Trending Link

“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months—that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with baby Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the wall. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, eyes red and hands shaking. Meanwhile, Igor stomped about the house, grumpy as a raincloud. “Can you believe I look like a tramp at work?” he snapped one morning, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina kept quiet. She fed the baby, rocked him, fed him again—a never-ending cycle. And Igor, her husband, was nearby, complaining instead of helping. “Hey, maybe your mum could watch him for a bit?” he suggested one evening, stretching out after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking of going to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week.” Marina froze with the bottle in her hand. “I need a break, Marina. Honestly.” Igor began stuffing clothes into his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she—does she sleep?! Her eyelids droop, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, I get that it’s hard,” Igor waved her off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s serious; I have real responsibilities. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina saw them from the outside: her, in a stained dressing gown, hair a mess, baby wailing in her arms; and Igor, packing his suitcase, escaping. “I want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood alone in the flat with her crying son, feeling everything collapse inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor called maybe three times—asked how things were. His voice was distant, like he was chatting with an old acquaintance. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” Again, he didn’t show. Marina rocked her screaming baby, changed nappies, prepared formula. She slept in half-hour bursts between feeds. “Everything alright?” her friend asked. “Great,” she lied. Why did she lie? The shame. Shame that her husband had left, that she was alone with a newborn. As if things couldn’t get worse. But the real fun began at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s coworker. “Where’s your husband?” Lena asked. “Working lots.” “Figures. Men are all alike—once a baby comes, they’re always busy at work.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor travel for work much?” “Travel?” “Well, he just went up to Manchester for that seminar, didn’t he? Showed us the pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was busy. Busy? No. Off holidaying in Manchester. Igor turned up on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I was gone so long. Busy at work.” “You went to Manchester?” He froze with the bouquet in hand. “Who said?” “It doesn’t matter who. Why lie?” “I’m not lying. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me any.” “What do you mean? I pay the rent and bills.” “And for food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No sense sitting at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” Sitting at home—as if that’s a break! Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and understood: he didn’t love her. Never had. “Get out.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters—your family or your freedom.” Igor grabbed his keys and left. Two days later, he texted: “Thinking.” Meanwhile, Marina didn’t sleep. And she thought too. Imagine being alone with your own thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How are you, Marina? Igor not home?” “On a business trip.” Another lie. “Shall I come over? Help out?” “I’ll manage.” But her mum came anyway. “How’s things?” Mum looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina glanced in the mirror. She looked a state. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” And Marina broke down. Really, like a child—loud and desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Mum was silent. Then: “What a bastard. Utter bastard.” Marina was stunned—her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much…” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Should I have been more understanding?” “Marina, isn’t it hard for you?” That simple question made Marina realise: she’d only ever worried about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. Never about herself. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned. Clearly “thinking” at his mate’s place. “Can we talk?” “Alright.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I know it’s hard for you. But it’s not easy for me either. Can we agree? I’ll send money and visit. Just need to live separately for now.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, ten thousand.” Ten thousand. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. Don’t come back.” “Marina, this is business!” “Business? You want freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that changed everything: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him—this was the real Igor. An immature, self-centred man who thought motherhood was a life sentence. “I’ll file for child support tomorrow. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I would.” He stormed out, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe easier. Max cried. But she knew now: she’d manage. A year passed. Igor tried coming back twice. “Marina, shall we give it another go?” “Too late.” Igor whined that Marina was a “hard cow.” She didn’t care. Marina hired a nanny and started working as a nurse. At the hospital, she met Dr. Andrew. “Any children?” “A son.” “And Dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought toy cars for Max. They played and laughed together. Soon, the three of them were always out at the park. Igor found out and called: “The kid’s only a year old, and you’re out with other men!” “And what? Should I wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he was there. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his cottage in the country. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew “Uncle.” He doesn’t remember Igor. Igor’s remarried. Pays child support. Marina doesn’t resent him. She’s living for herself now too. And it’s wonderful.

