Recently I Visited My Daughter-in-Law, and Was Shocked to Find Another Woman Responsible for the Housework and Cleaning I Always Told My Son That His Future Wife’s Financial Status Didn’t Matter to Us—So He Happily Married Mary, Who Never Had Much Money and Was Generally Spoiled by Life After the Wedding, the Kids Moved into the House We Bought and Renovated for Them, and My Husband and I Have Been Helping Them Financially and Bringing Them Groceries—My Daughter-in-Law Just Had My Grandchild, Isn’t Working Right Now, and My Son’s Job Isn’t Amazing or High-Paying So Imagine How I Felt When I Walked In, Only to Find a Stranger Cleaning the House—My Daughter-in-Law Hired a Housekeeper, but She Doesn’t Lift a Finger Herself! How Can She Afford This? Doesn’t She Have Any Shame? I Drove the Cleaner Away—After All, It’s Still My House, and She Was Cleaning with My Money! Where Would My Son and Daughter-in-Law Get the Money for a Housekeeper Anyway? I Waited for My Daughter-in-Law, Who Was Out with My Grandchild, and Didn’t Delay the Conversation When She Returned—She Told Me, “Mum, I Became a Blogger During My Maternity Leave and Actually Earn a Good Income, Plus I Really Need the Cleaner Since I Work So Much!” But What Even Is a Blogger? Is That a Real Job? Can You Really Earn Money Like That? I Don’t Want a Stranger Cleaning My House. I Told Her, “If You Have So Much Money, Pay Me Instead and I’ll Clean—No Need for Strangers Here!” She Just Mumbled and Went Off to Feed My Grandson—I Waited for My Son to Tell Him the Family News, and He Said, “Mum, I Knew About the Cleaner. Mary Works Very Hard, and I Want to Spend Time with Our Son After Work—So I Have No Objection.” I Just Don’t Understand Young People—How Can They Afford This? I Rushed Off to My Husband, and You Know What He Said? “You Shouldn’t Interfere in the Young Couple’s Lives! They’re Adults—Let Them Sort It Out Themselves!” I Haven’t Been This Angry in Ages—I’m Convinced I’m Doing and Saying the Right Thing! What Do You Think?

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

Some time ago, I paid a visit to my daughter-in-law, and I found a woman there in charge of the housework and cleaning.

I had always told my son that the financial situation of his future wife wouldnt matter to us, so he was pleased and ended up marrying Alice, who had never had much in the way of money and had always had an easy time of things.

After their wedding, the children moved into the house we had purchased for them. My husband and I renovated it ourselves, and even now we try to support them financially, bringing groceries whenever we can. Alice is doing well, but since she has recently given birth to my grandchild, shes not working at the moment, and my sons job is neither particularly respected nor especially well paid.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the house where my son and grandchild live, only to find a stranger cleaning up. My daughter-in-law had hired a housekeeper, and she hardly lifts a finger herself. How on earth can she allow herself such luxuries? Where is her sense of responsibility?

I promptly sent the strange woman off, for after all, whatever way you look at it, its still my house! And shes cleaning with my money. Where on earth would my son and his wife have the means for such a service? I decided to wait for my daughter-in-laws return, as she was out with the baby. When they arrived, I didnt delay bringing the matter up. As soon as I started talking, my daughter-in-law replied,

Mum, while Ive been on maternity leave, Ive become a blogger, so I earn a decent wage now, and besides, I really need that housekeeper because my work takes up so much of my time!

And what is a blogger, I wondered? Can one truly earn money from thatcould that be considered a proper job? I simply didnt want a stranger cleaning my house.

If youre earning so very much, then pay me and Ill do the cleaning. Theres no need to have outsiders here, I told her.

She only muttered something under her breath, then went off to feed my grandson. I waited for my son, eager to share the latest developments, and he only said,

Mum, I know about the cleaner. Alice truly works very hard, and after work, I want to spend time with my son as well, so it really isnt a problem.

I simply cannot understand young people these dayshow do they afford these things? I rushed home to my husband, and do you know what he said?

You mustnt interfere in the lives of the young ones! Theyre adults now and can sort things out themselves!

Its been ages since I was so cross. Yet I remain convinced that I am in the right in all Ive done and said! What about youwhat do you think?

