“So What Did Your Complaining Ever Get You?” Her Husband Asked—But He Never Expected What Happened Next When Life at 5am Feels Suffocating, Marina Faces the Truth About Her Marriage, Her Panic Attacks, and the Power She Never Knew She Had Eighteen Years of Being the Accountant, Cleaner, and Silent Partner—Until She Shows Her Husband Just Who Really Holds the Keys to the House, the Family, and the Business When Marina Reveals the Hidden Truth About the Mortgage, the Business Loans, and ‘The Other Woman’—A Husband Discovers What It Means to Lose Everything He Took for Granted After Years Spent Chasing His Business Dreams, He Never Noticed His Wife’s Quiet Strength—Until the Day She Decides to Take Back Control of Her Life and Their Daughter’s Future From Exhaustion, Panic Attacks, and Self-Doubt to a Kitchen-Table Ultimatum—How One Woman’s Quiet Determination Reshaped Her Destiny and Left Her Husband Speechless Does Supporting Your Husband’s Business Always Pay Off? Marina’s Story of Betrayal, Strength, and Starting Over Will Make You Think Twice

Author Emily TaylorReading 11 minViews 3

And what exactly have you achieved by all your whinging? her husband asked. Yet, what followed left him speechless.

Really, when else but at five in the morning does one find themselves awake, chest tight with anxiety? Mary sat on the edge of the bed staring through the dim light at the street outside.

Her heart kept skipping and stumbling, thumping twice, faltering, then three more beats before another uneasy pause. The doctor shed seen yesterday said it was panic attacks, gave her a letter for further tests.

Eighteen years ago, Mary had started as an ambitious graduate with her accounting degree, but now… What had she become? Simply an accessory to her husbands business? An amateur bookkeeper signing papers and sorting accounts simply because Jack couldnt be bothered? Or the cleaner, mopping the kitchen floor in the evenings because Jack never noticed the dirt?

Awake already? Jack appeared by the kettle, his face rumpled and annoyed. Another sleepless night?

Mary nodded in silence and poured him a cup of tea. She took out a tub of yoghurt from the fridge his breakfast for as long as she could remember.

By the way, Jack said, sipping his tea, Ill be off to Manchester today. Three days. Important meeting with a supplier.

Jack

She knew she probably shouldnt start. She knew the look hed give her as if she was once again about to pester him, trying to drag sympathy he didnt have. But she said it anyway.

Dont go, not right now. Im really not well. The doctor insists I have those tests.

Jack paused, setting his mug down, sighing through his nosethe sound of someone whos tired of the same refrain.

And what exactly have you achieved by all your whinging? he said, almost calmly. Not angry, just indifferent. I have work to do, Mary. I cant spend every day listening to how ill you feel, how tired you are. Who isnt knackered these days?

He was packing his suitcase already, confident, expecting shed just keep quiet and swallow her hurt, and blame herself wrong moment again, wrong words again.

But this time, Mary didnt stay silent.

Jack, she stood, steady and calm. Do you remember whose name is actually on the mortgage?

He turned, amused. Does it matter? Probably both of ours, isnt it?

No. Just me. Only me.

The air seemed to crack. Mary watched his face change.

What are you getting at?

Do you remember, eight years ago, when we bought this flat? You were up to your neck in debt. No bank would have touched you with a loan. Remember?

He said nothing.

So, the mortgage is in my name. So is the flat. And Im the guarantor for every one of your business loans. Without my signature, you cant renew, you cant extend, you cant do much of anything.

Jack sat back down at the table, as if his legs had buckled.

Why are you bringing this up?

Just a reminder. Mary opened a drawer, pulled out a folder and placed it in front of him. And something elseI know about Sophie.

Jack stared at the folder.

He sat there, as still as a statue, face blank, the look of someone hit over the head not painful yet, but beginning to drift out of reality.

Sophie, Mary repeated. Her voice was even, unexpectedly steady. Your friend Davids bookkeeper. Pretty girl, actually. Twelve years younger than me.

