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Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage carrying a heavy pail of pig feed, marching irritably past her husband, George, who had been fussing with the well for three days straight. A carved well—just for the sake of beauty, as if there weren’t real work to do! While his wife busied herself around the house and tended the animals, there he stood, chisel in hand, covered in wood shavings, smiling at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? Never a tender word, never a fist pounded on the table in passion—just quietly toiling away, and now and then, he’d come over to look her in the eyes and run his hand through her thick honey-coloured braid—that was the extent of his affection. And how she wished for more, to be called “darling” or “my swan”… Pondering her woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog, but in an instant George was there, catching her by the arm and scolding the pup: “Why are you always underfoot? You’ll get the mistress hurt.” Buster tucked his tail and slunk away to his kennel, while Annie marvelled—once again—at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d once asked George about it, and he’d simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Annie too dreamed of love—a husband who would sweep her off her feet, whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and leave flowers on her pillow every morning… But George was a man of few affections, and Annie was starting to wonder if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called over the fence Charlie, their neighbour. “George, still up to your old tricks? Who needs all those fancy carvings on a well, eh?” “I want my children to grow up as good people, with something beautiful to look at,” George replied. “You’ll need to have some children first!” Charlie laughed, winking at Annie. George looked at her sadly, and Annie, flustered, hurried back inside. She wasn’t in a rush to have children—still young, still pretty, wanting to live for herself a bit longer. And George—neither here nor there. But the neighbour! Tall, broad-shouldered… Charlie was a real looker. And when he met her at the garden gate, his words were tender and warm as a summer rain: “My dewdrop, my sunshine…” Her heart would flutter and her knees would weaken, but Annie always ran away from him; she wouldn’t give in to his overtures. She’d promised fidelity when she married, and her parents, who’d lived in harmony for years, always taught her to protect her family. Yet why did she yearn so to glance out the window, hoping to catch Charlie’s eye? The next morning, Annie was driving the cow out to pasture when she bumped into Charlie at the gate. “Annie, my sweet dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I can’t take my eyes off you—I’m dizzy every time I see you. Come visit me at sunrise. When your George is off fishing, come see me—I promise you more tenderness than you’ve ever known; you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Annie blushed fiercely, her heart skipped, but she said nothing—just hurried on past. “I’ll wait for you,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t get him out of her head. Oh, how she longed for love and affection, and Charlie was hard to resist, with those sultry looks—but she couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. Not yet… the sunrise was still some hours away, and perhaps… That evening, George heated the bathhouse and even invited Charlie to join him—a welcome excuse for Charlie, who could save himself the chore at home. They laid into each other with birch branches, sighing with pleasure as the steam built up. After their bath, they sat to cool down, and Annie brought out a decanter of homemade gin and laid out snacks—but remembered there were pickles in the cellar. As she went to fetch them, voices drifted through the half-open door, so she paused to listen. “Why so shy, George?” Charlie murmured. “Come on, mate, you won’t regret it. There’s widows out there who’ll shower you with affection, real stunners! Not like your Annie—just a little grey mouse.” “No, mate,” she heard her husband’s soft but certain voice. “I don’t want anyone else. Wouldn’t even think of it. My Annie’s no grey mouse. She’s the most wonderful woman on earth, more beautiful than any flower or berry. When I look at her, I don’t see the sun—just those lovely eyes, her slender waist. My love for her is more than a river in spring—only trouble is, I can’t find the words to let her know how much I love her. She gets upset—I know she does—and I’m to blame, but I’m terrified of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her. Couldn’t draw breath…” Annie stood motionless, heart pounding, a tear slipping down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the bathhouse and declared, “Charlie, off you go—go chase around with widows if that’s what you want. We’ve got more important things right here. There’s still no one to admire George’s handiwork, and I’ve wasted enough time not seeing the happiness I had in my hands. I’m sorry, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness. Let’s not waste another moment…” At dawn the next morning, George did not go fishing.

