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I’m Embarrassed to Take You to the Banquet – Denis Didn’t Even Look Up from His Phone. – There Will Be People. Normal People. Nadia Stood by the Fridge with a Carton of Milk in Her Hand. Twelve Years of Marriage, Two Children. And Now, Embarrassment. “I’ll Wear the Black Dress,” She Said – The One You Bought Me Yourself. “It’s Not the Dress,” He Finally Looked Up. “It’s You. You’ve Let Yourself Go. Your Hair, Your Face… You’re Just Not Right. Vadim Will Be There With His Wife – She’s a Stylist. And You… You Understand.” “Then I Won’t Go.” “Smart Choice. I’ll Say You Have a Fever. No One Will Question It.” He Went for a Shower, While Nadia Stayed Standing Alone in the Kitchen. In the Next Room, the Kids Were Sleeping. Kirill is Ten, Svetlana is Eight. The Mortgage, the Bills, School Meetings. She Had Melted Into This House, and Her Husband Was Ashamed of Her. “Has He Completely Lost His Mind?” – Elena, Her Hairdresser Friend, Looked at Nadia as if She’d Announced the End of the World. “Too Ashamed to Bring His Wife to a Banquet? And Who Does He Think He Is?” “He’s a Warehouse Manager. Got a Promotion.” “And Now His Wife Isn’t Good Enough?” – Elena Poured Boiling Water into the Kettle, Harshly, Angrily. “Listen to Me. Do You Remember What You Did Before the Kids?” “I Was a Teacher.” “Not Work. You Made Jewellery. With Beads. I Still Have That Necklace With the Blue Stone. People Always Ask Where I Got It.” Nadia Remembered. She Used to Make Jewelry in the Evenings, Back When Denis Was Still Interested in Her. “That Was a Long Time Ago.” “It Was, So You Can Do It Again,” – Elena Moved Closer. “When’s This Banquet?” “Saturday.” “Perfect. You Come to Me Tomorrow. I’ll Do Your Hair and Makeup. We’ll Call Olga – She’s Got Dresses. And You Take Care of the Jewellery.” “Elena, But He Said…” “Oh, Forget What He Said. You’re Going to That Banquet. And He’ll be Scared Out of His Mind.” Olga Brought Over a Plum-Coloured, Floor-Length Off-The-Shoulder Dress. They Spent an Hour Fitting It, Pinned It to Size. “That Colour Needs Special Jewellery,” – Olga Fussed Around Her. “Silver Won’t Work. Gold’s Not Right Either.” Nadia Opened Her Old Jewelry Box. At the Bottom, Wrapped in Soft Cloth, Lay a Set – Necklace and Earrings. Blue Aventurine, Handmade. She Had Made It Eight Years Ago for a Special Occasion That Never Came. “My God, This is a Masterpiece,” – Olga Stared. “You Did This?” “I Did.” Elena Did Her Hair – Soft Waves, Nothing Excessive. Makeup – Subtle, Yet Striking. Nadia Put On the Dress, Fastened the Jewellery. The Stones Lay on Her Neck Cool and Solid. “Go Look,” – Olga Nudged Her Toward the Mirror. Nadia Approached. And Saw Not the Woman Who’d Washed Floors and Made Soups for Twelve Years. She Saw Herself. The Woman She Used to Be. A Riverside Restaurant. The Room Full of Tables, Suits, Evening Dresses, and Music. Nadia Arrived Late, As Planned. The Conversations Fell Silent for a Few Seconds. Denis Was at the Bar, Laughing at Someone’s Joke. He Saw Her – and His Face Froze. She Walked Past Without a Glance, Sat at the Furthest Table. Back Straight, Hands Calmly in Her Lap. “Excuse Me, Is This Seat Taken?” A Man of About Forty-Five, Grey Suit, Intelligent Eyes. “It’s Free.” “Oleg. Vadim’s Business Partner. Bakeries. And You, If You Don’t Mind Me Asking?” “Nadia. Warehouse Manager’s Wife.” He Looked at Her, Then at Her Jewellery. “Aventurine? Handmade, I Can Tell. My Mother Collected Stones. You Hardly Ever See Work Like That.” “I Made It Myself.” “Really?” – Oleg Leaned Closer, Inspecting the Work. “This is High Quality. Do You Sell Them?” “No. I’m… a Housewife.” “Odd. Hands Like Yours Shouldn’t Be Wasted at Home.” He Didn’t Leave Her Side All Night. They Talked About Stones, About Creativity, About