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Even now, some nights I still wake up and wonder: when did my dad manage to take everything from us? I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but tidy house—there was furniture, the fridge was full on shopping days, and the bills were almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. It all began to change when my dad started coming home later and later, never greeting anyone, tossing his keys onto the table and heading straight to his room with his mobile in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you think this house runs itself?” And he’d reply dryly, “Leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to it all from my room with headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him talking on his phone outside in the garden, laughing quietly and saying things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straight away. I felt a strange knot in my stomach but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw an open suitcase on the bed. Mum was standing at the bedroom door, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted, “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He snapped back, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I cried and asked, “What about me? My school? Our house?” He just replied, “You’ll be fine.” He packed his suitcase, grabbed the documents from the drawer, took his wallet, and walked out without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to withdraw money from the cash machine and her card was blocked. The next day, the bank told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they had saved together. We also learned he’d left two months of bills unpaid and had taken out a loan without telling anyone, putting my mum down as guarantor. I remember Mum sitting at the table, checking receipts on an old calculator, crying, saying, “There’s just not enough… not enough for anything.” I tried helping her sort out the bills, but I didn’t understand half of what was going on. A week later the internet was cut off, and soon after, nearly the electricity too. Mum started looking for work—cleaning houses. I started selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing at break with my bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because we barely had enough for the essentials at home. There was a day I opened the fridge and saw only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried alone. That evening we had plain rice for dinner, nothing else. Mum kept apologising that she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook—Dad and that woman in a restaurant, raising glasses of wine. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that he never called. Never asked if I graduated, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He just disappeared. Today I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of the money, but because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us struggling and carried on with his life as if nothing had happened. And even now, many nights I wake with the same question weighing on my chest: How do you survive when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out how to get through life while you’re still just a kid?

Even now, there are nights I wake in darkness, my mind wandering backwondering how my father managed

