Trending Link

He Set His Sights on Another Man’s Wife Living together, Dudley revealed himself as a spineless and weak-willed man. Every day depended on the mood with which he woke up. Occasionally, he’d be cheerful and lively all day, cracking jokes and laughing heartily. But most of the time, he was wrapped in gloomy thoughts, drinking cup after cup of tea, and wandering around the house as moody as any stereotypical tortured artist. And indeed, he considered himself one—Victor Dudley worked in a village school, teaching art, woodwork, and sometimes music if the regular teacher was off sick. He longed for creativity, yet couldn’t fully unleash his artistic potential at school, so he took it out on the house—Victor converted the biggest and brightest room into his own studio. This room, incidentally, was the one Sophie had earmarked for a future nursery. But the house belonged to Victor, so Sophie didn’t object. Dudley filled the room with easels, scattered tubes of paint and clay everywhere, and created—he painted obsessively, sculpted, modelled… He might devote an entire night to a peculiar still life or spend the whole weekend making an inscrutable figurine. He never sold his “masterpieces”—everything stayed at home, so every wall was covered with paintings (which, by the way, Sophie didn’t care for), and the cupboards and shelves bowed under the weight of his clay figures and statuettes. And if only these had been beautiful things—but no. The handful of old art school friends who occasionally visited always fell silent, averted their eyes, and sighed while examining his paintings and sculptures. Not one of them ever offered a compliment. Only Leo Percival, who, by the way, was the oldest of the lot, exclaimed, after a bottle of rowanberry gin: “Oh my, what an absolute load of rubbish! What is this supposed to be? I haven’t seen one thing worth a glance in this house—apart from the lovely lady of the house, of course.” Dudley took the criticism badly, shouting, stamping his feet, and demanding his wife throw the rude guest out. “Get out! You scoundrel! You’re the one who knows nothing about art, not me! Ah, now I see the truth—you’re just jealous you can’t hold a paintbrush with your drink-shaking hands, so you belittle everyone and everything!” …Leo dashed down the front steps and lingered at the garden gate. Sophie caught up with him to apologise for her husband: “Please, don’t take what he said seriously. You shouldn’t have criticised his work, but I should’ve warned you how sensitive he is.” “There’s no need to explain, dear girl,” Leo nodded quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll call a taxi and head home. But you have my sympathies. You’ve got such a beautiful house, but Victor’s dreadful paintings spoil the lot! And those ugly clay figures—honestly, you should hide them from visitors. Knowing Victor, I imagine life’s difficult for you. But this is how it is with us artists—what we create reflects our souls! And Victor’s soul is as empty as all these canvases.” Kissing Sophie’s hand, he left the inhospitable house. Victor raged for days, smashing sculptures, tearing up paintings, and flying into tantrums for a month before he calmed down. *** Throughout all this, Sophie never argued with her husband. She’d decided that in time, when they had children, he’d give up his hobbies and convert the studio into a nursery, but until then, she’d indulge his fancies. For a while after their wedding, Victor put on an act as the model husband, bringing home fruit and his salary, caring for his young wife. But that soon stopped. He grew cold towards her and stopped sharing his wages. Sophie was left caring for the home and her husband alone. There was also the garden, the chickens, and her mother-in-law to look after. …Victor was initially overjoyed at the news of a baby on the way, but the joy was short-lived—within the week, Sophie fell ill, was hospitalised, and lost the pregnancy early on. Victor was transformed by the news: he became sullen, nervous, shouted at his wife and locked himself in the house. Sophie barely made it home from the hospital, only to find Victor refusing to let her in. “Open up, Vic!” “I won’t,” Victor whimpered from behind the door. “Why have you come back? You were meant to carry my baby, but you couldn’t handle it! And today, because of you, my mum has ended up in hospital with a heart attack! Why did I even marry you—you’ve brought nothing but trouble! Don’t stand on the doorstep, go away! I don’t want to live with you anymore.” Sophie’s vision blurred, and she sat down on the steps. “Vic, please… I’m suffering too—open the door!” He didn’t respond, and Sophie sat outside until dark. At last, Victor emerged, thin from grief, locking up behind him but fumbling with the unfamiliar lock—he never really knew where things were, always asking Sophie. Without looking at her, he strode off. When he was gone, Sophie let herself in and collapsed onto the bed. She waited all night for him. The next morning, a neighbour brought terrible news: Sophie’s mother-in-law had died after her heart attack. What happened destroyed Victor. He quit his job, took to his bed, and confessed to Sophie: “I never loved you, and I don’t. I only married you because my mum wanted grandchildren. But you ruined our lives and I’ll never forgive you.” The words hit hard, but Sophie decided not to leave her husband. Time passed, but nothing improved. Victor still refused to get out of bed, lived on water, barely ate. His ulcer worsened, he grew more apathetic, eventually stopped getting up at all, claiming he was too weak