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I Was Eight Years Old When My Mum Left Home: She Went Round the Corner, Took a Taxi, and Never Came Back — My Little Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed. My Dad Learned to Cook, Wash Our Clothes, Iron School Uniforms, and Clumsily Braid Our Hair Before School. Despite Mistakes With Rice and Laundry, He Made Sure We Never Lacked Anything. He Came Home Tired, Checked Our Homework, Signed Books, Prepared Next Day’s Lunches. Mum Never Returned, Dad Never Brought Another Woman Home or Called Anyone His Partner. On Weekends He Took Us to Parks, Rivers, Shopping Centres — Even If Just to Window-Shop. He Made Costumes for School Events from Cardboard and Old Fabric, Never Complaining or Saying, ‘That’s Not My Job.’ A Year Ago, My Dad Passed Away Suddenly with No Time for Long Goodbyes. In Sorting His Belongings, I Found Not Love Letters or Photos with Another Woman, But Only Notes About Groceries, Important Dates, Doctor’s Visits — Traces of a Man Who Lived Just for His Children. Now He’s Gone, One Question Haunts Me: Was He Ever Truly Happy? My Mum Left to Find Her Own Happiness; My Dad Stayed, Giving Up His Own. He Never Felt Like Anyone’s Priority Except Ours. Today I Know I Had an Incredible Father — But He Was Also a Man Who Chose to Be Alone So We Wouldn’t Be. And That Weighs Heavy, Because Now He’s Gone, I Don’t Know If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left our home in London. She walked out to the corner of the street

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Elderly Woman Shares Heartbreak as She Reveals the Last Time She Saw Her Son Was Over Six Years Ago – “When Did Your Son Stop Speaking to You?” I Asked My Neighbour… and in That Moment, My Heart Broke: After His Wife Turned Me Away From Their Home, He Took My Money for a Flat and Never Called Again – Now, After Raising Him Alone, I Face Old Age Without My Only Child

The pensioner said the last time she saw her son was more than six years ago. How long has it been since

La vida

04

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris

La vida

06

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris

La vida

05

“Raising a Timid Child? When Your Mother-in-Law Demands Football but Your Son Loves the Piano”

Raising a Wet Blanket Why on earth did you enrol him in music lessons? Barbara Watson breezed past her

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020

My Sister Wants Me to Move Out of Our Own Flat Because She’s Expecting a Baby—Is It Really Fair for Her to Ask This?

Long ago, Mum and Dad bought a cosy two-bedroom flat for me and my sister. They used to say that one

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“While We Sell the Flat, Why Don’t You Stay in a Care Home?” Suggested Her Daughter Lydia Married Late in Life, Only to Have Her Husband Insist She Move Her Elderly Mother into a Tiny Box Room—Soon After, He Pressured Lydia to Send Her Mum to a Care Home So They Could Sell the Flat, Promising It Was Only Temporary, but After Gaining the Property, They Abandoned Her Mother and Started a New Life, Leaving Lydia Haunted by Guilt

Stay at the care home for a while, Mum, while we sort out the house sale, said the daughter.