How People Lose Themselves in Routine. Oleg Invited Her to Dance, Brought Sparkling Wine, Made Her Laugh. Nadia Saw Denis Watching From Across the Room. His Face Grew Darker by the Minute. As She Left, Oleg Walked Her to Her Car. “Nadia, If You Decide to Go Back to Jewellery Making – Call Me,” – He Handed Her a Business Card. “I Have Contacts Who Need This Kind of Work. Really Need It.” She Took the Card and Nodded. At Home, Denis Lasted Barely Five Minutes. “What Did You Think You Were Doing In There?! The Whole Night With That Oleg! Everyone Saw, You Know! Everyone Saw My Wife Clinging to Another Man!” “I Wasn’t Clinging. I Was Talking.” “Talking! You Danced With Him Three Times! Three Times! Vadim Asked What Was Going On. I Was Mortified!” “You’re Always Mortified,” Nadia Placed Her Shoes by the Door. “Ashamed to Take Me Out, Ashamed When People Look at Me. Are You Not Ashamed of Anything?” “Shut Up. Do You Think Putting On a Dress Makes You Something? You’re Nobody. A Housewife. Living Off My Money. Now Acting Like a Princess.” She Would Have Cried Before. Would Have Gone to Bed, Faced the Wall. But Something Inside Broke. Or Finally Fixed Itself. “Weak Men Fear Strong Women,” She Spoke Quietly, Almost Calmly. “You’re Insecure, Denis. You’re Afraid I’ll See How Small You Are.” “Get Out of Here.” “I’m Filing for Divorce.” He Was Silent. Looked at Her, and for the First Time, There Wasn’t Anger In His Eyes—But Confusion. “Where Will You Go With Two Kids? You Can’t Live Off Your Beads.” “I’ll Manage.” In the Morning, She Took Out the Business Card and Dialed the Number. Oleg Was in No Hurry. They Met in Cafés, Discussed Business. He Told Her About an Acquaintance Who Runs a Boutique Gallery. How Handmade Crafts are in Demand, How People are Tired of Mass-Produced Goods. “You’re Talented, Nadia. It’s Rare to See Talent and Taste Together.” She Started Working Nights. Aventurine, Jasper, Carnelian. Necklaces, Bracelets, Earrings. Oleg Collected the Finished Pieces, Took Them to the Gallery. Within a Week, He Called – Everything Was Sold. Orders Began to Grow. “Does Denis Know?” “He Doesn’t Even Speak To Me.” “And the Divorce?” “Found a Lawyer. We’re Starting the Process.” Oleg Helped. No Drama, No Heroics. Just Contacts, Helped Her Find a Rented Flat. When Nadia Was Packing Her Bags, Denis Stood in the Doorway Laughing. “You’ll Be Back in a Week. On Your Knees, You’ll Come Crawling Back.” She Closed the Suitcase and Left Without Reply. Six Months. A Two-Bedroom on the Edge of Town, The Kids, Her Work. Orders Came In Floods. The Gallery Offered Her an Exhibition. Nadia Started a Social Media Page, Posted Photos. Followers Grew. Oleg Visited, Brought the Kids Books, Called Regularly. Didn’t Push, Didn’t Pester, He Was Just There. “Mum, Do You Like Him?” Svetlana Asked One Day. “I Do.” “We Like Him Too. He Doesn’t Shout.” A Year Later, Oleg Proposed. No Kneeling, No Roses. Just During Dinner He Said: “I Want All Three of You With Me.” Nadia Was Ready. Two Years Passed. Denis Walked Through a Shopping Centre. After Being Fired, He Found Work as a Loader – Vadim Heard About How He’d Treated His Wife and Sacked Him After Three Months. Rented Room, Debts, Loneliness. He Saw Them Outside a Jeweller’s Shop. Nadia in a Light Coat, Hair Styled, Wearing the Same Aventurine Necklace. Oleg Holding Her Hand. Kirill and Svetlana Laughing, Telling Stories. Denis Stopped by the Window. Watched Them Get Into the Car. Watched Oleg Open the Door for Nadia. Watched Her Smile. Then Looked At His Own Reflection in the Glass. Worn-Out Jacket, Grey Face, Empty Eyes. He’d Lost a Queen. And She’d Learned to Live Without Him. And That Was His Most Terrible Punishment – To Realize Too Late What He’d Had… Thank You, Dear Readers, for Your Thoughtful Comments and Likes!

