My Husband’s Family Forgot My 40th Birthday, So I Gave Them a Taste of Their Own Medicine: How I Finally Stood Up for Myself After Years of Being the Family Fixer

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 1

Why has my phone been silent all evening? I remember asking, swirling a glass of red by the fire. Perhaps theres trouble with the line? Or have they mixed up the dates? Surely your family hasnt simply forgotten, Edwardits a milestone, forty years, not just any ordinary birthday. The dining room was decked with candles and pine, the December chill held at bay by the smell of roast goose and oranges. My mobile sat on the crisp white tablecloth, dark and untouched.

Edward, my husband, kept his head bowed over his plate, chewing far too long upon a mouthful of goose as if it might buy him time. The stereo played quietly by the bookshelf; it should have been an evening for laughter and toasts. Id spent the better part of two days assembling platters and puddings, anticipating a knock at the door or at very least a callEdwards family always dropped by for my birthday. Or so I thought.

He set his fork down at last. You know what Mothers like, Helenher blood pressure, you see. Maybe her hips played up again. Or perhaps shes gotten tied up with the greenhouse, I mean, her winter bulbs well, never mind, no bulbs in December. Shes getting forgetful. As for Lucy, you know what shes like at workalways end of year reports and overtime.

I gave a dry laugh. Funny, Lucy only finds time for me when she needs someone to mind her twin boys or lend her money until next pay day. But remembering a birthday is apparently too much after all these years.

I rose from the table and drew back the curtain. Outside, heavy snowflakes settled on the streetlamps, the sort that made even London seem magical. Forty. Its an age of reckoning, when a woman surveys whats been harvested and whats been lost. And today, as I gazed at the empty street, I saw plainly how Edwards family, for whom Id spent fifteen years as spare driver, counsellor, and cook, had quietly erased me from their calendar.

Edward came to my side and wrapped me in a hug. Dont let it get you down, darling. What matters is that were together. And you liked your present, didnt you?

He had been thoughtfulhed bought me a voucher for the spa Id always dreamed of. There was no lack of affection between us. But Edward, ever the gentle soul, was hopeless at bucking conventionor resisting his mother Margarets demands and Lucys cheek. In any friction, his head went straight in the sand.

Im not upset, Eddie, I replied softly into my reflection on the glass. Im simply drawing conclusions.

And the conclusions had been a long time forming. I recalled organising Margarets own 65th the year before: a weeks unpaid leave, the search for a reasonably-priced bistro, menus drawn up, a homemade two-tier cake, and hours spent piecing together a sweet film from old photos. What thanks was I afforded? A clipped Thanks, but it couldve used more cream and a supermarket body wash gift setlabels still on, bought on a two-for-one promotion.

Then there was Lucy. Favors as a given: Helen, pick up the boys from nursery, Im at the salon, or Helen, can you edit my coursework, youre the smart one, or, Lend me that dress for our do at the office. I complied. Each time, I told myself, this was family, give and take. Kindness, sooner or later, comes home to roost.

That evening, my phone never rang. Not that day, nor the nextnot even the customary picture of a petrol station bouquet sent by text, the sort theyd forward on every church holiday. The silence expanded to fill a week before, at last, Lucy remembered me.

Her name flashed up. Happy birthday, birthday girl! She was all breezy cheer, not a hint of embarrassment. Listen, bit of a cheeky askTom and I are off to Brighton this weekend for a breather. Could you possibly keep Max for us? Hed be happier with you, anyway, and those kennels charge a fortune, its criminal.

I froze, dough stuck to my fingers in the kitchen. Hello, Lucy. Is there nothing youd like to say about last week? I said, deliberately calm.

She paused. What was last week? Ohyou mean your birthday? Oh Helen, Im hopeless, arent I? Please say youre not crosswere family, arent we! Happy belated and all that, hope it was lovely. So, Maxcan we drop him round Friday?

Max was their boisterous labradorlast time, hed chewed my shoes and left a trail of claw marks across the hall.

No, I said.

No, what? Lucy sounded puzzled.

No, I wont take Max.

A stunned silence. Then, What do you mean? Helen, weve bought the tickets, hotel paid! Youve always helped before!

I always have. But not this time, I said, cool as you please. I have plans of my own. The kennels are open any hour, Im sure.

Oh, for goodness sake, are you sulking over a card? Lucys tone cracked sharp. Forty years old and moping like a toddler! Well, Ill be ringing Mum to tell her how you treat us.

By all means, I replied, ending the call with shaking hands, but relief trickled through mestrange, unfamiliar relief. For the first time, Id said no. And the world hadnt ended; the walls stood firm. Only the dough in its bowl rose quietly beneath a towel.

That evening, Edward arrived home looking sheepish. No doubt Margaret and Lucy had already staged an intervention.

Helen, Mums called Lucys in tears, the holiday might be ruined. Cant we just take the dog, for everyones sake?

I regarded my husband, grave and unblinking. Edward, they forgot my milestone. They didnt so much as utter a sorry. Lucys only rung because she needed a free dog minder. Do you not see its all one way?

He sighed and dropped into a chair. I do. But theyre family

Exactly. Family should mean respect, not convenience. As of today, I wont be the reliable fallback. Things are changing.

Edward said nothing, and so we didnt take Max. Lucy had to fork out for a dog hotel, while in-laws gave me the cold shoulder, whispered behind doors, accused me of grudge-holding.

But time rolled onward, and the next family pageant crept up: Margarets 70thnever a low-key affair. My mother-in-law, ever imperious, was to host at the family cottage, the house Edward himself spent five years restoring.