from lack of food and vitamins. And then the divorce papers arrived. Sophie wept for days. She tried to embrace Victor, kiss him, but he pushed her away and whispered that as soon as he recovered, he’d throw her out. She’d ruined his life. *** Sophie had nowhere to go—her own mother, having all but married her off straight from school, soon set off to live with a widower down by the seaside. She remarried, briefly returned home to sell the house, and left Sophie homeless. She was trapped by circumstance. *** One day, every scrap of food in the house was gone. Sophie boiled up the last egg, scraped out the last bit of porridge, and spoon-fed Victor. Yes, life had decreed it so—Sophie might have been feeding her own baby by now, had she not overexerted herself with chores, but instead she had to cater to her ex-husband, who did nothing for her. “I’m just popping to the village fete. I’ll try to sell or trade the chicken for food.” Victor, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, croaked, “Why sell it? Make me some broth. I’m tired of porridge.” Sophie twisted the hem of her only dress. “You know I can’t bring myself to—I’d rather trade her. She’s attached to me.” “‘Pesto’—you give the chickens names? How silly. But I shouldn’t be surprised, not from you…” Sophie bit her lip. “If you’re off to the fete,” Victor perked up, “take a couple of my sculptures and paintings—maybe someone will buy them?” Sophie tried to avoid this, but Victor insisted. She grabbed two poorly made bird-shaped whistles and a big, lumpy piggy bank, then hurried out, dreading he’d chase after her with more “art”. After all, she was mortified at the thought of trying to sell his dreadful paintings. *** The day was sweltering. Sophie, in her thin summer dress, sweated in the heat. She stopped by the last stall, clutching the chicken. She hated parting with her beloved hen, the one she’d nursed back to health years before. The bird tried to poke out of the bag, pecking her hand as if sensing her sadness. *** An older stallholder spotted Sophie. “Fancy some jewellery, love? Got silver, gold-plated, lovely chains.” “No, thank you. I’ve come to sell a live hen—she lays big eggs.” “A hen? What’ll I do with her…” Then a young man at the stall perked up. “Show me the chicken.” Sophie nervously passed the chicken to him. “How much? That cheap—what’s the catch?” “She limps a bit, but she’s otherwise healthy.” “I’ll buy her. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the clay ornaments. “Just some figurines, whistles, and a piggy bank. All handmade. I really need the money.” “I’ll take the lot. I love unusual things.” The jewellery seller snorted. “What do you want with that, Dennis? Toys? Go help your brother with the BBQ.” When Sophie realised he ran the grill stall, she panicked. “Wait! If you’re selling barbecue, I can’t sell you my hen! She’s not a meat bird!” Dennis dodged, holding onto the chicken. “Relax—I’ll give her to my mum. She keeps hens.” “You promise?” He smiled warmly. “Of course. You can come visit her any time. Didn’t know chickens had names.” *** As Sophie walked home, Dennis pulled up in his car. “Excuse me, miss—do you have more clay figurines? I could buy some—for gifts, you know.” Sophie, squinting at the sun, smiled. “We have loads at home!” *** Back at the house, Victor, waking up to the sound of voices, groaned. “Who’s there, Soph? Bring me some water, I’m thirsty.” Standing at the door, Dennis glanced around and eyed the paintings. “Amazing,” he whispered. “Who painted these—was it you?” he asked Sophie as she passed with a glass of water. “I did!” Victor called from bed. “And I didn’t paint—I create!” Propping himself up, Victor stared at the guest. “Why do you care about my pictures, anyway?” he whined. “I like them. I’d like to buy them. And the sculptures—whose are those?” “They’re mine too!” Victor snapped. Shuffling out of bed, Victor hobbled over, eager to show off his “art”, oblivious to the fact that Dennis only had eyes for Sophie. *** EPILOGUE Sophie was astonished by her ex-husband’s “miraculous recovery”. Victor had never been ill—in fact, he perked up as soon as someone showed an interest in his “art”. Dennis came by every day, buying up all the pictures, then the figurines. Victor feverishly made more, but was blind to the real attraction. With every visit, Dennis spoke at length to Sophie on the porch, and—slowly but surely—feelings blossomed. Eventually, Dennis took what he’d always wanted from the Dudley house—Sophie herself. Whenever Dennis returned from the village, he tossed Victor’s paintings on the fire and stashed the grotesque clay figures in a sack, still unsure where to get rid of them. He remembered Sophie’s lovely face—how he’d noticed her at the fete in her summer dress, instantly knowing she was his destiny. Learning of her wretched home life with a delusional “artist”, he had no choice but to come every day, buying dreadful art just to see her. In the end, Sophie realised it too. *** Victor Dudley never saw it coming. Dennis stopped visiting as soon as he married Sophie and took her away. Victor heard about it and, in bitter retrospect, realised he’d been outsmarted. The truth is, finding a good wife isn’t easy—and Sophie had been one. She put up with everything, cared for him, loved him, but Victor had thrown it all away. Too late, he realised he’d lost his greatest treasure. Who would ever look after him again, feed him, fetch his water, or care for his house? He’d lost the best wife he could ever wish for—because he set his sights on someone else’s treasure and never appreciated his own.