Max kept his regret for the hasty divorce to himself—wise men turn lovers into special occasions, but he made his into a wife Maxwell Peters’ uplifted mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered his flat. At home, predictability greeted him: slippers ready for his feet, the appetising smell of dinner, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything spotless. But it didn’t move him; after all, his wife was always home—what else is there for an older English lady to do all day? Bake mince pies, knit socks (alright, he exaggerated about the socks, but the point remained). Marina appeared with her usual smile: “Tired, love? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze, standing in trousers and her house top, hair tucked under a scarf—the way she always cooked. The professional habit of tidying her hair: she’d spent her life as a cook. Eyes lightly pencilled, a bit of gloss—she was always tidy, but today it struck Max as brash. What’s the point of painting up your old age! He probably shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he blurted: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! Doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips trembled, but she said nothing—and didn’t go to lay the table. Just as well. The pies were under the tea towel, the tea was brewed—he’d manage. After his shower and supper, kindness began to seep back into Max, along with memories of the day. Draped in his favourite dressing gown, he settled into his armchair—the one waiting just for him—and pretended to read. What did that new woman at work say to him? “You’re quite an attractive man—and interesting too.” At fifty-six, Max managed the legal department of a major London firm. Reporting to him: a fresh grad and three women over forty. Another woman had gone on maternity: her spot was now filled by Asya. He’d been away for paperwork, so only met her that day. He invited her to his office for a chat and, with her, drifted the scent of delicate perfume and a wave of youthful freshness. Soft features framed by light curls, bright blue eyes meeting his confidently. Juicy lips, a mole on her cheek—was she really thirty? He’d have guessed 25. She was divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. Oddly—he thought: “Good.” Chatting, he mildly flirted, saying, “Now you’ve got yourself an old boss.” Asya fluttered long lashes and replied with words he kept replaying now. His wife, over the offence, soon appeared by his chair with her ritual chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always picks the worst time!”—but drank, not without pleasure. Suddenly, he wondered: what is the young, pretty Asya doing now? And an old, forgotten feeling stabbed through him: jealousy. *** After work, Asya popped into Tesco for cheese, a baguette, and some kefir for supper. At home she was neutral, no smile, hugging her son Vasily more by routine than tenderness when he ran up. Dad tinkered in the balcony workshop, Mum cooked. Putting her shopping away, Asya announced she had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed. Really, she felt bleak. Ever since she divorced Vasily’s dad years before, Asya had only struggled fruitlessly to become someone’s “main woman.” All the good ones turned out solidly married and only wanted something easy. The last one she’d dated from work seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years. He even rented a flat for her (for his convenience, really). But when things got serious, he insisted not just on breaking up, but that she must immediately quit her job. He even found her a new position. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Mum pitied her, Dad said that at least the boy should grow up with a mother—not just grandparents. *** Marina, Max’s wife, long suspected he was struggling with a mid-life crisis. He had everything, but something vital was missing. She feared to imagine what “vital” could mean for him. She tried to soften things—making his favourite food, staying pretty, not pushing for deep conversation (though she dearly missed it). She distracted herself with their grandson, the garden, but Max was always glum, brooding. So, perhaps because they both craved change in their lives, Max and Asya’s affair flared instantly. Two weeks after she started, he asked her for lunch—then gave her a lift home from work. He touched her hand; she turned to him with a glowing face. “I don’t want to say goodbye. Shall we go to my country cottage?” Max said huskily. Asya nodded, and the car sped off. Fridays, Max finished work an hour early, but only at 9pm, the worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max had no idea how accurately he’d described the future—“talking” was pointless now. Marina understood: after 32 years of marriage, one can’t burn with passion forever. But he was so much a part of her that losing him meant losing herself. Let him scowl, grumble, and act up, so long as he stayed—right there, in his favourite armchair, having dinner, breathing beside her. Desperate for words to save her life (really, just her life), Marina didn’t sleep till morning. Out of despair, she fetched the wedding album: young, so beautiful, so much ahead! Many had wished to call her their own. Her husband should remember this. She hoped he’d see those fragments of their old happiness and realise—some things cannot be thrown away. But he came back only on Sunday, and she saw: it was over. Before her, a different Max. He was charged with adrenaline; awkwardness and shame were gone. Unlike her, fearing change, he craved and embraced it. Even planned it. He spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent. From now on, Marina should consider herself free. He’d file for divorce tomorrow. Himself. The son’s family was to move in with her—according to the law: the double-bedroom flat belonged to Max, inherited. Family games. The move into a three-bedroom with Mum wouldn’t worsen conditions for the young family—and she’d have someone to fuss over. The car: of course, his. As for the cottage—he’d keep rights to use it. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unattractive, but she couldn’t hold back tears. They caught in her throat, making speech garbled. She begged him to stop, look back, think of his health, at least… That last bit infuriated him. He approached, whispered, almost shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” *** It would be foolish to claim Asya loved Maxim—she accepted his proposal on their very first night together at the cottage. Being a wife was appealing; she also found great comfort in showing her ex-lover, who’d rejected her, that she’d moved on. She was tired of living in her parents’ flat with Dad’s strict ways. She wanted stability. Maxim could give her that. Not a bad deal, really. Despite nearing sixty, he didn’t look like a grandad—fit, sharp, still a department head. Intelligent, pleasant, even considerate in bed. She liked that there were no rented flats, no cash struggles, no theft. All pluses? Well, she had doubts over his age. After a year together, disappointment grew. She still felt young, craved excitement—frequent, not once a year and dignified. She loved concerts, dreamed of waterparks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, meetups with friends. Her youth and energy meant juggling all that with housework and family was easy. Even her son, now living with her, didn’t slow her down. But Max was clearly flagging. At work, the expert legal manager handled endless tasks briskly; at home, she got a tired man who mostly wanted quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre, beach—allowed, but only in small doses. He was open to intimacy, but then straight to sleep—even at 9pm. Plus, she had to account for his sensitive stomach—no fried food, sausages, supermarket ready meals. The ex-wife had spoiled him. He even felt nostalgic at times for her steamed meals. Asya cooked to suit her son, couldn’t understand why pork cutlets made his side ache. She couldn’t memorise his tablets list either—surely a grown man could sort his own meds. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son as a companion, choosing activities to suit him, teamed up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live faster. They didn’t work together anymore—the directors found it unseemly, and Asya switched to a notary office. She felt relieved not to spend all day with her husband—he was starting to remind her of her father. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Was that too little or just enough for two people to be happy? Max’s sixtieth loomed, and Asya craved a lavish celebration. But her husband booked a table in a familiar, modest restaurant, one he’d visited often. He seemed bored, but that’s normal at his age, she thought. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends from the Marina years—it was awkward to invite them; family was far away, and they hadn’t understood his marriage to a much younger woman. His own son had cut him off. But doesn’t a father have the right to live his life as he chooses? Honestly, when marrying, he’d thought “choosing” would look rather different. That first year with Asya was a honeymoon. He enjoyed being in public with her, encouraging her to spend (not too much), keep up with friends, do fitness classes. He coped with concerts, wild movies, made Asya and her son co-owners of his flat. Later, he even gave her his half of the cottage, previously shared with Marina. Meanwhile, Asya, behind his back, persuaded Marina to sell her half, threatening to offload it to unsavoury buyers. Buying it (of course with Max’s money), she registered the place solely to herself. Her rationale: the river, the woodland—perfect for children. Now, for summer, Asya’s parents and her son moved in at the cottage. In fairness, this worked well: Max was not fond of the boy, who was noisy and lively. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s offspring. The old family took offence. After getting the money, they sold their own three-bed and went separate ways—his son’s family found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Max didn’t care how they lived. Family games. *** Now, Max’s sixtieth: so many wished him health, happiness, love. But he was missing the spark. Each year brought that familiar discontent. He loved his young wife, sure. But couldn’t keep pace with her, that was it. And to “press down”, to rule her, didn’t work. She’d smile and live in her own way. Never crossed a line—he could feel it, but it frustrated him. If only he could transplant his ex-wife’s soul into Asya! Someone who’d bring him chamomile tea, tuck him in if he dozed off. Max would love slow walks in the park together, late-night kitchen chats—but Asya couldn’t bear his long stories, and seemed to be bored in bed now. He grew anxious, which didn’t help. Max kept inside his regret at rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into rare treats; he’d made his into a wife. Asya, with her temperament, maybe ten more years would stay the playful filly. But even at forty, she’d still be much younger than him. That gulf would only widen. If he was lucky, perhaps life would end quickly—but if not? Such “un-festive” thoughts pounded, making his heart race. He scanned for Asya—there she was, dancing, radiant. Happy, though, of course—it’s wonderful to wake with her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing the moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, longing for air, to shake off the gloom. But colleagues flocked over. Uncertain how to deal with the growing pain inside, he bolted for the waiting taxi and urged the driver to hurry. He’d decide the destination later. He yearned for somewhere he was truly appreciated—where arriving meant someone was waiting just for him. Where his time was cherished, he could relax, never feel old or weak or foolish. He rang his son, pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. Receiving a bit of well-earned scorn, he insisted—this was a matter of life and death. He let slip it was his birthday, after all. His son softened slightly and said his mum might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. The surname’s—something funny, Bulkovich?” “Bulkevich,” Max corrected, jealousy flaring. Yes, he’d fancied her once—many did. She was beautiful, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkevich, but Max stole her away. Long ago, but yesterday enough to feel more real than life with Asya. His son asked, “Why do you want it, Dad?” The word “Dad” startled Max, and he realised how much he missed them all. So he answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” Son gave him the new address. The driver stopped. Max got out—he didn’t want to speak with Marina in front of witnesses. He checked the time: nearly nine—she was an owl, who also was his lark. He buzzed at the door. But the answer was a muffled male voice—not his ex-wife’s. She was busy. “What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” Max inquired, nervous. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband—even now! You must be Mr Bulkewich!” Max snapped. “‘Mr’? You’re her ex-husband, so you have no rights to bother Marina,” came the reply. Didn’t bother explaining: the friend was just taking a bath. “What, old flames never rust?” Max asked, gearing up for a long spat with Bulkewich. But he only replied, “No, they turn to silver.” Max never got through that door…

