My Niece Came to Visit, but She’s Upset That I’m Not Feeding Her

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

My niece has turned up at my flat, but shes sulking because Im not feeding her.

I share a house with my sister, but we live in different towns. She lives in Manchester, while Im in London. Her daughter, Poppy, wants to go to university here, so shell be living in a dormitory later. For now shes stayed with me for a couple of weeks to sort out some paperwork and maybe a few exams. I havent bothered with the details; I just know that its normal to visit before you start university. My sister has agreed that Poppy can crash on my couch.

We never talked about who should put food on the table. Since her mum, Jane, keeps quiet about it, they sort it out between themselves. I walk into the lounge and see Poppy fuming. I ask whats wrong. She says she expected a hot lunch from me. I snap back, Im not going to feed you, and Im sticking to my own schedule. I have to head out now! Call your mum and have her transfer some money to your account, then go buy some biscuits, a roll or two, and have them with tea. Oh, and buy the tea too Ive run out! Youre not a little kid any more, youre eighteen!

Jane hasnt spoken to me in ages, and she doesnt know that ever since the kids left the nest my husband disappeared, and I threw myself into work. My timetable is brutal, so Im only home irregularly, and Ive no energy left for domestic chores. Even getting a decent nights sleep feels like a luxury.

Im not about to sacrifice anything for a guest. Its lovely, of course, to see Poppy. Shes grown up, looks more feminine, but Im no longer the freewheeling Aunt Lucy who could whip up a feast in no time. I tell her to shop for her own groceries, slice, boil, fry or steam whatever she wants. Better yet, she could pick up something readymade so she doesnt damage my stove or my flat.

Shes sulked, calmed down a little, and now stews in silence each day, apparently hoping for full board with her mums help. Maybe things will settle. Its hard to stop being the nice and handy aunt overnight, after years of keeping peaceful relationships with everyone close to me. Im still friendly enough to offer a free place to sleep, just missing the extra bit. I booked an appointment with a therapist to learn how to explain gently but firmly to my family that Im not as functional as I used to be. Theyll have to expect a little less from me now.

Someone Else’s Bride Val turned heads everywhere—never advertising in print or on TV, yet his name and number spread by word of mouth, the talk of the town. Need an MC for a concert? Done! A host for an anniversary or wedding? Sorted! He even hosted a kindergarten graduation once, charming not just the little ones but their mums as well! It all began simply enough. A close mate was getting married, but the hired master of ceremonies failed to turn up—later, it emerged he’d embarked on a bender. With no time to find a replacement, Val grabbed the microphone himself. Back in school, he was centre-stage in amateur dramatics and the “Logos” theatre club; at university, he was always taking the lead in Student Spring and the comedy KVN team. That first impromptu gig went brilliantly, and right there in the banqueting hall, two guests asked him to host their upcoming events. After university, Val landed a junior role at a city research institute, earning peanuts. His first foray into running events proved inspiring—he took any job going, relishing not just the financial rewards but the thrill of it all. Soon, his event earnings far outstripped his official salary. After a year, Val made a bold decision: left the institute, spent his savings on professional kit, registered as self-employed, and made entertainment his day job. He even took singing lessons—turns out he had a voice and talent for music. In no time, he was the singing host, and moonlit as a club singer three nights a week. Now thirty, Val was handsome, comfortably off, and a sought-after musician, DJ, and event MC—the life and soul of any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him, ready to say yes to any invitation. But his friends were settling down and starting families, so he found himself longing for quiet domestic happiness. The only snag: with whom? The easy options held no real appeal; he dreamed of meeting the one—for a lifetime. “You’ve got to meet a schoolgirl, bring her up to your standards, and marry her when she comes of age—the perfect wife!” he quipped. He even started accepting jobs at school proms, hoping to find a future girlfriend, but modern girls weren’t what he’d pictured. Still, he didn’t lose heart, forever on the lookout—as he put it, “on the hunt for a rare catch.” Then fate decided to play a joke on my cousin Val. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang, citing mutual friends: “We need a master of ceremonies for a wedding. Are you free on the 17th of June? Wonderful! Could we meet?” They met. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life he understood the meaning of “the ground shifting beneath your feet.” The woman, introducing herself as Christine, was dazzling—Val had never seen anyone like her. Confident, bright, intelligent—clearly both beautiful and smart, a rare combination. On first glance, she looked about twenty-five, maybe a little older, but in conversation she mentioned being a member of the Young Communists, so she must be at least forty! They discussed the details, came to an agreement, and signed a contract, although Christine objected: “Is it necessary? I trust you; I’ve heard great things.” But Val always insisted on paperwork: “It’s for my accounts, I don’t need any trouble with the taxman.” Though, truthfully, he just wanted tangible proof she existed. Christine’s phone pinged with a text. “Oh, there’s my fiancé come to collect me. Can I give you a lift?” Val declined but saw her out. He always did, especially if the engaged couple arrived separately—good to observe their chemistry. But this time it wasn’t curiosity but envy and jealousy that drove him. The fiancé surprised him—Val expected a man around forty, but out sprang a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christine, all good?” She just smiled, as if everything was always fine. She got in the car; the fiancé shut the door and turned to Val: “So, you’ll be hosting our wedding? Delighted. Slav has sung your praises—said you’re the best!” He offered his hand. “Sorry, didn’t introduce myself—Christine will give me an earful. I’m Rob, the groom.” All Val wanted was to sock Rob, wipe that grin off his face, but he simply shook his hand: “Val. Pleasure.” From that moment on, Val lost his peace of mind. He sought any excuse to call Christine, to hear her voice, to see her. The wedding day drew nearer; Val thought he was losing his mind. The one friend he confided in asked mockingly: “What about those schoolgirls—the ‘ideal wife’ project?” Val just waved him off: “Forget that! Christine is the ideal woman, and I don’t need anyone else.” “Tell her!” the friend suggested. “Are you mad? She’s getting married—she must be in love. Why would she care about my feelings?” Occasionally, a beaming Rob would pop in: “Christine asked me to drop this off…” At those moments, Val had to bite his tongue to avoid a sharp retort. He contemplated pulling out of the wedding, reputation be damned! But then he’d never see Christine again—and he always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Christine visited once more, “to polish the script and make sure it’s perfect.” The office was undergoing renovation, so they met at Val’s flat. They chatted, joked—on top form. Finally, the last detail was settled; Val suggested a glass of champagne. “To a perfect wedding!” Christine agreed playfully: “Gladly!” Christine laughed, impossibly beautiful. Emboldened by champagne, Val kissed her—and she kissed him back. Their heads spun. Val woke up suddenly. He sat up in bed. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But the pillow beside him had her distinct perfume—so it had really happened. Was the wedding still happening? Val called Christine. “Hi…” She greeted him as if nothing had happened: “Hello! How are you? Sorry I slipped away, but you know, so much to do before the wedding tomorrow!” “So, the wedding’s still on?” Val asked hollowly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine!” Are all women so cold? How could the wedding still go ahead? How could she look her fiancé in the eye? Val was beside himself—should he crash the wedding? Did he really want such a callous woman? He asked himself honestly: Yes, he did. Whatever happened. Next day at the restaurant, decorations were being finished, and Val spotted Christine. “Hi. I left straight after the ceremony—couldn’t wait to see you,” she said, beaming. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it—so the registration went ahead? And then you left?” “Of course, you silly man. Why should I go traipsing round town with the youngsters when I can spend time with you? Or don’t you want me to?” “Wait—‘youngsters’? Aren’t you the bride?” Christine stared, then burst out laughing, so joyfully that Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! It’s my daughter, Chrissie! She’s at uni in Edinburgh—just flew in yesterday.” Christine suddenly went serious. “Did you really think I was the bride?” “And that, two days before getting married, I’d sleep with someone else? What must you think of me?” Only then did Val realized: Christine had never said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Rob had never called her Chrissie, just Christine, and always been formal. How did he not notice? It was all rather hilarious… Then he asked the most important question: “And you? Are you single?” When she nodded, he blurted out, “Marry me, please…” The wedding was a triumph—the host surpassed himself, the guests were thrilled. The newlyweds thanked Val at the end: “Thank you! We honestly don’t know how to thank you for a magical evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” Christine chimed in. “You run along; your limo’s waiting. I’ll see to everything here.” The news that Val was marrying a woman nine years his senior spread like wildfire among relatives. There was hesitation at first—until they saw the bride. Then everyone agreed, “How could you not fall for her?” Christine and Chrissie both gave birth two weeks apart.

