“So You’re Just Not Going to Take Care of My Son’s Child?”: When Your Future Mother-in-Law Crosses the Line and Old School Friends Can’t Help But Stir the Pot—How Rita Stood Her Ground About Family, Work, and Self-Respect in a Tale of Modern Love, Secret Struggles, and Two London Flats

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

What do you mean youre not going to look after my sons child? Margaret, my future mother-in-law, hissed, halfway through her third cup of tea.

Well, first of all, Im not turning up my nose at Harry, I replied, not missing a beat. Might I remind you that, in this very house, its me, like any self-respecting wife and mother, who slaves away after work on a second shift of cooking, washing, and cleaning? Im happy to help and offer advice, but I really dont intend to shoulder *all* the parental responsibilities.

So what are you sayingjust not going to do it? So thats your true colours, is it? Hypocrite! Margaret leaned in, as if sharing this cutting truth would suddenly make the kettle boil faster.

Oh, please, Rita, snorted Helen from across the table, her favourite hobby being to judge everyone and everything, much as shed done since we all wore school ties. Why bother working, if youre not even getting paid for it?

Its funny, those school reunion days are long goneback then, Id never have had a witty retort. But these days, Im not often short of words. So, I didnt let the opportunity to put sharp-tongued Helen in her place pass me by.

If you have to worry about where your next pound is coming from, I shrugged, it doesnt mean others have the same problem. I inherited two flats in London from Dadone from when we all lived together, and another that came to him from my grandparents, and then to me. The rental prices there arent exactly village ratesyou know how it is. Theres enough for living and lifes little pleasures, so I can actually be a bit choosy about workdont have to grab anything just for a wage. You did retrain from doctor to shop assistant for the salary, didnt you, Helen?

That, by the way, was meant to be a secret. Truth be told, Id promised not to tell a soul. But if Helen truly wanted to keep it under wraps, perhaps going around publicly calling me an idiot wasnt the cleverest move. Did she really think shed get away with that? If so, idiot definitely doesnt apply to me.

A shop assistant, really?

You promised you wouldnt tell! Helen nearly squawked out, grabbing her handbag and storming out of the restaurant, tears barely restrained.

She had that coming, said Sam, after a moments silence.

Exactly! Shes exhausting. Who even invited her? Tanya chimed in.

WellI did organise the whole thing, Anna, our erstwhile head girl and now Chief Social Events Officer, replied in an apologetic tone. I know Helen wasnt exactly the easiest at school, but people *do* changewell, sometimes.

But not always, I added, giving a theatrical shrug.

Laughter danced around the table, and then, after the drama had fizzled, everyone wanted to know what I actually did for a living.

Their curiosity was completely understandable: not many people work in my field (to be honest, you wouldnt really wish it on your worst enemy), so there are a fair number of myths swirling around.

So, I set about dispelling them as we chatted over the crumbling cheesecake.

But seriously, why bother treating people if theres no point? asked one of our old classmates.

Who said there isnt? I replied. Theres a little boy I work withfive years old. Birth was difficult, he had a lack of oxygen, so yes, hes now behind on his development. But his prognosis is good. Spoke properly by three, gets carted off to speech therapists and neurologists, and, chances are, hell start at a regular schoolperhaps without any problems later on. But if no one had helped himthe story could have ended very differently.

I see. So, youre not chasing the pound, youre doing something for society, Val concluded.

With that, the conversation meandered into everyone elses jobs, exes, and whos got the worst in-laws.

But then I got the oddest sensation of being watched. I chalked it up to paranoia, but the prickling wouldnt subside. Quick scan of the restaurant: no familiar faces glaring. All in my head, surely.

Soon the night went on, and I forgot all about it.

A week after the big reunion, I was running late for work one bleary morning, only to discover my car was boxed in on the drive.

The culprits number was displayed under their windscreen wipers, so I rangand got a chipper, apologetic gent promising hed dash down immediately.

Im so sorry! he babbled the moment he appeared, all gleaming smile and floppy hair. Had nowhere else to parkOxfords murder for spaces. Anyway, Im Tom!

Rita, I said. There was something immediately likeable about Tom. Maybe his manner, maybe his clothes, maybe (lets be honest) his aftershaveall in all, it took little effort for me to agree to a first date.