Set His Eyes on Another Mans Wife Looking back over the years, I remember how Victor Dudley revealed

La vida

Every Tuesday Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic bag in her hand—a symbol of today’s failed mission: two hours wasted wandering through shopping centres and still no clue what to gift her goddaughter, her best friend’s ten-year-old daughter, Sophie, who’d outgrown unicorns and discovered a love for astronomy. Finding a proper telescope for a sensible price turned out to be a cosmic challenge. Evening had fallen, and the fatigue of the day pressed heavily in the tunnels. Skipping past the crowd pouring out of the carriage, Liana squeezed toward the escalator. Just then, a clear, emotionally charged snatch of conversation broke through the familiar Underground din. “…I never thought I’d see him again, honestly,” came a young, slightly trembling voice from behind. “Now, every Tuesday, he’s the one picking her up from nursery. Driving over in his own car, taking her to that same park with the old-fashioned merry-go-round…” Liana stilled on the downward-moving escalator. She glanced back, catching a flash of bright red coat, an animated face, sparkling, excited eyes. And a friend, nodding, listening attentively. “Every Tuesday.” She too had once had a day like that. Three years ago. Not the Monday with its heavy start, not the promise of a Friday. Tuesday. The day her world revolved around. Every Tuesday at precisely five, she’d dash out of the secondary school where she taught English Literature and sprint across the city to the old brick music academy on Baker Street. She’d pick up Oliver—her seven-year-old nephew with a violin nearly as tall as he was. Not her child, but her late brother’s son. Her brother Daniel, who died in a terrible accident three years before. Those early Tuesdays had been survival rituals. For Oliver, newly silent and withdrawn. For his mother, Laura, who barely managed to get out of bed. For Liana herself, striving to piece together the broken fragments of their shared life, becoming anchor and guide in their tragedy. She remembered every detail: Oliver emerging from class, head down. The way she’d take his heavy violin case wordlessly. The walk to the station, where she’d share stories—about a funny slip-up in an essay, about a raven who swiped a schoolboy’s sandwich. One rainy November, Oliver asked: “Auntie Liana, did Dad hate the rain too?” Heart clenching, she whispered: “He did. He’d always dash for cover.” Then he grasped her hand in his, holding not for guidance, but to clutch hold of a vanishing memory. In that squeeze, all his longing and the aching truth that his dad—his real dad—had once rushed through the rain, existing not just in memories, but right there, in the misty November air. For three years, her life had been divided into ‘before’ and ‘after.’ And Tuesday was the pulse of her real living. She prepared for it: bought apple juice Oliver loved, downloaded silly cartoons for the tube, planned their conversations. Then, gradually, Laura recovered—found a new job, even new love, and decided to start fresh in another city. Liana helped them pack, zipped Oliver’s violin into its case, and hugged him hard at the platform. “Call, message anytime. I’m always here.” At first, he rang every Tuesday at six. For a few minutes, she got to be Auntie Liana again, squeezing all her questions into a brief, precious quarter hour. Later, calls turned fortnightly. There was schoolwork, new friends, video games. “Sorry, Auntie, missed last Tuesday—had an exam,” the texts would say. Now her Tuesdays were marked by waiting for the next ping, the next message. Sometimes none would come—so she’d send one herself. Then calls came only on special occasions—birthdays, Christmas. His voice had deepened. He spoke not of himself, but with broad brushstrokes: “I’m good.” “All fine.” “Just revising.” His stepdad, Simon, was a gentle, steady presence who didn’t try to replace Daniel, but just quietly cared. That was enough. A baby sister, Alice, recently joined their family. In photos, Oliver held the bundle with awkward, touching tenderness. Life, cruel and kind, moved on—layering over wounds with routines, caring for the baby, school, new futures. In this new life, Liana remained just “the aunt from before”—her role still precious, but smaller now. Now, amid the rush and rumble of the Underground, those chance words—“every Tuesday”—sounded not as a reproach, but as a quiet echo. A greeting from the Liana she once was: carrying immense, burning responsibility and love—her greatest wound, her greatest gift. She had known then that she was vital—a lifeline, a lighthouse, the linchpin in a little boy’s week. She was needed. The lady in red had her own story, her own hard compromise between past and present. Yet this rhythm, this ritual of “every Tuesday,” was its own language—the language of reliable presence: “I am here. You can count on me. You matter to me, right here, right now.” It was a language Liana once spoke fluently, now almost forgotten. The train moved off. Liana straightened her back, gazing at her reflection in the dark window. At her stop, she stepped onto the platform, already knowing what she’d do tomorrow—order two identical telescopes, affordable but decent. One for Sophie. One for Oliver, shipped to his new home. When it arrived, she’d write: “Ollie, this is so we can study the same stars, even from different cities. Next Tuesday, six o’clock, if the sky’s clear, shall we both look for the Great Bear? Let’s synchronise our watches. Love, Auntie Liana.” Up the escalator she went, towards the cold, crisp evening of the city. The coming Tuesday was no longer empty—it had been appointed again. Not a duty, but a gentle pact between two people bound by memory, gratitude, and the unbreakable thread of family. Life continued. And in her calendar, there were still days not only to be lived, but to be set aside—days appointed for quiet miracles, for looking at the same sky across hundreds of miles, for memories that warm instead of hurt, for love that has learned the language of distance, and only grown quieter, wiser, and stronger.

Every Tuesday Lucy rushed through the tube station, clutching an empty plastic bag in her hand.