Love Isn’t For Show Emily steps out of the cottage with a heavy bucket of pig feed and walks past

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“Lynda, Have You Gone Mad in Your Old Age? Your Grandkids Are Already at School—What’s This About a Wedding?”: That’s What My Sister Said When I Told Her I Was Getting Married. But Why Wait Any Longer? Tolly and I Are Registering Our Marriage in a Week, and I Need to Tell My Sister—Though She Won’t Come, We Live at Opposite Ends of the Country. We’re Not Planning a Noisy Bash with ‘Kiss the Bride!’ at Sixty, Just a Quiet Registry and an Evening for Two. We Could Skip It Altogether, But Tolly Insists—He’s a True Gentleman, Opening Doors and Helping Me with My Coat. He Says He Needs Real Commitment. To Me, He’s Still a Boy at Heart, Even with Silver Hair—Respected at Work, But Turns into a Teenager the Moment He Sees Me. I’m Almost Embarrassed When He Dances with Me in the Street! I Worried My Sister Tanya Would Judge Me, Especially After Losing My Husband Last Year—But Who Sets the Rules on How Long You’re Allowed to Be Happy Again? She Says at Least Five Years, But What If That’s All Tolly and I Have Left? For the First Time, I’m Living Life for Myself: Sleeping In, Shopping, Theatre, Even Splashing Through Leaves in the Park—All Thanks to Tolly. My Daughters Objected, but Now They’ve Come Around, and When Tolly and I Walked Out of the Registry Office on Our Wedding Day, They—and Even My Sister—Were Waiting with Flowers. We’ve Just Celebrated Our First Anniversary, and I Still Can’t Believe How Blissfully Happy I Am—It Almost Feels Unseemly!

Lucy, are you out of your mind at your age? Your grandchildren are already in school, what on earth do