Tradition meant Id receive a shopping list a fortnight ahead: Id buy, cart, and cook enough to feed an army, while Margaret oversaw and Lucy tinkered with lipstick and gossip, offering a cursory hand laying the table.

The call came mid-January. Helen love, keeping well? Now, the big days round the corner and theres plenty to sort. Get your pen, dearthree tins of caviar, make sure theyre quality, salmonproper fillet, mindnot from a tin, about a stone of pork for the roast, five different saladsoh, and only proper mayo, not the cheap sort

I sipped coffee as I listened, pen untouched.

Margaret, I broke in gently at the point of pudding brands, and who will be doing all this preparation?

Why, you, of course. Well, Ill direct, but I cant be standing long, not with my veins, dear, you know that. Lucy can help set the table when she gets in.

Im afraid I cant, I answered, measured and calm. Those dates are already spoken for. Ill be attending the party as a guest, on time, but not before.

A chill descended on the line.

Spoken for? What could be more important than the selfless mother of your husband? Have you taken leave of your senses, Helen? Who will feed everyoneme, a frail old lady? Lucy, with her fragile hands?

You could arrange a caterer, perhaps, I offered. So simple these dayshot food delivered in smart dishes, no washing up.

A caterer? Have you seen their prices? My pension isnt endless, you know. Besides, homemade is always better. Helen, dont make troubleFriday at the cottage, with the supplies. Ill send Edward the list if youre too busy scribbling.

And with that, she hung up.

Edward returned home that night, pale. Mums beside herself. Wants us up there with half the shops. Twenty quids worth of thingsno, sorry, two hundred pounds’ worth! What are we going to do?

You can go, I replied, leafing through the latest edition of Country Life. Pick up their supplies if you wish. But I wont be there Friday. Ive spelled it out to your mum.

This will be a disaster, Edward fretted. Guests will arrive to empty plates. Shell never let me hear the end of it.

Edward, I looked up at him, recall my last birthday. Was the table bare? Not at all. But the chairs were empty. I gave two days to making a proper celebration. I waited. And you all chose to vanish. Now, Ill do as you didIll come, Ill offer my best wishes, and nothing more. If Margaret wants a feast, she can hire help or ask Lucy.

Edward wore a tracks in the carpet debating and phoning late into the night. In the end, he bought the groceries. But he couldnt even peel a spud, and Lucy excused herself over the phoneshe couldnt risk ruining her manicure.

The day dawnedSaturday, the fateful birthday. I slept in, took a long bath, and pampered myself. I selected my loveliest navy gown, curled my hair, and shone. Edward had gone early in the morning to face the fray, phoning with growing desperation: Helen, for heavens sake, come soon, its chaos! Mums shouting, the roasts uncooked, not a salad in sight! I simply replied, Ill be there at two, as per the invitation, and hung up.

I hailed a premium cab, picked up a modest bouquet of chrysanthemums at the floristsno extravagant roses this timeand stopped for a small gift.

Arriving at the cottage, guests cars jammed the lane. Rather than music, I was greeted by raised voices and the clattering of dishes. Inside, chaos reigned: Margaret, scarlet-faced in her dressing gown and curlers, flapped round the kitchen; Lucy, immaculate from the knees up but sporting an apron, was assaulting a stubborn tin of peas; Edward, streaked with ash, was battling a barbecue somewhere in the garden.

In the lounge, aunts and uncles sat around a barren tableempty but for a few bottles and hopeful plates.

There you are! Margaret shrieked. Look at you, dressed to the nines while were run ragged! Wheres your sense of decency, Helen?

Happy birthday, Margaret, I beamed, offering bouquet and box.

What on earth is this? she snipped, scarcely glancing at the flowers. Never mind, straight to the kitchen with youtheres veg to chop, the nibbles are untouched, the guests are starving!

Im a guest today, I announced quietly, for the whole room to hear. I warned youno aprons for me. I arrived as a guest, and thats how Ill remain.

You you! Margaret spluttered, speechless. You humiliate me before my familyhow dare you

Lucy flung down the peas. Honestly, Helen, this is beyond a joke; youve left us in the lurch! Get to the stove already!

Lucy, its your mothers partyof course youre helping. Im merely the in-law. The outsider, as Im so often reminded whenever inheritance is mentioned. Today, Im just a guest.

I took an empty chair amongst the silent relatives. Lovely weather were having, I said brightly, Shame about the nibbles, but I trust our hostess will surprise us yet.

At that moment, Edward blundered in, smoke still clinging to him. The barbecues ruinedthe meats burnt, the coals were too hot. Disaster.

Silence fell across the room. Two dozen hungry guests stared. Margaret slumped onto a chair, hand to her heartthis time in real distress.

Its all her fault! she cried, pointing at me. All deliberate! Shes out to shame meafter all Ive done

Margaret, I cut her off, standing. No ones shaming anyone. I simply responded in kindyou erased my birthday, treated me as nothing more than staff. Ive reminded you that Im a person. Please, open your gift.

With trembling fingers, Margaret tore away the paper. Out came a wall calendar festooned with kittens.

Whats this? she whispered.

A calendar, I said. Ive marked in red all our family birthdaysincluding mine, a gentle aid to memory. You gave me discount body wash; I give you a calendar. Alls fair.

Someone snorted; Uncle George let out a crow of laughter. Shes right, Margaretyoure always bragging about your diamond in-law. But forgot her fortieth? Not cricket.

Oh, do hush! Margaret glared.