Our Friends Arrived Empty-Handed to a Lavish Dinner – So I Closed the Fridge and Served Them Nothing “Serg, are you sure three kilos of pork shoulder will be enough? Last time they cleared out everything, even wiped up the gravy with the last bits of bread. And remember how Becky asked for a container ‘for her dog’, then posted photos of my roast online calling it her own culinary masterpiece?” Irene anxiously fiddled with the edge of the kitchen towel, surveying the battlefield her kitchen had become. It was only noon, and she was already exhausted. She’d been up since six: first to the market for the freshest meat, then at the supermarket scouting out posh booze and delicacies, then endless slicing, boiling, roasting. Her husband, Steve, stood at the sink peeling potatoes with quiet irritation he tried (and failed) to hide. “Irene, honestly, how much more do you want? Three kilos of meat for four guests and us two? That’s half a kilo each. We’re not catering a wedding, just a delayed housewarming.” “You don’t get it,” she retorted, stirring a thick sauce. “It’s Becky and Dave, Lisa and Tom. Old friends – coming all the way across town. Can’t have them thinking we got cocky now we’ve bought this place and turned stingy. If the table looks poor, they’ll talk.” Irene always had this generous streak in her, inherited from her gran, who could put on a feast from thin air and feed half the regiment. A meagre spread was, to Irene, a personal insult. She had spent a week planning the menu, finding recipes, saving up from her pay to afford that one bottle of posh cognac Dave liked and the particular French wine Becky preferred. “Wouldn’t kill them to bring something for a change,” Steve grumbled. “Remember Tom’s birthday? We brought a pricey present, our own booze, and you even baked a cake. What did they give us? Cheap tea bags and stale biscuits last time we dropped in.” “Don’t be so petty, Steve,” Irene said, trying to sound magnanimous. “They were strapped then: mortgage and renovations. But now Dave’s got his promotion, and Lisa’s bought herself a new coat, remember? Maybe this time they’ll bring something—a cake, some fruit. I dropped a hint to Becky about dessert.” By five, the flat was spotless. The table looked like a boutique deli display window: in pride of place, a stunning centrepiece of cold tongue in aspic, a chorus line of bowls brimming with fancy salads and seafood, homemade brawn and ham slices, red salmon caviar, fish starters. The oven held that special pork shoulder and potatoes with mushrooms. The fridge was full of Finlandia vodka, posh Cognac, and three nice wine bottles. Irene, tired but satisfied, dressed for the occasion and settled herself, waiting for the doorbell. “Bit nervous,” she confessed as Steve buttoned his shirt. “First get-together in our new place. I want it all to go perfectly.” The bell rang exactly at five. Punctual, as ever. In poured the crowd: Becky, swanning in that new mink coat, Dave in a leather jacket, Lisa with bright makeup, Tom already a bit tipsy. “Yay! Housewarming!” Becky trilled, enveloping the hall in a cloud of sickly perfume. “Come on, show us around the palace!” They noisily shed coats—dumping them for Steve to hang up. Irene smiled, glancing at their hands. All four were empty-handed. Not a bag, not a cake box, not a bottle, not even a token bar of chocolate. “Where’s…” started Irene, then thought better of asking. Perhaps they left something in the car? “Wow, you’ve lost weight!” Lisa air-kissed her and stomped straight down the hall. “Hmm, quite plain in here, isn’t it? Walls need some proper wallpaper—much too impersonal.” “We like minimalism,” Steve said, jaw tight. “Come on into the lounge, everything’s ready.” As soon as Dave saw the table, his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. “Cor, look at this spread! Irene, you legend—I knew you’d pull out the stops. We’ve been keeping empty bellies all day for your famous roast!” Everyone found their places, forks diving into salads before the first toast. Irene hurried to the kitchen to fetch hot starters, her mind racing with just one thought: Maybe the gift’s in an envelope this time—money, not a present? But when she returned, the guests were already helping themselves, barely waiting for a toast. “Mmm, this is a cracking salad!” Tom moaned, mouth full. “Steve, pour us a drink, will you? Thirsty work, all this talking.” Steve poured out vodka for the blokes, wine for the women. “To your new home!” Dave toasted. “May the neighbours be civil, may the walls not crumble. Bottoms up!” He downed his shot, sniffed his sleeve, and instantly reached for the smoked salmon. “Irene,” he muttered between mouthfuls, “Why’s the vodka warm? Should’ve chilled it in the freezer.” “It’s straight from the fridge, Dave,” Irene replied quietly, the first twinge of irritation simmering. “Five degrees, like you’re supposed to.” “Supposed, eh…Vodka should be ice-cold, but I’ll survive. Where’s the Cognac?” “It’s here,” Irene ground out. “Perhaps after we eat?” “Why wait?” Tom cackled. “All part of the fun!” The meal picked up pace. Food vanished at speed, as if the guests hadn’t eaten for a week. And the criticism followed: “Bit dry on the herring salad, isn’t it, Becky?” remarked, filling up her plate again. “Stingy on the mayo?” “I made it fresh—homemade mayo, not so greasy,” Irene said. “Oh, don’t bother with all that palaver,” Lisa scoffed. “Shop version is better and quicker. And this caviar’s a bit on the small side. Cheapskate salmon, huh? Should’ve got the bigger kind.” Irene glanced at Steve, who sat red-faced, knuckles white on his fork. “So, what’s new with you lot?” Steve asked, forcing a smile. “Becky, you were in Dubai, right?” “Oh, it was fabulous!” Becky gushed. “Five-star hotel, all-inclusive, lobsters, champagne, the lot. Bought a Louis Vuitton for two grand—worth every penny. Dave grumbled, but I told him: ‘We only live once!’” “Women, eh?” Dave grinned, reaching for the Cognac. “I’m saving up for a new SUV—won’t waste a penny on boring things like home improvements.” “Meaning what?” Irene asked sharply. “Oh, just…walls are walls, aren’t