La vida

A Lingering Bad Feeling “It’s over—there won’t be a wedding!” exclaimed Marina. “Wait, what happened?” stammered Ilya, “Everything was fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Sure, fine. Except—” She paused, struggling to find a way to explain… and eventually blurted out the honest truth: “Your socks stink! I cannot breathe that for the rest of my life!” “You actually said that?” gasped Marina’s mother when she announced she was withdrawing the wedding application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the now ex-bride, “It’s true. Don’t tell me you never noticed it.” “I noticed, of course,” her mum admitted, embarrassed. “But that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a nice guy. The socks—well, you can sort that.” “How? Teach him to wash his feet? Change socks? Use deodorant? Mum, listen to yourself! I was supposed to get married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an oversized child!” “Then why go so far? Why even put in the application?” “That’s on you, Mum! ‘Ilya’s a good lad—a kind soul. I really like him,’ your words! And these: ‘You’re twenty-seven. Time to get married and give me some grandchildren.’ Suddenly quiet, eh?” “Well, Marina darling, I didn’t think you were still unsure. I thought you two were serious,” Mum replied. “And I’m glad I didn’t misjudge you—you’ve thought it through and made your decision. But this ‘socks smell’—that’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you.” “I did it on purpose, Mum. In his language—so there’s no going back…” *** At first, Ilya seemed funny and a little clumsy to Marina. Always in jeans and the same T-shirt, not showing off about Picasso but able to talk for hours about old films. His eyes sparkled. He was easy and calm. That calmness drew in Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and chasing ‘the one’. Two months of cinema and cafés later, Ilya shyly invited her: “Want to come over? I’ll make you dumplings. Handmade!” So homey and warm—Marina’s heart skipped. The ‘handmade’ bit sealed the deal. She agreed. *** Ilya’s place underwhelmed Marina. No dirt, but chaos, tasteless and neglected. Grey walls without wallpaper, an old battered sofa with a single worn bolster instead of cushions. Boxes, books and old magazines scattered everywhere. Trainers in the middle. The air was stale, with dust and damp. It felt like a halfway house no one really lived in. “So, what do you think of my castle?” Ilya spread his arms, beaming with pride—completely oblivious to anything odd. Marina forced a smile; she liked him and didn’t want a row. The kitchen was no better—table with a fine layer of dust, sink full of dirty plates and cups with black stains, battered saucepan on the hob. Marina’s eye caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” she thought. Her mood sunk. Distractedly Marina listened to Ilya telling stories, trying to make her laugh. When he offered her a bowl of dumplings, she refused on grounds of being on a diet. No way was she eating anything made in that kitchen. Back home, Marina analysed the visit. On the surface, the mess was minor—so what, he lives alone and isn’t house proud. Big deal? But behind it all, Marina saw something deeper and unsettling. How can anyone live like that? Not just laziness… Ilya saw nothing wrong with it. A lingering bad feeling remained… *** Then Ilya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed the paperwork. Parents started preparing for the wedding. It was nice being a bride—but every time Marina found herself alone, thinking of Ilya making dumplings and telling jokes, the image of that grimy kettle popped into her mind. She realised: it wasn’t just a kettle. It was evidence—of Ilya’s attitude to life, to his home, to himself, and probably to her. One day, Marina pictured their future morning together and was horrified. She’d get up, see half-drunk tea and crumbs. Say, “Darling, can you tidy up?” and he’d look stunned, just like in his flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t shout—he’d just… not get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. And her love would die, slowly and surely, from a thousand tiny cuts he barely noticed. And her mum’s delighted she’s marrying. *** Married… All the warmth Marina felt with Ilya slowly dissolved, replaced by a heavy, sticky tension. “Marina,” Ilya asked anxiously almost every day, “We’re okay, right? We love each other?” “Of course,” she replied, feeling something inside her break. Eventually Marina couldn’t cope—she poured out her worries to her friend. “So what?” her friend Katya didn’t get it. “Dust, a kettle… My husband could leave a tank in the kitchen and never notice. Men just don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see it,” Marina whispered. “He’ll never see it. But I will—forever! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, she didn’t blame him. He’d never lied—only lived in a different world, where dishes in the sink were normal. For Marina, it signalled total incomprehension and indifference. It wasn’t even about cleanliness. It was about seeing the world differently, a fault line waiting to become a chasm. Better to end it now, than fall to the abyss years later. She waited for the right moment… *** Marina and Ilya were invited to a party. They arrived, took off their shoes in the hall… Entered the room… An awful stench followed them. Marina didn’t realise the source right away. But then she did—and so did everyone else. Burning with embarrassment, she dashed back to the hallway, dressed, and left. Ilya chased after her, grabbed her hand. She turned and threw it at him, almost with hatred: “Enough! The wedding is off!” *** No wedding happened. Marina believes she did the right thing and has no regrets. As for Ilya… He still doesn’t get it. What was the problem? So his socks stank? He could have just taken them off…

A Dreadful Aftertaste Its over, there wont be a wedding! exclaimed Charlotte. Wait, whats happened?

La vida

For Better or Worse: The Story of Antonia’s Early Widowhood, Her Daughter Nina’s Move Up North, A Struggle for Livelihood, New Neighbours, Heartbreak—and Finding Love Again in the English Countryside

For Better, For Worse Margaret was widowed young, at forty-two. By that time, her daughter, Alice, had

La vida

As the Sun Set Over the English Countryside, Ben’s Solitary Woodland Stroll Turns Heroic When He Rescues an Injured Shepherd Mix Pinned Beneath a Fallen Log, Finding an Unlikely Companion Amid Nature’s Quiet Chaos

The sun was just slipping behind the rolling English countryside when Ben readied himself for his evening stroll.

