“That’s Just Perfect…” Whispered Lydia. She loved having her morning coffee in silence, while Jack still slept and the first light crept through the window. In those moments, she felt everything was just right. Solid job. Cozy flat. Reliable husband. What more could happiness require? She had no envy for her friends, who grumbled about jealous partners and rows over nothing. Jack never questioned or made scenes. He never checked her phone, never interrogated her every move. He was simply there—and that was enough. “Lyd, have you seen my garage keys?” Jack shuffled into the kitchen, tousle-haired from sleep. “On the shelf by the door. Helping the neighbour again?” “Mike’s asked me to check his car. Something about the carburettor.” She nodded, pouring his coffee. It was so familiar. Jack was always lending a hand—to colleagues moving house, old friends with repairs, neighbours with whatever. “My knight,” she’d sometimes think fondly. A man who couldn’t walk past someone else’s trouble. It’s what had charmed her on their very first date, when he’d stopped to help a stranger carry her shopping upstairs. Another man would’ve walked by. Not Jack. Three months ago a new neighbour, Olivia, moved into the flat below. At first, Lydia hadn’t noticed her—people came and went in blocks like this. But Olivia was one of those women impossible to overlook. Loud laughter in the stairwell. Clacking heels at all hours. That booming voice on the phone so the whole building could hear. “Can you imagine? He brought me groceries today—without me even asking!” Olivia’s voice echoed through the landing. Lydia bumped into her by the letterboxes and offered a polite smile. Olivia beamed—sparkled, really—with that special, radiant glow of a woman newly infatuated. “New boyfriend?” Lydia asked, just to be civil. “Not exactly new,” Olivia smirked. “But very attentive. Solves every problem, you know? Tap leaking—fixed. Socket sparking—sorted. He even helps me pay my bills!” “How lucky you are.” “More than lucky! Sure, he’s married, but that’s just a ring, isn’t it? What matters is how he feels when he’s with me.” Lydia went upstairs, unsettled—not by someone else’s morals, but something had scraped raw inside, and she couldn’t name it. The encounters went on, week after week; Olivia almost seemed to lay in wait, ready to burst with new tales of devotion. “He’s so considerate! Always asks how I feel. If I need anything…” “Last night, he even brought me medicine in the middle of the night!” “He always says, the most important thing is feeling needed. That’s his whole meaning in life—to help…” That line made Lydia bristle. “Feeling needed is his meaning in life.” Jack had said those exact words. She remembered him explaining delays on their anniversary—he’d been helping a friend’s mother with her garden, said he couldn’t do otherwise. Coincidence. Just coincidence. There must be plenty of men with hero complexes. But the details piled up. The unsolicited groceries. The handy repairs—Jack’s very own ways. She pushed the thoughts aside. Paranoia. You can’t suspect your husband because of a neighbour’s chatter. Then Jack began to change—not suddenly, but gradually. He started “popping out for a moment” and vanishing for hours. Even took his phone into the bathroom. Snapped back with irritation at her simplest questions. “Where are you going?” “Out.” “Where?” “Lydia, what’s with the third degree?” Yet he seemed… happy. Quietly fulfilled, as if finally getting the dose of being needed he missed at home. One evening, he got ready to leave again. “Got to help a mate with paperwork.” “At nine o’clock at night?” “When else? He works days.” She didn’t argue. Watched from the window as he failed to emerge from the building. She slipped on her coat, calm, unhurried, and made her way to the familiar door downstairs. Her finger pressed the bell. Lydia had no script—no rehearsed accusations. Just pressed and waited. The door flew open like she’d been expected. Olivia stood there in a short silk robe, wineglass in hand. Her smile slipped when she saw who it was. And behind her, in the glowing hallway, stood Jack. Bare-chested, hair wet from the shower, moving about with the ease of someone at home. Their eyes met. Jack jolted, opened his mouth—then froze. Olivia flicked her gaze between them and offered only a bored, indifferent shrug. Lydia turned and walked upstairs. Behind her came the scurry of steps, Jack’s urgent voice: “Lydia, wait, I can explain…” But she didn’t let him in that night. …The next morning, his mother, Mrs. Grant, turned up. Lydia wasn’t surprised. Of course Jack had called his mum to share his version. “Lydia, why be so childish?” Mrs. Grant settled in the kitchen. “Men are just boys who want to feel heroic. That neighbour simply needed help. Jack couldn’t say no.” “He couldn’t say no to her bed, is that it?” Mrs. Grant winced, as if Lydia had been vulgar. “Don’t twist things. Jack’s a good soul. He pities people. That’s no crime. So he got carried away. It happens. My late husband too…” She waved her hand. “What matters is the family. You’ll work it out—you’re sensible, Lydia. Don’t ruin lives over nothing.” Lydia looked at her and saw everything she was afraid to become. Convenient. Patient. Willing to ignore anything for the sake of keeping up appearances. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant, but I need to be alone.” Her mother-in-law left in a huff, muttering about “young people who won’t forgive”. Jack slunk home that evening, wide-eyed and guilty, hoping to take her hand. “Lydia, it’s not what you think. She asked me to fix her tap, then we talked, she’s just so lonely and sad…” “You weren’t wearing any clothes.” “I… spilled water when I was fixing the tap. She lent me a shirt, and then you turned up…” Lydia marvelled that she’d never noticed before how bad Jack was at lying. Every word rang false. “Even if… suppose… even if something happened, it meant nothing! I love you. She’s just—well, just an adventure. A silly mistake. You’re what matters.” He tried to put his arms round her. “Let’s forget it, yeah? I promise I’ll stop. Honestly, she’s beginning to do my head in—always wants something, always needy…” That’s when Lydia finally saw: this wasn’t remorse. It was fear—fear of losing his comfort, of being stuck with someone truly needy, not someone who let him play the hero to schedule. “I’m filing for divorce,” she said, casually, as if announcing she’d switched off the iron. “What? Lydia, you’re mad! One mistake?” She rose, packed her bag, gathered her documents. …The divorce finalised two months later. Jack moved in with Olivia, who welcomed him with open arms—at first. Her embraces soon gave way to endless lists: fix this, buy that, pay those. Lydia heard occasional titbits via mutual friends. Nodded, without any malice. Everyone gets what they sign up for. She rented a small flat on the far side of the city. Every morning, she drank coffee in peace. No one asked about garage keys. No one popped out “for a sec” and returned smelling of someone else’s perfume. No one ever begged her to be more patient—more accommodating. She’d expected pain—loneliness, regret. But what came was something else: lightness. As though she’d taken off a coat she’d worn for years, never noticing how heavy it had grown. For the first time, Lydia belonged only to herself. And that was better than any “stability”…