La vida

05

Let My Good Deed Come Back to Haunt Me — Dad, what’s with the new decorations? Did you clean out the local antique shop? — Christina raised her eyebrows in confusion, eyeing the white crochet doily on her dresser. — I had no idea you fancied ancient knick-knacks. Your taste is straight out of Grandma’s era… — Oh, Christina dear! Didn’t expect you to pop in unannounced, — said Mr. Peterson, emerging from the kitchen. — I mean, we—I wasn’t expecting you… Her father tried to look cheerful, but guilt flickered in his eyes. — Well, it’s obvious you weren’t, — Christina said sourly, heading to the living room, bracing for more surprises. — Dad… Where did all this come from? What’s going on here? Christina barely recognised her own flat… When she inherited the place from her grandmother, it was a depressing sight: battered furniture, a chunky old television balancing on a peeling cabinet, rusty radiators, and wallpaper hanging on for dear life. But, it was hers. She’d saved up just enough for renovations. Christina picked Scandinavian style—light colours, minimalism—making her two-bed feel more spacious. She added her own touches, carefully chose curtains, laid down fluffy rugs with love… Now, her thick blackout curtains had been swapped for ordinary nylon netting. Her Italian sofa was buried under a synthetic leopard blanket with a grinning tiger. A pink plastic vase and equally toxic fake roses sat on her coffee table. But the worst part was the smell. From the kitchen came the stench of frying oil and fish. Cigarette smoke wafted through the air. And her dad didn’t even smoke… — Christina, you see… — Oleg finally replied. — It’s a bit complicated. I’m not alone. I meant to tell you but it never seemed the right moment. — Not alone? — Christina was lost for words. — Dad, this isn’t what we agreed! — Come on, you know my life didn’t end with your mother. I’m still young—haven’t even got my pension yet. Don’t I deserve a personal life? Christina froze. Of course, her dad deserved to date. But in HER flat? Her parents had split a year ago. Mum took it in stride, almost relieved, throwing herself into self-development and friendship. Christina’s dad, meanwhile, fell to pieces. He returned to his pre-marital flat—a disaster after being rented out for ten years. The last tenant fell asleep with a cigarette. No money for repairs, so he abandoned it. He didn’t sell it, just let it rot. It was unliveable: walls black with soot, smashed windows, mould on the sills… A horror movie set. — Christina, I’ve no idea how I’ll survive, — he sighed back then. — It’s dangerous to stay here, and I’ll never get it sorted by winter. No money, either. If I freeze, so be it… I suppose that’s my fate. Christina couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t let the man who raised her live like that. Especially when her own flat was empty—she’d recently married and moved in with her husband. Given her dad’s history with tenants, she wasn’t planning to rent it out. — Dad, stay at mine for now, — she offered. — Everything’s set up, all the comforts. Do up your place gradually, then move back. Just one condition: no guests. — Really? — he asked, amazed. — Thank you, sweetheart! You’ve saved me. Promise I’ll keep things quiet and peaceful. Peaceful? Hardly. As Christina recalled their conversation, the bathroom door burst open, steam spilling out. A woman of fifty glided out, wrapped in Christina’s favourite fluffy dressing gown, barely covering her voluptuous figure. — Oh, Oleg, do we have company? — the woman boomed in a smoky voice, flashing a condescending smile. — You might’ve warned me. I’m in my loungewear. — And you are? — Christina narrowed her eyes. — And why are you wearing my dressing gown? — I’m Jean, your dad’s beloved. And what’s got your knickers in a twist? The gown was just hanging there unused. Christina saw red. — Take it off. Now, — she snapped. — Christina! — her dad pleaded, stepping between them. — No need for drama. Jean just— — Jean’s wearing someone else’s clothes in someone else’s home! — Christina cut him off. — Dad, what’s wrong with you? You brought your girlfriend here and let her rummage through my things without permission?! Jean rolled her eyes dramatically, stomping off and plopping herself onto the tiger blanket. — What a rude little madam you are, — she announced. — If I were in Oleg’s shoes, I’d take a belt to you, no matter your age. Is THAT how you speak to your father? Who he lives with isn’t your concern, missy. Christina was gobsmacked. Some strange woman, lounging on her sofa, scolding her like a wayward child. — Not my concern, — Christina agreed, — until it happens in my home. — Your home? — Jean arched an eyebrow at Oleg. He cowered by the wall, shifting his terrified gaze from furious daughter to brazen girlfriend, clearly hoping this storm might blow over. But the forecast was grim. — Well, did Daddy not mention that bit? — Christina said icily. — Fine, I’ll spell it out. He’s a guest here. This flat is mine—every single thing in it bought by me. I let him stay, but I never signed up for him bringing his girlfriends around. Jean flushed scarlet. — Oleg?… — her voice now ice. — What is she talking about? You said this was your place. You lied to me? Her dad shrank against the wallpaper, ears burning with shame. — Well… Jean, you misunderstood. I do have my own place, just not this one. I didn’t want to bore you with details. — Didn’t want to bore me? Thanks a lot! Now I’ve got her giving me grief! Christina’s patience snapped. — Out, — she said quietly. — What? — Jean stalled. — Out. Both of you. I’m giving you an hour. If you’re still here after that, we’ll settle things properly. This is what happens when you let someone into your ‘Little Palace’… She headed for the door, but Oleg broke away from the wall and rushed after her. — You wouldn’t chuck your own father out, would you? You KNOW what my flat’s like! I’ll freeze! He grabbed her sleeve, her heart twinged with guilt—memories, duty, pity. Tears threatened. But Christina looked at Jean. Sitting there, legs crossed, wearing Christina’s dressing gown, glaring at her with pure venom. If she gave in now, tomorrow this woman would change the locks and redecorate. — Dad, you’re an adult. Find a rental, — Christina said, pulling free. — You’re to blame. We agreed you’d live alone. But you brought a random woman, let her wear my things, and trashed my home… — Oh, choke on your precious flat! — Jean snapped. — Come on, Oleg, don’t demean yourself. Raised a thankless brat… Half an hour later, it was done. Her father left without a word, hunched like an old man. Christina would never forget that look—a beaten dog in the rain. She stood her ground till the end. As soon as they left, she flung open the windows to banish the smell of fish, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. The dressing gown, blanket, everything Jean had touched—straight to the bin. Next day: cleaners and a locksmith. She couldn’t bear a trace of that woman. …Four days passed. Christina’s flat was hers again: no fake flowers, no foul odours. She lived with her husband now, but just knowing the place was peaceful made her happy. She didn’t speak to her dad—until, on the fourth day, he called. — Hello? — Christina answered after a pause. — Well, Christina… — her father slurred, drunk. — Are you happy now? Jean’s gone. She left me. — Wow, how surprising, — Christina replied. — Let me guess. She saw your real flat, realised it was a dump, and fled? He sniffled. — Yeah… I put a heater in and slept on an air mattress. She lasted three days… She put up with it, then called me a pauper and a liar and moved in with her sister. Said she’d only wasted her time. But we loved each other, Christina! — Love? Please. You were both looking for an easy ride, that’s all. You both miscalculated. Silence. But he wasn’t done. — It’s miserable here alone, sweetheart, — he said. — It’s scary… Can I come back? I promise, just me this time! I swear! Christina’s eyes fell. Her dad sat somewhere in that mess and cold, but he’d made it through his own choices: cheating on her mother, lying to Christina, spinning tall stories for Jean. She pitied him. But pity could poison them both. — No, Dad. I won’t let you back, — said Christina. — Hire workers, get the place sorted. Learn to live in the mess you made for yourself. The best I’ll do is recommend a good team. That’s all. If you need advice, ask. She hung up. Harsh? Maybe. But Christina was done letting anyone leave a stain on her dressing gown—or on her soul. Some dirt you can’t wash out. You just keep it out of your life…

Brought Trouble on Myself Dad, whats with all the knickknacks? Did you rob an antiques shop?