La vida

017

Nan Always Favoured One Grandchild — And what about me, Nan? — Katya would quietly ask. — You, Katya, are just fine as you are. Look at those rosy cheeks! Walnuts are for the brain, Dima needs to study, he’s a man, the family’s rock. You, off you go, dust the shelves. A girl needs to get used to work. — Kat, are you serious? She’s on her way out. The doctors say a couple of days, maybe hours… Dima stood in the kitchen doorway, nervously fumbling his car keys. He looked a total wreck. —I’m absolutely serious, Dima. Cup of tea? — Katya didn’t even turn, methodically slicing an apple for her daughter. — Sit down, I’ll make a fresh pot. —Tea? Now? Kat? — Her brother strode further in. — She’s there with all the tubes, wheezing… She called for you this morning. ‘Katyenka,’ she said, ‘where’s my Katyenka?’ My heart nearly stopped. Won’t you go? It’s Nan. Your last chance to say goodbye, don’t you get it? Katya laid the apple slices on a plate before finally meeting her brother’s gaze. — For you, she’s Nan. For her, you’re Dima, her golden boy, her only hope and heir. But I… I never truly existed for her. Do you honestly think I need this ‘farewell’? What are we meant to talk about, Dima? What am I supposed to forgive her for? Or she me? — Stop it with this schoolyard sulk! — Dima slammed his keys on the table. — So she loved me more. So what? She’s old, stuck in her ways. She’s dying! You can’t be this… cruel. —I’m not cruel, Dima. I just feel nothing for her. Go yourself. Sit with her, hold her hand—the only presence she wanted was yours. You’re her sunshine, her life. So be her light to the very end! Dima shot his sister a dark look, turned, and left, slamming the door behind him. Katya sighed, picked up the plate of apple, and went to her daughter’s room. *** In their family, everything had always been neatly divided. No, their parents loved them both equally—Katya and Dima. Their home was always warm, noisy, full of the smell of baking and endless family outings. But their gran, Gladys, was a different sort altogether. —Dima darling, my star — Gladys would croon as they visited each weekend — Look what I’ve saved just for you! Fresh walnuts, hand-cracked! And some Penguin bars, your favourite! Seven-year-old Katya would stand by, watching her nan produce that precious paper bag from the old dresser. —What about me, Nan? — she’d ask quietly. Gladys would give her a brisk, prickly glance. —You, Katya, are healthy enough. Just look at those cheeks! Walnuts are for brainy boys—Dima must study, he’s the man, the family’s future. Off you go, dust the shelves. Girls must learn to work. Dima, blushing, would slink away with his treats, while Katya got on with the dusting. She didn’t feel hard done by. Oddly enough, young Katya accepted it like the weather: Rain falls… and Nan loves Dima best. That’s just how things went. Normally, her brother would be waiting for her in the hall: —Here, — he’d whisper, breaking his haul in two: half the chocolate, a handful of walnuts — But don’t eat in front of Nan, she’ll only nag again. —You need them more—she’d smile. — For your big brain. —Oh, stuff that, — Dima would grin. — She’s bonkers. Quick, munch! They’d sit on the stairs to the attic, chomp through their forbidden spoils, sharing everything. Even when Nan secretly slipped Dima some “ice cream money”, he’d run straight to Katya: —Look, enough for two Mr. Whippys and a packet of stickers. Fancy a treat? Her brother was always her ally. His affection more than made up for Gran’s coldness, and Katya hardly noticed what she was missing. The years went by. Gladys grew older. When Dima turned eighteen, she solemnly announced she’d be leaving her second, centrally located flat to him in her will. —The family’s backbone needs a place to call his own, — she declared at a family meeting — so he can bring home a bride, not traipse from garret to garret. Mum just sighed. She knew her mother’s iron will and held her tongue, but later, when the fuss was over, she came to Katya. —Sweetheart, don’t fret… Dad and I see everything. Here’s the plan—what we’ve saved for a car and a bigger place, we’ll give to you as a flat deposit. To keep things fair. —Mum, it’s fine, — Katya hugged her — Dima needs the flat more, he’s marrying Irina. I’ll manage in my digs. —No, Katya. That’s not right. Nan has her quirks, but we’re your parents. We can’t favour one and leave the other out. So take it, no arguments. Katya never took it. Dima moved into his wedding-gift flat, giving the family home a sense of space. Katya spread her own books and easel in Dima’s old room, revelling, for the first time, in a family where love wasn’t measured out in teaspoons. Inheritance never soured things between the siblings; if anything, Dima felt almost guilty. —Come round ours, Katya, — he’d invite. — Irina’s baked pies. Nan rang yesterday, asking whether I’d blown “her” money on your whims. —What did you say? —Told her I’d spent the lot on arcade machines and posh gin, — he smirked. — She snorted down the phone, then muttered, “That Katya’s led you astray!” —Naturally, — Katya grinned. — Who else would it be? *** When Katya married Oleg and a baby arrived, the housing question loomed. Mum pulled off a diplomatic coup. —Listen, kids, — she said. — This place is huge for just your dad and me. Dima, you have your own flat. Katya, you’re stuck renting. Let’s split ours into a one-bed and a two-bed. Dad and I move to the one-bed; Katya and Oleg get the two-bed. —Mum, — Dima objected. — I’ll give up my share, straight away. Gran gave me a place—I’m set for life. Let Katya have the lot. She and her family need it. —Dima, are you sure? — Oleg was gobsmacked. — That’s a fortune. You’re sure? —Sure. Katya and I always shared. She lost out because of Nan anyway. Don’t argue. It’s settled. Katya wept—not for bricks and mortar, but for having the best brother in the world. They exchanged the old family flat, everyone was content. Mum babysat every week, and Dima’s family spent weekends round theirs. Gladys, meanwhile, lived alone. Dima brought shopping, did DIY, listened to endless gripes about her health and “that ungrateful Katya”. —Has she ever rung once? Has she even once asked after my blood pressure? —Nan, you never wanted to know her, — Dima tried to be gentle. — Not a kind word in twenty years. Why would she ring? —I was trying to bring her up! — Gladys declared, chin high. — A woman should know her place! Her… she grabbed a flat, bullied her mum out. Dima could only sigh. Explaining was pointless. *** Katya, sat in the quiet kitchen, haunted by half-forgotten images: Nan slapping her hand from the jam jar. Praising Dima’s clumsy drawing but passing by her own certificate without so much as a nod. Nan sitting like a queen at Dima’s wedding, but skipping Katya’s altogether—“Too ill,” she’d said. —Mum, why aren’t we seeing Granny Gladys? — Her daughter peeked round the door. — Uncle Dima says she’s really poorly. —Because Granny Gladys only wants to see Uncle Dima, sweetheart, — Katya stroked her hair — It makes her happy that way. —Is she mean? — her little girl squinted. —No, — Katya paused — She just couldn’t love everyone at once. Some people only have room in their heart for one. That happens. That evening, Dima rang again. —It’s over, Katya. An hour ago. —My condolences, Dima. You must be heartbroken. —She waited for you till the end, — he lied kindly. Katya recognised the fib for what it was—a bid for peace, at least at this ending. — She said, ‘May all go well for Katya.’ —Thank you, Dima… Come over tomorrow. We’ll sit together, I’ll bake a pie. —I’ll come… Aren’t you sorry you didn’t go see her? Katya didn’t lie. —No, Dima. I’m not. Why be a hypocrite? Neither of us ever wanted it… Her brother paused. —Maybe you’re right, — he said softly. — You always were the sensible one. See you tomorrow. The funeral was simple. Katya attended for her mother and brother. She stood to one side, in her black coat, staring up at that cemetery sky that’s always so bleak during farewells. When the coffin was lowered, she didn’t cry. Dima came to her side, put an arm around her shoulders. —You alright? —I’m okay, Dima. Really. —You know, — he hesitated — I was clearing out her flat… found a box. Old photos. Yours too. Loads. She’d carefully cut you out of all the family snapshots and kept you separate. Katya raised her eyebrows. —Why would she do that? —No idea. Maybe she did feel something, just didn’t know how to show it. Afraid that if she admitted loving you, it’d mean less for me. Old people… they’re odd sometimes. —Maybe so, — Katya shrugged. — Doesn’t really matter now. They walked to the gates under one umbrella—tall, solid Dima and slim, gentle Katya. —Listen, — he said at the cars — I’ve been thinking… I’ll sell that flat. Get a nice place for myself, set up savings for the kids, and the rest… shall we start a fund? Or donate to a children’s hospital? Let Nan’s money bring joy to someone for once… Katya looked at her brother and, for the first time in days, smiled warmly. —You know, Dima… that’s the best kind of revenge we could give Gladys. The kindest revenge in the world. —Deal? —Deal. They drove off in different directions. Katya put on music and, for the first time, felt total peace settle within her. Maybe Dima was right. Let part of Nan’s money help some child get well. That would be justice.