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 3

How lovely this is… murmurs Emily.

She adores drinking her morning tea in peaceful silence, while Thomas is still asleep and the grey light of dawn is just beginning to fill the window. In these quiet moments, everything feels as it should. Her job is secure. The flat is cosy. Her husband, reliable. What more could one need to be happy?

She never feels jealous of her friends who complain about jealous husbands and arguments over trifles. Thomas has never been the jealous sort. He doesnt check her phone, never demands details of her every move. Hes simply there beside her, and for Emily, that has always been enough.

Em, have you seen my shed keys? Thomas appears in the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep.
On the shelf by the door. Helping the neighbour again?
Tony asked me to take a look at his car. Something up with the carburettor.

Emily nods, pouring his tea. Its all so familiar. Thomas is always lending a hand. Helping colleagues move house, sorting out bits and bobs for friends, mending things for neighbours. My knight in shining armour, she sometimes thinks fondly. A man who just cant walk past someone in need.

That was what had won Emily over on their very first date, when Thomas stopped to help an elderly lady with her shopping bags. Anyone else wouldve walked by. But Thomasnever.

A new neighbour moved in downstairs about three months ago. Emily hadnt paid much attention at first. In a block of flats, people come and go all the time. But Sophieher name was Sophie turned out to be one of those women you simply cant ignore.

Her laugh echoed down the stairwell. High heels clattering up and down at all hours. That habit of chatting on her phone so loudly that the whole building could hear.

Imagine, he brought me groceries today! An entire bag! All on his own, without me even asking! Sophie was boasting to someone over the phone.

Emily happened to bump into her at the postboxes and gave her a polite smile. Sophie was practically glowing, with that certain delight only women at the first flush of infatuation seem to have.

New boyfriend? Emily asked, purely out of politeness.
Not exactly new, Sophie narrowed her eyes slyly, but very attentive. Rarer than gold dust. Handles every problemleaky taps, dodgy sockets, even helps me with the bills!
Sounds like youve landed on your feet.
Thats not the half of it! Mind you, hes married. But thats just paperwork, right? What matters is were happy together.