The celebration, if it could be called such, limped along. Guests nibbled dry sausage and tinned peas, murmured to each other, and eyed the clock. Within an hour, I summoned a taxi.

Ill be off, I told Edward at the door. This isnt my idea of a party. Ill see you at homeIm ordering pizza, proper pizza.

He stared, pale. Youve finished me, Helen. Mum will never forgive you.

But now you know what my work is worth, I replied. Once taken for granted, now sorely missed. Come home once youve cleared up the mess. I left to the sound of raised voices.

The row lasted nearly a month. Margaret simmered with shame, Lucy spoke of my selfishness. Yet an odd thing happenedEdward stopped making excuses. That party had opened his eyes: he saw the difference between our own householdclean and harmonious, thanks to meand his mothers realm of chaos and entitlement.

A few weeks later, Edward brought in a great bouquet of red rosesnot for any occasion, just because. These are for you. And I told Mum were not coming to help at the allotment in Maywere taking a week at a spa hotel, just you and me. Its booked.

What about the potatoes? I teased.

Well buy them, Edward grinned. And as for buying off the family with your hard worknever again. You were right, Helen. Respect must be mutual.

Margaret and Lucy sulked for weeks, but something shifted. By the next Mothers Day, a message from Lucy appeared: Happy Mothers Day, Helen! Have a lovely spring! with a prim tulip emoji. A small victory.

No, I never became Lucys best mate, and Margaret didnt miraculously warm to me. But they understood: free rides on Helen were finished. From that day, everything, even the door to my time and effort, was opened only with the key of respect and remembrance.

And that kitten calendar, as Edward later told me, now hangs in pride of place on Margarets kitchen wall. My birthday circled in thick, bright red, just in case she forgets again.

VIC, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS PERSONALLY, BUT I WANT MY DAD TO WALK ME DOWN THE AISLE. HE’S MY REAL FATHER, AFTER ALL. A DAD’S A DAD. AND YOU… WELL, YOU KNOW, YOU’RE JUST MY MUM’S HUSBAND. IT’LL LOOK BETTER IN PHOTOS IF I’M WITH DAD. HE LOOKS SO DISTINGUISHED IN A SUIT. Victor paused, teacup in hand. He was fifty-five, with the calloused hands of a long-haul truck driver and an aching back. Opposite him sat Alina. The bride-to-be. Gorgeous. Twenty-two. Victor remembered her at five, when he first came into their lives—how she’d hidden behind the sofa and shouted, “Go away, you’re a stranger!” But he’d stayed. He taught her to ride a bike. Sat by her bed when she had chickenpox, while her mum Vera was exhausted. He paid for her braces—selling his motorcycle to do so. Paid her university fees—working double shifts and risking his health for it. And her “real dad”, Igor, came by every few months. Brought her a teddy bear, took her out for ice cream, told tall business tales and disappeared again. Never paid a penny in support. “Of course, Alinka,” Victor said softly, setting his cup down with a clink. “Real is real. I understand.” “You’re the best!” Alina kissed his bristly cheek. “By the way, the restaurant needs the rest of its deposit. Dad said he’d send it, but his accounts are frozen for some tax reason. Could you lend me a hundred grand or so? I’ll pay you back… from the wedding money.” Victor silently walked to the old sideboard, took an envelope from under a pile of linen. It was for repairs to his battered old Toyota. The engine was knocking, the overhaul overdue. “Take it. No need to pay me back. It’s my gift.” The wedding was extravagant. At a country club. A flower arch. An expensive master of ceremonies. Victor and Vera sat at the parents’ table. Victor wore his only suit, a bit tight in the shoulders. Alina was radiant. Down the aisle, Igor led her. Igor looked dashing: tall, tanned (just back from Turkey), in a razor-sharp tux. He strode proudly, smiled for the cameras, pretended to wipe away a tear. Guests whispered, “Such elegance! She’s her father’s image!” No one knew the tux was rented—paid for by Alina herself, secretly. At the banquet, Igor grabbed the microphone. “Daughter!” his baritone dripped honey. “I remember the first time I held you—you were a tiny princess. I always knew you deserved the best. May your husband carry you through life as I did!” Applause. Tears. Victor hung his head. He didn’t recall Igor ever carrying Alina—just not turning up to collect her from the hospital. As the party raged, Victor slipped out to smoke, his heart acting up from the noise and heat. Round the veranda in the shadow, voices drifted. Igor, speaking on his phone. “It’s all good, Serge! The wedding’s a blast. Suckers are paying, we’re just partying. Daughter? Sure, she turned out cute. I already chatted up her fiancé—wealthy, dad’s in the council. Hinted I could use some backing for my business—he’s biting. After the drinks I’ll squeeze him for a couple hundred thou ‘as a loan’. Alinka? She’s a lovesick fool, hero-worships her daddy. I threw her two compliments and she melted. Her mum, Vera, is there with her loser driver. Looks ancient. Man, glad I ditched her when I did.” Victor froze. His fists clenched. He wanted to smash that smug face. But he didn’t move—because he saw, in the ivy’s shadow, Alina herself. She’d stepped outside for air. She heard every word. Standing there, hand pressed to her lips, perfect make-up running. Staring at the “real dad” Giggling on the phone, calling her “a resource” and “idiot”. Igor ended the call, straightened his bow tie, beamed, and returned to the party. Alina slid down the wall, wedding dress crumpling on the dirty tiles. Victor came quietly. He didn’t say, “I told you so.” He didn’t gloat. He just took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. “Up you get, sweetheart. You’ll catch cold on the tiles.” Alina looked up, shame and heartbreak in her eyes—so raw she wished she could disappear. “Uncle Vic…” she whispered. “Dad… Vic… He…” “I know,” Victor said calmly. “Don’t worry, come on. It’s your wedding. The guests are waiting.” “I can’t go in!” she sobbed, smearing mascara. “I betrayed you! I invited him, shoved you in the corner! I’m so stupid. God, I’m so stupid.” “You’re not stupid. You just wanted a fairy tale,” Victor held out his hard, warm, rough hand. “But sometimes the ones writing fairy tales are crooks. Come on. Wash up, fix your nose, then go dance. Don’t let him see he broke you. This is your day, not his.” Alina re-entered, pale but holding her head high. The MC announced, “And now—the father-daughter dance!” Igor gleamed and strode out, arms wide. The hall fell silent. Alina took the microphone. Her hand shook but her voice was clear. “I want to change tradition,” she said. “My biological father gave me life, and I thank him for that. But a father–daughter dance isn’t just with the one who gave you life, it’s with the one who protected it. With the one who nursed my scraped knees. Taught me not to quit. Gave up everything so I could stand here in this dress.” She turned to the parents’ table. “Dad Vic. Come dance with me.” Igor froze, smile faltering mid-step. A ripple of whispers swept the room. Victor stood, red with embarrassment. He made his way out—awkward, pigeon-toed, suit too tight. Alina hugged him and pressed her face into his shoulder. “Forgive me, Daddy,” she whispered as they shuffled to the music. “Please forgive me.” “It’s all right, little one. It’s all right,” Victor soothed, stroking her back with his heavy, gentle hand. Igor stood a moment, realising the show was over, then quietly slunk to the bar, and before long slipped out of the reception altogether. Three years later. Victor lies in hospital. His heart ultimately failed him—a heart attack. He lies beneath a drip, weak and pale. The door opens. Alina enters, holding the hand of a tiny boy, not yet three. “Grandad!” shouts the little one, running to the bed. Alina sits beside Victor, kissing his calloused hand again and again. “Dad, we brought you oranges. And soup. The doctor says things look good—you just rest and don’t worry. We’ll get you back on your feet. I even booked a place for you at the spa.” Victor smiles. He doesn’t have millions. Only an old car and a bad back. But he’s the richest man in the world. Because he’s Dad—with no “step” in front of it. Life put everything in its place. Pity that sometimes the price of seeing clearly is humiliation and regret. But it’s better to realise it late than never: fatherhood isn’t about a name on a certificate, but about the hand that lifts you when you fall. The Moral: Don’t chase pretty packaging—inside it’s often empty. Value those who are quietly there for you on ordinary days, who give their shoulder without asking anything back. Because when the music ends and the party’s over, the only one left at your side is the one who genuinely loves you, not the one who just loves being in your spotlight. Did you have a stepdad who became closer than your real father? Or do you think blood is everything? 👇👨‍👧