Im embarrassed to bring you to the dinner, you know, David mutters, barely glancing up from his phone.

La vida

06

Didn’t Expect This from My Husband: When Caring for Mum Puts Family Loyalties to the Test

Didnt See That Coming From My Husband Liz, we need to do something Claire sighed into the receiver. Whats happened?

La vida

02

The Hardest Part of Living with a Puppy Isn’t What Most People Think: It’s Not Braving Walks in the Rain, Cold, or Sleepless Nights, Not Missing Out on Holidays or Invitations Because He’s Not Welcome, Not the Fur on Your Sheets, Repeated Floor-Cleaning, Vet Bills, or Even Losing a Little Freedom—It’s Realising, Slowly and Painfully, That One Day He Can No Longer Run to You Like Before, and Accepting That While He Was Your Comfort, You Were His Everything… And Letting Go Hurts More Than You Can Ever Be Ready For

The hardest part about living with a puppy isnt what most people think. Its not having to take him out

La vida

05

Julia Waits by the Front Door: The Loyal Dog of Flat 22 and Her Unwavering Hope in a Quiet English Market Town, 1990s It all began one early June morning in a sleepy English town, when the screech of brakes outside the local bookshop revealed a wounded stray dog. The shop girls rallied—Vera, Natasha, and their manager, Mrs. Ellen Victor—and rescued Julia, the dog with lifeless hind legs. Despite bleak odds and a looming family move, Vera couldn’t help but form a deep bond. Through makeshift treatments, country cottage weekends, and the heartbreak of separation, Julia’s devotion endured. Even after Vera’s family left for distant work, Julia settled at the doorway of flat 22, faithfully awaiting their return—cared for by compassionate neighbours and determined to never leave. Reunited at last, the family braved trains, planes, and new adventures, all with Julia by their side. For thirteen unforgettable years, Julia followed Vera wherever life led, embodying hope, loyalty, and the magic of being loved.

Julia sat beside the entrance to the block of flats. All the neighbours knew that the family from number

La vida

02

A Husband’s Unexpected Kindness: When Irina Faced a Family Crisis and Her Devoted Fedya Proposed a Life-Changing Move for the Sake of Her Elderly Mother

Claire, we have to do something… sighed Sarah into the receiver. Whats happened? her younger sister

La vida

05

My Husband’s Family Forgot My 40th Birthday, So I Decided to Teach Them a Lesson — “Why is my phone so quiet tonight? Maybe it’s bad signal? Or they mixed up the dates? They couldn’t have just forgotten, could they, Andy? I mean, it’s my 40th—a big one, not just any birthday,” Elena said, swirling her wine glass, eyes fixed on her silent phone lying on the crisp white tablecloth… (Full-length adaptation and details preserved in the title as per instructions.)

Why is the phone quiet all evening? Maybe theres poor reception? Or perhaps theyve got the date muddled?

