Tasha Was Radiant with Joy: She Awoke to Find Blissful Smiles and the Gentle Breathing of Her Love, Will, Near Her.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 1

Milly was beaming. She woke up with a blissful grin plastered on her face and felt James warm breath tickle the nape of her neck. She smiled again.

The wedding honeymoon fund was already set aside. Just yesterday shed told James about it, and he spent half an hour bragging about how clever she was and insisting hed made the right choice.

A few weeks earlier Milly had doubted the decision. When James introduced her to his family she felt a strange discomfort with the strangers crowding around her.

The turning point, however, was that Milly was a welloff bride, armed with a dowry in the form of an ancient Mini that her grandma had left her. It was the very car they now shared.

One bedroom was locked. Grandmas room. Milly kept everything exactly as her grandmother had left it: the timeworn chest of drawers, a rocking armchair, a writing desk, and shelves brimming with colourful yarns. Of course, after the wedding that room would look very different but for now everything stayed as it was.

Sometimes Milly would slip in there in the evenings, settle into the rocking chair, switch on the old lamp and drift off in thought. James didnt like her little retreats, calling them whims and melancholy, but he couldnt stop her. He never entered the room and muttered that the space was being wasted.

In Jamess family Milly was the oldest child. Her parents quickly realised they could use her as a nanny, and soon all the chores for the younger sister and brother fell on Millys thin shoulders.

That didnt bother her much. She was constantly scolded you didnt clean properly, you didnt wash the dishes right, you didnt dress the kids properly Her siblings soon got used to her being the fallguy for everything and began to take advantage of it. So after finishing school Milly packed her modest belongings and moved in with her grandmother.

Grandma adored Milly, calling her songbird, spoiling her with fresh scones and teaching her to live the good way.

One morning Milly crawled out from under the cosy blanket and sprinted to the kitchen to whip up cottage cheese fritters for breakfast. While she was stretching and yawning, James shuffled in, plonked himself at the table, and started shovelling the hot fritters into a thick dollop of clotted cream.

Listen, Milly he said after the fifth fritter. I was thinking forget the honeymoon! Lets put this money toward a car instead. We could get a loan, theyd give us the credit!

Milly stared at Jamess creamslicked face, but said nothing as the frontdoor lock clicked.

Before she could even gasp, a small mob burst through the hallway future motherinlaw, her teenage daughter, and her 18yearold son, followed by three suitcases and a duffel bag.

Hello, bridetobe, welcome the guests! chirped Lydia Clarke as she slipped in. We decided, after talking to James yesterday, to drop any fuss and come straight over.

Milly glanced again at James, who was already hauling the suitcases into the hallway and shoving them toward Grandmas locked room.

Darling, open the door, James called. We still need to tidy up. Lets move the armchair to the balcony, cover it with plastic itll survive. The rest of the furniture can stay, Vic will have enough room. Just toss those old yarn balls somewhere, okay?

Vic will have enough room? What does that even mean? And why am I supposed to throw anything away? And how does Lydia have a key to the flat? Milly whispered, barely audible, as the absurdity of the morning sank in.

The thing is, interjected the future motherinlaw, youre living well, thank heavens. The wedding is in two weeks, youll be buying that car, James told me. And isnt that one spare room just empty? While you have no kids yet, little Vic can crash there. Its only five minutes from you, and hell have a short commute to university.

Fine, fine, can we at least keep my brother for a while? That old junk has been sitting there forever, and weve always planned a kids room in it, James said, flashing a grin that screamed Im handy.

Sophie, Jamess sister piped up, has a mate selling a brilliant car on finance. Youll love it a perfect excuse not to go on that boring honeymoon, and youll be cruising the coast in no time. Miss such a deal!

Alright, Milly, hunt down the spare key for the room, and Ill treat everyone to more fritters. Our breakfast will be fingerlicking good with clotted cream! James declared, leaving a pale Milly in the corridor while he trooped back to the kitchen with his family.