La vida

05

The Friend I Sold: Granddad’s Tale And He Understood Me! It Wasn’t Fun—That Was a Foolish Idea, I Realised. I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, but Then Knew I’d Sold Him. Times Have Always Been Different for Everyone—For Some, All-Inclusive Isn’t Much, While Others Long for Fresh Brown Bread with a Bit of Sausage. So We Lived Our Own Way—We Had Our Ups and Downs. I Was Just a Little Lad Then. My Uncle Dave Gave Me a Shepherd Puppy, and I Was Over the Moon. The Pup Clung to Me, Understood Every Word, Gazed Into My Eyes and Waited, Always Waiting for My Next Command. “Lie Down,” I’d Say After a Pause, and He’d Drop to the Floor, Eyes Fixed on Me, Ready to Lay Down His Life if I Asked. “Serve,” I’d Command, and the Pup Would Hop Up on His Chubby Paws, Eagerly Awaiting His Reward—A Juicy Treat. But There Was Nothing to Treat Him With. We Could Barely Feed Ourselves Back Then. That’s How It Was. Uncle Dave, Mum’s Brother—The One Who Gave Me the Pup—Once Told Me, “Don’t Worry, Lad. Look At Him—Loyal and True. Just Sell Him, Then Call Him Back. He’ll Escape to You—No One Will See. At Least You’ll Have Some Money For Treats—You, Your Mum, and Even the Dog. Trust Me, Lad, I Know What I’m Saying.” I Liked the Idea. I Didn’t Know Any Better Then—A Grown-Up Suggested It, Must Have Been a Harmless Trick, and I’d Get Goodies. I Whispered Into Faithful’s Fluffy Ear That I’d Pretend to Give Him Away, But Then I’d Call for Him to Run Back to Me. And He Understood Me! He Barked, as If to Say He’d Do Just That. Next Day, I Put On His Lead and Took Him Down to the Train Station, Where People Sold All Sorts—Flowers, Cucumbers, Apples. As Folks Poured Off the Train, They Began Browsing and Haggling. I Stepped Forward and Pulled Faithful Along, But No One Came Near. Nearly Everyone Had Passed When a Stern-Looking Man Approached: “You Waiting for Someone, Son? Or Looking to Sell Your Pup? That’s a Fine Dog—Alright, I’ll Take Him.” He Slipped Money Into My Hand. I Handed Over the Lead; Faithful Looked Round, Sneezed Cheerfully. “Go On, Faithful, Off You Go, Mate—I’ll Call You Back,” I Whispered, and He Went Off with the Stranger. I Hid and Followed to See Where My Mate Was Taken. That Evening, I Brought Home Bread, Sausage, and Sweets. Mum Looked Sternly: “Where’d You Get That—Steal It?” “No, Mum, I Just Helped Carry Bags at the Station.” “Well Done, Son. Eat Up and Off to Bed. I’m Worn Out.” She Didn’t Even Ask about Faithful—She Never Cared Much for Him. Uncle Dave Came Round the Next Morning. I Was About to Head Out, Though I Really Wanted to Fetch Faithful. “So, Sold Your Friend?” He Chuckled, Ruffling My Hair. I Shrugged Away, Didn’t Answer. I Hadn’t Slept. The Bread and Sausage Sat in My Throat. It Wasn’t Fun. I Realised How Foolish It Had Been. No Wonder Mum Didn’t Like Uncle Dave. “He’s Daft, Don’t Listen to Him,” She’d Always Say. I Grabbed My School Bag and Ran Out. The House Was Three Blocks Away—I Ran the Whole Way. Faithful Sat Behind a High Fence, Tied With a Thick Rope. I Called Him, but He Just Laid His Head On His Paws and Wagged His Tail—Trying to Bark, But His Voice Broke. I’d Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, but Then He Knew I’d Sold Him. His New Owner Came Out, Gave Faithful a Stern Look—He Tucked His Tail. I Knew It Was All Over. That Evening, I Helped Carry Bags at the Station. They Didn’t Pay Much, But I Managed to Earn Enough. Heart Thumping, I Knocked on the Gate. The Familiar Man Opened: “Oh, It’s You, Lad—What Do You Want?” “Mister, I Changed My Mind—Here’s Your Money Back.” I Handed Over the Cash. The Man Squinted, Took the Money, and Untied Faithful: “Go On, Lad, Take Him—He’s Been Pining. He’ll Never Make a Guard Dog. Just Know—He Might Not Forgive You.” Faithful Looked at Me, Crestfallen. The Game Had Become a Trial For Us Both. Then He Came Up, Licked My Hand, and Nudged Me. Many Years Have Passed, But I Learned This: Never, Even in Jest, Do You Sell a Friend. And Mum Was Well Chuffed: “I Was So Tired Yesterday—But Then I Thought: Where’s Our Dog? I’ve Gotten Used to That Pup—He’s Ours, Faithful!” Uncle Dave Doesn’t Visit Much Now—His Tricks Weren’t Very Funny to Us.

A Sold Friend. A Granddads Tale And he understood me! It wasnt fun at all, and I soon realised it was