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“Mr. William Johnson, You’ve Overslept Again!”—The Bus Driver’s Warm Chide Echoes Gently with a Hint of Reproach—“That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Sprinting for the Bus Like the Clappers Clutching the Rail, the Elderly Man in his Rumpled Jacket Catches his Breath, Silver Hair Untidy, Glasses Perched at the End of his Nose “Sorry, Andrew…” the Old Gentleman Pants, Pulling Out Crumpled Notes—“Either My Watch Is Slow, or I’m Just Not What I Used to Be…” Andrew Stephens—the Veteran Bus Driver, Tanned from Two Decades on the Route, Knows Most Passengers by Sight, but This Polite Pensioner Makes a Lasting Impression—Always Quiet, Always Courteous, Boarding at the Same Time Each Morning “That’s All Right, Hop On. Where To Today?” “To the Cemetery, as Usual.” Settling into His Regular Spot—Third Row from the Driver, by the Window—He Holds a Weathered Plastic Bag in His Lap Only a Few Passengers This Weekday Morning—A Cluster of Chattering Students, a Man Absorbed in his Phone—A Typical Scene “So Tell Me, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Asks, Glancing at Him in the Mirror, “You Go There Every Day? Isn’t It Difficult?” “Nowhere Else I Need to Be,” Comes the Quiet Reply, Gaze Fixed on the Window—“My Wife’s There… Been a Year and a Half Now. I Promised I’d Come Every Day.” Time Passes, and Mr. Johnson Becomes a Fixture of the Morning Journey—Andrew Grows Used to Waiting for Him, Even Sometimes Holding the Bus a Few Minutes “No Need to Wait for Me,” Mr. Johnson Once Insists, Sensing the Truth—“A Schedule’s a Schedule.” “Nonsense,” Andrew Brushes him Off—“A Couple of Minutes Won’t Hurt.” Then, One Morning, Mr. Johnson Doesn’t Appear. Nor the Next. Nor the Day After “Have You Seen the Elderly Man, Always Heading to the Cemetery?” Andrew Asks Tamara, the Conductor. “Hope He’s Not Unwell…” But Andrew Feels His Absence, Missing the Quiet ‘Thank You,’ the Sad Smile A Week Passes; Concerned, Andrew Takes his Break to Visit the Cemetery Gates “Excuse Me,” He Asks the Gatekeeper, “Looking for an Elderly Regular—Mr. Johnson, Silver Hair, Glasses, Always with a Bag. Have You Seen Him?” “Oh, Him!” She Brightens. “Every Single Day—Always Came to Visit His Wife…” “Not Been By this Week?” “Not at All.” She Remembers His Address—Sycamore Avenue, Number 15. “And You Are?” “I’m His Bus Driver. Drove Him Every Morning.” Andrew Finds the Old Block, Peeling Paint at the Entry, and Rings a Doorbell A Middle-aged Man Answers, Brow Furrowed “Looking for Mr. Johnson—the Gentleman Who Rode My Bus Each Day…” “Oh, He’s in Hospital—Had a Stroke Last Week, Poor Soul. Just Down at St. Mary’s.” Andrew’s Heart Sinks After His Shift, Andrew Heads to the Hospital—Finds the Ward, Asks a Nurse “Mr. Johnson? Yes—He’s Here, But Still Weak.” Andrew Steps Gently into the Room—The Elder by the Window, Pale but Awake. “You? Andrew? How Did You Find Me?”—Surprise and an Edge of Tears “I Looked for You—Worried When You Didn’t Show,” Andrew Smiles, Placing a Bag of Fruit Beside Him “You Worried—For Me? Why Would Anyone…” “You’re My Regular Passenger. I’ve Grown to Expect You Each Morning.” Mr. Johnson Stares Up at the Ceiling “I Haven’t Been to See Her in Ten Days—First Time in a Year and a Half. I’ve Broken My Word…” “It’s All Right, Mr. Johnson—Your Wife Would Understand. Illness Is No Light Thing.” “Maybe… Every Day, I’d Tell Her About My Day, About the Weather… Now She’s Alone, and I’m Stuck Here…” Andrew Feels for Him, and the Answer Comes Easy “Would You Like Me to Go? To Visit Your Wife’s Grave? I’ll Tell Her You’re in Hospital—That You’re Getting Better…” For a Moment, Mr. Johnson Looks at Him—Hope Flickering in His Eyes “You’d Do That—for a Stranger?” “You’re No Stranger. We’ve Seen Each Other Every Morning for a Year and a Half—That’s More Familiar than Some Family.” The Next Day, Andrew Visits the Cemetery—Finds the Grave with the Kind-eyed Woman, “Anna Johnson, 1952–2024,” Etched in Stone He Feels Awkward, but the Words Spill Out “Good Morning, Mrs. Johnson. I’m Andrew—the Bus Driver. Your Husband’s Been to See You Every Day without Fail—but Right Now He’s in Hospital, Getting Better. He Asked Me to Tell You He Loves You—and He’ll Be Back Soon…” He Says a Little More—About Mr. Johnson’s Devotion, His Kindness—and Feels Somehow That It’s the Right Thing to Do Returning to the Hospital, He Finds Mr. Johnson Stronger, Enjoying a Cup of Tea “I Went,” Andrew Says Simply. “Told Her Everything.” “How—How was it?” Mr. Johnson’s Voice Trembles “It’s All in Order. Someone’s Been Bringing Fresh Flowers—One of the Neighbours, Perhaps. Everything’s Tidy. She’s Waiting for You.” Mr. Johnson Closes His Eyes, Tears Rolling Down His Cheeks “Thank You, Son. Thank You…” A Fortnight Later, Mr. Johnson Is Discharged—Andrew Picks Him Up and Drives Him Home “See You Tomorrow?” Andrew Asks as He Helps the Old Man Off the Bus “Of Course—Eight O’Clock, as Always.” And True Enough, Next Morning He’s Back in His Familiar Seat. But Something’s Changed—They Are No Longer Just Driver and Passenger, But Friends “Tell You What, Mr. Johnson,” Andrew Offers One Day, “Why Don’t I Drive You at the Weekends, Just in My Car? No Trouble—My Wife Thinks You’re Wonderful, and She Insists We Help.” “Oh, I Couldn’t Possibly Trouble You…” “You Can, And You Shall—It’s No Trouble at All. Besides, You’re Practically Family Now.” So That’s How It Came to Be—Weekdays in the Service Bus, Weekends in Andrew’s Car, Sometimes with His Wife Along. Friendship Blossoms “You Know,” Andrew Tells His Wife One Evening, “At First I Thought It Was Just a Job—Routes, Timetables, Passengers… Turns Out, Every Person on That Bus Has a Life, a Story.” “And You’re Right Not to Ignore It,” She Smiles And Once, Mr. Johnson Tells Them “You Know, After Anna Passed, I Thought–That Was It. Life Over. What’s the Point? But It Turns Out—People Do Care. And That Means Everything.” *** And Tell Me, Have You Ever Witnessed Ordinary People Doing Truly Extraordinary Things?

Mr. Henry, youve overslept again! The bus drivers voice floats like a friendly cloud tinged with mild reproach.

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And That’s When She Realised Her Mother-in-Law Wasn’t So Awful After All—The Emotional Turning Point One Cold December in Twelve Years of Marriage for Nadia, Who’d Spent Yet Another New Year’s Eve Alone While Her Husband Was Away Hunting

You know, it finally dawned on her that her mother-in-law wasnt really as bad as shed always thought.

