Every Tuesday Lucy rushed through the tube station, clutching an empty plastic bag in her hand.

A Lingering Bad Feeling “It’s over—there won’t be a wedding!” exclaimed Marina. “Wait, what happened?” stammered Ilya, “Everything was fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Sure, fine. Except—” She paused, struggling to find a way to explain… and eventually blurted out the honest truth: “Your socks stink! I cannot breathe that for the rest of my life!” “You actually said that?” gasped Marina’s mother when she announced she was withdrawing the wedding application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the now ex-bride, “It’s true. Don’t tell me you never noticed it.” “I noticed, of course,” her mum admitted, embarrassed. “But that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a nice guy. The socks—well, you can sort that.” “How? Teach him to wash his feet? Change socks? Use deodorant? Mum, listen to yourself! I was supposed to get married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an oversized child!” “Then why go so far? Why even put in the application?” “That’s on you, Mum! ‘Ilya’s a good lad—a kind soul. I really like him,’ your words! And these: ‘You’re twenty-seven. Time to get married and give me some grandchildren.’ Suddenly quiet, eh?” “Well, Marina darling, I didn’t think you were still unsure. I thought you two were serious,” Mum replied. “And I’m glad I didn’t misjudge you—you’ve thought it through and made your decision. But this ‘socks smell’—that’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you.” “I did it on purpose, Mum. In his language—so there’s no going back…” *** At first, Ilya seemed funny and a little clumsy to Marina. Always in jeans and the same T-shirt, not showing off about Picasso but able to talk for hours about old films. His eyes sparkled. He was easy and calm. That calmness drew in Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and chasing ‘the one’. Two months of cinema and cafés later, Ilya shyly invited her: “Want to come over? I’ll make you dumplings. Handmade!” So homey and warm—Marina’s heart skipped. The ‘handmade’ bit sealed the deal. She agreed. *** Ilya’s place underwhelmed Marina. No dirt, but chaos, tasteless and neglected. Grey walls without wallpaper, an old battered sofa with a single worn bolster instead of cushions. Boxes, books and old magazines scattered everywhere. Trainers in the middle. The air was stale, with dust and damp. It felt like a halfway house no one really lived in. “So, what do you think of my castle?” Ilya spread his arms, beaming with pride—completely oblivious to anything odd. Marina forced a smile; she liked him and didn’t want a row. The kitchen was no better—table with a fine layer of dust, sink full of dirty plates and cups with black stains, battered saucepan on the hob. Marina’s eye caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” she thought. Her mood sunk. Distractedly Marina listened to Ilya telling stories, trying to make her laugh. When he offered her a bowl of dumplings, she refused on grounds of being on a diet. No way was she eating anything made in that kitchen. Back home, Marina analysed the visit. On the surface, the mess was minor—so what, he lives alone and isn’t house proud. Big deal? But behind it all, Marina saw something deeper and unsettling. How can anyone live like that? Not just laziness… Ilya saw nothing wrong with it. A lingering bad feeling remained… *** Then Ilya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed the paperwork. Parents started preparing for the wedding. It was nice being a bride—but every time Marina found herself alone, thinking of Ilya making dumplings and telling jokes, the image of that grimy kettle popped into her mind. She realised: it wasn’t just a kettle. It was evidence—of Ilya’s attitude to life, to his home, to himself, and probably to her. One day, Marina pictured their future morning together and was horrified. She’d get up, see half-drunk tea and crumbs. Say, “Darling, can you tidy up?” and he’d look stunned, just like in his flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t shout—he’d just… not get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. And her love would die, slowly and surely, from a thousand tiny cuts he barely noticed. And her mum’s delighted she’s marrying. *** Married… All the warmth Marina felt with Ilya slowly dissolved, replaced by a heavy, sticky tension. “Marina,” Ilya asked anxiously almost every day, “We’re okay, right? We love each other?” “Of course,” she replied, feeling something inside her break. Eventually Marina couldn’t cope—she poured out her worries to her friend. “So what?” her friend Katya didn’t get it. “Dust, a kettle… My husband could leave a tank in the kitchen and never notice. Men just don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see it,” Marina whispered. “He’ll never see it. But I will—forever! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, she didn’t blame him. He’d never lied—only lived in a different world, where dishes in the sink were normal. For Marina, it signalled total incomprehension and indifference. It wasn’t even about cleanliness. It was about seeing the world differently, a fault line waiting to become a chasm. Better to end it now, than fall to the abyss years later. She waited for the right moment… *** Marina and Ilya were invited to a party. They arrived, took off their shoes in the hall… Entered the room… An awful stench followed them. Marina didn’t realise the source right away. But then she did—and so did everyone else. Burning with embarrassment, she dashed back to the hallway, dressed, and left. Ilya chased after her, grabbed her hand. She turned and threw it at him, almost with hatred: “Enough! The wedding is off!” *** No wedding happened. Marina believes she did the right thing and has no regrets. As for Ilya… He still doesn’t get it. What was the problem? So his socks stank? He could have just taken them off…

A Dreadful Aftertaste Its over, there wont be a wedding! exclaimed Charlotte. Wait, whats happened?