Two Columns She’d already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: “Can you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s running a temperature and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were wet from washing up; the touchscreen instantly blurred. She wiped her palms on the tea towel and glanced at her phone calendar. Tomorrow was the one evening she’d carved out just for herself—an early night, ignoring the world—ahead of a report due first thing, with her head already buzzing. She started typing, “I can’t, I have…”—then stopped. That familiar wave—guilt, almost nausea—rose inside her: say no and you’re letting someone down. You’re not the reliable one. She deleted her words and simply wrote, “Yes, I’ll cover,” and sent it. The kettle rumbled to a boil. She poured a mug of tea, sat down by the window, and opened a note she called “Good Things.” Today’s entry was already ready and waiting: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a full stop, then added a little plus sign at the end, as if it somehow balanced things out. This note had lived with her for nearly a year. She’d started it that January, during the empty lull that settles in after the Christmas holidays, needing proof that her days didn’t just melt into nothing. Back then she’d written: “Gave Mrs Peterson from upstairs a lift to the clinic.” Mrs Peterson, fifth floor, always walking slow with a bag of prescriptions, too nervous to brave the bus. She’d rung the doorbell, said, “You’re driving—could you take me? Otherwise I won’t make it.” So she took her, waited in the car while blood was drawn, drove her back. On the return she’d caught herself being irritable—late for work, everyone at the office already grumbling about queues and GPs. The irritation felt shameful, so she swallowed it and bought coffee at the petrol station. In her note, she logged it delicately, as if the act was pure, unmixed. In February, her son landed a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home, it’s no bother for you,” he said, not asking but assuming. The boy was lovely—loud, non-stop: “Watch, come play, let’s do…” She adored him, but by evening her hands trembled from exhaustion and her head rang like after a gig. After bedtime, she washed up, gathered toys into the box, only for them to spill out again at dawn. On Sunday, when her son returned, she admitted, “I’m worn out.” He smiled, as if it were a joke: “Well, you’re a grandma.” Kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” Next to it, a little heart, so it wouldn’t feel like just obligation. March—her cousin rang asking for money till payday. “I need it for medicine, you understand.” She did. She transferred the cash, didn’t ask when it would be paid back. Then sat in her kitchen, working out if she could get by till her next pay packet, shelving the new coat she’d long been eyeing. It wasn’t a luxury, just her old one’s elbows had worn shiny. In the note: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add, “Put myself on hold.” That felt too trivial to record. April, work—one of the girls, young, eyes red, locked herself in the loo and couldn’t come out. “He’s left me. No one needs me.” She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat on the stairs, paint smell clinging from the recent refit, as the girl repeated herself. She listened, in the dark, missing the back exercise the doctor had prescribed. At home she lay on the sofa, lower back throbbing, angry at the girl, angrier at herself—why can’t you ever say, “I have to go home”? In the note: “Sat with Katie, comforted her.” She used the girl’s name, somehow it felt warmer. Again, she left out, “Skipped something for myself.” In June: Drove a colleague—bags and all—to her allotment when her car broke down. The woman argued with her husband over speaker the whole way, never asked if it was convenient. She kept quiet. At the allotment, her colleague unloaded in a rush: “Thanks, you were going that way anyway.” She wasn’t, but got caught in traffic, missing her mother, who later sulked. Noted: “Gave Tanya a ride to her allotment.” “On the way” stung, and she stared at the screen, unmoving, until it dimmed. August, late night, mum called. Frail voice, anxious: “I don’t feel good, my blood pressure’s off, I’m scared.” She jumped up, pulled on a jacket, ordered a taxi across the sleeping city. The flat was stifling, empty pill packets everywhere. She checked the pressure, gave medication, sat with her mum until she dozed. Next morning, straight to work, no time to go home. On the Tube her eyes closed, terrified of missing her stop. The note: “Went to mum’s in the night.” She nearly put an exclamation mark, then erased it—it felt like shouting. By autumn, her list had grown long as a roll of till receipts, endlessly scrolling. The longer it got, the more she felt that she wasn’t living, just submitting a report. As if any love coming her way came with a receipt, and she saved them all in case anyone asked, “So what have you actually done?” She tried recalling if she’d ever logged something just for her—not “for her,” but “because of her.” The entries were all about others: their pain, their needs, their plans. Her wants looked like selfish whims—best hidden. October brought a sharper scene, quiet but