And then a second. Three months in and I couldnt imagine life without him. His mum and (from his first marriage) his son, Harry, even welcomed me into their little world.

Harry was a child with some unique quirks, but thanks to my day job, I got on famously with him. I even taught Tom a few tips and tricks to help him connect with and support his son.

By the end of their first year together, we moved in as one happy householdwell, I moved in with Tom and Harry. I rented my bachelor pad out, as usual, through the agency that managed my London flats, and lugged my life into theirs.

Of course, with the blending of lives came the first warning signs.

At first, it was: Can you help Harry get ready? or Would you mind watching Harry for half an hour while I nip to Sainsburys? Perfectly manageable, given that Harry and I got on so well, and when I wasnt tied up with work.

Gradually, though, the requests started ballooning. I finally had to have *the talk* with Tom. His child was, wellhis child, ultimately. Id always help where I could, but my plate was full enough from my job working with kids like HarryI didnt sign up to shoulder *all* the responsibilities at home as well.

Tom *seemed* to understand. But then, right before the wedding, he and his mum started going on about Harrys new therapy planclearly, expecting Id be running it in my spare time.

Hold on, hold on, everybody, I cut in. Tom, love, we had an agreement: *you* look after your son. I dont ask you to go round my mums, hoover her living room, or re-grout the bathroom tiles, do I? I handle my own familys affairs. I think the same applies here.

Not the same at all, Margaret huffed. A mothers a mother, an adult living alone. But a childwell, a childs a child. Or do you think youll just ignore Harry after the wedding, and thats meant to be fine with us?

For the record, Ive never turned my nose up at Harry. Lets recall that, in this very house, Im the one doing the lions shareafter work, mind youcooking, laundry, scrubbing floors. But Im not about to single-handedly take on Harrys rehabilitation programme as well, I told her, because hes *your* son, Tom, and its your job first and foremost. Im happy to help and advise, but Im not taking on all the parenting.

So whats thisrefusing, are you? Margaret bristled. Funny how you can go on about your work to your friends, like youre some kind of saint, but cant lift a finger when it counts.

What on earth are you talking about? I asked, genuinely baffled.

And then it dawned on me. I remembered that Margaret did a bit of washing up at that same restaurant where wed had the school reunion. It all added up.

Rightso you two cooked this up? Planning to dump all of Harrys care on me?

Oh, and what? You thought Id be thrilled to settle down with someone like you? Tom finally snapped. If it werent for Harry and your job, Id never have looked twice at you

Well, dont look a third time, I replied, sliding off my engagement ring and hurling it back at him.

Youll regret this, Margaret threatened. A proper man doesnt want a mousy thing with a dead-end job and no money!

Ive got two London flats, I retorted, so Im not exactly skint.

Watching their faces fall was almost worth the drama.

Cue an immediate attempt at reconciliation, a flurry of promises from Tom: hed take on responsibility, never speak to me like that again; Sorryjust stressed at work, promise, I love you, itll never happen again.

Of course, being no fool, I didnt believe a word. I just had a little chuckle as I leftYouve let your little mouse escape, Tom, but somehow I dont think Ill be the one regretting it.

My friends and I would have a good laugh about the whole saga afterwards. As for me, I still hold out hope of meeting someone who loves me not for my money, not for my job, but for who I am inside.

In the meantime, Ive got my rewarding work, good mates, and perhaps Ill get a catthe sort you can actually train. Unlike some men I could mention.