I just want some time for myself and a proper night’s sleep, my husband said as he packed his bag

La vida

I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, but Her Father Went Back to His Ex-Wife For ten years, I raised this child as my own. I changed nappies when she was little. I took her to lessons every week. I helped her with homework, taught her to look after herself, hugged her through her first heartbreak. And she called me “Mum.” Not “Dad’s wife.” Not “Stepmother.” Mum. For her fifteenth, I’d spent months planning the celebration. I booked a lovely venue, ordered a dress, arranged music, and catering for loads of guests. I spent my savings, but I knew it was worth it. This was my child. Or so I thought. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother turned up. The woman who’d been gone for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly she was in my house, upset, talking about wanting a fresh start. I should’ve known something was wrong. But I trusted. On the day of the party, I arrived early to check the final details. The hall was perfect—decorated, arranged, everything in place. While making sure it was all just right, someone tapped me on the shoulder. They told me I should leave. That this was a “family moment.” That I wasn’t needed. I tried to explain that I’d raised this child. That I’d paid for everything. But it changed nothing. The man I’d spent years with simply said, “It’s best for the child this way.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just walked away. That evening, as I packed my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. There she was—in her party dress, crying, exhausted. “I left,” she told me. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to tell her she needed to be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there.” I held her tight. She told me that when they thanked the “family” at the party, she asked where I was. They told her I’d chosen not to come. So she told them the truth—in front of everyone. And she left. She stayed with me. We watched films late into the night, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. The next day, I had lots of phone calls. I didn’t answer. Months later, everything was over, officially. I started a new life. She kept going with her studies, and chose to stay with me. She keeps that dress in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I wonder: Who really walked away from whom that day?

I paid for my stepdaughters fifteenth birthday party, and then her dad went back to her mum.

La vida

Handing Over the Keys to Our Cottage: When a Generous New Year’s Offer to Friends Ended in Chaos, Unexpected Costs, and the End of a Friendship

Hand us the keys to your cottage, and well stay there for a bit, the request came. Simons mother had

La vida

To Put the Woman by Your Side in a Position Where Others Mock Her Is Pure Cowardice: When You Allow People to Laugh Behind Her Back While You Embrace Her in Public, You Fail Not Only as a Partner, But as a Human Being. Nothing Is More Humiliating Than a Woman Who Loves Sincerely, While Others Look at Her With Pity Because They Know a Truth You Hide From Her. There Is Nothing Lower Than Betraying Someone Who Trusts, Cares For, and Respects You. She Walks Proudly Beside You, Unaware That Others Are Smirking and Thinking: ‘If Only She Knew…’ This Is Not Manliness. This Is Fear—Fear to Leave, and Fear to Remain Honest. Infidelity and Turning the Woman Beside You Into a Subject of Mockery Kill the Most Important Thing—Respect. Without Respect, There Is No Love. There Are No Excuses, Either. A True Man Isn’t the One Who Impresses Many Women, But the One Who Protects the Dignity of One. And If You Don’t Have the Strength to Keep Your Promise, At Least Have the Decency Not to Let Her Be the Last to Know. Because Shame Like That Never Fades. It Lasts.

To place the woman by your side in a position where others see her as someone to be laughed at is pure

La vida

You Brought Her Here Yourself

You brought her to us yourself, didnt you? Chris, youre an absolute find! A man who can tinker with engines