La vida

04

Two Columns She’d already slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager flashed up: “Could you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s got a fever, and there’s no one else to take it.” Her hands were wet from the sink, smudging the screen immediately. She wiped them on a towel and glanced at the calendar on her phone. Tomorrow was her one free evening—the one she’d planned to turn in early, ignore everyone, and rest before reporting in the morning, her head still throbbing. She typed, “I can’t, I have…” and stopped. Up surged that sickly feeling she knew so well: say no and you’ve let them down—you’re not that kind of person. She erased it and typed simply: “Yes, I’ll do it.” Sent. The kettle rumbled. She poured a mug of tea, sat on the stool by the window, and opened the note on her phone simply titled “Good Deeds.” The date was there already, with an entry: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a period and added a little plus sign, as if it somehow balanced the scales. She’d kept that note for almost a year. It had started on a January day, when the world felt especially hollow after Christmas and she needed proof her days weren’t just dissolving into nothing. The first entry: “Gave Mrs. Newton a lift to the surgery.” Mrs. Newton from the fifth floor walked with difficulty, medical papers pinched in her fist, and the bus ride was daunting. She’d rung the intercom: “You’ve got a car—could you take me? I won’t make it otherwise.” So she had. Waited outside while Mrs. Newton had her bloods done, drove her home. On the journey back she caught herself stewing with irritation. She was running late for work, her mind already circling other people’s complaints about waiting rooms and doctors. The irritation shamed her; she swallowed it down, washed it away with a cheap coffee at the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it up neatly, as if it had been pure. In February, her son had a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home anyway, it’s no bother,” he said—not asking, just telling her. The child was sweet, noisy, always after her attention: “Look, Gran,” “Play with me,” “Come on, let’s do this.” She loved him, but by evening her hands shook with tiredness, her mind rang like after a rock concert. After putting him to bed, washing up, collecting toys in the box—only for them to be dumped out again at dawn—she greeted her son, who chuckled: “Come on, you’re a grandma.” He kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” She added a heart, hoping it might blot out the obligation. March: her cousin phoned, asked to borrow some money until payday. “It’s for prescriptions, you understand,” she said. And she did understand. She sent the money, never asked when it would be returned. Then sat at her kitchen table, wondering how to get by till her own payday—skipping the new coat she’d long needed; the old one was worn shiny at the elbows now. On her list: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add: “Put off something for myself.” That seemed too petty to record. April at work: one of the girls, young, red-eyed, stuck crying in the loo after being dumped, saying no one cared. She knocked: “Let me in, I’m here.” Later, they sat on freshly-painted stairs, the girl repeating herself. She just listened, long into the dark, missing her back-strengthening class the doctor had ordered for her pain. At home, her lower back throbbed. She wanted to be angry at the girl, but the anger was for herself: why aren’t you able to say “I need to go home”? The note: “Listened to Katie, offered support.” She wrote her name; that made it warmer. But she didn’t write: “Cancelled my own plans.” June: she drove a colleague out to her allotment with bags when her car broke down. The whole drive, the woman bickered with her husband on speakerphone, never once checking if it was convenient. She just stared at the road in silence. At the plot, the colleague unloaded quickly: “Thanks, you were heading this way anyway.” Only, she wasn’t. The detour meant she missed seeing her mother, who was cross about it later. In her note: “Drove Tanya to her allotment.” “On my way” stung her. She stared at the screen until it blacked out. August, late at night, her mum rang. Thin, anxious voice: “I don’t feel well, my blood pressure’s up, I’m scared.” She rushed to her mother’s flat in a taxi through empty streets. The flat was stifling, blood pressure monitor on the table, pills scattered on a saucer. She took a reading, gave her the tablets, and sat close until her mother slept. Next morning: straight to work, not home. In the tube, she kept nearly missing her stop, eyelids heavy. The note: “Stayed with Mum overnight.” She put an exclamation mark, then erased it—sounded too loud. By autumn, the list had grown. It was now a ribbon you could scroll through endlessly. And the longer it became, the more she felt that odd sensation: as if she lived only by submitting reports; as if love itself was handed out by receipt, and she was stashing them on her phone, just in case anyone asked: “Do you actually do anything?” She tried to remember when there’d last been anything on the list for her. Not “for her,” but “because of her.” Every entry was about others—their pains, their requests, their plans. Her own wishes seemed like petty tantrums to be hidden. October brought a sting—there was no row, but it left a scratch. She dropped off documents her son needed, standing in the hall as he searched for keys and took a call. Her grandson ran in circles, shouting for cartoons. With