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012

My Husband’s Ex-Wife Demanded I Babysit Their Grandchildren—So I Gave Her the Response She Deserved — “Oh, come on, it’s not that difficult, is it? It’s only three days. Katie’s in a desperate situation—a last-minute trip to Spain, she hasn’t had a real break in ages, and, well… you know, my blood pressure’s bad, and my back is totally knackered from gardening at the allotment. And David—he’s their proper grandad. It’s his duty to help.” The voice on the phone was so loud David didn’t even need to put it on speaker. Helen, who was stirring a vegetable stew at the stove, could hear every word. That voice—high-pitched with a hint of demanding petulance—she’d have recognised anywhere. Lorraine. The first and, unfortunately, unforgettable wife of her husband. David shot Helen an apologetic look, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear while slicing bread—crooked slices, as always, whenever he was nervous. — “Lorraine, hang on—” he tried to get a word in. “What’s this got to do with Katie’s holiday? Helen and I had plans for the weekend…” — “Oh, what plans could you possibly have?” Lorraine butted in, not bothering with formalities. “A spot of weeding? A museum? David, these are your grandchildren—Oliver and Daniel. They need a good male role model, not a load of mollycoddling. You haven’t seen them in a month. Don’t you have a conscience? Or has your precious new missus completely henpecked you?” Helen put down her spoon and turned off the gas. “New missus.” She and David had been married eight years. Eight happy, peaceful years—if you ignored the regular visits from “Hurricane Lorraine.” First there were demands to up maintenance for their fully-grown daughter, then constant requests for handouts, repairs, dental treatment, even a new car. David, always gentle and decent, paid up for years, still haunted by guilt over leaving the marriage—even though Katie had already turned twenty and the two of them had been living as flatmates for years. “Lorraine, don’t talk about Helen like that.” David’s voice was firmer now, but embarrassment lingered. “This isn’t about her. We just need a bit of notice. The boys are only six—they need watching every second, and we’re not getting any younger…” — “Exactly!” Lorraine sounded triumphant. “Old age is a booby prize, and moving around keeps you youthful. Chase after the grandkids, it’ll do you good! Anyway, Katie’ll drop them off tomorrow for ten. I can’t, you know my back—and don’t argue, David. They’re your family.” There was a click and the dial tone echoed in the room. David set the phone down and exhaled heavily, not meeting Helen’s gaze. The kitchen fell quiet; only the ticking clock filled the air. Outside, an evening shower rattled against the windowsill. Helen tidied imaginary crumbs with a napkin. — “So, tomorrow at ten, then?” she asked, her voice steady. David finally looked up. His eyes begged forgiveness. — “Helen, I’m so sorry. You heard her—like a sledgehammer. Katie’s flying out, Lorraine claims she’s crippled… What else can they do? They’re my grandkids.” — “David,” Helen sat opposite him and laced her fingers, “these are your grandkids. Not mine. I’m fond of them, but let’s be honest—they don’t even call me by name. To them, I’m ‘that lady,’ just as Granny Lorraine taught them. Every visit ends with chaos, because Katie believes in zero rules for kids.” — “I’ll handle them myself!” David assured her. “Really. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ll take them to the park, the cinema, the amusements—just, if you could cook something simple, soup or meatballs. They do love your cooking, even if they’d never admit it.” Helen smiled sadly. She knew how it would go. David would last two hours before collapsing on the sofa. Then it would be her, left in charge of two six-year-olds bouncing off the furniture and ignoring every word (“Granny Lorraine says anything goes because Grandpa’s in charge”). — “We’ve got theatre tickets Saturday,” Helen reminded him. “And we planned to go to the allotment—to get the roses ready for winter.” — “The theatre isn’t going anywhere. The tickets can be returned… and the roses… Oh, Helen, please. Just this once. I’ll have a word with Katie, make sure it never happens again.” “Just this once.” She’d heard that phrase twenty times. Each time, she’d caved in—not wanting to add to his guilt. But this time, something snapped. Maybe