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THE LAST LOVE “Irochka, I really have no money! I gave my last bit to Natasha just yesterday! You know she’s got two kids!” Utterly distressed, Anna Foster put down the phone. She would rather not recall what her daughter had just said to her. “How did it come to this? I raised three children with my husband, tried to give them everything. Got them all through university, well-settled in good jobs. Yet now, in my old age, I have neither peace nor help.” “Oh, Frank, why did you leave me so soon? It was all easier with you,” Anna thought wistfully of her late husband. Her heart seized painfully; her hand instinctively reached for her medicine: “Just one or two pills left. If things get worse, I won’t have anything to help myself. I should get to the chemist.” Anna tried to stand, but dropped straight back into her chair; her head spinning violently. “It’s fine, the tablet will kick in soon, and I’ll feel better.” But as time passed, she wasn’t feeling any better at all. Anna dialled her younger daughter. “Natasha…” – she barely managed to say. “Mum, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you later!” Anna tried her son. “Charlie, I’m not feeling well. I’m out of my medicine. Could you maybe after work…” – but her son didn’t let her finish. “Mum, I’m not a doctor, and neither are you! Call an ambulance, don’t wait!” Anna sighed heavily, “Well, he’s right, after all. If this doesn’t pass in half an hour, I’ll have to ring for an ambulance.” She carefully settled back in her chair and closed her eyes. Silently, to calm herself, she started counting to a hundred. A noise sounded distantly. What was that? Oh yes, the telephone! “Hello!” Anna answered, her mouth barely moving. “Anna, it’s Peter! How are you? I felt uneasy and just needed to ring you!” “Peter, I’m not well.” “I’ll come now! Will you be able to open the door?” “It’s always open these days, Peter.” Anna let the phone slip from her hand. She didn’t have the strength to reach for it. “Well, let it be,” she thought. Memories from long ago flashed before her eyes, like a film; she was a first-year student at the London School of Economics. Two dashing young officers, somehow clutching balloons. “How silly!” Anna had thought back then, “Such grown men, with balloons!” Oh yes, it was the ninth of May! Victory Day, a parade, joyful crowds. And there she was with her own two balloons, between Peter and Frank. She’d chosen Frank, simply because he was braver, while Peter seemed more reserved, almost shy. Their destinies diverged: she left with Frank for a posting in the country, while Peter was sent off to Germany. They met again years later, back in their hometown, when both men had retired. Peter had lived alone, never marrying, no children. People asked why he’d never settled down… He’d just wave them off, joking, “I’ve no luck in love—maybe I should start playing cards!” Anna could now hear unfamiliar voices nearby, a conversation. With effort, she opened her eyes. “Peter!” Standing next to him was presumably the paramedic. “She’ll be all right soon. Are you her husband?” “Yes, yes!” The medic gave Peter some instructions. Peter never left Anna’s side, holding her hand until she finally began to feel better. “Thank you, Peter! I feel so much better already.” “Good. Here, have some tea with lemon!” Peter busied himself in the kitchen, fussing over Anna. Even as she improved, he was nervous to leave her alone. “You know, Annie, I’ve loved only you all my life. That’s why I never married anyone else.” “Oh, Peter, Frank and I had a good marriage. I respected him deeply. He loved me. You never said anything back in the day. I never really knew how you felt. Still, what good does it do to talk about it now—all that is in the past.” “Anna, how about we spend what time we have left happily, together? However much we’re granted, let us be happy!” Anna rested her head on Peter’s shoulder and took his hand. “Let’s do it!” she laughed joyfully. A week later, finally, her daughter Natasha called. “Mum, you called—what was up? Sorry, I got caught up and completely forgot to ring back—” “Oh, that’s all sorted now. Since you’ve called, I wanted to tell you myself so it won’t be a shock— I’m getting married!” Silence on the line, just the sound of Natasha gasping, searching for words. “Mum, are you alright? The registry office has probably marked you as a permanent absentee, and here you are talking about getting married? Who is this lucky gentleman?” Tears pricked Anna’s eyes, but she managed to steady her voice. “That’s my business.” She hung up. Turning to Peter, Anna said, “Well, that’s done. The children will all come storming round tonight, be ready for a battleground!” “We’ll manage! We’ve survived worse!” Peter chuckled. That evening, all three arrived together: Charlie, Irene, and Natasha. “Well then, Mum, introduce us to your Casanova!” Charlie sneered. “No need for introductions; you know me,” Peter said, coming out from the other room. “I’ve loved Anna since we were young, and after seeing her so unwell last week, I realised I couldn’t bear to lose her. I asked her to marry me, and she kindly accepted.” “Look, you overgrown clown, have you lost your mind? At your age, talking love?!” Irene shrieked. “What ‘age’ would that be, exactly?” Peter asked calmly. “We’re not even seventy. There’s plenty of life in us both, and your mother is still a beauty!” “I take it the plan is to snatch up her flat, is it?” Natasha inquired, all lawyerly bravado. “Children, for goodness’ sake, what’s the flat got to do with anything? You all have your own homes!” “Regardless, we all have a share in this flat!” Natasha shot back. “I don’t want anything! I’ve always managed for myself!” Peter replied. “And be respectful to your mum, will you? I won’t sit here listening to rudeness!” “And who are you to open your mouth, you aged playboy? Who asked for your opinion?” Charlie blustered. But Peter didn’t budge. Standing tall, he looked Charlie squarely in the eye. “I am your mother’s husband, whether you like it or not!” “And we’re her children!” Irene shouted. “Yes, and first thing tomorrow, we’ll have her sent to a care home or an institution!” Natasha echoed. “Oh, not on your life! Come, Annie, we’re leaving!” The two of them walked out, hand in hand, never once looking back. It didn’t matter to them what anyone thought—they were happy and free. A lone streetlamp lit their way. The children watched them leave, unable to fathom: what kind of love could possibly exist at seventy?