Emily walked back upstairs, a heavy, unsettled feeling settling over her. It wasnt about anyone elses morals. Something about that conversation grated, though she couldnt put her finger on what.

Over the next few weeks, these encounters continued. It almost felt like Sophie was waiting to catch her in the stairwell, eager to share the latest thrilling update.

Hes so thoughtful! Always checking if Im alright, asking if I need anything…
Yesterday he brought me medicine when I was ill. Found a twenty-four hour chemist and everything!
And he always says its vital to be needed. Thats the meaning of life, he sayshelping others…

That made Emilys skin prickle.

To be neededthats his meaning in life.

Thomas said the very same thing. She could remember him saying it clearly on their anniversary, explaining why he was latehed stayed to help his mates mum with her allotment.

Just coincidence. Surely, lots of men have a hero complex?
But the details began to stack up. The way hed buy groceries unaskedThomas did that too. The habit of fixing everything himself.

Emily tried to shake off the suspicions. Nonsense, paranoia. You cant accuse your husband simply because of a neighbours gossip.

Then Thomas started changing. Not suddenly, gradually. Slipping out for a tick, then being gone an hour or more. His phone, now glued to his handeven in the bathroom. Short, slightly snappy answers to straightforward questions.

Where are you going?
Out.
Where to?
Em, stop with the interrogation, alright?

Yet he seemed…happy. Content in some new way. As if somewhere else, he was getting the dose of being-needed he missed at home.

One evening, he gets ready to go out again.

Gotta help a mate with some paperwork.
At nine in the evening?
Thats the only time hes freehe works days.

Emily doesnt argue. She watches the window, notices he never leaves the building.

She puts on her jacket, and calmly, without rushing, heads downstairs to the familiar door on the first floor.

Her finger presses the doorbell. Emily hasnt rehearsed any accusations, nor bothered to decide what shell say. She just waits.

The door opens almost instantly, as if someones been hovering nearby. Sophie stands there, short silk dressing gown, glass of wine in hand. At first she beams, then her smile falls away as she recognises her visitor.

And behind her, in the soft light of the hallway, Emily sees Thomas. No shirt. Hair wet from the shower. Looking, unmistakably, quite at home in someone elses flat.

Their eyes lock. Thomas lurches, half opens his moutha pause. Sophie glances from one to the other, unmoved, just giving a nonchalant shrug.

Emily turns and walks back up the stairs. She hears a fumbling, Thomass voice trailing after: Em, waitlet me explain! But she doesnt let him back into the flat.

…The next morning, Margaret arrives. Emily is hardly surprised. Of course Thomas has rung his mum to share his version of events.

Emily, love, dont be childish, her mother-in-law settles at the kitchen table. Men, theyre just big kids. They need to feel heroic. That neighbour of yours, she just…well, she needed help. Thomas cant help himself.
He couldnt help himself in her bedroom, you mean?

Margaret winces, as if Emilys said something crude.

Dont twist things. Our Thomas is a good lad. He feels for people. Thats not a crime, is it? So he got carried away a bit. Happens to the best of us! My late husband…well. The main things the family. Youre a sensible woman, Emily. Dont ruin everything over a silly mistake.

Emily stares at this woman and sees everything shes afraid of becoming. Accommodating. Patient. Willing to overlook absolutely anything, just to keep up the appearance of family life.

Thank you for popping by, Margaret. But I need some time to myself.

Her mother-in-law leaves, muttering something about young people these days, who know nothing of forgiveness.

That evening, Thomas comes crawling back. Prowling round the flat like a guilty cat, seeking her eyes, trying to take her hand.

Em, its not what you think. She just needed help with a leaky tap, then we started talkingshes so lonely, so low…
You didnt have any clothes on.
I…spilled water on myself! While fixing the tap! She lent me a shirt and then you…

Emily looks at him, surprised shes never noticed beforeThomas is a hopeless liar. Every word wobbles with panic; every gesture screams guilt.

Look, even if…suppose…something did happen. It didnt mean anything! I love you! She was just…a fling. Stupid. A mans mistake.

He sits beside her on the sofa, attempting to put his arm around her.

Lets just forget about it, yeah? I wont do it again, promise. Actually, Im already fed up with herall she does is moan and want things…

And thats when Emily finally understands. This isnt remorse. This is fear of losing comfort. Fear of having to stay with a woman who truly depends on him, instead of one who just lets him play the hero when it suits him.