She opened the folder, laying the sheets out in front of himone, two, threeslowly, almost ceremoniously, like a hand of cards at the casino.

Bank statements. The ones you tried so hard to hide. See these transfers? Forty thousand. Fifty. Seventy. Every month.

He stared without a word.

And this is the correspondence. Mary produced a printout. Did you really think I wouldnt know the password to your work computer? Jack, I created it for you three years ago when you forgot the old one.

Jack snatched up the documents, leafing through them, his face draining of colour.

How did you get these?!

Does it matter? Mary poured herself some water; her hands shook just a bit. What matters is that you funnelled money to her. Direct to her account. What do you reckon the taxman would make of that?

Jack leaped to his feet, shouting.

How dare you?! Who do you think you are? Youve leeched off me all your life! Earned nothing! Sat at home like a hanger-on!

Hanger-on? Mary couldnt help but laugh, a bitter, broken sound. Funny word, isnt it? The hanger-on who signed your bank contracts. The hanger-on who kept your books while you were at meetings. The hanger-on whose name is on this flat, and who is co-signed for all your loans.

So youre threatening me?!

No. Mary moved to the window. Im simply explaining the factsbecause you seem to have forgotten them.

She turned.

Over the last six months, I renewed my certificate, took accountancy courseslate at night, between panic attacks and insomnia. Got a job offer. Not glamorous, but enough to rent a place and support myself and Emily.

Emily?! he gasped. Youre thinking of taking our daughter?!

When did you last see her, Jack? Mary moved closer. No, really. When did you last even talk to her?

Jack stood mute. He honestly couldnt remember.

Mary took another document from the table.

Neurologist’s report. Chronic nervous exhaustion. Panic attacks. Recommendationchange of environment, psychotherapy, removal of the stressor. See that line? Prolonged exposure to stressful situation. Do you know what that means for you?

Mary.

It means that if I file for divorce, the court would be on my side.

She slid one more sheet across.

Most importantly, you wont be able to extend your credit line next week without my signature. David rang last night. Says the bank wants the documents. They need my sign-off.

Jack sank into his seat, as if something inside him collapsed.

What do you want? he croaked. Money?

Mary almost laugheda short, hollow sound.

Money? Jack, I want respect. Simple as that. Just once, Id like you to admit that nothing you have would exist without me. No business. No flat. Not even that wretched trip youre so keen to make.

She grabbed her bag.

Youve got until tonight. Im taking Emily to stay with Claire. Think carefully. And if you actually want to talk, ring me. But dont expect me to be the same Mary who swallowed everything and kept quiet.

Jack phoned six hours later.

Mary was sitting in Claires kitchen, sipping mint tea, feeling strangely light-headedas if she had waded out of some grim bog shed been stuck in up to her neck. Now she sat, dabbing her face, marvelling she could finally breathe.

Hello, she answered, her voice steady.

I need to talk to you.

Im listening.

Not over the phone. A pause. Come home.

Mary smiled slightly.

No, Jack. If you want a conversationcome here. You know the address.

He showed up an hour laterflustered and tense, like a man forced into a corner scrambling for escape.

Claire, sensing the mood, took Emily into the other room. Mary stayed in the kitchen.

How dare you?! Jack banged his fist against the table. Youre blackmailing me?!

No. Im explaining the situation.

What situation?! You rifled through my documents! Spied on me! Went through my computer!

Jack, Mary sighed, do you really think attacking me is your wisest move just now? After everything Ive shown you?

He lapsed into silence, realising she was right.

Listen closely, Mary leaned in. Im not here to ruin younot handing everything to the taxman or airing our dirty laundry. I just want you to understandwithout me, you have nothing.

You want a divorce? he choked.

Do you?

Jack looked away, lost in thought, then exhaled.

With Sophie, it never meant anything.

Mary raised her hand. Dont interrupt. Ive known about Sophie for six months. I knew you sent money to her. I knew you met her during tripssome of which barely counted as work at all. I knew, and I stayed quiet, hoping it would blow over, hoping youd come to your senses.

