No Magic Here New Year’s Eve was barrelling towards Lena like a runaway train. The pace took her breath away, as if she were stranded on a chilly station platform, knowing she had no ticket, no chance, no happiness—certain there’d be no festive spirit this year either. Why had she even invited guests? Who’d want to ring in the New Year with a failure? * December 31 started with a disaster: after ten years’ loyal service, Lena’s washing machine decided to retire, flooding the bathroom. Finding a plumber on New Year’s Eve? Like a quest from an adventure film! Countless minutes and nerves later, Lena managed it, breathing a sigh of relief and hoping her bad luck was finished for the day. But no… Later on, her ginger cat Basil—household foodie—nibbled up all the sausage prepared for the Olivier salad, leaving Lena with nothing but mournful peas and a few pickled gherkins. Apparently, Basil wanted more. He decided to hunt a visiting blue tit who’d hopped onto the open window… A giant ficus crashed from the sill, toppling the Christmas tree, killing the fairy lights Lena cherished since childhood. Pot shards and broken baubles—kept since she was a little girl—blended into the soil on the living room floor. She almost burst into tears cleaning up the wreckage. Then came the shattered decanter, burnt chicken, and finally, the last straw: as her guests arrived, Lena realised—in horror—that she’d forgotten the cake. In a panic, she phoned her sister. “Katya, it’s a catastrophe! I haven’t got a cake!” “Don’t panic!” came the cheerful reply, “I’m outside already. Come down. We’ll grab something.” “You’re outside?” “Yep, parked outside your flat.” When Lena made it downstairs, she saw her sister Katya’s car—and next to it, her best mate Masha, holding an enormous bag, and Auntie Gill with a giant dish of aspic jelly. “A whole basin of jelly? Seriously?” Lena gasped. “Just in case, love!” Auntie Gill declared, the queen of well-meaning but unsolicited advice. “You girls aren’t chefs, are you? We’ve got a whole night ahead! Got the Olivier, I hope?” Lena could only shrug… While the girls dashed out for dessert, Masha hung tinsel, only for Basil to become royally tangled—like a furry Christmas alien. Katya’s husband, Igor, came to the rescue, straight from work, right on time. Basil didn’t struggle—until he spotted Lena. At that, he leapt straight at her, leaving a bloody scratch on Igor’s hand. First aid was supplied, and Igor—ever the stoic—vowed to help in the kitchen. This “help” consisted of philosophical musings: “Salad is a state of mind, not a recipe,”—but Katya and Lena found it reassuring enough. “Len, what’s in this box?” Masha called from the sitting room. “‘Happy New Year’ printed on it. Ooh, a note on the side! ‘Open at midnight. Love, Gran Val.’” Lena rushed over. “Oh goodness—I’d forgotten! Katya, Gran gave that to me before she left, told us to open it at 2am for a surprise!” “What’s in it?” Katya eyed the box eagerly. “Let’s open it now!” Lena shook her head. “No way! She’ll find out, you know she will. What if it’s got a secret lock or something? Let’s wait—just as she asked.” The mystery enchanted everyone—even Auntie Gill sat extra close, eyeing the box. * They watched the Queen’s Speech, toasted with Prosecco, blissfully unaware; feasted on “cat-proof” Olivier, laughed, debated. Then, finally— “Is it 2am already?” Lena asked. “Time for Gran’s surprise!” She lifted the box, announcing it with ceremony. The only man present, Igor, was entrusted to open it. He fiddled with the lid and opened it. Inside—on soft cotton—there were no bank notes, no family photos, but dozens of tiny scrolls, tied with coloured ribbons. Each one bore a small tag with a name. “What’s all this?” Igor puzzled. Lena unfurled the first scroll with her name and read aloud: “Lena, my dear granddaughter. Having another tough day? Washing machine broke? Cat stole your salad? Don’t worry! Remember: every problem is a cue to order a pizza and pop on your favourite telly show. Cake can wait till morning. What matters is having friends to help you eat the pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Gran Val.” For a moment, silence fell, then laughter erupted. Lena laughed till tears ran down her cheeks. “How did she—how did she know?!” “That’s magic,” Auntie Gill whispered. “Me next!” Katya demanded. Unfolding her scroll, she read: “Katya, darling. Stop arguing with Igor over little things. Give him a cuddle—he’s a good one, even if he does like a debate. If he starts up again, just kiss him—it’s the best way to baffle a man’s logic. Love to you both.” Igor flushed scarlet and quickly kissed Katya to a round of applause. Masha giggled over hers: “Masha, beauty—look for love in the bookshop or the local supermarket, not the pub. That’s where the good ones are—just like you. And stop dyeing your hair purple. Your natural colour suits you!” “How did she—? I only changed my hair two days ago!” Lastly, Auntie Gill opened hers, solemn as if it were state secrets inside. “Gilly, darling. You’re always the wisest, always in the know. But here’s a secret: sometimes, kind words and advice are enough—but sometimes, it’s best to just have a slice of cake and keep mum. Big hugs, my dear.” Auntie Gill blushed, mumbled, cut herself a generous slice, and—miraculously—offered no advice for the rest of the evening. Laughter and chatter lasted ‘til dawn. The girls called Gran Val on video; from her armchair in another part of the country she beamed: “Darlings! I’m so glad my surprise worked! No magic at all—I just know you all so well. And love you to bits!” The morning after, tidying up, Lena put all the notes in a pretty jar and set them on the mantelpiece. These weren’t just wishes—they were her Gran’s recipe for happiness: don’t fear chaos, laugh at misfortune, treasure those by your side, and eat what you fancy—but don’t overdo it. And, above all, remember that the greatest gift is knowing someone somewhere totally gets you and loves you. Always.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 8 minViews 2