THE LAST LOVE Emily, I really dont have any money! I gave the last of it to Helen just yesterday.

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05

The Letter Dennis walked home from work, the snow crunching pleasantly under his boots, memories of childhood filling his mind—sliding down hills on his school bag, snowball fights, eating icicles, those golden days… Suddenly, he heard a child crying. Looking around, he spotted a boy in a brown coat and grey hat, sobbing loudly on a bench, tears streaming down his cheeks. Dennis approached him. “Are you lost? Why are you crying?” “I lost my letter… I was carrying it in my pocket, then looked—and it was gone,” the boy wailed again. “Don’t cry, let’s look for it together. What letter is it? Did your mum give you something to post?” “No, I wrote it… to Father Christmas. Mum doesn’t know…” “Oh dear… But don’t worry, you can always write another.” “But it won’t get there in time now…” “Tell you what, you run home—it’s getting dark—and I’ll look for your letter. Deal?” “Alright… If you find it, will you really post it?” “I promise! And don’t worry—Father Christmas always knows what children write to him. Even if I can’t find it, I’m sure he’ll still bring you something…” The boy wiped his face on his coat sleeve and ran off. Poor lad. He’d tried so hard, only for this to happen… Dennis smiled, remembering the days he’d find gifts under the Christmas tree, convinced Father Christmas had read his letters. That was so long ago… Soon his own son would be writing Christmas letters—though for now, at just four, he couldn’t write yet. Dennis walked on, peering carefully at the ground, but there was no sign of the letter. Poor kid, he must have been hoping for something… Then he spotted the corner of an envelope poking from a snowdrift. He pulled it free—it was the letter! The paper was wet, but carefully, Dennis tucked it into his bag to avoid tearing it. At home, his wife Valerie was making dinner, and little Max played with his toy cars. Dennis cherished his family, so happy to come back to their warm home. “Valerie, you’ll never believe this,” he began. “I was walking just now and saw a boy, about eight, sobbing his heart out on a bench. He lost his letter to Father Christmas. And I found it! Let’s take a look…” Dennis pulled the envelope from his pocket. In a child’s handwriting it read: To Father Christmas, from Alex Leonard. “Shall we open it and see what he’s wishing for?” “Let’s, it never would have made it past the post anyway…” Dennis gently opened the envelope and unfolded a squared exercise paper, reading aloud: “Dear Father Christmas! It’s Alex Leonard, living at 97 Churchill Road. I’m nine and in Year 4. I love playing football and running around with my friends. I live with Mum Vera and Granny Lydia. We just moved into a little old cottage, kindly lent to us by people who wanted to help. We used to live with Dad in another town, but he drank vodka and hit Mum—a lot, and sometimes me, too. Mum and Granny (who’s Dad’s mum) would always cry, and so would I. It was awful with Dad, so we ran away and brought Granny with us. Father Christmas, please help Mum find a new job. She cleans floors, but she really shouldn’t be bending—her back’s bad. And please, give her a new dress, hers is all torn now. Mum’s tall, slim and so beautiful! For Granny, please bring medicine for her knees—she struggles to walk, though she’s not very old. Granny always dreams of a warm thick dressing gown, she gets cold a lot. My gran’s tiny and thin. And for me… I just wish for a beautiful Christmas tree, with lights and colourful baubles. Mum always put one up before, and we celebrated—until Dad got too drunk and knocked it over… I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear Father Christmas. Alex Leonard” Dennis finished and glanced at Valerie, who had tears in her eyes. “Oh, how moving… That poor boy—ran from a drunken father, and now they’ve nothing left. What a truly lovely request, you hardly ever hear children wishing for gifts for Mum and Gran these days—except for a Christmas tree, he asked for nothing for himself…” “They’ve clearly suffered a lot… And she took her mother-in-law with her, didn’t leave her behind. Good people, I’d say. Valerie, what if we make Alex’s Christmas wish come true? What do you think?” “That would be wonderful, Dennis. You know I grew up in a family like that; my father would terrorise us when he was drunk… My mum never found the courage to leave, not till he died did we have any peace…” “My work’s looking for an admin staff, we could offer the job to Vera—decent pay and no floor cleaning,” said Dennis. “Let’s ask the Simmons for their Father Christmas and Snow Princess costumes, pay Alex a visit. Let him believe in miracles… Let’s give them a real Christmas! I’ll buy Nana’s arthritis tablets—same