the call on hold, her son said, “Mum, since you’re here, could you pop to the shop? We’re out of milk and bread, and I just won’t have time.” She said, “I’m tired, too, you know.” He didn’t even look up, just shrugged: “But you can. You always can.” And went back to his conversation. Not a request—an expectation. She felt heat rise inside her, and shame with it: the shame of wanting to say “no.” Of not wanting, suddenly, to be endlessly convenient. She went anyway. Bought the bread, milk, and apples—her grandson’s favourite. Put the bags on their table, heard: “Thanks, Mum.” The thanks was flat, like a tick in a register. She smiled and left. Home again, she wrote: “Brought shopping for my son.” She stared at the words. Her fingers trembled—not from tiredness, but from anger. The list, she realized, was no longer a prop. It was a leash. In November, she booked a doctor’s appointment; her back pain had become unbearable. She scheduled it Saturday morning—no need to call in at work. But Friday night, her mum phoned: “Will you come round tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I’m all alone.” “I have my appointment, Mum.” A pause. “Oh, right. I guess I don’t matter, then.” That always got her. She never failed to leap in, reassure, rearrange her life. She nearly did it again, was about to say, “I’ll come after”—but stopped. It wasn’t defiance—just exhaustion, like realising her life also counted for something. She said softly: “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need to see the doctor.” Mum sighed, as if left out in the cold: “Alright, then.” In that “alright” was everything—hurt, pressure, habit. She slept badly that night. Dreamed of running down hallways with files, doors shutting in her face. Next morning, she made herself porridge, took pills from her cupboard, and left. At the clinic, surrounded by conversations about check-ups and pensions, she thought less about her diagnosis and more about this: for once, she was doing something for herself, and it frightened her. Afterwards, she kept her promise. Picked up the prescription, trudged to the third floor. Her mum greeted her in silence, then asked, “Did you go?” “Yes.” And, not apologising: “I needed to.” For a second, her mum really looked—not at her as a function, but as a person. Then turned away. That night, heading home, she felt a strange relief. Not joy, but space—space where she might fit. By December, as the year closed, she found herself waiting for weekends not as a break, but as an opportunity. One Saturday morning, her son texted: “Could you watch your grandson for a few hours? We need to run some errands.” She read it, her fingers hovering automatically at “yes.” Sitting on the bed, phone warm in her hand, the flat silent except for the radiator ticking, she remembered her plans: that day, she’d wanted to go into town, visit a museum, see the exhibition she kept putting off. Just walk among the pictures in peace—no one asking where the socks were or what was for tea. She wrote: “I can’t today. I’ve got my own plans.” Sent, flipping the phone face-down as if that made saying it easier. Reply came a minute later. “Okay,” her son said. Then: “Are you upset with us?” She turned the phone over, read it, and felt that old urge—to explain, defend, smooth everything over. She could have typed a long reply: that she was tired, too, that she needed to live a little. But she knew explanations always covered her in guilt—and she didn’t want to haggle for her own time anymore. She wrote: “No. It just matters to me.” And nothing more. She packed for her day out as carefully as for work. Checked the iron, the windows, grabbed her purse and charger. At the bus stop, standing among people with their shopping bags, she felt a new, unfamiliar ease: she didn’t owe herself to anyone, not right now. At the museum, she took her time—watching the faces on the portraits, the hands, the way the painted light gathered in the windows. She felt as if she was learning all over again to be attentive, not to other people’s needs, but to herself. She had coffee in a small café, bought a postcard of her favourite painting, and slipped it into her bag. Sturdy card, pleasing under her fingers. Back home, she left her phone in her bag, only fetched it after her coat was hung and her hands washed, the kettle on again. Sitting at the table, she opened “Good Deeds.” Scrolled all the way to today’s date. She stared at the empty space. Then pressed the plus and typed: “Went to the museum alone. Chose my own company instead of someone else’s errands.” And paused. The words “instead of someone else’s errands” seemed too harsh, as if she were pointing fingers. She erased them and wrote, simply: “Went to the museum alone. Looked after myself.” And then she did something she’d never done before: at the top of her list, she added two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” At first, under “For Myself,” there was just the one line. She looked at it, feeling something inside realign—like a spine stretching out at last. She didn’t need to prove to anyone that she was good. She just needed to remember she was here. Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t rush. She poured her tea, took a sip, and then checked the message. Mum, short and to the point: “How are you?” She replied: “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” And before sending, added: “I was busy today.” Sent it and put the phone down, screen up. The flat was quiet, but the silence wasn’t heavy. It was a space—and for the first time, that space belonged to her.