She gave a weary laugh.

Maybe I was simply afraid to admit our marriage died five years ago. Weve both been pretending everythings fine.

Mary

Im tired of being treated as luggage in your life. Of being dismissed every time I speak. Of living with someone who didnt even notice I was crumbling with panic attacks and sleepless nights.

Jack sat, pale and fist-clenched.

You have a choice, said Mary in a measured tone. We can try again. No more lies. No more cheating.

Or youll leave and take it all.

No. Mary shook her head. Ill leave and take only whats mine. The flat. My share of the business. The loans in my nameyoull carry those yourself. Ill start living for me.

She got up, signalling she was finished.

Youve three days. Think. If youre ready to talk honestly, ring me. But rememberthe old Mary, who kept quiet and endured, vanished yesterday at five in the morning.

A week later, Jack came again.

This time, without his mask of certainty. He simply came, sat quietly at Claires kitchen table, and was silent for a long while.

David says if you dont sign, the bank wont renew the loan, he finally managed. The business will fold.

Mary nodded.

I know.

What do you want?

She looked him in the eye.

I want a divorce.

Jacks face turned ashen.

Youre serious?

Ive never been more certain. Mary poured herself another tea. Her hands didnt shake at all. Ill sign the papers at the bank, renew the credit linebut on one condition. We divorce. Formally, no drama. You buy me out of the business. I keep the flat. Emily stays with me.

Mary

My mind is made up, Jack. She managed a small smile. Do you know the most surprising thing? For the first time in years, I slept without tablets last night. Slept well. No attacks.

He said nothing.

And that made things very clear. Im not ill, and I dont need fixing. I just needed to escape the life where I didnt matter.

Mary got up.

Youve a choice. Accept my terms and we settle things peacefully. If not, I go to court, with all the documents. You could lose much more than your business. Decide.

Jack hung his head. He knewhe had lost. The woman hed thought weak proved stronger than he ever was.

All right, he breathed. I agree.

Three months later, it was all done and dusted.

Mary kept the flat and got a decent settlement for her business share. She started a new job.

Jack kept the businessand his new flat. But evenings brought a strange emptiness, especially when he realised there was nobody to tell how his day had gone, no one just to sit with him.

As for Sophie, she left one month after the divorce was final. Turned out, she wasnt after love, but a comfortable life. When she found Jack struggling to pay all the loansunable to keep her in the style to which shed become accustomedher interest vanished.

Mary heard this from David. She gave a little smile andfelt nothing at all. Not pity. Not satisfaction.

Simply nothing.

Sometimes, trusting yourself and finding your voice is the only path to peace. When you finally stand up for your worth, you discover the freedom to breatheand to liveon your own terms.