GRANNY, MY GUARDIAN ANGEL Lena never knew her parents. Her father abandoned her mother while she was pregnant, and Lena never heard from him again. Her mother passed away from cancer when Lena was just a year old. Lena was raised by her grandmother, Nana Dorothy, her mother’s mother. Dorothy’s husband died when she was young, so she devoted her entire life to her daughter and granddaughter. From Lena’s earliest days, she and her grandmother shared a deep spiritual bond. Nana Dorothy always seemed to know what little Lena wanted, and the two understood each other perfectly. Everyone loved Nana Dorothy, from neighbours to Lena’s teachers at school. She often brought baskets of homemade pastries to school meetings, believing nobody should sit hungry after a long day’s work. She never gossiped or judged, and people often came to her for advice. Lena felt incredibly lucky to have such a wonderful grandmother. But Lena’s own romantic life never seemed to take off. School, university, work—she was always busy, always rushing. She’d dated a few men, but nothing ever seemed right. Nana Dorothy often worried about this. “Oh, Elena, why are you still single? Isn’t there a decent young man out there? You’re so beautiful and clever!” Lena would laugh it off, but inside, she knew she was ready for a family—after all, she was thirty now. When Nana Dorothy passed away suddenly in her sleep, Lena was devastated and numb with grief. She kept going to work and running errands, but at home, only her cat, Maisie, awaited her. She felt unbearably alone. One day, while riding the train and reading a book, Lena met a well-dressed, pleasant man in his forties named Alex. He struck up a conversation about books, and they hit it off right away. When Alex invited her to a nearby café, Lena was delighted. Soon, they were swept up in a passionate romance. Though she didn’t know much about Alex—he avoided questions about his past and family—Lena felt truly happy for the first time. Then, one night, Alex invited her to a fancy restaurant, hinting that the evening would be special. Lena suspected he would propose, and she was over the moon. She would finally have a husband, children—a family of her own. If only her grandmother could have seen this day. Later, as Lena scrolled for the perfect dress online, she dozed off and dreamt of her grandmother. Nana Dorothy, in her favourite dress, sat beside Lena and gently stroked her hair. “Gran, how are you here? You’ve gone,” Lena whispered. “I never left, darling, I’m always nearby. Please, don’t see this man. He’s not good for you. Listen to your grandmother,” Dorothy replied, then faded away. Lena woke up shaken, unable to shake the feeling of unease. Why would her grandmother warn her about Alex? The big day arrived, but Lena, clouded by her dream, couldn’t settle on anything to wear and felt unsettled throughout dinner. When Alex went down on one knee and presented a ring, Lena was overcome by a vision of her grandmother looking in the window. “I’m sorry, Alex. I can’t,” Lena blurted out and rushed away. Alex chased after her, his gentle mask slipping as he hurled insults and stormed off. The next day, Lena asked her old school friend Andrew, now a detective, to check on Alex’s background. Soon after, Andrew called: “Lena, I’m sorry—you dodged a bullet. Alex is a con artist. He marries single women, convinces them to sign over their flats and take loans for his ‘business,’ then dumps them and disappears after emptying their savings. He’s already been convicted multiple times. You were lucky to get out in time.” How could her grandmother have known any of this? Miracles happen, Lena thought, grateful her granny was still watching over her. She picked up groceries and cat food for Maisie, heading home with a lighter heart, knowing she was never truly alone. They say the souls of our loved ones watch over us—our guardian angels, keeping us safe from harm and heartache… And sometimes, you just have to believe it’s true.