No Magic At All

The New Year was barreling forth, unstoppable as a London express, its whistle howling through the fog of December.

Ellens heart raced at this velocity. She felt herself stranded on the platform, realising she hadnt a ticket, that nothing was going to work out, happiness was nowhere to be seen, nor, it seemed, would there ever be any of that elusive New Years cheer.

Why on earth had she invited anyone over? Whod want to celebrate with a wretched flop?

***

On the 31st of December, her morning exploded into disaster: the washing machine, loyal through a decade of broken springs and muddy football kits, decided its time had come. It flooded the bathroom so that the hallway filled with bubbles and stray socks.

Finding a plumber on New Years Eve was more like a poorly-made treasure hunt. After spending a small fortune and nearly all her patience, Ellen managed it, and took a long, shaky breath, praying that was the last of it.

But…

In the early hours, her ginger tomcat, Percivalself-styled connoisseurdevoured all the smoked ham intended for the potato salad, leaving but a lonely pea and some tired pickled onions.

This wasnt enough, apparently, for the brazen feline. Percival decided to lunge after a blue tit perched foolishly at the open sash window.

In his commotion, the grand rubber tree tumbled from the sill, sent the plastic Christmas tree sprawling, which then managed to knock out the old fairy lights Ellen had loving strung, snuffing their glow forever.

Bits of broken plant pot and Christmas baubles (some saved since childhood) mixed with damp compost on the linoleum. Ellen nearly sobbed as she swept away the dearly departed ornaments.

Then came the broken decanter, the scorched roast chicken, and finally, the last straw: just as her guests were about to arrive, Ellen realised, horrified, shed quite forgotten to buy the cake. In a panic, she rang her sister.

Kate, its a disaster! Theres no cake!

Calm down! came her sisters cheery voice. Im parked out front already. Come on! Well nip down and sort it all.

Where exactly are you?

I told yououtside your building!

As Ellen hurried down, she found herself walking into a living tableau: Kate stood by the car, their dearest friend Mary with a bag bulging at the seams, and Aunt Gailclutching a massive dish of aspic in both hands.

Why the aspic? And why so much? gasped Ellen.

Just in case! declared Aunt Gail with the air of someone dispensing Churchillian wisdom. I know how the youngsters cook nowadays. And the night is long! I hope youve at least got the potato salad?

Ellen offered a noncommittal shrug.

While she and Kate dashed for cake, Mary hung up streamers, which Persie, as always, managed to tangle himself in, transforming into some alien creature dredged up from a particularly odd corner of the universe.

It was Kates husband, John, just back from work, who heroically attempted to free the cat. Persie was meek until he spotted Ellen, then surged forward in delight, leaving a bright red scratch on Johns hand.

After tending his wound with great show, John volunteered for assistance in the kitchen. This consisted of waxing philosophical about how salad was a kind of mood, not simply a collection of ingredients, but honestly, Ellen and Kate were only too happy for the comic relief.