— Dad, please meet my future wife—and your daughter-in-law—Barbara! Boris beamed with happiness. — Who?! — Professor Roman Philipson, Doctor of Science, asked in surprise. — If this is a joke, it’s not very funny! He eyed the “daughter-in-law’s” rough fingers with distaste, especially her nails. It seemed to him this girl had never heard of soap and water—how else to explain that ingrained dirt under her nails? “My God! How lucky my Lara didn’t live to see this disgrace. We tried so hard to teach Boris the best manners,” raced through his mind. — I’m not joking! — Boris declared defiantly. — Barbara will be staying with us, and in three months we’re getting married. If you won’t participate in your son’s wedding, I’ll manage without you! — Hello! — smiled Barbara, striding confidently to the kitchen. — Here are pies, raspberry jam, dried mushrooms… — she listed foods pulled from a well-worn tote. Roman Philipson clutched his heart as Barbara ruined his pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth with spilled jam. — Boris! Come to your senses! If you’re doing this just to spite me—it’s not worth it… It’s too cruel! What backwater did you bring this uncouth girl from? I won’t let her live under my roof! — the professor cried in despair. — I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live in my home! — Boris smirked mockingly. Roman Philipson knew his son was tormenting him. Not wishing to argue further, he silently retreated to his room. Relations with his son had changed drastically since his wife’s death. Boris had become unruly, dropped out of university, spoke rudely to his father, and led a wild, reckless life. Roman Philipson hoped his son would change—become thoughtful and kind once more. But each day Boris grew farther apart. And now, Boris had brought this village girl home, knowing full well his father would never approve… Soon Boris and Barbara were married. Roman Philipson refused to attend the wedding and accept the unwelcome daughter-in-law. He was bitter that the place of Lara—the perfect homemaker, wife, and mother—was now filled by this uneducated girl who struggled to string two sentences together. Barbara seemed oblivious to her father-in-law’s dislike, trying to please him—but only making matters worse. He saw no good in her, only poor manners and ignorance… After his stint as the model husband, Boris resumed drinking and partying. His father often overheard their quarrels, secretly pleased—hoping Barbara would leave the house for good. One day, Barbara burst in crying. — Roman Philipson! Boris wants a divorce, and he’s throwing me out in the street. Plus, I’m expecting a child! — Why out on the street? You’re not homeless.… Go back to wherever you came from. Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship, — the man said, inwardly rejoicing that he’d finally be rid of the annoying daughter-in-law. Barbara packed in despair, unable to understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or why Boris had treated her like a pet then cast her out. So what if she was just a village girl? She had a heart and feelings too… *** Eight years passed… Roman Philipson was living in a nursing home. In recent years, the elderly man had grown frail, and Boris had quickly took the opportunity to send him away—relieving himself of any further trouble. Resigned, the old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. He’d taught thousands of students love, respect, and care. He still received letters of thanks from former pupils. But he’d failed to raise his own son to be a decent person… — Roman, you have guests, — his roommate said, returning from a walk. — Who? Boris? — the old man blurted out, though deep down he knew it was impossible; his son would never visit—his bitterness toward his father ran deep… — Don’t know. The nurse told me to come get you. What are you sitting there for? Run along! — his roommate smiled. Roman took his cane and slowly made his way out of the small, stuffy room. Descending the stairs, he saw her from afar—and instantly recognised her, though it had been years since their last meeting. — Hello, Barbara, — he said softly, head bowed. Perhaps he still felt guilt over not defending that sincere, simple girl all those years ago… — Roman Philipson?! — the rosy-cheeked woman was startled. — You’ve changed so much… Are you ill? — A little…, — he smiled sadly. — How did you find me? — Boris told me. You know, he refuses to speak to his son. But the boy keeps asking to visit his dad—and his granddad… Ivan’s not to blame that you won’t acknowledge him. He desperately needs family. It’s just the two of us…, — Barbara said with a trembling voice. — Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have disturbed you. — Wait! — the old man pleaded. — How old is Ivan now? I remember your last photo—he was only three. — He’s just at the entrance. Shall I call him? — Barbara asked, hesitantly. — Of course, dear, bring him in! — Roman Philipson brightened. In came a ginger-haired boy—Boris’s spitting image in miniature. Ivan hesitantly approached the grandfather he’d never met. — Hello, sonny! You’ve grown so much…, — the old man teared up, embracing his grandson. They talked for ages, strolling through the autumn park beside the nursing home. Barbara spoke of her tough life—about losing her mother young and raising her son and farm alone. — Forgive me, Barbara. I owe you a great apology. For all my learning and education, it’s only now I understand—people should be valued not for wit and manners, but for their sincerity and kindness, — the old man said. — Roman Philipson, we’d like to make a suggestion, — Barbara smiled, nervous and stammering. — Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’s so important to have family close by. — Granddad, come on! We can go fishing together and hunt mushrooms in the forest… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room at home! — Ivan pleaded, not letting go of his grandfather’s hand. — Alright! — Roman Philipson smiled. — I missed my chance with Boris, but maybe I can give you what I couldn’t give your father. Besides, I’ve never been to the countryside—maybe I’ll like it! — You’ll love it! — Ivan laughed.