wounding. She’d brought documents her son needed printing; stood in his hallway, folder in hand. He was searching for keys, talking on the phone. The grandson zoomed around, yelling for cartoons. Son half-covered the receiver, tossed out, “Mum, since you’re here, fancy popping by the shops? We need milk and bread—I won’t have time.” She answered, “Actually, I’m tired too.” He didn’t look up, just shrugged: “You can though. You always can.” Then carried on talking. Those words were a seal: not a question, just a statement of fact. Something hot pooled inside her—shame that she wanted to say no, that she suddenly didn’t want to be agreeable. Still, she bought the bread, the milk, threw in apples—her grandson’s favourite. Delivered them, heard the monotone, “Thanks, Mum,” like a headmaster’s tick in a register. She smiled the way she always did and headed home. At home, she logged: “Picked up shopping for my son.” And stared at the line. Her hands shook not from tiredness but from anger. Suddenly, she saw the list was no longer support—it was a leash. November: She finally booked a GP appointment—her back worse now, can’t stand long in the kitchen. Booked it online, Saturday morning, to avoid asking for time off. Friday evening, mum rang: “You coming round? Need the chemist, and anyway, I’m lonely.” She said, “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” Her mum paused, then sighed, “Alright. I suppose I don’t matter.” That line always worked. She’d launch into apologies, promises, shuffle her priorities. This time she opened her mouth—to say she’d come after—but stopped. It wasn’t stubbornness, just weariness; her life, she realised, had weight too. Quietly she said, “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need the doctor’s, it’s important.” Her mum sighed, wounded, “Alright then,” full of disappointment, pressure, habit. Sleep came badly that night—dreams of running office corridors with folders, doors slamming. In the morning, she made herself porridge, took the painkillers that had sat too long in the cupboard, and headed out. At the surgery, waiting, she listened to strangers chat about blood tests and pensions—not thinking about diagnoses, but about how brave it felt, doing something for herself. Afterwards, she made her promised stop at her mum’s, picking up medicine along the way. Her mum met her with silence, then at last, “So, did you go?” She replied, “I did. It was important.” Mum examined her closely—as if, for a moment, she was a person, not an extra pair of hands. Then turned away, walked to the kitchen. That evening, home again, she felt an unfamiliar relief in her chest—not joy, but space. December now—year almost done—she realised she was looking to weekends not for a breather, but a chance. Saturday morning, another message from her son: “Could you take the grandson for a couple of hours? We’re busy.” Her fingers hovered, ready to type “yes.” She sat on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand. The flat quiet, just the radiator ticking. She remembered her plan for the day: head to town, visit the new art exhibit she’d kept postponing. To walk amongst paintings in silence—no one asking about lost socks or dinner. She replied: “Sorry, I can’t today. I’ve got plans.” Sent it at once, phone face down—easier that way. His reply came in a minute: “Alright, you upset with me?” Another: “Are you cross?” She turned it over, read, and felt the familiar urge to explain, to soften the blow, to justify. Instead of the long answer—tired, needing time for herself—she kept it simple: explanations always became bargaining, and she didn’t want to haggle for her own life. She wrote, “No. It’s just important to me,” and nothing else. She got herself ready calmly, like clocking into a shift. Checked the iron, windows, purse, train card. Waited at the bus stop among shoppers, suddenly struck by freedom—nobody to rescue, right now. Unusual, not frightening. The museum was slow and golden. She lingered before portraits, hands, light in painted glass. It felt like relearning attention—not for others’ needs, but for her own. Coffee in the small café, a postcard with a print, rough paper pleasant under her fingertips. When she got home she left her phone in her bag, didn’t check it straight away. Hung up her coat, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Then, at last, sat down and opened her “Good Things” note. Scrolled down to today. She looked at the empty line a long while. Then pressed “plus” and wrote: “Visited the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then did something new. At the top, she split the list into two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” There was only one entry in the “For Myself” column so far, but it was something essential, straightening inside her like a realigned spine. No need to prove to others she was good; she only needed to remember she was here. The phone buzzed again; she didn’t rush. Poured tea, took a sip, only then checked. A short message from her mum: “How are you?” She replied, “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” Then added, before sending, “I was busy today.” Sent it, put the phone down, screen up. The room was quiet, but the silence didn’t press in. It was space, at last, she’d made for herself.

