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Youre not a wife, youre just a maid. You dont even have children! Mum, Emilys going to stay with us for a while.

No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say there’s no one to talk to? I ring you twice a day,” her daughter asked, tiredly. “Oh no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina sighed sadly. “It’s just… I haven’t any friends or acquaintances my own age left—no one from my time.” “Mum, don’t be silly. You’ve still got your school friend Irene. Honestly, you’re so modern and look much younger than you are. Really, Mum, what’s got into you?” her daughter replied, upset. “You know Irene’s got asthma—she gets fits of coughing on the phone. And she lives all the way the other side of town. There were three of us, remember? I told you – Marinka’s been gone for years. Yesterday, Tanya from next door popped round. She’s a good woman, often visits. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her own family. Told me about her children and grandkids. She’s got grandchildren too, although she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her memories of childhood and school are completely different from mine. I do so wish I had someone my own age to talk to,” Nina said to her daughter, fully aware that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time hadn’t passed, it was still out there beyond the window. She didn’t feel this pull to reminisce. Svetlana was a good, caring girl—it wasn’t her fault. “Mum, I’ve got tickets for Tuesday night—remember how you wanted to go? Stop being down, come on and wear that burgundy dress—you look amazing in it!” “All right, darling, it’s fine, I don’t know what’s come over me—goodnight, we’ll talk tomorrow. Get an early night for once, you never sleep enough,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight,” Svetlana said and hung up. Nina gazed silently at the twinkling lights in the evening darkness…. Year 11—it was spring then too. So many plans. How recent it all seemed. Her friend Irene liked Serge Malory from their form. And Serge had liked her, Nina. He would call her evenings on the home phone, ask her out to walk. But Nina had only thought of him as a friend—why give him false hope? Later Serge joined the army. Came back and married. He lived in Irene’s old building. And his phone back then—it was a landline. The number… Nina dialled the old, half-remembered sequence. The ring didn’t come at once, then someone picked up, rustling could be heard, and then a quiet male voice answered: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it was too late—why had she called him? Maybe Serge didn’t even remember her, or maybe it wasn’t him at all. “Good evening,” Nina’s voice croaked slightly with nerves. There was more static and suddenly she heard an astonished: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d never forget your voice. How on earth did you find me? I was just here by chance…” “Serge! You recognised me!” A flood of joyful memories overwhelmed her. No one had called her by her first name in years—only “Mum,” “Granny,” or “Mrs Antrobus.” Well, except maybe Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, like spring, as if those years had never passed at all. “Nina, how are you these days? I’m so glad to hear you,” he said, and she felt an unexpected warmth. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t recognise her—or that she’d be bothering him. “Do you remember Year 11? When Vicky Vasutin and I took you and Irene out on that rowboat? He blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. And then we all ate ice cream on the promenade while the music played,” Serge’s voice was dreamy and far away. “I remember, of course I do,” Nina laughed happily, “and that time the whole form went camping in the woods—you remember how we couldn’t get the tins open, and we were all starving!” “Oh, yes,” Serge replied, joining in her laughter. “And Vicky finally opened them, and then we sang songs round the campfire with the guitar—you remember? That’s when I decided I’d learn guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice sparkled with youth as forgotten memories returned. Serge seemed to revive their shared past, more and more details tumbling out. “And how about now?” Serge asked, then answered himself, “But why am I asking—your voice says it all, you must be happy. Children, grandchildren? Still writing poetry? I remember! ‘Fade into night and return with the dawn’—so full of life! You always were a ray of sunshine! Just being around you could warm the coldest soul. Your family’s lucky—having a mum and gran like you is a treasure.” “Oh, Serge, don’t flatter me! My time’s past… I—” He interrupted: “Don’t say that! Your energy just about melted my phone! I’m joking, of course. I can’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—it doesn’t suit you. So, Nina, your time isn’t up yet. Live, and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Serge, such a romantic—you always were. But what about you? I’ve only talked of myself…,” but suddenly the phone crackled, popped and went dead. Nina sat holding the receiver. She thought about calling back, but decided it was too late, too much. Another time, perhaps. They’d talked so well, remembered so much… A sharp ring startled her. Granddaughter. “Hi, Dasha, yes, still awake. What did your mum say? No, I’m in a wonderful mood. Your mum and I are going to a concert. Will you drop by tomorrow? Lovely, see you then.” In high spirits, Nina went to bed. In her head were so many plans! As she drifted off, she formed lines for a new poem. In the morning, she decided to visit Irene. Only a few tram stops—she certainly wasn’t an old crock yet. Irene was delighted: “Finally! You’ve been promising for ages. Is that an apricot cake? My favourite! So, tell me all—” Irene coughed, holding her chest, but waved it aside. “It’s fine, new inhaler—it’s helping. Let’s get the tea on. Nina, you look years younger. What’s your secret?” “I don’t know—a fifth youth! Imagine, I phoned Serge Malory by accident last night. Do you remember—your crush in Year 11? He began reminiscing, I’d forgotten most of it. Why are you quiet, Irene, another attack coming on?” Irene sat pale, silent, and stared at her friend, then whispered: “Nina—you didn’t know? Serge died—it’s been a year now. He’d moved ages ago, lived in another part of town.” “Really? How can that be? But who did I talk to? He remembered every detail of our youth. I was so low before—and after our chat, I felt alive again, full of life and hope… How can that be?” Nina couldn’t believe Serge was gone: “It was his voice, I know it. He said such wonderful things: ‘The sun shines for you. The breeze chases clouds for you. The birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, as if unsure about Nina’s story. Then she said, “Nina, I don’t know how, but it seems it really was him. Those were his words, his way. Serge loved you. I think he wanted to lift you up—from wherever he is now. Looks like he succeeded. I haven’t seen you so lively in years. One day, someone will gather together all the tattered pieces of your heart. And you’ll finally remember what it is to be—simply happy.”