they?” Lisa explained. “We’ve got the same wallpaper since moving in—spend our money on trips, labels, restaurants instead. You two throw cash at concrete. Bit dull, honestly.” “Speaking of restaurants,” Tom cut in, dabbing greasy lips with a napkin and dropping it back on the tablecloth, “We were at that fancy place in Soho last night. Bill came to £150, but what a meal! Not like home grub. Irene, when’s the main course out? I’m starving for some meat.” Irene got up to clear plates, shaking inside. These friends had just raved about spending fortunes on Dubai holidays and five-star dinners, yet turned up in her home empty-handed. Not even a potted plant, let alone a chocolate bar. She went to the kitchen. Becky followed, pretending to help. “Irene, you’re a star,” Becky whispered. “Lovely spread, but you can see you’ve overdone yourself. The wine’s rather basic, isn’t it? We only ever have that stuff at barbecues. Surely you could get something better?” “It’s French, £25 a bottle,” Irene said, forcefully loading the dishwasher. “Oh, come on, you’ve been conned! Tastes like vinegar. By the way, do you think there’ll be leftovers to take home? For the hangover tomorrow, I mean. No point it going to waste—too much for you two.” Irene stopped, plate in hand, turning slowly. “You want me to pack you up some food to take?” “Well, yeah, why not?” Becky giggled. “It’s what we always do. Budget-friendly! And, um, is there a proper dessert? Got a craving for cake.” “You said dessert was on you,” Irene quietly replied. “Did I? You must be imagining things. I’m on a diet—I wouldn’t buy sweets. I figured you’d make your famous Victoria sponge. Or at least pick up something nice. We came empty-handed because, well, you’ve got everything now. Owners and all that—must be rolling in it.” Irene put the plate down with a decisive clatter. “So you thought we’re rich now, and have everything?” “Well of course!” Becky said breezily. “You’ve got the mortgage, the new flat. Us, we’re just saving for our Maldives trip. Now, go on, bring out the meat—the blokes are famished.” Flooded with memories—of lending Becky money for a last-minute holiday she only repaid in dribs and drabs, of Dave borrowing Steve for a move and never even paying petrol, of them always eating her out of house and home but only inviting the couple round for a cheap tea once in a blue moon—Irene had had enough. She glanced at the oven: inside, the gorgeous roast with mushrooms and herbs. On the fridge, the huge berry pavlova she’d splurged £50 on for a surprise, even after the dessert talk. She closed the oven. Turned off the hob. Walked to the fridge and pressed the door tightly shut. “There’ll be no meat,” she stated loudly. “What do you mean?” Becky’s face fell. “Did it burn?” “No. But you’re not getting any.” Irene strode into the lounge. The men were pouring themselves more drinks. Steve looked defeated. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Irene rang out, voice tight as wire, “the party is over.” Everyone stared. Dave, mid-toast, froze. “Irene, what’s up? We haven’t had the main yet! You promised roast!” “I did,” Irene said. “I’ve changed my mind.” “What?” Lisa spluttered. “We’re hungry! Bring out the food!” “The roast is staying in the oven. As for you—don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or why not pop down to that Soho place you like so much?” “Have you lost your mind?” Tom roared. “Steve, control your wife! We’re guests!” Steve stood up. He saw Irene’s trembling hands, her eyes brimming with frustrated tears. He understood. “Irene isn’t drunk,” Steve said quietly. “She’s just had enough. You showed up empty-handed, drank my Cognac, mocked my wife’s cooking, called our wine vinegar and our home ugly. And now you *demand* the main course?” “Oh come on, it was all jokes!” Becky yelled. “So we forgot the dessert! Big deal. We came for your company—brought the fun!” “Fun at our expense?” Irene said, scorn dripping. “No, thank you. I spent half my salary on this meal for you. And all you do is gobble, criticise, and brag. Leeching cheapskates, the lot of you. Swanning off to Dubai but can’t manage a fiver for a thank-you treat.” “Is that how it is?” Dave exploded, chair crashing over. “Fine. Keep your stingy roast! We’re leaving! Don’t expect us back—ever!” “Don’t forget your take-home containers,” Steve added evenly as he flung the door wide. “They’re still empty.” The guests tumbled out, shrieking. Becky huffed she’d never speak to Irene again. Lisa whined about a ruined evening. The men cursed. Silence. Irene stood in the ruined lounge, surrounded by dirty plates, wine stains, crumpled napkins. Steve wrapped his arm around her. “You alright?” he asked quietly. “Still shaking,” she confessed. “Maybe I was mean…they were guests, after all.” “You were just taking back your self-respect, Irene. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m proud of you. If you hadn’t spoken up, I certainly would have.” She sighed and leaned into him. “And the roast?” Steve asked, a sly smile creeping in. “Still in there? Because it smells fantastic!” Irene laughed, for the first time that evening. “It is. And the pavlova’s in the fridge. Let’s eat.” They sat amid the chaos, carved the roast, sliced the pavlova, poured themselves two glasses of that “vinegary” Bordeaux (which was, in fact, a wonderful velvety Saint-Emilion). “To us,” Steve toasted, clinking glasses. “And to only inviting people who come with open hearts, not empty hands.” They ate the best dinner of their lives, relishing the peace. An hour later, Irene’s phone buzzed: Becky’s text read, “You total cow! We’re at McDonald’s choking down burgers because of you! You ought to be ashamed, honestly!” Irene smiled, hit “Block”, then did the same for Dave, Lisa, and Tom. Her contact list was four names shorter—but life suddenly felt roomier and full of air. The fridge and house belonged to her and Steve alone, with a week’s worth of good food left. And not a crumb for those who didn’t deserve it. This story reminds us: friendship is a two-way street, and sometimes slamming the fridge door is the best way to hold onto your self-respect.