La vida

02

Let Them In and Regret It: When Dad Crossed the Line in My Flat and Brought Trouble Home — Dad, what’s with all these new vintage bits? Did you raid an antique shop or something? — Kristina frowned in confusion, eyeing the white knitted doily on her dresser. — Never knew you were into old lady collectibles. Your taste is straight up Grandma Zoe… — Kristina, darling! What are you doing here without calling first? — Oleg Peterson popped out of the kitchen looking guilty. — You clearly weren’t expecting me, — Kristina huffed, heading for the living room—where even more surprises waited. — Dad… Where did all this come from? What’s going on here? Kristina hardly recognised her own flat… Once upon a time, after inheriting the place from her grandmother, it was a time capsule—dodgy 70s furniture, a TV that belonged in the tip, rusty radiators, peeling wallpaper. Still, it was hers. Kristina invested her savings into a proper renovation, going full-on Scandinavian: bright colours, minimalism, tasteful accents and fluffy rugs… Now, blackout curtains had been swapped for cheap netting. Her Italian sofa was buried beneath an awful synthetic tiger-printed throw. The coffee table held a lurid pink plastic vase with matching fake roses. But the worst was the smell—greasy fish drifting from the kitchen, cigarette smoke, and her dad didn’t even smoke… — Kristina, see… — Oleg finally ventured, — I’m not alone. I meant to tell you, but I just… didn’t get round to it. — Not alone? — Kristina was stunned.—Dad, that was not our agreement! — Kristina, you know my life didn’t end when your mum and I split. I’m still a young man—I’m not even close to pension age. Am I not allowed a private life? Kristina froze. Technically, fair enough. But not in her flat. Her parents’ divorce a year ago had been uneventful—her mum shrugged off the cheating, dove into self-improvement and a social whirl. Her dad, though, was blindsided. His old bachelor pad had been trashed after years of tenants—one nearly burned it down with a lit cigarette, money for repairs was nowhere in sight. The place was ruined. — Kristina, I don’t know how I’ll live… — he’d sighed, looking broken. — It’s dangerous in there, and I can’t fix it before winter. I can’t afford the lot. If I freeze, then so be it… Of course Kristina couldn’t let the man who raised her rot in those conditions. She’d recently moved in with her husband; her flat was empty. With Dad’s history as a hapless landlord, it was best not to rent it out. — Dad, stay in mine for a while, — she offered. — Everything’s set up. Fix your place slowly; then move back. Just one rule: no visitors. — Really? — Dad lit up. — You’re a lifesaver! I promise, it’ll be quiet and peaceful. Peaceful? Right… As Kristina recalled this, her bathroom door flew open in a cloud of scented steam. Out glided a woman in her fifties—wearing Kristina’s favourite robe, draped over her voluptuous frame. — Oleg, love, is that a guest? — she croaked, shooting Kristina a condescending smile. — You could’ve warned me—I’m just in loungewear. — And you are…? — Kristina glared.—Why are you wearing my robe? — I’m Janet, your father’s partner. What’s the fuss? I grabbed the robe—it wasn’t being used. Kristina’s blood boiled. — Take it off. Now. — Kristina! — Dad begged, — Don’t start! Janet just— — Janet just wore someone else’s clothes in someone else’s home! — Kristina snapped.—Dad, are you serious? You dragged your girlfriend here, let her rummage through my stuff?! Janet rolled her eyes and plonked herself down on the tiger throw. — Such a brat, — she declared. — If I were Oleg, I’d have spanked you, regardless of age! How do you even talk to your father? His choice of companion isn’t your business, young lady. Kristina reeled. Some stranger was scolding her in her own home. — Not my business, — she agreed.—As long as it isn’t happening in my house. — Your house? — Janet glanced at Oleg, eyebrow raised. Oleg shrank, eyes darting between his furious daughter and his audacious girlfriend, praying the storm would blow over. — Oh, did Dad forget to tell you that? — Kristina said, coldly. — Well, let me clarify: He’s just a guest. This is my flat—everything in it is mine. I let him stay, but didn’t expect him to parade his “partners” through! Janet flushed red. — Oleg? —she snapped. —You told me it was yours. So you lied? Dad wilted in shame. — Well…Janet, I meant…you misinterpreted—I do have a place, just not this one. I didn’t want to overwhelm you… — Didn’t want to overwhelm?! Brilliant! Now I’m getting grief because of you! Kristina’s patience snapped. — Out, — she said quietly. — What? — Janet blurted. — Out. Both of you. You’ve got an hour. After that, I’ll deal with it legally. Shouldn’t have opened my door to you… Kristina moved for the door, and Dad finally peeled off the wall. — Sweetheart! You’re throwing your own father out onto the street? You know what my place is like! I’ll freeze! He clung to her sleeve, dredging up childhood guilt, duty, pity… But then Kristina saw Janet—lounging insolently in her robe, glaring pure hate. If she gave in now, tomorrow Janet would be changing locks and wallpaper. — Dad, you’re an adult. Rent somewhere, — said Kristina, jerking free.—You broke our agreement, brought a random woman, let her use my things, and ruined my home… — Well, choke on your precious flat! — Janet spat. — Come on, Oleg—don’t grovel. She’s ungrateful… Half an hour’s packing and it was done. Dad shuffled off, dejected. Kristina would never forget his wounded, rain-soaked glance. But she held firm. Once they’d gone, she aired the flat to banish the smell of fish, smoke, cheap perfume. Robe, throw, Janet’s debris—all in the bin. She hired cleaners and a locksmith. She never wanted that woman’s stain—physical or emotional—ever again. Four days passed. Now Kristina’s flat was her sanctuary again—no tacky fake flowers or lingering stench. She lived with her husband, but the peace was back. She hadn’t spoken to Dad. Four days in, he rang. — Kristina…? — Dad sounded drunk.—Happy now? Janet’s gone. She dumped me… — What a shock, — Kristina retorted.—Let me guess, she saw your real flat, realised the work needed, and bolted? Dad sniffed. —Yeah…I put a heater in, slept on an air mattress. She lasted three days, then called me a pauper and a liar, and ran off…We loved each other, Kristina! — Love? More like both of you trying to land somewhere comfy—and you both miscalculated. Silence. — It’s awful being alone here, sweetheart, —Dad pleaded.—Can I come back? Alone this time—I swear! Kristina’s heart ached—her father, alone in the mess he’d made. But he’d brought this on himself: cheating, lying, deceiving. She did feel sorry for him. But pity could poison them both. — No, Dad. I won’t let you back in. Hire workers, fix your place. Learn to live in the mess you created. All I can do is refer you to some good tradesmen. Sorry. If you need to, just ask. She hung up. Harsh? Maybe. But Kristina was done with people leaving stains—on her robe and her soul. Some dirt can’t be cleaned away; sometimes you just have to keep it out.