Ellen, whats this box? Mary called from the sitting room. Happy New Year it says. And theres a note: Open at midnight. Grandma Valerie.

The memory came rushing back.

Oh, Id quite forgotten! Kate, Gran left it! She made me promise wed open it at New Years, around two. She said it was a surprise.

I wonder whats inside? Kate mused. Lets have a peek now!

Ellen shook her head firmly.

No, shell know if we do. Honestly. Maybe theres even a trick lock. Well follow instructions. Patience!

The mystery had everyone on tenterhooks. Even Aunt Gail crept closer to stare, one elbow resting on her aspic basin.

***

Champagne corks popped, the telly burbled with the Prime Ministers speech, and no one suspected a thing. They munched the cats salad, argued and laughed, before at last

Is it two oclock already? Ellen asked. Then its just the right moment. She lifted the box, voice grand: A surprise from Grandma Valerie!

They gave the only man present the honour of opening it.

John fiddled for a bit, then lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on fluff, were not fifty-pound notes, nor faded photographs, but dozens of tiny, neatly-rolled notes tied with coloured ribbon. Each note had a little labelone for every person present.

Whats all this, then? John asked, puzzled.

Ellen grabbed the first with her name, and began to read:

Ellen, my lovely granddaughter. Has something gone spectacularly wrong again? Washing machine given up? Cat eaten your salad? It’s all right! Remember: every disaster is a reason to order takeaway and put on your favourite show. You can always buy cake tomorrow. What matters is whos around to help devour the pizza. Love you to the moon and back. Your Gran, Valerie.

A moments hush, and then the room erupted in laughter.

Ellen laughed so hard she had tears trickling down her face.

How did she… how could she know?!

It must be magic, Aunt Gail whispered.

My turn! My turn! cried Kate, snatching her note.

She read:

Katie, dearest. Stop quarrelling with John over nonsense. Give him a cuddle instead. Hes a good one, even if hes a philosopher at heart. And if he starts spouting off again, just kiss him. Theres nothing quite so effective against a mans logic. Love to you both.

Johns face blazed scarlet and, under the applause of the assembled company, he planted a big kiss on Kate.

Mary, giggling, unrolled her slip.

Mary, darling. Seek romance not in pubs, but perhaps in the libraryor even down the local Sainsburys. Decent people congregate there, just ordinary folk. They may not wear skinny jeans, but theyll be true. Oh, and stop dyeing your hair purple. Your natural colour is gorgeous!

How does she know about my hair? Mary gasped. I only changed it two days ago!

At last, Aunt Gail took her note with trembling hands, as if it contained the secrets of MI5.

Gail, love. Youre our wisest soul and always in the know. But theres one secret youre missing. Remember: kindness and clever advice are wonderful, but sometimes its best to simply say nothing and eat a bit of cake. Hug you, my dear.

Aunt Gail read it twice, face flushing. She muttered something vague, took a huge slice of cake, and for the remainder of the night refrained from giving a single piece of advice to anyonea first in many years.

***

Laughter and chatter tumbled onwards till dawn.

The girls called up Grandma Valerie on video; she beamed at them from her chair miles away. My darlings! Im so glad the surprise worked! Theres no magic! Its just that I know you lot rather well. And I love you very much indeed!

In the morning, as she tidied away the party debris, Ellen gathered all the notes into a handsome jar and placed it on the mantel. They werent merely wishes. They were a recipe for happiness, direct from her grandmother: dont fear the mess, laugh at your woes, cherish your people, eat what brings you joybut dont overindulge. And, above all, remember: the very finest gift in life is knowing there is someone out there, somewhere, who truly knows and loves you. Always.