Mum, what are you talking about? No one to talk to? I call you twice a day, her daughter asked wearily.

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She Didn’t Want To, But She Did: Living Alone in Her Grandmother’s Cottage, Vasilysa Finds Herself Caught Between Village Gossip, Old Debts, and a Dangerous Crime—Until Policeman Anton Changes Everything

Didnt Want To, But I Did I never really learned to smoke properly, but for some reason I convinced myself

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The Ringtone on My Daughter-in-Law’s Phone Changed My Mind About Helping My Son’s Young Family Find a Home

The ringtone on my daughter-in-laws phone made me rethink my plans to help my sons young family find a home.

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A Silent New Year’s Eve: When the First Snow Brought Hope to Anna’s Lonely Heart

New Years Quiet November had drawn in, grey and wet the kind of bleakness that pressed against every

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My Sister-in-Law Wanted to Celebrate Her Anniversary at Our Place and Demanded We Vacate the Flat

The house on the old cobbled street of York suddenly hummed like a clock that had lost its hands.

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“You’re Not a Wife, You’re a Servant – And You Don’t Even Have Children! Helena Moves In with Her Mother-in-Law During Renovations, Sparking Tension at the Dinner Table and Forcing a Tough Family Decision”

Youre not a wife, youre just a maid. You dont even have children! Mum, Emilys going to stay here for a while.

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My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife Over for the Sake of the Kids—So I Checked Into a Hotel to Celebrate on My Own

My husband invited his ex-wife round for the boys, so I went to celebrate at a hotel Where are you putting