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Grandad It was summertime. I was walking home after evening football practice when I spotted an elderly gentleman—really quite frail—fallen on the pavement, unable to get up. People were giving him a wide berth, apparently assuming he was drunk, while he muttered to himself and reached out for help. My mum taught me from a young age to help others whenever I can, so I went over and asked, “Do you need a hand?” He couldn’t answer coherently; he just made sounds and kept stretching his arms out towards me. A passing woman scolded me: “Don’t go near him! Can’t you see he’s drunk? You’ll catch something! And he’s filthy, you’ll get yourself dirty!” Looking closer, I saw the man’s hands were covered in blood, and a wave of pure dread washed over me. I asked what had happened, but again only got murmurs in reply; then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up a plastic carrier bag lying beside him. Inside were shards of broken beer bottles. He bent down, grabbed a few more pieces from the ground, and put them in the bag. That’s why his hands were bleeding. I started cleaning his hands with wet wipes so I could help him up and walk him home (call me selfish, but I didn’t want to get blood on my football kit…). Once his hands were as clean as I could manage, I helped Grandpa to his feet. I asked for his address but he just mumbled and gestured. Realising I wasn’t understanding, he pointed towards a nearby block of flats, then indicated two numbers with his fingers—his flat number, I guessed. I pressed the right button on the entryphone and soon a woman’s anxious voice answered. Grandpa murmured again. Within moments, a man and woman dashed outside—both immediately fussed over Grandpa, checking he was okay. The man thanked me and scooped Grandpa up to carry him inside. The woman kept asking how she could thank me. I refused, about to leave, when she suddenly asked me to wait, as if she’d remembered something. She rushed back inside and soon reappeared with a huge basket of raspberries. “Home grown,” she beamed. I thanked her, but tried to refuse. “Go on, take them,” she insisted. “We nearly lost our minds when we came back from the allotment and Grandpa was missing. Here’s the thing: he was captured by the Germans in the war. Because he held an important post, he injured his own tongue so he wouldn’t speak under interrogation. There wasn’t exactly much hygiene in those camps, so by the time he escaped, the infection was so bad half his tongue had to be removed. That’s why he can’t talk, only makes sounds. Local teenagers have taken to drinking beer in our playground in the evenings, smashing the bottles everywhere. We’ve filed police complaints, but nothing gets done. Children get glass in their hands and feet—my own daughter, Sophie, cut her foot badly once. That’s why Grandpa started sweeping up after those hooligans—so the little ones wouldn’t get hurt. But he’s old now, his legs barely hold him. We’ve tried everything, even hiding his keys, but he keeps going out. Once, when I was on shift, he fell and lay in the cold for five hours—no one helped. We were just about to go searching when you called up on the entryphone. Thank you.” After that story, I was speechless. She pressed the raspberry basket into my hands and I gave her a grateful bow—honestly, there were no words. Halfway home, I broke down in tears. Why is our country like this? Why does everyone only think of themselves? Please, if you ever see someone who has fallen and can’t get up, don’t just assume they’re a drunk. Go over and ask! They might need your help. And especially—young people—let’s remember that we are HUMANS, not PIGS!

Granddad Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman

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CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER ME OR YOUR DOG! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THAT MUTT’S SMELL! — SHOUTED HER HUSBAND. SHE CHOSE HIM AND DROPPED HER OLD GERMAN SHEPHERD IN THE WOODS… BUT THAT EVENING, HE TOLD HER HE WAS LEAVING FOR ANOTHER WOMAN

CHOOSE: IT’S EITHER YOUR DOG OR ME! I CAN’T STAND THE SMELL OF THAT MONGREL ANYMORE!

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Gently Brushing Shoulders Together

Slightly brushing sleeves As the calendar turned toward NewYear, Emily felt a nervous thrill.

