Trending Link

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60. Not a single family member bothered to call and wish me a happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and my ex-husband is still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious universities there. Both smart, successful. My daughter is married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son married the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers and plenty of properties; besides their public sector jobs, each runs their own business. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished university. Said he was tired of living life at such a pace. Yet he always worked quietly at one job, relaxed with friends at weekends or lounged on the sofa, and spend his holidays for an entire month visiting relatives in Cornwall. I never took time off — worked three jobs at once: as an engineer in a factory, cleaning in management offices there, and, on weekends, as a packer at the local supermarket from 8 to 8, plus cleaning staff rooms and storage areas. Every penny I earned went to the kids — London is expensive, and studying at elite universities required good clothes, food, and social life. I learned to wear old clothes, mended and patched shoes. Always clean and tidy. It was enough. My only escape was my dreams — sometimes I’d see myself, happy and young, laughing. After he left, my husband bought himself a new luxury car, probably saved up plenty. Our life together was odd — all expenses were mine, except council tax. That was his one contribution. I put the kids through school… The flat we lived in came from my nan. A lovely, well-kept Victorian two-bed, converted into three rooms. There was an 8.5 square metre storeroom with a window that I renovated, making a cosy space with bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves; my daughter lived there. My son and I shared a room (I was only home to sleep), my husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her storeroom; my son had the bedroom. We parted calmly, no rows, no dividing up stuff or blame. He wanted to LIVE a happier life — I was so worn out, I felt relief… No need to cook meals, wash his clothes, iron, fold, hang — I could use that time to rest. By then, my health was shot — back, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves. For the first time ever, I took annual leave and focused on getting well. I kept my side jobs. Got better. Hired a great tradesman, got a proper bathroom remodel. That was real joy — HAPPINESS for myself! All these years, I sent my successful kids money instead of presents at birthdays, New Year’s, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Then came the grandkids. So I couldn’t give up work. Never spent money on myself. Rarely got any congratulations back, just occasional replies. No presents. Worst of all, neither child invited me to their wedding. My daughter said honestly, “Mum, you wouldn’t really fit in with the crowd. There’ll be people from the Cabinet Office.” My son — I only knew he’d married from my daughter, after the big day. At least they didn’t ask for money for weddings… Neither child ever visits, no matter how much I invite. My daughter said, ‘Why would I go to the back of beyond?’ (Our city’s got a million people.) My son — ‘I’m busy, Mum!’ There’s a train to London every hour! Only two hours away… What would I call that period? Probably ‘Life of suppressed emotions.’ I lived like Scarlett O’Hara — “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Bottled up tears and pains, from bafflement to despair. Like a robot programmed only to work. Then the factory was sold to Londoners, reorganisation happened. Us older staff were made redundant; overnight, I lost two jobs, but got early retirement out of it. My pension is £800… Try living on that. Luckily, a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey Victorian block — went to scrub stairwells — another £800. Still pack and clean on weekends at the supermarket, decent pay per shift. Hardest bit is being on my feet all day. Started fixing the kitchen myself bit by bit, hired my neighbour to fit a new one — did a good job, not too pricey. Saved up again. Wanted to redo the rooms, update some furniture. Didn’t have myself in the plan, though! What did I buy for myself? Just basic food, and never much at that. Medication — costs a lot. Rent’s up every year. Ex-husband says, ‘Sell the flat, it’s a great area, you’ll get a fair price. Buy yourself a one-bed.’ But I can’t let it go. Memories of my nan. I don’t remember my parents. My nan raised me. My whole life is in this flat. Managed to stay friendly with my ex. We talk now and then, like old neighbours. He’s fine. Never talks about his private life. Once a month he brings shopping — potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. Heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says delivery brings rubbish, bruised and rotten. I agree. Inside, everything feels stuck — all tight and pinched. Just keep going. Work a lot. No dreams, nothing I want for myself. Only see daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. Glimpse my son’s life on my daughter-in-law’s Instagram. I’m glad they’re well. All healthy, enjoying lovely holidays, fancy restaurants. Maybe I never gave them enough love. That’s why there’s no love for me. My daughter sometimes asks how I am. I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son sometimes sends WhatsApp voice notes: ‘Hi Mum, hope you’re OK.’ He once said he didn’t want to hear about family problems, couldn’t handle drama. So I stopped telling him anything, just reply, ‘Don’t worry, son, all’s well.’ I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know they have a living grandma — a pensioner and cleaner. Probably, officially, grandma’s long since gone… I don’t even remember the last time I bought something just for myself, except maybe some underwear or socks, the cheapest kind. Never been to a salon for my nails… Once a month I get my hair cut at the barber’s on the corner. Dye my hair myself. My one comfort — same dress size in youth and now, so I don’t ever update my wardrobe. And I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed — the back pain never stops. Scared of being bedridden. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way — no breaks, no small pleasures, always working and always putting everything off ‘for later.’ And where is ‘later?’ It’s gone… My soul is empty… my heart is numb… Emptiness all around me… I don’t blame anyone. And I can’t blame myself, either. I worked all my life and I’m still working. Building up a little safety net, just in case I can’t carry on. Not much, but it’s something… Although, truthfully, I know if I can’t get up, I won’t go on living… don’t want to be a burden to anyone. And you know the saddest thing? No one ever gave me flowers… EVER… Wouldn’t it be funny if the first bouquet comes to my grave… honestly, it’d be laughable…