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before the yellowed envelope arrived to change her life, Natalie Sokolov was standing on the balcony of her London flat. The night was thick and starless above the lights of Oxford Street. Inside, behind the glass door, Mark was on speakerphone, discussing the finer points of a business deal. Natalie pressed her palm to the cold balcony window. She was so terribly tired—not from work, which she managed brilliantly, but from the air itself. From the predictable routine, where even Mark’s proposal had become an item to tick off her five-year plan. Her throat ached with a lump of restlessness. Natalie took out her phone, opened Messenger, and wrote a note to her childhood friend, whom she hadn’t seen for ages. The friend had just had her second child and lived in a world of shrieking toddlers and domestic chaos. The message was short, a sigh let loose, and would make little sense to anyone else: “You know, sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like—not the city’s acid fog, but rain that hits the earth and smells of dust and hope. I want some kind of miracle. Something simple. Paper, tangible.” She didn’t expect a reply. It was a cry into the digital void, a ritual for comfort. Message written, relief followed—then she erased it before sending. Her friend wouldn’t understand—she’d assume a crisis, or too much wine. A minute later she was back in the sitting room; Mark was just ending his call. “All okay?” he asked, glancing over. “You look tired.” “I’m fine,” Natalie smiled. “Just needed a breath of fresh air…something new.” “In December?” he smirked. “Fresh air? Book us Brighton in May, if we hit our sales targets.” He turned back to his screen. Natalie glanced at her phone. A client confirmed tomorrow’s meeting. No miracles. She sighed, mentally composing tomorrow’s to-do list as she got ready for bed. *** Three days later, sorting her post, Natalie snagged her finger on the corner of a strange envelope, dropping it to the wooden floor. It was thick, rough, the colour of parchment. No stamps—just an inked fir branch and her address in London. Inside was a Christmas card—not the glossy modern kind, but solid cardboard, embossed and dusted with golden glitter. “May your boldest dreams come true this New Year…” read the handwritten message that made Natalie’s heart jolt. The handwriting—she knew it. It belonged to Alex. The very Alex from the sleepy Cotswold village where she’d spent her summer holidays as a teenager, swearing to love him forever. Summer afternoons, building dens by the river, launching fireworks in August, writing letters between holidays. Then, her grandmother sold the cottage, they went off to different universities, and lost touch. The card bore her current address—but was dated 1999. How? A postal glitch? Or the universe’s answer to her secret cry for a miracle? Moments later, Natalie cancelled a meeting and two calls, told Mark she was “checking a venue,” (he nodded, eyes glued to his tablet), and grabbed her keys. Three hours’ drive to the Cotswolds. She had to find the sender. A quick Google said the market town now had a tiny print shop. *** The ‘Snowflake Press’ wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d pictured something like a kitsch gift shop, cramped and scented of cheap beeswax. Instead, she stepped into a haven of calm. The door yielded with a soft groan to reveal a bright, still room, thick with the sweet scent of wood, metal, and something sharp—old paint, or varnish. And, unmistakably, the warmth of a real wood burner. The owner stood with his back to her, hunched over a heavy press that looked prehistoric. The clinking of tools the only sound. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Natalie cleared her throat. Only then did he straighten slowly, vertebra by vertebra. Short, solid, simple checked shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. An ordinary face, but with quietly intense eyes—not curious or ingratiating, just watching. “Is this your card?” Natalie placed it on the counter. He approached unhurriedly, wiped his hands on his trousers, then held the card up to the light, as if examining a rare coin. “Ours,” he nodded. “Fir branch—must be ’99. Where did you get it?” “It arrived for me. In London. Must be a Royal Mail error,” said Natalie crisply, though her heart felt tight. “I need to find the sender. The handwriting…I know it.” He gave her a look that took in her sharp haircut, the elegant but out-of-place beige coat, the perfectly made-up but weary face. “Why bother now?” he asked. “A quarter of a century—it’s long enough for people to be born, to die, or to forget.” “I’m not dead,” she retorted