Holding Onto Our Humanity Mid-December in the small English town of Newton was bleak and windswept. The snow barely covered the muddy ground. Newton’s coach station, with its ever-present draughts, felt like the last stronghold of frozen time. Here, the air carried the scent of coffee from the snack bar, the sharp tang of disinfectant, and an undercurrent of weary decay. Glass doors banged in the wind, letting in gusts of cold air with each incoming wave of red-cheeked travellers. Margaret hurried through the echoing waiting hall, glancing occasionally at the big station clock. She was only passing through. A short business trip to a neighbouring county had ended ahead of schedule, and now she had to get back home, changing buses twice along the way. This coach station was the first — and by far the dreariest — of the layovers. Her ticket was for the evening coach. Margaret had three hours to fill, and already felt the chilly boredom of the place seeping through the expensive lining of her camel wool coat. She hadn’t been to these parts in a decade, and everything here seemed shrunken, faded, slowed down, and impossibly far from her current cosmopolitan life. Margaret’s heels tapped sharply on the cold tile floor. She looked distinctly out of place — a bright detail in dull surroundings: a stylish coat, hair perfectly set despite the miles she’d travelled, a fine leather satchel across her shoulder. Her discerning gaze flicked across the room: the bored kiosk clerk scrolling on her phone, an elderly couple quietly sharing a roll, a man in a battered jacket staring into space. She sensed the glances — not hostile, simply matter-of-fact: “she doesn’t belong.” And she agreed privately. All she needed to do was endure this pause, get through the time and place like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, she’d be back in her modern, warm London flat — far from this bone-deep provincial gloom. But just then, her path was blocked by someone. A man — perhaps sixty, maybe older. His face was weathered, unremarkable, the kind you forget at once. He wore a well-mended old parka and held a faded ear-flap hat in his hands, evidently warmed by the shelter. He hadn’t stepped to intercept her; he’d simply appeared in her way, as if conjured from the station’s grey air. He spoke quietly, in a flat, undramatic voice. “Excuse me… miss… do you know where I could… get a cup of water?” The question hung awkwardly, as odd as the moment itself. Margaret, barely glancing, gestured towards the kiosk where the bored clerk watched her phone behind walls of bottled drinks. “Over there. At the kiosk,” she clipped, moving to sidestep him. She felt a little stab of irritation — “a cup of water”, and “miss” — such strange formality. Couldn’t he see for himself? He nodded and mumbled a faint “Thank you…” but didn’t move. He stood there, head bowed, as though summoning strength for the short walk. His hesitation, his helplessness at something so basic, made Margaret, already almost past, glance back just for a second. She saw not his clothes, nor his age. Saw the sweat beading on his temples and trailing down his cheek despite the cold. His fingers clenched and unclenched his hat, lips strangely pale, his stare foggy and unfocused — as though the floor itself was miles away. Something inside her shifted. Her urgency, her annoyance, her sense of superiority crumpled and vanished in an instant, as if some inner wall cracked. She didn’t think. Instinct took over. “Are you alright?” — her own voice sounded unusually gentle, stripped of its usual crispness as she stepped towards him, not around. He looked up. There was no plea there, just embarrassment and confusion. “Blood pressure, maybe. Dizzy…” he whispered, eyelids fluttering as if it took all his strength just to stay upright. In another moment, Margaret was moving on pure reflex. She took his arm — carefully, but firmly. “Don’t stand. Let’s find a seat. There,” she said, her voice steady and decisive, steering him toward the nearest empty bench she’d just meant to pass by. Once seated, she crouched before him without caring about appearances. “Lean back. Breathe slowly. Don’t rush.” She dashed off to the kiosk, returned with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Here, small sips.” From her pocket she pulled a tissue and blotted his forehead, focusing on his ragged breath, the faint pulse fluttering under her fingers at his wrist. “Help! Someone, please! We need an ambulance!” Her voice rang out not as a cry of panic, but a clear command. The waiting hall, until that second half-asleep, stirred as if shocked awake. The elderly couple were the first to respond; the woman hurried over with her heart pills. The man who’d been dozing in the far corner woke and dialled 999. Even the kiosk clerk stepped out from behind the counter. Other quiet figures grew visible, drawing in to help. Margaret knelt at the man’s side, speaking quietly, clutching his chilly fingers. In that instant, she was neither city businesswoman nor outsider, but simply another human being — and, for once, that was enough. The moment stretched to silence, then the sound of an ambulance buzzer cut into the air as the doors burst open and two paramedics in bright jackets charged through a blast of December wind. Everyone stepped back, forming a corridor to the bench. The woman paramedic knelt swiftly beside them, her movements brisk and sure. “What happened?” she asked, eyes sharp but kind. Margaret answered as if reporting in a meeting, but now her voice held only exhaustion — and relief. “He felt faint, dizzy, sweating badly. He said it was his blood pressure. We gave him water, some heart pills. He seems stable now.” While she spoke, the other medic checked the man’s readings. Soon he was alert enough to whisper his name, age, medication. The paramedic nodded at Margaret. “You did well. We’ll take it from here, get him checked properly.” With support, the man found his feet, then turned, searching for Margaret among the little crowd. His eyes found hers. “Thank you, love,” he rasped gratefully, emotion tight in his voice. “You may have just saved me.” Speechless, Margaret nodded, feeling an odd emptiness where adrenaline had recently surged. She watched them lead him to the open doors, the ambulance waiting beyond. A draught chilled the room: “Close that door — we’re freezing!” someone grumbled. The door slammed, the siren wailed into the distance, and slowly, reluctantly, the atmosphere dissolved back into the station’s habitual lethargy. People drifted to their benches, movements slowed once again. Margaret stood where she was, looking down at her hands: a red stripe where her bag’s handle had pressed. Her perfectly styled hair now a mess, coat rumpled, the hem smeared from kneeling. She wandered to the ladies’, scrubbed her face under icy water, and peered at her reflection: smeared makeup, tired eyes, wild hair. A face she had almost forgotten — not polished for success, but open, honest, vulnerable with anxiety, care, exhaustion. She dabbed her face, returned to the waiting hall with a new bottle of water — this time, just for herself. The water tasted plain, but for a moment it felt like the most precious thing in the world. Not just a drink, but a connection: simple, human contact formed in the split second when one person ceases to see another as background or a problem and sees — simply — a person. She noticed faces she’d barely seen before: the kiosk lady pouring tea for an old woman with a stick; a man helping a mum lift her pram inside. These little kindnesses, woven together, built not a grey picture, but one quietly glowing with mutual support. Margaret checked her phone. A work group pinged about a report mishap. Only hours ago she’d have dropped everything for such a problem. Now, she replied simply, “Reschedule for tomorrow. It’ll be fine.” Then she muted her notifications. Today, she remembered a simple, forgotten truth. The world asks us to wear masks — professional, successful, untouchable — different roles for different scenes. We must wear them. But it’s dangerous if our skin beneath forgets how to breathe — if we convince ourselves the mask is all that’s real. Today, in a draughty coach station, her mask cracked open. And through the crack, something genuine escaped — the ability to care for a stranger, to crouch on a dirty floor without thinking of her appearance, to be just “the girl who helped” rather than “Ms Lewis, department head.” Holding onto our humanity doesn’t mean rejecting all masks. It means remembering what’s underneath — and sometimes, just sometimes, letting the real you come into the light, if only to reach out a hand.