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“Mum, I’m ten years old now, right?” said Michael suddenly as he got back from school. “So what?” Mum stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, so what? Have you forgotten what you and Dad promised I could do when I turned ten?” “Let you do what? What did we promise?” “You promised I could get a dog.” “No!” Mum exclaimed in alarm. “Anything but that! Would you rather have an electric scooter? The most expensive one. But only if you never mention a dog again.” “That’s how it is, then?” Michael pouted. “And you call yourselves parents… You tell me to keep my promises, but don’t keep yours…” Michael locked himself in his room and didn’t come out until Dad returned from work. “Dad, do you remember what you and Mum promised…” he began, but was interrupted. “Mum already called me about your wish! But I don’t understand why you even want this.” “Dad, I’ve dreamed of having a dog for such a long time! You know I have!” “We know, we know! You’ve read too many stories about little boys and their dogs—you’re acting like a child! You know pedigree dogs are expensive, don’t you?” “I don’t want a pedigree,” Michael blurted out. “I’d be happy with any dog—even a rescue. I read online about abandoned dogs. They’re so unlucky.” “No!” said Dad firmly. “What do you mean, not pedigree? Why would we want that? They’re not pretty! All right, here’s the deal: I’ll agree to adopt an abandoned dog, but only if it’s young and a pedigree.” “A pedigree?” Michael wrinkled his nose. “Yes!” Dad winked at Mum. “You’ll need to train her, enter her in dog shows and all that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. So if you can find a beautiful, abandoned young pedigree dog in this town, we’ll consider it.” Michael sighed, knowing he’d never seen an abandoned pedigree on the streets, but hope is the last thing to die, so he decided to try. On Sunday, Michael called his friend Jack and after lunch, they began their search. By evening, they’d walked what felt like half the city, but still hadn’t spotted a single stray pedigree. Although there were plenty of lovely dogs out, all were with owners and on leads. “That’s it,” Michael said wearily. “I knew we wouldn’t find one…” “Let’s visit the shelter next Sunday,” Jack suggested. “They have pedigree dogs there, I’ve read about it. We just need the address. But for now, let’s sit down and rest.” They found an empty bench, chatted about finding the perfect dog at the shelter, and strolled home dreaming of training their new friend. Suddenly, Jack tugged Michael’s sleeve and pointed. “Look, Michael.” Michael glanced over and saw a tiny dirty-white stray puppy wobbling along the pavement. “A mongrel,” Jack said surely, and whistled. The puppy looked over and bounded towards them, but stopped two metres away. “He doesn’t trust people,” said Jack. “Someone must’ve scared him.” Michael whistled softly and stretched out a hand. The puppy crept forward and, when Michael got close, wagged his filthy tail rather hopefully instead of running away. “Come on, Michael,” Jack said nervously. “Why would you even want that dog? You’re looking for a pedigree. You could give a pedigree a fancy name. This one could only be called Button.” Jack turned away and walked quickly off. Michael patted the pup a bit more, then, sadly, started after his friend. Secretly, he would have loved to take the little dog home. Suddenly, there was a startled yelp behind him. Michael froze; the puppy whimpered, and Jack whispered, “Michael, come on! Don’t look back! He’s looking at you!” “How?” “Like you’re his owner—and you’re leaving him. Run!” Jack ran off, but Michael’s feet wouldn’t move. Finally, as he began to run, something tugged gently at his trouser leg. Michael glanced down and saw two trusting black eyes. Right then and there, Michael picked the little dog up and hugged him to his chest. He’d made up his mind—if Mum and Dad said no, he’d run away from home tonight—with this puppy in his arms. But it turned out his parents had kind hearts after all… The next day, when Michael got home from school, Mum, Dad, and a freshly-washed, snow-white, happy Button were all there to greet him. (TITLE:) “You Promised Me a Dog When I Turned Ten, Mum! — A Heartwarming Story of Promises, Friendships, and Finding the Perfect Four-Legged Friend”

Mum, I am ten already, arent I? piped up Michael as he returned from school, dropping his bag with an