suddenly, with hard-edged defiance. “And I haven’t forgotten.” He studied her, as if reading not her words, but what lay behind them, then nodded toward the kettle. “Bit cold out. Some tea’ll warm you up. And clear your head—even a Londoner’s.” He didn’t wait for a reply, already boiling water into battered mugs. So began her return. *** Natalie spent three days in the Cotswolds, swapping London’s noise for silence that let her hear snow slide from the rooftops, and the living warmth of a wood fire rather than screen glow. The printer, Alec, never pried; he simply opened his world—a creaking family house scented with jam, books, and woodsmoke. He showed her his father’s copper plates, engraved with deer and snowflakes, explained how to mix glitter that wouldn’t rub off. He was like his home—solid, slightly weathered, filled with quiet, humble treasures. He told her how his own father, having fallen hopelessly for his mother, had sent her a card to the wrong address, lost forever. “Love into the void,” Alec said, watching the flames. “Beautiful, hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless?” Natalie asked. “Well, he found her in the end, and they had years together. Where there’s love, anything’s possible. Otherwise, I believe in what I can hold in my hands—this press, this house, my craft. The rest is smoke.” His words carried no bitterness, only the matter-of-fact acceptance of a craftsman working with stubborn material. Natalie had always fought her world to bend it to her will; here, the struggle was meaningless. The snow fell when it chose. Alec’s dog, Oliver, slept where it pleased. A strange closeness grew between them—two lone souls, finding what they lacked in each other: for him, her spark; for her, his quiet authenticity. He saw past London polish to the girl still searching for a simple miracle; she saw not a failure stuck in the past, but a steward of tradition and silence. With him, her inner static faded into peace. When Mark called, Natalie was at the window, watching Alec split firewood with practiced ease. “Where are you, Nat?” came the cold, even voice. “And pick up a real Christmas tree, would you? That old fake one broke—ironic, isn’t it?” Natalie glanced at the real spruce glinting with antique glass ornaments. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “Very ironic.” She hung up. *** The truth emerged on the third day, Christmas Eve. Silently, Alec handed her a yellowed sketch from his father’s album—the card’s original message. “I found it,” he said softly. “This wasn’t written by your Alex. It was from my dad to my mum. It never made it. Funny, the way stories go round in circles…” The magic winked out like falling glitter. No mystical bond—just a cruel twist of fate. Natalie’s flight into nostalgia was a mistake, a lovely delusion. “I should go,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve got…everything. A wedding. Contracts.” Alec nodded. He didn’t try to stop her. Just stood in his world of paper and memory, a man who could preserve warmth in envelopes but not against the cold from elsewhere. “I get it,” he said. “I’m no wizard. Just a printer. I make things you can hold—nothing else. But sometimes…the past sends a mirror instead of a ghost. So you see who you might become.” He turned back to his press. Natalie picked up her bag and keys, closing her fingers round her phone—the only link to the world that waited beyond the snow, with its meetings, KPIs, and quiet, cash-measured marriage to Mark. As she reached for the door, her gaze fell on the card, and on a new, freshly printed one Alec must have intended for her—a fir tree stamp, a different phrase: “May you have enough courage.” She understood. The miracle wasn’t in some lost postcard. It was here, in this moment, in the clarity that illuminated two roads. She couldn’t claim Alec’s world, nor would he enter hers. But she wasn’t going back to Mark. Natalie stepped into the cold, starry night without looking back. *** A year passed. Another December. Natalie didn’t return to the events industry. She left Mark, launched a small agency specialising in “mindful” gatherings—intimate, soulful, with attention to detail. She used paper invitations, all printed at one workshop in the Cotswolds. Life didn’t slow, but gained meaning. She had learned how to savour the quiet. ‘Snowflake Press’ now offered creative weekend retreats. Alec had warmed to online orders, but filtered them with care. His cards became a little better known, enough to get by, but his process stayed the same. They didn’t write every day, just for business. But last week, a card arrived for Natalie: a stamp of a soaring bird, and just two words—“Thank you—for courage.”