Let myself in for trouble Dad, whats with all the additions? Did you raid an antique shop or something?

La vida

05

Even now, some nights I still wake up and wonder: when did my dad manage to take everything from us? I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but tidy house—there was furniture, the fridge was full on shopping days, and the bills were almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. It all began to change when my dad started coming home later and later, never greeting anyone, tossing his keys onto the table and heading straight to his room with his mobile in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you think this house runs itself?” And he’d reply dryly, “Leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to it all from my room with headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him talking on his phone outside in the garden, laughing quietly and saying things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straight away. I felt a strange knot in my stomach but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw an open suitcase on the bed. Mum was standing at the bedroom door, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted, “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He snapped back, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I cried and asked, “What about me? My school? Our house?” He just replied, “You’ll be fine.” He packed his suitcase, grabbed the documents from the drawer, took his wallet, and walked out without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to withdraw money from the cash machine and her card was blocked. The next day, the bank told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they had saved together. We also learned he’d left two months of bills unpaid and had taken out a loan without telling anyone, putting my mum down as guarantor. I remember Mum sitting at the table, checking receipts on an old calculator, crying, saying, “There’s just not enough… not enough for anything.” I tried helping her sort out the bills, but I didn’t understand half of what was going on. A week later the internet was cut off, and soon after, nearly the electricity too. Mum started looking for work—cleaning houses. I started selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing at break with my bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because we barely had enough for the essentials at home. There was a day I opened the fridge and saw only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried alone. That evening we had plain rice for dinner, nothing else. Mum kept apologising that she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook—Dad and that woman in a restaurant, raising glasses of wine. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that he never called. Never asked if I graduated, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He just disappeared. Today I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of the money, but because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us struggling and carried on with his life as if nothing had happened. And even now, many nights I wake with the same question weighing on my chest: How do you survive when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out how to get through life while you’re still just a kid?

Even now, there are nights I wake in darkness, my mind wandering backwondering how my father managed