Every Tuesday Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic bag—a sorry trophy from two fruitless hours trawling bustling high streets for her goddaughter’s birthday present. Ten-year-old Sophie had outgrown unicorns and become obsessed with astronomy, and finding a decent telescope on a teacher’s budget was proving a mission worthy of NASA. Evening shadows settled over the platforms. Letting the rush-hour crowd spill past, Liana squeezed onto the escalator. That’s when, above the muffled roar of the commuters, a clear, emotionally charged snippet of conversation caught her ear. “…I never thought I’d see him again, honestly.” The voice behind her was young and slightly tremulous. “But every Tuesday, he picks her up from school. Himself. In his own car. They go to that same park with the carousel…” Liana paused mid-escalator, glancing back at the speaker—a vivid red coat, an animated face, shining eyes—and her friend, nodding along. Every Tuesday. She’d once had a day like that of her own. Not Monday’s frantic scramble or the anticipation of Friday, but Tuesday: the quiet pivot upon which her world once spun. Every Tuesday at five, she’d leave the English classroom where she taught, and race across the city to the Royal Academy of Music’s old creaky-floored building. There, she collected Max, her seven-year-old nephew with the overlarge violin case—her late brother’s son, living proof of love and loss three years gone. In those weeks after the accident, Tuesdays became a survival ritual—for Max, who barely spoke; for his mum, Kate, broken by grief; and for herself, clinging on for them both, the makeshift anchor in a storm. She remembered every detail: how Max would emerge, head down, silent; how she’d carry his case, fill the Tube journey with teacher stories or funny playground anecdotes. One rainy November, Max once asked, “Did Dad hate the rain?” And with her heart twisting, Liana smiled and replied, “He loathed it—always ran for cover.” With that, Max clutched her hand tight, not to be led, but as if holding onto a memory slipping away. In the warmth of that squeeze was all his childlike longing and belief, anchoring his dad to the here and now. For years, life split into ‘before’ and ‘after’. Tuesdays became the day that mattered: she’d buy Max his favourite apple juice, download cartoons for the Tube, think up conversation starters. Then—gradually—Kate healed. She found work, then a new start in another city. Liana helped them pack, hugged Max at the station. “Call me, I’ll always be here,” she whispered, fighting tears. At first, the calls came every Tuesday, on the dot at six. She would ask about school, violin, new friends, each conversation a slender thread bridging miles. In time, the calls spaced out, then became texts. “Sorry, forgot to ring on Tuesday—had a big test.” She replied, “No worries, sunshine. How was it?” Her Tuesdays became waiting for a message that might not come. Now, only holidays. His voice deeper, polite: “All good, Aunt Liana.” Kate remarried—her new husband, John, stable and kind, never tried to replace Max’s dad. Recently, Max’s little sister Lucy arrived, and in photos, Max cradled the newborn with a beautiful, awkward affection. Life, both cruel and generous, had rebuilt itself. Liana’s place was now a carefully maintained niche in his past. But there in the Underground, those two words—“every Tuesday”—resonated not as reproach, but as a quiet echo: a reminder of the Liana who’d once carried a fierce, searing love, painful and precious alike. She was needed then. The woman in the red coat had her own drama, her own fragile truce between old wounds and new realities. But that ritual—“every Tuesday”—was a universal language: the language of showing up, week after week, to say: “I’m here. You matter, right here and now.” It’s a language Liana once spoke fluently and was only now recalling by heart. As the train rattled away, Liana stood straight, catching her reflection in the tunnel window. At her stop, she emerged with resolve. Tomorrow, she’d order two matching telescopes—affordable, but good. One for Sophie. One sent to Max. When it arrived, she would write: “Max, so we can look at the same sky, even from different cities. How about next Tuesday, six o’clock? If it’s clear, let’s both look for the Big Dipper. Shall we synchronize watches? Love, Aunt Liana.” She rode up the escalator into the cool evening air. Next Tuesday was no longer blank. It was set—not out of obligation, but as a gentle promise between two people, bound by gratitude, memory, and a quiet, unbreakable thread of kinship. Life went on. And in her calendar, there were still days not just to live through, but to set aside—for small, synchronised miracles across the miles. For memories that warmed instead of hurt. For a love that had learned the language of distance, and only grown stronger, gentler, deeper.