You Just Don’t Realise What True Happiness Is — Half a million? — Karina reread the notification on her phone three times before the numbers made sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dmitry was sitting on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, just a small thing. For Mum’s renovations. You know her plumbing’s a disaster, parquet’s warped, wallpaper peeling… — Wait. — Karina sank onto the edge of the armchair, her legs refusing to hold her. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mum. Without saying a word to me? Finally, Dmitry tore himself away from the screen. His face was sincerely perplexed, as if his wife was asking something completely obvious. — Karina, it’s Mum. She lives on her own, tiny pension. Who else would help her? — And talking to me about it? — Karina started shouting, unable to stop. — Asking my opinion? At least telling me? — You would’ve argued, — Dmitry shrugged. — And Mum needed it urgently. Four years. Four years she’d tolerated this woman who called every evening to ask what Dima ate for dinner. Who arrived unannounced and criticised the cleanliness of their flat. Who, at every family dinner, seated the guests so Karina ended up at the furthest corner of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill, — Dmitry continued, calm as ever. — We’ll manage. We’ll pay it off, it’s not that much. It’s family. The tears came hot and angry. Karina wiped them away with the back of her hand, mascara smudging across her cheeks. — Family? Am I family? Or am I just an add-on? Remember when your mum decided it was time to change our car and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the spare room because she ‘couldn’t sleep among someone else’s rubbish’? When, on my birthday, you two went off to buy her a new fridge? — All minor stuff, — Dmitry dismissed. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karina looked at this man — tall, soft features, dimples she’d once found adorable. Now she saw a thirty-year-old child who couldn’t cut the apron strings. — We’ll manage, — he repeated, like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karina stood up silently and walked to the bedroom. The two big holdalls — the ones she’d arrived with when she moved in — lay on the top shelf. She pulled them down, flung them on the bed, and started opening cupboards. Dmitry appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, just as one bag was completely full. — What are you doing? Karina, this is stupid. You can’t be serious? She didn’t answer. Folded jumpers, jeans, underwear with care. Took down the jewellery box — gifts from her parents and friends, nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mother? She’s in Manchester! She zipped up the second bag. Checked her handbag — passport, card, keys to her mum’s flat, just in case. — Karina, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She gave him a long look. Then picked up her bags and left the flat. …The next morning, Karina stood in line at the registry office holding her completed divorce papers. It was drizzling outside, grey clouds hung low, but inside she felt calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karina sprang up on her friend Lena’s sofa, confused about her surroundings. — We need to talk, — Dmitry panted, his words jumbled. — I understand now, I’ll change. Give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karina, I can’t live without you. You’re the meaning of my life. By morning there were forty-three messages. Each one lengthy, tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll always wait for you.” A week later, he started turning up at her office. Karina went out for lunch — there he was, by the sandwich stall. Walking to the tube after work — he was standing across the road. — Just passing by — Dmitry smiled, when Karina demanded an explanation. — Just wanted to see you. One evening, there was a knock at Lena’s flat. Karina opened the door expecting a pizza delivery. Dmitry stood on the doorstep with a bouquet of red roses. — One chance, — he whispered. — Nothing more. Karina silently closed the door. He stood outside for two hours until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — like living with chronic pain. Not reading his messages, never answering unknown numbers, never glancing round in the street. She got a remote job, moved to a suburb where Dmitry could never just ‘happen by’. The divorce was finalised in three months. Karina left the court clutching the official papers, crying on the steps — not from grief, but relief. Those first months of freedom were terrifyingly empty. Karina was used to checking every decision, even when someone else always made the final call. Now she could buy any yogurt she pleased, without wondering if Elena Victoria would approve. She could watch any film, no one to say, “No respectable woman watches that.” She could breathe. Signed up for English classes — a long-held dream Dmitry considered “a waste”. Started yoga at sunrise, when the city’s just waking up. Took a weekend trip to Cambridge alone, wandered the streets and ate scones. After six months, the calls stopped. The messages too. Karina waited for trouble another month, then another, before letting herself relax. She joined a marketing agency — lively office, young team, vibrant projects. Life was beginning. …She met Andrew at a company party, dragged there by her workmate, Mary. — This is our lead programmer — Mary introduced the tall man in glasses. — Andrew, meet Karina from Marketing. He shook her hand — firm but gentle. Smiled — simply, no attempt to impress. — You hid from karaoke too? — he nodded at the stage where the finance director mangled “Don’t Stop Believin’.” — I’m saving my nerves, — Karina smiled. They talked all night — about books, travel, life’s strangeness. Andrew listened more than he spoke. Asked questions, waited for answers, never interrupted. Never told her how to live. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded and changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, choosing a bright, small flat in the city centre, high ceilings, view of a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like the flat? — Karina asked as they inspected it for the lease. — Should we see more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes. Very much. — Then let’s take it. Little things — being able to have an opinion that mattered — were worth more than any grand declarations of love. He proposed on the rooftop as the sun set, painting the sky gold and rose. Produced a small box, opened it — inside, a diamond ring sparkled. — I’m no good at speeches, — Andrew admitted. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you can put up with my snoring and my rubbish coffee. Karina laughed through her tears and nodded… …That May night started off ordinary. Andrew was stuck at work — urgent deadline, code bug. Karina was making pasta, humming to the radio, when the doorbell rang. Sharp, insistent, demanding. She looked through the peephole — and recoiled. Dmitry stood in the hallway. Pale, dark circles, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence — and now he was here. — Karina, open up! — he hammered at the door. — I know you’re in there! We need to talk! She grabbed her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dmitry shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s wrong! The door shuddered — he threw his weight against it. Karina braced her back to the wood, feet on the floor. — Go away! — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice hit a shriek. — You were mine, you’ll always be mine! Two years I’ve waited for you to see sense! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — Nothing’s over! — another shove, she barely held the door. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t realise your own happiness! Open the door, let’s talk! She watched his distorted, obsessed face through the peephole — not the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karina picked up her phone and dialled 999. — Dima! One press and the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dmitry froze. Silent for a few seconds. Then turned sharply and stomped down the stairs. The building door crashed below. Karina slid to the floor, ears ringing. Only half an hour later could she call Andrew. She filed a police report the next day. The officer — grey-haired, moustached — took her statement, listened, nodded. — We’ll sort it. Have a word. Whatever he said to Dmitry, Karina never knew. But after that, her ex-husband vanished. No calls, no texts, no accidental meetings. …They married in June, a small countryside restaurant — twenty guests, just close friends. No fuss, no groom’s family demanding traditions. Karina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, her hands in his. Birch trees rustled outside, the country air thick with flowers and fresh-cut grass. — Do you… — the celebrant began. — I do, — Karina interrupted, and the guests laughed. Andrew slipped a slim gold ring onto her finger. Inside, three words engraved: “Forever with you.” Karina looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed stalker. Just a man who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead was a life where her voice finally mattered…