Im filing for divorce, she says simply, as if shes saying Ive switched off the iron.
What? Em, youre being ridiculous! Over one mistake?

She stands, goes to the bedroom. Pulls out her holdall. Starts packing her documents.

…The divorce comes through in two months. Thomas moves in with Sophie, who welcomes him with open arms. Open arms that soon become endless to-do lists. Mend this. Buy that. Sort the bills. Help. Sort out.

Emily hears about it in passing through mutual friends. She nods, without a hint of bitterness. Everyone gets whats coming to them.

She rents a small place on the other side of town. Every morning, she has her tea in silence and no one asks where the shed keys are. No one slips away for a minute and reappears smelling of someone elses perfume. No-one instructs her to be patient, easier to live with.

The funny thing is: she thought it would hurt. Expected to be eaten up by loneliness, regret. But instead, she feels something elselightness. As if shes shrugged off a heavy winter coat she never realised shed been wearing.

For the first time, Emily belongs to herself. And, as it turns out, thats better than any kind of stability.

“I’m Done Playing Mum to Your Son!” Declared the Daughter-in-Law as She Left for a Seaside Holiday Valentina Andrews had a son—hardworking and decent, but married to a rather peculiar woman. His wife refused to cook, clean, or help out around the house, and recently she’d become downright unpredictable. Just yesterday, she threw another dramatic tantrum. “Kieran,” she snapped at her husband, “I can’t do this anymore! You’re a grown man, but act like a child!” Kieran was bewildered; he hadn’t asked for much—just for Marina to fetch his socks, iron his shirt, and remind him about his doctor’s note. “Mum always helped me,” he muttered. “Then off you go to your mother!” Marina exploded. The next day, she packed her suitcase. “I’m off to Brighton for a month. Maybe more.” “How can it be more?” Kieran gaped. “Because I’m tired of babysitting a grown man,” Marina replied, calm but resolute. Kieran tried to protest, but Marina ignored him. She rang his mother: “Valentina Andrews? It’s Marina. If he can’t survive without a nanny, come stay with us. Spare key’s under the mat.” And with that, she was gone. Kieran sat alone in the flat, not knowing what to do. The fridge was empty, his socks were dirty, and the sink overflowed with dishes. After a few days, he phoned his mum: “Mum, Marina’s gone mad! She’s run off and left me! What am I supposed to do now?” Valentina Andrews sighed. Problems with the daughter-in-law again. “I’ll be there soon, Kieran. We’ll sort it.” She arrived with a bag of groceries and her familiar motherly determination to fix everything. But when she opened the door, gasped at the chaos: clothes piled high, the kitchen a disaster, the bathroom full of dirty laundry. And it hit her—her thirty-year-old son really had no idea how to live. She’d always done everything for him, and had, without knowing, created a fully grown child. “Mum,” whined Kieran, “what’s for dinner? Where are my shirts? When’s Marina coming back?” Valentina silently started tidying, but one thought kept swirling: What have I done? She’d protected her son from everything—chores, obstacles, real life. Now, without women, he was utterly lost. Marina? She’d simply escaped from this big, helpless child. And who could blame her? For three days, Valentina lived with her son and every day understood more—she’d raised a man-child. Kieran woke up every morning and started complaining: “Mum, what’s for breakfast? Where’s my shirt? Any clean socks?” Valentina cooked, ironed, cleaned, and observed. A thirty-year-old man not knowing how to use a washing machine, what bread costs, or how to brew a cup of tea—hopelessly burning himself with hot water and spilling sugar everywhere. “Mum,” Kieran sighed, “Marina’s gone completely wild! She used to pretend she loved me. Now she’s like a stranger!” “How do you behave with her?” Valentina asked carefully. “Just normal! I don’t expect anything special. I just want my wife to act like a wife, not a grumpy old aunt!” Valentina looked at her son, horrified. He genuinely didn’t understand. “Kieran, do you ever help Marina?” “How do you mean?” he replied, genuinely puzzled. “I work! I bring money home! Isn’t that enough?” “What about at home?” “Home? I’m tired after work—I should relax. But she keeps nagging! Wants me to do the washing up, go shopping… but those are women’s chores!” Then Valentina heard herself—the phrases she’d repeated since he was little: “Kieran, don’t touch—that’s Mum’s job!” “Don’t go shopping—I’ll run out quicker!” “You’re a man; you have more important things to