it was Lorraine’s bossy tone, maybe it was being taken for granted. — “No, David,” Helen said quietly. David blinked in confusion. — “No what?” — “No, we’re not taking the kids. Not this time. I’m not cancelling my plans, not returning my tickets, not spending three days cooking for children who last time told me my soup ‘smelled funny’ and that ‘mum’s better.’” — “Helen, come on—they’re just kids. Where’s Katie going to put them? Her holiday’s already paid for.” — “That’s Katie’s problem. She’s an adult. She’s got a husband, a mother-in-law, nannies if she wants. Why should their emergencies always become my responsibility?” — “Ours—” David corrected. — “No, David. Mine. Because I clean the house when they leave mayhem, I do the laundry, I do the cooking—while you play the doting grandad, then retreat with your blood pressure pills. I respect your relationship with your grandchildren, but I didn’t sign up as a free nanny for the children of a woman who despises me.” David frowned, not used to Helen being so direct. She was usually the soul of patience. — “So what do you suggest? Call and say ‘no’ right now? Lorraine will explode, kick up a fuss, probably give me a heart attack.” — “Don’t call,” Helen said, getting up and heading to the window. “Let them bring the kids.” — “So you’re… you’re saying yes?” David brightened. — “No. Let them bring the kids. We’ll see.” Saturday morning dawned sunny and warm—unlike the mood in Helen and David’s flat. David was pacing, fussing with the sofa, checking his watch. Helen, calm as ever, enjoyed her breakfast, picked a dress, did her makeup, and packed a small bag. — “Going somewhere?” David fretted as she packed a book and umbrella. — “Don’t forget, we’re at the theatre by seven. I thought I’d have my hair done and walk by the river before then—clear my head.” — “Helen! They’ll be here in fifteen minutes! How am I supposed to cope on my own? I don’t know what they eat, where their things are—” — “You’ll work it out. You’re their grandad. A positive male role model—wasn’t that what Lorraine wanted?” Just then, the doorbell rang—loud and insistent. David dashed to open it; Helen lingered in the bedroom, slipping on her shoes. Raised voices echoed from the hallway. — “Thank God, no traffic!” It was Katie, David’s daughter. “Dad! Here you go—bag’s here, tablet’s charged, any problems just ring. Gotta dash—the cab’s waiting! Oliver, Daniel, behave for your granddad!” — “But—what about food… their routines—” David started. — “Oh, it’s the weekend—just stick some fish fingers on! Bye!” The door banged, in ran two boys, yelling, “Attack!” Helen walked into the hallway. The twins were already climbing the shoe rack, grabbing for David’s hat. David looked lost, clutching a giant holdall. But most interesting of all, there was Lorraine in the doorway. Apparently her poorly back hadn’t stopped her coming to “supervise.” She looked in rude health, hair coiffed, gold everywhere. — “Ah, there you are,” Lorraine eyed Helen up and down. “I hope you’re ready. Nothing fried for the boys—Daniel’s allergic to oranges, Oliver hates onions, soup must be fresh daily. And don’t let them have screens for more than an hour.” Her tone was pure dowager—issuing orders to the help. David shrank, prepared for a row. Helen coolly went to the mirror and adjusted her hair. — “Good morning, Lorraine. Good morning, boys.” The twins stopped briefly, but carried on jumping. — “Thank you for the helpful instructions,” Helen replied with a gentle smile. “Do pass them on to David—he’s in charge today.” — “Excuse me?” Lorraine’s eyebrows shot up. “Where do you think you’re going?” — “It’s my day off. I’ve got errands, friends to meet, theatre. I’ll be back late, maybe tomorrow.” Lorraine reddened and blocked her path. — “Are you mad? Personal errands? Two children here—your husband’s grandchildren! You’re obliged—” — “I’m only obliged to those I promised,” Helen stopped her, softly but firmly. “I’m not their mother or their grandmother. Their own parents and grannies can look after them. You, Lorraine, are retired, as far as I know.” — “My back!” Lorraine screeched. — “And I have a life. I don’t intend to spend it servicing other people, especially when asked in that tone.” — “David!” Lorraine turned. “Are you hearing this? Are you a man or a mouse? Tell her!” David’s eyes flicked between the women, torn by habit. — “Lorraine…” he began, “Helen, er, did say she was busy. I thought I could manage