The Heart of a Cat Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered and Soul Ached: What Could Happen for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Olesya Was Given a Pure Black British Cat at Her Housewarming, She Was Stunned for Several Minutes… Her Modest, Previously-Owned One-Bedroom Flat, Bought with Hard-Scraped Savings, Was Barely Furnished. Other Problems Demanded Her Attention. And Then, Out of the Blue, a Kitten. Astounded, She Looked into the Little One’s Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a tomcat or a queen?” “A tomcat!” “All right then, Tomcat, you’ll be called Whiskers,” she said to the kitten. He opened his tiny mouth and meekly squeaked, “Meow…” ***** It Turned Out British Shorthairs Were Quite Comfortable Company. Three Years Later, Lesley and Whiskers Lived in Harmony, and Through Shared Life She Discovered His Touching Soul and Big Heart. He Joyfully Greeted Her After Work, Warmed Her As She Slept, Watched Movies Snuggled by Her Side, and Trailed After Her as She Tidied Up. Life with a Cat Became Much Brighter. It’s Comforting to Know Someone Waits at Home for You—Someone to Laugh or Cry With and, Most Importantly, Understands You Instantly. It Seemed Like Life Couldn’t be Better, but… Recently Lesley Began Noticing Pain in Her Right Side. First, She Thought She Pulled a Muscle or Blamed Rich Food. But When Pain Worsened, She Went to the Doctor. After Hearing the Diagnosis and What Lay Ahead, Lesley Cried All Evening Into Her Pillow. Whiskers, Sensing Her Mood, Quietly Snuggled Close and Tried to Comfort Her with Musical Purring. Unaware, Calmed by Whiskers’ Purrs, Lesley Fell Asleep. In the Morning, Having Accepted Her Fate, She Decided Not to Tell Family, Sparing Herself Sympathy and Awkward Attempts to Help. She Still Clung to a Ray of Hope that Doctors Could Treat Her Illness. They Offered a Course of Treatment that Might Improve Her Condition. But There Was the Question of Where to Place Her Cat. Deep Down, Fearing Her Illness Might End Tragically, She Decided to Find Whiskers a New Home with Good Owners. She Made an Online Post Offering Her Pedigree Cat to a Loving Home. When the First Caller Asked Why She Was Parting with an Adult Pet, Lesley, Without Really Knowing Why, Said She Was Expecting and Had Developed an Allergy to Cat Hair During Pregnancy. Three Days Later, Whiskers, in His Carrier with All His Belongings, Left for His New Owners, and Lesley Was Admitted to Hospital… Two Days Later, She Called the New Owners to Ask About Whiskers, and Apologetically They Told Her the Cat Had Escaped That Very Night and Couldn’t Be Found. Her First Instinct Was to Flee the Hospital and Search. She Even Pleaded with the Duty Nurse, Who Sternly Sent Her Back to Her Bed. Her Roommate Noticed Lesley’s Distress and Asked What Had Happened. Lesley, Sobbing Bitterly, Told Her Everything. “Don’t Grieve Yet, Dear,” said the thin elderly woman. “Tomorrow, a specialist from London is meant to visit. I also have a bad diagnosis, my son—he’s a businessman—wanted to move me to another clinic, but I refused. He managed to arrange for the specialist here. I’ll ask if she’ll see you too; maybe things aren’t so hopeless,” she comforted Lesley, gently rubbing her shoulder. **** Emerging from the Carrier, Whiskers Realized He Was in a Strange House. Someone Unknown Reached to Stroke Him… The Cat’s Nerves Snapped—he Gave a Fierce Swipe and Bolted into a Dark Corner. “Paul, don’t approach him yet, let him settle,” Whiskers Heard a Soft Female Voice, But It Wasn’t His Owner’s Voice. The Cat’s Heart Beat Faintly in His Chest, Thoughts Scattered, Soul Ached. What Could Have Occurred for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers, Why Had She Abandoned Him? His Amber Eyes Scanned the Room in Panic. Then He Spotted an Open Window. With a Black Flash He Darted Across the Room and Leapt Outside! Luckily, It Was Just the Second Floor—and a Well-Kept Lawn Beneath. From There, Whiskers Began His Journey Home… ***** The Specialist Appeared Before Lesley as a Pleasant Woman Just Past Forty. She Introduced Herself as Dr. Mary Palmer, Carefully Studied Lesley’s Medical File, and Asked Her to Lie on the Couch, Turn to Her Left Side. She Probed and Tapped for Some Time, Asked Where It Hurt and What Kind of Pain. Then She Checked the File Again and Repeated Tests on Medical Equipment. Lesley Expected Nothing Good. She Returned to Her Bed, Where Her Neighbor Already Lay. “So, what did they say, dear?” the woman asked. “Nothing yet, said they’d come to the ward again.” “I see. Well for me, they confirmed the diagnosis,” she said sadly. “I’m very sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, not sure how to comfort someone who knew she didn’t have long. Half an Hour Later, Dr. Palmer Entered the Ward with Other Doctors. “Well, Lesley, I Have Good News for You. Your Illness Is Treatable—I’ve Prescribed Your Course. Stay Two Weeks, Complete Treatment, and You’ll Be Healthy,” She Told Her With a Smile. Once the Doctors Left, Her Neighbor Spoke: “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, darling,” she added. ***** There Was No Guiding Star for Whiskers—and He Wouldn’t Have Known of One. The Cat Simply Headed Home, Driven by His Feline Inspiration. The Road Through Thorns to the Stars Was Full of Dangerous Adventures and Silly Mishaps. Unfamiliar with the Streets, The Noble Brit Quickly Became a Fierce Predator, His Instincts Sharpened. Avoiding Busy Roads and Noisy Streets, Whiskers Sneaked, Sprinted, and Flew Over the Ground (or so it felt while fleeing dogs), Scampered Up Trees, and Doggedly Pressed On… In One Quiet Yard, Fleeing the Nearby Road’s Roar, He Came Face-to-Face with an Experienced Alley Cat. That Cat Didn’t Waste Time Inspecting Whiskers and Instantly Recognized Him as an Outsider. With a Loud Meow, the Alley Cat Attacked, and Whiskers—transforming from a Stately Aristocrat to a Furious Bandit—Didn’t Back Down. The Scuffle Was Brief; The Local Feline Boss Retreated in Shame to the Bushes, Leaving Behind a Slightly Torn Ear as a Souvenir. What Else Could the Cat Do? The Alley Cat Was Showing Off, Trying to Prove He Was Boss, but Whiskers Was Headed Home and Nothing Would Stop Him. The Journey Continued. Summoning Memories of His Wild Ancestors, Whiskers Learned to Sleep in Tree Forks. Oh God, How Embarrassing, but Whiskers Learned to Eat Out of Bins and Steal Food from Other Alley Cats, Thanks to Sympathetic Locals. Once, He Ran Into a Pack of Stray Dogs. They Chased Him Up a Fragile Tree, Barking, Jumping, and Scraping the Trunk. People Gathered, Driven by the Noise, and Chased the Dogs Away. One Woman Decided to Adopt Whiskers, Tempting Him with a Piece of Delicious Sausage. Hunger and Fear Clouded the Brit’s Judgement, So He Let Her Pet Him and Carry Him Inside. However… After Resting and Eating in Warmth and Safety, Whiskers Remembered His Mission, Bolted Out After the Woman and Slipped Into the Lobby as the Door Opened, Continuing His Trek Home… ***** Discharged from Hospital, Lesley Went Home. She Couldn’t Stop Thinking of the Woman Who Wished Her Happiness. Of Course, She Was Thrilled Her Diagnosis Wasn’t Confirmed and She Was Well. But Her Heart Ached for Whiskers. She Couldn’t Imagine Returning to A Lonely Flat With No One To Greet Her. No Sooner Had She Crossed the Threshold than She Phoned Those Who’d Adopted Whiskers, Asking For Their Address. Arriving, Lesley Learned How Whiskers Had Escaped, and Decided to Trace His Steps. She Was Told It Was Impossible, That Two Weeks Had Passed, That No House Cat Could Survive on the Streets—But She Didn’t Want to Believe It. Lesley Walked Through Every Yard, Checked Nearby Parks and Garages. She Tried to Think Like a Cat Who’d Never Been Outdoors. She Called Out for Whiskers, Peering Into the Darkness Beneath Basement Windows. Nearing Her Own Building, She Realized The Cat Had Disappeared Without Trace. It Was Unreal That He, Unfamiliar With The City, Could Reach This Far, Where She Had Walked For Two Hours With Many Delays. She Entered Her Courtyard with a Heavy Heart, Eyes Filling With Tears, Soul Burdened and Sore. Through Her Blurry Vision, She Saw, Across the Pavement, a Black Cat Limping Her Way. “A Black Cat” Flared in Her Mind. Lesley Stopped and, Staring Hard, Understood. She Broke into a Run, Shouting: “Whiskers!” But the Cat Didn’t Rush to Her—He Simply Had No Strength Left. He Sat Down, Squinting with Joy, and Quietly Squeaked, “I made it!”