For Better or Worse: The Story of Antonia’s Early Widowhood, Her Daughter Nina’s Move Up North, A Struggle for Livelihood, New Neighbours, Heartbreak—and Finding Love Again in the English Countryside

For Better, For Worse Margaret was widowed young, at forty-two. By that time, her daughter, Alice, had

As the Sun Set Over the English Countryside, Ben’s Solitary Woodland Stroll Turns Heroic When He Rescues an Injured Shepherd Mix Pinned Beneath a Fallen Log, Finding an Unlikely Companion Amid Nature’s Quiet Chaos

The sun was just slipping behind the rolling English countryside when Ben readied himself for his evening stroll.

Nan Always Favoured One Grandchild — And what about me, Nan? — Katya would quietly ask. — You, Katya, are just fine as you are. Look at those rosy cheeks! Walnuts are for the brain, Dima needs to study, he’s a man, the family’s rock. You, off you go, dust the shelves. A girl needs to get used to work. — Kat, are you serious? She’s on her way out. The doctors say a couple of days, maybe hours… Dima stood in the kitchen doorway, nervously fumbling his car keys. He looked a total wreck. —I’m absolutely serious, Dima. Cup of tea? — Katya didn’t even turn, methodically slicing an apple for her daughter. — Sit down, I’ll make a fresh pot. —Tea? Now? Kat? — Her brother strode further in. — She’s there with all the tubes, wheezing… She called for you this morning. ‘Katyenka,’ she said, ‘where’s my Katyenka?’ My heart nearly stopped. Won’t you go? It’s Nan. Your last chance to say goodbye, don’t you get it? Katya laid the apple slices on a plate before finally meeting her brother’s gaze. — For you, she’s Nan. For her, you’re Dima, her golden boy, her only hope and heir. But I… I never truly existed for her. Do you honestly think I need this ‘farewell’? What are we meant to talk about, Dima? What am I supposed to forgive her for? Or she me? — Stop it with this schoolyard sulk! — Dima slammed his keys on the table. — So she loved me more. So what? She’s old, stuck in her ways. She’s dying! You can’t be this… cruel. —I’m not cruel, Dima. I just feel nothing for her. Go yourself. Sit with her, hold her hand—the only presence she wanted was yours. You’re her sunshine, her life. So be her light to the very end! Dima shot his sister a dark look, turned, and left, slamming the door behind him. Katya sighed, picked up the plate of apple, and went to her daughter’s room. *** In their family, everything had always been neatly divided. No, their parents loved them both equally—Katya and Dima. Their home was always warm, noisy, full of the smell of baking and endless family outings. But their gran, Gladys, was a different sort altogether. —Dima darling, my star — Gladys would croon as they visited each weekend — Look what I’ve saved just for you! Fresh walnuts, hand-cracked! And some Penguin bars, your favourite! Seven-year-old Katya would stand by, watching her nan produce that precious paper bag from the old dresser. —What about me, Nan? — she’d ask quietly. Gladys would give her a brisk, prickly glance. —You, Katya, are healthy enough. Just look at those cheeks! Walnuts are for brainy boys—Dima must study, he’s the man, the family’s future. Off you go, dust the shelves. Girls must learn to work. Dima, blushing, would slink away with his treats, while Katya got on with the dusting. She didn’t feel hard done by. Oddly enough, young Katya accepted it like the weather: Rain falls… and Nan loves Dima best. That’s just how things went. Normally, her brother would be waiting for her in the hall: —Here, — he’d whisper, breaking his haul in two: half the chocolate, a handful of walnuts — But don’t eat in front of Nan, she’ll only nag again. —You need them more—she’d smile. — For your big brain. —Oh, stuff that, — Dima would grin. — She’s bonkers. Quick, munch! They’d sit on the stairs to the attic, chomp through their forbidden spoils, sharing everything. Even when Nan secretly slipped Dima some “ice cream money”, he’d run straight to Katya: —Look, enough for two Mr. Whippys and a packet of stickers. Fancy a treat? Her brother was always her ally. His affection more than made up for Gran’s coldness, and Katya hardly noticed what she was missing. The years went by. Gladys grew older. When Dima turned eighteen, she solemnly announced she’d be leaving her second, centrally located flat to him in her will. —The family’s backbone needs a place to call his own, — she declared at a family meeting — so he can bring home a bride, not traipse from garret to garret. Mum just sighed. She knew her mother’s iron will and held her tongue, but later, when the fuss was over, she came to Katya. —Sweetheart, don’t fret… Dad and I see everything. Here’s the plan—what we’ve saved for a car and a bigger place, we’ll give to you as a flat deposit. To keep things fair. —Mum, it’s fine, — Katya hugged her — Dima needs the flat more, he’s marrying Irina. I’ll manage in my digs. —No, Katya. That’s not right. Nan has her quirks, but we’re your parents. We can’t