Granny Favoured One Grandchild And what about me, Gran? she would ask softly. You, Emily, youre already

La vida

043

Gone and Good Riddance “What do you mean ‘the number you have called is not available’? I just spoke to him five minutes ago!” Natasha stood in the hallway, phone pressed tightly to her ear. She glanced over at the chest of drawers. The jewellery box was still there—but something looked off. The lid wasn’t quite shut. “Rom?” She called deeper into the flat. “Are you in the bathroom?” Natasha slowly made her way to the dresser. As soon as her hand touched the polished wood, a chill ran down her spine—the jewellery box was completely empty. Even the receipt she’d used as a bookmark was gone. Her jewellery, her money—everything had disappeared. Though, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d handed over the cash herself… “Oh God…” she whispered, sinking to the floor. “How could this happen? We just argued about wallpaper yesterday… You promised we’d go to Cornwall in August…” But it had all started so ordinarily. Last June, Natasha’s little runabout seized up with a broken piston. The mechanic quoted a price she couldn’t stomach, so, frustrated, she posted on her county’s “Auto-Help” Facebook group. “Guys, does anyone know if it’s possible to free up a stuck brake piston yourself? Adding a photo of my filthy wheel.” Comments poured in. Some told her not to mess with it, others advised buying a new part altogether. Then came a message from a Roman85: “Don’t listen to them, love. Get a can of WD-40 and a £3 repair kit. Take the wheel off, gently press the piston out with the brake pedal—but don’t push it too far. Clean everything with brake fluid, grease it up. If the cylinder’s smooth inside, it’ll run sweet as a nut.” Natasha took note—his advice was clear and unpretentious. “What if the cylinder’s pitted?” she asked. “Then you’ll need a replacement. But from your photo, looks a well-kept motor. If you get stuck, message me—happy to help.” And that’s how it started. Roman proved to be a whiz with cars. Within a week he’d walked her through changing the oil, picking spark plugs, even which coolant to avoid. She caught herself looking forward to his messages. “You’re a lifesaver, Rom,” she wrote by the end of July. “Listen, maybe we could meet up? Coffee on me. Or something stronger, with what you’ve saved me!” The reply didn’t come straight away. After about three hours, her phone finally lit up. “I’d love to, Natasha. Truly. But I’m… away with work. Overseas. For quite a while.” “Really?” she replied. “Whereabouts?” “Further than you can imagine. Look—I’ll be honest. I’m not on a business trip. I’m serving a sentence. HMP Dartmoor, if you know it.” Natasha dropped her phone onto the sofa, her heart pounding. An inmate? She, a respectable accountant at a large firm, had been chatting to a convict for weeks? “What for?” she typed, her fingers trembling. “Fraud. Fancied myself a clever clogs, got stitched up, played along. Less than a year left. If you want to stop messaging, I’ll understand.” Natasha didn’t reply. She blocked him and wandered in a daze for three days. Her colleagues asked if she was unwell. Why? she kept wondering. Why did someone so smart, so good with his hands, end up in prison? A week later, she found a new message in her inbox. Roman had once asked for her email—she’d never deleted the contact, only closed the chat. “Natasha,” he wrote. “No hard feelings, honestly. I always knew it would end like this. You’re a bright soul. Guys like me don’t belong in your world. Just wanted to say thanks for talking to me. That was the best fortnight I’ve had in years. Be happy. Goodbye.” She read it at the kitchen table and burst into tears. She felt sorry for him, for herself, for this unfair life. Why does luck always pass me by? she thought. Married men, mummy’s boys, and now the only normal bloke is behind bars. But she never replied again… *** She tried dating but it was hopeless. One date spent half the night going on about his stamp collection, another showed up with dirty fingernails and asked to split the bill. In March, on her thirty-fifth birthday, Natasha felt more alone than ever. That morning, a message popped up. “Happy birthday, Natasha! I know I shouldn’t reach out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Wishing you the very best. You deserve to be cherished. Made you something out of bread and wire… If I could, I’d give it to you. Just know that somewhere out in Birmingham, someone is drinking a really terrible cup of tea to your health today.” “Thank you, Rom,” she replied, giving in. “That means a lot.” “You answered! How are you? How’s the little car? Did it survive those frosty nights?” And things picked up where they left off. Now they talked every day. Rom would ring her whenever he could—his voice deep, a little hoarse. He told her about growing up with his brother, how his nephew needed raising now, how all he wanted was a fresh start. “I won’t go back to my old town, Natasha—too many old mates who’ll pull me down again. I want to move somewhere no one knows me. I’ve got hands, I can work construction