Milly slipped into the locked room, plopped onto the makeshift sofa James had gathered, and stared at the ceiling. Skipping breakfast was obvious. Her future familyan unrelenting swarmwould soon sweep the fridge clean, leaving her to haul grocery bags again in the evening.

And shed have to dig into the wedding stash, because James offered no help. As soon as he moved in, he announced theyd live off Millys salary while he pocketed the rest for a bigger house.

You dont plan on staying in that old terraced house on the edge of town forever, do you? James asked, businesslike.

Milly didnt argue; after all, the wedding was only six months away.

Now came the fresh surprises. It turned out James had already managed to get a spare set of keys for her flat. They decided that Vic would live with them. What a shock! Why should she put up with an unknown young mans chaos in her own home?

The final straw was the everglamorous car.

Milly had dreamed of the sea since childhood. Her parents had taken her to the coast twice when she was a little thing, but never let her stay. She vowed her honeymoon would be unforgettable: the sea, Greece, a nice hotel, a trip to Sicily, ancient temples, crisp Greek wine on a terrace, a room with a sea view.

She burst into tears, sniffling like a child. In her mind, Grandmas kindly face appeared in her favourite armchair, eyes soft as ever.

Dont worry, my little nightingale, nothing remember, marriage isnt a plague. Just dont let it become a disaster. Find someone who loves you, because love means caring. Seek that care, and you wont go wrong.

Decision made in an instant. From the kitchen came the cheerful chatter of relatives who werent really relatives, and a husbandtobe who wasnt quite husband material.

First she called work, asking for two weeks leave early. Then she rang her university friend, Mariah, a steady as a rock sort, explaining the situation and begging her to watch the flat while the family stormed through, lest they wreak havoc in a fit of righteous fury. Mariah lived two houses down and gladly agreed.

Dont worry, Ill sort them out quick! Just imagine what theyll cook up!

Having settled the flat, Milly finally phoned the travel agency where shed been picking out a honeymoon a week earlier. They promptly offered a hot package. Her suitcase was already packed; shed been daydreaming about the sea for so long shed thrown everything together without waiting for the wedding.

Fifteen minutes later she was out the door, quietly slipping a note onto the kitchen table: Wedding cancelled. Hand the keys to Mariah. Buy the car yourself. Its no longer my T.

She was pulling into the airport when her phone buzzed nonstop with missed calls and frantic messages: Are you out of your mind?! She silenced the shrieking device.

Ah, Ive gone mad! a distant voice from her childhood sang inside her head. What a bother!

And somewhere deep in her memory Grandmas warm eyes smiled at her once more.

“Mum, he wants me to do it for him… He says all good wives can… Does that mean I’m not a good wife? Teach me… If everyone else can, I should be able to as well…” I’m Still Amazed My Niece Found a Husband—All Thanks to Her Mother When Emily was a child, my sister refused to send her to nursery. As a teenager, she was never allowed to go out—she spent all her time at home and became quite the hermit. At university in our hometown, her mother made sure she was always back before 6pm. Even at 20, her mum would ring at half seven in the evening, demanding to know why she wasn’t home yet. It was utterly ridiculous. Emily met her future husband in her second year at uni—they were both revising in the library. He was two years older, shared his notes with her, helped her out, and before long he had fallen for her and started taking her out. That’s when my niece truly began to rebel against her mum’s strict rules. Eventually, Emily got married, and her mother finally let her start a new life. Now, here’s a recent story— I was visiting my sister’s when Emily phoned. Her voice was a muddle of tears and laughter—she could barely get her words out: “Mum, he wants me to do something for him… He says all good wives know how… Does that mean I’m not a good wife? Please teach me… If they can all do it, I should too…” Immediately, my sister’s face changed. She told Emily to calm down and asked, “What is it all good wives are supposed to know how to do?” “Soup, Mum!” she answered, and we burst out laughing. “Don’t laugh at me!” Emily protested. “You never taught me how to make soup! I keep trying recipes online but they taste awful!” So, my sister and I quickly walked her through, step by step, how to make a proper soup, pausing to chuckle at ourselves along the way. That evening, Emily called to say thank you. Her husband had praised the soup—said it was delicious. And more importantly, she said, now she finally feels like a proper wife!