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The Only Man in the House At breakfast one morning, Vera, the eldest daughter, looked up from her phone and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s so special about it?” Instead of answering, she turned her phone around: on the screen was an unbroken string of ones—11.11.11. In other words, November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number—11! And today, it’s three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Valery grinned. “Yeah, Dad,” chimed in Nadya, the youngest, her eyes still fixed on her phone. “The horoscope says Scorpios are in for a pleasant surprise and a life-changing gift today.” “Brilliant. I bet some long-lost relative in Europe or America has popped his clogs, and we’re the sole heirs. Naturally, a millionaire…” “Billionaire, Dad,” Vera played along. “A millionaire’s pocket change for you.” “Too right! What would we even do with all that money? First, a villa in Italy or the Maldives? Then a yacht…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” joined in Nadya. “I want my own helicopter!” “No problem. A helicopter it is. And what about you, Vera?” “I want to act in a Bollywood film with Salman Khan.” “Oh, easy! I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort that in no time… All right, dreamers, enough, finish your food, we need to leave soon.” “Oh, you can’t even let us dream,” sighed Nadya. “Why not? Dreaming is essential,” Valery took his last sip of tea and got up from the table. “Just don’t forget about school…” This morning table chat flashed through his mind now, at the end of a long day, in the supermarket, as Valery transferred groceries from his trolley to shopping bags. The day hadn’t been brilliant at all—quite the opposite, he’d had to work late and was exhausted. No pleasant surprises. No lifelong gifts. “Happiness just flew right past me, like a paper plane over Paris,” he smiled wryly as he left the store. Outside, a boy was circling his battered Moskvich, which had been faithfully serving the family for 25 years. A street kid by every sign—wearing tatty clothes, mismatched shoes (a battered trainer on one foot, an ancient army boot with an electric wire for a lace on the other), and a grubby, worn-out ushanka hat, one of its earflaps burned to a crisp. “Mister, I’m… hungry, could you… spare some bread?” the boy whimpered as Valery approached the car. The sentence sounded oddly stilted. It wasn’t just the boy’s sad appearance or his Dickensian request that struck Valery, but something about his delivery. It brought back memories of acting classes at the local theatre in his youth, where the pause in an actor’s line spoke volumes—was the emotion truth or pretence? This pause, he knew, was the litmus test for honesty. The boy was pretending. The slight stutter was a giveaway. Instantly Valery saw the scene in a different light—this was a performance. But for whom? Somehow he knew, for him. Well, two can play at that game. And his girls would love it—better than any detective game they could play. “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of borscht, some potatoes, a bit of herring, and maybe a hot prune compote with some fresh pastries. Sound good?” The boy was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly regained his composure, giving Valery a wary look from beneath his brows. “Nice going,” Valery thought. “He’s in character now. Let’s see where this goes.” “What’s the matter? Yes or no?” “Yes,” the boy mumbled. “Great. Here, hold this.” This was Valery’s test. True street kids had a habit: if you handed them a bag of food, they’d bolt before you could blink. Valery had learned to be one step ahead, often catching them in seconds and giving a gentle scolding—“You’re not an animal, you’re a child…” He made a show of looking for his keys, fiddled with his phone, deliberately turned his back. But the boy didn’t bolt—he just stood looking at the ground, clutching the bag tightly. “Thank you, lad,” Valery thought. “No sprinting for me tonight.” Keys found, groceries loaded, Valery opened the passenger door. “Your carriage awaits, my good man—dinner’s cooking as we speak.” The boy heaved a sigh and climbed in. For the seven-kilometre drive to their village, they rode in silence. Valery, widowed and single, was raising two girls alone and working as a welder. An orphan himself, he never turned away a child in need. He’d brought many home, and if it weren’t for the endless red tape and heartless officials, he’d have adopted every last one. But always, they said—your housing isn’t good enough, your finances aren’t enough, you’re a single father, and so on. As if children were somehow happier in state care! Love is what matters, Valery knew. Always. The boy sat hunched in silence, his hat pulled low. Valery guessed he wasn’t a born street kid—perhaps just new to the streets, still nervous. “I may have been too quick to judge him a liar,” Valery mused. “Maybe he’s just in shock. Never mind, friend, we’ll get you fed, cleaned up, and then you’ll tell us everything, in good time.” His girls were waiting on the porch, dashing to meet the car. “And who’s this, Dad?” they finally noticed the boy. “This? This is the pleasant surprise and lifelong gift you predicted this morning,” Valery grinned. “Epic, Dad,” Nadya, peering under the boy’s hat. “Maybe you picked up the wrong parcel?” “If only—he practically glued himself to my leg,” Valery laughed as the girls hauled the boy inside between them. “Well—shall we figure out what this Unknown Walking Object actually is?” In the kitchen, right away, the girls set to unmasking the newcomer. Nadya sniffed him, then showed her palm, smudged with dark stains. “Greasepaint, Dad. He put it on to look filthy. I asked his name, he said ‘Bugai’—a proper street nickname, means ‘the bull’. But it doesn’t add up—he smells of soap, not the street.” Soon, the boy broke down. He confessed: his name was Spartacus Bugayev, and he had a sister, Sophia. Their mother had died just before he was born; their elder sister kept the family together. Sophia had fallen in love—with none other than Valery himself, though she was too shy to tell him. Spartacus explained that, as the only man in his family, he had to make sure any man who wanted his sister’s heart was the right sort. So he created this ruse to observe the Zvyagintsev family from within—to see if Valery would love his sister and give her the happiness she deserved. “Please,” Spartacus said, “take my sister as your wife. She’s wonderful—kind, gentle, the best of us…” Valery, the girls beaming hopefully, paused to wipe a tear. “Well, girls?” he said at last, “Shall we go ask the bride?” “YES!” they cheered, hugging him tight. Spartacus solemnly extended his hand. “As the only man in our family, I give you my sister,” he said gravely. Valery shook his hand, then embraced him. At last, the circle felt complete. “Dad,” Nadya beamed, “you see? You got a new friend and a lifelong gift—a big, happy family. You always wanted that, didn’t you, Daddy? Well, now you’ve got it…”