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mother’s Things,” My Husband Said — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly distant. — “We’re getting rid of them, Paul. Honestly, what do we need them for? They take up half the wardrobe, and I need space for our winter duvets and spare pillows. The house is a tip as it is.” Olivia, looking businesslike, continued pulling modest blouses, skirts, and summer dresses—belongings of her late mother-in-law, Margaret Ferguson—from their hangers. Margaret always kept her clothes pristine, hanging each one carefully, a habit she’d instilled in Paul. Olivia’s own wardrobe, however, was always in chaos: every morning she’d dig through piles searching for something to wear, declaring she had “nothing,” and then frantically steaming crumpled tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Paul said farewell to his mum. Margaret had needed treatment—mostly palliative by then—and peace. Her stage-four cancer progressed mercilessly quickly. Paul had brought her to stay with them. She passed away within a month. Now, coming home after a long day, he found her things tossed like rubbish in the hallway, and he froze in shock. Was that it? Was this really the way his mum was to be remembered? Just thrown away and forgotten? — “Why are you looking at me like that, like Churchill eyeing up the enemy?” Olivia retorted, stepping out of his way. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Paul hissed through gritted teeth, his anger almost numbing his limbs. — “Why do we need this old clutter?” Olivia fumed, “You planning on turning our house into a museum, Paul? She’s gone now. Come to terms with it! Pity you didn’t show this much care while she was alive. If you’d visited more, maybe you’d have known how ill she really was!” Paul flinched as if she’d struck him. — “Get out before I do something I’ll regret,” he managed, voice shaking. Olivia scoffed, “Oh, right. Mad as a hatter—” To Olivia, anyone who challenged her view was immediately written off as “mental.” Still in his shoes, Paul went to the hallway cupboard, flung open the top doors, and climbed onto a stool to reach an old tartan holdall. They’d got about seven of those for their move to this house. He carefully packed all of Margaret’s things, not just throwing them in, but folding each blouse, skirt, and dress into neat rectangles. Her jacket and a bag of her shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son hovered nearby, helping his dad and even tossing in his toy tractor, too. Paul rummaged through the drawer by the door for the key and slipped it into his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Paul forced a smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go and see Mummy.” — “Wait!” Olivia suddenly called from the living room doorway, anxious. “You’re leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “Thanks, but I’ve had my fill of your attitude towards my mum.” — “Don’t be silly—what’s got into you now? Just take your coat off and come here. Where are you even planning to go at this hour?” Paul ignored her, left the flat with the bag, drove out of the estate and towards the ring road. He joined the stream of cars, lost in thought—work projects, holiday plans, and the funny social media pages he’d scroll through to unwind—all receded to irrelevance, replaced by a single heavy thought. Only the most precious things remained untouched: his children, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for Margaret’s death: for not being there, for being too busy, too distracted. She’d never wanted to be a burden, and he’d called less, visited less, their conversations growing fewer and shorter. Now, driving through dusk, the sky suddenly bled crimson on the horizon—a sunset desperately clinging to the day—and for the first time in weeks, Paul simply let himself be. Arriving in the old village late at night, he found his childhood home. Nothing to see, just darkness and the sweet, stale scent of cherry blossom in the air. His mum’s slippers stood by the door—the ones for the garden. By the door to the living room: her worn blue house-shoes with little red bunnies on the toes—Paul had bought those for her years ago. He paused, staring, shaking his head as he unlocked the next door. Hello, Mum, did you wait for me? But no one waited here for him anymore. The air smelled of old furniture, with a hint of damp. After checking every room—her hairbrush, her modest cosmetics, the “value” pasta in a see-through bag, the new sofa he’d bought her, and the sad open fridge—he found her bedroom. Her bed piled with pillows, neatly covered. He sat on the edge; this had once been his room. Now, the wardrobe—her wardrobe—stood where his brother’s bed used to be. He gazed at it, lost, then folded in two, pressing his face into his knees and sobbing for all the things he’d never got to say as she squeezed his hand on her last day. He’d sat there, silent, while thousands of unspoken words choked him. “Don’t look at me like that, Paul. I was happy with you all,” she’d whispered. He’d wanted, so badly, to thank her, to say “thank you” for everything—the childhood, the love, the sacrifices, the safe place to come home to no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he couldn’t. Today’s world is so poor in words for feelings—only cynicism and sarcasm seem to come easily. Paul eventually fell asleep, fully dressed, on her bed, hardly daring to wrinkle the covers. Next morning—seven o’clock, as always—he woke, stretched, and carried Margaret’s things back to her wardrobe. Carefully, he hung each blouse, each skirt, arranged her shoes. Only then did he notice, from the silhouette of dresses and the subtle scent of her, that she was still there in some way, still smiling at him with that warm, unspoken “I love you.” He hugged her clothes, inhaled the familiar smell, not knowing what, if anything, to do next. Finally, he called his boss: “Hi, Stephen. Won’t make it in today; something’s come up at home. Can you manage? Thanks.” He sent a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” He gathered flowers—daffodils in bloom, tulips unfurling, and lilies of the valley by the gooseberry bushes. He made three little bouquets, because there were three waiting for him at the cemetery—his brother, his father, his mother. As he walked through the village, he stopped at the shop for milk, bread, and a chocolate bar. — “Paul! Back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs. Vernon, called. — “Yeah… here to see Mum,” Paul replied, glancing away. — “I see. Fresh Caerphilly cheese in today, from my friend over in Wales. Your mum always bought from me.” He couldn’t help but smile—she meant well. On the graves, he placed the bunches: daffodils, lilies of the valley, tulips. Brother, Dad, Mum. His brother had died young, a fall from a roof. Dad passed away five years ago. Now Mum. Paul left everyone some chocolate, broke off cheese for his mother. They smiled at him from their headstones as he quietly shared memories: early morning fishing trips with Dad, boyhood pranks with his brother, Mum’s voice calling him in for tea—so clear you could hear it two villages away. How embarrassed he used to be! Oh, if only she could call him now. Standing with one hand on his mum’s newly-laid grave, Paul’s thoughts flowed freely: “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t do enough. I thought I’d have time, and now it’s just so empty without you. There’s so much I want to say. You were the best parents a son could have. Thank you—for everything. And you too, Albie.” Time to go. As he walked along the country lane, chewing sweet grass stems, he met Mark, Mrs. Vernon’s son, already worse for wear. — “Paul—back again?” Mark slurred. — “Just visiting. Still drinking?” — “Course. It’s World Turtle Day!” Mark declared, waving a torn wall calendar. Paul smiled thinly. “Look after your mum, Mark. She’s a gem, and she won’t be around forever. Remember that.” And he left Mark standing there, puzzled, calling behind him. — “Alright, mate… you take care, yeah?” — “Goodbye, Mark,” Paul said, not looking back.