JUST IN CASE After Vera glanced indifferently at her weeping colleague and turned back to her computer, OIga, the department head, called out, “Heartless as ever, Vera.” “Me? Why do you say that?” Vera replied. “Just because your personal life is all sunshine, doesn’t mean others have it so easy. Can’t you see the girl’s heartbroken? Maybe give some advice, share a bit of your experience, since everything’s so perfect for you.” “Me? Share my wisdom? With her? I doubt Nadine would appreciate it. I tried, you know, five years back when she came to work with a black eye — said it helped her see the road home. It wasn’t her bloke, though; no, she did it herself, just a bad fall. When he left, the bruises disappeared. Third chap to bolt, by the way. I tried to help, share my story. Ended up the bad guy, apparently — just the jealous destroyer of Nadine’s happiness. Now she’s all modern, does therapy instead of spells. Still, it’s the same old cycle, just swapping names. So excuse me if I won’t be weeping and offering tissues this time.” “Still, Vera, it’s not right.” At lunch — everyone round the same table — the only topic was Nadine’s ex, the louse. Vera ate in silence, poured herself a coffee, and retreated to a quiet corner, scrolling her phone, trying to switch off. “Vera,” came the voice — bubbly Tanya, usually all sunshine, but today her face had clouded up. “You really don’t feel even a bit sorry for Nadine?” “Tanya, what do you all want from me?” “Oh, lay off her,” chimed in passing Irene. “She’s got her precious William — living the life of Riley, she’ll never get how it is to be left alone with a kid, fending for yourself. Try getting child support out of that so-called dad now.” “Shouldn’t have bothered having his kid in the first place,” piped up Mrs Taylor, oldest of the lot, whom everyone called Granny Taylor behind her back. “Vera’s right — how many times has Nadine blubbed over some fella? Even when she was expecting, he was already doing her head in. Before that — don’t get me started…” The circle of women gathered around the ever-crying Nadine, each offering advice. What was the point? Strong, independent Nadine was determined to bounce back: called her mum from the countryside to help with her son and that ungrateful ex, then tried to move on — had a new fringe, had her brows microbladed, stuck on eyelashes, almost got a nose ring, but the whole office talked her out of it. And off she went. “It’s nothing, Nadine — he’ll regret it, you’ll see!” “No, he won’t,” Vera muttered, more to herself than anyone, but the tipsy girls overheard, demanding an explanation. “He won’t. He won’t cry, and he won’t regret it. And Nadine? She’ll just meet another one, just like before…” “Easy for you to say, with your William, must be perfect, eh?” “Perfect… my William is golden — doesn’t hit, doesn’t drink, doesn’t chase women, loves me to bits.” “Oh come on, they’re all the same. Watch out, Vera, someone might nick him from you!” “Never — he won’t stray.” “I wouldn’t be so sure.” “You should be.” Fueled by wine and mischief, the girls start teasing: “Let’s all go see if your William can resist our charms! Bet you won’t invite us round. Afraid one of us will snatch your Mr Perfect?” “Alright, let’s go,” Vera grinned. “Right! To Vera’s house, girls! Granny Taylor, are you coming?” “No, girls, my Michael’s waiting at home. Off you pop!” A rattling, giggling crowd descended on Vera’s place; they bustled about the kitchen, laughing while they cooked. “Let’s whip up a dinner for William — I take it he’s out? He’ll be back to a lovely spread.” “Don’t put yourselves out; he’s fussy, barely eats, but yes, he’ll be home soon.” The excitement faded, and soon everyone drifted home, except Nadine, Olga, and Tanya. They sipped tea in Vera’s cosy kitchen, awkward, curious about the mysterious William. The front door opened. “William, my darling, you’re home!” crooned Vera. The women straightened up, suddenly nervous as a tall, handsome young man walked in. Ah, they all thought, so that’s the secret — her husband is much younger! “Girls, meet my Dennis.” Dennis? But… what about William? “My son, Dennis. So, how’s William, Denny?” “Fine, Mum. He just needs rest. He’ll be running about in a couple of days. Just don’t let him lick…” The women blushed. “We… should probably go?” “Wait — you haven’t met William! Quiet now; he’s just had surgery, Dennis and his girlfriend took him in, poor thing was marking the curtains… come meet him.” “There he is, my William, fast asleep.” Stifling laughter, the ladies dashed out. “Vera! It’s a cat!” “Of course it’s a cat. What did you think?” “But… your husband?” “Never had one. You all made that up — I mentioned my perfect William, and you filled in the gaps. First marriage was young and dumb, had Dennis, split up quick. Parents helped. Second time, I almost believed in fairy tales, but he wanted me to ship Dennis off to boarding school. Sent him back to his mum. Third bloke… well, he gave me a black eye, and I gave him the boot. Dennis grew up, got married, I got William. We get along. Movie nights, holidays — nobody owes anybody. Sometimes I cook a fancy dinner, he pops round; everyone’s happy.” Dennis never did get it. Asked why I didn’t live with William. Why? Separate lives, separate habits. If we’d met young, maybe — like my brother and his wife, married thirty years. But me? Nah, no need to fake it for the sake of a title. Me and William, we’re just fine. Right, lovey? Open those pretty eyes.” Home they all trudged, deep in thought — Nadine most of all. But Nadine couldn’t do as Vera did. Within a month, she was gushing over a new love, showing off bouquets at the office. Vera and Granny Taylor just smiled quietly. “How’s your Michael, Granny?” “He’s good, Vera, all healed up. Grandkids wanted him in a dog show — can you imagine? We’re happy enough without all that.” “Some get pets, some get husbands…” “Well, that’s how it goes. Maybe Nadine’s luck will change this time?” “Here’s hoping…” “What are you two whispering about?” “You, Nadine, just hoping things turn out better for you.” “I know how it looks, girls, but I just can’t do it alone, I swear.” “That’s none of our business — don’t apologise, everyone’s got their own way…” “Vera?” Nadine caught her as she walked to her car. “If you ever have tips about cats — which is better, boy or girl?” “Go on, don’t keep them waiting… we’ll see! Just in case…”