favour one and leave the other out. So take it, no arguments. Katya never took it. Dima moved into his wedding-gift flat, giving the family home a sense of space. Katya spread her own books and easel in Dima’s old room, revelling, for the first time, in a family where love wasn’t measured out in teaspoons. Inheritance never soured things between the siblings; if anything, Dima felt almost guilty. —Come round ours, Katya, — he’d invite. — Irina’s baked pies. Nan rang yesterday, asking whether I’d blown “her” money on your whims. —What did you say? —Told her I’d spent the lot on arcade machines and posh gin, — he smirked. — She snorted down the phone, then muttered, “That Katya’s led you astray!” —Naturally, — Katya grinned. — Who else would it be? *** When Katya married Oleg and a baby arrived, the housing question loomed. Mum pulled off a diplomatic coup. —Listen, kids, — she said. — This place is huge for just your dad and me. Dima, you have your own flat. Katya, you’re stuck renting. Let’s split ours into a one-bed and a two-bed. Dad and I move to the one-bed; Katya and Oleg get the two-bed. —Mum, — Dima objected. — I’ll give up my share, straight away. Gran gave me a place—I’m set for life. Let Katya have the lot. She and her family need it. —Dima, are you sure? — Oleg was gobsmacked. — That’s a fortune. You’re sure? —Sure. Katya and I always shared. She lost out because of Nan anyway. Don’t argue. It’s settled. Katya wept—not for bricks and mortar, but for having the best brother in the world. They exchanged the old family flat, everyone was content. Mum babysat every week, and Dima’s family spent weekends round theirs. Gladys, meanwhile, lived alone. Dima brought shopping, did DIY, listened to endless gripes about her health and “that ungrateful Katya”. —Has she ever rung once? Has she even once asked after my blood pressure? —Nan, you never wanted to know her, — Dima tried to be gentle. — Not a kind word in twenty years. Why would she ring? —I was trying to bring her up! — Gladys declared, chin high. — A woman should know her place! Her… she grabbed a flat, bullied her mum out. Dima could only sigh. Explaining was pointless. *** Katya, sat in the quiet kitchen, haunted by half-forgotten images: Nan slapping her hand from the jam jar. Praising Dima’s clumsy drawing but passing by her own certificate without so much as a nod. Nan sitting like a queen at Dima’s wedding, but skipping Katya’s altogether—“Too ill,” she’d said. —Mum, why aren’t we seeing Granny Gladys? — Her daughter peeked round the door. — Uncle Dima says she’s really poorly. —Because Granny Gladys only wants to see Uncle Dima, sweetheart, — Katya stroked her hair — It makes her happy that way. —Is she mean? — her little girl squinted. —No, — Katya paused — She just couldn’t love everyone at once. Some people only have room in their heart for one. That happens. That evening, Dima rang again. —It’s over, Katya. An hour ago. —My condolences, Dima. You must be heartbroken. —She waited for you till the end, — he lied kindly. Katya recognised the fib for what it was—a bid for peace, at least at this ending. — She said, ‘May all go well for Katya.’ —Thank you, Dima… Come over tomorrow. We’ll sit together, I’ll bake a pie. —I’ll come… Aren’t you sorry you didn’t go see her? Katya didn’t lie. —No, Dima. I’m not. Why be a hypocrite? Neither of us ever wanted it… Her brother paused. —Maybe you’re right, — he said softly. — You always were the sensible one. See you tomorrow. The funeral was simple. Katya attended for her mother and brother. She stood to one side, in her black coat, staring up at that cemetery sky that’s always so bleak during farewells. When the coffin was lowered, she didn’t cry. Dima came to her side, put an arm around her shoulders. —You alright? —I’m okay, Dima. Really. —You know, — he hesitated — I was clearing out her flat… found a box. Old photos. Yours too. Loads. She’d carefully cut you out of all the family snapshots and kept you separate. Katya raised her eyebrows. —Why would she do that? —No idea. Maybe she did feel something, just didn’t know how to show it. Afraid that if she admitted loving you, it’d mean less for me. Old people… they’re odd sometimes. —Maybe so, — Katya shrugged. — Doesn’t really matter now. They walked to the gates under one umbrella—tall, solid Dima and slim, gentle Katya. —Listen, — he said at the cars — I’ve been thinking… I’ll sell that flat. Get a nice place for myself, set up savings for the kids, and the rest… shall we start a fund? Or donate to a children’s hospital? Let Nan’s money bring joy to someone for once… Katya looked at her brother and, for the first time in days, smiled warmly. —You know, Dima… that’s the best kind of revenge we could give Gladys. The kindest revenge in the world. —Deal? —Deal. They drove off in different directions. Katya put on music and, for the first time, felt total peace settle within her. Maybe Dima was right. Let part of Nan’s money help some child get well. That would be justice.