Staying Human Mid-December in the town of Middleton was bleak and blustery. A thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. The local coach station, with its perpetual drafts, seemed the last stronghold of frozen time. The air was thick with the mingled scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and decay. Glass doors slammed in the wind, admitting another wave of cold and people with cheeks reddened by the chill. Margaret hurried across the waiting room, checking the station clock. She was here only in passing. A brief business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she needed to get home, which meant two connections. This coach station was the first—and the dreariest—of them. Her tickets were for the evening bus. So Margaret was killing three hours, feeling the damp dullness of this place seep even into the lining of her expensive coat. She had not been back to such surroundings in ten years; everything now seemed smaller, dimmer, slower and impossibly distant from her present life. Her heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor. Here, she was a conspicuous outsider—her sandy wool coat immaculate, her hair perfectly styled despite her journey, a leather satchel slung across her body. Her gaze, trained to appraise and filter, swept the room: the kiosk attendant yawning at her phone, an elderly couple silently sharing a roll, a man in a worn jacket staring into nothingness. She could feel their glances—curious rather than hostile—simply noting: she was not one of them. And mentally she agreed. All she needed was to wait out this interlude and pass through, as through a troubled dream. By tomorrow she’d be back in her cosy London flat—warm, bright, untouched by this bone-deep provincial bleakness. Just as she was about to choose where to sit, someone blocked her path. A man. Sixtyish, maybe older. Weathered, unremarkable face, the kind you forget. His jacket was old but carefully mended, ear-flap hat in hand, having removed it in the warmth. He hadn’t cut her off—he simply appeared, as if conjured by the station’s grey air. He spoke with a low, oddly flat voice, without intonation. “Excuse me, miss… Do you know where… I could get some water?” The question hung in the air, as awkward as the moment itself. Without really looking, Margaret gestured towards the yawning kiosk attendant where bright plastic bottles were clearly on display. “Over there. The kiosk,” she replied, starting to move around him. A brief, sharp pang of irritation struck her. “Some water.” And “miss.” Such old-fashioned words. Couldn’t he see for himself? It was obvious. He nodded, mumbling, “Thank you…” but didn’t move, standing with his head bowed as if gathering strength just to take those few steps. His hesitance, his helplessness in the face of a simple act, made Margaret—already nearly past him—pause for a heartbeat. She saw. Not his clothes or age, but beads of sweat trickling down his temples, his hands clutching the hat spasmodically, the odd pallor of his lips, the glazed look directed at the floor—though clearly seeing nothing at all. Something inside her shifted. Her hurry, her annoyance, her sense of superiority—crumbled in an instant, as if her carefully built inner world had cracked. Her response was automatic, primal. “Are you all right?” she heard herself say, her voice oddly gentle, stripped of the usual metallic edge. She didn’t sidestep, but took a step towards him. He looked up. There was no plea in his eyes, only embarrassment and confusion. “My blood pressure, I think… Feel dizzy…” he whispered, eyelids fluttering with the effort of staying upright. Margaret moved on instinct. Taking his arm—gently, but firmly. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit. Over here,” she said, her tone quiet but decisive, leading him to the nearest vacant bench. Seating him, she knelt in front of him—unconcerned what it looked like. “Lean back. Breathe. Slowly. Don’t rush.” She dashed off and swiftly returned from the kiosk with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Here. Sip. Slowly.” Digging a handkerchief from her coat pocket, she dabbed his brow without thinking. All her attention sharpened on this man—his ragged breaths, the feeble pulse fluttering at his wrist. “Help!” Her clear, commanding voice cut through the station’s hush—not a frightened cry, but a call to action. “Somebody—call an ambulance! A man’s unwell!” Suddenly the coach station—the “haven for those with nowhere to be”—came alive. The elderly couple responded first, the woman fetching heart medicine, a drowsy man in the corner sprang into action, dialling for help. Even the bored kiosk attendant abandoned her post. These unseen, background people now rallied into a