The Only Man of the House Friday, 11th of November 2011 Breakfast was well underway when my eldest, Grace

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There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val struggled to unlatch the garden gate, tottered up to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock for ages, then finally entered her chilly, unheated cottage and sank onto a rickety chair beside the cold stove. The house smelled empty and unlived in. Although she’d only been away for three months, cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the antique chair let out a mournful creak, and the wind whistled down the chimney—the house seemed to greet her with a grumpy, “Where’ve you been, mistress? Who’d you leave me with? How are we supposed to get through winter like this?” “Just a minute now, my dear,” she murmured, “let me catch my breath… I’ll light the stove, we’ll warm up…” Just last year, Granny Val bustled briskly about her old place: whitewashing, painting, fetching water. Her tiny, sprightly figure would bow before the icons, then take charge of the stove, then whirl through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house rejoiced with her—the floors creaked with her lively steps, doors and windows eagerly swung open at the gentle press of her work-worn hands, and the oven baked splendid pies. They belonged together: Val and her timeworn cottage. She buried her husband early. Raised three children, educated each one, set them up in life. One son was a sea captain; the other, a colonel in the army—both living far away and rarely visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village, now the chief agronomist—but she worked all hours, visiting her mother only on Sundays with a soul-restoring pie, then away again for another week. Her consolation was her granddaughter, little Svetlana, who had practically grown up at Granny’s side. And goodness, how lovely she’d become—with big grey eyes, waist-length golden hair that shone even on cloudy days, and a willowy figure. Wherever did a village girl get such poise, such beauty? Granny Val herself had once been a looker, but comparing an old photo to Svetlana’s—well, it was shepherdess and queen… And clever, too: Svetlana finished university in a nearby city and returned home as an agricultural economist, married a local vet, and thanks to a scheme for young families, they were given a brand-new brick house—a real showstopper for those parts. The only thing missing was a garden—at Granny Val’s there was riotous colour and growth, but at Svetlana’s, just three timid green shoots. Svetlana, gentle by nature and always coddled by Granny against draughts and hard chores, wasn’t one for growing things. And then baby Vasya came along—no time for gardens now. So Svetlana invited her grandmother to move in: “Come on, Granny, live with us—it’s a big, comfortable house, no need to light the stove.” When Granny Val turned eighty, her sturdy legs suddenly refused to cooperate, and at last—reluctantly—she agreed. But after just a couple of months, she overheard: “Granny, you know I love you so much! But why do you just sit around? You’ve always been so active, always working, and now you’ve settled in—see, I wanted to start a little farm and was counting on your help…” “But I can’t, my dear, my legs just don’t work anymore… I’m getting old…” “Hmph… Funny how you got old the moment you moved in with me…” And so, not living up to expectations, Granny Val was quietly packed off back to her own place. Upset at not being able to help her beloved granddaughter, she soon took to her bed. Her worn-out legs barely moved anymore: getting from her bed to the table was a feat; making it to her beloved church? Impossible. Father Boris visited his loyal parishioner—once such an energetic helper at the old church. He surveyed the cold, draughty cottage. Granny Val sat at the table, laboriously penning her usual monthly letters to her sons. It was chilly—the stove barely warm, the floor icy. Even her best jumper and a scruffy old headscarf couldn’t keep her, once the tidiest of housekeepers, comfortable. Father Boris sighed: She needs help. But whom to ask? Maybe Anna, who lived nearby and was still hearty—twenty years younger than Val. He got bread, ginger cakes, and half a hot fish pie (a kind gesture from his wife Alexandra), then rolled up his sleeves, cleared the old ashes, chopped and carried in wood for several stoves, stoked the fire, fetched