Granny Favoured One Grandchild And what about me, Gran? she would ask softly. You, Emily, youre already

Gone and Good Riddance “What do you mean ‘the number you have called is not available’? I just spoke to him five minutes ago!” Natasha stood in the hallway, phone pressed tightly to her ear. She glanced over at the chest of drawers. The jewellery box was still there—but something looked off. The lid wasn’t quite shut. “Rom?” She called deeper into the flat. “Are you in the bathroom?” Natasha slowly made her way to the dresser. As soon as her hand touched the polished wood, a chill ran down her spine—the jewellery box was completely empty. Even the receipt she’d used as a bookmark was gone. Her jewellery, her money—everything had disappeared. Though, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d handed over the cash herself… “Oh God…” she whispered, sinking to the floor. “How could this happen? We just argued about wallpaper yesterday… You promised we’d go to Cornwall in August…” But it had all started so ordinarily. Last June, Natasha’s little runabout seized up with a broken piston. The mechanic quoted a price she couldn’t stomach, so, frustrated, she posted on her county’s “Auto-Help” Facebook group. “Guys, does anyone know if it’s possible to free up a stuck brake piston yourself? Adding a photo of my filthy wheel.” Comments poured in. Some told her not to mess with it, others advised buying a new part altogether. Then came a message from a Roman85: “Don’t listen to them, love. Get a can of WD-40 and a £3 repair kit. Take the wheel off, gently press the piston out with the brake pedal—but don’t push it too far. Clean everything with brake fluid, grease it up. If the cylinder’s smooth inside, it’ll run sweet as a nut.” Natasha took note—his advice was clear and unpretentious. “What if the cylinder’s pitted?” she asked. “Then you’ll need a replacement. But from your photo, looks a well-kept motor. If you get stuck, message me—happy to help.” And that’s how it started. Roman proved to be a whiz with cars. Within a week he’d walked her through changing the oil, picking spark plugs, even which coolant to avoid. She caught herself looking forward to his messages. “You’re a lifesaver, Rom,” she wrote by the end of July. “Listen, maybe we could meet up? Coffee on me. Or something stronger, with what you’ve saved me!” The reply didn’t come straight away. After about three hours, her phone finally lit up. “I’d love to, Natasha. Truly. But I’m… away with work. Overseas. For quite a while.” “Really?” she replied. “Whereabouts?” “Further than you can imagine. Look—I’ll be honest. I’m not on a business trip. I’m serving a sentence. HMP Dartmoor, if you know it.” Natasha dropped her phone onto the sofa, her heart pounding. An inmate? She, a respectable accountant at a large firm, had been chatting to a convict for weeks? “What for?” she typed, her fingers trembling. “Fraud. Fancied myself a clever clogs, got stitched up, played along. Less than a year left. If you want to stop messaging, I’ll understand.” Natasha didn’t reply. She blocked him and wandered in a daze for three days. Her colleagues asked if she was unwell. Why? she kept wondering. Why did someone so smart, so good with his hands, end up in prison? A week later, she found a new message in her inbox. Roman had once asked for her email—she’d never deleted the contact, only closed the chat. “Natasha,” he wrote. “No hard feelings, honestly. I always knew it would end like this. You’re a bright soul. Guys like me don’t belong in your world. Just wanted to say thanks for talking to me. That was the best fortnight I’ve had in years. Be happy. Goodbye.” She read it at the kitchen table and burst into tears. She felt sorry for him, for herself, for this unfair life. Why does luck always pass me by? she thought. Married men, mummy’s boys, and now the only normal bloke is behind bars. But she never replied again… *** She tried dating but it was hopeless. One date spent half the night going on about his stamp collection, another showed up with dirty fingernails and asked to split the bill. In March, on her thirty-fifth birthday, Natasha felt more alone than ever. That morning, a message popped up. “Happy birthday, Natasha! I know I shouldn’t reach out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Wishing you the very best. You deserve to be cherished. Made you something out of bread and wire… If I could, I’d give it to you. Just know that somewhere out in Birmingham, someone is drinking a really terrible cup of tea to your health today.” “Thank you, Rom,” she replied, giving in. “That means a lot.” “You answered! How are you? How’s the little car? Did it survive those frosty nights?” And things picked up where they left off. Now they talked every day. Rom would ring her whenever he could—his voice deep, a little hoarse. He told her about growing up with his brother, how his nephew needed raising now, how all he wanted was a fresh start. “I won’t go back to my old town, Natasha—too many old mates who’ll pull me down again. I want to move somewhere no one knows me. I’ve got hands, I can work construction or fix cars, always work to be found.” “Where do you want to go?