Who Slept in My Bed and Left It in a Mess… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Barely Older Than My Daughter — Chubby Baby Cheeks, Naive Eyes, a Nose Piercing (the Same Kind My Daughter Wanted, and He Furiously Forbade). I Couldn’t Even Be Mad at Her — As I Looked at Her Bare, Bluish Legs and Short Jacket, I Wanted to Snark: “If You’re Planning to Have Kids with that Idiot, Get Yourself a Warm Coat and Wear Tights under Your Jeans.” But I Kept Quiet. I Simply Handed Arina the Keys, Grabbed My Two Bags of Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mrs. Harris, What’s That Thing Under the Kitchen Counter?” the Girl Called After Me, “Is it for Storing Dishes?” I Couldn’t Resist and Tossed Back, “I Usually Hide My Husband’s Lovers’ Bodies in There, But You’re Welcome to Wash Plates.” Without Waiting for an Answer or Even Looking at Arina’s Frightened Face, I Walked Down the Stairs Pleased with Myself. Well then — that’s it, twenty years of marriage down the drain. It was my daughter who first discovered that Henry was cheating. She’d skipped classes, expecting nobody to be home, and stumbled upon a young nymph sipping cocoa from her favourite mug. With barely any clothes on the nymph, and Dad splashing in the shower, my clever daughter, Ellie, quickly put two and two together and rang me: “Mum, I think Dad’s got a mistress, and she’s wearing my slippers and drinking from my mug!” Just like in a fairy tale, I thought, remembering Ellie was more upset about her things being touched than Dad’s betrayal. Who slept in my bed and crumpled it… Unlike my daughter, I took it all in stride. Of course my pride was wounded — the girl was young and beautiful, while I had extra pounds, cellulite, and all the not-so-kind badges of a forty-something woman. But really, I felt relief — after all those years of mysterious late-night calls, erratic schedules, coffee shop receipts (never for me!), and not once had I caught him red-handed. Henry was so slick that I ended up feeling guilty for suspecting him. “It’s the first time,” Henry brazenly lied. “I don’t know, some eclipse, like a comet fell out of the sky.” The “comet” turned out to be a hotel worker from Henry’s business trip. She was twenty, with nothing to offer but a pretty face — and apparently not much sense, because she chased Henry to London and rented a grim bedsit with her savings. That’s why they met at our flat — with hot water and the washing machine. No wonder my quick wash was always on instead of “mixed fabrics!” The flat belonged to Henry, left to him by his father before marriage, and since I’d decided to file for divorce, my daughter and I moved out to my grandmother’s old council flat on the outskirts. Ellie was appalled — how would she get to college? “Well, why don’t you stay with us then?” Henry suggested, earning fresh insults. At least my daughter could tell him what she really thought now. At first it was a pain — new routes, shops, an hour’s journey to work and school. But we got used to it — I found a new job, Ellie applied to a nearby college, halving her commute. There wasn’t time to dwell on sadness — everyday problems and exams kept us busy, and when life settled down, we didn’t feel like mourning at all. Arina called me several times — to ask about baking settings and the dishwasher tablets. Once, she even came round carrying forgotten photos needed for graduation. Henry couldn’t manage it (or was afraid), I was out with a cold, and Ellie flatly refused to enter the old flat, sure it would wreck her mental health (she still had computer science exams). “It’s rather cosy,” Arina murmured, surveying the faded wallpaper and dated lamps. I smirked — yes, cosy, what else can you say? There, everything was modern and convenient. I spent twenty years building up that home. Let them have it. That visit, though, would come back to bite me. About a year after the infamous day, one night, the door lock clicked. “Expecting anyone?” I asked Ellie. She just stared. Arina stood in the doorway, mascara streaked down her cheeks, clutching a sports bag. “Has something happened with Henry?” I worried. “Something did!” Arina sobbed. “I caught him with the secretary! Wanted to surprise him since he said he was working late…” She broke down, crying like a child, hidden in her hands. “So what do you expect from me?” I asked, eyeing the bulky bag. “Could I stay here tonight? I haven’t any money. I’ll take the train to my mum’s in the morning.” “How will you travel if you’ve no money?” “I hoped you’d lend me some.” I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Ellie made the choice for me. “Why don’t you get out!” she sneered, adding a string of words she’d never used in front of me before. I gave her a stern look. “Come in, Arina,” I said. “It’s late. I’m not about to turn you out on the street.” From there, things got worse. Ellie was so furious she declared — it’s her or me. I shrugged, her choice, she’s an adult now. If she wanted, she could go to her father. “Oh, as if! I’ll stay at Nat’s!” We got her a taxi to her friend’s. Then I played host to a regretful mistress who had no friends, no job, just another piercing — in her tongue this time. I lent Arina money for the train, what else could I do? Even drove her to the station so she wouldn’t get lost. Arina thanked me for ages, asked forgiveness, and promised to sort her life out, go study, stop messing with married men. “Mum says I’m hopeless. She was right, I guess.” I didn’t see her off at the train — it was unnecessary. I reconciled with Ellie soon, though she couldn’t fathom how I could let “the homewrecker” stay. I stroked her soft hair, smiled and said: “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” Henry rang a week later. Said he’d seen the error of his ways, kicked out Arina, and was ready for a happy reunion. “Run out of clean shirts?” I asked, biting back. “Well, yeah…” my ex sighed. “Besides, she can’t wash — I’ve spent a year in greasy ones.” Obviously, I didn’t go back. Nor did I gloat. But I couldn’t help noticing that, after all this, my spirits had lifted: I felt lighter in head and heart, smiled more often. I got a dog, walked him in the evenings. Met a nice neighbour — so what if he’s ten years older, I’m not a girl myself. And life rolled on as it should.