do!” She’d created a monster. The more she watched, the more stunned she became. Kieran would return home, collapse onto the sofa, expect dinner, news updates, entertainment. If nothing appeared, he sulked: “Mum, when’s dinner? I’m starving!” Just like a child. Worst of all were his comments about Marina. “She’s so irritable lately,” he complained. “Always angry. Maybe she should see a doctor? Get her hormones checked?” “Or maybe she’s just exhausted?” Valentina ventured. “Exhausted from what? We both work. Anyway, running the home is a woman’s job.” “Is it?! Who told you that?” Valentina snapped. Kieran was taken aback; his mother had never yelled at him. On the fourth night, she couldn’t take anymore. Kieran sat on the sofa, phone in hand, sighing now and then, bored without his wife. The kitchen was a mess, socks were strewn on the floor, the bed unmade. “Mum?” he whined, “what’s for dinner?” Valentina was at the stove, making borscht, as she had for thirty years. And suddenly—enough was enough. “Kieran,” she said, turning off the gas, “we need to talk.” “I’m listening,” he replied, without looking up. “Put down your phone and look at me.” Something in her voice made him obey. “Son,” Valentina began quietly, “do you understand why Marina left you?” “She’s just, what’s it called, emotional. Women get like that. She’ll come back after she cools off.” “She won’t come back.” “What do you mean, she won’t come back?!” “She’s tired of being a mother to a grown child.” Kieran jumped up: “Mum! Come on, a child? I work, I bring home money!” “And? What about at home? Are your arms broken? Are your eyes blind?” Kieran paled. “How can you say that? I’m your son!” “That’s exactly why I’m saying it!” Valentina sat down, her hands trembling. “Mum, are you sick?” Kieran asked in alarm. “Sick!” she laughed bitterly. “Sick with love. Blind mother’s love. I thought I was protecting you—but really, I raised an egotist! A thirty-year-old man who is useless without a woman, who thinks the world owes him!” “But…” “No buts!” Valentina interrupted. “You really think Marina should be your second mum—washing, cooking, cleaning up after you? Why?” “I work.” “So does she! And she manages the household too. What do you do? Lie on the sofa and wait to be served!” Kieran’s eyes grew teary. “Mum, but everyone lives like this.” “Not everyone!” Valentina shouted. “Real men help their wives—washing up, cooking, raising kids! But you? You don’t even know where the washing powder is kept!” Kieran sat there, face buried in his hands. “Marina’s right,” Valentina said quietly. “She’s tired of being your mum. And so am I.” “Tired? What do you mean?” “I mean I’m leaving.” Valentina grabbed her bag. “You’re staying here, alone. Try to finally become an adult.” “Mum! Wait! I can’t be alone! Who’ll cook and clean?” “You will!” She barked. “You will—just like any normal, grown adult!” “But I don’t know how!” “You’ll learn! Or you’ll be a lonely, pathetic man-child forever!” Valentina put on her coat. “Mum, don’t go!” Kieran pleaded. “What am I supposed to do on my own?” “What you should have learned to do twenty years ago,” she replied. “Live independently.” She left. Kieran was alone, in a dirty flat, truly by himself for the first time. Alone with reality. He sat on the sofa until midnight. His stomach rumbled, dishes stank, socks littered the floor. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered—and for the first time in thirty years, washed the dishes himself. He botched it—plates slipped, his hands stung from the soap. But he did it. He tried to fry eggs; burned them the first go. Second try—edible. And by morning, he realised: Mum was right. A week passed. Every day, Kieran learned to live for himself—laundry, cleaning, shopping, handling money, planning his time. Turns out, it was hard work. And finally, he realised what Marina put up with. He called her on Saturday. “Hi, Marina?” Her voice was cold. “You’re right,” Kieran said. “I acted like a big kid.” She was silent. “I’ve lived alone for a week now… I understand how hard it was for you. I’m sorry.” Long silence. “You know,” Marina said at last, “your mum rang me yesterday too. Asked my forgiveness—for raising you wrong.” A month later, Marina came home. She returned to a clean flat. Her husband had cooked dinner and greeted her with flowers. “Welcome home,” he said. Valentina Andrews called once a week—asked how they were, but never invited herself over. And one evening, while Kieran did the dishes and Marina made tea, she said: “You know, I like this new life.” “Me too,” he answered, drying his hands with a towel. “Shame it took so long to get here.” “At least we got here,” Marina smiled. And that was the truth.