as Mum’s—and find a soft pink dressing gown and a new dress for Vera; she’s about my size I think, shouldn’t be expensive, it’s sale season with Christmas coming…” “We’ve got a bit of money, no reason not to do a good thing, right, Dennis?” “I’m with you! You’re such a kind soul, Val…” Dennis hugged his wife. What happiness, to share these thoughts and so much understanding. The next day, Valerie bought a simple but beautiful dark green dress, a soft pink dressing gown, Nana’s medicine, chocolates, satsumas, ornaments, and fairy lights. Dennis added a cheap but cheerful smartphone—surely Alex didn’t have one. They borrowed the costumes, bought a little Christmas tree, and loaded the gifts into a big red sack. Dennis and Valerie dressed up and set off for the address from the letter, while their son Max stayed with his granny. An ancient, crooked cottage, a wonky garden fence. Lights on inside—they were home… Dennis took the tree, Valerie the sack, and they quietly knocked on the door. “Who is it?” called a tall, fair-haired woman in her mid-thirties—Vera, surely. Seeing Father Christmas, she hesitated. “Oh, we haven’t booked any visits… You must have the wrong address.” “Does Alex Leonard live here?” “Yes, he’s my son…” “Mum, who is it?” cried a boy, dashing from the living room. “Oh—Father Christmas!” “Hello, Alex! I got your letter, and here we are—with my granddaughter, the Snow Princess! May we come in?” “Mum, he got my letter! The man found it and posted it like he promised! Brilliant! Come in!” cheered Alex. Vera smiled, showing them inside. Granny, a petite, slim woman, peeked into the hall. Alex’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Christmas tree. “That’s ours? It’s beautiful, it smells like Christmas…” “That’s for you, Alex. Every child should have a beautiful tree. And here are the decorations and fairy lights. Now, I’ve got presents—but you’ll need to tell us a poem or sing a song. That’s my rule as Father Christmas…” Dennis spoke in a jolly, deep voice. Alex was too excited to think of anything, gazing at Father Christmas’s red suit and white beard in wonder. “Alex, I know you’re a good lad; the birds have told me so. You love your mum and gran and are good at school. Now, help yourself—take the gifts from the sack.” Alex looked at his mum for permission. She nodded, and shyly he reached in: a boxed, ribbon-tied dressing gown for Granny. Excitedly, he handed it over. “Granny, this is for you! I wrote for it in my letter!” “For me? Oh my—It’s beautiful!” said Granny, slipping it on, beaming. Next, Alex handed his mum the new dress, then Granny her medicine. Both women looked on in disbelief. Then, a huge bag of sweets and satsumas, and—on top—a box with a new smartphone. “For me? My own phone? Wow… Father Christmas, thank you so much for the presents! I knew—I believed you were real, and you didn’t let me down!” Alex cried overjoyed. “Wishing your family health and happiness! Now, we must go…” Dennis and Valerie packed the empty sack, ready to leave. Alex inspected his new phone. In the hall, Vera and Granny appeared. “Please—tell us, who are you? How do you know Alex?” “I found his letter—and my wife and I wanted to bring some Christmas cheer to your boy. He’s a wonderful lad. Here’s his letter back, and a business card—if you’re interested, do give me a call, we’re looking for an admin at my office, and you sound perfect for the role.” “Thank you so much… This is all so unexpected… Alex is over the moon, he believed so much, and thanks to you, his miracle came true…” Dennis and Valerie drove home in silence, hearts full of joy for the Christmas magic they’d brought this lovely boy and his family. Giving gifts is so often more rewarding than receiving—especially when you see that pure joy sparkling in a child’s eyes. The money spent meant nothing—they’d earn more soon enough. But the emotions, those are priceless…

A Letter David was walking home from work, the snow beneath his boots crunching pleasantly, and for some

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04

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.

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010

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?

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08

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

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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

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06

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

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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?

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06

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

05

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