community, united by an unforeseen emergency. Margaret, still at the bench, quietly soothed the man, pressing his cold fingers between her warm hands. In that moment, she was neither a high-flying executive nor a conspicuous outsider. She was simply a human being present at the right time. And suddenly, that was enough—more than enough. Then, into this strange quietness, new sounds burst from outside—the staccato wail of a siren, the heavy swing of the glass door. Two paramedics in navy jackets with red crosses strode through, bringing with them December’s icy breath. Their arrival broke the hesitating crowd’s huddle; people parted silently to form a clear passage to the bench. The flurry gave way to a respectful stillness. Margaret, still seated beside the man, met the weary, skilled gaze of the paramedic kneeling before them. “What happened?” the woman asked briskly, movements crisp, practised. Margaret reported as she would at a meeting—but this time without steel, only fatigue and relief. “He felt faint. Dizzy, weak, sweating heavily. Blood pressure, he said. We gave water, heart tablets. He seems stable.” While she spoke, the other medic was checking vital signs and shining a torch in the man’s eyes. He was now lucid enough to answer quietly: name, age, medication. The paramedic nodded approvingly. “You handled it well. Water was the right call. We’ll take him in—get him on a drip.” They helped the man stand, unsteady but upright, supported by the medic. Suddenly, searching the small crowd, he caught Margaret’s eye. “Thank you, love,” he croaked, gratitude filling his gaze enough to make her throat catch. “You… you may have saved my life.” Margaret had no words, only a silent nod, feeling drained where adrenaline had just raged. She watched as they led him outside to the waiting ambulance, the chill air swirling in as the door opened. Someone muttered, “Shut the door—bloody freezing!” The door slammed. The siren wailed into the distance. The station slowly—reluctantly—slipped back into its old inertia: sluggish waiting. People drifted to their benches, the air thick with routine. Margaret remained standing. Looking at her hands. Red indentations from her bag had left marks. Her perfect hairdo was lost, her coat creased and dirty from crouching on the floor. She made her way to the ladies’ room. The freezing water stung her skin. In the cracked mirror she saw: makeup smeared, tired eyes, dishevelled hair. A face she hadn’t recognised in years—not polished by success, but simple, human, alive with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried her face and returned to the waiting room. There was over an hour until her bus. This time, she bought a bottle of water for herself. One sip: cool, unremarkable—yet, in that moment, it seemed absolutely vital. Not just a drink, but a connection. Simple, human connection that emerges the moment you see a fellow person—not as an obstacle or background, but as simply another person. The faces of those who came to help—flushed with concern, unattractive—she had never seen truer or more honest faces. They were alive. Gazing at her reflection in the grimy station window, in her crumpled coat, concern etched on her face, Margaret felt—for the first time in ages—utterly real. Not an image, but a human being capable of hearing another’s quiet distress and responding. Back on her bench, the familiar lethargy returned. But something had changed. Her gaze no longer skimmed past others with distant irritation. She saw details: the kiosk attendant bringing a hot tea to the elderly woman with a cane, a man helping a young mum manoeuvre a pram inside. These little things formed a new picture—not dreary, but quietly governed by the rules of mutual aid. Margaret checked her phone. A work message—something about a report error. A couple of hours ago, it would have seemed urgent. Now she typed simply: “Move it to tomorrow. It’s manageable,” and put the phone on silent. Today she’d remembered a simple, almost lost truth. The world needs masks—the mask of professionalism, wellbeing, aloof self-assurance—costumes for life’s many stages. We must wear them. But it’s dangerous if, beneath them, our real skin forgets to breathe. If we start to believe we are only the mask. Today, in the draughty station, her mask cracked. And through the crack came something real—the capacity to fear for another, to drop to a dirty floor without thought for appearances, to become—for a moment—just “the girl who helped,” not “Ms. Peters, department head.” Staying human does not mean abandoning every mask. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And sometimes—like today—letting that living, vulnerable, authentic part out to meet the world. Even if it is just to reach out a hand.