water, and set a big blackened kettle to boil. “Dear boy—oh, I mean, dear Father, please help me with the addresses for the envelopes. My handwriting’s so wonky it’ll never get there otherwise!” Father Boris glanced at the shaky scrawl—big, wobbly letters: “I’m doing very well, darling son. I have everything I need, thank God!” But the letters about Granny Val’s “good life” were all blurry with ink—and, it seemed, with salty tears. Anna came to look after her, Father Boris checked on her often, and for big church holidays, Anna’s husband Uncle Pete, an old sailor, would bring Granny Val to church on his motorbike. Life gradually brightened. Her granddaughter stopped visiting, and before long fell gravely ill. Svetlana, always plagued by stomach pains, put it down to an old complaint—it turned out to be lung cancer. She passed away in just six months. Her husband, devastated, all but lived at her grave, drinking day and night. Four-year-old Vasya was left dirty, hungry, and neglected. Tamara took him in, but busy as she was, she couldn’t look after her grandson—and Vasya was soon lined up for the local children’s care home. It was well run, with a lively headmaster, proper food, even home visits at weekends—but nothing like family. One day, in Uncle Pete’s battered old “Ural” bike with a sidecar, Granny Val appeared at Tamara’s. Uncle Pete, barrel-chested and tattooed all over with anchors and mermaids, looked ready for a fight. Granny Val announced briefly: “I’m taking Vasya to live with me.” “Mum, you can hardly walk! How can you handle a little one? He’ll need feeding, washing…” “As long as I live, Vasya won’t be sent to a home,” Granny Val declared. Astonished by her usually gentle mother’s determination, Tamara fell silent and started packing Vasya’s things. Uncle Pete delivered them both back to the little cottage, nearly carrying them inside himself. Nosy neighbours shook their heads: “Lovely old dear, bless her, but she must’ve lost her marbles—she can’t care for herself, never mind a child! He needs so much attention… What’s Tamara thinking?” After Sunday service, Father Boris braced himself for the worst: would he have to remove poor, hungry Vasya from a weak, ailing old lady? Instead, he entered a warm, welcoming cottage. Vasya, clean and content, listened to a scratchy old record of “The Gingerbread Man.” And that frail old lady? She was flitting around the kitchen, greasing baking trays, kneading dough, mixing eggs into cheese. Her tired old legs were suddenly working just like they used to. “Dear Father! I’m just making cheese buns… Wait a tick—hot ones for Alexandra and little Koozie…” Father Boris went home still reeling and told his wife what he’d seen. Alexandra paused, fetched a thick blue notebook from the bookcase, found a marked page, and read aloud: “Old Mrs. Egorova had lived her long life. Everything had passed by, flown away—hopes, dreams, all asleep beneath the snowy drifts. It was time to go where there’s no pain, no sorrow, no sighing… One February evening, Egorova prayed long before her icons, then lay down and said to her family, ‘Call the priest—I’m ready to pass.’ Her face became pale as the snow. The priest came, she made her confession, took communion, and lay for a whole day—taking neither food nor water. Only her faint breath showed a soul not yet departed. Suddenly, the front door burst open—a gust of cold air, a baby’s wail. ‘Hush now, Granny’s dying here.’ ‘I can hardly stop a baby—she’s just been born!’ Grand-daughter Nastya had come home from hospital with her newborn, and, all alone, felt helpless—her milk hadn’t come, she didn’t know how to soothe the baby, who screamed, disturbing dying Egorova. Somehow Egorova roused herself, sat up, put pale feet on the floor, and groped for her slippers. Hours later, when the family returned—expecting a death—they found Egorova brisk, alive, pacing the room with the now-contented baby, while the exhausted young mother recovered nearby.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and said: “That was my great-grandmother, Vera Egorovna. She loved me so fiercely, she simply refused to die, saying, as the song goes: ‘Oh, it’s much too soon for me to go—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived for ten more years after that, helping my mother, and raising me, her favourite great-grandchild.” And Father Boris smiled back at his wife.

Theres always still plenty to be done at home, isnt there Old Mary Jones fumbled with the creaky gate