Strangers in Our Flat Katya was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside the flat came the sound of the television, voices chatting in the kitchen, and a strange smell. Behind her, Maksim nearly dropped his suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” she whispered, extending her arm. “Someone’s here.” On the beige sofa—their favourite—lounged two total strangers. A tracksuit-clad man clicked through the channels on the remote, beside him sat a plump woman knitting. Cups, plates with crumbs, and various medicines littered the coffee table. “Sorry, who are you?” Katya’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, completely unfazed. “Oh, you’re home,” said the woman, not even pausing her knitting. “We’re Lida’s relatives. She gave us the keys and said there were no owners here.” Maksim blanched. “What Lida?” “Your mum,” the man finally stood. “We’re from Bristol—here with Misha for his check-ups. She put us up here, said you wouldn’t mind.” Katya walked slowly to the kitchen. At the stove, a teenage boy of about fifteen was frying sausages. The fridge brimmed with unfamiliar food. Dirty dishes were piled on the table. “And you are?” “Misha,” he turned. “What, can’t I eat? Grandma Lida said it was fine.” Katya returned to the hallway, where Maksim was already pulling out his phone. “Mum, what on earth are you doing?” His voice was quiet, but angry. From the phone came his mother’s breezy voice: “Maksim, you’re back? Did you enjoy your trip? Listen, I gave the keys to Svetlana, she and Vitya are in London, had to take Misha for some doctors. Thought, well, your flat’s empty, no point letting it go to waste? They’re just here for a week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why ask? You weren’t there. Just tell them I’m responsible for the flat, so they’ll tidy when they leave.” Katya snatched the phone: “Lydia Petrovna, are you serious? You just let strangers stay in our home?” “What strangers? That’s my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as kids.” “And I’m supposed to care who you shared a bed with? This is our flat!” “Katya, don’t get worked up. Family, that’s all. They’re quiet, won’t break anything. Their boy’s sick, they needed help. Or are you that stingy?” Maksim took the phone back: “Mum, you’ve got one hour to come and take them out. All of them.” “But Maksim, they’re meant to stay until Thursday! Misha’s got tests, they needed the consultations. They booked a hotel, I just helped them save money.” “Mum. One hour. If you’re not here, I’ll call the police.” He hung up. Katya sank down onto the hall stool, face in her hands. Suitcases stood unpacked. The television murmured in the lounge, sausages sizzled in the kitchen. Two hours ago, they were on a plane, dreaming of being home at last. Now, she felt like an unwelcome guest in her own flat. “We’ll get ready,” the woman from the lounge appeared, sheepish. “Lida thought you wouldn’t mind. We would have asked, but didn’t have your number. Lida suggested, and we agreed. Thought we’d stay a week, do the hospital stuff.” Maksim stood silently by the window, tension written in his back. Katya knew it meant he was furious at his mother, but couldn’t say so out loud. “Where’s our cat?” she burst out, suddenly panicked. “What cat?” “Murzik. Ginger. We literally left keys for him.” “No idea,” Svetlana shrugged. “We haven’t seen him.” Katya combed the flat. She found the cat wedged under the bed, fur bristled, eyes wide. When she tried to coax him out, he hissed. “Murzik, darling,” she lay on the floor. “It’s me. It’s okay.” He watched her warily. The room reeked of strangers. Unfamiliar pills cluttered her nightstand, the bed was made differently, someone else’s slippers littered the floor. Maksim squatted beside her. “Sorry.” “For what? You didn’t know.” “For my mum. For her being like this.