Promise Denis calmly gripped the steering wheel as he confidently navigated the motorway, with his friend Kirill beside him. The two were returning from a neighbouring city after a two-day business trip sent by their boss. “Kir, we really nailed everything today—signed that contract for a huge sum. The boss is going to be thrilled!” Denis smiled cheerfully. “Absolutely, mate. We got lucky with this one,” agreed Kirill, his friend and office colleague. “It’s brilliant heading home when someone’s waiting for you,” Denis went on. “Ari’s pregnant and struggling a bit with morning sickness. I feel for her. But we wanted this baby so much, and she said she’d endure anything for our little one.” “Kids are a blessing. Wish we could say the same—Marina and I just can’t seem to catch a break,” Kirill confided. “Second round of IVF coming up. The first was a bust. We’re still hoping…” Denis had married late, at thirty-two. Sure, he’d been with other women, but never felt swept off his feet. That changed when he met Ari. He fell head over heels and never looked at anyone else. When Denis introduced Ari to Kirill and then asked him to be his best man at their wedding, Kirill felt a tinge of envy—Ari was beautiful, gentle, definitely the type anyone could fall for instantly. A light autumn drizzle spattered the car windows, and the wipers flicked occasionally. The friends chatted happily until Denis’s phone rang. “Hi, Ari! Yes, we’re on our way. Should be home in about two hours. You’re holding up? Don’t lift anything heavy, okay? I’ll do it all when I get back. Love you, see you soon!” Kirill listened and pictured Ari waiting anxiously for Denis, worrying about him—so different from Marina, who never fussed. She was practical, focused strictly on work and home. Suddenly, Denis jerked the steering wheel. A van was hurtling towards them—a collision seemed inevitable. At the last second, Denis swerved, smashing the car into a roadside post on his side, sending them off the carriageway. Kirill came to, his head pounding and blood running down his arm. The car was upright; his door was hanging ajar. He glanced at Denis—he wasn’t moving. Strangers hurried over, cars stopped at the verge. Kirill lay on the wet grass, his head and arm throbbing, waiting for the paramedics. Denis was pulled from the car and stretchered away. Kirill bent over him as Denis whispered faintly: “Look after Ari…” They were taken to hospital. Kirill had a fractured arm and a severe concussion but was awake, always asking staff: “How’s Denis? My mate?” Then a nurse told him. “I’m sorry—Denis has passed away…” Kirill was crushed. He couldn’t attend the funeral. Marina went and described how Denis’s wife Ari sobbed inconsolably, barely able to stand at her husband’s side. After leaving the hospital, Kirill and Marina visited Denis’s grave. Kirill silently made a vow: “Don’t worry, mate—I promise, I’ll look after your wife, just like you asked…” Two days later, Kirill visited Ari. She burst into tears upon seeing him. “How do I go on without him? I just can’t accept that Denis is gone.” “Ari, I promised him I’d help you. We’ll get through this together. Call me whenever you need anything—I’ll come by.” Time passed. Ari slowly recovered, terrified that grief would end her pregnancy—the doctor warned her too. Kirill visited twice weekly, brought groceries, picked up vitamins, sometimes drove Ari to the surgery. She didn’t take advantage, only asked for help when desperate. “Kirill, I feel bad taking up your time.” “It’s no trouble. I promised Denis.” Kirill’s feelings for Ari were complicated—she was the woman of his dreams, but he was torn. While Ari dealt with pregnancy sickness, Kirill and Marina underwent more tests—again disappointment… Childlessness was the ache they had come to expect. Marina didn’t know Kirill was helping Ari; he hadn’t explained. In his phone, Ari appeared under the name “Charity,” just in case Marina ever saw the calls. After their second failed IVF attempt, tension built between Kirby and Marina. Marina blamed Kirill for their troubles; he’d long stopped arguing. She noticed Kirill was distracted, occasionally irritable, often out “on errands.” She doubted he was cheating—otherwise, their relationship was intact. Despite his messy home life, Kirill excelled at work. He picked up the major project he’d started with Denis and completed it with huge success. As Ari’s pregnancy progressed, she grew more vulnerable. Her parents lived far off in northern England, no close relatives nearby. She suffered headaches and swollen feet but rarely complained. One day, Kirill arrived to deliver groceries and found Ari balanced on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I just finished cleaning the window,” she said brightly. “Time for fresh curtains!” “Get down—now,” Kirill ordered, eyeing her swollen belly. “If you fall, you’ll risk the baby—it’s not worth it.” He helped her down, and the brief closeness made his heart race. “Thanks, Kir…” she hurried to the bathroom as morning sickness took hold again. Kirill wiped sweat from his forehead, thinking, “I wonder if Denis can see us from wherever he is now? You asked for this, mate.” Later, Ari hinted, “Denis, could you help me sort out the nursery? I won’t have time once the baby’s here. I spotted some lovely wallpaper…” Kirill spent his weekends redecorating the nursery, unwilling to let heavily pregnant Ari