No Instructions Given Sasha Received a Letter as a Photo on His Phone—Blue Ink on Squared Paper, Signed ‘Grandad Nick.’ Underneath, a Brief Note from Mum: ‘He Writes Like This Now. You Don’t Have to Reply If You Don’t Want.’ Sasha Zoomed In to Read the Lines: ‘Hi, Sasha. I’m Writing from the Kitchen. Met a New Friend: My Glucose Meter. It Scolds Me in the Morning if I Eat Too Much Bread. The Doctor Says I Should Go on More Walks, but Where Should I Walk When My Friends Are All in the Cemetery, and You’re Off in London. So, I Walk Down Memory Lane Instead. Today I Remembered How Back in ’79 We Used to Unload Freight at the Station. The Pay Was Pennies, but You Could Always Sneak a Few Crates of Apples. Wooden Boxes with Metal Handles. Sour Green Apples, but Still a Treat. We’d Eat Them Right There on the Embankment, Perched on Cement Sacks. Hands Grey from Dust. Not Exactly Clean, but Delicious All the Same. Just Reminiscing, That’s All—Not Here to Lecture. You’ve Got Your Own Life, I’ve Got My Check-Ups. If You Fancy, Write About the Weather and Your Exams. Your Grandad, Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the ‘Glucose Meter’ and ‘Check-Ups.’ The Messenger Note Read: ‘Sent an Hour Ago.’ He’d Phoned Mum, but She Didn’t Pick Up. So, It’s Really ‘Like This Now.’ He Looked Through the Chat. The Last Messages from Grandad Were Voice Notes from a Year Ago: Short Birthday Wishes, and One ‘How’s Uni Going?’ Sasha Had Replied with an Emoji and Disappeared. Now, He Looked at the Photo of the Squared Paper for a Long Time, Then He Started to Type. ‘Hi Grandad. Weather Here: Three Degrees and Wet. Exams Start Soon. Apples Go for £2.50 a Kilo Now—Not Great for Apples Here. Sasha.’ He Thought About It, Erased ‘Sasha,’ Wrote Simply ‘Grandson Sasha.’ Then Hit Send. A Few Days Later, Mum Forwarded a New Photo. ‘Hi Sasha. Got Your Letter. Read It Three Times. Decided to Reply Properly. The Weather Here’s About the Same as Yours, Just Not as Many Trendy Puddles. Snow in the Morning, Water by Lunch, Sheet Ice by Evening. I’ve Slipped a Couple Times—Seems It’s Not My Time Yet. Since We’re on Apples—Let Me Tell You About My First Real Job. I Was 20, Working in the Factory Fitting Lift Parts. Always Noisy, Something Clanking, Air Full of Dust. My Overalls Were Grey—Could Never Get Them Clean. Fingers Always Full of Splinters, Nails Black with Oil. But I Was Proud—Had an Entry Pass, Came in through the Main Gate, Felt Like a Proper Grown-Up. Best Bit Wasn’t the Pay, It Was Lunch. In the Canteen, Big Bowls of Soup, and If You Got There Early You’d Get Extra Bread. We’d Sit Together Eating in Silence. Not Because We Had Nothing to Say, Just Because We Were Worn Out. The Spoon Felt Heavier Than a Wrench. You’re Probably Sitting There With Your Laptop, Thinking This is Ancient History. Sometimes I Wonder—Was I Happy, Or Just Too Busy to Notice. Aside from Studying, Are You Working? Or Do People Your Age Just Make Up Startups Now? Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read This While Waiting in Line for a Kebab. People Argued, Advertisements Blared from the Counter. He Found Himself Re-Reading the Bit About Soup and Heavy Bowls. He Wrote Back Right There, Leaning on the Counter. ‘Hi Grandad, I Work as a Delivery Driver. Mostly Takeaways, Sometimes Paperwork. No Entry Pass, Just an App That’s Always Freezing. But I Sometimes Eat at Work Too—Not Stealing, Just Not Enough Time to Get Home. I Buy the Cheapest, Eat in Doorways or In a Mate’s Car. Also in Silence. About Being Happy—Not Sure. Usually Too Busy to Notice. But Canteen Soup Sounds Good. Grandson Sasha.’ He Thought About Adding Something About Startups, but Decided to Leave It Be—Grandad Could Fill in the Gaps Himself. The Next Letter Was Unexpectedly Short. ‘Hi Sasha. Being a Delivery Driver Is No Joke. Now I Picture You Not As a Kid Behind a Screen, But As a Bloke in Trainers, Always on the Move. Since You Mentioned Work, I’ll Tell You About When I Picked Up Extra Shifts on a Building Site Between Factory Rotas—When Money Was Tight. Carrying Bricks Up to the Fifth Floor on Wooden Stairs. Dust up Your Nose, in Your Eyes, in Your Ears. By Evening I’d Take Off My Boots and Sand Would Fall Out. Your Gran Used to Tell Me Off for Ruining the Linoleum. Funny Thing Is, I Don’t Remember The Exhaustion As Much As One Detail. There Was a Lad on Site Everyone Called ‘Smithy.’ He’d Arrive Before Everyone Else and Sit on an Upside-Down Bucket Peeling Potatoes He’d Brought in from Home. At Lunch, He’d Chuck them in a Saucer Over the Hob and the Smell of Boiled Spuds Would Fill the Whole Floor. We’d Eat with Our Hands, Sprinkle a Bit of Salt from a Paper Packet. Tasted Like Nothing Better. Now I’m Sitting in My Kitchen Looking at a Bag of Shop Potatoes, and It’s Not the Same. Maybe It’s the Spuds. Maybe It’s Just Age. What Do You Eat When You’re Tired? Not Takeaways—Proper Food. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Didn’t Reply Right Away. He Thought About ‘Proper Food.’ He Thought Back to Last Winter—After a 12-Hour Shift, He’d Bought Frozen Ravioli from a 24-Hour Shop, Boiled Them in the Dorm Pot, The Same One Someone Else Used for Sausages. The Ravioli Fell Apart, the Water Went Cloudy, But He Ate the Lot, Standing by the Window—No Table. After Two Days, He Wrote Back. ‘Hi Grandad, When I’m Worn Out, Usually Eggs. Two or Three, Sometimes with a Bit of Sausage. Pan’s Seen Better Days, But It Fries. No Smithy in Our Halls, Just a Flatmate Who Always Burns Things and Swears. You Write a Lot About Food. Were You Hungry Back Then, Or Are You Now? Grandson Sasha.’ He Immediately Regretted That Last Question—Felt Rude—But Sent It Anyway. The Reply Came Quicker Than Usual. ‘Sasha, Good Question About Hunger. Back Then I Was Young and Always Hungry. Not Just For Soup or Potatoes—For a Motorbike, a Decent Pair of Shoes, My Own Room So I Didn’t Have to Listen to My Dad Coughing All Night. Wanted Respect—To Walk Into a Shop Without Counting Change. To Have Girls Notice Me, Not Pass Me By. Now I Eat Fine—the Doctor Tells Me Off Actually. I Write About Food Because It’s Something You Can Describe and Remember. Taste Is Easier Than Explaining Shame. Since You Asked, I’ll Tell You a Story—But No Life Lessons, I Promise. I Was 23, Already Dating the Woman Who’d Become Your Gran, but We Were Rocky. The Factory Announced They Were Sending a Team Up North for Good Money, Enough to Buy a Car in Two Years. I Was All In—I Pictured Myself Coming Home with a Brand-New Escort, Driving Her Round Town. But There Was a Catch—She Told Me She Wouldn’t Go. Sick Mum, Job, Friends Here, Couldn’t Handle the Cold and Darkness Up North. I Told Her She Was Holding Me Back. Said If She Loved Me, She’d Understand. I Was Ruder, but You Get the Idea. So I Went On My Own. After Six Months, the Letters Stopped. Two Years Later, I Came Back with Savings and a Car. She’d Married Someone Else. For Ages I Told Everyone She’d Betrayed Me—That I’d Done it All for Her. Truth Is, I Chose Money and Machines Over a Person. And Didn’t Admit It to Myself for Years. That Was My Appetite Back Then. You Asked What I Felt—At the Time I Felt Proud. Then for a Long Time, I Pretended I Felt Nothing. If You Don’t Want to Reply, That’s Fine. I Know You’ve More Important Things Than Old Men’s Stories. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read It Over and Over. The Word ‘Shame’ Hooked Him Like a Fish. He Tried Typing ‘Do You Regret It?’ and Deleted It. Then ‘What If You’d Stayed?’ and Deleted That Too. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, Thanks for Telling Me That. I Don’t Know What to Say. The Way We Talk About Gran, It’s Like She Was Always Just Gran, Like There Were No Other Options. I Don’t Blame You. I Recently Chose Work Over Someone Too. Had a Girlfriend Around the Time I Started as a Courier—Started Getting Good Shifts, Did Overtime. She Said We Barely Saw Each Other, I Was Always on My Phone, Snapping at Her. I Said Life Would Get Easier, Just Needed to Stick It Out. Eventually She’d Had Enough, Left. I Said It Was Her Problem. I Was Ruder, But You Get the Picture. Now, When I Come Back to the Dorm at 11pm and Fry Eggs on My Own, I Sometimes Wonder if I Chose Deliveries Over Someone. And Also Pretend It Was the Right Thing. Maybe It’s in the Family. Sasha.’ The Next Letter from Grandad Was on Lined Paper, Not Squared—Mum Explained by Voice Note He’d Run Out of His Usual Pad. ‘Sasha, That’s a Good Line—About It Being in the Family. In Our Lot, Everything’s Blamed on Blood. If They Drink—It’s Because Their Grandad Did. If They Shout—It’s Because Gran Was Strict. Truth Is, Each Time You Still Choose. It’s Just Easier to Pretend It’s Inherited Than Admit You’re Scared. When I Came Back from Up North, I Thought Everything Was New—Car, Room in a Hostel, Money in My Pocket. But Every Night I’d Sit on the Bed, Not Knowing What to Do with Myself. Friends Had Moved Away, The Factory Boss Changed, Only Dust and an Old Radio Waiting at Home. Once I Went and Stood Outside the House of Your Not-Quite-Gran. Watched the Windows—Light in One, Dark in Another. Waited Until I Was Frozen. Then She Came Out with a Pram and a Bloke Beside Her, Hand on Her Arm, Laughing About Something. I Hid Behind a Tree. Watched Until They Went Round the Corner. Probably the First Time I Realised No One Betrayed Me. I Picked My Path, She Hers. But It Took Me Ten Years to Admit That. You Wrote You Picked Work Over a Partner. Maybe It Was Actually Choosing Yourself. Maybe Right Now, Getting Out of Debt is More Important Than Going to the Cinema. Not Good or Bad—Just a Fact. The Worst is How Rarely We Say Plainly, “This is More Important to Me Right Now Than You.” Instead, We Wrap It in Fancy Words and People End Up Hurt. I’m Telling You This Not Because I Want You to Win Her Back. Honestly, I Don’t Know If You Should. Just—Maybe Someday You’ll Stand Under a Window and Realise You Could Have Been More Honest. Your Old Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Sat in the Dorm Corridor, Phone Warm in His Palm. Outside, Cars Sloshed Through Puddles. Someone Smoked on the Stairs. In the Next Room, Music Thudded Through the Wall. He Thought for a Long Time About What to Say. He Remembered Standing Under His Ex’s Window When She Stopped Picking Up. Watching Her Curtains, the Light in Her Flat; Thinking Maybe She’d Come to the Window. She Didn’t. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’ve Stood Under a Window Too. Hid When She Came Out With Some Guy—He Had a Rucksack, She Had a Shopping Bag. They Laughed. I Felt Wiped from Her Life. But Now Reading Your Words I Wonder if I Walked Out Myself. You Said It Took You Ten Years to Realise—Hope I Get There Quicker. I’m Not Going to Chase Her. I’ll Just Try to Stop Pretending I Don’t Care. Grandson Sasha.’ The Next Letter Changed Topic. ‘Sasha, You Once Asked About Money. Didn’t Answer Because I Didn’t Know Where to Start. I’ll Try Now. In Our Family, Money’s Like the Weather—It’s Mentioned Only When Things Get Bad or Strangely Good. Your Dad Once Asked Me What I Earned. I’d Just Had a Good Week with Extra Shifts—Said The Total. He Goggled, “Wow, You’re Rich!” I Laughed – “Not Really.” Couple Years Later, I Lost My Job—Half the Wages. Your Dad Asked Me Again How Much I Made. I Told Him. “Why So Little,” He Asked, “Are You Not Working Hard Enough?” I Snapped at Him—Told Him He Knew Nothing, Was Ungrateful. Really, He Was Just Trying to Make Sense of the Numbers. Years Later, I Realised That’s When I Taught Him Not to Ask Me About Money. He Grew Up Never Asking. Just Quietly Got Weekend Jobs, Fixed Things for People. And I Kept Expecting He’d Guess How Tough It Was by Himself. I Don’t Want to Make That Mistake With You. So I’ll Say It Straight. My Pension’s Not Huge, but There’s Enough for Food and Pills. Not for a Car Anymore, but I Don’t Need One. Now I Save Up for New Teeth—the Old Set Can’t Keep Up. How About You? Getting By? Not That I’m About to Send You Cash and Socks, Just Want to Know You’re Not Skipping Meals or Sleeping on the Floor. If It’s Awkward to Answer, You Can Just Say ‘Alright.’ I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Felt a Tightness in His Chest. He Remembered Asking Dad about Wages, Only to Be Fobbed Off with Jokes or a Cross ‘You’ll Learn One Day.’ He’d Grown Up Thinking Money Was something Embarrassing. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’m Not Hungry and I Don’t Sleep on the Floor. I’ve Got a Bed—Even a Mattress (Not Fancy, but Does the Job). I Pay My Own Rent, Made That Deal with Dad. Sometimes It’s Late, but I’ve Not Been Chucked Out Yet. Food’s Covered if I Don’t Buy Stupid Stuff. If Money’s Tight, I Just Grab More Shifts—Turn Into a Zombie Afterwards, But That’s My Choice. Wish It Was Easier to Ask You the Same Back, Like: “Grandad, Are You Alright?” But You’ve Already Answered. Honestly, It’d Be Simpler If You Just Wrote “I’m Fine” Without Explaining. But I Get That Grown-Ups Never Really Say Much. Thanks for Telling Me About Money. Sasha.’ He Fiddled with the Phone, Then Sent a Second Message: ‘If You Ever Want to Buy Something and Don’t Have Enough, Let Me Know. I Can’t Promise I Can Help But I’d Rather Know.’ Then Sent It Before He Could Change His Mind. Grandad’s Reply Was the Most Shaky—Letters Dancing Across the Page. ‘Sasha, Read Your Message About “If You Need.” At First, I Wanted to Say I Don’t Need Anything. That I’m Fine, Just Old, Only Need My Pills. Then I Wanted to Joke—That If I Really Needed Something, I’d Ask for a New Motorbike. But Then I Thought—All My Life I’ve Pretended to Be a Strong Man Who Can Do It All Alone. Ended Up As an Old Bloke Who’s Scared to Ask His Grandson for Anything. So I’ll Say This: If I Ever Really Need Something I Can’t Afford, I’ll Try Not to Pretend It’s Unimportant. For Now, I’ve Got Tea, Bread, Pills, and Your Letters. That’s Not Sentimental, Just Listing What I’ve Got. You Know, I Used to Think We Were Completely Different—You with Your Apps, Me With My Radio. But Now I See We’ve Got a Lot in Common. We Both Hate Asking for Help. We Both Pretend We Don’t Care When, Really, We Do. Since We’re Being Honest, Let Me Tell You Something No One Talks About in Our Family. You May Not Like It. When Your Dad Was Born, I Wasn’t Ready. New Job, We’d Just Got a Shared Room in a Hostel, and I Thought Things Were Looking Up. Then: Screaming Baby, Nappies, Sleepless Nights. I’d Come Home After Night Shifts and He’d Still Be Screaming. I’d Lose My Temper. One Time, I Threw the Bottle Hard Against the Wall and It Smashed. Milk on the Floor. Gran Cried, Baby Screamed, I Just Stood There Wanting to Leave and Never Come Back. I Didn’t Leave. But For Years I Pretended That Was Just a Bad Day. Truth Was, I Was Pretty