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” he fumed. “Remember when we first moved, she barged in unannounced? I thought I’d explained—turns out not.” Voices echoed from the hallway. His mum had arrived. Katya stood, smoothed her hair, went out. Lydia Petrovna stood, indignant: “Maksim, are you mad?” “Mum, please, sit in the kitchen.” “Sit? Svetlana, Vitya, start packing, they’re kicking us out. We’ll go to mine.” “Mum, sit. Please.” She noticed his expression and finally fell silent. They all moved to the kitchen, where Misha finished off sausages. “Mum,” Maksim sat opposite her, “explain how you thought it was okay to let people in our flat without asking?” “I was helping! Svetlana phoned, crying—Misha’s ill, needed to come to London, nowhere to stay. Your flat was empty.” “Mum, it isn’t your flat.” “How’s it not mine? I’ve got keys.” “The keys—so you could feed the cat, not run a B&B.” “Maksim, it’s family! Svetlana’s my sister, we’ve always been close. Vitya’s a good lad, hard-working. Misha’s sick, needs help. And you’d turf them out?” Katya’s hands shook as she poured herself water. “Lydia Petrovna, you didn’t ask us.” “Why would I? You weren’t home!” “Which is exactly why you should have!” Maksim was raising his voice now. “We have phones! You could have called, texted—asked. Then we’d have decided.” “So you’d have just said no?” “Maybe. Or agreed for a couple of days, with conditions. But we’d have known. It’s called respect.” Lydia stood up: “Always the way. I try to help and get it thrown in my face. Svetlana, get your things; we’re off to mine.” “Mum, you’ve only got the one-bed. You said yourself it’s too small for four.” “We’ll cope. Better than with the ungrateful.” Katya set down her glass. “Lydia Petrovna, please. You know perfectly well you were wrong. Otherwise, you’d have phoned us.” Her mother-in-law stopped dead. “You knew we’d say no, that’s why you presented it as a fait accompli. You figured we’d come back, see them already here, and just put up with it. Right?” “I only wanted to help.” “No. You wanted it your way. That’s different.” For the first time, Lydia looked lost. “Svetlana was crying. Misha was really suffering. I felt sorry for them.” “And that makes sense,” said Maksim. “But it wasn’t yours to offer. Mum, how would you feel if I let my mates stay in your flat while you were away—without asking?” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence. In the lounge, the family started packing. Svetlana cried quietly, Vitya packed bags, Misha hovered at the kitchen door, eyes downcast. “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. “I thought it’d be okay. Grandma said.” Katya looked at him: just a scared kid. None of this was his fault. “You haven’t done anything wrong; go help your parents.” Lydia pulled out a handkerchief. “I really thought it was for the best. Didn’t cross my mind to ask. You’re my children, I’ve always done everything for you so I just thought…” “We’re not kids anymore, Mum. We’re thirty. We have our own lives.” “I understand,” Lydia stood. “Do you want your keys back?” “Yes,” Katya nodded. “Sorry, but we’ve lost trust.” “I get it.” Svetlana’s family left quickly, with long, awkward apologies. Lydia took them to hers, assuring them they’d squeeze in somehow. Maksim closed the door behind them and slumped against it. They wandered through the flat in silence. Fresh sheets were needed, the fridge had to be cleared out. Signs of other people everywhere: forgotten things, moved furniture, dirty dishes. Murzik still cowered under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Katya asked, opening the kitchen window. “Don’t know. I’d like to think so.” “And if not?” “Then we’ll be firmer. I won’t let this happen again.” She hugged him amid the mess that wasn’t theirs but in their own home. “The worst bit?” she stepped back. “The cat. We did all this for him, and he’s been starving and terrified through this whole circus.” “Do you think they even fed him?” “Doesn’t look like it. His bowl’s empty, water filthy. Probably forgot about him.” Maksim knelt by the bed: “Murzik, I’m sorry mate. Mum’s not getting those keys again.” The cat cautiously stuck out his head, then crept out to rub against Maksim’s legs. Katya fetched some food, which he devoured like he hadn’t eaten in days. They set about cleaning. Threw away the strangers’ food, changed the bedding, washed up. Murzik ate and curled up asleep, flat once again their own. That evening, Lydia called. Her voice was quiet, apologetic: “Maksim, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thank you, Mum.” “Is Katya angry with me?” He looked at his wife, she nodded: “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat for a long time, drinking tea in silence. Twilight thickened beyond the windows. The flat was clean, quiet, theirs again. Their holiday had ended, suddenly and brutally.