La vida

0239

“And What Have You Achieved With All Your Complaining?” Asked Her Husband—But What Happened Next Left Him Stunned When life squeezes your chest at five in the morning, Marina sits on the edge of the bed and stares out the window. Her heart’s lost its rhythm: two beats, silence, three beats, quiet. Yesterday, the doctor diagnosed panic attacks. He sent her for further tests. After eighteen years, Marina had changed from a driven young woman with an economics degree to… what, really? An accessory to her husband’s business? A makeshift bookkeeper handling his paperwork? The cleaner who mops up at night because Andrew’s blind to mess? “Awake?” Andrew said, shuffling into the kitchen, looking rumpled and put out. “Didn’t sleep last night again?” Marina only nodded, made his coffee, and plucked the usual yogurt from the fridge. “By the way,” he said, sipping, “I’m off to Manchester today. Three days. Meeting with a supplier—important one.” “Andrew.” She knew not to start. She knew that look—like she’s begging for sympathy he doesn’t have. Yet she said, “Please, not now. I’m really unwell. The doctor insists on tests.” He paused, set his cup down, and exhaled sharply—the patience of a man who’s heard it all before. “And what have you achieved with all your complaining?” His voice almost calm now, not even annoyed. More indifferent. “I need to work, Marina. Not listen to your drama about how hard it all is. Honestly, who isn’t tired?” He began packing as if by habit—expecting silence, expecting her to swallow her hurt, to blame herself. But Marina, for once, didn’t stay silent. “Andrew,” she stood slowly. “Do you even remember who the mortgage is under?” He scoffed. “Does it matter? Probably both of us.” “It’s just me. Only me.” Something seemed to snap in the air. His face changed. “What’s your point?” “Eight years ago, when we bought this flat, you were in serious debt. The bank would never have approved you. Remember?” He was silent. “So yes—the mortgage is in my name. The flat as well. Plus, I’m co-signer on your business loans. Guarantor. Without me, you can’t extend, expand, or even operate.” Andrew slowly returned to the table, legs suddenly weak. “Why are you telling me this?” “Just reminding you. And…” She opened the drawer and took out a folder. “I know about Sophie.” Andrew fixated on the folder. She spread bank statements in front of him—ushering them out like cards at a casino. “These transfers: forty thousand, fifty, seventy. Monthly.” He said nothing. “And here’s your email printout. Did you really think I didn’t know your office password? I created it two years ago.” Andrew scanned the pages, growing pale. “Where did you get these?” “Does it matter?” she said, her hand just faintly trembling. “The point is, you funnelled money through her. Think the tax office would be interested?” He jumped up, almost yelling. “How dare you?! You’ve leeched off me all your life! Never earned a penny! Lived here like a hanger-on!” “Hanger-on?” Marina let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. The hanger-on who signed your loan agreements. The one who did all your accounts while you were ‘at meetings’. The one whose name is on this flat and every credit line.” “You’re threatening me?” “No,” Marina walked to the window, “I’m just laying out the facts. Since you seem to have forgotten the basics.” She turned. “In the last six months, I renewed my degree, did night courses—between panic attacks and insomnia. I got a job offer. Not fancy, but enough for me and Clara.” “Clara?!” he gasped. “Are you taking my daughter?!” “Have you even seen her this last month?” He said nothing. He genuinely couldn’t remember. Marina put a neurologist’s report on the table. “Chronic nervous exhaustion. Panic attacks. Prescribed environment change, therapy—removal from stress. See this line—‘prolonged exposure to trauma’. Know what that means for you?” “Marina—” “If I file for divorce, the court sides with me.” She laid down one more document. “And unless I sign, you can’t renew your business loan next week. Your pal Dave phoned—he said the bank needs documents. My signature, specifically.” Andrew sank back, ashen. “What do you want? Money?” Marina laughed—a brief, almost soundless giggle. “Money? Andrew, I want something simpler. I want you to finally admit that without me, there’d be no business. No flat. No fancy conference in Manchester.” She grabbed her handbag. “You’ve got until tonight to think. I’m staying with Elise and Clara. If you’re ready to talk properly, call. But don’t expect me to be that silent, suffering Marina ever again.” Six hours later, Andrew called. Marina was at Elise’s kitchen table, sipping peppermint tea, as if she’d surfaced from a swamp she’d been drowning in for years. “Hi,” she answered, her voice steady. “I need to see you.” “I’m listening.” “Not on the phone. Come home.” Marina smirked. “No, Andrew. If you want to talk, come here. Remember the address?” He arrived an hour later—tense, eyes wild, like a man cornered. Elise whisked Clara away. Marina and Andrew stayed in the kitchen. “You’re blackmailing me?” he barked, slamming the table. “No. Just explaining the reality.” “What reality?! You snooped, stole my files, spied on me!” “Do you honestly think attacking me is a smart strategy now?” she sighed. “After what I’ve shown you?” He knew she was right. “Listen,” Marina leaned in, “I’m not trying to ruin you. I’m not sending anything to the tax office or causing a scandal. I just want you to understand—without me, you really have nothing.” “You want a divorce?” his voice rasped. “What do you want?” Andrew looked away, silent for so long. “With Sophie, it meant nothing.” She lifted her hand. “No interruptions. I’ve known about Sophie for six months—about your arrangement, your fake trips. I said nothing. I thought: maybe he’ll change. Maybe this will pass.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Maybe I was just scared to admit our marriage died five years back. We were both just pretending.” “Marina—” “I’m done living as a footnote. As someone whose words mean nothing. You didn’t even notice I was dying beside you.” Andrew, fists clenched, sat white and silent. “You have a choice,” Marina continued. “We start over. No lies, no affairs. “Or you leave, and I take what’s mine.” “No,” Marina shook her head. “I’ll take only what’s rightfully mine. The flat. My share in the business. The loans in my name, you’ll repay yourself. And I’ll live my life.” She stood—conversation over. “Three days, Andrew. Think. When you’re ready, ring me. But know: the Marina you took for granted died at five o’clock yesterday morning.” A week later, Andrew showed up again, This time, without his fake confidence. Just sat, silent, at the same kitchen table. “Dave said—without your signature, the bank won’t renew the credit. The business will shut down.” Marina nodded. “I know.” “What do you want?” She looked him in the eye. “I want a divorce.” Andrew paled. “Are you serious?” “More than ever.” She poured herself tea, hands steady. “I’ll sign. I’ll extend the business loan. On one condition: we divorce, civilly. You buy out my share of the business. The flat stays with me. Clara lives with me.” “Marina—” “My mind’s made, Andrew.” She smiled. “You know the funniest part? For the first time in years, I slept through the night. No pills. No panic. Just sleep.” He was silent. “And now I understand. I’m not sick. I don’t need a doctor. I just needed to walk away from you, from a life where I was invisible.” She stood. “Your choice. Agree to my terms, and we part peacefully. Otherwise, I go to court with all the documents—and you’ll lose more than just business. Decide.” Andrew dropped his head. He realised—he’d lost. The woman he’d thought weak had proved the stronger one. “Fine,” he whispered. “I agree.” Three months later, the divorce was final. Marina took the flat and a respectable sum for her business share. Started her new job. Andrew kept the business and a new apartment. Along with a hollow sort of loneliness—especially in the evenings, with no one to talk to, no one to come home to. As for Sophie, she left a month later. Apparently, she was after comfort, not love. When Andrew was left footing every bill and could no longer keep her in style, that comfort disappeared. Marina heard all this from Dave. She smiled. And felt nothing. Not glee. Not pity. Just… nothing. So, maybe sometimes, isn’t it a good idea to be involved in your husband’s business? What do you think?

So what exactly has your constant moaning achieved? asked her husband. But she left him utterly gobsmacked.

La vida

04

I Took a DNA Test and Instantly Regretted It: How My Curiosity Shattered My Family and Cost Me Everything

I did a DNA test and instantly regretted it I rather found myself in a bind and had to marry my girlfriend

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06

Dad’s Cottage: The Day I Discovered Our Family Retreat Had Been Sold—A Tale of Autumn Apples, Telegraph Calls, Schoolgirl Crushes, and the Bittersweet Legacy of a Father’s Life in an English Garden

Dads Allotment The news that our allotment had been sold came to me quite suddenly, almost by accident.

