“He didn’t come because his wife wouldn’t let him,” she said. “She thinks we’re always asking for something, and she couldn’t care less about our home.”
“Well, looks like he’s not coming,” Valentina sighs bitterly. “My husband and I don’t even get upset anymore—we’re used to it. Same thing every time. First, promises, then silence.”
“What happened this time?” I ask. “Did his wife say no again? I remember you two never really got along…”
“Maybe she did. Though my son’s never admitted it outright. But it’s obvious… He used to visit more often. Now? Nothing. She’s found a way to keep him there. We’ll probably have to hire roofers—apparently, he can’t spare even a single day,” Valentina says, barely holding back her resentment.
She’s talking about her 40-year-old son, Arthur. He left their village twelve years ago, settled in Manchester, and works as a mechanic. Used to do everything himself, now just oversees things. Married in the city, bought a flat—all on his own. His wife, Emily, he met late—both were older when they got together.
“She’d never been serious with anyone before him,” Valentina continues. “And I see why. Her temper… difficult. We didn’t get on from the start. I tried, honestly. But she… acted like I was the enemy from day one.”
“I’ve heard her on the phone a few times,” a neighbour chimes in. “She’s mocking, even when she’s just saying hello. No idea what he sees in her.”
Emily hardly speaks to Arthur’s parents. Once a year, by her “gracious permission,” he can visit them—without her. This spring, Arthur promised to come help fix the roof. Bought the tickets. Then, as it turned out, his wife changed the plan.
“She’s pregnant,” Valentina says irritably. “Now, apparently, he can’t leave her alone. Even though she’s a grown woman, a nurse—what’s going to happen? For weeks, she’s been nagging him. He resisted at first, then…”
“How does that even work?” her husband mutters. “Does he hold her hand at work? Her parents live nearby—let them help. Why does he have to drop everything for her?”
“Exactly,” Valentina adds. “I’m certain her mother’s behind it. ‘Don’t let him go, what if he leaves you?’ Her younger sister ended up a single mum—now she lives with their parents.”
“But Arthur wouldn’t do that,” I argue. “He’s decent. Why don’t they just visit together?”
“No chance!” Valentina waves a hand. “Emily would never come. My husband called her once—she threw such a fit, he told me not to ring our son again. Pointless.”
“What did she say?”
“That we’re always demanding things. That we’re keeping him from his family. That she’s exhausted dealing with us. That his holiday should be with his wife and child, not ‘coddling his elderly parents.’ And that she couldn’t care less about our house—we should keep it.”
“The nerve! What did your son say?”
“He says it’s not his fault. That he doesn’t want trouble. That he’s worried about the pregnancy. I get it. But it’s not fair. We raised him, gave him everything. Now he can’t spare one day?”
Valentina’s husband snapped. He told Arthur he’d hire workers—do it himself. Let him stay with his wife if she matters more than his parents.
“But he doesn’t understand,” Valentina says quietly. “There can always be another wife… Parents, though? You only get one. And they won’t be here forever.”