Close To Running. And If I Had, You Wouldn’t Be Reading These Letters. Not Sure Why You Need to Hear This—Maybe So You Know I’m Not a Hero. I’m Just an Ordinary Man Who Sometimes Wanted to Walk Out. If You Want to Stop Writing, I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read, Oscillating Between Hot and Cold Inside. The Image of Grandad Had Always Been a Warm Blanket, the Smell of Oranges at Christmas—Now It Was a Tired Guy in a Rented Room, Screaming Kid, Milk on the Floor. He Remembered That Last Summer, When He Worked at Kids’ Camp, He’d Yelled at a Boy Who Was Forever Whining. Grabbed Him Harder Than He Should. That Night, Sasha Lay Awake, Thinking He’d Make a Terrible Dad. He Looked a Long Time at the Blank Reply Box. His Fingers Typed ‘You’re Not a Monster.’ Deleted. ‘I Still Love You.’ Deleted—Couldn’t Say It Yet. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, I Won’t Stop Writing. I Don’t Know How You’re Supposed to Respond to That in Our Family. We Either Say Nothing or Joke. Last Summer I Worked at a Camp. There Was a Kid Who Cried All the Time. One Day I Lost It and Yelled So Much It Scared Me. Spent That Night Thinking I Was a Bad Person and Shouldn’t Have Kids. What You Wrote Doesn’t Make Me Think Less of You—It Just Makes You Real. Don’t Know If I Could Ever Be That Honest with My Own Kid Someday, but Maybe I Could at Least Try Not to Pretend I’m Always Right. Thanks for Not Leaving Back Then. Sasha.’ He Sent It—For the First Time Waiting for A Reply Like Something That Mattered, Not Just a Formality. Two Days Later, Mum Texted Instead of a Photo: ‘He’s Learned Voice Messages—But Asked Me to Write It for You.’ A New Photo Appeared of Lined Paper. ‘Sasha, I Read Your Letter and Thought—You’re Already Braver Than I Was At Your Age. At Least You Admit When You’re Scared. Back Then, I Pretended I Was Unshakable, and Ended Up Breaking Furniture. I Don’t Know If You’ll Be a Good Dad. Neither Do You. You Only Find Out as You Go. But the Fact You Even Wonder Says A Lot. You Said I Seem ‘Real’ to You Now. That’s the Best Compliment I’ve Had. Usually People Call Me ‘Stubborn,’ ‘Difficult,’ ‘Headstrong.’ No One’s Called Me ‘Real’ in Years. Since We’re At That Point, I Wanted to Ask—But Felt Awkward. If My Stories Get Too Much, Tell Me. I Can Write Less or Only On Holidays. I Don’t Want My Past to Weigh You Down. And If You Ever Want to Visit—For No Reason At All—I’ll Be Home. I’ve Got a Spare Stool and a Clean Mug Here. And Yes, I’ve Checked—It’s Clean. Your Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the Bit about the Mug. He Pictured the Kitchen—Glucose Meter on the Table, Spuds by the Radiator, The Spare Stool. He Snapped a Photo of His Shared Student Kitchen: Piled-Up Dishes, the ‘Scary’ Frying Pan, A Carton of Eggs, A Kettle, Two Mugs—One with a Chip, A Jar of Forks on the Windowsill. He Sent the Photo With This: ‘Hi Grandad, Here’s My Kitchen. Got Two Stools, Enough Mugs Too. If You Ever Want to Visit, I’ll Be Home—Or Nearly Home. You Haven’t Overstayed Your Welcome. Sometimes I Don’t Know What To Say, But That Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Reading. If You Like, Tell Me Something Not About Work or Food—Something You’ve Never Told Anyone. Not Because It’s Shameful, Just Because There Was No One To Tell. S.’ He Sent It and Realised He’d Just Asked an Adult in His Family a Question He’d Never Asked Before. He Set the Phone Down, Face Down—So He Wouldn’t Miss a New Message. The Eggs Went Cold, but He Ate Them All the Same, Slowly, As if Sharing Them with Someone. They Never Wrote ‘Love’ Outright in Any Message. But There Was Something Between the Lines—For Now, That Was Enough for Both of Them.