on my own…” — “Manage? You’ll be on the sofa in an hour! Who’ll feed them, bathe them? Look at her—done up for the theatre, and her ‘family’s in crisis!’” — “Family?” Helen’s smile vanished. “Let’s be clear, Lorraine. David and I are a family. You, Katie, and your grandchildren are David’s relatives, not mine. I’ve put up with your demands and insults long enough. But this is my home, not a creche, I’m not your unpaid servant.” — “How dare you! This is my ex-husband’s flat—he’s entitled—” — “He can invite whomever he likes. But he can’t force me to serve his guests. David—your choice. You can stay here with the grandkids and Lorraine, who clearly feels fine now she’s here. I’m off.” Helen turned for the door. — “Wait!” Lorraine grabbed her arm. “You’re not going anywhere until you cook for the kids! Katie’s at the airport! Where am I supposed to put them!” Helen calmly but firmly removed Lorraine’s hand. — “That’s not my concern, Lorraine. Call a taxi, go home, make your own soup. Or call Katie—she can come back. And don’t touch me again. Otherwise, I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing and assault. And believe me—I will.” A deathly silence fell; even the twins froze. David, amazed and a bit scared, watched Helen—she had never been like this before: not “nice Helen,” but a woman defending her boundaries. Lorraine gasped for breath. She was used to Helen taking it. Not anymore. — “You’re a monster,” Lorraine spat. “Selfish cow. I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’ve done.” — “Go ahead,” Helen shrugged. “I don’t care.” She walked out. — “David, you have keys. If you sort this, ring me. If not—I’ll see you when the boys are gone.” The lift doors closed behind her. Outside, she inhaled the fresh, rain-washed air. Her hands shook, but she felt incredibly free. She’d finally said “no.” Helen had a wonderful day—art exhibit, coffee, a stroll in the park. She turned her phone off all day, ignoring missed calls and messages. That evening, after the play, she switched it on: ten missed calls from David. One text—*“Lorraine’s taken the boys. I’m home. Sorry.”* She got home at eleven. The flat was quiet and spotless. David sat at the kitchen table, looking exhausted. — “Where are the boys?” she asked. — “Lorraine marched them off. She shrieked about cursing us, rang Katie, demanded money. In the end, Katie had to arrange a nanny in Spain and take the boys with her. Lorraine flat-out refused—her ‘back’ acted up at the mere thought of helping.” — “See? There was a solution. Katie’s their mother—let her enjoy her holiday with her kids. That’s normal.” — “Helen,” David reached for her hand, “thank you.” — “For what—leaving you to deal with it?” — “For making me feel like a man, not Lorraine’s doormat. I realised today: I don’t owe Lorraine or Katie—or anyone—but you. You’re my family. I’ve acted like a coward.” — “You’ve learned. That’s all that matters. Tea and cherry pie?” The next day, Lorraine didn’t call. Katie texted from Spain. Life felt different now—lighter, airier, no trace of old resentment. A week later: — “Lorraine called yesterday,” David said while gardening. Helen tensed. “What did she want?” — “Money for medication.” — “And did you give any?” — “No. Told her our budget’s tight—new conservatory for you, remember? She hung up. And you know what? The world didn’t end.” — “Nope,” Helen grinned. “It just got a little brighter.” The failed “babysitting drop-off” became a turning point in their marriage. Helen realised dignity meant quietly saying “no” when someone trampled her boundaries. And David learned that his wife’s respect was worth more than peace with an ex-wife who was no longer family. The grandkids still came, but only by arrangement. Lorraine never set foot in their flat again. David took the boys to the park, the zoo, then dropped them home—much easier for everyone. The children got a happy granddad, not a harried one. And Helen got what she deserved—peace, and a husband who finally, truly chose her. Sometimes, sitting on their patio at sunset, Helen thought of that day she picked up her bag and left for the theatre. It was the best performance she’d ever seen—even if she couldn’t remember the play’s name. Because the real drama had happened in her own hallway, and the ending was happily ever after. If you enjoyed this story about standing up for yourself, don’t forget to follow and leave a comment—what would you have done in Helen’s place?