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021

Yesterday – Why on earth are you putting the salad bowl there? It blocks the finger food! And move those glasses, will you? Oleg’s coming soon, you know he likes space to wave his arms about when he talks. Victor fussed around, rearranging the crystal dishes and nearly dropping the cutlery. Galina let out a weary sigh and wiped her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since dawn, her feet aching as if she’d been walking miles, her back throbbing from the familiar spot just below her shoulder blades. But she had no time to complain. Tonight, they were expecting a “star guest” – her husband’s younger brother, Oleg. “Victor, calm down,” Galina said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. The real question is, did you remember to buy wholemeal bread? Last time Oleg moaned we only had white rolls, and you know he’s all about counting carbs these days.” “I got it, I got it – wholegrain, seeded, just how he likes,” Victor darted towards the bread bin. “Galina, is the meat ready? You know how he fusses about his food – goes to those fancy London places, he won’t be impressed by homemade burgers!” Galina pursed her lips. She knew all too well. Oleg, a forty-year-old bachelor who liked to call himself a “free-spirited artist” (although mostly living off odd jobs and help from their aging mother), considered himself a great foodie. Every visit felt like a test Galina was destined to fail. “I roasted pork shoulder in honey-mustard glaze,” she replied crisply. “Fresh from the market, cost £22 a kilo. If he turns his nose up at this, I’ve got nothing else.” “Don’t get defensive,” Victor grimaced. “He’s not been down for six months – he wants some proper family time. He’s going through a tough period, you know, searching for himself.” “Searching for money, more like,” Galina thought, but kept silent. Victor idolised his little brother, believed him a misunderstood genius, and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven, exactly. Galina tore off her apron, checked her hair in the hallway mirror, and put on her practiced smile. Victor was already throwing open the door, beaming like a freshly polished teapot. “Oleg! Mate! There you are!” Oleg appeared, it had to be said, looking quite dapper: trendy coat slung open, a scarf tossed artfully over his shoulder, scruffy designer stubble. He spread his arms wide for his brother’s hug, but only patted Victor vaguely on the back. Galina glanced at Oleg’s hands. Empty. No shopping bag, no box of pastries, not even a cheap bunch of daffodils. He’d turned up at their door, after half a year away, for a meal fit for a feast – and brought nothing at all. Not for them, not for the kids (thankfully at their grandma’s tonight), not even a Mars bar. “Hi, Galina,” he nodded, eyeing the hallway before taking off his shoes. “New wallpaper? Bit… clinical, isn’t it? Well, if it suits you.” “Hello, Oleg,” she replied, evenly. “Wash your hands. Here are new slippers.” “I didn’t bring my own. You know, wearing other people’s can give you foot fungus,” Oleg waved her off. “I’ll stick to socks. Floors clean, I hope?” Galina felt irritation bubbling. She’d cleaned up twice in his honour. “Clean, Oleg. Come on through.” They settled in the living room. The table looked elegant: crisp white tablecloth, fancy napkins, three different salads, meat and cheese platters, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. The centrepiece was steaming hot. Oleg leaned back, surveying the spread. Victor busied himself with the expensive five-year-old cognac he’d bought yesterday, just for Oleg. “To family!” cheered Victor, pouring the drinks. Oleg swirled his glass, sniffed, examined it against the light. “Armenian?” he grimaced. “Hmm. I prefer French – much subtler bouquet. This is a bit rough. Still, you know what they say about gifts…” He knocked it back in one, didn’t bother to savour, and made straight for the platters – picking out the priciest cut. “Help yourself, Oleg,” Galina said, sliding over a giant salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” Oleg speared a prawn, peered at it closely. “These were frozen, weren’t they?” he declared. “Well, obviously – we don’t live near the sea,” Galina replied. “Got them from Tesco, the jumbo sort.” “Oof, rubbery,” Oleg pronounced, dropping the prawn back. “You overcooked them. Strictly two minutes in boiling water. Avocado’s hard, by the way – not ripe.” Victor, mid-serving, froze with his spoon in the air. “Oh, come on, Oleg – honestly, it’s delicious! I tried it myself.” “Victor, you have to train your taste buds,” Oleg said piously. “If you live on cheap substitutes, you’ll never know proper gastronomy. Last week I was at this restaurant launch – they did scallop ceviche to perfection! And this… well, is the mayo homemade?” Galina flushed. The mayo was store-bought – “Hellmann’s”. She hadn’t had time to whisk eggs herself. “From the shop,” she answered coolly. “I see,” Oleg sighed, as if she’d confessed to a fatal flaw. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Absolute poison. Let’s have the meat. Hopefully, that’s edible.” Galina wordlessly dished up a big slice of roast pork, ladled sauce, added rosemary potatoes. The aroma should have been mouthwatering – for any normal guest. But Oleg was a “connoisseur”. He chewed, gazing into space. Galina and Victor waited, tense as exam students. “Dry,” Oleg pronounced. “And the sauce… honey smothers everything. Bit too sweet. Meat should taste like meat. You made dessert out of it, Galina. Marinated it too little. You want the fibres to split – a night in kiwi or sparkling water at least 24-hours.” “I marinated overnight in mustard and spices,” Galina replied gently. “Everyone loves it.” “Well, ‘everyone’ is a broad term. Maybe your work friends enjoy it; they haven’t tasted anything but carrots. I’m talking objectively. It’ll do if you’re starving, but there’s no pleasure.” He pushed aside the untouched £10 serving and reached for the mushrooms. “These home-pickled, or imported?” he quizzed. “Picked ourselves. Salted ourselves,” Galina snapped. Oleg nibbled, winced. “Too much vinegar. You’ll burn your stomach. And salty! You must be in love, Galina – salt means love, right?” He sniggered at his own joke. “Victor, mind your blood pressure eating like this.” Victor giggled nervously, desperate to keep the peace. “Oh, leave it, mate, they’re great. With vodka they’re ideal. Pour another!” They drank. Oleg flushed, loosened his scarf, but refused to take off his coat – as if signalling he’d pop off at any moment and was really doing them a favour being here. “No proper caviar, then?” Oleg poked at a sandwich. “This is tiny – full of bits. Tesco deal, I bet?” “Oleg, that’s wild salmon caviar – £50 a kilo,” Galina snapped, her voice quivering. “We bought it just for you – we never buy it for ourselves, we save.” “Skimping on food’s the worst thing you can do,” Oleg said, popping another “awful” caviar bite. “You are what you eat. I, for instance, would never touch cheap sausages. I’d rather go hungry. But people stuff their fridges with bargains, and wonder why they feel tired and look grey.” Galina looked at Victor. He stared at his plate, desperate to eat his dry pork and say nothing. His silence hurt even more than Oleg’s words. He’d once again buried his head in sand just to avoid clashing with his “precious little brother.” “Victor,” Galina asked, “do you think my meat’s dry too?” Victor choked. “Um… no, darling, it’s lovely. Honestly lovely. Oleg just… knows what tastes good, he’s got that palate…” “A fine palate,” Galina said, dropping her fork so it clanged like a pistol shot. “So my palate’s rough and thick. My hands are clumsy. I cook poison.” “Galina, please, don’t make a scene,” Oleg grimaced. “I’m giving you constructive feedback. So you can improve. You should thank me. You’re too used to Victor eating everything and singing your praises; you’re getting lazy. Women should strive to do better.” “Thank you? You want me to say thank you?” She stood. Her chair scraped the floor. “Galina, where are you going?” Victor asked, worried. “We’ve barely started.” “I’ll be back,” she answered in a strange voice. “Just fetching pudding. Oleg likes his sweets.” She went to the kitchen. Her handmade “Napoleon” cake, layered with homemade custard and real vanilla, stood untouched. She looked at the cake, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of hurt spilled over, drowning out all common sense. How many times had this man entered her home, eaten, drunk, borrowed and never repaid? How many times had he criticised her décor, her clothes, even her kids? And always, Victor had stayed quiet, defending Oleg as “sensitive and creative”. Galina was the strong one – tough as nails, right? She left the cake untouched. Instead, she picked up a tray and returned to the living room. “Dessert?” Oleg perked up, stretching his neck. “Hope it’s not a shop-bought Swiss roll?” Galina quietly, methodically, started clearing the table. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” prawn salad. Then the platters. “Hey, what are you doing?” Oleg protested as his plate of caviar sandwiches disappeared. “I haven’t finished!” “Why carry on?” Galina said, deadpan. “It’s all inedible. Dry meat, toxic mayo salad, rubbery prawns, bad caviar. I can’t let you poison yourself. I’m not your enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Galina! Stop! What’s this, some kind of show? Put it all back!” “No, Victor, this isn’t a show. The real circus is someone arriving empty-handed, gobbling up a meal paid for by a quarter of your wages, and then trashing the hostess.” “I didn’t trash anyone!” Oleg spluttered, flushing with outrage. “Just expressed my opinion! We live in a free country!” “Free, yes.” Galina loaded more dishes onto the tray. “And I’m free to choose who I feed at home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor quality food? I respect that. Stay hungry.” She spun around, carried the feast to the kitchen. Silence rang in the living room. “You’ve gone mad!” Victor hissed, rushing after her. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my own brother! Bring the food back! Apologize now!” Galina set the tray down, turning to Victor. No tears, just icy resolve. “I humiliated you? And when you sat nodding as he put me down, you weren’t ashamed? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? He wolfed down £10 of caviar and said it’s sub-par. When have you ever bought me caviar like that, just because? We save all the best things for ‘guests’. And the guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! My flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years I’ve done your laundry, cleaned, cooked. Last night I spent hours making all this food. For what? To be told I’m clumsy? If you say one more word blaming me, I’ll put the Napoleon on your head. I mean it, Victor.” Victor backed off. He’d never seen his wife like this – always gentle, patient, “convenient”. Tonight she was a fury, ready to destroy. Oleg appeared in the doorway, no longer confident, now flustered and offended. “Well… I’ve never had hospitality like this,” he drawled. “I came to you wholeheartedly, and you criticise me over a slice of bread?” “You come to us wholeheartedly? Where’s that heart shown – in empty hands? Have you brought a single thing to this house in all these years? Even a box of tea? You come only to eat and criticise.” “I’m broke right now! It’s a rough patch!” “Your ‘patch’ has lasted two decades. But there’s always money for new coats and presentation parties. Meanwhile, you ask Victor for £100 and never pay it back.” “Galina, don’t! Don’t count people’s money!” “They’re not ‘people’s money’ – they’re ours! Family money, taken from our kids to feed this ‘foodie’!” Oleg clutched his chest. “Enough. I’m done. I can’t stay another minute in this house. Victor, how did you end up with such a dragon? I’m never coming here again.” He stormed out. Victor chased after him. “Oleg, wait! Don’t listen to her, she’s probably hormonal or just tired from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Oleg put on his shoes over his socks. “Not after this insult. Don’t phone me till she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood frozen. Then slowly returned to the kitchen, where Galina calmly packed leftovers. “Are you happy?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve freed us from a freeloader,” she answered without looking up. “Sit. Eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you too?” Victor hunched at the table, head in hands. “How could you? He was a guest…” “A guest should act like one – not like an inspector. Victor, listen to me: I will never, ever, prepare another feast for him. If you want to see him, see him at his place or at a café. But pay for it yourself. No more of my time or money for him.” “You’ve become hard,” Victor mumbled. “No, I’ve become fair. Eat up. Or shall I put it away?” Victor stared at the pork. His stomach rumbled. He tasted a bite. It was perfect: tender, melting, savoury with a kick of sweetness. “Well?” Galina asked, noticing his blissful expression. “Delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Galina.” “Good. Your brother’s just a bitter failure who feels big criticising others. Understand that.” Victor chewed and thought. For the first time, he wondered if Galina was right. He remembered Oleg’s empty hands, dismissive tone, and how uncomfortable he always felt at his critiques. “And the cake?” he asked. “Are we eating it?” Galina smiled – for the first time that evening. “We are. And I’ll make your favourite tea with thyme.” She cut the Napoleon cake into hefty slices. They sat together, eating cake, sipping tea. The tension eased. “You know,” Victor said, polishing off a second slice, “he didn’t get Mum anything for her birthday last month. Said he was the best present.” “See?” Galina nodded. “You’re finally waking up.” Victor’s phone pinged. A message from Oleg: “Should’ve at least sent a couple sandwiches – I left hungry. Put £100 in my account for the emotional damage.” Victor read it out. Pause. Galina arched an eyebrow. “And what will you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their cosy kitchen, the scrumptious cake, then at his phone. Carefully, he typed: “Go eat at a restaurant, you’re the foodie. No spare cash.” Then hit “Block”. “What did you write?” Galina asked. “I said we’re off to bed.” Galina pretended to believe him, though she saw the screen. She squeezed his shoulder in a gentle hug. “You’ve got there, Victor. Even if it took you a while.” That evening, they realised something important about each other. Sometimes, keeping the family together means letting others out. Even if those others share your blood. And the roast, regardless of any self-proclaimed “food critic’s” opinion, was simply divine.

Yesterday Where are you putting that salad bowl? Its blocking the cold meats! And move those wine glasses

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“My Wife’s Mum Is Loaded, So We’ll Never Need to Work!” – My Friend Beamed with Confidence, But His Dream of an Easy Life Soon Came Crashing Down

My wifes mother is loadedwell never need to work! my friend beamed, his voice echoing in the attic of