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d come to you, if you’ll have me. Get a room or a cheap flat. Just to know you’re in the same city, breathing the same air. But no pressure, of course…” By May, Natasha was hopelessly in love. She knew his inspection schedule, when he had “washroom duty”, when he was working in the shop. She sent him care packages: tea, sweets, warm socks, little parts for his handiwork. “Romka, just keep your head down and behave, please—no getting into scraps for my sake.” “For you, love, I’ll be as good as gold,” he laughed. “I’m free in April!” “I’ll be waiting.” *** In April, Natasha drove up to the prison gates. She brought him new clothes: jacket, jeans, trainers. Her heart hammered—she thought it might burst out of her chest. When he came out—short, stocky, close-cropped greying hair—she froze at first. He looked different from his photo. But when he smiled and said, “Hello, boss,” she flung her arms round his neck. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she murmured into his prickly cheek. “Where else would I be?” he pulled her close. “You smell amazing. What sort of flowery perfume is that?” They went back to hers. The first week was a dream. Roman got stuck in straight away: fixed a leaky tap, sorted a door lock that had jammed for months. Every evening they sat together in the kitchen, drinking sweet rosé, swapping stories—he laughed about his “old life”, skipping over the darker bits. “Listen, Rom,” she said on day ten, “you know you said about getting your own place… maybe you don’t have to? There’s room here. It’d be more fun with two. Besides, you’ll save for tools and getting yourself set up.” “Natasha, it feels wrong,” he frowned, stirring sugar into his mug. “I’m a man, I should provide a home. I’m already living off you—eating your food…” “Oh, stop it!” she covered his hand with hers. “We’re not strangers. Once you’re on your feet and working, it’ll all be fine.” “My brother called yesterday,” he said, looking away. “My nephew’s really poorly—needs an operation, private one. He’s asked me for a loan, but you see the state I’m in—flat broke. I feel so ashamed, Natasha. Ashamed for my family.” “How much does he need?” she asked gently. “A lot… Five grand. But he says they’ve already raised part.” “I could go up to London on a site, earn good money quickly…” he mused aloud. Natasha hesitated. That five grand had taken three years to save. She’d scrimped and saved, planning to redo the bathroom, replace the old tiles, finally install a proper shower… “I’ve got the money,” she said quietly. Roman’s head jerked up. “Don’t be daft! That’s yours. I couldn’t take it.” “Rom, it’s your family. Like you said, that’s sacred. Take it—you can pay me back later. We’re in this together now.” He protested for two days, brooding and chain-smoking on the balcony, even though he’d promised to give up. In the end, Natasha got the cash out and set it on the table herself. “Here. Take it. Go to your brother, give it to him—or transfer it if you’d rather.” “I’ll deliver it myself,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe see if there’s work where he lives. Better options, you know? I’ll just be gone two days. There and back. Promise…” *** Natasha sat slumped on the hallway floor for an hour. Her legs were numb, but she barely felt it. She replayed the night before. They’d watched some daft comedy, he’d laughed, hugged her, and she’d felt like the luckiest woman alive. “I’ll probably leave early, day after tomorrow,” he’d said before bed. But he left a day sooner. She’d slept through it—never even heard him getting dressed. She thought the front door had banged in her dream, but assumed it was the neighbours. At two in the afternoon, she nervously dialled his brother’s number—the one he’d once given her “in case of emergency”. “Hello?” came a rough man’s voice. “Who’s this?” “Hi… It’s Natasha. Roman’s friend. Did he make it to you today?” A pause. Then a long, heavy sigh. “Miss, what Roman? My brother’s got a different name, and he’s not out of prison till October. Roman… Roman’s my ex-cellmate. He got out two months ago. He nicked my phone when I was still inside and copied all my contacts. You’re not the first ‘pen-pal’ he’s spun a story to. Tongue like Teflon, degree in engineering—the lot.” Natasha lowered the phone, stunned. She remembered how he’d coached her fitting new spark plugs. “Careful not to overtighten,” he’d warned. “You’ll strip the thread, and that’s that.” “I stripped it,” Natasha whispered. “Stripped the lot… set myself up for this.” And she realised she truly knew nothing about him—never even saw his passport or prison release papers. Was his name even Roman at all? *** Naturally, Natasha went to the police and filed a report. She showed them a photo, and learned a lot more about her houseguest. His name really was Roman—about the only true thing he’d told her. He’d gone down for a serious offence, spent half his life inside—met Natasha while serving his third sentence. Natasha crossed herself, changed all the locks, and figured in the end she’d got off lightly—compared to some of his previous women…