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed… A Confession from a Sixty-Year-Old Woman Susan: This

La vida

God Rest His Soul: Are You the Widow of the Deceased? I Have Something Important to Share—A Last Confession Left by Him on His Deathbed…

God rest his soul. Youre the widow, arent you? Ive got something important to tell you something the late Mr.

La vida

Another Year Together: Arkady and Natalie’s Unbreakable Bond, Memory Lost and Found, Illness, Miraculous Encounters, Loyal Friends, and the Joy of Welcoming the New Year as One

Another whole year together… Lately, Arthur Robinson hadnt been going out alone. He stopped after

La vida

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache throbbed in his temples—last night he’d finished off the remaining salads, and this morning had been spent taking down Christmas decorations and boxing up ornaments. The flat was far too quiet. He tugged on his woollen hat, tucked his phone into his pocket, and headed downstairs, holding the banister out of habit. On this January afternoon, the courtyard looked almost staged: footpaths cleared, untouched snowdrifts, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance; the snow slipped softly from the wooden slats. It was a perfect spot for thinking, especially when it was empty—five minutes of peace before heading back home. “Mind if I join you?” came a man’s voice. Victor turned his head. Tall fellow in a navy jacket, mid-fifties. His face looked vaguely familiar. “Plenty of room—take a seat,” Victor replied, shuffling over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said automatically, shaking the outstretched hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” “Go ahead, smoke away.” Victor hadn’t smoked in over a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly brought to mind his years in the local paper’s newsroom. He caught himself wanting to inhale and quickly pushed the urge aside. “Have you lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. This whole block was just built back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Community Arts Centre. Sound engineer by trade.” Victor sat up, surprised. “With Valery Harper, right?” “That’s him! How did you—?” “Did a feature on him once. Back in ’89, for the big anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you all about that show!” Michael laughed. “They brought in this monster of a speaker and the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation flowed on easily. Names came up, stories surfaced—some funny, some sad. Victor found himself thinking he ought to head home, but every topic led to another tangent: musicians, gear, backstage secrets. He hadn’t had a long chat like this in ages. Towards the end in the newsroom, he only wrote urgent articles, and since retiring he’d nearly become a hermit. He convinced himself solitude was easier—no attachments, no dependencies. But now it felt like something inside was melting. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I have the whole archive at home. Posters, photographs. Concert tapes—recorded them myself. If you’d be interested…” Why bother, Victor thought. He’d have to visit, make conversation. What if Michael wanted to be mates—they’d upend his usual routine. And what would he see that was new, anyway? “I wouldn’t mind a look,” he replied. “When’s good?” “Tomorrow, say fiveish? I’ll be back from work then.” “Alright,” Victor took out his phone, pulled up contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, give me a ring.” That evening, he couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in his mind; old stories resurfaced. More than once, he picked up the phone—almost called to cancel, made up an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice was a bit hesitant. “I am,” Victor replied. “I’ll see you at five.”

Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pulsed

La vida

The Boy Awoke to His Mother’s Sighs

I remember how I, young Matthew Clarke, was roused by my mothers low moan. I slipped out of my thin blankets

La vida

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Honestly, I never planned to get married. If not for my future husband’s persistent wooing, I’d still be flying free as a bird. Like a lovesick butterfly, Arthur fluttered around me, never letting me out of his sight, trying to please me and treat me like a queen… Eventually, I surrendered. We tied the knot. Very quickly, Arthur became like family—so familiar, so comfortable. Like slipping into your favourite slippers. A year later, our son, Stan, was born. Arthur worked in another city, and came home once a week, always bringing us special treats. One visit, as usual, I was preparing to wash his things and checked all his pockets—a habit since that one time I washed his driving licence. This time, a folded piece of paper fell from his trousers. I unfolded it—a long list of school supplies (it was August). At the bottom, in childish writing: “Dad, come home soon.” So that’s how my husband entertains himself on the side! Double life! I didn’t throw a tantrum or grab my bag and our not-yet-three-year-old son, and dash off to Mum’s for an extended stay. Mum gave us a room: “Live here until you make up.” I considered taking revenge on my ungrateful husband. I remembered my classmate, Rob—maybe I’ll start a fling with him! Rob never left me alone in school or after. I called: “Hey Rob! Are you married yet?” “Nadia? Hi! Does it matter? Married, divorced… Shall we meet?” My unplanned romance lasted half a year. Arthur brought child support every month, handed it to my mum, and left quietly. I knew Arthur was living with his work colleague, Kate. She had a daughter from her first marriage, and Kate insisted the girl call Arthur “Dad.” They all lived in Arthur’s flat. As soon as Kate heard I’d left, she moved in with her daughter from another town. Kate adored Arthur—she knitted him woolly socks and cosy jumpers, cooked hearty meals. I learned all this later—and have never stopped reminding Arthur about Kate. Back then, though, I thought our marriage was finished—crashed and burned. Then, over coffee discussing our impending divorce, Arthur and I were swept up in fond memories. Arthur confessed his boundless love, apologized, and said he didn’t know how to ask the persistent Kate to leave. I felt unbearably sorry for him—and we got back together. By the way, my husband never learned about Rob. Kate and her daughter left our town for good. Seven years of happy married life went by, then Arthur was involved in a car accident. Operations, rehab, walking with a stick. Recovery took two years, and by the end, Arthur started drinking heavily. He was a shell of himself, lost in his own world. I tried everything, but he exhausted both himself and our son, refused all help. At work, I found a shoulder to cry on in Paul. He listened to me over cigarette breaks, walked me home after work, comforted and encouraged me. Paul was married—his wife was expecting their second child. I’m still not sure how we ended up in bed together—it was madness. He was a head shorter than me, not my type at all! What followed was a whirlwind—Paul took me to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. When his wife had a daughter, he paused all our outings, quit our company, and found another job. Maybe that was his way of letting me go; I didn’t mind, so I let him return to his family. He was just a temporary fix for my pain—I never meant to intrude on another woman’s love. Arthur kept drinking. Five years later, Paul and I would run into each other by chance, and he’d seriously propose marriage! It made me laugh. For a while, Arthur got his act together and took a job in Prague. I was the model wife and caring mum, focused only on my family. Arthur returned after six months—we renovated our flat, bought new appliances, he finally fixed up his car. Life should’ve been wonderful. But Arthur slipped back into drinking. The cycle repeated—his friends carrying him home, me searching the neighbourhood for my wayward husband, dragging him home after finding him sleeping on park benches, pockets turned out. One spring day, I was standing gloomily at a bus stop, birds chirping, sun shining, and I couldn’t care less about April’s joy. Suddenly, a voice murmured: “Maybe I can help with your troubles?” I turned—a handsome man with a delicious scent! And me, 45 at the time! Could I blossom again? I blushed like a schoolgirl, jumped on the bus, and escaped. He waved after me. All day at work I thought of him, and soon, this stranger—George—was waiting for me every morning at the bus stop. I started making sure not to be late, always looking out for him. George, seeing me, would blow me a kiss and smile. One day, he brought a bunch of red tulips. “Where do I go with flowers to work? The girls will guess everything!” George just smiled and gave the bouquet to an old lady watching us. “Thank you, son! May you find a passionate lover!” she said. I blushed hard. At least she didn’t wish him a young mistress—I would’ve died of embarrassment! George continued, “Let’s both be guilty together, Nadia! You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the offer was tempting! At that time, nothing remained with Arthur—he was like a log, lost in drink. George was a teetotal ex-athlete (57), divorced, a fascinating conversationalist. There was something enchanting about him. I threw myself headlong into the affair—three years of passion. Torn between home and George, my soul in turmoil. I had neither the wish nor the strength to stop; though when I finally wanted to end things, I just couldn’t. George completely possessed me—I lost my senses when he was around! But I knew this wouldn’t end well; there was no real love. After a night with George, I wanted nothing more than to hold Arthur—drunk, rough around the edges, but so familiar and safe. There’s truth in “better a dry crust at home than someone else’s feast.” That’s real life. Passion is close to pain, and I yearned to get over George and return to my family, not float away in careless pleasure. My mind knew, but my body didn’t listen. My son was aware of George—he saw us together in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I had to introduce George as a colleague, discussing a new project. “In a restaurant, huh?” Stan nodded, understanding. He never judged me, just asked me not to divorce Dad. “Don’t rush—maybe Dad will pull himself together.” I felt like a lost sheep. My divorced friend urged me to “ditch these lovers and calm down.” She’d been married three times and knew what she was talking about. I listened to her reasoning, but couldn’t stop—for three years, until George tried to raise his hand against me. That was the last straw. My friend had warned me: “The sea is calm till you’re on the shore…” Suddenly, everything cleared—I was free! Three years of torment—finally, peace! George kept trying to win me back, waiting outside, pleading publicly for forgiveness. I was unshakable. My wise friend hugged me and gave me a mug that read, “You got it right!” Arthur, as it turned out, knew everything—George had called and told him. Arthur confessed, “While listening to your admirer, I wanted to die. It was all my fault! I let my wife slip away—traded her for the bottle. What could I say to you?” Ten years have passed. Arthur and I now have two granddaughters. One day, as we sat together, drinking coffee, looking out the window, Arthur gently took my hand: “Nadia, don’t look elsewhere. I’m your happiness! Do you believe me?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, I never really planned on getting married. If it hadnt been for the