or fix cars, always work to be found.” “Where do you want to go?” she asked breathlessly. “I’d come to you, if you’ll have me. Get a room or a cheap flat. Just to know you’re in the same city, breathing the same air. But no pressure, of course…” By May, Natasha was hopelessly in love. She knew his inspection schedule, when he had “washroom duty”, when he was working in the shop. She sent him care packages: tea, sweets, warm socks, little parts for his handiwork. “Romka, just keep your head down and behave, please—no getting into scraps for my sake.” “For you, love, I’ll be as good as gold,” he laughed. “I’m free in April!” “I’ll be waiting.” *** In April, Natasha drove up to the prison gates. She brought him new clothes: jacket, jeans, trainers. Her heart hammered—she thought it might burst out of her chest. When he came out—short, stocky, close-cropped greying hair—she froze at first. He looked different from his photo. But when he smiled and said, “Hello, boss,” she flung her arms round his neck. “Oh, thank God you’re here,” she murmured into his prickly cheek. “Where else would I be?” he pulled her close. “You smell amazing. What sort of flowery perfume is that?” They went back to hers. The first week was a dream. Roman got stuck in straight away: fixed a leaky tap, sorted a door lock that had jammed for months. Every evening they sat together in the kitchen, drinking sweet rosé, swapping stories—he laughed about his “old life”, skipping over the darker bits. “Listen, Rom,” she said on day ten, “you know you said about getting your own place… maybe you don’t have to? There’s room here. It’d be more fun with two. Besides, you’ll save for tools and getting yourself set up.” “Natasha, it feels wrong,” he frowned, stirring sugar into his mug. “I’m a man, I should provide a home. I’m already living off you—eating your food…” “Oh, stop it!” she covered his hand with hers. “We’re not strangers. Once you’re on your feet and working, it’ll all be fine.” “My brother called yesterday,” he said, looking away. “My nephew’s really poorly—needs an operation, private one. He’s asked me for a loan, but you see the state I’m in—flat broke. I feel so ashamed, Natasha. Ashamed for my family.” “How much does he need?” she asked gently. “A lot… Five grand. But he says they’ve already raised part.” “I could go up to London on a site, earn good money quickly…” he mused aloud. Natasha hesitated. That five grand had taken three years to save. She’d scrimped and saved, planning to redo the bathroom, replace the old tiles, finally install a proper shower… “I’ve got the money,” she said quietly. Roman’s head jerked up. “Don’t be daft! That’s yours. I couldn’t take it.” “Rom, it’s your family. Like you said, that’s sacred. Take it—you can pay me back later. We’re in this together now.” He protested for two days, brooding and chain-smoking on the balcony, even though he’d promised to give up. In the end, Natasha got the cash out and set it on the table herself. “Here. Take it. Go to your brother, give it to him—or transfer it if you’d rather.” “I’ll deliver it myself,” he said, hugging her. “Maybe see if there’s work where he lives. Better options, you know? I’ll just be gone two days. There and back. Promise…” *** Natasha sat slumped on the hallway floor for an hour. Her legs were numb, but she barely felt it. She replayed the night before. They’d watched some daft comedy, he’d laughed, hugged her, and she’d felt like the luckiest woman alive. “I’ll probably leave early, day after tomorrow,” he’d said before bed. But he left a day sooner. She’d slept through it—never even heard him getting dressed. She thought the front door had banged in her dream, but assumed it was the neighbours. At two in the afternoon, she nervously dialled his brother’s number—the one he’d once given her “in case of emergency”. “Hello?” came a rough man’s voice. “Who’s this?” “Hi… It’s Natasha. Roman’s friend. Did he make it to you today?” A pause. Then a long, heavy sigh. “Miss, what Roman? My brother’s got a different name, and he’s not out of prison till October. Roman… Roman’s my ex-cellmate. He got out two months ago. He nicked my phone when I was still inside and copied all my contacts. You’re not the first ‘pen-pal’ he’s spun a story to. Tongue like Teflon, degree in engineering—the lot.” Natasha lowered the phone, stunned. She remembered how he’d coached her fitting new spark plugs. “Careful not to overtighten,” he’d warned. “You’ll strip the thread, and that’s that.” “I stripped it,” Natasha whispered. “Stripped the lot… set myself up for this.” And she realised she truly knew nothing about him—never even saw his passport or prison release papers. Was his name even Roman at all? *** Naturally, Natasha went to the police and filed a report. She showed them a photo, and learned a lot more about her houseguest. His name really was Roman—about the only true thing he’d told her. He’d gone down for a serious offence, spent half his life inside—met Natasha while serving his third sentence. Natasha crossed herself, changed all the locks, and figured in the end she’d got off lightly—compared to some of his previous women…