Gone for Good What do you mean the number youve dialed has not been recognised? But he was speaking to

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Taisha often reflects on her life now that she’s crossed the threshold of fifty. She can’t call her family life happy, and it’s all because of her husband, George. They married for love as young sweethearts, yet somewhere along the way George changed, and Taisha missed the moment. They lived in a cottage in a quiet English village, under the roof of George’s mother, Anne. Taisha worked hard to keep the peace, respecting Anne, who treated her with warmth. Taisha’s own mother lived in the next village with her younger son, bedridden by illness. “Anne, how do you get on with your daughter-in-law Taisha?” nosy villagers asked at the well, in the shop, or just walking down the lane. “I’ve nothing bad to say about Taisha; she’s respectful, keeps the house well, and helps me with everything,” Anne always replied. “Oh, we’ll believe that when we see it! When has a mother-in-law ever praised her daughter-in-law?” scoffed the women. “That’s your concern,” Anne said, walking on. Taisha bore a daughter, Violet, and everyone rejoiced. “Taisha, Violet looks like me,” Anne searched for her features in the baby, and Taisha just laughed, not caring whom her daughter resembled. When Violet turned three, Taisha had a son. Again, the happy bustle. George worked, Taisha was at home with the children, and Anne helped a great deal. They lived quietly, peacefully—even better than most. George wasn’t a drinker like other husbands. Some wives would search for their men behind the village pub, dragging them home drunken and cursing the whole world. When Taisha was expecting her third child, she found out George was having an affair. In a small village, nothing stays hidden; soon everyone was talking about George and Tanya, the widowed neighbour. The neighbour, Valerie, wasn’t above coming over. “Taisha, you’re carrying George’s third child and he’s running off with other women,” she said bluntly. “Valerie, surely not? I’ve noticed nothing,” the wife said, surprised. “Exactly, how could you notice—two children, pregnant with a third, the house and the farm. He’s living for himself. Everyone knows now, and Tanya doesn’t even bother hiding it.” Taisha was upset. Anne knew as well but kept quiet, not wanting Taisha to find out. She often scolded her wayward George. “Mum, you didn’t see anything, did you? Women gossip; that’s what they do,” he retorted. One day, Valerie rushed in: “Taisha, George just sneaked into Tanya’s yard, I saw him myself from the shop. Are you going to let him leave you alone with three children? Go give that shameless woman a piece of your mind. You’re pregnant—George wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.” Taisha knew she didn’t have the courage for a fight with Tanya—Tanya’s reputation for defending herself was well-known. Still she went: “I’ll look George in the eye and get the truth. He’ll just deny it and call it gossip,” she told Anne, who tried to stop her. “It’s late autumn, Taisha. Be sensible,” Anne pleaded. It was getting dark. Taisha knocked on Tanya’s window, waiting, but Tanya addressed her through the closed door, refusing to let her in and telling her to go home. Taisha left, knowing her efforts were wasted. George came home after midnight, drunk, though he rarely drank. “Where were you? At Tanya’s, drinking together—I know! I came over and she wouldn’t open the door,” Taisha confronted him. “What are you imagining?” George protested. “I was drinking with Ben down the pub. Got carried away with the time.” Taisha didn’t believe him but said nothing. What could she do? As the saying goes, “innocent until proven otherwise.” She spent that sleepless night pondering: “Where would I go with two children and a third on the way? Mum’s ill, my brother’s family is crowded—how could I fit in their house?” Her own mother had always said, when she