“I Know All About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Ice-Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn pale – though inside, everything crumpled tight, like a piece of paper balled up before being tossed away. He just froze. Larissa stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. A typical scene – her back to her husband, polka-dot apron, the smell of fried onions. A homey picture. Cosy. But her voice was pure newsreader – calm, steady. Victor actually wondered: had he misheard? Maybe she’d said something about the cucumbers – like she knew where to buy the good ones? Or about the neighbour on the third floor selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Larissa repeated, not turning around. Now that chilled him for real. Because in her tone there was no hysteria, no resentment. None of what he’d always feared: no tears, no accusations, no smashed crockery. Just a statement of fact. She might as well have said the milk was finished. Victor had lived fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of them – with this woman. He knew her as if she were as familiar as his own hand: the mole on her left shoulder, how she wrinkled her nose when tasting soup, the way she sighed in the mornings. But he’d never heard this tone from her. “Lar—” he started, but his voice failed. He coughed. Tried again. “Larissa, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him – long and quietly, as if seeing him for the first time. Or perhaps more like looking at an old photograph, faded, where nothing is really clear anymore. “About Marina, for example,” she said. “From your accounts department. 2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground vanish from beneath his feet. No, it wasn’t a figure of speech – the ground truly fell away, and he was just left suspended. God. Marina?! He could barely recall her face. There had been something – the office party, maybe? Or after? Quick. Nothing serious. He’d even promised himself: never again. “And about Sveta,” Larissa continued calmly. “Who approached you at the gym. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. How did she even know about Sveta? Larissa switched off the hob. Took off her apron – neatly, unhurriedly, folded it in half. Sat at the table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I’ve kept quiet all this time?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak – but because he simply couldn’t. “The first time,” Larissa began, “I noticed about ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Especially on Fridays. You came home cheerful, eyes bright. Smelling of perfume. She smirked – bitterly, joylessly. “I thought then, maybe I imagined it? Maybe someone at the office had new perfume? I convinced myself for a whole month. And then I found the restaurant receipt in your jacket pocket. Dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. You and I never went there. Victor wanted to say something – to defend himself, to lie, as usual. But the words stuck somewhere between his stomach and throat. “Do you know what I did?” Larissa looked him in the eye. “I cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Met you with a smile. Didn’t say anything to our daughter – she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why should she know her father… She trailed off. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass by itself. Men are all like that – midlife crisis, hormones, silly mistakes. He’ll come back – and that’s fine. The main thing is the family’s intact. “Lar…” Victor forced out. “Don’t,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He fell quiet. “And then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone – never had a password. Did you think I never checked? I read your messages. Those stupid texts: ‘Miss you, bunny’, ‘You’re the best’. I saw the photos – hugging them, smiling. Her voice wavered – for the first time all conversation. But she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I kept asking myself: why am I putting up with this? Why keep living with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted out. “Larissa, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love the convenience. The clean flat. Hot dinners. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesn’t ask awkward questions.” She stood. Walked to the window. Stared into the darkness. “Do you know when I finally made up my mind?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. And she said, ‘Mum, you’re acting strange lately. Quiet. Like you’re not yourself anymore.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really am not myself anymore. I haven’t lived for myself in years. Victor stared at her back – straight, tense – and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not “could lose” – was losing. Right now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said hoarsely. “Larissa, please.” “I do,” she replied simply. “I’ve already filed the papers. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why?!” Victor erupted. “Why now?!” Larissa turned. Looked at him – long and hard. And smiled. Sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vitya. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And I was just there, to you. Always. Like air.” And it was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa – slumped, suddenly ten years older. Larissa stood in the hallway doorway. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And an abyss. Huge, unbridgeable. “You do know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t be lost, you’ll go on,” she cut in. “Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, took a step toward her. “Larissa, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vitya,” she raised her hand to stop him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what?” She paused. Gathering her words – the ones she’d meant to say years ago, but was afraid to. Or didn’t know how. Or never thought she was worth being heard. “Do you know how it felt? Always, when you came home after another ‘Marina’ or ‘Sveta’ – I’d lie next to you and feel like nothing. You never even really tried to hide it! Didn’t bother with your phone. Put shirts in the wash with her lipstick on the collar. You thought I was thick. Or blind. Victor sagged, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean to?” She stepped right up to him. Her eyes blazed – but not with tears. With fury. Years of pent-up, bursting fury. “You just never thought about me. Did you, when you kissed another? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What does it matter?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought about her. At all. Larissa was simply a given in his life. He always assumed: she’d never leave. She’d always be there. “You’d come home after your little so-called affairs – and nothing changed for you. Wife at home. Family whole. Everything fine. She turned away. “But I didn’t exist. Not in your world. Not at all. Victor stepped closer. Reached out – to touch her shoulder, to hug, to keep her. Larissa pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands. “Larissa, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I’ll be different!” She looked down at their entwined fingers. At his face – twisted, terrified. And suddenly realised: he really was afraid. But not of losing *her*. He was afraid of being alone. “You know,” she said softly, freeing her hands, “I was scared, too. Of being alone. Without you. Without a family. But you know what I’ve realised?” She picked up her bag from the table. The keys. “I already am alone. Have been for years. With you – but alone.” And she walked to the door. Three weeks passed. Victor sat in the empty flat – Larissa moved in with their daughter immediately after that conversation – and scrolled through his phone. Marina from accounts. Sveta from the gym. Two, three more names in his contacts who’d once meant something. He tried Sveta’s number. She rejected the call. He texted Marina – read, no reply. The rest didn’t even view the messages. Funny – when he’d had a family, they all wanted to see him. And now, when he was supposedly free… No one wanted him at all. He sat on the sofa, in this flat, which suddenly seemed vast and alien, and for the first time in fifty-two years felt truly, deeply alone. He got his phone again. Found “Larissa”. Stared at the screen for ages. His hands shook. He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then just wrote: “Can we meet?” Reply came after an hour: “Why?” Victor thought. What should he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Ridiculous. “I’ve changed”? A lie. So he typed the truth: “I want to start over. Can we try?” Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Appeared again. And then came the answer: “Come on Saturday. To our daughter’s. At two. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would come of it. If she’d forgive. If she’d return. If he really deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And for the first time in years, felt ready to start again. If she allowed it. Should Larissa have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted him and drawn the line back at the first sign of infidelity? What’s your view?