La vida

011

Yesterday I Quit My “Job” as Grandma—No Notice, No Paperwork: I Simply Set Down the Birthday Cake, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “employer” was my own daughter—Charlotte. For years, I believed my pay was love. But yesterday I realised: in our family economy, my love isn’t worth much next to brand-new tablets. I’m Anne, I’m 64—retired nurse, living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m the driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, counsellor, and on-call “ambulance” for two grandsons, Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what you’d call the village—the community that’s meant to raise a child, except now the “community” is usually one exhausted grandma surviving on coffee, valerian, and painkillers. Charlotte works in marketing; her husband, Andrew, in finance. Nice people—or so I kept telling myself. Nursery’s expensive, school is tricky, clubs are harder, so when Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Charlotte sobbed. “And we don’t trust strangers. Only you.” So I agreed—not wanting to be a burden, I became the foundation. My days start at 5:45am: I make porridge (not the “quick” kind Denny refuses), get the kids ready, drive to school, clean floors I didn’t dirty, scrub toilets I didn’t use, ferry them to clubs—English, football, homework. I’m Grandma Routine. Grandma “No”. Grandma Rules. There’s also Susan—Andrew’s mum. She lives by the seaside in a new apartment with a facelift, a new car, endless holidays. She pops in twice a year; doesn’t know Max’s allergies, or how to calm Daniel when maths sends him into meltdown. She’s never scrubbed sick off a car seat. Susan’s Fun Grandma. Yesterday Max turned nine. I’d spent weeks preparing—little money, but I wanted my gift to be special. I’d spent three months knitting him a heavy blanket, his favourite colours, to help him sleep. I baked a real cake. At 4:15pm, Susan swept in—a cloud of perfume and shopping bags. “Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to greet her. She perched on the sofa, pulled out the branded bag. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing,” she declared—two top-of-the-range gaming tablets. “No limits today—my rules!” The kids lost the plot. Cake and guests forgotten. Charlotte and Andrew beamed. “Is it really necessary…” Andrew said as he poured her wine. “You spoil them.” I stood there holding my blanket. “Max, I brought you something too…and I baked a cake.” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Grandma, I’m beating a level.” “I spent all winter knitting…” He sighed. “No one wants blankets anymore, Grandma. Susan brought tablets. Why are you always so boring—just food and clothes?” I glanced at Charlotte, waiting for her to help. She laughed awkwardly: “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s just a kid. Of course the tablet’s more fun. Susan’s the ‘fun grandma’. You’re…you know…you’re our everyday.” Everyday Grandma. Like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I want Susan to live here,” Daniel announced. “She doesn’t make us do homework.” That’s when something snapped. I folded up the blanket, set it on the table, hung up my apron. “Charlotte, I’m done.” “What do you mean—cut the cake?” “No. I’m done.” I picked up my bag. “I’m not a machine you just switch off. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My presentation’s tomorrow! Who’ll pick up the kids?” “I don’t know. Maybe sell a tablet. Or let Fun Grandma stay.” “But we need you!” I paused at the door. “That’s just it. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. This morning, I woke at 9. Made coffee. Sat on my porch. And for the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandsons. But I refuse to live as free labour masquerading as “family”. Love isn’t self-destruction, and a grandma isn’t just a resource. If they want Grandma Routine, they better respect the routine. For now… maybe I’ll join a dance class. Isn’t that what “fun grandmas” do?

Yesterday, I quit my job. No resignation letter, no obligatory two weeks notice. I simply placed a plate

La vida

Listen to Your Inner Voice

I still recall the way it went, as if it were a scene from a longago summer in our little Yorkshire village.

La vida

I’m 69, and it’s been six months since my husband passed away. We were married for forty-two years. We never had children—it was just the two of us, our life, our routines, and our small joys. Now, after a long illness and losing him by my side, sharing quiet breakfasts and gentle humour, I am learning what it truly means to grow old alone in a silent house, with no one to share the little things that once made every day matter.

Im 69 now, and its been six months since my husband passed away. Forty-two years we spent side by side.

La vida

010

The Bride Stood Frozen When She Saw Who Walked Into Her Wedding — “Is That Really You?” She Cried, Stunned. In a Grand English Banquet Hall Adorned with Glittering Chandeliers, Surrounded by the Elite, Her World Changed Completely When Her Long-Lost Little Brother Arrived Unexpectedly, Dressed in Rags. Amidst Awkward Whispers and Disapproval, She Embraced Him as Family, Finding the Missing Piece of Her Heart and Learning That True Wealth Lies in Love, Not Appearances.

The bride was left completely gobsmacked when she saw whod just turned up at her wedding. It cant be you!

La vida

My Brother Called Me Yesterday and Asked Me to Transfer My Share of the Country House to Him, Claiming He Had Been Caring for Our Father for the Past Three Years

Dear Diary, Yesterday my brother, John Smith, rang me out of the blue and asked if I could surrender