complained: “Grin and bear it, daughter. You married and have children—bear it. Do you think it was easy for me living with your father? He drank and chased us, remember how we used to hide with the neighbours? God sorted it in His own way and called him home. But I endured it. Your George doesn’t drink much and he keeps his hands to himself. Endurance has always been a woman’s lot.” Taisha didn’t always agree, but she understood there was nowhere to go. Even Anne soothed her: “Daughter, you’ve got children, almost three now. We’ll manage together with him.” The third, little Annie, was born weak and prone to illness—perhaps from Taisha’s stress during pregnancy. But in time, Annie grew stronger, thanks to Anne’s tender care. “Taisha, have you heard? Tanya took in Michael after his wife threw him out,” Valerie came saying—the village’s fastest news-bearer. “No matter, let her. At least my George won’t go there now,” thought Taisha to herself. But a month later, Valerie showed up again: “Michael’s gone back to his wife. Tanya’s on the hunt again. Keep your George close by, you know what she’s like.” Life with George settled for a while. Anne was pleased. But once a man’s restless, he won’t stay put. On her way back from the market, Anne met an old friend, Annie: “Anne, what’s wrong with your George? Taisha’s a gem, a good mum and wife. You praise her yourself—what more does he want?” “Aye, Annie, is George at it again?” “He is, running after Vera, the divorced one at the village café…” Anne told off her son privately. But secrets don’t stay secret for long. Taisha learned of George’s latest affections, again thanks to Valerie. Tears and pleas didn’t help—George continued his affairs but never left the family, enjoying the comfort of home while chasing other women for fun. Anne now scolded him openly, but a grown man seldom listens to a tired mother. He’d yell: “Mum, I work for the family, bring in money, and you two accuse me, listening to village gossip.” Years passed. The children grew up. Violet graduated college and settled with her husband nearby, the son finished university and married a local girl. Young Annie finished school and made plans for further study. George finally calmed down—nowadays it’s work and home, even lying on the couch more often as his health declined. He gave up drinking altogether. “Taisha, my heart’s been playing up again,” he would moan. “And my knees ache—maybe it’s my joints. Should I see the doctor?” Taisha no longer pitied him; she’d cried enough tears and endured too much disappointment. “He’s stayed home only because his health’s failed; let his former flings nurse him now,” she thought. Anne passed away and was buried next to her husband. George and Taisha’s home was quiet, but sometimes children and grandchildren visited. The two were happy then. George would complain to the kids about his health, even blaming Taisha for not looking after him. Violet brought medicines, fussing over her father, telling her mum: “Mum, don’t nag Dad—he’s poorly,” and it hurt Taisha that Violet took his side. “Daughter, he brought it on himself, lived too wild a youth, now wants sympathy. I’m not made of stone—I lost my own health worrying about him,” she tried to explain. The son comforted his father when visiting, talking mostly to him—as men do. The children never seemed to understand their mother, no matter how she explained that she tolerated George’s infidelity for their sake, never wanting to deprive them of a father. The pain and loneliness. But their answer remained: “Mum, don’t dredge up the past. Don’t make things hard for Dad,” Violet said, her brother agreeing. “It’s all behind us now, Mum,” her son said, patting her shoulder. Taisha felt a little hurt that the children sided with George, yet she understood. Life simply is as it is. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dont Dig Up the Past I often find myself reflecting on my life now that Ive crossed the threshold of fifty.