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04

Let Them In and Regret It: When Dad Crossed the Line in My Flat and Brought Trouble Home — Dad, what’s with all these new vintage bits? Did you raid an antique shop or something? — Kristina frowned in confusion, eyeing the white knitted doily on her dresser. — Never knew you were into old lady collectibles. Your taste is straight up Grandma Zoe… — Kristina, darling! What are you doing here without calling first? — Oleg Peterson popped out of the kitchen looking guilty. — You clearly weren’t expecting me, — Kristina huffed, heading for the living room—where even more surprises waited. — Dad… Where did all this come from? What’s going on here? Kristina hardly recognised her own flat… Once upon a time, after inheriting the place from her grandmother, it was a time capsule—dodgy 70s furniture, a TV that belonged in the tip, rusty radiators, peeling wallpaper. Still, it was hers. Kristina invested her savings into a proper renovation, going full-on Scandinavian: bright colours, minimalism, tasteful accents and fluffy rugs… Now, blackout curtains had been swapped for cheap netting. Her Italian sofa was buried beneath an awful synthetic tiger-printed throw. The coffee table held a lurid pink plastic vase with matching fake roses. But the worst was the smell—greasy fish drifting from the kitchen, cigarette smoke, and her dad didn’t even smoke… — Kristina, see… — Oleg finally ventured, — I’m not alone. I meant to tell you, but I just… didn’t get round to it. — Not alone? — Kristina was stunned.—Dad, that was not our agreement! — Kristina, you know my life didn’t end when your mum and I split. I’m still a young man—I’m not even close to pension age. Am I not allowed a private life? Kristina froze. Technically, fair enough. But not in her flat. Her parents’ divorce a year ago had been uneventful—her mum shrugged off the cheating, dove into self-improvement and a social whirl. Her dad, though, was blindsided. His old bachelor pad had been trashed after years of tenants—one nearly burned it down with a lit cigarette, money for repairs was nowhere in sight. The place was ruined. — Kristina, I don’t know how I’ll live… — he’d sighed, looking broken. — It’s dangerous in there, and I can’t fix it before winter. I can’t afford the lot. If I freeze, then so be it… Of course Kristina couldn’t let the man who raised her rot in those conditions. She’d recently moved in with her husband; her flat was empty. With Dad’s history as a hapless landlord, it was best not to rent it out. — Dad, stay in mine for a while, — she offered. — Everything’s set up. Fix your place slowly; then move back. Just one rule: no visitors. — Really? — Dad lit up. — You’re a lifesaver! I promise, it’ll be quiet and peaceful. Peaceful? Right… As Kristina recalled this, her bathroom door flew open in a cloud of scented steam. Out glided a woman in her fifties—wearing Kristina’s favourite robe, draped over her voluptuous frame. — Oleg, love, is that a guest? — she croaked, shooting Kristina a condescending smile. — You could’ve warned me—I’m just in loungewear. — And you are…? — Kristina glared.—Why are you wearing my robe? — I’m Janet, your father’s partner. What’s the fuss? I grabbed the robe—it wasn’t being used. Kristina’s blood boiled. — Take it off. Now. — Kristina! — Dad begged, — Don’t start! Janet just— — Janet just wore someone else’s clothes in someone else’s home! — Kristina snapped.—Dad, are you serious? You dragged your girlfriend here, let her rummage through my stuff?! Janet rolled her eyes and plonked herself down on the tiger throw. — Such a brat, — she declared. — If I were Oleg, I’d have spanked you, regardless of age! How do you even talk to your father? His choice of companion isn’t your business, young lady. Kristina reeled. Some stranger was scolding her in her own home. — Not my business, — she agreed.—As long as it isn’t happening in my house. — Your house? — Janet glanced at Oleg, eyebrow raised. Oleg shrank, eyes darting between his furious daughter and his audacious girlfriend, praying the storm would blow over. — Oh, did Dad forget to tell you that? — Kristina said, coldly. — Well, let me clarify: He’s just a guest. This is my flat—everything in it is mine. I let him stay, but didn’t expect him to parade his “partners” through! Janet flushed red. — Oleg? —she snapped. —You told me it was yours. So you lied? Dad wilted in shame. — Well…Janet, I meant…you misinterpreted—I do have a place, just not this one. I didn’t want to overwhelm you… — Didn’t want to overwhelm?! Brilliant! Now I’m getting grief because of you! Kristina’s patience snapped. — Out, — she said quietly. — What? — Janet blurted. — Out. Both of you. You’ve got an hour. After that, I’ll deal with it legally. Shouldn’t have opened my door to you… Kristina moved for the door, and Dad finally peeled off the wall. — Sweetheart! You’re throwing your own father out onto the street? You know what my place is like! I’ll freeze! He clung to her sleeve, dredging up childhood guilt, duty, pity… But then Kristina saw Janet—lounging insolently in her robe, glaring pure hate. If she gave in now, tomorrow Janet would be changing locks and wallpaper. — Dad, you’re an adult. Rent somewhere, — said Kristina, jerking free.—You broke our agreement, brought a random woman, let her use my things, and ruined my home… — Well, choke on your precious flat! — Janet spat. — Come on, Oleg—don’t grovel. She’s ungrateful… Half an hour’s packing and it was done. Dad shuffled off, dejected. Kristina would never forget his wounded, rain-soaked glance. But she held firm. Once they’d gone, she aired the flat to banish the smell of fish, smoke, cheap perfume. Robe, throw, Janet’s debris—all in the bin. She hired cleaners and a locksmith. She never wanted that woman’s stain—physical or emotional—ever again. Four days passed. Now Kristina’s flat was her sanctuary again—no tacky fake flowers or lingering stench. She lived with her husband, but the peace was back. She hadn’t spoken to Dad. Four days in, he rang. — Kristina…? — Dad sounded drunk.—Happy now? Janet’s gone. She dumped me… — What a shock, — Kristina retorted.—Let me guess, she saw your real flat, realised the work needed, and bolted? Dad sniffed. —Yeah…I put a heater in, slept on an air mattress. She lasted three days, then called me a pauper and a liar, and ran off…We loved each other, Kristina! — Love? More like both of you trying to land somewhere comfy—and you both miscalculated. Silence. — It’s awful being alone here, sweetheart, —Dad pleaded.—Can I come back? Alone this time—I swear! Kristina’s heart ached—her father, alone in the mess he’d made. But he’d brought this on himself: cheating, lying, deceiving. She did feel sorry for him. But pity could poison them both. — No, Dad. I won’t let you back in. Hire workers, fix your place. Learn to live in the mess you created. All I can do is refer you to some good tradesmen. Sorry. If you need to, just ask. She hung up. Harsh? Maybe. But Kristina was done with people leaving stains—on her robe and her soul. Some dirt can’t be cleaned away; sometimes you just have to keep it out.