overexert herself. Together—mostly with Ari’s moral support—the job was done. Kirill felt pulled in two directions: on one side Marina, drifting deeper into depression over childlessness; on the other, Ari, with her due date approaching. Marina’s instincts told her to save the marriage, she had to stay busy. She wrote magazine articles, and when a popular publication offered her a column, she seized the opportunity, elated with her new income. She came home smiling with a pack of treats and a couple of bottles of wine. “What’s all this? Looks like a party!” Kirill said as he came in from work. “Got paid a decent sum—time to celebrate! Been waiting for this contract.” Their favourite film played on TV, and they shared some wine, trying to recapture the warmth of their earlier days. Suddenly, Kirill’s phone went off. Marina glimpsed the screen: “Charity.” Kirill quickly stepped into the kitchen. “What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Sorry, Kir, but I think I’m going into labour… already called an ambulance.” “But isn’t it a bit early?” “It’s been seven months—early, but possible,” he could hear pain in her voice. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He hurried to dress. Marina watched anxiously. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he improvised a story on the go. “Boss called about charity work—urgently needs to discuss it. I’ll explain later. Trust me.” Marina didn’t buy it. “Charity? Your boss? Pull the other one, Kirill.” He raced to the maternity ward. Ari had already arrived. After waiting two hours, a nurse told him she’d delivered a baby boy. Relieved, he went home, drained. Marina was waiting, her stare sharp. “Your charity work really took it out of you, didn’t it?” she said, icy. Kirill sank onto the sofa, still dressed. “Yes, Marina… Ari had a baby boy. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s completely alone,” he confided honestly. “So that’s it. It all makes sense now…” Marina whispered. “Next up, you’ll be spending your time helping with Ari’s newborn, right?” “Right,” Kirill answered. “Well, you know me—I won’t accept you spending all your time with somebody else’s child, especially since we may never have our own. So I’ll file for divorce. You do as you please. Maybe I’ll meet someone else, have a baby of my own.” Kirill looked at her, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “Your decision, Marina. I won’t argue. I have to help Ari and her baby.” Time passed. Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Ari, helping with baby Daniel. Eventually, they got married. Two years later, they welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and your support. Wishing you every happiness!

The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering—was it from fear or from the cold? She had left Zlata at a birthday party, in the children’s playroom at a shopping centre. She barely knew the birthday girl’s parents but didn’t worry—this wasn’t the first time she’d left her daughter at a kids’ party, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Only today, she was late—the bus hadn’t come for ages. The shopping centre was in an awkward spot, everyone usually drove there, but Olesya didn’t have a car. So she’d taken Zlata by bus, gone home for her scheduled lessons, which couldn’t be cancelled, then come back—and was just fifteen minutes late, sprinting over the icy car park, out of breath. Now, the birthday girl’s mum, a petite woman with big blue eyes, stared at Olesya in surprise and said: “Her dad picked her up.” But Zlata didn’t have a dad. Well, technically she did, but he’d never met his daughter. Olesya met Andrey by chance—out walking with a friend along the river, her friend twisted her ankle, some lads offered help. Just like in a familiar movie, they lied about being students at Oxford, about generals and professors for fathers. Why they did it, who knows—young and foolish. But when Olesya got pregnant, and Andrey found out she was a trainee primary teacher and her dad was a bus driver, he shoved money for an abortion into her hands and vanished. Olesya didn’t get the abortion, and never once regretted it—Zlata became her lifelong companion, wise beyond her years and utterly dependable. They were always happy together; while Olesya taught lessons, Zlata played quietly with her dolls, and afterwards they’d cook milk soup or eggs in the kitchen, sharing tea and buttered biscuits. Money was always tight—most went on rent—but neither Olesya nor Zlata complained. “How could you hand my child over to a stranger?” Olesya’s voice trembled and tears welled up. “But he wasn’t a stranger,” snapped the blue-eyed woman. “He’s her father!” Olesya could have set her straight, but what would’ve been the point? She needed to speak to the security staff, get the CCTV footage… “When did this happen?” “Just ten minutes ago…” Olesya spun round and ran. Over and over, she’d told Zlata: never go off with anyone you don’t know! Her legs wouldn’t obey, her vision blurred, she bumped into people but didn’t stop, didn’t apologise. On instinct, she cried out: “Zlata! Zlata-aa!” The food court was noisy, most people ignored her shouts, but a few glanced round. Breathless, Olesya had no idea what to do—maybe her daughter hadn’t left yet, maybe… “Mummy!” For a moment, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There was her daughter, coat