La vida

A Gift for Later in Life

A Late Gift The bus halted with a jolt, and I grasped the handrail tightly, fingers pressing into its

La vida

AFTER THE NEW YEAR CELEBRATIONS

Dear Diary, After the New Years celebrations I found myself tangled in a familiar domestic standoff.

La vida

At the Edge of the World: Snow Creeps into My Boots, Chills My Skin — Rita Refuses Wellies, Prefers Chic Boots, but Dad’s Card Is Blocked; As She Moves to a Remote English Village to Teach, Challenging Her Father’s City Ways and Gosha’s Predictable Love, Rita Fights Winter, Finds Unexpected Connections, and Faces Life-Altering Choices Amidst Lost Children, Forbidden Feelings, and a Lonely New Year’s Eve Filled with Gifts, Regrets, and the Hope of Belonging

At the Edge of the World Snow packed into Rosies boots and stung her skin. She wasnt about to buy wellingtons

La vida

No More “Shoulds” When Anthony Opened the Door and Found Three Plates of Dried-Up Pasta, an Upside-Down Yoghurt Pot, and an Open Maths Exercise Book on the Kitchen Table—Kostya’s Schoolbag Dumped in the Hallway, Vera Curled Up on the Sofa Staring at Her Phone—He Just Sighed, Put Down His Work Bag, and Wondered What Would Happen If, For Once, They Sat Down Together and Spoke Honestly, Without Chores, Without Homework, and Without Pretending That Everything Was Fine

Without the Word “Should” Years ago, when the world seemed weighed down by silent expectations