You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious right now? The Savoy Grill? You know that’s at least a hundred quid per person for dinner.” James tossed his house keys onto the console with such force that they clattered against the wall. Anna glanced up from the stove, where she was stirring a thick sauce, and immediately noticed the pallor of her husband’s clenched knuckles gripping his phone. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore under his breath and abruptly hung up. “What’s happened?” Anna asked gently. Instead of replying, James collapsed heavily at the kitchen table, staring gloomily at his plate of potatoes. Anna turned off the burner, dried her hands on a tea towel, and sat across from him. “James…” “She’s lost the plot, Anna. Absolutely lost it now. Gone completely bonkers in her old age.” He looked up, and Anna’s heart tightened at the simultaneous anger and helplessness in his eyes. “Remember I told you about that bloke—Leonard—from the ballroom class?” Anna nodded. His mother had vaguely mentioned a new friend a month ago—some charming fellow from the local community centre who waltzed her around the dance floor and made her blush like a schoolgirl. It had seemed sweet: a 58-year-old widow, five years alone, finally meeting a kind gentleman at dance class. “Well.” James pushed his plate away. “She’s taken him to the Savoy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit—four hundred quid. Last weekend, they spent two nights in Bath. Guess who paid for the boutique hotel and Roman Baths tour?” “Your mum.” “Bingo.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “She’s spent her savings—the stuff she’s put aside for emergencies, for the extension, all of it—on some man she’s known a month and a half. It’s a shambles.” Anna paused, choosing her words carefully. She knew her mother-in-law as open-hearted, dreamy, trusting—a hopeless romantic even after five decades of life. “James, listen…” She took his hand gently. “She’s a grown woman. It’s her money. Her choice. Let her be. She won’t hear you right now anyway.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Yes. But it’s her right to make them. And honestly, love, you’re winding yourself up.” He shrugged but didn’t pull away. “I just hate watching her—” “I know. But you can’t live her life for her.” Anna squeezed his wrist. “She has to make her own mistakes. Even if we don’t like it. She’s not lost her wits.” He nodded moodily. *** Two months slipped by. Talk of Leonard faded—James’s mother called less often, was vague on the details, as though hiding something. Anna assumed the romance had fizzled out and stopped worrying. But then, on a Sunday evening, the doorbell rang and there was his mum, flushed with excitement. “Darlings! Oh, darlings!” She swept through the doorway, trailing her sweet perfume. “He proposed! Look! Look!” A modest ring sparkled on her finger, tiny gemstone and all. Cheap, but she gazed at it like it was a Cartier diamond. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s just… Oh, I never thought, at my age…” She laughed, giddy and girlish. “To feel this again!” James hugged her, and Anna saw his shoulders finally relax. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they’d thought. Perhaps Leonard truly loved her after all. “Congratulations, Mum.” James smiled, stepping back. “Oh—and I’ve signed the flat over to him! Now we’re a proper family!” his mother beamed. Time seemed to freeze. Anna inhaled sharply. James recoiled, as though struck. “What did you say?” “The flat, dear!” She waved her hand as though it was nothing. “To show him I trust him, of course. That’s what love is, isn’t it? Trust.” Silence so heavy, Anna could hear the clock ticking. “Mrs. Walker,” Anna said at last, steady and slow, “You’ve handed your flat over to a man you’ve known three months? Before the wedding?” “And so what?” She sniffed, chin high. “I trust him. He’s not what you think. I know you think badly of him. You all do!” “We don’t—” Anna tried, but— “No! You don’t understand! This is proof of my love,” she folded her arms, “What do you two know about real feelings? About trust?” James finally unclenched his jaw. “Mum—” “NO!” She stamped her foot, suddenly more adolescent than grown woman. “I don’t want to hear