Gone for Good What do you mean the number youve dialed has not been recognised? But he was speaking to

La vida

012

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie Taisha often reflects on her life now that she’s crossed the threshold of fifty. She can’t call her family life happy, and it’s all because of her husband, George. They married for love as young sweethearts, yet somewhere along the way George changed, and Taisha missed the moment. They lived in a cottage in a quiet English village, under the roof of George’s mother, Anne. Taisha worked hard to keep the peace, respecting Anne, who treated her with warmth. Taisha’s own mother lived in the next village with her younger son, bedridden by illness. “Anne, how do you get on with your daughter-in-law Taisha?” nosy villagers asked at the well, in the shop, or just walking down the lane. “I’ve nothing bad to say about Taisha; she’s respectful, keeps the house well, and helps me with everything,” Anne always replied. “Oh, we’ll believe that when we see it! When has a mother-in-law ever praised her daughter-in-law?” scoffed the women. “That’s your concern,” Anne said, walking on. Taisha bore a daughter, Violet, and everyone rejoiced. “Taisha, Violet looks like me,” Anne searched for her features in the baby, and Taisha just laughed, not caring whom her daughter resembled. When Violet turned three, Taisha had a son. Again, the happy bustle. George worked, Taisha was at home with the children, and Anne helped a great deal. They lived quietly, peacefully—even better than most. George wasn’t a drinker like other husbands. Some wives would search for their men behind the village pub, dragging them home drunken and cursing the whole world. When Taisha was expecting her third child, she found out George was having an affair. In a small village, nothing stays hidden; soon everyone was talking about George and Tanya, the widowed neighbour. The neighbour, Valerie, wasn’t above coming over. “Taisha, you’re carrying George’s third child and he’s running off with other women,” she said bluntly. “Valerie, surely not? I’ve noticed nothing,” the wife said, surprised. “Exactly, how could you notice—two children, pregnant with a third, the house and the farm. He’s living for himself. Everyone knows now, and Tanya doesn’t even bother hiding it.” Taisha was upset. Anne knew as well but kept quiet, not wanting Taisha to find out. She often scolded her wayward George. “Mum, you didn’t see anything, did you? Women gossip; that’s what they do,” he retorted. One day, Valerie rushed in: “Taisha, George just sneaked into Tanya’s yard, I saw him myself from the shop. Are you going to let him leave you alone with three children? Go give that shameless woman a piece of your mind. You’re pregnant—George wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you.” Taisha knew she didn’t have the courage for a fight with Tanya—Tanya’s reputation for defending herself was well-known. Still she went: “I’ll look George in the eye and get the truth. He’ll just deny it and call it gossip,” she told Anne, who tried to stop her. “It’s late autumn, Taisha. Be sensible,” Anne pleaded. It was getting dark. Taisha knocked on Tanya’s window, waiting, but Tanya addressed her through the closed door, refusing to let her in and telling her to go home. Taisha left, knowing her efforts were wasted. George came home after midnight, drunk, though he rarely drank. “Where were you? At Tanya’s, drinking together—I know! I came over and she wouldn’t open the door,” Taisha confronted him. “What are you imagining?” George protested. “I was drinking with Ben down the pub. Got carried away with the time.” Taisha didn’t believe him but said nothing. What could she do? As the saying goes, “innocent until proven otherwise.” She spent that sleepless night pondering: “Where would I go with two children and a third on the way? Mum’s ill, my brother’s family is crowded—how could I fit in their house?” Her own mother had always said, when she complained: “Grin and bear it, daughter. You married and have children—bear it. Do you think it was easy for me living with your father? He drank and chased us, remember how we used to hide with the neighbours? God sorted it in His own way and called him home. But I endured it. Your George doesn’t drink much and he keeps his hands to himself. Endurance has always been a woman’s lot.” Taisha didn’t always agree, but she understood there was nowhere to go. Even Anne soothed her: “Daughter, you’ve got children, almost three now. We’ll manage together with him.” The third, little Annie, was born weak and prone to illness—perhaps from Taisha’s stress during pregnancy. But in time, Annie grew stronger, thanks to Anne’s tender care. “Taisha, have you heard? Tanya took in Michael after his wife threw him out,” Valerie came saying—the village’s fastest news-bearer. “No matter, let her. At least my George won’t go there now,” thought Taisha to herself. But a month later, Valerie showed up again: “Michael’s gone back to his wife. Tanya’s on the hunt again. Keep your George close by, you know what she’s like.” Life with George settled for a while. Anne was pleased. But once a man’s restless, he won’t stay put. On her way back from the market, Anne met an old friend, Annie: “Anne, what’s wrong with your George? Taisha’s a gem, a good mum and wife. You praise her yourself—what more does he want?” “Aye, Annie, is George at it again?” “He is, running after Vera, the divorced one at the village café…” Anne told off her son privately. But secrets don’t stay secret for long. Taisha learned of George’s latest affections, again thanks to Valerie. Tears and pleas didn’t help—George continued his affairs but never left the family, enjoying the comfort of home while chasing other women for fun. Anne now scolded him openly, but a grown man seldom listens to a tired mother. He’d yell: “Mum, I work for the family, bring in money, and you two accuse me, listening to village gossip.” Years passed. The children grew up. Violet graduated college and settled with her husband nearby, the son finished university and married a local girl. Young Annie finished school and made plans for further study. George finally calmed down—nowadays it’s work and home, even lying on the couch more often as his health declined. He gave up drinking altogether. “Taisha, my heart’s been playing up again,” he would moan. “And my knees ache—maybe it’s my joints. Should I see the doctor?” Taisha no longer pitied him; she’d cried enough tears and endured too much disappointment. “He’s stayed home only because his health’s failed; let his former flings nurse him now,” she thought. Anne passed away and was buried next to her husband. George and Taisha’s home was quiet, but sometimes children and grandchildren visited. The two were happy then. George would complain to the kids about his health, even blaming Taisha for not looking after him. Violet brought medicines, fussing over her father, telling her mum: “Mum, don’t nag Dad—he’s poorly,” and it hurt Taisha that Violet took his side. “Daughter, he brought it on himself, lived too wild a youth, now wants sympathy. I’m not made of stone—I lost my own health worrying about him,” she tried to explain. The son comforted his father when visiting, talking mostly to him—as men do. The children never seemed to understand their mother, no matter how she explained that she tolerated George’s infidelity for their sake, never wanting to deprive them of a father. The pain and loneliness. But their answer remained: “Mum, don’t dredge up the past. Don’t make things hard for Dad,” Violet said, her brother agreeing. “It’s all behind us now, Mum,” her son said, patting her shoulder. Taisha felt a little hurt that the children sided with George, yet she understood. Life simply is as it is. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dont Dig Up the Past I often find myself reflecting on my life now that Ive crossed the threshold of fifty.

La vida

The Day the Lunch Ghost Rode In: How a Mysterious Biker Changed Lives at Lincoln Ridge Middle School

The first time it happened, no one took notice. It was a Tuesday at St. Albans Middle School, one of

La vida

Wife and Father I only ever pretended to want to meet Toms parents. What did I really need them for, honestly?