She had just slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: Any

La vida

04

Two Columns She’d already slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager flashed up: “Could you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s got a fever, and there’s no one else to take it.” Her hands were wet from the sink, smudging the screen immediately. She wiped them on a towel and glanced at the calendar on her phone. Tomorrow was her one free evening—the one she’d planned to turn in early, ignore everyone, and rest before reporting in the morning, her head still throbbing. She typed, “I can’t, I have…” and stopped. Up surged that sickly feeling she knew so well: say no and you’ve let them down—you’re not that kind of person. She erased it and typed simply: “Yes, I’ll do it.” Sent. The kettle rumbled. She poured a mug of tea, sat on the stool by the window, and opened the note on her phone simply titled “Good Deeds.” The date was there already, with an entry: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a period and added a little plus sign, as if it somehow balanced the scales. She’d kept that note for almost a year. It had started on a January day, when the world felt especially hollow after Christmas and she needed proof her days weren’t just dissolving into nothing. The first entry: “Gave Mrs. Newton a lift to the surgery.” Mrs. Newton from the fifth floor walked with difficulty, medical papers pinched in her fist, and the bus ride was daunting. She’d rung the intercom: “You’ve got a car—could you take me? I won’t make it otherwise.” So she had. Waited outside while Mrs. Newton had her bloods done, drove her home. On the journey back she caught herself stewing with irritation. She was running late for work, her mind already circling other people’s complaints about waiting rooms and doctors. The irritation shamed her; she swallowed it down, washed it away with a cheap coffee at the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it up neatly, as if it had been pure. In February, her son had a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home anyway, it’s no bother,” he said—not asking, just telling her. The child was sweet, noisy, always after her attention: “Look, Gran,” “Play with me,” “Come on, let’s do this.” She loved him, but by evening her hands shook with tiredness, her mind rang like after a rock concert. After putting him to bed, washing up, collecting toys in the box—only for them to be dumped out again at dawn—she greeted her son, who chuckled: “Come on, you’re a grandma.” He kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” She added a heart, hoping it might blot out the obligation. March: her cousin phoned, asked to borrow some money until payday. “It’s for prescriptions, you understand,” she said. And she did understand. She sent the money, never asked when it would be returned. Then sat at her kitchen table, wondering how to get by till her own payday—skipping the new coat she’d long needed; the old one was worn shiny at the elbows now. On her list: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add: “Put off something for myself.” That seemed too petty to record. April at work: one of the girls, young, red-eyed, stuck crying in the loo after being dumped, saying no one cared. She knocked: “Let me in, I’m here.” Later, they sat on freshly-painted stairs, the girl repeating herself. She just listened, long into the dark, missing her back-strengthening class the doctor had ordered for her pain. At home, her lower back throbbed. She wanted to be angry at the girl, but the anger was for herself: why aren’t you able to say “I need to go home”? The note: “Listened to Katie, offered support.” She wrote her name; that made it warmer. But she didn’t write: “Cancelled my own plans.” June: she drove a colleague out to her allotment with bags when her car broke down. The whole drive, the woman bickered with her husband on speakerphone, never once checking if it was convenient. She just stared at the road in silence. At the plot, the colleague unloaded quickly: “Thanks, you were heading this way anyway.” Only, she wasn’t. The detour meant she missed seeing her mother, who was cross about it later. In her note: “Drove Tanya to her allotment.” “On my way” stung her. She stared at the screen until it blacked out. August, late at night, her mum rang. Thin, anxious voice: “I don’t feel well, my blood pressure’s up, I’m scared.” She rushed to her mother’s flat in a taxi through empty streets. The flat was stifling, blood pressure monitor on the table, pills scattered on a saucer. She took a reading, gave her the tablets, and sat close until her mother slept. Next morning: straight to work, not home. In the tube, she kept nearly missing her stop, eyelids heavy. The note: “Stayed with Mum overnight.” She put an exclamation mark, then erased it—sounded too loud. By autumn, the list had grown. It was now a ribbon you could scroll through endlessly. And the longer it became, the more she felt that odd sensation: as if she lived only by submitting reports; as if love itself was handed out by receipt, and she was stashing them on her phone, just in case anyone asked: “Do you actually do anything?” She tried to remember when there’d last been anything on the list for her. Not “for her,” but “because of her.” Every entry was about others—their pains, their requests, their plans. Her own wishes seemed like petty tantrums to be hidden. October brought a sting—there was no row, but it left a scratch. She dropped off documents her son needed, standing in the hall as he searched for keys and took a call. Her grandson ran