Let myself in for trouble Dad, whats with all the additions? Did you raid an antique shop or something?

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04

Don’t Leave, Mum: A Family Story Folk wisdom says: people are not like nuts, you can’t crack them open all at once. But Tamara Bennett was convinced that was nonsense—she prided herself on being an excellent judge of character! Her daughter, Millie, got married a year ago. Tamara had always dreamed Millie would find a worthy young man, have children, and that she, the grandma, would reign over a big, happy family just as she always had. Russell turned out to be a smart guy—and as such, not exactly poor. He seemed quite proud of that fact. But they started living on their own; Russell had his own flat, and it seemed they didn’t want her advice! She could tell he was a bad influence on Millie! This was not at all the kind of relationship Tamara had planned for her daughter. Russell began to get on her nerves. “Mum, you just don’t understand—Russell grew up in care. He’s achieved everything himself. He’s strong, kind, and a good man,” Millie protested. But Tamara could only purse her lips, always finding new faults with Russell. Now, she saw him as completely different to the man he pretended to be for her daughter! It was her motherly duty to open her daughter’s eyes to this empty man, before it was too late! He had no real education, he was stubborn, and had no interests! He just spent weekends glued to the telly because he was “tired” from work! How could her daughter want to spend her whole life with someone like that? Tamara was certain Millie would thank her one day. And what would happen when the grandchildren came—her grandchildren—what kind of father would he be? All in all, Tamara was completely disappointed. Russell, feeling her disapproval, kept his distance too. They spoke less and less, and Tamara refused to visit their home at all. Millie’s father, a gentle soul who knew his wife well, just stayed neutral. But one night, Millie phoned Tamara, her voice worried and trembling: “Mum, I didn’t tell you, I’m away on a work trip for two days. Russell caught a cold at the building site—came home early today, wasn’t feeling well. Now he’s not answering his phone.” “Why are you telling me this?” Tamara snapped. “You both want to live your own lives, don’t care about your dad and me! No one asks how I feel! And now you’re phoning in the middle of the night to tell me Russell’s unwell? Are you serious?” “Mum,” Millie’s voice broke, really anxious now, “please, it just hurts that you don’t want to understand. We love each other. You think Russell is empty, unworthy, but he isn’t! How can you think I—your daughter—would fall for a bad man? Don’t you trust me?” Tamara was silent. “Mum, please, you have a key to our flat. Please, will you go check on him? I feel like something’s wrong! Please, Mum!” “All right, only for your sake,” Tamara said, already waking her husband. No one answered the bell at her daughter and son-in-law’s flat, so Tamara opened it herself. They stepped inside—it was dark, was he even home? “Maybe he’s out?” her husband suggested, but Tamara gave him a stern look; she was feeling her daughter’s worry now. They entered the lounge—and Tamara froze. Russell was lying awkwardly on the sofa. He was burning with fever! The paramedic brought him round: “Don’t worry, your son—it’s a complication from his cold. He must work a lot?” “Yes, he does,” Tamara nodded. “He’ll be fine, just monitor his temperature and call if needed.” Russell slept on, and Tamara sat beside him, feeling strange—to be sitting by the bedside of the son-in-law she thought she hated. He looked so pale, his hair stuck to his forehead with fever. She suddenly felt sorry for him. In sleep, he looked younger, gentler—not how he seemed when awake. “Mum,” Russell murmured in his sleep, taking her hand, “don’t leave, Mum.” Tamara was stunned, but she didn’t dare pull her hand away. She stayed with him until morning. At first light, Millie called: “Mum, I’m sorry, I’ll be home soon, you don’t need to go anymore. I think he’ll be all right.” “He definitely will,” Tamara smiled, “Already sorted, love. We’re waiting for you. Everything’s fine now.” ***** When her first grandchild was born, Tamara instantly offered help. Russell kissed her hand in thanks: “See, Millie! And you said your mum wouldn’t want to help us.” And Tamara, proudly carrying little Timothy in her arms, strolled about the flat chatting to the baby: “Well, Timmy, aren’t you lucky? You’ve got the very best parents—and a grandma and grandad, too! You’re a lucky boy!” Turns out, the saying was right: you can’t judge a person straight away. And only love helps you see the truth.

Dont Leave, Mum: A Proper English Family Affair Theres an old saying that goes: You cant judge a book