another word! You’re just jealous! Jealous of my happiness! Want to ruin everything!” She stormed out, banging the door so hard the windows shivered. *** The wedding was low-key—local registry, a second-hand dress, a clutch of supermarket roses. But his mum glowed as if she were getting married at Westminster Abbey. Leonard—heavyset, balding, with an oily grin—played the perfect gent, hand-kissing, chair-pulling, pouring bubbly. The ideal groom. Anna watched him over the rim of her glass. Something didn’t fit. His eyes. Cold, calculating, even when he looked at her. Practised tenderness. Rehearsed concern. She said nothing. What was the point? *** For the first few months, his mum called weekly—bubbling over with happiness, listing restaurants and shows Leonard treated her to. “He’s so thoughtful! Brought me roses, just because!” James listened, nodded, hung up. He’d sit, silent, for a long time afterwards. Anna waited. A year whisked by. And then—the doorbell. Anna opened it and barely recognised the woman standing there. Ten years older in just one, deep lines, hollow eyes, stooped shoulders, clutching a battered suitcase, the very one she’d once taken on a weekend to Bath. “He threw me out.” His mum’s voice was barely a whisper. “Filed for divorce. Kicked me out. The flat… it’s his now. By law.” Anna wordlessly stepped aside to let her in. The kettle boiled quickly. His mum sat in the armchair, clutching her tea, crying quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so much. Gave him everything. And he just…” Anna comforted her in silence, rubbing her back, waiting for the tears to wear out. James came home an hour later. He froze in the doorway at the sight of his mother. “Son…” She stood, reaching for him. “I’ve got nowhere to go. You’ll let me stay? I just need a room. Children ought to look after their parents, it’s—” “Stop.” James raised his hand. “Stop, Mum.” “I’ve got no money. It’s all gone. Every penny. My pension’s tiny, you know that.” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you.” James sank to the sofa, as though crushed under a heavy weight. “I said: Don’t rush. I said: Get to know him. I said: Don’t sign the flat over. Do you remember what you said to me?” His mum lowered her gaze. “That we didn’t understand real love. That we were jealous of your happiness. I remember, Mum. I remember it all!” “James—” Anna tried, but he shook his head. “No. Let her hear this.” He faced his mum. “You’re an adult. You made your choices. Ignored everyone who tried to help. Now you want us to clean up the mess?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s why I’m angry!” He shot up, voice breaking. “I’m tired! Tired of watching you throw your life away and expecting me to bail you out every time!” His mum shrank, defeated. “He tricked me, son. I really loved him, I swear…” “So much you gave your home away to a stranger. Brilliant, Mum. Brilliant. Did you forget Dad bought that flat with his own hands?” “I’m sorry…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I know I was blind. But please…please, just give me one more chance. I’ll never—” “Grown-ups live with the consequences of their choices.” James spoke quietly, wearily. “You wanted independence—now you have it. You’ll have to sort yourself out. Find somewhere to stay. Find a job.” His mum left, sobbing on the landing. Anna spent the night by James’s side, holding his hand in silence. He didn’t cry—just stared at the ceiling, sighing now and then. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked near dawn, when the sky paled. “Yes.” Anna stroked his cheek. “Harsh. Painful. But right.” In the morning, James called his mum. He rented her a bedsit on the outskirts, paid six months up front. It was the last help he gave. “From now on, it’s on you, Mum. We’ll help with legal stuff if you want to fight it, but that’s it.” Anna listened in quiet reflection. Sometimes the harshest lesson is the only lesson that works. His mother had finally been forced to learn the cost of blind faith. And somehow, that realisation brought a sense of both sadness and calm. She couldn’t help feeling, though, that this wasn’t the end—and that, somehow, one day things would be alright. Just maybe, they would.

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