The Day the Lunch Ghost Rode In: How a Mysterious Biker Changed Lives at Lincoln Ridge Middle School

The first time it happened, no one took notice. It was a Tuesday at St. Albans Middle School, one of

Wife and Father I only ever pretended to want to meet Toms parents. What did I really need them for, honestly?

That Lingering Disgust “It’s over, there’s not going to be any wedding!” cried Marina. “Wait, what happened?” Illya stammered. “Everything seemed fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Well… fine. Except,” she paused for a few feverish seconds, trying to work out how to explain it… then blurted out the simple truth, “your socks stink! I’m not ready to live with that smell for the rest of my life!” “Is that honestly what you told him?” Marina’s mother gasped when her daughter announced she was withdrawing the marriage application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the would-be bride. “It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.” “Of course I noticed,” mum said, embarrassed, “but… that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a good lad, after all. And socks—well, that’s fixable.” “How?” Marina shot back. “Teach him to wash his feet? Change his socks? Use deodorant? Listen to yourself, mum! I was supposed to be getting married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an overgrown boy!” “Then why did you get involved with him? Why submit the application?” “That was all you, mum! ‘Illy is such a kind, lovely boy. I really like him’—your words! And let’s not forget: ‘You’re twenty-seven. It’s time you got married and gave me grandchildren.’ Why are you silent now? Is that not so?” “But, Marin, I never thought you were still unsure. I thought it was serious between you two,” her mum replied, “and, you know, I’m glad I was right about you: you thought it over and made your choice. Just, darling, the stinky socks thing… it’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you at all.” “I did it on purpose, mum. So it was clear. In a way that would make sure there’s no going back…” *** At first, Illya struck Marina as funny and a little awkward. Always in the same jeans and t-shirt. He didn’t show off about Picasso, but could go on for hours about old films. In those moments, his eyes would positively sparkle. He was easy to be with. Peaceful. And that peacefulness attracted Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and the hunt for ‘the one’. After two months of cinema trips and coffee dates, Illya shyly suggested, “Maybe come back to mine? I’ll make you homemade dumplings—made them myself!” The invitation was so warm, so homely it made Marina’s heart leap. And that ‘I made them myself’—it floored her. She agreed… *** Marina didn’t like Illya’s flat. No grime, but chaos, lack of taste, and a strange sense of neglect. Grey paint peeling off, an ancient sofa with just one shabby cushion. Stacks on the floor—boxes, books, old magazines. Trainers in the centre. Plus, stale air thick with dust and must. The room felt like a transit lounge waiting for someone to finally move out—but nobody did. “What do you think of my castle?” Illya spread his arms, smiling without a hint of embarrassment. He was proud! Genuinely blind to anything odd. Marina forced a smile. She liked the guy—no need for fights. Onwards to the kitchen. Not much better: a dust-filmed table, sink full of dirty dishes and limescaled mugs, battered saucepan on the hob. Her eyes caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” Marina mused. Her mood soured. She half-listened to Illya’s stories, his attempts to make her laugh. But when he handed her the dumplings, she refused, blamed the diet… She had no intention of putting anything prepared in that kitchen in her mouth. Later at home, Marina analysed the visit. At first glance, Illya’s place was nothing major. A guy living alone, what’s the big deal? But beneath that untidiness there was something else, something huge and abstract—how can someone live this way? Not laziness, but… for him, this was normal! There was, well… that lingering disgust. *** Then Illya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed for the notice. Her parents started prepping for the wedding. To be a bride—lovely. Yet, whenever Marina was alone, thinking of Illya’s ceaseless efforts to please her, his dumpling-making and joke-cracking, the image of the inexplicably coloured kettle surfaced. And Marina realised: that kettle wasn’t just a kettle. It was a clue. A clue to Illya’s attitude to life, to the home, to himself—and probably to her. One time, Marina imagined their morning together and was horrified. She’d wake, come into the kitchen, find cold tea and bread crumbs. When she’d say, “Darling, please tidy up,” he’d stare in surprise, just as he did at his own flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t yell. He just… wouldn’t get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. Her love would slowly die from a thousand tiny stabs he’d never even see. And mum was thrilled her daughter was getting married. *** Getting married… All the warmth Marina once felt with Illya seeped away, replaced by a nagging sense of dread. “Marina,” Illya would ask anxiously, peering into her eyes each day. “We’re okay, aren’t we? We love each other?” “Of course,” she’d reply, aware something inside her was breaking. Eventually, she confided in her friend. “So what?” Katya was baffled. “A bit of dust, a kettle? My husband would leave a tank in the kitchen if he could and never even notice. Men don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see,” Marina whispered. “And he never will. But I will! Every day! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, Marina didn’t blame him. He hadn’t deceived her. He was nothing but sincere. He simply lived in another world—a world where a dirty plate was normal. For her, it signaled misunderstanding and indifference. It wasn’t about hygiene. It was about seeing the world differently. The crack in her mind would only grow into a chasm. Better to end things now than to find herself at the bottom of that pit in a few years’ time. She just had to wait for the moment… *** Illya and Marina were invited to a house party. They arrived, took off shoes in the hallway… Walked in… The unpleasant smell trailed right behind. Marina didn’t immediately realise where the stink was coming from—but when she saw that everyone else realised too, she wanted the ground to swallow her. Without a word, she dashed to the hall, threw her coat on, and left. Illya chased her. Caught up, grabbed her hand. She whirled and threw it at his face, almost hatefully: “That’s it! There’s not going to be a wedding!” *** And there wasn’t. Marina thinks she did the right thing—and has no regrets. As for Illya… He still doesn’t get it: what was the problem, really? Stinky socks, so what? He could have just taken them off…

An Unpleasant Aftertaste Its over! Theres not going to be any wedding! Sarah exclaimed. Wait, whats happened?