flapping, ice cream smeared all over her little face, running towards her. Olesya grabbed her and clung on as if letting go would make her collapse right there (and maybe it would). Then she stared at the man. Respectable, short-cropped hair, ridiculous jumper with a snowman, ice cream in his hand. He saw in her eyes all she wanted to say, and babbled: “I’m so sorry! I should’ve stayed right there, but those little monsters were teasing her! Said Zlata didn’t have a dad, and he’d never come, because she’s weird. So I thought I’d teach them a lesson—said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get an ice cream till mummy arrives,’ Honestly, I didn’t realise you’d be so worried…” Olesya was shaking. She wasn’t about to trust a stranger. But had they really been teasing Zlata? She looked into her daughter’s eyes, and Zlata got it instantly. She sniffed, stuck out her chin. “So what! I’ve got a dad now too!” The man spread his hands awkwardly; Olesya still couldn’t say a word. “Let’s go,” she finally managed. “It’s late—we’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” he offered, tentatively waving. “Can I give you a lift? I mean, after all this… No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a weirdo! My name’s Arthur. I’m a good guy! Look, that’s my mum—I promise, she’ll vouch for me.” He pointed to a woman with purple curls at a nearby table, buried in a novel. “If you like, we can go to her—she’ll give the best references!” “I’m sure,” muttered Olesya—still quite tempted to whack him over the head. “Thanks, we can manage.” “Mum…” Zlata tugged on her sleeve. “Let them see daddy’s driving us home!” The birthday girl and her mum were still by the playroom with another child Olesya didn’t know. Her daughter’s eyes were pleading. It would be hard tramping home over icy pavements in this state. Olesya made up her mind. “Alright,” she said, curtly. “Brilliant! I’ll just let my mum know!” “Mummy’s boy,” thought Olesya, not unkindly. The woman gave her a friendly wave, and Olesya spun round, mortified. What a ridiculous situation! On the way, she tried not to meet Arthur’s eyes but couldn’t help noticing how gentle he was with Zlata. Zlata sang like a lark—Olesya had never seen her so happy. But when they stopped outside her block, Zlata suddenly drooped. “Will we see you again?” she asked Arthur quietly, looking furtively at her mum. Olesya realised he was waiting for her permission. She wanted to say, “No, Zlata, you mustn’t,” but seeing her daughter’s anxious little face, she couldn’t. She caught Arthur’s look and nodded. “Well, if your mum says yes, I can take you to the cinema for a cartoon. Have you ever been?” “Really? No—I haven’t! Mum, can I go to the movies with daddy?” Olesya coloured. Now she was the one stumbling over her words. “Right, Zlata, you can—on two conditions. First, it’s not polite to call a stranger daddy—call him Uncle Arthur, alright? Second, I’m coming too, because what did I say? Never go with someone you don’t know, no matter how nice they seem!” “I said the same,” Arthur cut in. “About not going off—I did say.” “So can I go?” “I just said—yes.” “Yay!!!” Olesya knew she ought to nip all this in the bud, but couldn’t. She had no one left in the world but Zlata. If only she had someone to turn to! Like her own mum. Olesya barely remembered her—her mum died when she was five, the same age Zlata was now. A boy fell through an icy pond, no one dared go in, but she did. She saved him, but… she caught pneumonia and, with diabetes already, deteriorated fast. That’s why Zlata had diabetes too—Olesya still blamed herself for passing it down. Olesya worried all week until the weekend, but it turned out she needn’t have: when they went to the cinema, Arthur brought his own mother. “So you know I’m not some nutter, my mum can be my best advert,” he grinned. “Well, he is a bit mad,” his mum said with a smile that showed she doted on her son. And while Arthur took Zlata for popcorn, his mum did, in fact, “advertise” him. “You see… May I call you Olesya? Arthur grew up without a father too. I’ve been married four times, and my last husband was perfect! Absolutely perfect, Arthur’s just like him. But, fate had other plans—he never got to hold his son. Heart attack. I gave birth early, I’ve no idea how I coped. Of course, my first husbands helped… Don’t give me that look! We’re still on good terms—first one still loves me, second was the wrong gender, and third loved women far too much to settle down. They all helped try to be a dad to Arthur, but a dad’s a dad. That’s why he connected so quickly with Zlata—he was bullied, too, at school. Poor lad! I was at the teachers’ office so much! He did all sorts of daft things on a dare, just to prove himself, once nearly got himself killed…” What a character—petite, wiry, purple hair, Chanel suit and a Candace Bushnell novel. Olesya couldn’t help liking her. “Don’t worry, he’s not up to anything—just has a kind heart,” she winked. “And he’s taken quite a shine to you.” Olesya flushed. Just what she needed! She knew she shouldn’t encourage this, but felt so sorry for Zlata… After the film, she tried to pay Arthur for the tickets but he shook his head. “When I invite girls, it’s my treat!” Olesya didn’t like that either—she was used to always paying her own way and being independent. Falling for him—nonsense, that’s not how life works. When Arthur drove them home, Zlata