in circles, shouting for cartoons. With the call on hold, her son said, “Mum, since you’re here, could you pop to the shop? We’re out of milk and bread, and I just won’t have time.” She said, “I’m tired, too, you know.” He didn’t even look up, just shrugged: “But you can. You always can.” And went back to his conversation. Not a request—an expectation. She felt heat rise inside her, and shame with it: the shame of wanting to say “no.” Of not wanting, suddenly, to be endlessly convenient. She went anyway. Bought the bread, milk, and apples—her grandson’s favourite. Put the bags on their table, heard: “Thanks, Mum.” The thanks was flat, like a tick in a register. She smiled and left. Home again, she wrote: “Brought shopping for my son.” She stared at the words. Her fingers trembled—not from tiredness, but from anger. The list, she realized, was no longer a prop. It was a leash. In November, she booked a doctor’s appointment; her back pain had become unbearable. She scheduled it Saturday morning—no need to call in at work. But Friday night, her mum phoned: “Will you come round tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I’m all alone.” “I have my appointment, Mum.” A pause. “Oh, right. I guess I don’t matter, then.” That always got her. She never failed to leap in, reassure, rearrange her life. She nearly did it again, was about to say, “I’ll come after”—but stopped. It wasn’t defiance—just exhaustion, like realising her life also counted for something. She said softly: “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need to see the doctor.” Mum sighed, as if left out in the cold: “Alright, then.” In that “alright” was everything—hurt, pressure, habit. She slept badly that night. Dreamed of running down hallways with files, doors shutting in her face. Next morning, she made herself porridge, took pills from her cupboard, and left. At the clinic, surrounded by conversations about check-ups and pensions, she thought less about her diagnosis and more about this: for once, she was doing something for herself, and it frightened her. Afterwards, she kept her promise. Picked up the prescription, trudged to the third floor. Her mum greeted her in silence, then asked, “Did you go?” “Yes.” And, not apologising: “I needed to.” For a second, her mum really looked—not at her as a function, but as a person. Then turned away. That night, heading home, she felt a strange relief. Not joy, but space—space where she might fit. By December, as the year closed, she found herself waiting for weekends not as a break, but as an opportunity. One Saturday morning, her son texted: “Could you watch your grandson for a few hours? We need to run some errands.” She read it, her fingers hovering automatically at “yes.” Sitting on the bed, phone warm in her hand, the flat silent except for the radiator ticking, she remembered her plans: that day, she’d wanted to go into town, visit a museum, see the exhibition she kept putting off. Just walk among the pictures in peace—no one asking where the socks were or what was for tea. She wrote: “I can’t today. I’ve got my own plans.” Sent, flipping the phone face-down as if that made saying it easier. Reply came a minute later. “Okay,” her son said. Then: “Are you upset with us?” She turned the phone over, read it, and felt that old urge—to explain, defend, smooth everything over. She could have typed a long reply: that she was tired, too, that she needed to live a little. But she knew explanations always covered her in guilt—and she didn’t want to haggle for her own time anymore. She wrote: “No. It just matters to me.” And nothing more. She packed for her day out as carefully as for work. Checked the iron, the windows, grabbed her purse and charger. At the bus stop, standing among people with their shopping bags, she felt a new, unfamiliar ease: she didn’t owe herself to anyone, not right now. At the museum, she took her time—watching the faces on the portraits, the hands, the way the painted light gathered in the windows. She felt as if she was learning all over again to be attentive, not to other people’s needs, but to herself. She had coffee in a small café, bought a postcard of her favourite painting, and slipped it into her bag. Sturdy card, pleasing under her fingers. Back home, she left her phone in her bag, only fetched it after her coat was hung and her hands washed, the kettle on again. Sitting at the table, she opened “Good Deeds.” Scrolled all the way to today’s date. She stared at the empty space. Then pressed the plus and typed: “Went to the museum alone. Chose my own company instead of someone else’s errands.” And paused. The words “instead of someone else’s errands” seemed too harsh, as if she were pointing fingers. She erased them and wrote, simply: “Went to the museum alone. Looked after myself.” And then she did something she’d never done before: at the top of her list, she added two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” At first, under “For Myself,” there was just the one line. She looked at it, feeling something inside realign—like a spine stretching out at last. She didn’t need to prove to anyone that she was good. She just needed to remember she was here. Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t rush. She poured her tea, took a sip, and then checked the message. Mum, short and to the point: “How are you?” She replied: “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” And before sending, added: “I was busy today.” Sent it and put the phone down, screen up. The flat was quiet, but the silence wasn’t heavy. It was a space—and for the first time, that space belonged to her.

