for the usually quiet cemetery. Berta crept closer, curiosity piqued, to see who could be visiting Vasily. “I told you, Oksana – it’s a bad idea coming here,” said the man. “What do I need to be at my father’s grave for? After everything he did, why should I forgive him… for what? For putting my mum in her grave early?” “You must, Misha… forgive and let go. These nightmares will stop, I know it! No matter what, he was your father. And if his memory is haunting your dreams, he needs forgiveness.” “And how would you know that?” “My grandma always said – forgive and everyone will rest easier, you and your father.” “Alright… Maybe you’re right.” Mikhail looked at his father’s grave, frowned, then cleared his brow and said: “I forgive you, Dad. For me, for Mum… and for Berta. If only you hadn’t made me send my best friend away. I hope she’s OK.” All that time, Berta stood quietly behind Mikhail, barely believing her eyes. It was him! Her beloved boy. He had grown, become a man, but she knew him instantly. Would Mikhail recognise her? Sensing eyes on his back, Mikhail turned suddenly and froze. “Mish, what’s wrong?” Oksana asked, worried. “You’ve seen a ghost!” “Not a ghost… a dog,” he murmured. “So? There are dogs at cemeteries all the time. Are you frightened?” “I think… I think I’ve seen her before. Wait, that’s…” He took a few steps towards Berta, hesitated, then took a few more – his doubts falling away with every stride. Berta wagged her tail and stepped closer, then both raced to each other. Oksana scarcely had time to blink, and Mikhail was on his knees, hugging his dog for the first time in seven years, while Berta licked his cheeks, his nose, his chin. Her deepest dream had finally come true: after all those long years of waiting faithfully, she was reunited with her boy. ***** Of course Mikhail took Berta home, and she became fast friends with his new human companion. They all lived together: first three of them; then four, after Berta found a stray kitten and they unanimously adopted him too; then five, as a new baby – Nikita – arrived. Mikhail repaired the village house, and the whole family – people and animals – would visit there every year. And after all the suffering both Mikhail and Berta had endured, they were, at last, truly happy.

Everything Happens for the Best Margaret Smith, a strong-willed mother, had always shaped her daughter, Victoria, in her own image, believing she knew what was best for her. Margaret, a successful woman in the construction business—a field dominated by men—insisted that her daughter follow her guidance at every turn, never allowing a step off her carefully plotted path. Victoria, eager to please and devoted to her mother, did everything she could to live up to these high expectations, even when the pressure became overwhelming. Childhood mishaps and school triumphs alike were met with her mother’s exacting standards, and Victoria graduated top of her class, as was expected. Despite her wishes to attend university in another city, Margaret forbade it—Victoria had to remain under her watchful eye. At university, Victoria fell hard for Josh, a charming, blue-eyed fellow student who was struggling more than she with his studies. Victoria often ended up doing his coursework, and their relationship blossomed, with Josh meeting her parents and even passing Margaret’s scrutiny, though Margaret remained unconvinced of his worthiness. Insisting her daughter could do better, Margaret maintained strict control over Victoria’s life. Despite her mother’s objections, Victoria defied her for the first time and eventually married Josh after university. Life, however, had its twists: Josh, once labeled a mediocre student, landed a prestigious job and began to outshine his studious wife in the professional world. Victoria continued working for her mother and soon felt the trap of never-ending supervision. The marriage soured, with Josh eventually leaving to pursue a new relationship, and Victoria finally broke free—quitting her mother’s company, moving out, and starting over on her own. One day, after a literal misstep and an injured ankle, Victoria was helped by a friendly passerby, John. A hospital visit turned into friendship, and friendship quickly blossomed into love. Four months later, they married, and a year after that welcomed their daughter, Katie. When asked about her wonderful husband, Victoria would just laugh and say, “He picked me up off the street—ask him if you don’t believe me!” Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for all your support. Wishing you every happiness in life.

Granddad It Happened One Summer Evening: Heading Home from Practice, I Saw an Old Man Fallen on the Pavement. Everyone Passing By Thought He Was Drunk and Avoided Him, but He Was Reaching Out for Help, Mumbling Unintelligibly. My Mum Always Taught Me to Lend a Hand Where I Can, so I Approached and Asked, “Do You Need Help?” He Couldn’t Answer Coherently, Just Reached Out to Me. A Woman Walking Past Warned, “Stay Away, He’s Drunk and Dirty, You’ll Catch Something!” I Noticed His Hands Were Covered in Blood and Fear Rose Up in Me. He Tried to Tell Me What Happened but Only Managed Mumbles—He Pointed to a Bag Beside Him Full of Broken Beer Bottles. That’s Why His Hands Were Bleeding. I Cleaned His Hands with Wet Wipes Before Helping Him Up—Not Wanting to Get Blood All Over My Clothes, If I’m Honest… Once His Hands Were Clean, I Helped Him to His Feet and Tried to Ask His Address, but He Couldn’t Respond Properly. Instead, He Signalled Where to Go and Led Me to a Block of Flats in the Same Estate. He Pointed at the Intercom and Indicated Two Numbers—I Realised It Was His Flat Number. I Buzzed the Flat and a Woman’s Alarmed Voice Came Through. The Old Man Mumbled Again, and Seconds Later a Man and Woman Rushed Out. They Checked Him Over First, then the Man Thanked Me and Carried the Old Gentleman Inside. The Woman Was Eager to Thank Me and Insisted I Wait, Suddenly Remembering Something. She Darted Up the Stairs and Returned with a Massive Basket of Raspberries from Their Own Garden—She Boasted About Them. I Tried to Refuse, but She Was Insistent. She Explained How Distraught They Were When They’d Arrived Home from Their Allotment and Found Grandpa Missing. Here’s the Thing: During the War, He’d Been Captured by the Germans. Holding an Important Post, He Injured His Own Tongue to Stop Himself Talking. With No Sanitation in the Camps, He Developed an Infection and Lost Half His Tongue—Now He Can Hardly Speak, Only Makes Noises Like a Deaf-Mute. Teens in Our Estate Started Drinking Beer in the Playground, Smashing Bottles Everywhere. Even After We Complained to Police, Nothing Changed—Kids Kept Getting Cut. Ever Since My Daughter Sonya Sliced Her Foot, Grandpa Has Been Picking Up the Glass to Keep the Playground Safe for Children, Despite His Bad Legs. We Tried Everything to Stop Him—Even Hiding the Keys—but He Still Slipped Out. Last Time He Fell, He Lay Five Hours on Cold Ground Before Anyone Helped. We Were About to Start Searching When You Called Downstairs. Thank You. After Hearing Her Story, I Was Left Speechless. She Pressed Raspberries into My Hands, and I Bowed—Yes, Bowed—to Her, Words Failing Me. On The Way Home, I Burst Into Tears. Why Is It Like This in Our Country? Why Do We Only Think of Ourselves? To Everyone: If You See Someone Fallen and Unable to Get Up, Don’t Assume the Worst. Approach and Offer Your Help—They Might Truly Need It. Especially to Young People: Let’s Remember We’re HUMANS, Not ANIMALS!