piped up: “Daddy, where will we go next time?” “Zlata!” Olesya scolded. She giggled and covered her mouth. “Maybe the natural history museum?” Arthur suggested, ignoring her slip. “What do you think?” “Great! Mum, can we go?” “You go without me,” Olesya said briskly. “Take Catherine with you—she did say she loves butterflies.” She jumped out first, desperate to put an end to, well, whatever this was. She just about heard Arthur whisper to Zlata: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me daddy.” And that’s how Zlata found herself with a Sunday Dad. Sometimes Olesya went, sometimes she let Zlata go with them if Catherine joined in—she still saw Arthur as a stranger and was suspicious, though every time Zlata told her, wide-eyed, how funny and wonderful Arthur was, Olesya found herself catching the excitement, even as she tried to stamp it down. Life doesn’t work like that—no knights in shining armour swoop in out of nowhere. And Arthur’s mum praised him so much Olesya started wondering what was wrong with him. After all, why would a mother be matchmaking her son with a girl like her? But gradually, Olesya’s heart melted. Arthur handled things so gently—leaving a chocolate bar on the shelf as he left, always asking before taking Zlata anywhere, watching for Olesya’s opinion. She especially liked Catherine—if Arthur hadn’t been her son, she’d have loved her as a friend. One day, Arthur rang to talk about films, Zlata appeared immediately—whispered: “Is it Arthur?” And flopped on the sofa happily. “Of course, she’d love to come,” Olesya replied by habit. “Wait… I meant both of you. I mean, just us. On our own.” Catherine piped up in the background. “At last!” “Mum, stop eavesdropping! Sorry, Olesya… She’s hopeless.” Zlata whispered: “He invited you to the movies?” Olesya laughed. “I’ve got spy ears too! Listen, Arthur, I…” “Please don’t say no! One chance, I promise to be a perfect gentleman!” “Mum, tell her about her eyes—what you said to me, that they’re just like her mum’s…” Suddenly, Olesya felt ice water on her face. What did her mum have to do with any of this? Arthur yelled at his mother, then said: “Olesya, I’ll come over and explain, alright?” She’d appreciate some explanations… Olesya paced until he arrived, Zlata quietly drawing, as if she knew. “I should’ve said straight off,” Arthur started. “I meant to, but I liked you too much… I was afraid you’d think I only cared because of your mum—and I was frightened you’d hate me. Because… she died saving me.” He stumbled, jumping from one thing to another, eyes pleading. Olesya shook, just like when she’d thought Zlata lost. “Will you forgive me?” Olesya didn’t say a word the whole time, finally forcing out: “I need to think.” “Mum, forgive daddy!” Arthur widened his eyes at Zlata, reminding her of the deal. Olesya repeated: “I need time. Please understand?” She wanted to ask a million questions, but couldn’t. When Catherine rang, though, everything changed. She told Olesya the facts. “He never knew she died—I was trying to protect him as a child. Later I slipped, and Arthur decided to find you. That evening he hoped to meet you and offer help—but then all the mix-up with Zlata… He loved you at first sight! He was worried you’d misunderstand. Don’t blame him—it was a dare, he wanted to prove he was a man even with no dad. All the kids were afraid of the ice, but he went…” Catherine didn’t push, just defended her son gently. But Zlata did push, hard! “Mum, he’s lovely! And he loves you, he told me! He could be my real daddy, don’t you see?” Olesya did see. But still… wasn’t it wrong? Nearly a month passed, and Olesya couldn’t talk to Arthur. She ignored his calls, his messages. The longer it went on, the more she wanted to pick up the phone—and the harder it became to do so. Zlata woke her in the night, crying, clutching her stomach. She’d complained earlier, and Olesya thought it was just bad yoghurt. Now she was burning with fever. With shaking hands, Olesya called the ambulance. And—for no reason she could fathom—Arthur. He arrived with the paramedics, in pyjamas, ruffled and bleary, and came along to hospital, calming her and promising it would be alright, his own voice shaky. “Appendicitis isn’t that scary,” he said. “She’ll be fine, I know it.” Olesya held his hand—whether to calm herself or him, she didn’t know. The waiting room was cold, neither wore warm clothes, so they sat huddled together, sharing warmth. Arthur leapt up to ask the surgeon about the operation. Olesya sat still, terrified to move. If anything happened to Zlata, she’d never recover. But Zlata pulled through. The doctors did a brilliant job; Zlata fought hard, though the doctor said it was a near thing. “It’s like a guardian angel is looking after her,” the doctor said, and Olesya whispered: thank you, mum! Arthur kept thanking him, but the doctor told them both to go home—they couldn’t see Zlata yet anyway, she was in intensive care, and her parents needed rest. He dropped her at her door, and Olesya expected him to invite himself in, but he stayed silent. So she said: “It’s almost morning. Would you like to come in for coffee?” And realised she really wanted him to come in. And maybe, to stay. For good. Zlata recovered quickly—to the amazement of every doctor and nurse. “That’s because I’ve got a mum and a dad,” she said. And no one but Olesya and Arthur understood why that made her so happy…