Surely, it cant be such a bother for you? Its only three days. Sophies in a tight spot, a bargain trip

La vida

04

Sending Dad to a Care Home: Elizabeth’s Agonizing Decision After a Lifetime of Her Father’s Tyranny and Abuse

What on earth are you thinking now? A care home? Absolutely not! Im not leaving my house, no chance!

La vida

07

Raising a Softy, Are You? — Why Did You Sign Him Up for Piano Lessons? Lydia Peterson breezed past her daughter-in-law, peeling off her gloves. — Hello, Lydia. Please come in. Always a pleasure to see you. Her sarcasm landed poorly. Lydia tossed her gloves on the side table and turned to Mary. — Kostya called me. He’s positively beaming — “I’m going to learn piano!” What is this nonsense? Is he a girl now? Mary closed the door gently, carefully, fighting the urge to scream. — It means your grandson will be learning music because he loves it. — Loves it, does he? — Lydia snorted as if Mary was completely out of her mind. — He’s six, he hasn’t a clue what he likes! It’s your job to guide him. He’s a boy, an heir, my grandson — and just who are you raising him to be? The mother-in-law strode into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on with the authority of a queen. Mary followed, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. — I’m raising a happy child. — You’re raising a weakling — a wet blanket! — Lydia squared herself. — Football, wrestling — that’s what he needs! Make him a man, not some… pianist! Mary leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didn’t help. — Kostya asked himself. He loves music. — Loves it, ha! — Lydia waved her hand. — Sergey was playing hockey at his age! And your boy? He’ll be playing scales? Shameful! Something snapped inside Mary. She stepped forward. — Are you finished? — Not by a long shot! I’ve wanted to say— — Well, I’ve wanted to say this: Kostya is my son. Mine. I’ll decide how to raise him. And I won’t let you interfere. Lydia flushed crimson. — The way you speak to me— — Please leave. — What?! Mary grabbed the coat from the rack and shoved it into Lydia’s arms. — Leave my house. — You’re throwing me out? Me? Mary flung open the door. Took her mother-in-law by the elbow and marched her outside. Lydia resisted, but Mary was determined. Out went Lydia, out the door. — I’ll have my way! — Lydia shrieked, angry as ever. — I will not let you ruin my only grandson! — Goodbye, Lydia. — Sergey will hear about this! I’ll tell him everything! Mary slammed the door, pressed her back to it, and exhaled every last ounce of tension. Muffled shouting faded; footsteps echoed down the stairs. Silence descended. Her mother-in-law had finally crossed the line — endless criticism, advice, lectures on how to parent, what to feed, how to dress. And Sergey never saw the problem: “She means well,” “She’s experienced,” “What’s the harm in listening?” He idolised his mother. Every word sacred. Mary endured, day after day, visit after visit. Not today. Sergey returned from work just before eight. The click of the lock, the keys thrown absently on the table — yes, clearly Lydia had already called him. He trudged into the kitchen, never glancing at Kostya who was watching cartoons. — Kostya, sweetheart, stay here — Mary knelt, slid headphones over her son’s ears, queued up his favourite robot show. Kostya nodded, buried in the screen. Mary closed the nursery door and headed for the kitchen. Sergey stood at the window, arms crossed, not turning as she entered. — You threw my mother out. No question. A statement. — I asked her to leave. — You shoved her out the door! She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Mary! Mary sat at the table, exhausted. — Doesn’t it bother you that she insulted me? Sergey hesitated, then waved it away. — She’s just worried for her grandson. What’s so wrong with that? — She called our son a weakling and a coward, Sergey. Our six-year-old. — Well, she got carried away, it happens. But Mum’s right in some ways, Mary. Boys need sports. Team spirit, resilience— Mary met his eyes. Stared until he looked away. — I was forced to do gymnastics when I was a kid. My mum decided — that was it. Five years, Sergey. Five years crying before every practice. Stretched to the point of pain, lost weight, begged to quit. Sergey was silent. — I still can’t stand gyms. And I won’t do that to my son. If Kostya ever wants football — fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force. — Mum just wants what’s best for him— — Then let her have another child and parent how she wants. But she won’t interfere with Kostya anymore. Nor will you, if you’re on her side. Sergey half moved to respond, but Mary left the kitchen. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Mary put Kostya to bed, then sat in the dark of the nursery listening to her son’s gentle breathing. Two tense, silent days followed. At dinner, Sergey cracked a joke, Mary smiled; the ice started to thaw. By Friday they were speaking — though Lydia was never mentioned. Saturday morning, Mary woke to the sound of the lock turning in the front door. She shot up, heart pounding. Robbers? In broad daylight? Phone in hand, she tiptoed into the hall. Lydia stood on the doorstep, triumphant, keys in hand. — Good morning, Mary dear. Mary, in baggy pyjamas and a stretched-out t-shirt, stood barefoot as Lydia looked down her nose, as if entitled to break in at 8am on a Saturday. — Where did you get those keys? Lydia jingled them under her nose. — Sergey gave them to me. He dropped by two days ago. Said — “Mum, forgive her, she didn’t mean to upset you.” Practically begging my forgiveness for your little tantrum. Mary blinked. Once. Twice. — Why are you here? — I’ve come for my grandson — get Kostya ready. Grandma’s signed him up for football, first training today! Fury slammed into her — hot, suffocating, blinding. Mary turned and bolted for the bedroom. Sergey lay with his back to the wall, shoulders tense. — Get up! — Mary, let’s talk later— She yanked off the duvet, grabbed his arm, dragged him to the living room. Lydia was already perched on the sofa, leafing through a magazine. — You gave her the keys — to my flat. Sergey squirmed. — It’s my flat, Sergey. Mine. I bought it, before we were married, with my own money. What made you think you could give your mother my keys? — Oh, how petty! — Lydia tossed the magazine aside. — Yours, mine… all you think about is yourself! Sergey did it for his son, that’s what matters. Since you won’t let me in, I need a way to see my grandson. — Shut your mouth! Lydia gasped, but Mary’s gaze was for Sergey only. — Kostya isn’t going to football, not unless he wants to. — That’s not your decision! — Lydia leapt up. — You’re nothing! Just a temporary blip in my son’s life! Think you’re special? Think you’re irreplaceable? Sergey only puts up with you for the child! Silence. Mary turned to her husband. Head down, no words. — Sergey? Nothing. Not a word in defence. Nothing. — Fine, — Mary nodded. Cold, clear calm settled over her. — Temporary, is it? Well, your time is up. Take your son, Lydia. He’s no longer my husband. — You wouldn’t dare! — Lydia went pale. — You’ve no right to abandon him! — Sergey, — Mary spoke quietly, looking directly at him. — You have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or I’ll throw you out in your pyjamas — I don’t care. — Mary, wait, let’s talk— — We’re done talking. She turned to Lydia, smiled crookedly. — Keep the keys. I’m changing the locks today. …Divorce took four months. Sergey tried to come back, called, texted, arrived with flowers. Lydia threatened court, guardianship, connections. Mary hired a good lawyer and stopped picking up the phone. Two years slipped by… …The arts school hall buzzed with voices. Mary sat in the third row, clutching her program: “Konstantin Warren, Age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.” Kostya walked onstage — serious, focused, white shirt, black trousers. Sat down at the grand piano, placed his hands on the keys. The first notes filled the hall, and Mary stopped breathing. Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old who asked for lessons, who spent hours at the piano, who chose this piece for his recital. When the last chord faded, the applause exploded. Kostya stood, bowed, found his mother’s face in the crowd and grinned — wide, proud, happy. Mary clapped with everyone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d done the right thing. She’d put her son above all — above opinions, above marriage, above the fear of being alone. Which is exactly what a mother should do…

Raising a Softy “Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?” Margaret Harris