The Waiter Rushed Over and Offered to Take the Kitten Away, But the Six-Foot-Tall Man Gently Picked Up the Crying, Fluffy Baby and Set It on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And the Finest Meat, Please!” “Let’s wear something bold, almost nymph-like, and go to an exclusive restaurant—just to show off and size up the men…” declared one of the three friends, a confident headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school. These “nymphs” were thirty-five, the very age—so they believed—for short skirts and stylish blouses that revealed more than they hid: plunging necklines, flawless makeup—the full power look. They picked a fitting restaurant: posh, top-tier, seriously expensive. Booking a table was easy for them. Seated comfortably, they immediately soaked up admiring glances from men and openly jealous ones from their dates. Predictably, all conversation revolved around what mattered most—men. Dreams, expectations, and strict criteria: tall, fit, attractive, well-off, devoted but never dull, someone who would spoil them and take care of everything. Royal lineage? Absolute perfection. “Just not like them…” they exchanged glances and nodded toward three cheerful, slightly portly, balding men. Beer, chips, and mountains of steak filled their table; the talk was football and fishing, and laughter—loud and sincere—filled the room. “Awful.” “So tacky.” “Ugh.” Their verdict was unanimous: rough, unrefined, totally unsuitable for such glamorous ladies. But then, everything in the restaurant changed in an instant. He walked in—a man arriving in a brand-new scarlet Ferrari. “Lord Coburg Cold Saxon!” announced the maître d’ at the entrance. The friends perked up, hunting-dog alert for opportunity. Tall, fit, salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a bespoke suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks; crisp, immaculate shirt. The whole package. “Oh…” “This is it…” “Mmm…” Their necklines dipped a bit deeper, eyes growing bolder. “Now that’s a man,” whispered one. “A lord, a millionaire,” sighed another. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since I was a little girl.” The third’s eyes said what words could not. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lord’s table. They swept over, oozing regal indifference, especially toward the trio of beer drinkers. The lord was charming, fielding witty social conversation, sharing stories from his ancient lineage, ancestral castles, and art collections. But tension rose—all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The mood broke as dishes arrived: lobster, luxury seafood platters, antique wine. The ladies dined, sending longing glances and dreaming far beyond the restaurant. Flushed, radiant, alluring. The lord glowed too—joking, dazzling, the centre of upper-class tales. At that point, no one cared where the night would go. There was a small garden near the restaurant. The mouthwatering aroma had spilled outside, attracting a skinny, hungry little grey kitten who slunk between tables and settled at the lord’s feet, begging for attention. To no avail. The lord’s face twisted in disgust; he kicked the kitten, sending it flying into the leg of the table where the three men sat. Silence fell. “I can’t stand dirty, mongrel animals,” the lord declared loudly. “My estate is for pedigree hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter hurried to smooth things over: “We’ll sort this out right away, apologies…” He walked toward the beer table, but one man—a giant, nearly six feet tall, face red and fists clenched—had already risen, friends trying to restrain him. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and set it into a chair. “A plate for my furry companion!” he boomed. “The finest meat. Now.” The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen. From the tables came a round of applause. One of the “nymphs” silently stood, walked to the giant, and said, “Move over—order a lady a whisky.” The lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two joined them, shooting the lord a disdainful look. People left the restaurant in new groups—three together: man, woman, and kitten. Time passed. Today, the first friend is married—to that gentle giant, owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his friends, renowned lawyers. All three weddings celebrated together. Now life for the former “nymphs” is all nappies, cooking, cleaning—and daughters, born almost at once. And to escape to their favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the nanny, and reunite for a proper girls’ night: to chat about the big topic…men. A year later, Lord Coburg Cold Saxon was arrested—a notorious con artist preying upon naive women. Real men, thankfully, are nothing like that. I mean those three—paunchy, balding, no glamour or pretence, but truly noble hearts. That’s how it is. There’s no other way.