She had just slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: Any

La vida

06

“I Know About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pale—though inside, everything clenched up tight, like scrap paper before it’s tossed into the bin. He simply froze. Lorraine stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The usual picture—back to her husband, a polka-dot apron, the smell of sizzling onions. Cosy, homely. But her voice, her voice was as cold and matter-of-fact as a BBC newsreader. Victor even wondered if he’d misheard. Maybe she was talking about the cucumbers—knew a good place to buy them? Or the neighbour from upstairs who’s selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Lorraine repeated, not turning around. That’s when the chill really hit him. Because in her tone, there wasn’t a trace of hysteria or accusation. None of what he’d dreaded—no tears, no broken crockery. Just a plain statement, as if she’d announced they were out of milk. Victor had been on this earth for fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of those with this woman. Knew her as well as his own hands: the mole on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkles her nose when tasting soup, the sigh she gives in the morning. But he had never heard that tone from her. “Lorraine—” he began, but his voice gave out. He coughed. Tried again. “Lorraine, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him for a long moment, calm, as if seeing him for the first time. Or rather, as if she was looking at an old photograph that had faded beyond recognition. “About, say… Marianne from Accounts,” she said. “2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. Not a figure of speech—he really felt as if he was floating, unsupported. God. Marianne?! He could hardly remember her face. There’d been something—at a work do? Or afterwards? Brief, nothing serious. He’d promised himself: never again. “And Sophie,” Lorraine continued, unruffled. “The one from the gym, who came up to you. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And how did she know about Sophie? Lorraine turned off the heat. Removed her apron—neatly, calmly, folded it in half. Sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I haven’t said anything?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak—because he couldn’t. “The first time,” Lorraine began, “was nearly ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Fridays especially. Came home cheerful, a spark in your eyes. Smelled of perfume.” She gave a humourless little smile. “I thought: maybe I’m imagining things? Maybe someone in the office got new perfume? Lied to myself for a whole month. Then I found the receipt in your jacket pocket—a dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. We’ve never even been to that restaurant, the two of us.” Victor wanted to say something—to explain, to lie, as he always did. But the words stuck in his throat. “You know what I did?” Lorraine looked him in the eyes. “Cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Greeted you with a smile. Didn’t say a word to our daughter—she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why let her know her dad…” She fell silent. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass. All men go through a midlife crisis—hormones, stupidity. He’ll come back, it’s fine. The main thing is the family stays together.” “Lorraine—” Victor forced out. “No,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He obeyed. “Then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone—never had a password. Thought I didn’t look? I read the messages. Those silly texts: ‘Miss you, bunny,’ ‘You’re the best.’ The photos—how you hugged them, grinned. Her voice faltered—but only for a moment. Then she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I’d ask myself: what’s the point? Why live with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted. “Lorraine, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love convenience. A tidy flat. A hot dinner. Ironed shirts. The kind of wife who doesn’t ask questions.” She stood up. Walked to the window. Stood, looking out into the darkness. “Do you know when I made my decision?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. She said, ‘Mum, you’re different. Quiet. Not yourself, somehow.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really don’t feel like myself. It’s been ten years since I lived for me.” Victor looked at her stiff, straight back—and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not might lose—he was losing. Here and now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he croaked. “Lorraine, please.” “But I do,” she answered simply. “The papers are in. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why now?!” Victor exploded. “Why not before?!” Lorraine turned. Looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then smiled, sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vic. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And for you, I was just… there. Always. Like air.” And that was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa—hunched, suddenly ten years older. Lorraine stood by the front door. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And a chasm. Huge, unbridgeable. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t,” she broke in. “You’ll manage. Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, stepped towards her. “Lorraine, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vic,” she raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what is it?” She paused. Gathering words—ones she’d wanted to say for years, but was afraid. Or didn’t know how. Or maybe just never thought she deserved to be heard. “You know how I felt? Every time you came back from one of your Mariannes or Sophies—I’d lie beside you and feel completely invisible. You didn’t even try to hide it! Your phone in plain sight. Shirts tossed into the laundry with lipstick on the collar. You honestly thought I was a fool. Blind.” Victor swayed, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean?” She stepped right up to him. There were tears glimmering—not of sorrow, but of fury. Years, decades of fury, finally breaking the surface. “You simply didn’t think of me at all. What did you think as you kissed someone else? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What difference does it make?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought of her. At all. Lorraine was just a given in his life. He was certain: she wasn’t going anywhere. She always would be. “You’d come home after your little adventures and feel fine. Because in your mind, nothing had changed. Wife—check. Family—check. All good.” She turned away. “But I wasn’t there. Not in your world. Not at all.” Victor stepped forward. Reached out—to touch her shoulder, to hold her, to keep her. Lorraine pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands instead. “Lorraine, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I swear it!” She looked at their entwined fingers. At his face—drawn, desperate. And suddenly understood: he really was afraid. Only not of losing her. He was afraid to be alone. “You know,” she said quietly, freeing her hands, “I was afraid too. Afraid to be alone. Without you. Without family. But you know what I realised?” She took her bag from the table. Keys. “I’ve already been alone. For years. With you beside me—but alone.” And headed for the door. Three weeks later. Victor sat in an empty flat—Lorraine had moved in with their daughter right after that conversation—and flicked through his phone. Marianne from Accounts. Sophie from the gym. Two, three other names in his contacts, once meaningful. He dialled Sophie’s number. She hung up. He texted Marianne—read, no reply. The rest didn’t even open it. Funny—when he was a married man, they’d all wanted to see him. Now, suddenly single… Nobody wanted him. He sat on that sofa, in a flat that now felt enormous and alien—and, for the first time in fifty-two years, truly felt alone. He picked up the phone again. Found “Lorraine.” Stared at the screen for a long time. His fingers trembled. Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then, finally, simply wrote: “Can I see you?” Reply came an hour later: “Why?” Victor paused. What could he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Pathetic. “I’ve changed”? A lie. He told the truth: “I want to start again. May I try?” Three dots flickered. Disappeared. Reappeared. Finally, a reply: “Come round on Saturday. To our daughter’s. Two o’clock. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would happen. Whether she’d forgive him. Whether she’d ever come back. If he even deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And, for the first time in years, felt truly ready to start afresh. If she’d let him. Should Lorraine have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted the truth and drawn the line at the first betrayal? What do you think?

I know about your little adventures, said his wife. Matthew went cold. No, he didnt flinch.

La vida

07

Olga Spent All Day Preparing to Celebrate the New Year: Cleaning, Cooking, and Setting the Table for Her First New Year Away from Her Parents and with Her Beloved for the First Time—But When Her Older, Penny-Pinching Boyfriend Tolik Showed Up Drunk with His Rowdy Mates, Her Dreams of a Romantic Night Collapsed, and She Learned Some Hard Truths About Love, Family, and Herself

Olivia had spent the whole day preparing for New Year’s Evecleaning, cooking, laying out the table